The Final Story: Meeting Toppy

It must seem strange to you to hear at this point that I’ve never met Toppy in person nor have I actually seen him. When we skype, I’m the only one who shows their face or other body parts upon demand. I’ve heard his voice; it’s low, older sounding. I have a picture in  my head of a man who is in his late forties, early fifties, with a touch of silver in a full head of hair. A business man who wears suits. I guess I don’t have a particularly great imagination, that’s pretty much what all subs imagine when they think of being mastered. But that’s what I imagine when I get his texts and when I fuck myself.

He’s never offered to come to town to meet me nor has he suggested that I come there. So it comes as a surprise when he tells me he’s finally coming to my city. He’ll be here for a few days on business. I’m to be ready. He texts me the name of his hotel. I’m to wear nothing but the yellow collar he gave me and a trench coat on top, thigh-high, lace-up boots. I am to procure handcuffs, and nipple clamps for which he will reimburse me later. He will use his belt on me. No need for a flogger or other instrument of corporal punishment. My cunt is wet at the mere thought of finally meeting this man, who I have grown to think of as my master, my Master. Even though we’ve never used those words.

It’s early spring here. The crocuses and daffodils are just starting to poke their way out of the ground. The angle of the light has changed from white to a soft yellow. I leave the curtains open when I lie on my bed on my stomach and hump myself against the pillows while thinking of Toppy striping my ass red with his belt. A thick leather belt with a buckle that will give me welts. That will mark me as his.

Yes, he lets others use me, but only on his command and only of his choice. I’ve had to service men of all types from businessmen and artists to construction workers and bus drivers to lonely eccentrics who never wash.  

Christ, I have such a yearning for Toppy to take me, to use me in every degrading way he can think of. In front of those disgusting men or in private. I don’t give a fuck. It’s three days until he arrives. I count the hours. I fuck myself constantly. He hasn’t told me not to. But he hasn’t sent me to anyone else either.

I wonder if once he comes, he’ll take me back with him and make me his permanent slave. I wonder if he has other slaves. If this is something he does with other women.

On the day I’m to meet him, my hands are shaking when I put on the collar. It takes me ages to lace up my boots and button up the trench coat. It’s raining a hard rain when I leave my apartment. The last of the snow is drowned by puddles of cold rain. Everything is wet. The sidewalk glistens with rain. I feel alive, excited and nervous as shit. I forget my umbrella so my hair is drenched.

I arrive at the hotel, which isn’t far from my place, which I realize is probably on purpose. I get dirty looks from the concierge and other people in the elevator. Or maybe that is my imagination. My tits are stiff against the trench coat and poking out. My legs tremble and I can smell the stench of my arousal. I can see myself in the elevator mirror. My mascara is running and my hair is plastered to my head. I look bedraggled. I feel unworthy. I think of backing out, of leaving and returning home. I know that if I do, I’ll never have any contact with Toppy again and I can’t bear that. So when the elevator door opens at the fifteenth floor, I get off, follow the room numbers in order to Room 999. I take a deep breath and I knock.

My heart is pounding heavily in my chest. I can hear it. Despite the cold, I can feel sweat dripping down my spine to my lower back. My stomach clenches with anxiety. It feels like an eternity and then the door opens.

He is just as I imagined. I smile. He nods but his grey eyes look over me without expression. He seems cold. Of course that is a turn on too.

He tells me to go to the bathroom and fix myself up. I feel disappointed and ill at ease, but I do as he commands. I reapply my makeup and dry my hair with the towel.

When I return he takes my coat. We are in the living room of a suite.  I stand naked. He takes out a blindfold and covers my eyes. He tells me to stop fidgeting and to remain still, then I hear him walking away, a kind of shuffle on the smooth white carpet.

I listen to the sound of my own breathing. It is heavy. I try not to move, but I shift from foot to foot, a habit I have when I am nervous. I wipe a bead of sweat from my upper lip. I tremble from head to foot. Can’t seem to stop shaking.

After what seems like an eternity, a door further back into the suite opens. I hear the sound of footsteps walking down a hallway. I’m not sure how many people are walking down the hall but it feels like more than one.

Then I feel a touch of a hand, it isn’t rough, but soft, over my eyebrows. Is this Toppy’s hand? It can’t be. I’m nervous now. Confused. The hand brushes against my still hard nipples. I smell the scent of jasmine. That’s when I hear her voice, a woman.

“Hello, B,” says the voice with an accent I don’t recognize, possibly Dutch.

She removes my blindfold. Toppy stands beside a woman. I blush. I don’t know what to make of this situation.

“You might say that Toppy is my manager,” she tells me, while Toppy takes a seat on the couch. “Or perhaps a better term would be my finder.”

“Who are you?” I ask, but with a nervous stutter.

“Forgive my rudeness, B. Let’s sit down.”

She sits on a loveseat across from Toppy on the couch and pats the cushion beside her.

I feel like a pet who must learn to obey its owner. And I’m not sure how I feel about it. I look to Toppy for guidance, but he just stares gives me a quiet stare, revealing nothing.

“My name is Angele. But if we proceed, I would like you to address me as Madame A. Is that clear?”

I take a moment. She has long platinum blonde hair, is a few inches taller than me. She is wearing a black pencil skirt and a grey satin blouse that reveal a generous cleavage.  I nod.

