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.