1

The sweetness that Dalila presented contrasted with who she really was. I still remember her picking fruits from her garden in a blue dress with white flowers, open at the top for not having buttoned the buttons, revealing much of her breasts. She had short hair, long eyelashes, and a delicate face, a delight to behold, but those who truly know her, a terror to the soul.

I lived with her for a month in a house that belonged to her family, enormous and almost empty; it would be a pleasure for minimalists. I was in the living room watching her through the window while she picked the fruits. The living room was huge, the walls would be about 3 meters high, pure concrete with paint already worn by time, white in color. The furniture was made of thick wood, just a couple of sofas and a wobbly table. So empty and so large. I think there was a decoration in one corner, a shy pot with a tall plant. I was in boxers, my bare feet resting on the edge of the table. I smoked a cigarette brand named "Demonio". It's a cold house, almost empty, enormous, with hard walls, and I liked it. I miss its walls. Dalila came in, threw a fruit at me, and went to the kitchen.

I remember the day I met her. I was leaving a bar, she was crossing the street. We exchanged a few words that I no longer remember, she got on my small motorbike, and we went to get lost in the streets, to enjoy ourselves. From the time I met her to going to her house, 6 months had passed.

I followed Dalila to the kitchen, the fruits were left on a shelf, and she told me to help her bathe. She loves it when I soap her up while she's in the tub, and then watch her, comb her hair as if she were a doll. In the bathroom, when she was in the water, she stretched her feet upwards and forced me to massage them. She enjoyed watching me while I gave her massages, finding great delight in seeing me submissive to her. At the edge of the tub, there were a couple of fruits. The bathroom was on the second floor and had a huge window overlooking the garden, from where I could see the treetops. Although it was uncomfortable, the extent to which she enjoyed seeing me submissive to her at those moments, I acknowledge that those feet were a beauty to behold and touch.

After drying her, we went to the bedroom. It was very large, it would be approximately 40 square meters. As far as I know, years ago, it was a meeting room. Now there was only a bed in the far-right corner, with a mirror beside it and large windows through which light entered. The rest, a well-polished wooden floor thanks to the many employees. She, naked, walked to the bed. I undressed and followed her.

Dalila's sexuality was quite particular; she was emotionally sadistic, but when we were in bed, she turned submissive. She wanted to be brutalized by a sadistic master who would beat her. I didn't mind that role entirely, to be honest, although sometimes it bored me; I preferred traditional sex. I have the feeling that putting me in that role of master amused her and somehow fed her narcissism.

In the vast emptiness of the room, every slap and every moan made a loud echo. She would just close her eyes and let herself go. I would first give her a passionate kiss and then a spank. I would manhandle her white body with medium breasts and slender hips, as if it were a sack of potatoes. I would tell her various insults that demeaned her dignity. On some occasions, I would take a black piece of cloth with which I would blindfold her. Through the mirror, I could see my image giving her hard spanks, one after another, and she would challenge me to punish her harder. She begged me to rape her: "Rape me, rape me", words that came from her heart. I would brutalize her on all fours most of the time, vaginally and sometimes anally. I would pull her hair, sometimes her hands were tied behind her back. There were even several occasions when I poured red candle wax over her nice buttocks. Over time, the sadism of our encounters escalated to the point where I sometimes felt guilty, though not entirely. I think her bad attitude was to provoke me into being even more perverse in sex. I would do things like choke her with my penis, putting my member inside her mouth until the head reached right to her throat, and she couldn't breathe. This left her red-faced and drooling. The spanks turned into hard slaps across the face, and from an empty hand, I switched to a belt with which I would strike different parts of her body.

And then came a new dynamic of sexual play and humiliation...

2

I made her stand up and join her feet with her legs bent over her arms. Then I told her: "Since you love me massaging your feet so much while you're in the tub, now I'm going to humiliate you in a different way! I'm only going to enjoy your feet. I won't touch you, almost won't look at you. In this forced position, I'll use your joined feet as if they were a vagina, and I'll enjoy them!"

She looked surprised. It was clear she didn't expect this turn of events. I unzipped my pants, placed my phallus between her feet, and started to masturbate. Her feet felt warm and slightly rough. I moved them back and forth, again and again. I moved them with force. I unleashed all my passion on those feet. Until finally, I released my fluid, which shot out onto Dalila's face. Then I zipped up my pants and left the room. I went to the kitchen to eat one of the fruits Dalila usually collected from the garden.

I don't know how she felt at that moment. I imagine with great displeasure, because for the rest of the week, she didn't speak to me. She didn't make any of her usual dramas or her aggressive-passive comments. She was just serious, as if she hated me. But her silence didn't limit our daily passionate sessions. And my attitude continued.

I imagined different ways to turn her into an object. More than a master and a submissive, now I was a consumer and she was a thing. It was during an afternoon when it seemed like night would fall earlier than usual, on the bed, I ordered her to take off her clothes, get on all fours. I thought she expected me to thrust or punish her with the belt. But no. I stood there. I took out my penis, and looked at the splendor of her anus and her vagina. I treated her as if she were some kind of live pornographic image. I even murmured things like: "What a nice vagina!" "I like your anus!" Obscene phrases that would be normal between us, but on this occasion, they intensely displeased her. I ejaculated on the floor. Ejaculation which I quickly cleaned up with some toilet paper. And then I left again.

I think that afternoon, upon leaving the room and heading to the living room, I felt more than ever how hard and cold that house was. It was like living in an abandoned prison with nice furniture. The brutality of its minimalism. The perversion of its empty spaces. And I liked its architecture even more.

My new sexual attitude, I believe, was what ultimately drove us apart. She practically didn't speak to me and even, it seems, avoided seeing me during the day. It was enough for me to enter a room for her to leave; never missing our daily sexual encounters. At those moments, I wasn't aware of what I was doing, but I have the feeling that hurting her in that way was highly satisfying for me; I was guided by a psychological complacency that I don't fully understand, but which only time has revealed to me.

The last time she was dressed on the bed, serious, waiting for my next action. I lay down and did nothing. I talked about business, Dubai, and the garden fruits. Then I said I would take a nap that afternoon. She started to hit me, called me a coward and a loser. She threw pillows at my face and told me to get out of her house. I didn't say goodbye nor did I try to talk. I took my few clothes, put them in the suitcase I arrived with, and left, just like that.

That night, I went to a brothel and had sex with a prostitute who resembled a girl I had been in love with years before. We had regular, straightforward sex. It was a great pleasure. At the moment of ejaculation, I imagined Dalila's face crying, and that brought me great satisfaction.

A year has passed, and I don't miss that beautiful woman with short hair who liked to pick fruits from her garden. But I do miss the architecture, with high concrete walls and vast empty spaces.