“This is an audition, you might say. A chance to show me whether or not you can serve me as well as you’ve been serving all those men at Toppy’s command or rather on mine. Toppy has been doing what I have asked him to do. He’s been getting you prepared for me.

“Why didn’t he ask me to be with women, then?” I blurt out.

“When I want you to speak, I will ask you to, B. But you don’t fully know the rules yet, so I’ll indulge you this once. I didn’t want you to be with other women, but I didn’t care which men you were with. I will be the only woman who is allowed to use you. If we continue. But for now, you can either put your coat back on and walk out the door or we can see if you’re a good little slave for me. If you have what it takes. What do you say? Shall I have Toppy use his belt on you or do you want to leave?”

I look over at Toppy who is standing, and already unbuckling the thick leather belt at his waist. Confident asshole. But he’s right. I want to see where this will take me. I look at Madame Angele’s chest and imagine those huge tits beneath the blouse. I want to worship them.

“I’ll stay,” I say in a quiet voice.

“Bend over the ottoman,” Toppy tells me. “And be silent.”

I bend and feel the rough material of the ottoman against my breasts.  I spread my legs as Toppy commands. I feel Madame Angele’s hand on my ass, caressing softly. She tells Toppy to begin. She counts each strike of the belt against my ass. I cry out when he gets to ten. She tells me I will have to be punished for my outcry. She makes Toppy start again. He belts my ass. I hear her count in the background but I feel myself floating out of my body. My cunt gushes. Then all is still.

Toppy tells me to turn over. Madame Angele has her hand beneath her blouse, squeezing her nipples. I can see the bulge of Toppy’s erection. To my bemusement, Madame Angele walks away.

Time is moving slowly. I feel like I’m watching a movie instead of going through the experience. Toppy slaps my face. The pain and shock bring me back to Earth.

Toppy orders me to crawl down the hallway. My ass smarts from the welts forming on my ass as I crawl slowly down the hallway to the bedroom where Madame Angele waits.

She is naked, lying with her legs spread on the bed. I let my eyes linger on her golden hair, her beautiful breasts, the curve of her stomach, and the light covering of blonde hair on her cunt.

Toppy walks in behind me and orders me to show her my adulation. To lick her cunt. I pause. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before, never touched a woman sexually, haven’t even thought about it. Toppy stands behind me and grabs me around the throat.

“Do you want this or don’t you, bitch?”

My body responds to the his voice as it always does. He knows I’ll do anything he says. And he also knows that I want to.

I crawl over to the bed, lift up until I am on my knees between her legs.

“Get busy,” Toppy orders.

I lean down. I don’t know what to do. I panic for a moment. Then I think about how it feels when I am licked, what is the right thing to do. I put my tongue against her clit and lick downward into her cunt, then I add a finger to her clit and stroke lightly, as light as a feather, while I lick inside her cunt and along the lips. All around. She writhes against my face and moans as I press my lips against her cunt while my finger runs up and down her swollen clit, in tiny movements.

With my other hand, I place a finger inside her cunt and lick her inner lips as I gently thrust the finger and curl it upward until she takes a sharp intake of breath and her cunt begins to gush. I lap it all up while I continue to caress her clit, as gently as possible. No flicking, no sucking, just the slow, gentle and persistent rhythm of my finger moving against her, not stopping.

My neck is sore but I am on my knees and am used to servicing men for ages. I find satisfaction in giving her what she needs. She comes hard against my lips, against my fingers, all over my face.

She motions me to come up to her and she wraps her arms around me, brings my head down. She slides her tongue inside and tastes herself on me. We kiss deeply. She tells me she wants my mouth on her breasts. I lick at each one, gently squeezing the nipple as I circle the aureole with my tongue. I am so wet now myself I feel my juices sliding down my thighs.

Madame Angele laughs and tells Toppy it’s his turn. She moves over on the bed and Toppy tells me to get on my hands and knees. He wraps his hand around my throat as he enters my ass. For the first time I can feel his cock against me, inside me. I relax and take its thickness as deep as he can go.

Madame Angele slides beneath me and licks up my cunt juices as I hump against her face.

And this is how the saga ends, dear reader. Does B become Madame Angele’s slave? Does she take her to California? Does she leave her in her home city to obey men at Toppy’s command? I’ll leave it to your imagination.

Thank you for reading. I hope these stories have inspired a multitude of good fucks. I share these pervy tales as a reminder that a lot of people have dark fantasies and that these fantasies are not only ok, they are wonderful. The imagination is a chance to explore one’s unspoken taboos. The kind of thing you can’t think about out loud or tell anyone about because you are too ashamed to do so. I shared these stories because I think we are living in an era of puritanism that rivals the Mayflower days. And because I don’t believe in censorship of artistic expression.  So here I share stories about a character who eats shit and drinks piss and does whatever she’s told and loves every fucking minute of it.

What do you think about in your deepest, most secret fantasies? I celebrate those fantasies and encourage your perverted imagination. 

Yellow Leather

If you have a cock, you own me. I wake up whispering those words. Ever since I read the Story of O in my twenties, I have had this fantasy. No. Not a fantasy. A need.

Toppy mails me a narrow band of yellow leather. He says it is for my neck. I am to wear it in public so that men can see it. They will know what it means. That I am at their mercy. Theirs to use.

