Becoming a Slut

Becoming a Slut

autobiography: True Story

By tatty_oldbitt

becomingaslut

This story shows how a normal young woman can be turned into a complete slut by a combination of reasonable choices and life circumstances. And it’s not because of loose morals either. The fact that she felt guilty about slutty behavior, due to her education, was actually a prime factor in her becoming trapped into sleeping with anyone who wanted her, and the spiral descent towards becoming a whore.

Chapter 1: A history of sorts

Chapter 2: The saga continues

Chapter 3: Into the next phase

Chapter 4: And still it goes on

Chapter 5: The final chapter

Chapter 6: Afterword


Chapter 1: A history of sorts

Where to begin? I spent most of my childhood in a small village in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t many people my own age there, and the ones who were I didn’t like much. So most of my friends were the ones I made at school. I went to an all-girls school, about 15 miles away from home. I used either bus or train to get there, as my mom didn’t drive and my dad always worked such ungodly hours.

Being limited to the infrequent bus & train services, I mostly went home after school, rather than going to visit friends. That was probably why I enjoyed school more than most my friends. Unlike most of them, when we finally reached our final year, I elected to carry on with education rather than go straight into work. I got myself into a university Biology course, and left home to take up residence in the campus flats.

The more observant reader will have put two and two together from the above and realise that going to an all-girls school and having hardly any friends outside of school, I had very few male friends. I arrived at university an eighteen year old who’d never had a boyfriend or slept with anyone. Not that I hadn’t wanted to, I just never had the opportunity. I was hoping to remedy that at uni. Little did I know. . .

I learned later on that ‘Firsting’ is an established phenomenon at most campuses. When first year students arrive, they’re usually away from home and friends for the first time in their lives. So, a bit lonely and insecure, a bit vulnerable. . . ideal prey for the resident, established, horny students.

Every flat shared a kitchen, bathroom, and main door with five other flats. I met most of my ‘fellow fives’ moving in – the last one was a few days late. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t very late in the evening before somebody suggested we take advantage of the on-campus bar & nightclub. Off we went for what was, for several of us, our first night ever of drinking and clubbing.

Beer is revolting. That was my first discovery. How anyone can drink the filthy stuff I will never understand. I managed to force myself to finish the first pint, and then switched drinks: Vodka with orange juice. Far more palatable. So much so, in fact, that I was having trouble staying upright by the time we were queuing at the club entrance. By the time we made the dance floor, I had discovered how people who’ve never danced seem to have no trouble in nightclubs: They’re actually waving their arms and legs around in a drunken effort to stay upright.

I completely lost track of the girls I’d come in with, but another V&OJ or two and I stopped caring. I found it flattering and almost hysterically funny that hands wandered all over me when I staggered through the tightly-packed crowds, and it wasn’t long before the ‘firsters’ were moving in for the ‘kill’.

I don’t really remember that much, for obvious reasons. I remember dancing with several utter strangers. I remember removing one hand very firmly from down the rear of my skirt and telling its owner, quite severely, “My arse is a hands-free zone,” but another drink or two and a bloke I fancied more came along, and I just smiled as he ran his hands over my breasts.

I remember the bouncers firmly telling me it was time to leave, and my loud insistence that I be allowed to collect my coat before they chucked me out for being too drunk to stand unaided. I don’t remember walking (staggering?) home, but I do remember getting back to flats and telling my male companion (where did he come from?) my address a dozen times because I was lost and he was being all chivalrous and taking me home.

Next thing I remember was helping him unhook my bra. I was wondering if it was such a good idea, but it felt like I was playing the part of a much more experienced girl, and didn’t want to reveal I was really utterly inexperienced.

I remember it came as a complete surprise to me when I realized his cock was inside me. I think I had thought I was just being helpful in offering to let him sleep in my room, and was too drunk to realize there was anything odd about both being in the same bed naked. I remember it didn’t last long, and I think that I refused to give him a BJ afterwards because of my insistence that “you can’t have finished yet”.

When I woke up, I felt about as horrible as I ever have in my life. Killer hangover plus killer guilt is a really, really bad combination. I managed to drag my sorry self out of bed and into the shower, and spent a very long time in the shower. In fact, I may even have fallen asleep in there. I only finished when somebody thumped on the door and demanded I stop hogging it.

I still felt ill, and I still felt unclean.

I went into the kitchen, where my hangover afforded much amusement. I was advised to drink lots of fruit juice, but after so much vodka-spiked OJ the night before, the mere thought made me want to throw up again. I drank a LOT of water instead, and even forced down some alka-seltzer. I began feeling human enough to think by early afternoon.

I didn’t like thinking. It meant thinking about being fucked by a total stranger who I couldn’t even remember the face of. After eighteen years without so much as a proper kiss! If anybody had asked me the day before “What kind of girl gets leglessly drunk and screws whoever happens to take her home?”, I’d have given a one-word, four-letter answer. And that wasn’t how I’d ever thought of myself. I felt so guilty I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t even meet my own eyes in the mirror.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t that big a deal. I’d fantasized about having sex thousands of times, including the no-names, one-night-only variety. I told myself the only reason it had been my first time was a lack of opportunity before, there was no special reason or virtue. There was nothing wrong with some harmless fun, I insisted.

I didn’t buy it. Every argument I concocted just seemed like a lame excuse. I searched in vain for the one argument that would convince my damned brain that it shouldn’t be making me feel so hideously guilty.

I was interrupted again by a thumping on the door. One of my flatmates, wanting to know if I’d like to join them in going out for junk food and then going on to the bar again. Fried food helps hangovers, she lied, and if it failed, there’s always the “hair of the dog” remedy.

I wasn’t interested, but I WAS starving, so I went along. I figured I could go home after food. But the fresh air perked me up a bit, and I livened up enough to ask what the hell dog hair was supposed to do for a hangover? It’s an obscure old saying. “Have a hair of the dog that bit you.”

No idea what it’s original application was, but in alcohol terms, it means the best cure for a hangover is drinking the same stuff that gave it to you in the first place.

Hmm. “To understand recursion, you must first understand recursion”?

But it gave me an idea. It didn’t seem a good remedy for a hangover, but that was only part of what was making me feel awful. Perhaps, I thought, the way convince myself I didn’t do anything wrong is to ACT like I didn’t? What would that mean?

I thought about it. It seemed like a vaguely reasonable idea. And the thing about vaguely reasonable ideas is, they only get more reasonable as you get more drunk.

I stuck with my friends, and joined them to hunt for another ‘hair of the dog’ – get rat-arsed (that’s ‘drunk’ to a non-Brit) again, and get laid again. THAT was a pretty compelling argument, my addled brain thought. It must be an OK thing to do if I keep doing it deliberately. That’ll stop me feeling bad about it.

And, to be honest, I didn’t feel as bad about it the next morning when I woke up and found cum all over my belly and tits and only a vague recollection of how it had got there. I remembered remembering about condoms this time, and insisting he wore one, and I seemed to recall him saying he didn’t have one, but it would be okay. He had evidently kept his word and pulled out at the important point.

