Authors Note: This is more of an article than a story. It’s based on discussions I’ve had with a friend of mine about her past and how it bothers her. It is, for the most part, in her own words, with me just arranging things. It was originally written for a semi-well known magazine that would not print it when I refused to take out some parts. Anyways, it’s not really a stroke story, and I apologize. Send comments, questions, or death threats along either through Literotica or to me directly at the link below.


Slut. Whore. Cunt.

My fingers are in my pussy and I feel it tighten around them every time I quietly mouth those words to myself. I imagine you standing over me, calling me those things. I don’t know you. Well, maybe I do, but it doesn’t matter. You’re just a vehicle, a medium that delivers what I need. And you’re standing over me- spitting these words at me. They are not playful or friendly in any way. These words you shoot at me with precision and intent. They tell me exactly what you think of me- exactly how I know I am deep down inside under all the layers of armor and fluff. These words are designed to humiliate me, to degrade me. To strip me down to nothing but exposed nerves. Words- these words- would mean nothing if I didn’t let them. I can try to hide, but deep inside I know they’re true. I’m a slut. A whore. A cunt. An easy piece of fuckmeat. I know how I let you treat me, what I let you do to me. What I need you to do so badly. How can a woman, a modern woman, enjoy being treated like I let you treat me? I let you do anything you want, and the more painful and degrading it is, the better my reaction. Knowing this, knowing how I am, turns my stomach. Literally puts a nervous sickness in my guts. It bathes me in shame. That just makes me wetter.

Some of them make me do it to myself. It doesn’t matter to me, really. Sometimes it’s even more degrading if you do it yourself. I remember laying back on the bed while he stood there watching me, telling me what to do. My legs were spread wide, and with one hand I opened my cunt for him, and with the other I was slapping it. I remember the words more than anything. He started off by telling me what to say. All sorts of disgusting, humiliating things. Soon, I was doing it on my own. My own self degradation was so far beyond anything he could ever dream up. And my hand, harder and harder into the most tender parts of my sex. It was red and swollen, leaking all over the sheets. I couldn’t stop. I literally couldn’t stop myself. I remember him saying that I was just a cunt. My whole body, my soul was only god for fucking his cock and taking his cum. I’ve been told worse, but at that moment it shocked through me like some kind of profound truth, and I’d never felt more like an object and less like a person in my life. My hand slammed into my pussy again, and one of my rings caught on the skin of my clit and tore it just a little bit. I can’t remember ever coming so hard.

It’s a cycle of self degradation deep inside me that mirrors what you do to me on the outside. It’s simple but I can’t stop, once I start slipping into that hole, I never stop falling. I think that maybe I find sex disgusting on every level. Perhaps it’s only the shame and humiliation of doing something that disgusts me that turns me on. I know that’s true on some level. I know that pain and degradation turn me on, and that knowing I’m being turned on by them only makes me feel hurt and degraded further. And the cycle, the unstoppable spiral down begins. Once it starts, you can keep pushing and I’ll keep giving in, wanting and taking anything you want to do to me.

I often think about the first time I took all of a man in my mouth. It was one of the first few times I had found myself falling into myself. It started innocently enough, I was naked, kneeling in front of him as he stood. I was sucking him, like I’d done for all my lovers. I have a pretty strong gag reflex, and have never been good at taking too much of a man in my mouth. This man especially, was very large. As I sucked and stroked him, I felt his hands come down to my head. I thought nothing of it until his fingers tightened in my hair and started to push a little. I resisted him, knowing I couldn’t take any more of him. He kept pushing, harder and harder, until I couldn’t fight it any more and he started to choke me with his cock. I remember gagging and coughing as it hit the back of my throat, and instead of trying to fight him, I felt my hands drop to my sides and my body go limp in his hands. He kept pushing more and more of himself xslot into my mouth, down my throat. I was coughing and gagging on him, barely able to breathe, but I did nothing to fight him. He started to fuck my mouth, every time harder and harder, tearing into my throat as I shook and choked on his cock. He was pulling my head onto him, faster and faster as he fucked my mouth. Finally, he pulled my head back and I managed to take a deep breath. I looked up at him but he was just this huge, distorted demon above me, the tears in my eyes and streaming down my face distorting my vision. I remember he called me a worthless whore then slapped me hard across the face two or three times. I stopped breathing for a moment, out of shock more than anything. He put his cock back in my mouth and started fucking my throat again for what seemed like hours. I never once raised my hands from my sides, or tried to pull away from him. Finally he shoved himself all the way down my throat and held it there as I fought for air beneath him. I thought I was going to black out, and every nerve in my body was crying out in pure panic. When he finally pulled out of my throat I took a huge breath, and as it came out I threw up all over myself. I grabbed my shirt to keep it from getting all over and ran into the bathroom to clean up. I sat on the toilet and fingered myself until I came. I was so wet I thought I’d pissed myself.