I sit naked on a hard-backed wooden chair in my apartment, the cardboard box abandoned at my feet, my legs spread. I can’t help myself. This is the way I’ve been trained to sit. Trained by Toppy, who has his opinions about everything I do. Don’t slump, he tells me over Skype conversations. I sit up straight, press my chest out so that  my breasts are prominent. I weigh the leather in my hands. Toss it back and forth, weighing the decision.

It is late spring, the daffodils are fading. The leather is the colour of faded daffodils, I think. Such a romantic. I don’t understand why Toppy chose yellow instead of blood red or black, but he’s not predictable. He has his eccentricities.

I hold the leather in my hand, caress the tiny holes, stroke its length, bring it up to my nose to take a sniff. Scent of leather, smell of a whip or a belt, instruments of flagellation, of my subjugation. My cunt is wet. Memory association. No madeleine dipped in a tea cup. Leather striking my naked back as I am bent over a desk. Counting each stroke of the whip. Scent of leather mixed with blood and musk.

I walk to the mirror. Gaze at my bare neck, so vulnerable. A man’s hands choking the life out of me. Controlling my breath.  My cunt is wet. If you have a cock, you own me, I repeat to myself as I stare at myself in the mirror, naked except for the yellow strap against my neck, pale yellow, egg yellow, the colour of rebirth.

My fingers glide along my collar bone, dipping into the  hollow at my throat. Pulse quickening. I am breathing hard. My nostrils flare. My chest rises and falls. My skin is flushed pink. The spot above my upper lip glistens with sweat. I part my lips. I am parched with need.  Quivering with fear and so fucking wet.

I hold the leather between my fingers, a bright flash of colour against my pale skin. I wonder how men will know its significance. Toppy has his ways. I wrap the collar around my neck and slip the fastener into the hole closest to the end, but it’s too loose. I unbuckle and rebuckle until I reach the second last hole. It is tight but not enough to choke me. Just to hold me. To stay in position so that it will be seen by those who want to use me. The silver buckle is cold against my neck. Goosebumps creep down my spine.

I look up. My eyes are wide with desire. My nipples are hard. If you have a cock, you own me, I repeat again. It has become a mantra. One I’ve whispered to Toppy over the phone while I abuse myself. Cocks are my master. Any cock.

Telling Toppy things is like a fucked up confession to a twisted priest. Forgive me, Toppy, for I have sinned. He sends me off to sadists to torture me for my transgressions, my awful thoughts. Some are so shameful I dare not write them, but I’ve told him.

I am whipped hard enough to give me release, to make me feel less ashamed of myself. For a moment and then it comes back. I tell Toppy I can’t do this anymore, but he never listens. He sends me to serve men. He has turned me into the office toilet. At work, all I do now is kneel in the men’s room and wait to be used.

One day he will make me get a tattoo on my face to show my condition of slavery to the world. Something permanent. But for now, he has sent me a collar. Playing games with me as always. Making it seem like it’s my decision, but really, he’s making this happen.

Oh, I know. I don’t have to wear the collar. I can end all of this at any time. If I were rational, that’s what I’d do. Tell Toppy to get lost. I know it’s dangerous. Toppy doesn’t care about my well-being. He’s already demonstrated that. I don’t know exactly what he gets out of it. I send him photos. I write him. We talk. He’s still a mystery to me. He hasn’t demanded anything of me other than my obedience. Every time I respond to  his texts, I acquiesce.

Some days serving men is all I can think of. Everywhere I go, I look into their eyes, imagine kneeling for them. They have no idea. Even if they did, they aren’t going to act on it. And neither am I. Not unless I feel I have no choice.

With trembling hands, I roll the stockings up my legs, trying not to tear them. I slip a lace garter around my waist, slut wear. I wriggle into a tight skirt that hugs my curves, shows off my ass. Finally I put on a thin white blouse with an open neck to show off the collar. No underwear, no bra. Stilettos that emphasize my long legs. I apply dark red lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Not daytime make up, but it’s exactly right for what I am. I’m a whore, a slave meant to do what I’m told. To yield.

Yellow is the colour of surrender.

I kneel in front of the floor length mirror and take a picture to send to Toppy. Then I walk out the door into the bright afternoon sunshine. If you have a cock, you own me.

The Tit Man

Toppy sends me photos of tortured tits.  Purple and wrapped with rope. Erect nipples between the sharp teeth of steel clamps, videos of women crawling on their hands and knees with weights hanging off their nipples. 

He tells me to fuck myself while watching the videos. He gets me to send him little videos of myself playing with my tits, licking them and squeezing them. He texts back his usual little smiley faces, bizarre emoticons that seem to be grimacing more than smiling, but I'll take it. 

He tells me about this man who's mad about the tit. The Tit Man. The guy will do just about anything with them. He doesn’t care about any other body part. He doesn’t want to fuck or get sucked . He just wants to use this one body part. The idea should be offensive to me and I guess it is, but it’s also a turn on. Plenty of men stare at my tits every day when I’m on the bus or at work. I often think about showing myself to them.

Women are allowed to go topless in public here. I’ve never done it, but I’ve fantasized about it. Just walking down the street tits out downtown with a bunch of business men around. On a cool or windy day, my nipples would be hard. I cum to this fantasy more than once. I would have no control over who looked at them, who got aroused. What they thought about it. They’d probably think I was a total slut. I blush at the thought. It turns me on.

