l'Histoire d'une femme

Every story of one’s self is a fiction. But one can at least try to speak some truth. I write here not as a woman speaking for all women, but only for myself. Take from it what you will.

It is hard to know where to begin, for there is no beginning, really. I have constructed this visual and textual journal as a way of exploring, putting into words and images, my sexuality and erotic desires. This is far from simple. Most of what I have seen out here in cyber strikes me as deeply false. There are exceptions of course, but the majority of stories and images seem never to touch on those things that really put us into question. I don’t mean that in some abstract philosophical sense, but merely in the more quotidian one of asking: What do I desire?

For me, asking these questions and slowly discovering the answers has not been easy. In the process of discovery I have been tempted to return to empirical and causal explanations of my desire. Although past experiences surely shape my desire, these kinds of explanations have increasingly come to seem like an escape from facing the desire itself, as if knowing the cause would create a sense of relief: “It is not me, it is them, it is they or he or whomever who has made me this way.” But no one made me as I now am; what I am and desire is a creative mixture of experience, fantasy, and just a lot of erotic energy with no final cause or explanation at all.

Facing this fact—the mystery of my desire—has been for me liberating. Curiously enough I was able to face it for the first time with, and in many respects thanks to, a man who is the sole human being that knows my past as it was. Speaking it allowed me to release myself from the illusion of causality and to inhabit perversion as my own. By this I mean something different from the consumable items found at your local website. I don’t doubt that some of you, those who may read this, will consume it like a cyber hand job. Be that as it may. It is more likely that you will not get past this paragraph.

Perversion is for me not a practice of consumption but really a way of being in my own skin. It is, in a sense, about accepting your skin and yet wanting, needing to break through the boundaries of being in this body and no other. There is, I think, a tremendous amount of violent energy in my sexuality—the desire to be broken down by another person and to break that person down--and accepting that violence is the key to pleasure and discovery. Likewise, it is for me crucial to accept that there is no reason whatsoever for our separateness, that is, I cannot be you or really know you as you know you. I cannot be in your skin/you cannot be in mine. I can only break momentarily into you/let you break into me, and in this sense visit an utterly strange space or place where I no longer know my way about and, for that very reason, might just discover something new.

For me the new discovery was the depth of my desire for submission. Although I have had submissive fantasies my whole life, I had rarely if ever faced them. They seemed incompatible with my self-image. They seemed utterly, stereotypically “feminine.” No knowledge of their masculine version attenuated my sense of humiliation. Insofar as I have spent a great deal of my life and energy combating social stereotypes of all kinds, I could never square these fantasies with who I am. They were something to be defended against, shut out of my consciousness with that steel door of repression we all know so well. These fantasies were/are both heterosexual (in relation to men) and homosexual or “queer” (in relation to women and persons of uncertain gender identity).

There are patterns in these fantasies, which I shall discuss later, but the main point now is this: they unsettle me. Keeping them packaged as fantasies to be taken out selectively in order to masturbate was somewhat disturbing, but easy enough. I could “get off,” then get up and go on with my normal routine. What has been really difficult has been bringing them out for another person to see, and to ask—in this case—him to live them through with me, doing things to me that seemed, according to social criteria of what is “normal” and “respectable,” unspeakable. Needless to say this has involved a tremendous amount of trust, for at a certain point I gave up my anonymity in relation to him. But beyond whatever anxieties I have had about being “exposed” at work, to my husband, my family, friends etc., I have discovered that the most difficult aspect has been exposure to myself: facing who I am, what I really want and need, and not only facing it but, as I said above, accepting both the danger and the pleasure.

These feelings are complex, for I also desire another's submission to me. I desire his/her deep submission. I want to break him/her, penetrate and make him/her beg. I don’t know what to do with these feelings at times, how to express or “manage” them. I often wish they would disappear, making my desire clearer, simpler. I fantasize about giving myself over completely, letting go of this desire to break another down, just becoming a thing, to use and abuse as another person sees fit, a sex slave. And I do want that. But then the desire to break him/her reappears, and I want nothing more than to stand over him/her, dressed in a black corset, stocking, and heels, and tell him/her to shut up and do what I say, wear what I say, be what I say, just get fucked.

And I have known men who wanted nothing else. I could and did oblige.