Once I’d got myself together, I went back to the other room and he acted like nothing had happened. Then he fucked me all nice and gentle like he was trying to apologize. I don’t remember being bothered by what happened. I just remember being bored by how he fucked me afterwards.

I’m not stupid, and I’m not completely controlled by my cunt. Perhaps I am a little more sexual than most women, but it’s not all I ever think about. I’d like to think that for the most part I’m a pretty normal person, whatever that means. Right now, for instance, the man I’m seeing is actually a pretty nice, gentle man, in and out of bed. He had never treated me the way so many others have, the way I’ve let them. For a long time, months, I was really good with that. I could live like that and be mostly happy I think. I couldn’t live with the men that destroy me. I can’t do that full time; I’m not like that full time. This is what the sane side of me, the side that’s usually in control, knows is best.

I’ve tried to find a place for my sexual urges to fit in with the rest of me. I remember thinking for a while that I was a submissive in a BDSM sense. I tried it a few times, and it wasn’t unpleasurable, but it wasn’t really what I find myself wanting. Some parts of it are good, and I can fall into myself, but then I’m always forced to stop falling when that’s what I want to do most of all. I remember once at this Doms apartment, stripped naked and leaning spread eagled against the wall, my hands holding me up and my ass sticking way out for him. He had a belt in his hand and was making me beg him to lash my ass with it. I did, and he did, and that went on for a while, until finally I started to need more, and started begging him to hit my pussy with the belt and all sorts of other things. He was really into the scene and got upset when I wasn’t being submissive enough for him. Later he told me that I was just supposed to do as told, and that some of the things I asked for were too dangerous to be done safely. He refused to do anything that wasn’t safe or were outside his ideas of what BDSM were. That’s when I realized that I didn’t belong in that group. What I need is something that constantly breaks the rules, not follows them.

After a while though, I start to slip. Alone in the dark, my fingers curled up inside myself, I close my eyes and flickering memories of past experiences assault me. There he is- I might know him, I might not- it doesn’t matter. But he’s there, all of them are there, and they’re taking me, pulling me down into that abyss. Slut, whore, cunt. Words, memories, actions, painful and degrading, forcing me back down. I feel my stomach turn and my pussy tightens on my fingers.

Sometimes I catch myself and stop. I can stop, it’s not impossible. But it takes a lot to do it. I have to catch myself in time, not fall into it too fast. If I can do that, if I can see it happening and remind myself that I can just as easily go watch TV or make a sandwich or whatever, and I usually will. But if I can’t do that, if I don’t catch myself, there is a point where I really can’t stop myself. Gravity grabs a hold of me and all I can do is fall. xslot Giriş A few times I’ve laid on the bed for hours, until I’m no longer pleasing myself, until I’m actively abusing myself. Cumming over and over again, not being able to stop. Knowing that there must be a bigger one coming, always searching for some mythical orgasm that will sate me, that will be good enough to let me stop, or to stop me itself. Of course it never comes. I think that’s why I can’t just keep these feelings a fantasy- I can’t end them. When I’m with a man, it’s over when he’s done with me. When he’s used me as much as he wants to. When he’s reached his own limits, either physical or mental. When I’m alone, there is nothing telling me to stop. There’s no end to it. A few times I’ve fallen into it so hard and fast that I only come out of it hours later, like waking up from a fucked-up dream, my body sore all over, and my pussy bleeding from my fingers working it for so long. It’s those times that really bother me. My conscience gets to me then. I remember what I was fantasizing about, and after I’ve been falling for so long the only thing that my body reacts to is utterly vile, disgusting filth. When my head is clear, I don’t like thinking about it. I hate myself because I know what I was fantasizing about; I know how twisted and wrong it was. I’ve almost thrown up more than once from memories of images I was playing in my mind as I made myself come. It’s all sex and violence, pain and sometimes- even death on the most disturbing, perverse level.

I remember waking up once on the floor of my bathroom, covered in piss from head to toe. I lay there quietly on the cold tile and just breathed for a few minutes, the stink had soaked through me. It filled my nose and clawed down my throat. I remember that as long as I didn’t move, I couldn’t feel anything. I could sort of remember the night before, but the details were so hazy. Finally the stink started to make my flesh crawl and I had to move. The moment I did every part of me started to cry out in unison. I got to my knees and fell back down before finally getting to my feet. I’d never felt so fucked up in my life. My mind was clear, but my memories were fuzzy and my body was screaming at me from all directions. I made it to the mirror and tried to take stock of myself. I was a total mess. My eye and lip were both puffy. My hair was still damp with urine. By breasts were bruised all over, and both my nipples were split, like they’d been bitten through. There were bruises and welts all over my body, on my stomach, ass, legs, even around my pussy. I could feel scratches on my back that might have been bleeding the night before. My pussy was so swollen I had to open it with my fingers to pee properly. I can’t even describe how it felt inside. My ass was the worst, though. It was hanging half open, like the muscles had been cut, and I could feel deep long scratches all the way deep into my bowels. Too deep for fingernails unless he had his whole hand in there. My mouth was foul, the strong taste of piss clinging to the thick paste of semen on my teeth and tongue. I rinsed my mouth as best I could, and discovered I could barely swallow. My throat was wrecked. I crawled into the tub and ran the water, always too hot or too cold. It took me two days to clean up and heal up enough to leave the house after that.