Eventually, after driving me crazy, Toppy  makes an appointment for me with the Tit Man. I’ve been fucked by fetishists before. They derive pleasure from something very specific. I’m both aroused and horrified by the fact that the idea makes me hot. I watch the videos over and over, even on my lunch break at the Bank. I squat on the toilet, lick my fingers, slide them over my clit and rub at it while I watch some chick’s nipples grow dark and stiff as they’re whipped.

I send photos of my tits to the Tit Man. It feels like an audition. He wants to see them naked at rest, my nipples soft. He wants to see them slick and sticky, so I lube them up. He wants to see them with a dildo in between. He wants to see them braless in a wet t-shirt. He seems to have an endless appetite for photos of my tits. Every photo I take turns me on even more. I have to send the same ones to Toppy. Each time Toppy texts me back a smiley face.

Toppy’s little smiley faces always send me over the edge. I crave his approval and attention. All I ever get are these little smiley faces. Or silence.  I hate it when Toppy’s silent.

On the day of my appointment with the Tit Man, I’m more than ready. I’m desperate. Gagging for it, you might say. I presume I won’t have to get down on my knees and suck his cock, which fills me with disappointment, but I need to do this to please Toppy and I don’t like to admit it, but to be used, objectified this way was always a secret, shameful desire of mine. Toppy makes this possible for me.

I ride the cargo elevator up to the eleventh floor of a converted warehouse condo. It’s dirtier than I expect.  I brush off my skirt, unzip my jacket to reveal the see-through blouse Toppy insisted on.

My cunt tingles. I’m so fucking wet. And afraid at the same time. I can’t stop my legs from trembling. I could turn around and take the elevator back down, grab a cab and return to my little apartment ten minutes away, and I consider it. I look down at my tits, touch them through the shirt. They’re hard. I’m wet. I want this.

I take a deep breath and knock.

The man is middle-aged with thick dark hair and a heavy black mustache and beard. I have no idea what his connection is to Toppy. I never ask.

He nods as I enter. Tells me to take off my jacket and my top. I stand in the middle of the loft, naked above the waist, my nipples stiff from the cold. He strokes himself on the outside of his jeans and gawks at me. He does this for quite some time. I’m wondering if this is all that will happen when he approaches me and brushes his hairy hands over my tits. He moans. His breath stinks of garlic. I try to turn away but he roughly jerks my chin toward him.

His pupils are wide and dark. I notice a string of drool clinging to his mustache.  Fuck, I’m even more turned on. He continues to paw at my tits for what feels like ages. I feel the bulge of his jeans against my leg, but he doesn’t open his pants or ask me to kneel.

He leaves me standing in the middle of the room and walks to a table. I notice there are all kinds of objects on it, including some rope. He brings over a coil of rope, just your regular hardware store stuff, nothing fancy. The rope is actually in two long pieces. He shoves me down into a hard-backed chair, slaps both of my breasts, turning them red. I feel like a nothing with tits. A zero.

When I get like this, I sometimes float out of my body. He must sense that I’m not paying attention. I don’t know why he cares. I’m just a pair of tits to torture. He bites down on my nipples until I cry out. My cunt spasms as I feel the sting of pain. He wraps a rope around the base of each of my breasts, tightening the rope as he goes, making my tits swell and turn dark red. My nipples are now very erect. He’s breathing heavily as he looks down at my breasts.

He makes me stand up. He licks my distended nipples, making me moan. He bites them hard again and I cry out. Tears roll down my eyes.

He brings over a crop, brushes it against the nipples and then strikes them, alternating from one to the other. I count each stroke. One. Two. Three. So fucking painful. Four. Five. Six. They are hard, red bullets of pain. Seven. Eight. Nine. All I am is pain. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

I want to fuck myself. I reach down to put my hands down my pants, but he shoves them away. I am an object to be used, nothing more. He gives me another eight strokes. The sting of the crop is making my nipples tingle hotly.

He pushes me down onto the cold, concrete floor. Finally he unzips his pants. His cock is hard and thick. He fists the shaft, his thumb moving over the slit of his cock, which weeps precum.

He removes his pants. All he has on is a pair of black socks and a t-shirt. He straddles me upside down. Most men want me to clean their asses in this position, but I get the impression with this guy that I should just keep still and let him concentrate on his business.

He groans as he slides his cock over my red and swollen nipples. His balls dangle down onto my chin. I feel them tighten. He jerks off on my tits. The cum spurts onto my chest, making a sticky mess that grows cold in seconds.

He climbs off and takes a photograph. Walks away, leaving me neglected on the floor, covered in cold jizz.

I find the bathroom, clean myself up and get the hell out of there.

When I arrive back at my place, I check my phone. There’s a smiley face from Toppy.

Throat

Toppy texts me links to porn videos. The first one was so gross, I had to shut it down. I kept seeing the image of the woman lying upside down on the couch, her mouth open and drooling as a cock slammed her throat over and over. A guy with tattooed inner arms slapping her face. Tears. Vomit. Snot. Disgusting. I was outraged. I fucked myself to that image.

He keeps sending the videos and I keep looking at them. Now I’m stroking myself as I watch a guy headlocking a woman. She can’t breathe. He’s calling her names: slut, whore, stupid cunt. I have a huge orgasm. Imagine myself in this scenario. Fuck, I’d probably die of claustrophobia.

What’s his purpose? Why is he sending these to me? He doesn’t say anything. Just sends links to increasingly violent and repulsive videos. Fuck, it’s making me hot.

