The dignity of the mandrill I

He mounted his always shiny motorcycle and left his chalet in a residential area of Vallés trying not to make too much noise. It was two in the morning, midweek, and the night was cold. His parents were not home, as they spent more time at their country house than there. In any case, he did not want his neighbors to notice his departure.

Borja was the typical spoiled kid who had always tried to create an image of an alpha male by injecting supposedly proletarian touches into his mannerisms. In other words, he used words he believed were used by the leaders of packs in proletarian areas. Something in his eternally adolescent brain led him to believe that this conferred upon him greater seductive power. Ironically, it did. In most cases, because this precarious construction demonstrated an innocence that was more friendly than fearsome. In others, because he decided to play along.

Perhaps, due to his pretentious bravado or his lack of direction, none of his relationships lasted too long. At twenty-eight years old, he had had about fifteen girlfriends. Every time he sensed he was going to be dumped, he started looking for another. His worst nightmare was that they would know it was they who had left him. For that reason, he always tried to keep the girls he dated away from his social circle.

The woman who had lasted the longest with him was a woman ten years older, of Roma ethnicity, whom he only saw in secret because she had decided so. She had told him on several occasions that she would be embarrassed to introduce a spoiled kid, who was also a "payo," to her family. They met whenever and wherever she wanted. They spent time staging scenes for each other that always ended in a session of wild sex. Invariably, she ended up with her fake nails broken from digging them into his firm buttocks and broad back of pale, soft skin. Very often, he ended up with bite marks on his neck and red cheeks. On one occasion, a black eye was difficult to explain.

That night, Borja was heading to the house of his new interest. A few months earlier, after watching some porn videos, he began to develop an interest in transsexuals and transvestites. He opened an account on Grindr, and of course, only displayed a photo of his athletic, hairy chest on his profile. Most of the messages he received were from guys. But his desire was focused on the feminine, at least what he considered feminine. It can be argued that such an explicit rationalization of desire is nothing more than a denial mechanism as a defense against a reality one is not willing to accept. It's possible, but it is not the only possibility. And in any case, it is not this author's intention to judge the protagonists of his stories. Until we learn to accept our differences, not just tolerate them, it will not be possible to be ourselves.

Most of the conversations he established with trans, transvestites, and CDs ended quickly, as they were working. Nonetheless, he insisted on sending them single-view photos. One must admit that the guy was handsome, with a trimmed beard, somewhat feline jaw, vibrant eyes, thick eyelashes, naturally arched eyebrows, and carefully unkempt hair. He is the kind of guy one cannot help but look at, even knowing that he spends more time looking in the mirror than doing anything productive. This must have happened to more than one of those girls, as they chose to receive him without charging for their services. This fed his ego, always in need of approval. Others, who sought something more meaningful, consciously let themselves be deceived in order to dream that there was a better world for at least a few hours.

Since he first had sex with the "special" girls, as he called them, he no longer desired CIS women with the same intensity. There was something about them that made the sexual experience much more complete and motivating. Usually, however, as soon as the action ended, he would get dressed and leave with some excuse as foolish as it was unnecessary. Insecurity and guilt overwhelmed him. He feared that they would fall in love with him. Of course. How could they not fall in love with a candidate with so much potential? He was an entire man. Obviously, when he tried to contact them again, they ignored him. He didn't understand this. How could they miss the chance to be with him again?

One of those women captivated him especially. It wasn't her plump, androgynous body. Nor her polished aesthetic. Not even the fact that she was older than him, although she did not look it. Neither her pretentious elegance nor her studied good manners. It was her strong character, the disdain with which she treated him, and the constant rejection that truly made her more desirable.

The first time they met, she received him in her small, dark apartment in Trinitat Vella, with a friendly coldness. When he tried to approach her to kiss her, she stopped him by placing a finger on his forehead, rejecting him with gentle disdain.

- "Not just any excuse for a man deserves my lips, kid," she said, smiling slightly with disdain in her gaze.

He didn’t know what to do. He was not used to being rejected, nor to backing down. He tried again, but this time received a slap in response.

- "Next time will be harder. If I were you, I wouldn’t even try."

He felt paralyzed. It wasn't that he was afraid he couldn't defend himself. Even though she was a tall CD, he had more strength. However, he instinctively knew that if she physically attacked him, he would not be able to defend himself.

- "What can I do to convince you?” he said, trying to dress a situation that destabilized him in mockery.

- "Start by being obedient. If you do everything I say, maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll let you kiss me."

- "But..."

- "Don’t waste my time. If you don't think it’s worth it, then turn around and leave. Just don’t come back."

- "No. It's okay. I..."

- "Get on your knees facing the floor!"

Unable to believe it himself, Borja found himself in that position. He remained like that for several minutes while Jennifer played with her phone.

- "Stand in the center of the room and take off all your clothes. I'm going to take some photos. You can wear this on your head," she commanded, tossing him a pink balaclava.