The man was not entirely a stranger. He worked at a coffee shop near where I used to work. Once I felt up to it, I went down there to confront him. The memories were not coming back very well on their own. He was there and I walked right up to him and asked him what the fuck he’d done to me that night. He looked surprised to see me and asked if I was all right. That really shocked me. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I felt like I’d been attacked, and his reaction to me really messed that up. He grabbed his jacket and we went for a little walk where we discussed what had happened. He went through everything, giving me details as I asked for them. More and more I started to remember. I had literally begged him to do those things to me, and had even attacked him at one point when he refused. He showed me a scar on his scrotum where I’d grabbed him by the balls and dug my nails in because he wouldn’t hit my pussy with the thin metal antenna I’d broken off the radio in my living room. He said finally I’d locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out unless he did something or other that he refused to, and he left. As he recounted the night, my memories flooded back in perfect clarity. I started to feel a xslot Güncel Giriş little more calm about what happened, but he was becoming visibly shaken. I apologized to him and suggested we probably shouldn’t see each other again. He agreed and went back to work.

I mope around for days after I slip like that. I hate myself deep down inside. I used to think that I hated myself because I was weak and fell into it. As time went by I started to realize that if that were true, I would feel like that whenever I slipped either alone or with a man. But I don’t feel like that after I’ve been with a man. Sure, I’m not always happy with myself after falling into it with a man, but not with the same kind of intensity I do if I do it alone. Perhaps it has something to do with the depths I take myself to. There are depths of depravity that I can only experience in my mind, that no man could ever take me to. I would die- literally die long before I fell down that deep in any way other than fantasy.

I dated a man for almost a year that I think understood what was going on inside of me. Well, understood me at least as well as anyone ever has. He wasn’t exactly the greatest guy, but he would take me down further than I’ve ever been with anyone other than myself and still be there the next day. He was sadistic, to say the least, and his sadism seemed to follow the same sort of path like my needs do. It would always start small then grow and grow until it was almost out of control. It would usually start with something innocent like a spanking or a little dirty talk, and we would just start to slip until finally…

I remember this one time he was over at my place helping me put a new faucet on my bathroom sink. He thought he had the water turned all the way off, but the valve was sticky and fooled him. He was taking the old faucet off and as he turned the bolt or whatever, water started spraying out all over. We were both soaked and fumbling over each other to get to the valve under the sink. Finally he got it and we both tumbled back into a pile, laughing hysterically. I had just a plain white t-shirt on and it was soaked through, my nipples were hard and poking out as you can probably imagine. Suddenly he looked at me and I felt sexy. Really, really sexy. We started kissing, and then we were making love like crazy on the wet tile floor. I don’t know what happened then, one of us said or did something and we started slipping, it got harder, then rougher, and the next thing you know I’m on my back and he’s forcing his entire hand up my ass as I scream and urge him on. He’s tearing me apart, almost literally. I’d never had anything that big in there before, and I could feel myself tearing. There was blood on his arm, not a lot, but enough to see. I remember looking down and seeing my blood on his arm as he rips me open over and over. My guts were crawling, I was almost sick but something in me just wanted more and more. I took the pliers and twisted my nipples with them until they bled too. Then my labia- I still have a scar from that. Finally I took the teeth of the pliers to my clit until I managed to come so hard I sort of lost consciousness. I could still sort of tell what was going on, but I couldn’t move or talk. He pulled his hand out of me and jacked off all over my face, then cleaned me up and put me to bed. The next morning the new faucet was on and he’d made breakfast. That was how he was, both a total psycho and a sweetheart. I think I probably loved him, but I knew we had to split because we kept falling further and further. Eventually, I know he would have killed me while we were having sex, and I would be the one that begged him to do it.

I’m starting to realize that I’m in a very troubling situation. The man I’m currently with, as I’ve said, is very nice and gentle and doesn’t do anything that would really set me off like that. Part of me knows that no man that truly loves me, the way we all deserve to be loved, could ever give me what I need. Another part of it is that I know that if I did fall into it with him, it would only scare him off. He’s quite timid like that. That’s what I’ve wanted and needed in my life for so long. We’re so happy. The problem is: what do I do about these needs? The longer I go without a man destroying me, the more I find myself thinking about it, and the more I find myself slipping into it when I’m alone. It’s getting more frequent, and the more it happens the more I lose myself to it, and then after I hate myself like always. It’s all so screwed up. I know I need it, but I also know I need this man that is so good to me. But if I go out and get it, I’ll lose him, I can’t expect him to understand. If I don’t, I’ll find myself slipping more and more often and resenting and hating myself more and more. That’s an abyss of it’s own. No matter what I do I am always falling.

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