With this journal I want to document this complexity of desire, not as an attained state, but more as moments in which I feel something start to gnaw at and slowly unravel my very being. I will do this in the form of textual vignettes. I don’t profess a creed of perversion, or a manual of what works, merely a modest but I hope truthful account of the sexual energy that runs through my being and which makes me feel, probably for the first time in my life, really alive. Although I try to avoid obvious narcissism (e.g., painting a flawless image of my perverted self), in all honestly, this journal is for me. If you can find something in it, all the better.

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Vignette 1

Sitting here at my computer I am wearing a black skirt, black stockings and garter, no panties, white sleeveless T-shirt with no bra and extreme black high-heeled sandals.

I sometimes imagine you, crawling on your knees to me, under the desk, at my feet.

I want you to beg me.

For . . .

Permission to touch my legs, stroking inside my soft thighs, feeling me become warm for you.

Permission to take your finger and slide it inside my pussy, which is hot and wet for you, as always.

Permission to move down my legs with your mouth and kiss my toes and red painted nails, sucking on them through my stockings while I stroke my clit and almost cum. (You do that so well.)

Then I would not want you to ask for permission but, rather, I would want to take you. Bend you over the pale couch here in my study, pull down you pants, and, without a word, just fuck you with my fingers and probably with any other object that seemed reasonably suitable. And I would feel your anus closing around them and know I was inside you—inside. And I would make you tell me that you want it, you always wanted it, for me to make you my bitch, my slut. How I want to dress you, make you wear a wig, lingerie, make you into an object to be used for my pleasure—nothing more.

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Vignette 2

I like to dress for, and serve, him.

In a French maid’s uniform, for example. It is black, very, very short, with a white lace apron and low cut top. Worn with black fishnet crotchless pantyhose and black high-heeled shoes of course.

I picked him up one night, wearing it under my coat. At my place, I became afraid to take off the coat, almost afraid of exposing my desire to serve him in that way. So blatantly degrading myself like that.

Which is what he wants—to humiliate me, make me serve him, give up my self-respect, just make me watch myself in the mirror as he breaks apart the whole bourgeois persona and its aura of respectability.

As I am forced to prepare his meal, bring it to him, not look up at him, but serve it with downcast eyes. Forced to kneel at his feet as he eats it, expressing some pleasure, which gives me a sense of not having failed him. Forced to lick his feet slowly as he eats, then his cock, to suck on it, going down on it to the point where I choke. Then, putting his plate down, telling me to turn around while he lifts my skirt, exposes my ass, and pushes me down on his cock, making me fuck him like that. Telling me to shut up or he will have to gag me. Then turning me over and bending me over the chair and fucking me hard from behind, so hard that I think I will break in half (I am small, he is big). That feeling, just being fucked hard, violently like I am nothing but a hole—nothing—is beautiful. It feels like, with that pain, all the other pain just leaves my body. Redemption?

I crave and fear this violence within me.

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Vignette 3

“He likes to test me.”

“Do not move until I return.” Those were his last words. The door closes softly and I am alone, blindfolded, hands bound behind me, feet tied, on my knees. It is dark and quiet. I am afraid—but I know he will return.

Time goes by, minutes, hours. I don’t dare move, afraid he will return and I will no longer be in the position.

I hear voices in the hall, then the key in the door. He is back. A woman’s voice. Through the blindfold I can tell that the lights have been turned on. Then I hear her gasp. “What the hell…” “Oh, don’t be disturbed,” he says, “she has been waiting.”

“Are you sick!” the woman exclaims. “The poor thing. Untie her right now or I’ll call the police.”

“I’m telling you that she wants this. She craves it in fact. She is nothing but a disgusting slut. Don’t believe me, check her cunt. I bet it is soaked.”

“I’m not going to check her cunt, as you say. I couldn’t care less if she is wet.”

I feel a hand slip between my legs. It is his. I know it well. He dips into me then says: “Here, look at this, creamy just like I said. I’m telling you, she is dying for it.”

A moment of silence. I can imagine her face. Shocked and disgusted, but drawn to the object of her pity like passersby at the scene of an accident.

“Look, let me show you how much she wants it,” he says.