The excitement he felt prevented him from internally questioning those orders. The truth was that even if she hadn't given him the balaclava, she would have let him take the photos anyway.

Once naked and in the center of the room, she ordered him to pose facing forward and backward, meticulously documenting his body with her phone camera.

Borja's cock was fully erect, moving in such a way that it seemed to have a life of its own.

- "Puff out your chest and put your hands behind your back," she ordered, approaching.

With some ties, she handcuffed the boy's hands, as he stood upright in a nearly military stance. Once his hands were restrained, she removed the balaclava, grabbed his cock, and began to masturbate him while keeping her body and face nearly brushing against his, who attempted to kiss her.

- "Don't even think about it," she snapped, slapping him on the balls.

The pain made him arch his torso forward and bend his knees. It was a spectacle to see that supposed chieftain in that position of sublime, and secretly desired, helplessness.

- "Stand up straight again, or you’ll get a stronger one."

He obeyed, and she continued to masturbate him with more vigorous or gentle intervals so that he didn't reach climax.

- "Look me in the eyes," she whispered in a martial tone, which he found divine, "and don’t stop looking at me or try to kiss me, or you’ll get another good punishment."

Frozen, filled with pleasure and fear of himself, his eyes shone with a plea that she would not entertain or understand. Her gaze was one of amusement, disdain, pleasure, and yes, also desire.

The Dionysian torture made it so he could barely contain the spasms of his body and keep his gaze fixed on hers.

She focused on not letting him reach ejaculation. Each time she sensed he was close, she abruptly stopped the movement. He moaned with frustration, which filled her with pleasure.

After quite a while of keeping him at the limit, she stopped the manipulation, gave him a good hit to the balls, which made his erection collapse. He fell, crumpling almost in slow motion until he hit the ground in a fetal position. She took advantage of this situation to imprint her stiletto heels into the flesh of the defeated boy.

- "What do you say?" she said as she pulled the boy by his hair, forcing him to stand up.

Borja remained silent, partly out of the pain that made him want to insult her, which he knew was not a good idea.

- "When I speak to you, you answer me, spoiled kid," she said after spitting in his face.

- "Thank you! Thank you!" he shouted in a half-whisper driven by desperation.

When she had him standing, she made him put on some clothes. She grabbed his hair again and led him to the apartment's entrance, forcing him out with no apparent resistance on his part.

He didn’t fully understand the situation, but upon exiting the apartment, he was still naked with his hands tied by the ties.

- "Now I’m going to free your hands," she said calmly, "Then you’ll go down like you are, naked, to your motorcycle, without trying to cover yourself, and I’ll throw your clothes out the window. I’ll give you the helmet, but I don’t want you to put it on."

- "But..."

- "Do you want to see me again?"

- "Yes, but..."

- "Then you do exactly what I say. Aren't you such a big shot? Aren't you so happy with yourself? Show me if you are," she interrupted with determined mockery.

Without saying a word, he lowered his gaze and rushed down the dark stairs. With the petty intention of humiliating him even more, and not to anticipate his fall, Jennifer slowly approached the switch and turned on the staircase lights. This made the boy pause for a moment, then resumed his rush toward the exit. Once he reached the motorcycle, he leaned against it, holding the helmet under his muscular arm.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, his clothes began to fall onto the street. At the moment he bent down to grab his jeans, an older woman passed by who had come out to walk her dog at the most inopportune time, walking right beside him.

- "You look so handsome! Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll find another one," she said, watching him quickly gather his clothes while trying to cover himself.

- "Thank you, ma’am!" he replied politely, not quite knowing why.

- "You! You brighten up my day!" she chirped in farewell.

As best as he could, quite awkwardly, he dressed himself, got on the motorcycle, and returned home. On the way, his mind seemed to drift blank. Humiliated and enjoying it, exultant and confused. What she had done to him was atrocious, but he wanted more.

Upon reaching home, he began to masturbate. Instinctively, while doing so, he checked his phone. A message from Jennifer forbade him from doing exactly what he was doing.

“Ugh! Go to hell!” he thought as he continued to stroke himself, determined to finish and forget all about it. But suddenly, he remembered the closeness of the one who would become his mistress, how she set his skin on fire like very few had. He stopped mechanically touching himself just before ejaculating, almost punishing himself for his transgression. As best as he could, he went to bed and tried to sleep.

For two weeks he wrote to his mistress on WhatsApp. She read his messages but ignored him. Which drove him crazy with frustration. He pleaded for her attention, but she continued to ignore him. After several days, she deigned to reply:

- “Did you jerk off, spoiled kid?” it was her brief message.

- “No, and my balls are about to explode.”

- “Well, keep it up, and maybe I’ll see you again.”

Two weeks passed before he received a message, in the early hours of the morning, ordering him to visit her again. With his body shaking with excitement, anticipation, and lost pride, he discreetly left the chalet and headed again to the house of the one who would from that moment be his mistress. He still did not know that the path he had embarked on would have no return. Dignity is not what we wear, but what makes us richer and freer.