The Secret Doll
Joaquín was a man of precise tastes and exacting demands. He craved a specific kind of purity—not the innocence of a girl, but the exclusivity of the moment. He insisted that I be “virgin for him” each day we met, meaning no other man could have touched me since the sun rose. To him, I was his personal doll, a secret treasure tucked away from the world.
I played the part with practiced ease. I told him I lived with my family, knowing the idea of a dutiful daughter sneaking away to his bed fueled his fire. In reality, I lived alone, but the lie was a lubricant that made our encounters smoother and more electric. When his call came at two in the afternoon, my heart raced. “Are you a little virgin today, doll?” he asked, his voice a low rumble of anticipation. I whispered my confirmation, already imagining the feel of his sheets.
I prepared myself meticulously, dressing in the black embroidered lingerie he adored. He loathed the skimpy styles of the streets; he wanted something that felt intimate, almost domestic. When I arrived at his apartment, the rain was drumming against the windows, mirroring the rhythmic thrum of desire in my veins.
As I knelt before him, my lips occupied with his heat, my phone vibrated. It was my mother. Normally, I kept the world out, but Joaquín insisted I answer. There was a perverse thrill in the contrast: the soft, maternal voice of my mother asking about my sister’s birthday gift, while I remained on my knees, naked and breathless, serving the man who viewed me as his plaything. Joaquín watched me with a predatory smile, his hand stroking my hair while the other maintained his erection. The risk of discovery added a sharp, metallic edge to my arousal.
Once the call ended, the tension snapped. He pulled me onto the bed, his tongue exploring every inch of my skin with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He worshiped my body, his fingers and lips finding every sensitive nerve until I was arching beneath him, sobbing for more. When he finally entered me, he demanded I stay still, wanting to savor the sensation of my tightness without the “distraction” of my movements. I obeyed, my breath hitching as he drove deep, filling the void with a relentless, powerful pace.
The encounter shifted as he flipped me over, his hands gripping my hips. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet room as he claimed me from behind, his breath hot against my neck. I moaned loudly, the sound blending with the rhythm of his thrusts until he reached his peak, shuddering against me in a final, explosive release.
Afterward, as per our ritual, I carefully removed the condom and cleaned him with my tongue, a final act of devotion that he required of his “doll.” He was generous in return, handing me extra cash for my sister’s gift and chocolates for my mother. It was a strange, transactional intimacy, built on secrets and roles.
As I left the apartment and headed to the mall, I caught sight of him entering with his daughters. Our eyes met for a fleeting second—a spark of shared lust hidden behind a mask of polite indifference. I smiled to myself, stepped into a taxi, and carried the secret of the sheets back into the city.