I walk down the street and see a man, wonder what it would be like if he just forced me to kneel right there on the street, unzipped his pants,  grabbed my nostrils so my mouth opened. Made me take his cock deep. He gives me a knowing leer. I walk quickly on.

In my bedroom at home, I slap my face. I look at the red handprints in the bathroom mirror. I wish for a much harder slap. I stare at men’s large hands on the bus. My cunt is soaked, thinking about how strong they look. How much damage they could do. How he could make me do anything he wants.

Toppy sends me a video of a bunch of guys taking turns throat fucking some chick. She has to spit the drool and vomit into a red dog dish in between cocks. She’s wearing a dog collar. A guy wraps his hand around her neck. It’s so awful I want to look away but I can’t. Another guy spits right into her mouth. My cunt goes crazy. I’m writhing on my chair, grinding my hips against the leather. Another guy calls her a dumb fuck and slaps her tits. I go to bed, remove my clothes, grab my vibrator and rub my clit until I’ve spewed cunt juice all over the bed.

This happens over a period of about two weeks. An onslaught of awful videos, girls being abused. In some of them, they interview the women, well-known porn actresses. They talk about how much they love being demolished by a big cock. Mascara runs down their faces. Their lips are bruised.

In the next video a woman is wearing a cowbell. Every time she is slapped or throat fucked, the cowbell rings. The guy, whose face you never see, tells her he wants to hear that cowbell ring. He wants to hear her moo. He pinches her nipples hard when she doesn’t do what he says. He makes fun of her when she doesn’t do it right. Calls her a heifer. I ache. What kind of a fucked up slut am I? I yearn to be treated this way.

I ask men on line hook up sites to send me photos of their cocks, the bigger the better. So that I can imagine choking on these cocks. Imagine them slapping my face with their dicks. I don’t meet though. I’m too fucking scared. If they like this kind of thing, they could really hurt me. I tremble in arousal and fear. Eventually arousal wins.

I fuck myself all hours of the day and night, desperate for it. I think of begging Toppy to set something up. I want to be nothing but a throat to be fucked. I want to be slapped. Mocked. Laughed at. I want to be degraded.

Toppy keeps sending me videos. A woman is made to mop up her own drool and vomit with her long blonde hair. She wrings it out into the red dog dish. A man sticks his boot on her head while she is on all fours on her hands and knees, being fucked by another man from behind.

I feel so terrible about myself. What kind of woman wants this kind of treatment. Or gets off to seeing this sort of thing. It’s shameful. And Toppy hasn’t said one word to me, but I’ve figured out what he’s doing. This is training for me. He knows eventually I’ll beg him to set something up. Beg to be throat fucked. To be nothing but a throat.

I buy an eight inch dildo from the sex shop, not too wide, so I can take it in. I relax my throat. I take a deep breath. I slide the dildo into my mouth, taking it deeper and deeper until I gag. I try it again. My eyes are watering. I imagine a guy is yelling at me to swallow his cock.  My throat’s starting to feel sore, but I keep going. I can feel the dildo pushing into my esophagus. Take a look in the mirror. The dick distorts my face. I look so ugly. I imagine a man telling me what a fucking ugly bitch I am.

I part my legs. I’m so turned on. The dildo is soaked with my spit. I push it into my cunt and hump myself against the bathroom cupboard, holding the dick with one hand and squeezing a nipple with the other. I stop and walk  into the bedroom, lie on the bed on my stomach and hump the bed with the dildo inside my cunt.

When I’m done coming, I text Toppy: I’m ready. That’s all I need to write. I know he’ll set something up. I receive a smiley face in return. 

Neglect

I haven’t heard from Toppy in weeks. He’s done this before. I send him e-mails. He doesn’t respond. I send him text messages. He doesn’t respond. He knows this is what I hate the most. Neglect. To be treated as if I don’t exist. I am invisible at work. I don’t really have friends. I hang around the dark corners of bars, drinking Guinness and trying not to draw attention to myself.

I’m a regular. But I don’t make conversation with the bartender. Usually. For some reason tonight he insists on talking to me. He’s handsome, not particularly tall, probably mid-twenties. I always enjoy watching him when he’s not looking. His hair is blond-gold. He has peach fuzz over his face. I think about how lovely it would be to rub myself over that fuzz: first my face, then my breasts, then lower down.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m  a fool to imagine he’s attracted to me. I’m wearing my office clothes still. I see no point in adding to the laundry pile. I hear him chatting up some dish who looks about his age, maybe a bit younger. I drink my dark beer and return to my book. I’ve developed a crush on James Joyce. I’m reading Ulysses for the third time. The man is magic with language. I lose myself. When my beer is gone, I order another, then another.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough,” the bartender says.

I look up, surprised. I haven’t been counting. But it hasn’t really been that many. I’ve just lost track of time. The bar is empty.

“It’s past last call, hon. Shall I call you a cab?”

I explain that I live just down the street. I drop Ulysses.

The bartender picks it up.

“One of my favourites too. I start reading it every year on June 16.”

I blush.

“You know, you’ve got a very pretty face when you blush,” he says.

I’m a little tipsy but not enough to have lost my inhibitions completely unfortunately. I down the last bit of foam in my pint and scramble to leave.

“Hey, if you wait for me to close, I can walk you. I live nearby too.”

He gives me a wink. He’s so gorgeous.

