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.

The Initiator

Alex has just returned from out west to do a master’s degree at one of the local universities. He comes to my favourite café at the same time I do every day. He’s blond, mid-twenties with a well-toned body. When I look into those sexy baby blues, I am so fucking turned on. And we had a moment when he first came back. He came over to my table, abandoning his place in line. We chatted for several minutes. There were these pauses. It felt like sexual chemistry to me, but what do I know. I’m fucking clueless about these things. I fantasized about licking his shoulders, rubbing myself all over his body. Such deviant thoughts make me blush and squirm on the plastic vinyl bench. Hence the pauses. Awkward. Later I fuck myself while imagining him eating out my hairy snatch.  

Toppy knows I don’t initiate sex. Even when I really want to fuck a guy, and that is pretty much all the time, I won’t make the first move. I’ve admitted to Toppy that I have a little hard on for various young guys. That I don’t ask them to fuck me because I don’t want to be rejected, told I’m too old, yada yada.

One morning I get a text from Toppy. I have to ask some fellow I like to fuck me. If  he says no, I have to beg. I have to do everything he tells me to do. Fuuuuck. I don’t have to do this. I can tell Toppy to piss off. I should do that. But the whole idea makes me squirm. He didn’t set a time limit. So I mull it over. I ignore the text for the moment. He’s used to my reticence. At some point, he’ll find a way to punish me for being a brat.

I avoid the café that day. It’s too fucking dangerous. Now that Toppy has planted the idea in my mind, I can’t stop thinking about it. I try to distract myself with porn, but that really doesn’t help. In the video a chick is on her knees swallowing the cum of a bunch of guys, taking turns deep throating their cocks. They’re calling her names: slut, whore, cunt.  I put myself in her place. I think about Alex. Those baby blues looking at me, dressing me down as I beg to suck his cock.

I do a bunch of chores I’ve put off for eons. The grosser the better. I get on my knees and clean the toilet. You can imagine where my mind goes as I scrub away the shit stains. What if Alex doesn’t want me to swallow his cum? What if he thinks all I’m good for is to drink his piss. I’m going crazy thinking about all this.

That night I toss and turn in bed. I wear out the batteries on my vibe as I know that I’m going to have to acquiesce. Toppy knows me so fucking well. I’m going to do as he tells me to do.

What if we go to his place? I know he has roommates. Will he expect me to fuck them too? Each one of them in turn, taking my cunt, my ass and my mouth?

The next morning after a sleepless night, I shower. I put on a lacy thong, short skirt, stockings, a sheer blouse, a black bra, lipstick, dark eyeliner, musky perfume, high heels. The whole fuckme works. I tremble as I walk into the café. I don’t see Alex. Maybe he’s not there. The barista gives me a dirty look. Yes, I’m clearly whoring myself out. Some old guy gives me a wink and pats my ass as he passes. I don’t frown or even try to stop him. My cunt is drenched already.

Alex comes in a moment later, spots me and swaggers over. God, he’s fucking gorgeous. One of the reasons I’m attracted to men in their twenties is this air of confidence they all seem to radiate. Like they could have any woman they wanted. It’s sexy to me. He takes one look at me but blushes. He’s probably disgusted. I stutter a hello. He’s embarrassed and so am I. He must be thinking about how ridiculous it is for me to dress like this, how old I am. 

I muster up my courage while he orders his no whip latte with a shot of vanilla. We make stupid small talk. I ask him if he has a girlfriend. Not anymore, he says. Apparently they broke up when he returned to the city. I bite my lip. I fuck around with the spoon for a few minutes. I know he’s going to go any minute.

“Listen, Alex,” I say, my voice quivering, “um…is there any chance you…I mean…uh…would you like to …” I clear my throat and lean over the table.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

His eyes bulge. He turns red. Oh fuck. I feel like a complete moron. He looks at my outfit again. His eyes go to my cleavage all puffed up in the push up bra. He squirms. I can tell he’s adjusting himself. I’m so turned on at this point. I consider taking him into the bathroom and ravishing him right there.

He gives me a sweet, shy smile and after taking a sip of his coffee, he looks into my eyes and he does something amazing. He nods. I take his hand. We leave the café. Oh my fucking god. This is happening.

