The Collared Coed

And yes, my calves are really that massive. It’s not the photography. I have huge calves, from tennis and from when I used to be a swimmer.

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“Kneel.”, He ordered while we were laying together in bed, fully dressed. I quickly go into kneeling position on the bed on wobbly knees. His thick, expensive, dense mattress is where we do almost all of our play.

I kneel, and He comes behind me, grabbing at me. Asking me why I have been disobeying my contract rules and not doing my allotted slave tasks.

“I don’t feel as submissive when I’m home in my parent’s house, Sir.” I say meekly. He moves in front of me, whips my clothes off and pushes me down onto my back.

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• I respond to protocol. Protocol meaning speaking restrictions, routines, strict orders and daily assignments.
• I can experience subspace!
• That it is possible for me to feel comfortable within the BDSM community.
• That Sir and I really fit well together.
• I also like very restrictive, long term bondage.
• I have an interest in dominating a boy.
• I’m a painslut.
• Oh yeah, and some other stuff that’s not actually related to BDSM. Shocking.
• Like that I’m addicted to Starbucks and cheap books.
• Summer classes suck.
• I love my university!

I split my time this summer taking summer classes and spending time with Sir. Sir had me spend the weekend with Him and undergo training.

• I was not to speak, make eye contact, sit, stand, eat, drink, use the bathroom, or orgasm without permission.
• I was not to sit in a chair or on the couch.
• I had to wear my metal collar.
• I could not close a door on Sir, I had to leave a door open in the apartment with Him at all times.
• He chose my clothing.
• I had to sit on a cushion on the floor.

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I suggested that He practice His rope tying. He was always complaining that He never had time to practice. So we sat on His bed and I obediently held out my wrists, legs and hands for Him to criss cross with rope. He examined the diagrams carefully.

Soon, He had my legs tied open to two points underneath the bed, leaving me exposed. He grinned and said that He had to take advantage of me in this position. I never could have predicted what happened next. He brought out the cuffs and pulled my hands over my head, cuffed them.

He climbed on top of me and shoved His cock into my mouth, getting it hard. Throatfucking me. He pulled out, put a condom on, and started to fuck me.

“Say you’re a cockhole.” He said this firmly, still inside me. I shook my head no. He slapped me. “Say it.” Shook my head no again.

“Don’t make me gag you! I’ll do it!” He said loudly. I stood my ground. He yanked the condom off and threw it on the ground, climbed over me, and shoved His whole cock down my throat.

I was beating His thighs with my cuffed hands, thrashing and gagging on His cock. There was this palpable energy in the room that took hold of both of us. Then He held my nose shut.

Say it. Say you’re a cock hole. He was berating me, ordering me repeatedly. His eyes flashed dark blue, not the lighter blue they normally were.

I won’t let up until you fucking say it. I nodded that I would say it, then hesitated for not more than two seconds. His cock down my throat again.

Not fast enough.

He was fucking my throat and holding my breath, and I was thrashing as much as I could. I was gagging and seeing spots swim in my vision. I wouldn’t let just any man do this to me. Him and I can sense each other really well now, and He knows when I’m reaching the limit.

“I’m a cockhole.” I whimpered when He let up. “Say you’re THIS cock’s whore”, He barked at me.

“FUCK YOU!” I yelled at Him, suddenly full of fury and fight. My eyes widened when I saw His reaction. Sir’s face was pure energy and fury, He slapped my face open palm hard enough that I saw stars. The violence felt out of control, in a deliciously evil way. I still felt safe, but it’s that magical suspension of disbelief that happens in BDSM scenes. We were both fighting.

“Fuck you?! I’LL FUCK YOU.” He grabbed hold of my defiant chin. Then slapped me again. He pulled off of me and stomped over to get a condom. I was thrashing and still fighting. He was holding His cock and slamming into me.

This is what you are. This is what you’re for. You fight and you beg but you’re so fucking wet.

I always am wet. Sopping, soaking, slippery wet.

He was overcome with the intensity of the scene and orgasmed quickly after fucking me. He lay on top of me for a second and we were quiet, almost in contemplation, except for the heavy breathing. We were both sweating profusely.

A smile crept across my face, and one started on his face too.

“Well. THAT was really fucking hot. That was really intense.” I said. I laughed a bit.

He kissed me and I didn’t stop smiling.

–

I went through a three day period of what Sir called ‘high protocol’ training and had a series of very intense scenes. This was just one of them.

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Sir was brisk in His instructions for me.

1. Clean the floor of the bedroom.
2. Bag up laundry to be taken to the cleaners.
3. Make the bed.
4. Put together the toys and put them on the bed.
5. Be in panties or less when He arrives.