By the end of the week, it almost seemed normal. Only one of my flatmates was still speaking to me, and I didn’t like her very much – she was a slut whose idea of a good time was drinking and picking up some guy for a one-night stand.

We went out together most nights.


Chapter
2: The saga continues

 As I got more used to it all, I found I didn’t need to drink myself incoherent before I could face leaving.

That made things better all round – I didn’t have to spend so much, I didn’t get so hungover, and I met a better class of people. Whatever else they may be, men who need a woman to be legless before they can make a move are not good in bed. In fact, it came as a complete surprise to me when, after several weeks of one-night stands, I had an orgasm during sex for the first time.

It felt very odd: Orgasms had always been something intensely private and entirely under my own control. I was even more hopelessly befuddled than usual when I had one courtesy of somebody else. It made me feel somehow helpless, as though I’d lost control in some way.

The biggest thing was, I think, that it seemed to make me a participant. Always before, I’d been able to think of it in terms of “Them fucking me” – I wasn’t doing anything, I was having things done to me. But reaching orgasm suddenly turned it into “We were having sex” and suddenly I was just as responsible as they were. It put me into a much more active role, and I wasn’t sure how to cope with that – I was only used to “They fuck me”, I didn’t know how to be an equal partner. It made me feel a need for guidance.

He evidently noticed. I suspect I’d slept with him before and he noticed I was acting differently than before. I really was at a loss, and guidance of any sort seemed helpful, regardless of its source. So I accepted his instruction to slide down the bed and suck on his cock, something I’m sure I’d done before, but only when too out-of-it to really realize. (I’d woken up with gunk on my face, but no memory of getting it there.)

Despite the fact that I’d had sex with quite a number of men by then, I’d never given head while aware of what I was doing. It always seemed too intimate a thing to perform oral sex. But I was too drunk and confused to resist that time. I steeled myself, open my mouth, and sucked his cock as far down my throat as I could. I even swallowed obediently after his cum made me gag slightly.

I’m almost certain that it was him that picked me up the next night. I didn’t cum from sex that time, but after he’d rolled off me he shoved his fingers into me and masturbated me until I did. I found this even more confusing than the sex-induced orgasm – somebody else’s fingers roving in and over me felt even more intimate and penetrating than a cock inside me ever had. It made me feel very helpless again, very much like he had taken some of my self-control for himself.

I wondered if he was just after another BJ, but instead he guided me out of bed to kneel on the floor beside it. I remember noticing his hands were trembling, and wondering if it was cold or something. I wondered why he wanted to get out from under the covers if he was cold.

I found out when he got behind me and I felt his cock at the entrance to my pussy again. It made me feel a bit better: I thought I knew what he was up to then. He wanted to try it doggy-style.

And indeed, his cock slid in briefly, but then he removed it again, to my surprise. Surprise turned to shock when I felt it pressing against my anus. I think my exact words were a mumbled “No. Don’t wanna!” and I half-rose, but he insisted it was okay, I shouldn’t worry, I just had to stay still. This was something, he seemed to imply, that I had to do. In my confused state, I couldn’t bring myself to argue.

Meekly, I sank back down and did my best to relax as his cock forced its way up my arse. It felt huge. He kept shoving until I felt his thighs pressing against my arse cheeks, and then he started to pump his cock in and out. Drunk & disoriented, I was momentarily unsure if I was being screwed or going to the bathroom: every ‘out’ stroke felt like having a dump.

I have never understood why so many guys seem so fascinated by anal sex. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and undignified. What’s worse, it always makes me feel like I desperately need to go to the toilet. But it seems to fascinate most men.

So, I just knelt still and waited for it to be over as he groaned and humped his way to a second orgasm. It was a relief to feel him pull back out, and he dressed and left almost immediately.

It was a long time before it occurred to me to stop kneeling on the floor. I have never felt so at a loss, before or since. I was in completely uncharted territory – nothing in my past experience gave me any clues about how you should act in such a situation.

Lacking any better ideas, I took care of what felt like the most urgent needs: I went to the toilet and then had a shower. Then I went back to bed and waited for daylight. I didn’t get any sleep that night.

Dawn happened very slowly, but it didn’t really seem to be morning to me until I heard an alarm clock go off in the flat next door. That seemed to make it ‘official’ that the night was over and it was a new day. At that  point, the numb emptiness wore off abruptly, and I started shivering uncontrollably.Like a switch had been thrown, I was suddenly really scared. I curled up on the bed and pulled the blanket over me like I had when I was a little girl hiding from the dark.

It had all come crashing in on me just how incredibly vulnerable I was making  myself with my nightly misbehavior. A hundred “what ifs” flooded through my mind: What if somebody had spiked my drinks with more than just alcohol? What if a non-student had gotten into the club and lead me off-campus where nobody would know where I was? What if, what if, what if?

After being starved of sleep all night, the images of what could have gone wrong all those nights flashed through my head like vivid dreams, like they were really  happening. I ran from one nightmare to another until it my half-asleep panic I fell off the bed and woke up properly.

I finally admitted to myself that my attempt to make myself feel better after the first night had not worked. I no longer felt so bad about that night, true, but I didn’t feel any less bad overall: I’d just given myself more things to feel bad about, so I could divide the badness up amongst them into manageable pieces. Each was a small thing on it’s own, but cumulatively they were as bad as, if not worse than, how I had been when I started out.

I stayed in bed for most of the rest of the day. My mind was raging with all the What Ifs, Should Haves, and Could Haves: All the things I could have done, all the things that others had done to me, all the things that could have happened, all the things that HAD happened. I was trying to sort everything out and deal with it, but it all seemed overwhelming.

And then gradually it all went calm. All the dreadful thoughts and bad memories seemed to just fade away, and I was left feeling almost empty as they vanished. When I thought about the things that had seemed overwhelmingly awful, they didn’t bother me at all. There was just a strong sense of apathy, of not being connected to any of it. Like the difference between remembering something that actually happened to you and something you just watched on TV. None of it seemed to matter.

So I’d been sleeping around. So what? So I’d been drinking heavily. Who cared? So something could have gone wrong. What did it matter, since it hadn’t?

I didn’t understand why suddenly everything was okay. But I wasn’t about to go trying to undo it. I figured I had worked through the guilt and shame and dealt with it, so now it was gone. I got up, cleaned myself up, dressed and got myself something to eat. When Shelley, my clubbing friend knocked on my door and asked if I was going out with her that evening, I said yes, and out we went. Maybe it was a silly thing to do, but I just didn’t care.

I didn’t need alcohol as a crutch any more either. I still drank, but not out of a need to overcome my inhibitions enough to get picked up. My apathy even stopped me caring about that. I knew I was going out to get laid, why should I need to be drunk for it?

Although not completely sober, that was the first night I wasn’t out-of-it drunk when I was taken home. When I was undressing in front of him, there was some embarrassment, but it seemed external, somewhere outside, happening to someone else. I tried to ignore it and show I wasn’t ashamed by encouraging him to suck on my nipples. He seemed to like that. In fact, after fucking me (not to orgasm, sadly) he encouraged me to suck him back to hardness so he could put his cock between my breasts and fuck them.