“Ok,” I say as I fumble with my wallet.

“It’s on the house, love. You’ve been here so often, your tips have been great. I’ll let you have a few on me.”

I clear my throat.

“Gosh that’s so sweet of you.”

There’s a pause as he looks into my eyes.

Fuck, I want this man. What a fool I am. Of course he would never be interested in a woman my age, a clerk, a spinster, a book nerd. He has no idea what a slut I am if ordered to be so and I have no intention of revealing that part of myself to this boy. He’s beautiful. A golden idol. Just for once, I pray to some imaginary god in the sky. Let me have this boy. Let me have this moment.

It’s pouring outside when we leave. I slip on the stupid cobblestones. My neighbourhood is being gentrified. There are even old fashioned lamp posts, for heaven’s sake. He catches me. We turn towards each other. And we kiss. As the rain falls.

We barely make it to my apartment. We keep kissing every few feet. His name is Jay, he tells me in between kisses. He’s a grad student. Another kiss. He’s studying comparative literature. I unlock the door.

Obviously we have to take off all our clothes. They’re wet.

We are still standing in the tiny corridor with my old shoes, a neglected umbrella and junk mail. I manage to steer us over to the bed.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss and we kiss. Until my lips are sore.

He lies on his back. I caress him gently with fingertips, palm, cupped hand.

I lick his neck. I rub my face over his. I drown in his beauty. I am aroused by the roughness of his cheek against my body. He kisses me all over.

I run my fingers through his golden hair. I kiss down his body until I am between his legs. I stroke his cock with my tongue. Soft, wet caresses along the shaft, around the rim of the head of his cock, around & around. I lick his balls.

Wrap my hands around his cock while I take it in my mouth to make it wet and hard.

I taste the salt of his precum. I rub my face all over his cock. I can’t get enough of his gorgeous cock. Not overly large. Just right. I can fit the entire head in my mouth. This makes him groan. His balls tighten beneath my fingers as I squeeze gently.

I keep licking and stroking while his cock is in my mouth. He comes with a moan. I swallow every drop. We kiss again. I love that he isn’t shy about tasting himself on my lips.

He asks me to lie on my back. He licks my nipples, turning them into stiff little points of desire. He cups my breasts, kisses the side of my neck until he gives me goosebumps, He makes me cry out. He puts his lips against my lower lips, dips his tongue into my cunt which is already so wet for him,

He places a finger on my clit, and asks me what I like. I have a hard time answering at first, but  he insists. I ask him to be slow & gentle.  He scoops the wetness from my cunt and slides it onto my clit. Over and over again. He puts his face over my cunt, slips his tongue inside. Two fingers frame my clit. I can feel it swelling. I’m soaking the bed.

He fucks me gently with his tongue and fingers until I come. He kisses me.

I can taste myself on him. We take a break. I’m so fucking happy. He tells me I’m beautiful. There’s a light in my eyes. His are brown and sparkling. I want him again. He’s hard. Again.

I lie on top of him on the bed and stare into those dark, intense eyes.

Ever so slowly, I take him inside me. He knows what to do. He just lies there, letting me find the right rhythm. My clit is rubbing against his pubic hairs. It feels so good. I lift myself up and back down. Up. And. Down. Up. Again. And. Down. It feels so fucking good. I come and gush all over his cock. I slump against him. He kisses me, then has me turn over onto my back.

He enters me again. I’m wet with his cum. Soon he’s coming inside me. He falls asleep in my arms. I can’t even remember the last time a man has fallen asleep with me like this. I hear the rain and I let myself fall, fall into a deep sleep, for the first time in ages.

When I wake up, he is gone. We didn’t exchange cell phone numbers. I wait a day. Feel like an idiot because I feel hurt. There’s an emptiness in the pit of my stomach that feels like hunger, but it isn’t. We hadn’t made any promises in words. But the way he touched me. The way he kissed. And then to fall asleep with me like that. As though he trusted me.  It just felt like more than a fuck.

Another day goes by. I can still smell him on my sheets. I think of going back to the bar, but I’m too fucking embarrassed. And ashamed in a  way that doesn’t satisfy me. I don’t like being tricked into being used. But did he use me? We both had fun. Why am I like this? Why do I need the beautiful ones to be romantic, to be tender with me? Why do I let my heart get involved?

I wait until the weekend then I go to the bar, but he’s not there. I tentatively ask the server at the bar if she’s seen Jay, but she shakes her head. A regular overhears. She says he quit. These boys come and go, sweetheart, she says. I turn beet red. I stumble out of the bar. What a fool I am to think that someone as beautiful as that, as sweet as that would want more than a couple of fucks, one night with the lonely, desperate older woman.

My cell phone beeps. There’s a text from Toppy. There’s a new man he wants me to go see. I’m to be ready in half an hour. Why the fuck not?

School Girl

The elderly lady looks at me derisively from her seat across from me on the city bus. I don’t blame her. This skirt is way too short for a woman my age. Toppy has me in a Catholic school girl outfit: plaid skirt, white blouse, no bra—because young girls don’t require them--cotton knee-high socks and flat black shoes. I feel like a fool, but I’m also turned on. The whole get up sends me into little girl mode. I’m ready to please my daddy any way he desires.

