You Want to Know Why I'm Like This?

"So, you want to know why I do it, why I'm like this?" she asked, taking a deep drag and exhaling the smoke slowly through her nose. "I don't know, honestly. Not fully. I mean, stuff happened early on. And later? I felt like I made it through all that. I stayed sane, true to myself, and pushed forward. I finished High School. A rarity in my family. Then after leaving them all behind, traveling halfway across the country to leave it in the past, I started college. All on my own." She took another deep drag and then fidgeted with her fingers, looking down.

"I even finished college. Got a good entry-level job. People would have called me a fucking success story. Small town girl makes it big. And by that standard, I guess I did. I was going places, a shooting star, going up, up, up. And then... life changed." She stubbed out the cigarette and got another, offering the reporter one. He shook his head and she shrugged before lighting up. The smoke curled in the small changing room.

"That seems like such a simple way to put it. Life changed. How does that sum up leaving that, leaving a law firm, to strip here 2 or 3 times a week? To cover yourself in tattoos? To give up your life and future like that?" he asked, incredulous. She shook her head, already frustrated with his line of questioning. Those outside the kink world rarely could.

"You're already off base, chasing down dust in the wind, while you're ignoring the storm. You say I gave up my life, my future, for this. But this, this is fun. This," she said, spreading her arms wide, "is exercise. It's a hobby, nothing more. No Sir, I didn't give up my life or future to strip. I gave it up for him. For this." She leaned forward, tilted her head down, and threw her hair over her face so he could see the tattoo on the back of her neck. A literal bar code, with numbers, lay there. She snapped her head back and pushed out her chest, noticing his glance at her cleavage before he adjusted himself.

"That's a bar code? I don't understand, what does a tattoo have to do with anything," he asked, his brow furrowed. She almost envied that innocence. Once something like that is lost, it cannot be reclaimed.

"You know what Freud said, right? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar? Well, this is the opposite of that. Sometimes a tattoo is more than a tattoo." She grinned and showed him the back of her hand. On it, a tattoo of a keyhole was there, easily visible in dark black ink. She then spread her legs and pulled up the gown she had on, showing the reporter her shaved cunt. She noticed the subtle biting of his lip, the narrowing of his eyes as he looked at her, and the "Daddy's Girl" tattoo right above it.

"I have several tattoos as you can see, and more that you can't," she said, smiling and teasing him. "But the barcode, the keyhole, are different from the rest. They have very specific meanings and are part of the journey my life has gone on." The reporter looked back at her face, blushing a bit, as she re-crossed her legs.

"And those are? How can a tattoo change your life?"

"They can't," she said. "It's what they represent. The barcode is my registry number. I'm a slave. Willingly, of course. The keyhole? It tells any man who recognizes it that I'm free to use. To fuck as they please."

"You can't be serious," he said, eyes in shock. That statement made her laugh.

"Oh, but I am. When I met him, my life changed. I realized that I had been living a lie up until that moment. And becoming his? That choice, that sacrifice, set me free."

"You became free? By becoming a sex slave?" he said, clearly not understanding.

"It's hard to process, so let me tell you a story. You can write it down later, pretty it up, whatever. Let's call it Jane's Journey," she said, licking her lips. "It goes something like this..."

"Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Jane. She was a pretty woman, but she was unhappy. She worked hard, led a good life, and had moved on from dark parts of her life. But at the end of the day, no matter what she did, she felt no joy. No spark. Days, weeks, months, they all blended together. That continued until one day, while out at a bar, she met John. John was older than her by almost 20 years, but was in good shape, just a hint of gray, but most of all, he was direct. John didn't play games.

See, John came up to her and didn't just throw a one-liner at her. He didn't try to get in her panties. He didn't ask. Men like John, even when they give you a choice, it sounds and feels like a demand. An order. And well, that night, it touched a primal part of Jane that hadn't been touched in a long time. When he rested his hand on her ass, she didn't shove it away. She probably could have if she had been firm about it. Later, when he stroked her face, it made her smile. And when his hand dropped to cup and massage her chest, she tried to pull away. He slapped her for that. Then went back to it. Jane didn't resist after that. He knew her type. He had correctly guessed her reaction. A token protest because society demanded it. But he was beyond what society wanted. What he wanted was her.