Again, there was a feeling of shame at the idea, but I ignored it. Again, I tried to drive it out by one-upping it, and threw back the bedcovers. I laid naked, in full view and masturbated in front of him. He lost no time in getting his cock to my mouth, and I carried on finger-fucking myself as I built his erection back up. It didn’t take long, and he’d switched to tit-fucking by the time I got myself off. He came just after I did, and I blinked furiously as his cum went over my face and got in my eyes.

For the rest of the first year, that night was kind of the pattern. I could happily do what I liked, carefree and unbothered by it, so long as I could do something to drown out the feelings that seemed to float just outside. If there was a twinge at someone groping my breasts over my top, I could silence it by guiding his hands under my top. If I felt reluctance when he rubbed his cock between my buttocks prior to fucking me from behind, I could dispel it by suggesting he go ahead and fuck my arse instead. Everything was fine, so long as I could be over-the-top enough to make the bad feelings go away.

It was like they were all happening to somebody else, and she would shut up and go away if her objections just made things worse. It kept working, so I kept doing it.


Chapter
3: Into the next phase

As the end of my first year at university approached, it brought with it something so unpleasant that I even stopped going out in the evenings. Exams.

I never was good at dealing with stress, and exams always caused me problems. This was worse than usual, however, as I’d been spending my evenings getting laid, my mornings feeling hungover, and very little time actually in lectures, learning what I needed to pass the exams. And if you didn’t get a good enough grade, you got thrown out of university.

So, there was a lot of pressure to do well, and I’d done no studying. The library had lent out all the textbooks that were any good, I hadn’t bought any of my own, and couldn’t afford to either. I was so stressed I could barely eat, and what I did eat didn’t stay down long. My few lecture notes made no sense. I was stuffed.

Until I received help from an unlikely source. There was a geeky girl named Jane living down the hall, who I’d barely ever spoken to, what with our different social circles – I was out drinking & screwing most nights, while she was in the computer department debugging her latest project. She noticed how rough I was looking in our kitchen one morning, and commented on it. I explained my situation, and she made some amazingly helpful suggestions. The first was to get onto the Sun workstations in the computer lab so I could use something called Netscape. After a few false starts, I managed to get the hang of websurfing, and of usenet as well. The internet was still pretty much in its infancy as far as web content goes at that point (it was considered cutting-edge if you had animated GIFs on your homepage) but there was still a LOT of information available, and thanks to the relevant Usenet groups, I was able to track a lot of it down. Some of my panic lessened – I could find the information I needed to pass my exams, and it was free. That was a load of my mind.

The other suggestion my geeky friend made was to learn meditating, as it would stop my stress. I wasn’t convinced, but I gave it a try. We went into her room and she explained a few methods for me to try. I was completely crap at it, barely managing to keep my mind clear & on-track for more than a few seconds at a time. But I stuck with it, and at the end of the session, I wasn’t doing too badly, and I felt a lot better. I even managed to keep down a slice of toast. It was easier to revise when I wasn’t about to faint from hunger, so I joined Jane for her meditation sessions at least once most days.

When I sat my exams, I found that I had actually over-worked myself. The whole first year had been pretty much a repeat of my A-level stuff, intended to bring everybody up to the same level of knowledge before the serious stuff in the second year. I knew far more than they had taught us, so I sailed through the exams.

And that was the end of the first year. Time to move out of our flats and go back home for the summer. It felt really strange going back to my parents after a year on my own. I stopped meditating while I was home, since I was no longer stressed of course, and didn’t go out in the evenings as there was nowhere to go in our little village.

I stayed in touch with Jane over the holiday, thanks to a modem in my PC and the wonders of email. So when it was time to think about going back to uni. for the second year, we arranged to meet up there and go house-hunting together – uni. flats were only for 1st years, the rest of the time we had to fend for ourselves. We found a small house down a cul-de-sac about four miles from campus that was affordable, so we decided we’d take it.

We moved in a week before term started. I brought my rusty old bicycle with me, as I didn’t think I could afford the bus fare every day. Jane brought her PC and her three Macs, and networked the whole house up. Five machines connected to the net on a 56k modem. Laughable, isn’t it?

She nagged me back into meditating regularly, mainly by pointing out that otherwise I’d be in just as bad a state for the next lot of exams. And I had to admit that, the more I did it, the more relaxed and cheerful I tended to be. And I slept better, too. So three times a day for the next week, we sat on cushions in her bedroom and I struggled to keep my restless mind still and focused. I started to get pretty good at it by the time we went back to uni. for the second year.

The basic sequence of the first day, I vaguely recall, were: Meditated with Jane, cycled into campus, did the registration thing, met up with Shelley, and we hit the bar. We were joined by some friendly faces (i.e. guys we’d slept with quite a few times in the previous year) and it was dark by the time we left. My bike having no lights, and me being in no fit state to ride it, I cheerfully accepted a lift home from a couple of my drinking companions.

We were rather loud about arriving home and Jane looked very disapproving as I was helped upstairs by the two of them. I barely noticed, to be honest. They then helped me to my room, and helped me to undress. They they helped themselves.

I think that one of them had been something of a regular in the first year, while the second bloke I didn’t know. I’m not really sure. But I do remember one of them worrying about ‘taking advantage’ and the other reassuring him with the words “Don’t worry, I know her, she’s a total slapper, trust me.” They stuck in my memory, for some reason. Even drunken and in that state of apathy I’d been in for so much of the first year, that stung.

My knowing ‘friend’ put me on my knees and slid his cock into me from behind. I was almost surprised he hadn’t put it up my arse. Then his hands took hold of my breasts and off he went. A few moments later, his pal worked up his nerve and lined his cock up with my mouth.

It’s hard to breathe when you’re being energetically fucked and you’re trying to suck on a cock as well. I really can’t recommend it. I was glad when they finished and left, really. Jane came up shortly after they left to find me laying naked on the floor. I’d probably have passed out quite happily like that and slept there all night, but she helped me into bed, still looking very unhappy with me. Like an idiot, which I suppose everybody IS when they’re drunk, I asked why she looked so unhappy. She didn’t answer, just turned out the light and left me to it.

I had a killer hangover the next morning, which is probably why I didn’t meditate. Instead, I caught the bus into campus and went to find out my timetable. Stroke of genius, it was: Classes at 9am and 4pm every day (except Wednesdays, which had no afternoon classes) and nothing in-between. Apparently, timetables were computer-generated, hence the bloody idiocy. Hey ho.

Felt too rough to go to the bar, so I reclaimed my bike and went home. Just in time for mid-day meditation, which I was just about up to by then. I didn’t do very well, tho. Jane offered to lend me a guided meditation tape, which had somebody telling you what to do. I gave it a try in the evening. It didn’t work very well. Jane suggested it was probably because I wasn’t very open to going into trance. She suggested I try replacing my usual mantra with a “One in three” technique. This is where you tell yourself two thing that are true, and then one thing which you WANT to be true. Like: “I’m sitting down, I’m breathing slowly, My mind is clearing. My eyes are closed, It’s very quiet, I am entering a trance”. If it worked, she explained, I could use it to give myself instructions such as “I will obey the tape instructions” and so on.