I am to ride public transit all day. Staying on the same bus. Letting whatever happen, happen. The bus driver of the number two bus, a grizzly old guy with a grey beard, gives me a long leer as I drop my fare and have to stoop down to pick the coins up off the floor. I can feel the air hit my ass. I know he can see my thin, cotton underwear. It’s torn a bit near the ass, but it’s the only pair of white underwear I own. My face turns beet red as I make my way down the aisle, crowded with business men and bureaucrats on their way to work. I am to sit in the back of the bus, facing sideways, to spread my legs and let the riders have a peak between my legs. As the bus grows increasingly packed, a man bumps against my face, his bulging crotch at eye level. He winks and adjusts his package.

I give up my seat for a pregnant woman. I am now standing sandwiched between two men. One leans into me. I can smell his breath, the stench of whiskey at seven am. And garlic. His pudgy fingers graze my ass. The other man, the one in front of me, turns so we are face to face. He lurches into me, pressing his cock against me. I want to move but I can’t. In the crowd, no one can see what he’s doing. The man behind me is satisfied with fondling my ass. I’m both turned on and disgusted. Being disgusted with myself turns me on. Can you understand that?

His hand is on his crotch. He reaches over and grabs my hand. He nods. I undo the zipper. He’s not wearing underwear. He presses my hand against his hard cock. I wrap my fingers around the shaft and give him a few hard tugs. The feel of his cock hardening in my hand sends a bolt of electricity straight to my cunt . He slides his fingers along my thin blouse and gives one of my nipples a hard twist, hard enough to make me cry out in pain and cause my cunt to gush.

One by one the passengers get off. Eventually I am alone with the bus driver.

He calls me up to the front of the bus. I hesitate and he tells me to move quickly.  His voice is very commanding. There’s no room for argument. He smirks as he stares at my tits, my naked legs, my short skirt. I know you’ve been fucking passengers in the back, you little whore, he tells me.  He says it’s his turn. Are you going to be a good little girl for your daddy, honey? I nod. All I want to do is please my daddy, so big and handsome. I can see the grey hair peeking out of his shirt.

He pulls the bus over to an empty street near a construction zone and an abandoned old building. He walks with me to the back of the bus. He tells me to open my mouth. Slips his thumb inside. Orders me to suck. Daddy’s going to teach you how to please him, little girl. Are you going to behave? I’m sucking hard on his thumb. I nod. Lick it now. C’mon baby, make your daddy happy. I keep licking and sucking.

On your knees, you little slut, he says. I kneel on the dirty floor of the bus. He opens his fly and takes out a thick and uncut cock. I know what I have to do, what I am always dying to do anytime I see a cock. I take it in my mouth. There’s precum pooled in the foreskin. He brings out a cell phone and takes photos of his dick sliding in and out of my mouth. He slaps me with his cock and takes more photos of the precum sliming my face and his big cock pressed against my cheek. He makes me suck the cum out of him. He’s still hard.  A fucking randy old man. He tells me to bend over. He lifts my little plaid skirt. You have a fine ass, young lady. Much too sexy for a little girl. I’ll have to punish you for that. He pulls down my underwear. He spanks me until I can feel the sting of red burn across each cheek. My cunt juice slides down my thighs. I cry out as his cock forces its way into my tight brown hole. No condom. No lube. He dryfucks my ass until it is wet with his cum. He slaps it again after he withdraws and tells me to get off his fucking bus.

Toppy texts me later with a smiley face. I guess the driver was in on it all along and has sent him the photos. I go to bed and fuck myself, thinking about what a fucking whore I’ve become, waiting for Toppy’s next command. 

Dirty Secret

Toppy sends me to this guy several times, a businessman who lives in on the top floor of a fancy condo.  Be discreet, I’m told. No overtly sexual attire. I wear a blouse buttoned up to my neck, a black pencil skirt with a demure hemline that falls below the knee, and a matching jacket. Two inch heels instead of stilettos. No makeup whatsoever, as I am instructed.

I live in a basement apartment inside an old house. It’s cluttered with bookshelves and dowdy second- hand furniture in dark colours to cover whatever stains might occur. I keep the curtains drawn. I dress in the dark so I don’t have to see my body. This man’s apartment is decked out in white: curtains, carpet, sofa, and chairs. The light is blinding. Some kind of fucked up version of Heaven.  He doesn’t give me his name and he doesn’t ask for mine.

The encounters that Toppy arrange give me the opportunity to explore fantasies that had been buried so far down within my psyche, I didn’t even dare to dream them. I abandon any notions of morality at the threshold of each man who uses me. I’m simply an instrument, an object to be used. This is bullshit, of course. I agree to swallowing every cock shoved down my throat, every bruise on my body. Every filthy act.

The first time I knock on the businessman’s door--let’s call him Fancy, I’m nervous. I’m always nervous. Am I nervous because I don’t know what to expect or because I worry that each depraved act will give me a taste for more. One man alternated between taking my ass and striping my back in lashes from his belt until I was raw and bleeding inside and out. He called me every name he could think of, including daughter. The shame I felt at being used this way almost made me stop agreeing to see these men, but afterward when I looked at my back in the mirror, covered in those scars, I felt high. I fucked myself to the memory of his pounding cock, his belt, the names he called me. I felt relief. A secret fucked up desire acted out. Release. And when other men saw the marks, they wanted to add their own. Freedom. I was flying.

The door opens. Fancy is short, paunchy and balding. He’s wearing a white terrycloth robe, the kind you find in luxury hotels. Not the kind of man I would ever date. He makes my skin crawl. I shiver but don’t turn around and leave.