And an hour later, in his apartment, he got her. He choked Jane, slapped her, and shoved her around. He fucked her brutally and she took it. In Jane's mind, history was repeating itself. But this time, she was soaked, wet, and wanted it. She had choice and agency this time around. She felt alive. And after, he cuddled her tight in his arms and Jane felt safe in a way she hadn't in a very long time. Later, she woke to him pushing her prone, shoving against her ass. She flailed and tried to stop him, but he slapped her and kept at it until he was in her ass. She cried but didn't struggle as he forced himself deeper into her ass. After several painful minutes of fucking it, he came in her bowels. Then Jane's head was jerked up and spun around and his cock was in her mouth. She tasted the shit and more, the sheer presumption that she would do it. But she did. She cleaned John's cock and after, he held her tight again, stroked her hair, and told her how proud he was of her. It was confusing, to say the least.

John and Jane started dating after that. Most of the time their dates were normal. And then, there would be the scary and exhilarating times, when John just did what he wanted. Often it hurt and humiliated her. She could have said no and walked away, but Jane didn't. Because every time she felt alive. When they took a week-long vacation in the mountains, he kissed her, then punched her face and gave her a black eye. He hit her, tossed her around, and left her with a dozen bruises. She sobbed, but afterward, he told her how beautiful she was. That she was the most beautiful woman on Earth. And John meant it. He took her out to dinner and she felt embarrassed as she felt the looks as if she was some battered woman.

But she didn't feel battered. She felt his passion, his love. And sometimes that love hurt. But those hurts also made her feel alive. It was clear that she could say no at any time. She could leave at any time. But Jane stayed. She grew to love the bruises and the pain. And every time he hurt her worse and worse, she felt more and more alive. She'd encourage him to start, and often went to work with bruises. He had her move in and she just wanted to spend more and more of her time with him. He was what she was missing. Day by day, her world began to consist more and more of him. He would break her down, but the smiles and the hugs were all worth it. He always built her back after and she got wet in ways she never had before as he molded her willing body and mind into something better.

And one day, a year after that first night of passion and anal rape, he told her what he wanted. He wanted Jane to be his, forever more. It wasn't even a choice for her. She gladly took the tattoo and quit her job, leaving her old world behind. Her molding intensified, he started sharing her regularly, and she slowly stopped thinking of herself as hers. She was John's and that was all she wanted and needed. One day after leaving a bar, her body covered in cum and bruises, he asked her if she wanted to leave all her choices behind. She nodded yes because it was what her mind and body wanted and it was what he wanted as well.

And so, Jane got her second special tattoo. One that marked her as free use to any man. Day to day, her life was still mostly the same but one day, a man grabbed her hand, smiled, and told her to follow him. She did and he led her to a bathroom in the mall, shoved down her panties, and fucked her in the bathroom. He came in her cunt, slapped her once, and left, never to be seen again.

On and off, that would happen. Most would just use her mouth or cunt, some used her ass. A couple even raped her, just kicking and shoving Jane around, and even punched her. Yet, she came and cried from it and when John got home, he stroked her hair and told her that the life of a cunt could be hard. He always asked her if she had doubts, but she would look up, bloody and broken, and smile, kissing the entirety of her world. It was worth it, for him.

And that's the story of Jane," she said, stubbing out another cigarette and nodding at the woman at the door who said she would be up next. "Any questions?"

"How could you stay with a man who beat, shared, and passed you around? What about Feminism? Don't you have any respect for yourself and what you had accomplished?" he said, wild-eyed and in shock. She sighed, knowing he would never truly understand.

"Sir..." she said as she stood up and stroked his crotch, feeling his cock harden. People could act as society wanted them to and claim outrage, but in the end, they were almost all the same. "Sir, John freed me. I am happy with myself, my place, and I feel joy almost every day. How many people get that? Isn't the core of feminism that a woman can be anything they want? This is what I want," she said as she unzipped him. She stroked his cock and he started to protest, but her expert hands had his eyes rolling back in his head.

"He beats me because he knows it makes someone like me feel alive. He shares me and lets anyone that wants access to me have me because, in those moments, I feel alive. Feminism? Fuck society's limited idea of that. It's about women having the power to make choices. And I made mine. To submit, to serve. Even to stroke your cock," she said, smirking.

"I'm proud of who I am. I may be a cunt, but I'm the happiest fucking cunt I can be. I have joy in my life, do you?" she asked. As he shuddered, she leaned down and swallowed the reporter's cum. She savored it, enjoying his taste, teasing his head as he trembled. Then she stood up as the song on the stage outside died down.

"I'm free. To rape, to fuck, to use, and to share. I'm free and I'm living in joy and in my truth. That's why I'm here and why I am like this. And I'm not ashamed," she said as she tossed off her gown and walked off onto the stage, leaving the reporter to hastily zip up. And then she danced for the men who watched her, wanted her, needed her, and she, as always, felt alive.