We go to my place. I take off my clothes at the door. I kneel down and I unzip his pants. His cock is rigid. I lick, suck and stroke while he plays with my hair. I want to fuck your tits, he tells me.

We manage to make it into the bedroom. He lies on the bed. I lick his cock to get it nice and wet, then surround it with my tits. He lets out a moan and humps against me. I lean down to watch his beautiful cock sliding in and out of my cleavage. He cums all over my face. It happens fast. I know what I have to do. I excuse myself, grab my phone and take a photo of my cum-covered face to send to Toppy. 

Background

My babysitter left me alone with her kids all the time when I was seven. She left the apartment and went God knows where. She was usually gone for several hours.

Philip was a nasty six-year-old. I didn’t exactly know what I was looking at when I found Patty, the four-year-old tied up with a skipping rope, her face red and tears running down her eyes.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. One day I fished some old shoelaces out of the garbage. I stripped one of my Barbies. Even at the time, I knew it was a weird thing to do, somehow shameful. I did this in my bedroom, with the door closed.  I tied the laces around the plastic tits. I could barely even tie my shoes, but I experimented with various knots.

My father sometimes took me out for drives in the summer. I wore a one piece short set with pink and blue polka dots or my gypsy dress, which was fun to twirl in. He helped me with my seat belt. Sometimes he would place his hand on my leg, letting it travel up my inner thigh until I said no. But I always said no. Told him to stop. He did. But sometimes when I was lying in my room, I found myself wondering what it would be like if he didn’t.

At around the same time, I was having yeast infections. A fucked up thing for an eight-year-old. I scratched and it gave me a feeling I didn’t understand, tingly. My mother told me not to, said it was dirty there. The doctor said tiny bugs were crawling around inside me. I tried not to touch myself.

In Grade 5, I lived in an apartment block in a crappy part of the city. One day after school, I came upon a crowd of kids, circling a dirty mattress. Anna, one of the Eastern European girls from my class was lying on it and crying. Everybody in my class called her Anna Banana. She spoke English with an accent, wore out-of-date clothes, didn’t fit in. Everybody made fun of her all the time.

Cassie Pearce, a short girl with long blonde hair stood over her beside the mattress and ordered Anna to hump it. The other kids were laughing, chanting A. Na. Ba. Na. Na. A. Na. Ba. Na. Na  I still remember the look in Cassie’s eyes. It reminded me of Philip’s: cold, staring, fucking creepy as  hell. I walked away, my cheeks burning.

My parents bought me a dog, an aggressive Chihuahua that I couldn’t stand. The thing used to rub its little cock over every surface he could find until the cock grew red and big. This was the first time I’d ever seen such a thing. I’d watch him, disgusted as he rubbed himself over a cushion., but fascinated and confused by my reaction.

I started to spend a lot of time in my room. Lying face down on the bed, rubbing up against a pillow was the way I learned how to fuck myself.

All these memories and especially Cassie forcing Anna to hump a dirty mattress haven’t left me, even after all these years. Except I change the story. I become Anna. I get down on that mattress in front of a crowd of laughing on-lookers. My face pushed up against the stench of old sweat and urine. My body writhing against the mattress. Cassie’s voice commanding me to hump.

The Beginning

“I've already told you: the only way to a woman's heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure.” Count Oxtiern, Oxteirn or The Misfortunes of Libertinage

--Marquis de Sade, Grove Press 1987 Translation

I am bound. I am on my back. My hands are at crotch level. They clutch a vibrator, which is pressed against my clit. The black bondage tape is stretched over my chest just above my breasts, crosses down over my body, making an x. My legs are closed. The tape loops around each leg. I have my eyes shut. I can move a little, but not much. My body is covered in cum and red marks. The stranger tells me to open my eyes. He takes a picture.

When I get home, I send a text with the photograph to a California number. I sit on a kitchen chair and wait. I receive a smiley face in return. I can wash now, make myself come, then go to sleep. In the morning, I’m expected to make a full report via e-mail.

The man I sent the photo to is Toppy. I am Bee, or Bitch or Bottom. Call me whatever you like and I’ll answer. Toppy found me on line on one of those hook up sites I was drawn to him because he didn’t live in my city. I wanted safe cybersex with a stranger. Because there was no way I could enact my fantasies with anyone in person. I knew that.