He closes the door behind me. Looks me over like he’s inspecting a fucking cow at an auction. Tells me to turn around. His frown makes me feel as if I am somehow lacking. Tits not big enough? Ass too small? Belly fat starting to appear at my middle? He never says. He tells me to strip, to put my clothes on the white leather couch and crawl to the bathroom.  To wait for him on my knees by the toilet.

My legs shake as I crawl. He doesn’t even watch. I enter a white-tiled bathroom. Everything in the room is white and antiseptic.

I’m not sure how long he leaves me alone in this position. My knees are sore. My back aches. My heart races. I am so fucking scared. But my cunt is sopping wet.

He comes in naked. His body is ugly, covered in hair, his cock short and stubby. Open your mouth, he tells me. He spreads his legs and aims. If you spill any, you’ll have to lick it up. He dribbles at first, stops to let me clean his cock with my tongue, then begins again until he lets go a full stream of piss. I open my mouth wide. The taste is bitter and dark, like he hasn’t had anything to drink in hours. I’ve never done this before. I gag once.  Piss falls onto my tits, and onto the tile floor. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting, a toilet. I open my mouth and drink from his cock. Taking it all down, letting him empty himself down my throat.

He finishes and pushes my head to the floor, telling me to lick it up. Then he leaves.

The floor smells of bleach and urine. I lick until my tongue is raw. He hasn’t told me I can get up or clean myself. I am sticky, filthy and confused by the fact that I’m so fucking turned on.

I drink his piss twice before he lets me get up and shower, then leave. On some occasions, I wait and wait in the bathroom, and he never comes in until the end, when he tells me to leave.

Once he has me watch while he sits on the toilet to take a shit. He puts his hands on my shoulders, his dark eyes looking into mine, unflinching. Afterward he turns his ass toward me and tells me to clean it. Fuck. I can imagine your thoughts. What a disgusting pig. How could you do anything so foul? But who among you hasn’t licked an ass that was less than clean or stroked yourself to ass to mouth videos? It’s just a bit further. One lick. Your mouth open and waiting. Begging for it.

When I crawl down that hallway, I lose myself, become someone else or maybe I become myself. I have to tell you that I’ve fantasized about it before. To eat a man’s shit has always felt like the ultimate degradation. To be used as a toilet. To be forced to do something so ugly. To eat death.

I lick along the crack of his ass and into his asshole. I bury my nose in his ass. I tongue and suck at his asshole until it’s clean.

Fancy takes a photo of my shit-covered face with his cell phone camera. I know he’s sending it to Toppy. Fuck me, I’m so turned on at this point, I think I’m going to soak the bathroom floor. That is all it takes, this one photo, to send me over the edge. But I don’t move until he tells me to.

Afterward he offers me mouthwash and tells me to clean myself up. Not out of kindness, I doubt, but because he doesn’t want me to stink up his fancy building and cause gossip.

In the shower, I turn the water on as hot as I can make it. Scrub and scrub at my body and my face. The water brushes over my nipples. They get hard. I stroke my clit. I can’t get the stench of him off myself. Why does that turn me on even more?

I go home and take another shower. Fuck myself again and again. I even go on line and fuck while watching others commit the same act as I had. I’m a weirdo. How can I be so fucked up?

Meanwhile at the bank things are boring as shit, forgive the irony. I spend days in my little cubicle with the other mid management clerks and officers in business development. Once in a while I have to take over for a teller in commercial accounts. Mindless work.

One morning I am called to help a customer set up a new business account. It’s him. Fancy. How fucking surreal. He greets me civilly. I sit there with my mouth gaping open. He waits, giving me a frown. You have to understand that until this point, even though the city I live in is small, I haven’t ever encountered one of the men I’d debased myself with in any other situation. Not a single one. But here he is. In my place of employment. He fills out the forms and asks the occasional question. My hands shake as he returns the forms to me. We both pretend that I haven’t crawled for him, drank his piss and eaten his shit. He is calm. As if this is a standard occurrence. My face turns red. He leaves when our business is done. This makes me feel like a fucking whore more than anything else I’ve done.

As far as my employers and colleagues know I am just a quiet spinster in her late thirties. I don’t attend office functions. I don’t come in late. I never party. I am a demure little worker, who follows the rules and does what is required to accomplish my tasks with minimal complications. I am no trouble to anyone and no one gives me a second thought.

Fancy asks for me again at the bank. Or I should say Clayton Fergusson, his actual name. Or Mr. Fergusson as I call him. His eyes are cold. They look right through me. It makes me shiver. It makes me hate myself. To be ignored after what we’d done. Does that sound odd? I suppose it is. Considering the way he treats me at his apartment. But this is different. I expect to feel degraded and dehumanized in the privacy of his home, but not here at my workplace. Oh sure there are some jerk customers who treat me rudely, but Fancy, I can’t bring myself to call him Mr. Fergusson, doesn’t treat me rudely,  he simply acts as if we have no shared history, as if I am nothing to him but the person responsible for providing a banking service. I am expected to act the same way.

When I tell Toppy about this later, about Fancy now being one of my clients at the bank, he laughs. He’d set it up. He tells me to expect other men in future.  At my workplace. I am to keep my fucking mouth closed unless I am ordered to open it. That I am a woman men don’t talk about to anyone. A dirty secret.