I worked on it over the next few days. I found the method fairly reliable at getting into light trance, where you don’t just feel non-stressed, but there’s actual pleasure from being so relaxed. It couldn’t get me much deeper, so I opted to start telling myself that I would follow the taped instructions, in hopes that my self-hypnotic suggestions would sink in while I was in light trance, and then the tape would help me to deeper trance.

So I did suggestions like the above to get into trance, and then gave myself instructions like “I will obey suggestions to go into trance, I am open to suggestions from outside, I like being taken into trance.” That worked pretty well, and I was able to use the tape to reach a state where I could get very clear ‘Mind’s eye’ experiences.

My biggest problems were that I couldn’t hold the trance state very well, and missing sittings set my progress back. And I missed quite a lot of evenings if I met up with Shelley on campus. Jane suggested I take a break from ‘going out in the evenings’ for a few weeks, until I was more proficient. She also suggested I try opening my eyes when I was in a stable light trance, as this would help me learn to stay in the trance state.

It helped. The first few times, opening my eyes was enough to break the trance. But after some more practice, I could look around the room, and after a bit longer I could even talk to Jane from a light trance.

Then I met up with Shelley and missed both an evening and a morning meditation, for reasons I’m sure you can work out for yourself. Jane, still disapproving, asked why I kept ‘going out’ like that when I knew how much I back-slid after missing a sitting. I muttered some vague excuse, which didn’t satisfy her. She suggested we talk about it that evening while I was in trance, to see if it was any clearer when I was meditating. I agreed.

It took longer than usual, but I made it into stable trance eventually, and Jane went ahead and asked me about where I’d been, what I’d done, and then asked if I had enjoyed it. I was quite surprised when I answered “No”.

She asked why I did it, if I didn’t enjoy it. I said it made me feel better. She carried on questioning me, and I carried on answering. In a surprisingly short length of time, I had told her pretty much everything about my sex life. She made a few observations I had never noticed before. It went something like this:

“Have you ever had a guy do oral on you?” she asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Have you asked for it?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want it?”

“No.”

“Have you noticed sex without an orgasm makes you feel better than sex with
one?”

“No.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had sex with you on top?”

“No.”

“Have you noticed you don’t like to be the one in control during sex?”

“Yes.”

“You like sex to put you in a helpless role, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like feeling like you’re responsible in any way.”

“No.”

“You like to be told to have sex, rather than being asked for it.”

“Yes.”

“You think of sex as something other people do to you.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think you have a right to say no to sex, do you?”

“No.”

“Have you had sex with a woman yet?”

“No.”

“If a woman tried to pick you up when you were out in the evening, would
you go with her?”

“I suppose so.”

“You wouldn’t say no to a man, would you?”

“No.”

“So you wouldn’t say no to a woman either?”

“No.”

“Take off your clothes so I can fuck you.”

I felt a slight shock at that, but it was smothered by that strong sense of apathy I had first encountered a year ago. I didn’t even loose the trance state. That sensation of “It’s happening to somebody else” was even stronger from the meditative state I was in, and it really did feel more like I was watching it on TV than actually experiencing it. I watched as I undressed and laid on Jane’s bed. I watched her undress. I watched her fit a strap-on dildo onto me, and heard her tell me she’d bought it hoping I would use it. I watched myself follow her instructions to suck on her nipples and rub her clit until she was ready. I watched myself climb between her legs and start fucking her. I watched her orgasm, and demand more, and watched as I fucked her again, and again, and again, until we were both too tired to go on.

I watched her undo the strap-on, and then fuck me with it by hand, until I came once. Then I felt myself becoming myself again, as I felt myself fall asleep in her bed.


Chapter
4: And still it goes on

Contrary to the “It continues as it starts” concept, I actually settled down quite a bit in the second year.

Being miles away from campus, and a cycle as my only transport, I couldn’t go out to the campus bar on a daily basis any more. So instead of ‘daily pickups’, I started having. . . well, not ‘steady’ boyfriends, but at least I’d spend a few weeks at a time with one bloke. Mostly.

But it was quite interesting, because it broke the “get drunk, have one-night stand” cycle of the first year. Sex wasn’t with somebody who was taking advantage, at least not so much. It was strange, because, just like the times when sex had involved me having an orgasm, it made me feel a more active participant. I didn’t like it. What I knew, what I was comfortable with, was the role of being too inebriated to be in control – a role where the man was in charge, and I was just being. . . used, I guess. That’s why even then, relationships never lasted more than a few weeks: I started feeling really uncomfortable when a relationship moved beyond casual sex and started being about “getting to know each other”. It made me too much an equal partner.

The only person who I did sleep with consistently that year was Jane. Almost every night when I was at home and not with a man, she’d call me into her room. She was always very bossy and demanding, very domineering, so the discomfort I had with other people never really arose with her. She always treated me as a very unequal partner: Sleeping with her consisted of me fucking her with her sex toys, or me doing oral on her, or me masturbating her, time after time until she was sated. Then at the end, either I would be told to masturbate, or she’d masturbate me once, or sometimes she’d use her toys or strapon. Whatever method it was, I had at most two, and usually only one orgasm each time, while she had as many as she wanted. Whether it was because she was deeply selfish, or because she was perceptive enough to know that was how I would feel most comfortable, or a mix of the two, I don’t know. At the start, anyway.

I continued with my meditation practice, and got slowly better at it. I discovered how deeper trance states brought deeper physical relaxation, and realized just  how good it felt to be so calm and relaxed in both body and mind. But I couldn’t get into as deep a state as I’d have liked, which I mentioned to Jane during one of our periodic “talking in trance” sessions. I explained how, that first time she’d had me have sex with her, it had lead to a feeling that was more detached from waking events than any other trance practice. She was curious, and had me explain the origins of the apathy that all my fears and shame had been removed by last year. Then she had me detail all the times it had happened, and what I had done about it.

I told her about times when I’d been groped on the crowded dance floor, and that I’d overcome the embarrassment of being fondled by taking the hand(s) and deliberately guiding them to my breasts or arse. I told her about times I’d been embarrassed about being seen naked, and overcome it by playing with myself while he watched. I told her about times I’d been ashamed of drinking so much, and overcome it by ordering a triple-shot of vodka. I told her about the time I’d felt guilty about snogging a bloke in front of a crowd who all knew I’d never met him before, and how I’d gotten rid of it by sliding under the table and giving him a BJ right there. I told her everything I could remember. She seemed fascinated by it.

Eventually, she’d heard enough, and gave me her explanation. It was because, she said, my mind wasn’t good at resolving dichotomies. On the one hand, I felt guilt about having so much sex. But on the other, I liked the feeling of being under somebody else’s control. This, she pointed out, was why I felt almost compelled to get laid so often, even though I didn’t really have much fun doing it: It wasn’t about sex, it was about feeling helpless and non-responsible because somebody else was in control.

