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.