It didn’t take him long to discover my desperate need to be humiliated. He ordered me to put a finger inside my cunt, to slide my wetness over my face. He told me I was a good girl when I did so.  I knew I wasn’t. He had me stick a finger in my ass, then lick it. Asked me to describe the taste. Wouldn’t let me come until he said I could. I came hard. In the morning, I felt embarrassed when I remembered the secrets I’d told him about my sex fantasies, stuff I’d never told a single soul.

I disappeared for a while, deactivated my account. I couldn’t face the extent of my depravities. Toppy said it was clear how desperate I was to be degraded. At first I was angry with him. I didn’t want to admit this to  myself. It was too shameful. What kind of sicko wants to be degraded? To be treated contemptuously, the dictionary says. Or to be broken down, as in a chemical reaction.

Instead I dated pretty boys half my age. I loved their youth and beauty. We had vanilla sex. I gave them good head, they diddled my clit for a few minutes. They fucked me in various positions. I never heard from them again. It was unsatisfying.

I reactivated my account.  Sought him out again. He made me come with his orders, called me names, invented twisted scenarios where I was beaten and bound. Taboo stories involving strangers, groups of men, bus drivers, pizza delivery guys.

He made me confess my most depraved fantasies to him. I lay on my back, whispering into the speaker phone, while I fucked myself with a dildo.

Finally he told me to send him photos. I sent him pictures of my tits, close up views of my cunt and my asshole. He made me crawl with a carrot up  my ass. If I dropped it, I had to slap my own face, hard enough to leave a mark. He had me bark for him. I felt ridiculous, stupid. Turned on. All of this in the privacy of my own home. I was in a frenzy, constantly fucking myself, always wanting more. He didn’t care if I had sex with other men. He was bored by the vanilla details. But he told me it wasn’t enough for me and I knew he was right.

One day he texted me the address of a man here in my city, across town. I stared at the address. We’d fantasized about his giving me to a stranger. Hell, it had been my fantasy for as long as I could remember, even as a teenager. But I could never bring myself to go that far. Whenever I met a new man, I always met him in public first.

But in my heart of hearts, what I wanted was not to care about who fucked me, to let men use me in any way they wanted. I don’t know why. Clearly I wasn’t normal. I was a perverted little fuck, from an early age. My copy of the Story of O was cum-stained and dog-eared. I didn’t crave a D/s relationship with some guy who would give me a contract, like in the dumb BDSM novels that had gone mainstream. I didn’t want to have to use a safe word. I wanted to not be safe. I needed something more. I knew it was wrong and dangerous.

How could I do something so risky? My friends would think I was seriously deranged if they knew. I would probably even lose my job with the bank if the photos Toppy had made me take ever got out. But he wasn’t blackmailing me. He was just orchestrating something that he knew I needed.

“Wear a dress, no panties, no bra,” he wrote. “You will do as you’re told.”

A thrill ran through my body. My cunt was soaked with the thought of obeying his command, but…

The phone was silent.

I ran into my bedroom and threw myself on the bed, my body shook with fear, with need. I was so fucked up. A civilized woman wouldn’t acquiesce, wouldn’t do what I was about to do. I couldn’t imagine my friends with their orderly lifestyles, picket fences, 2.whatever kids, a doghouse in the back yard, barbecues every weekend, ever doing anything like this. Heck, even when I told them about my encounters with younger men they were shocked. Treated me as if I was a bit of a twit, in fact. I was single, why wasn’t I trying to find a man to marry? Because I knew that I could never be the right kind of woman for such a man. He would expect fidelity. Not a wild, restless woman who craved men like a drug. I would never be good enough because I wasn’t good. I hated myself for the way I was. A freak of nature. I didn’t fit anywhere.

With trembling hands, I removed jeans, t-shirt and underwear. I didn’t even bother to shower. The text hadn’t said I should. I could smell the sweat from my underarms. My cunt was hairy and my legs were unshaven. I felt like a skank, some useless whore who deserved everything she got. I imagined my father, how angry he’d be. He would threaten to use his belt on me. Yeah, I was one twisted fuck.