This meant that although I was doing something I didn’t enjoy, I was doing it because it was part of something I DID enjoy. So I was both enjoying and not enjoying myself at the same time. Unable to decide how that should make me feel, my mind compromised by kind of sending my feelings to sleep: Rather than feel two contradictory things at once, it was a way to not feel anything. And since meditative trances are a state where you’re both awake and asleep at the same time, it was only natural that when the dissociative state was invoked from within trance, it would deepen the trance, as it was sending another part of my mind to sleep.

I wasn’t sure about this, so she said we should experiment and see. I agreed, and she told me to undress without letting myself out of the trance. I felt a mild twinge of embarrassment, but not much as she had, after all, seen me naked many times before. She asked how I felt, and I told her. Then she handed me a dildo, and told me to do a little show for her. Sliding it into myself while she sat and watched made me feel a much more acute sense of shame, which I almost automatically sought to eradicate. I pulled the dildo back out of me, and slid it up my arse instead, and moaned in fake pleasure as I moved it in and out. Sure enough, one-upping myself numbed out the ’embarrassment, and as it had before, it brought a strong sense of detachment from myself with it. The feeling of being in trance deepened considerably at the same time.

“Did it work?” Jane asked.

“Yes.”

“You felt ashamed about showing yourself like that.”

“Yes.”

“And made the dissociation stronger by one-upping the shame.”

“Yes.”

“And it put you deeper into trance.”

“Yes.”

“The dissociative state deepens the trance state.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to be able to get into deeper trance states.”

“Yes.”

“The more time you spend in trance states, the easier you find it to be in trance when you want to be.”

“Yes.”

“So you should do what you can to be in the dissociative state as much as possible.”

“Yes.”

“I can help you, because I understand you better than you do.”

“Yes.”

“Put the strapon on.”

She didn’t want me to do any kind of foreplay, she was already very excited. I supposed that she had been turned on by watching me fuck myself and moan for her. She seemed very turned on, at any rate, and demanded I fuck her unusually hard. She was very vocal when she came, but yelled at me to continue. “Keep going! Don’t stop, you bitch, fuck me! God, yes, fuck me, you slut!” was pretty much the theme.

After she’d had enough, she said it was time to try inducing the dissociative state. For starters, she wanted to spank me, explaining that it was something she’d always had a fetish for, and it should certainly qualify as something I didn’t really want to do. I consented, and knelt over her lap, a position I hadn’t had to assume since I was a kid. I heard the first ‘smack’ before I felt it, and for an instant wondered if the emotional numbness had somehow become physical as well. Only for an instant, as the sharp pain suddenly burst into my awareness. I let out a startled yelp, but Jane didn’t hesitate to bring her hand down on the other side. Another startled outcry from me, but it was all distant by now, happening to somebody else. She carried on spanking me for quite some time, I’ve no idea how long, but my arse was red-raw by the time she finished. She asked then if it had had the desired effect, and I sniffed that it had. It was only then that I realized I had actually been crying. I guess that shows just how distanced I felt from myself when in that state.

I had a cold (well, fairly) bath, and was almost surprised that there wasn’t a “tsss” of steam like in the cartoons when I gingerly sat in it. It helped some, but I still winced when I towelled myself dry afterwards. Wrapped in my towel, I went to go back into my room, but was intercepted by Jane, who caught hold of the towel and pulled it off. She liked seeing me naked, she pointed out, and it should help me stay numb. . .

It did. Mentally AND physically, as we couldn’t afford much heating. It’s a good way to burn off calories, being cold for several hours a day. But it worked, I must admit: My meditating improved almost overnight, as I was spending so much time in a semi-meditative state. Mind you, it’s possible that meditating naked with clamps on my nipples and a dildo inside my you-know-what helped that, too. Anybody’s guess, right?

It’ll probably come as no surprise by now to learn the Jane took every opportunity she could to ‘help me’ by making me demean myself for her gratification. She dropped all pretense of sex being for anything other than her benefit, and insisted on it more often: Wake her up in the morning, fuck her; Go to university, come back, fuck her; Get home in the evening, fuck her; Get ready to go to bed, fuck her.

You get the idea.

After a while, just being naked in the house wasn’t enough for her, and I had to go about on all-fours, only standing when absolutely necessary. Then nudity was replaced with Anne Summers-style underwear, or other such “I’m not a woman, I’m a sex object” outfits. She spanked me for doing something wrong, for not doing something right, for not doing very well at meditating, and sometimes just for the hell of it. She also stopped being so disapproving about me bringing men home, and instead started actively encouraging it. Sometimes she would even come to the bar in the evening, and point out the man she wanted me to get off with. I found it very difficult to numb the humiliation of being pointed at a guy and told to fuck him, so she started doing that more and more often.

Finally, she reached the point which, in hindsight, I realise she’d been aiming for for ages. She asked me one day, “Do you know anything about BDSM?”

Since she was a computer student, I was used to her referring to obscure acronyms, so my reply was something along the lines of “No, is it some kind of networking protocol?”

She laughed quite hard at that, and then explained what it really was. I had heard vaguely about sado-masochistic and dom/sub relationships before, but only as much as any typical teenager has. She went into a lot more detail, and finally explained that she thought I would benefit from me becoming a ‘formal’ submissive to her. The idea caused an immediate feeling of strong apathy, so I agreed to it. She smiled cheerfully and told me to kneel on the floor so she could put her collar on me then.

The collar I didn’t mind so much, but I found the leash very demeaning, especially when she immediately used it to drag me all around the house ‘to give me a walk’, occasionally using the free end to smack my buttocks if I wasn’t staying well enough ‘to heel’. I might actually have objected, if she hadn’t put a ball gag in at the same time. Pets on a leash, she said, shouldn’t talk.

They may be popular, and I daresay they’re a lot better than the old strip of cloth wedged in the mouth that you see in the movies, but I find ball gags to be a real pain. They always make my mouth water, and it’s not easy to swallow properly with a ball wedged in your mouth, so I always worry that I’m about to drool when I’m wearing the damn things.

She never said, but I suspect Jane mostly made contact with other people into the BDSM lifestyle via her computer. I’m sure she didn’t know them all already, you can’t keep something like that secret from a housemate. But whatever means she used to contact them, as soon as I had agreed to let her domme me, she started introducing me to other BDSM people. In particular, she started lending me out. I was never told, but I think it was a swap rather than a donation – little clues here and there make me think that when I was sent to some other dom/me, somebody else was keeping Jane company.

If I had found it hard to cope with being told who to have sex with in a bar, it was all I could do to accept that I was being handed around like a party favor. That was beyond embarrassment, it was total humiliation. But just like all my evenings out in the first year, although I didn’t enjoy it at all, I found it somehow very compelling as well. I realized I wasn’t really doing all this because it helped me meditate – that had just been an excuse. I was doing it because, on some level, I found it very satisfying to be used like this. I WANTED to be ordered around, I LIKED being humiliated, I ENJOYED being demeaned and treated like a slut. I imagine it must be similar to a drug addiction: You might hate being addicted and want to give up, but at the same time you ache with desire to satisfy your addiction.