I feel his hand grab my hair, then the familiar sound of his zipper, my face pushed against his groin. “Suck, cunt.” I eagerly take him in my mouth, trying to take all of him. Impossible as always—but as always I try. “You aren’t sucking properly you stupid bitch.” “All of it.” I try again, but I know I’m bound to fail. He knows it too. We have been here before.

“You selfish bitch.” I feel him grab me by my hair, pull me up, then feel myself being turned around, pushed face down on what must be the counter. His hands pull up my skirt. I feel my ass exposed.

“What do you think? Not bad, right? The slut has an ass almost worth what it is going to get.” Silence. The woman does not say a word. I hear him take off his belt. I feel myself getting wetter with anticipation.

She doesn’t protest as he smacks me, once, twice, three times, four. “She can do fifty, but I’ll start with twenty, just to get her warmed up for us.” He hits me with the full force of the belt. I can feel the aggression. He is angry with me somehow. Probably worried that I am going to fuck this up for him, that she will leave, and he won’t have his fun.

My ass is burning. I imagine it glowing red, welts that will last a week. Then he rams his cock into me and fucks me mercilessly from behind. I cry out, “please Sir, please stop.”

“Shut up you bitch.”

I feel the gag in my mouth, him tying it behind my head.

I have no say.

A soft feminine hand on my ass, stroking it gently. My sense of relief is short lived.

“Shit, she really is wet,” I hear the woman say. “Well, if this gets her off, what the hell.”

“Here take her leash. She will go where, and do what, you want.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything. Isn’t that right slut?”

I know better than not to agree. I nod.

I feel the leash attach to my collar, then a tug. “Walk on all fours bitch.”

I try to keep up with her, but she pulls me hard: “I said keep up, heel.”

“My God, she isn’t even as well trained as my dog.”

“Well, train her.” He says. “I’ve been trying to, but she is a willful bitch, I’m telling you.” She pretends to learn just to appease me. The moment the collar comes off, she is impossible. Put it back on and it is like she forgot everything.”

“Well maybe she just likes to lick cunt better than suck cock. Isn’t that right slut?”

I am still.

“I said, isn’t that right?”

I feel her slip the gag out of my mouth. “You have to clean something for me bitch.”

She leads me, crawling on my hands and knees. I hear her sit down, feel myself pulled between her legs. I can smell her pussy. “Tell us how much you like to eat cunt.” I say nothing. “Are you deaf?” I feel the leash come down hard on my back and my ass, again and again. “I said tell us how much you like to lick pussy, bitch.”

“I like to lick pussy.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I like to lick pussy,” I scream out.

“Good, because that’s all you are good for. Now do it.”

I feel her press my face into her cunt. She is soaked. I start, moving my tongue gently up and down her lips, stroking them with it. I can feel her relax a bit. I feel her juices smeared all over my face as she presses me into her, harder. I search for her clit and start to suck on it gently, then stroke it harder as I hear her start to moan. She wraps the leash around my neck, pulling it tighter, making me into a sex toy with no other purpose but to please her. I can feel her clit growing in my mouth. I know she is about to cum. But suddenly she gets up. I fear I failed. He will be angry.

“Maybe she just likes to suck cock. Well, fine.

I hear her moving.

“Take this,’ he says.

“See if you can get your little slut mouth around this,” she tells me.

I feel it. She shoves the dildo down my throat so that I choke.

“Take it bitch.” I try, as with him, to take it for her. I suck it, pulling it as far down my throat as I can.

“Fuck, her mouth is worthless. Maybe her ass is better.”

“Kneel on all fours.”

I feel her grab my hair from behind, mount me like I am her dog, her bitch. I feel the familiar cold wetness of the lube, then an object shoved up my pussy. With that in place I feel the dildo rammed up my ass.

“What do you think?,” he asks. “I’ve been trying to stretch her. You should have seen the pathetic slut when we first met. She was more or less an anal virgin. It was hell, I’m telling you. Now I’ve got her taking the large anal beads, but she still has a tight little ass.”

“Yeah, well I’ll stretch the bitch for you.”

I feel her pushing, ramming her “cock” inside me. I’m screaming.

“Shut up bitch. You love this. Admit it. Say it.”

“Please, please Mistress, stop.”

She is deaf to me. “Sir, please, I can’t…”

Silence, then a smack on the ass with the belt. I should know better.

“Lift up your ass bitch. Higher I said.”

