I didn't hit. I didn't greet. I didn't say anything.

I just pushed the door and crossed the threshold like someone entering their execution... or their destiny.

And there he was.

Seated. In his old leather armchair.

His legs open, his fly unzipped, his cigar lit, his belly exposed, his chest covered in sweat and hair.

And that gaze.

That gaze that doesn't ask. That demands.

He didn't speak to me. He didn't ask if I wanted to. He didn't get up.

He just raised his chin and said:

— Close it. And come.

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It sounded like old iron. As if he had known for years that one day I would be there, standing, trembling.

I closed the door. I walked. My cheeks were burning. My eyes were stinging from the smoke.

Each step towards him was a step away from myself.

I stopped.

And without looking at me, he said:

Everything off. You already know what you are. Today I'm not here to convince you. Today I'm here to use you.

My fingers were trembling when I took off my shirt.

When I undid my belt, I felt my pride unraveling with each metallic click.

I undressed. I offered myself.

And he hadn't even touched me.

— Mouth. Here. Now. No hands. Don't look at me. Swallow what I give you. And be quiet.

I knelt down.

And his cock was there. Heavy. Sweaty. Pulsating.

It had the sour taste of a body that doesn't wash to mark territory.

I took it with my mouth.

And he smoked.

He smoked as if nothing was happening. As if my tongue was part of the armchair.

He pushed me slowly, but deeply.

I choked. I coughed.

He didn't stop.

— Don't pull away. If you want air, earn it.

And I continued.

With tearful eyes.

With my throat open.

With my soul shrunk.

He held my skull like someone holding a precious cup.

Not with violence. With ownership.

— Now listen. You're not a man. You're not a name. You're not anyone. Just a useful body. A hot-mouthed whore. And mine. Only mine.

And I believed him.

Because it was true.

And when he came...

He didn't moan. He didn't sigh.

He just said:

— Swallow. And don't leave a single drop.

The semen burned me. It made me cough.

But I swallowed. Everything.

It dripped down my cheek.

I cleaned it with my tongue.

Not out of pleasure. Out of reflex.

And he, meanwhile, smoked.

Each puff fell on my forehead, on my stained face.

His smell filled everything.

— Look at yourself. Look at what you are.

He pointed to the mirror.

And there I was: on my knees, dirty, with my mouth open, without clothes, without a name.

— Get up. I don't w...