Slowly, I pushed all my reservations and dislikes into that numb state of mind, and it became easier and easier to cope with situations where I was handed out to Jane’s friends. As I was just getting used to it, she took it a step further. I was lead to the main room, on all fours, on a leash, blindfolded. Not a word was spoken, but after a few moment, I felt somebody come up behind me. His cock slid into me, and off he went. So far, so normal: This was nothing I hadn’t done before, it was almost mundane.

Until somebody cleared their throat. Somebody who wasn’t the man I was having sex with.

With the exception of when Jane had watched a few times, I had so far been one-on-one in Jane’s arrangements. It appeared that I was now on-show in front of at least one man, and for all I knew there were dozens.

As my first lover pulled his cock out, I felt two hands take hold of my head, one on each side. I knew this signal well enough by now, and opened my mouth. I had just started to suck on it when I felt man #1 shoot cum over my ass. So, no room for errors now, there were definitely at least two men in here.

It reminded me of the first times I had reached orgasm in the first year. I was in a completely alien situation, I had no idea at all how to handle it, so I just froze up and waited for it to be over. It was almost dream-like, unreal. The ‘it’s somebody else’ feeling that was almost my default state  of mind by then became drastically stronger. It WASN’T happening to me,it couldn’t be, because I wouldn’t do something like this. I wouldn’t have sex with strangers in front of an audience, that wasn’t the kind of thing I’d do. So it was somebody else.

Something very hard was forced slowly up my arse then. Either it was a third man, a ‘plastic helper’, or man #1 was an early Viagra tester. That, I figured, made it three people in the room. Were there still more? Impossible to tell. But #2 gave me something to swallow then, and was replaced by what could have been #1 or maybe a #4.

That was it, tho. After receiving a second blast of cum over my buttocks and down my throat, I was lead away by my leash to my bedroom. I was never so relieved to get into my nice, familiar bed. I had found the situation shocking, degrading, and an utter humiliation. I felt totally used that Jane had put me into it without asking for my consent or giving me any warning. And, of course, I couldn’t wait for her to do it again.


Chapter
5: The final chapter

By the end of the second year, I was very rarely sleeping with Jane. She had told me bluntly at one point that she had wanted me as a housemate solely because she’d figured anyone so ‘easy’ with men would be willing to sleep with a woman as well. By the end of the year, she’d made a lot of new ‘friends’ thanks to her domme status, and I was of less relevance to her. I became more of an afterthought than the main focus of her attention.

It was quite useful, as it gave me the free time to swot up on the year’s coursework, and I once again sailed through my exams easily. My regular meditations had eased the vast majority of my stress problems, and I had only suffered a few butterflies-in-stomach moments the night before an exam this time.

I was getting pretty good at meditation by then. I was using imagery to help with the trance state, imagining myself floating in the water next to a dazzlingly colourful coral reef. Sunlight, rippled by the surface waves, danced on the branches of stunning coral growths, gorgeous schools of fish darted all around. . . all very pretty. As my trance deepened, I sank slowly deeper in the water. The sunlight faded, but the life around me became luminescent, so it was just as bright., and still felt safe. Eventually, I would sink to the sea bed, a vast expanse of white sand, illuminated only by the glowing coral and it’s luminous life. I would sink to rest on the bed, and watch the darting rainbow colours of the schools of fish whirling above me. Often, they would form into images, small dreamlike scenarios that depicted memories of the day, or representations of what I was thinking, or just strange images I didn’t understand. Then they would break back up into thousands of independent points as the fish went their separate ways.

Some images repeated, and were regular features. Probably the single most common vision showed me being beaten by an indistinct figure. Sometimes I was over their knees being spanked, sometimes over a chair being caned, sometimes tied to a post being whipped, sometimes . . . Well, it varied a lot, but it was always me being put through hell by a furious attacker. The punishing figure would be shouting at me, things like “Slut! Bitch! You must be punished! You will suffer for what you’ve done! Whore! Cow! Scream! Cry! Howl in pain!”. Quite a litany, eh?

I figured it was just memories of Jane and of some of the experiences she had arranged. After all, she had a spanking fetish, and loved calling me names. And in deep trance, it’s very hard to be in control of what’s happening, so I never looked closely enough at the punishing figure, always focusing on watching myself being punished.

To reach deep trance, you see, I had to completely still my mind of any thoughts and be completely at peace. Since it’s not possible to hold your mind empty whilst still thinking, it’s very tricky to keep your awareness that you’re meditating: The awareness kind of floats just outside your consciousness. Usually, letting myself become aware of it shattered the trance state. So I just watched the images, passively, not finding them in the least remarkable. It’s like you aren’t surprised in dreams when you can fly – it seems a bit of fun, instead of making you think “Flying’s impossible, this must be a dream!”

So whilst I was able to put myself into this dazzlingly beautiful word, in a dreamy state where I could see visions from the depths of my subconscious, I wasn’t able to do anything much. It was a state of relaxation, of passivity. Much as I would have liked to be able to stay aware and in control, I couldn’t. Not for a long time.

But, back to the real world. The second year ended, and we had to arrange accommodation for the next year. Jane didn’t want to live with me again, she was off in search of greener pastures. I was somewhat relieved by that, but also somewhat worried. I didn’t want to loose my status as a submissive.

This came up in conversation with one of the doms she had loaned me out to with increasing frequency over the year, whom I’d always gotten on well with as a person, as well as in my role as a sub. He offered to take me on as his sub, and let me live with him. He warned me that if I said yes, I should expect far more sexual use, along with his main fetish, which was humiliation. He would do his utmost to humiliate and degrade me into a totally depraved sex-toy.

I had found, more and more, that I was attracted to humiliating sex, such as being used in front of an audience, and being handed around like a toy. It wasn’t Jane’s primary interest, but it was his, so I agreed. I moved my stuff out from the house I shared with Jane, and into his.

I went through my final year at university, and carried on living with him afterwards. I won’t bore you with a long litany of all the things that I did while with him, I’m sure you can imagine the kind of thing: Parties where I knelt in the middle of the room naked and sucked any cock that was placed in my open mouth; Sent to some house naked except for a long coat so I could be screwed by the man I didn’t know there; Put in front of a computer with a webcam and told to entertain the online guests; and so on and so forth. Looking back on it, I can’t remember a time when I felt any real emotion about the whole thing. I was completely numb to it all, completely indifferent, but still feeling driven to do it.

It all came to a head when he engineered a masterly scenario, a truly brilliant move. I came home from work one Friday to find nobody home, and a note pinned up. His handwriting, instructing me to go into my room and put on the clothes that were in there. I did so, and there was a short silver skirt, a tacky hot-pink blouse, a black bra, and some black stockings & high heels. I put them on, and found another note under them, with more instructions.

I was to get on the train and go into the city. I was to get out at a certain station, and go to a particular street. Once there, I was to stand around under a streetlight, and wait. If anybody inquired what I was doing there, I was to pretend I was a prostitute waiting for my next customer. Eventually, one of the passers-by would be, not a random stranger, but a friend of my Master. Nobody I knew. He would act no differently to any of the other passers-by, and he would be my customer. I was to go with him, and do whatever he wanted me to.