I put on a dress with buttons in front. I left three top buttons undone so that my cleavage was on display. I grabbed my purse, walked out the door, caught a cab and went to the address on the text, a nondescript detached house in the middle of the suburbs.

I took a deep breath and I knocked at the door. The man who answered was middle-aged, average looking. Hair thinning on top. Probably in some mindless government job, just killing time until retirement. To be honest, I was so nervous I barely took in his appearance. He looked me over and told me to come in.

I walked down the narrow hallway. He followed me. He told me to stop when I was in the middle of the living room. He ordered me to strip. I was turned on but freaked out by this. What was Toppy thinking? I didn’t know what his relationship was to this guy. Did he even know him? Or was he just another person he’d met on line? I thought of running, but I knew it was too late. The guy was bigger than me. I wasn’t a particularly strong woman and I didn’t know self-defence.

When he said the word, “Strip,” my heart beat quickened. I could feel the tingling of my cunt at that word. Fuck, I wanted this.

I slowly took off my shoes, then my dress, not facing him. My face burning with shame.

He slapped my ass, hard. I cried out in surprise and pain. He had a strong hand. Why was that such a fucking turn on?

“Turn around.”

I turned to give him a view of my tits and cunt.

He stroked the bulge at his crotch.

“Lie down on the floor.”

I paused. He unbuckled his belt, removed his pants.

His cock was hard. I wanted it in my mouth, down my throat.

“Lie the fuck down, bitch or I’ll use this belt on you.”

I stared at the thick, black leather belt, wondered what it would feel like to have him use it on me, whipping me hard, striping my ass red. My nipples hardened and my cunt was soaking wet.

I did as I was told.

He squatted over me.

He rubbed his cock over my face. It was slimy with precum and stank of urine.

I was so fucking turned on. I knew what to do. No preamble. He shoved his cock in my mouth, humped against me, his balls slapping my chin. I drooled as I took his cock as deep as I could down my throat. He pinched my nipples. He started to grunt.

“I’m going to come,” he said, and pulled out, unloading his cum all over my face.

He dismounted. Told me not to move.

Thick gobs of cold cum ran down over my face, spilling down onto my neck and tits.

He reached into my purse and took out my phone. He took a photo.

“Clean yourself up and get the fuck out of here.”

I grabbed my clothes, went to the bathroom, washed my face, trying to avoid looking at the mirror because I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. What a fucking slag. I left as fast as I could.

The cab driver gave me a glance. I wondered if he knew what a slut I was. Used by a stranger at someone’s command.

I tipped him more than I should have, just to get out of there fast. I arrived back at my apartment and checked my phone.

Stared at the photo of a cum dump, a slut. Of myself. I hung my head in shame. I vowed I would never, ever do anything like that again.

My phone buzzed. A text from Toppy.

“Send me the photo.”

I didn’t send it to him right away. I paced the floor. I wondered if he received money from the guy for my services.

The idea turned me on even more. What kind of a woman is aroused at the thought of being used as a prostitute?

I sat down, pressing my cunt against the chair. I was so fucking excited. So hot. I reached up to undo the buttons on my dress. My  nipples were swollen and sore.

I knew if I sent Toppy the pic I would have crossed a line, reached the point of no return. There was no going back from this. Toppy would expect me to serve any man he chose. And I realized, I fucking wanted this so badly. I couldn’t turn back now.

I texted Toppy the photo.

He sent me a smiley face and told me to go to bed.

Not before I fucked myself first. Reenacting the whole thing in my head. Even the idea of Toppy getting paid by this guy was arousing to me.

I lay on the bed on my stomach with my fingers between my legs. I humped the bed, shoved a finger inside my cunt to gather its wetness, then over my clit, gently over my swollen clit. I moved against it. I came and cried out. Tears running down my face because I fully understood that this wouldn’t be the last time I would let Toppy use me, let him give me to strangers. Let them do anything they wanted to me.

No, this wasn’t safe and I knew it. And I fucking needed it so badly.

So why am I writing it here, telling you? I need to get this shit out of my system. I guess you get to be my fucking outlet. I’m writing all the stuff I don’t tell Toppy in my e-mails.

I have so much more to tell you. And it gets so much darker than this…