At 48, I Discovered I Like Being Dominated... The Slave Took Me From Behind and Didn't Stop Until

At 48, I Discovered I Like Being Dominated... The Slave Took Me From Behind and Didn't Stop Until...

The gold-framed, worn mirror in my room doesn’t lie, though I wish it would. At 48 years old, the image that returns to my gaze is that of a woman whom time forgot to consult.

My hair, still dark but with strands of silver that insist on shining under the candlelight, is always tied up in a bun so tight it seems to want to contain my thoughts as well. I am Flávia, the Baron’s sister, the widow of a man whose face I sometimes find difficult to remember clearly. My wedding to Dr. Arnaldo was an event that brought the province to a standstill. I was young, full of silent expectations, ready to assume the role of wife that society expected of me. But fate has a cruel sense of humor. Three weeks. That was the length of my married life. A sudden and merciless fever took Arnaldo before the scent of the altar flowers had even dissipated from our house.

He left, leaving me with the title of widow, a modest inheritance, and a chastity that, ironically, remained almost intact. Back then, grief wasn’t just a feeling, it was a sentence. Since then, black has become my second skin. The heavy crepe fabric, the corset that squeezes my ribs, and the high collar that chokes my neck are the armor I wear to face the world.

After Arnaldo’s death, I had no children, no new suitors whom my brother considered worthy, and I ended up being taken in by the authoritarian charity of Baron Carlos Miguel. Carlos Miguel, my brother, is the law and order in these lands. Owner of the largest coffee plantation in the region. He rules the farm with an iron fist and a pride that is almost palpable.

To him, I am merely an ornament to his respectability, the aunt who takes care of the household organization, who watches over the maids, and who keeps the family’s honor above suspicion. He gave me shelter, plenty of food, and protection, but in return he demanded my soul in a state of perpetual dormancy. I walk through the hallways of the mansion, and the sound of my leather shoes on the wooden floor seems like an echo of a life that was never lived.

The farm is a living organism, pulsating with work and sweat, but I am merely a shadow that wanders between the bedrooms and the veranda. The smell of roasting coffee wafts through the windows, an earthy, strong, and virile aroma that sometimes makes me close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling a strange shiver that I can’t explain.

“Flavia?”

Carlos Miguel’s voice echoes from the office, firm and impatient. He checked if the supplies for the harvest had been separated. Yes, brother.

“Everything’s fine,”

I reply in the gentle voice I’ve cultivated for decades. He barely looks at me. To him, I’m part of the furniture, as functional as the oak table where he signs export contracts.

He has no idea that beneath the layers of petticoats and the obligatory modesty, pulses the blood of a woman who has never known what it is to be truly taken, who has never felt the fire of a desire that wasn’t simply to please others. My life is a succession of identical days marked by the ringing of the farm bell.

And through my nightly prayers, where I ask forgiveness for sins I haven’t even committed, but which I begin to desire in my thoughts. Being a widow holed up in hiding is a heavier burden than any sack of coffee. It’s like living in a desert of touch, where the skin yearns for something the mind says is forbidden. At night, when I lie down in my cold, lonely bed, the walls of the mansion seem to close in on me.

The silence of the farm is broken only by the sound of crickets and the distant murmur of the slave quarters. It is in these moments that loneliness physically hurts. I look at my hands, the hands of a 48-year-old woman who has never truly been explored. And I wonder if my end will be just this, to be the Baron’s shadow, the spinster aunt who serves coffee and dies in silence.

I didn’t know, on that bright sunny morning, that fate was about to play a trick on me. I didn’t know that the man Carlos Miguel trusted most, the robust and silent Tião, would be the instrument of my awakening.... Read more in Comment 👇