The note assured me that the person who ‘hired’ me would definitely be the man my Master had arranged for. It gave no details as to how that was being guaranteed, or how I would know if something went wrong. It simply said it was impossible that anything could go wrong.

So, on the surface, it was just me being sent to have sex with a man I didn’t know – almost trivial to me by then. But by leaving me so in-the-dark, it ensured that I would be standing on the street, dressed like a whore, and be ‘hired’ by a man who, for all I knew, might genuinely be a random passer-by who wanted to screw a hooker.

It was very, very hard for me to stand under that streetlight. I was shivering slightly the whole time, and it wasn’t from cold. I had to fight to keep from shaking violently when one man asked me how much, then decided I was too expensive, and carried on. Had he been genuine? I wondered. Or just another accomplice, there to make me even more nervous. Was this all a big set-up? Were there no precautions in place, and I was genuinely being turned into a prostitute? Would I go home in the evening and be congratulated on my first night of being on the game? What was really going on here???

Even the ‘it’s happening to somebody else’ numbness wasn’t enough to drown this one out. I was terrified, excited, and yet also incredibly turned on. The possibility that he was turning me into a whore was terrifying, but also intensely humiliating. And being humiliated was my fetish, after all. I have never been so aroused as I was that evening – it was almost painful.

Finally, after I’d been standing there for nearly an hour, a man asked my price, nodded, and had me follow him into an alley. He told me to stand against the wall with my legs apart. I was very grateful to lean against the wall, as I was finding it very hard to stand unaided. I closed my eyes, hoping it would stop the world from spinning. I heard him open a zip, and felt him step right up close. I heard a metallic noise, and a rustling of fabric. Then I felt his cock pressing against me.

I always thought it was just a figure of speech when a writer said “time stood still”. But it happened to me right then – it felt like that instant lasted for years. I was both desperately afraid of letting him enter me, and desperately eager for him to do so. I was completely torn, and the anticipation was agonizing.

Then time started up again. His cock slid right into me. I came. I’m pretty sure I screamed. I know I got a death-grip on his jacket and pulled him tight against me. He pulled out, and then thrust back in. I came again. He thrust again, I came again. And again, and again. I don’t know how long he fucked me, but I came non-stop while he did. When I felt him cum inside me, I nearly passed out. The world vanished behind a grey mist, and I felt so light-headed I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d floated away.

For a moment, the now-familiar image of myself being punished floated in front of me, and I saw myself crying as what looked like a cat-o-nine-tails struck me again and again. For the first time, I saw the face of the torturer. It was mine. I wasn’t just being attacked, I was the attacker as well.

The image vanished, the world came back, and as he stepped back from me, I slid down the wall. My legs were too shaky to support me, and I was gasping for breath. As my breathing eased, I felt something slide into my open mouth. No prizes for guessing what it was. I sucked him to a second orgasm, and then he stepped away again. This time, he zipped up his jeans, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed me a banknote, folded in half. He turned and left.

After quite some time, I recovered myself enough to look at the money. I unfolded it, and inside was a small note in my Master’s handwriting, telling me he was proud of me, and I should come home now.

I felt a flood of relief at that, as I realized that the man I’d just had sex with really had been sent by my Master, and hadn’t just been a random passer-by. I re-arranged my somewhat disheveled clothing, and made my unsteady way back to the station. A train arrived shortly after, and I got on. As it rattled along the track towards my home, I wondered about the image I’d seen. Why on Earth was I the one wielding the whip, as well as the one being scourged? Why was I seeing myself hurting myself? It made no sense to me. And yet, it was a persistent image, appearing in almost every meditation. It must mean something, surely?

I hadn’t reached any conclusion when the train pulled into my station. When I got out, I saw my Master was waiting on the platform. He drove us home, and asked me about how it had gone. I gave a somewhat jumbled and incoherent account, but I remember raving about how many times I’d had an orgasm, and how fantastic it had been, and how clever he was for thinking it all up. He listened enthusiastically to start with, with lots of questions and comments. But he became quieter and more withdrawn as I went into detail. It didn’t really register until we got home, where I finally noticed he was acting very cold towards me as he told me to go in and go to bed while he parked the car. I asked if I’d done something wrong, but he said no, it was fine.

Mystified, I went to bed as instructed. As I drifted into an exhausted sleep, the image of myself screaming abuse as I brought a cane down on myself bent over a table flashed in front of my eyes, but I fell asleep too quickly to take much notice.

Over the next few days, I became more and more confused. My Master continued to be rather distant and bad-tempered with me. He used drastic punishments for my slightest mistakes. He forbade me to leave the house for anything other than work. We were supposed to be going to a party, he cancelled it. He fucked my ass every night, but other than that didn’t even seem interested in having sex.

I was at a loss. What was going on? I asked if I had done anything wrong again, and he snapped that no, I hadn’t, and if I asked again I would be punished. But he continued acting strangely. He stopped insisting I be naked in the house, and instead had me stay in my work clothes. When I asked for permission to go out one night for a co-worker’s leaving do, he refused. We still rarely had sex, and he didn’t do any BDSM-related activities.

I wanted to speak about it, as it was making me feel really uncomfortable. But he’d told me not to.

The final straw came from work. There was a management position available, and it was offered to me. It paid a lot better than my current position, and I had some student debts to clear. I wanted to take it. He told me to refuse it. I pointed out that I could really do with the money. He said a submissive shouldn’t even consider a position that put her in as dominant a role as management.

I pointed out that my status over the last few weeks couldn’t be described by anyone as a submissive’s.

Talk about the snowflake that caused an avalanche. He went nuts and started shouting furiously that he was my Master and I had no right to question him. I argued that he hadn’t been acting like a master, he’d been acting like a jealous boyfriend. It wasn’t easy for me to argue, after several years of cultivating a passive, do-as-you’re-told attitude, but I knew I had to do it this time. I wasn’t getting what I needed, and that couldn’t go on.

He tried to end the argument by sneering at my “desire to sleep around”, but I threw that back in his face by asking who had arranged for me to sleep around for the last two years. There was shouting, recriminations, and finally he tried to end it by saying he was my Master, I was to shut and up do as I was told, whether I liked it or not. He was my Master, and he was ordering me to stop arguing with him.

I felt like he’d slapped me in the face with that line. Did he really think so pathetically little of me?

I knew that instant that it was over. If he really thought he could just completely mistreat me and then just tell me I wasn’t allowed to complain. . . Well, it just couldn’t happen. I said so. “I’m going to pack. I’m leaving.”

He said “No you’re not. You don’t have my permission to leave. I order you to stay!”

“You’re not my master any more. You can’t order me. I’m leaving.”

And I did. It wasn’t easy, both mentally and because he didn’t want to let me go. Finally, I threatened to call the police, and he caved in. As in sitting on a chair crying when I went out the door.

I went into town, and booked into a B&B. Then I collapsed onto the bed and tried to sort my thoughts out: They were a total mess.

