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…