I try to present myself to her, as he likes it, but I’m too weak. I collapse.

“Fuck.” She is outside me.

“Alright, let’s tie the bitch up. I knew she wouldn’t cooperate. Just look at that face. Still soaked though. I’d say she wants it. Isn’t that right bitch?”

“Yeah, guaranteed,” I hear him say. But she needs a lot of discipline. I’m telling you. It is like a full-time job keeping her trained.

“Well, if you have the equipment, I know how to whip her into shape pretty quick,” she says.

Amazing for a so-called novice.

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Vignette Quatre

“He fucks for me”

Rubbing his cock with my left hand I get him hard, then slip the cock-ring on. Black soft leather, a material sign of what he is: my slave.

“You are going to entertain me tonight. Do you understand?” A nod is all that is necessary.

We go to a nightclub in the neighborhood. It is a big, anonymous place with some freaky people. I’m wearing a very fitted long black dress with a slit up the left side that almost reaches my crotch, extremely high-heeled black boots, stocking and no panties or bra. My dark hair is pulled back and up in a rather stern manner, just to make things clear to the idiotic men on the make. What he is wearing is irrelevant, save the fact that he has his cock-ring on. He knows it is on; that is all that matters. Tonight he fucks for me.

We circulate. I see a blond woman standing at the bar. She looks like she was a cheerleader in high-school, probably still has her pom-poms in the closet next to her ridiculous little outfit. A slut who doesn’t know it (yet). I tell him to go talk to her. “Entertain her a bit my dear, she looks terribly bored.”

I see him walk over and, in his subtle way, get contact with her. I watch her light up and realize that this is going to be a lot easier than I thought.

I let them chat a bit, then walk over. “Excuse me,” I say. “This place is so crowded I need a break.” The woman turns to me, looking a bit irritated, like I’ll interrupt her flirt. I look her deep in the eyes and then I see it, like I always see it. Even easier.

“Can I buy you two a drink?,” I ask, acting as if I don’t know him. “Why, ummm, ok,” she mumbles. He knows better than to say no.

We stand there, have a few drinks. I can see her starting to relax. In fact she is pretty drunk. Don’t want her too drunk. She has a lot ahead of her.

“This place is a drag,” don’t you think?,” I say. “How about taking the party to my place? I’ve got some great champagne.” The blond is at that point where another drinks sounds like just what she needs. In a few minutes we are sitting in a taxi on the way to my place.

We enter my apartment and I hear her start making idiotic comments like “cool, wow, I love those beams, etc.” Whatever. Let her ramble. She is going to get fucked.

I pull the bottle of champagne out and pour a few glasses. “Why don’t you two have a seat over there on the couch while I pull together some snacks,” I say. I see them sitting there, and watch him slowly move his hand under her skirt. She keeps babbling about something or other, but I can see that she is hot. He moves his hand further, between her legs, starting to stroke her cunt. I feel myself getting wet just watching him. I know what his hand feels like. She is too embarrassed to moan, so she keeps chatting incoherently, but the words start to fail her. I pour her some more champagne and act like nothing is happening. I walk away.

When I return I’m dressed for action: domme corset, black stockings, high heels. I have a crop in one hand, a collar and leash in the other.

“Excuse the brief interruption my dear, but I think he needs a little discipline. He doesn’t seem to be satisfying you.”

She looks stunned. One of those rich Northshore chicks, she has probably never seen a woman dressed like this, save some sanitized Victoria Secret catalogue version. I already know she wants this. I saw it in her eyes. It is just a matter of the right timing.

“Get up,” I tell him. He looks kind of dazed, like he got a bit too carried away with the role we had planned for him. “Take off you pants.” I see a little resistance. Have to nip that in the bud before he fucks it all up, which he tends to do.

“Are you deaf? I said take off your pants.” I take the crop and hit him on his ass. He slowly slips them off. His cock is hard—always is. “The boxers too.”

The blond watches all this with an air of shock, but I see she likes it. She gasps when she sees the cock-ring. “What’s that?” she exclaims, in that giggling little voice of hers. “That’s to remind him of his place.” She looks puzzled as I attach the leash to it. “Go ahead, touch it. He won’t bite.” She giggles again but doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, what do you think? Does he meet your criteria?,” I ask. “Feel free to inspect him.”