I realized at last why the sudden change in his attitude. His scenario had worked too well. Maybe he hadn’t expected me to be able to do it, or maybe he’d expected me to do it but not enjoy it. I don’t know, but I AM sure he didn’t mean for me to enjoy it as much as I did. I told him I’d had non-stop orgasms from start to finish, and he realized that he’d never be able to induce the same. He would never be able to equal the sex I’d had that night, it seemed to him, so he felt threatened. He’d tried to cut me off from everybody but him, because he thought it was the only way he could still “be the best”. If I didn’t have anyone else, I would cling to him, he must have felt.

Instead, he’d driven me away. I couldn’t live under those conditions.

new place to live. The salary increase helped with that, and I managed to find a place that I couldn’t afford yet, but would be able to as soon as I got my new pay. I arranged for a moving van at a time when I was sure he would be out, and got my stuff transferred to my new place.

Then I was at a loss. For the first time in a long time, I was on my own. Nobody controlling me, nobody arranging things for me. Nobody sleeping with me. I considered going out to some of the sleazier bars to get picked up, but rejected it. Just sex wasn’t enough any more, it hadn’t been for a long time. I wanted to be controlled, used, dominated. I didn’t know anyone who’d do it. I’d never really been in the BDSM scene, I’d been under the charge of people who were.

And my dreams where haunted by that damned image of me being tortured by myself. It was actually interfering with my sleep.

I was lonely, confused, and feeling needy. I tried to work out where to go to get what I wanted, but couldn’t even decide what I wanted. Sex? Control? Humiliating sex? Did I even want sex? I’d never really enjoyed it all that much, after all. The best sex I’d ever had had been when I’d been in a maybe-role-play acting like a prostitute.

A few times, I actually considered dressing up sleazy and going out on those streets again. It would mean plenty of sex, after all, and the men are most definitely in control when they’re paying for you, and it’s certainly humiliating. I once got so far as putting on the clothes. I couldn’t bring myself to go any further.

I tried meditating. My mind was a raging whirl of contradictory thoughts, maybe if I calmed it down enough I could start making some sense of it. It took all evening, it was so hard to calm myself down and still my thoughts. But as I grew sleepy, the mental whirlwind died down , and I was able to quieten it enough to see myself floating down that coral wall again. After the turmoil of the last few days, the peace and stillness were blissful, and I sank to the bottom very quickly.

I looked up, and watched the beautiful glowing life swirling around me. Patterns formed, broke, and formed again, and I watched happily. And then they resolved into that damned image again, two mes, one screaming rage and abuse at the other as she hit her again and again. I watched, and finally asked myself, Why do I keep seeing this? And I answered. Because this is me. This is what I’m doing.

Ever since that first night at university, when I’d been stupid enough to get drunk and go home with a strange man, I’d been racked with guilt. Rather than face up to it, I’d tried to avoid it, to convince myself that I shouldn’t feel any guilt. Instead of accepting that I’d been stupid and working through the guilt, I’d buried it.

But repressing emotions doesn’t make them go away. It just makes them harder to deal with. When you feel guilty, you feel you’ve done something that deserves punishment. By shoving my guilt down into the depth of my mind, I’d just put it where it could influence me without ever knowing it. Our of guilt, I’d tried to punish myself. I’d turned myself into a slut to punish myself for acting like a slut. I’d let Jane turn me into her slave so she could give me the punishment I felt I deserved. I’d sought out sex that was humiliating and disgusting because I felt I needed to be put through such unpleasant situations.

I’m sure Jane had realized that, right from the start. There were too many times when she’d done something to me that made no sense under her “you like serving people” explanation, but made perfect sense from a desire for punishment. Why I’d always liked being spanked, for instance. I doubt that she had passed the information on to her successor, though.

The realization of my past behaviour filled my mind as I watched my subconscious’ representation of it in front of me. I saw it for the first time with understanding of what it meant. I saw myself crying in pain as I was punished, and I heard myself screaming in rage as I administered the punishment.

“You deserve pain! You’re a slut! Worthless bitch! You must be punished!”

The words ran through my mind, as they had so many times before. And I finally realized how tired I was of hearing them.

Yes, I’d been stupid. Yes, I’d done something I should have been ashamed of. Yes, I’d made it worse instead of better. I’m human. We make mistakes. ..Right then and there, I decided I’d punished myself enough. I’d made mistakes, I’d paid for them.

As I made the decision, in the scenario in front of me, I saw the me that was being punished get up off her knees, turn to the other me, and yell “Shut UP!”

The image shattered, and I woke up from the trance. I felt. . . empty. The maelstrom
of thoughts that had been there earlier were gone, and nothing had replaced them. I felt more alone than I ever had before. I had resolved the guilt that had been the dominating force in my mind for years, and now that it was gone. . . I didn’t really know how to cope. I felt like a cripple who’s been healed and can finally throw away that crutch – it might be good to be free of it, but could I remember how to walk without it?

It wasn’t easy. But yes, slowly, I remembered.

©
Copyright 2005 tatty_oldbitt (UN: tatty_oldbitt at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

tatty_oldbitt has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

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Chapter
6: Afterword

04 November 2005

  • tatty_oldbitt: i often wonder if, had Master not choked, the title would have been “Becoming a whore”
  • mind_mistress: lol
  • mind_mistress: True
  • tatty_oldbitt: i like to think i’d have balked
  • mind_mistress: But slut is what it ended as…
  • tatty_oldbitt: but i don’t think i would
  • mind_mistress: Doesn’t seem like you would have
  • tatty_oldbitt: i think a couple more times and i’d have been addicted for good
  • tatty_oldbitt: even if he’d stopped then, i’d probably have kept on by myself
  • mind_mistress: 😉
  • tatty_oldbitt: i almost did even the way it fell out
  • tatty_oldbitt: just didn’t have the nerve
  • mind_mistress: What do you think would have happened if you had continued?
  • tatty_oldbitt: i think i’d never have worked out that i was trying to punish myself for feeling guilty, and i’d just have kept on doing it. probably i’d have quit my job and gone on as a full-time whore
  • tatty_oldbitt: i neverlt myself back down after something escalated any other time
  • tatty_oldbitt: so i’ve no reason to think i’d have done it then either
  • mind_mistress: And what kind of life would you have had?
  • tatty_oldbitt: probably something very close to what Ellie had at the start of the second Dreamstone story
  • tatty_oldbitt: not really wanting it, but not able to stop either
  • mind_mistress: Trapped… like a rat pressing a lever…
  • tatty_oldbitt: yeah
  • tatty_oldbitt: a lot of the dreamstone situations were inspired by life
  • tatty_oldbitt: but sadly, i must be going now
  • tatty_oldbitt: do send me a link if/when you put me on your site!
  • tatty_oldbitt: see u later!
  • mind_mistress: Later!

You can see her fantasy stories on www.mcstories.com (This links to her personal page there)

The DreamStone Saga:

1) What Dreams May Come…

2) Perchance To Dream

3) Dreamstone #3: That Sleep of Death

Flatmate from Hell (not part
of the saga)

Twisted…
so delightfully twisted…

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