On His way home, He text messaged me to put the blindfold on and kneel on the bed. He asked me if there was anything that I thought about doing in particular.

I admitted that I thought about Him hitting me with His fists. Thumping. Punching. Whatever the BDSM euphemism is.

It was a blur for a while after that. A punishment caning for forgetting my metal collar the week before. Sir’s voice stern and commanding and it made me feel good inside. Some nice rope bondage. Nipple clamps, brutal ones. Him thrusting us back into the intense relationship. No excuses any more for slacking off on the duties that I agreed to under the contract.

This is me reminding you what you are. This is me owning you. You don’t get a choice.

There was a nice moment, a moment that made me feel really submissive, and that Sir would later disclose made Him feel really good too:

Me naked, metal collar around my throat, rubbing His feet. Ass sore from my caning. Just something about the moment made me feel amazingly good as a slave, as His submissive and really made me feel like His cherished pet.

But then, later, after clamps, canings and bondage, He ordered me to sit on the bed.
He steadied me.
He balled His fist.

The first punch was a dull hurt. So was the second. He was tentative, careful, but some of them did hit tender spots and I cried out in pain. He kept going.

I felt myself slipping away as He punched me forcefully, rhythmically on the chest. I felt submissive. I felt put in my place. I felt myself slipping down into a different place. Almost like I wasn’t paying attention. Which disturbed me, because I felt like that moment, letting someone hit me with their fists, would require my utmost attention. Instead, I felt my eyes closing, and Him pounding away, and myself, who I was, floating away. It wasn’t subspace, it wasn’t a floating bliss or an escape from the pain. The pain tethered me to the moment, the dull throbbing and the sharp pain when He hit certain spots.

It wasn’t giving up, giving in, giving out. It was something bottomless and frightening I can’t adequately describe. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even fighting. The expression on His face was intense, focused. I didn’t recognize Him. I didn’t recognize this person that was beating my chest with his bare hand. He looked genuinely angry at me, angry for something I did. I started to fret, then panic.

I started feeling angry, but then I just felt helpless. He would tell me later that He could sense my anger. It bubbled beneath the surface, never really coming up. I whimpered that I didn’t like this any more. He leaned me forward and hit my back.

No. I get to put you in this place. This is what you signed away to me. This, right here, this is what I get to do to you.

I was slipping into a space I didn’t want to be in.

I wanted out.

I wanted back in, because I didn’t want to face the moment after that, realizing what had happened.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

He pulled me to my feet, and I felt like I was going to crumple at His feet. I didn’t want to play this game anymore.

It’s real now, isn’t it? The pain is real. He had said that earlier, as He placed clover clamps on me. But the words rushed back to me as I stood in front of Him, limply. This wasn’t what I planned, what I wanted. I thought the beating would make me feel good. Not like this.

I don’t remember how I ended up on the bed with all the rope off. I remember wanting to fall, I remember holding myself up with the bed. I lay on the bed and He hit me a few more times. Then He told me to go on my back.

Then He told me that it was over.

I could feel my anxiety growing inside me, and my hands instinctively covered my chest and collarbone. He loomed over me, then climbed into bed with me. Sir’s tone of voice changed, and when His hands when up to stroke my hair, instinctively, I pulled away. He was trying to soothe me, and I was still filled with anxiety. I was in a defensive space. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want Him to look in my eyes. I shied away from Him, whimpering. I curled up into a ball on the bed. “I just want to make love to you.” He said softly. I shook my head no. “No? You don’t want that?” He said, worried. His eyes were full of concern. I shook my head no again.

I wanted to run. I wanted Him to hold me. I was shook up, terrorized. Any joke He made at this state made my voice boom in a whine, “That’s not funny! Don’t say that!”

I felt unsafe. I felt scared.

In a tiny voice, I asked tentatively, “You would never hit me in anger, right?” My eyes wide.

He assured me He would never do that. He kissed my body all over, my sore breasts. Telling me He loved me.

He would imply later that the beating triggered something. It probably did. I’ve never been hit as a child, or as a teenager in an abusive relationship. There was always the threat, the danger of it, during out of control times. C balling up his fists until the knuckled turned white. But it never happned. I wanted Him to hit me. I told Him I had thought about it since our discussion about it, one muggy morning a week ago.

But afterwards, I faced away from Him, curled up in a ball.

He rolled away from me and stared at the ceiling, upset.

I asked Him to hold me. I needed to feel myself relax in His arms. I can’t describe the uneasy feeling I felt that night. The fear, the desire to run far away from Sir, but the desire to have Him hold me and tell me He loved me. I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t know what I needed. This was something I couldn’t name. I still don’t understand it now. We’ve talked it out, almost to death. We are willing to try it again, after I fully process everything. Neither of us was expected the way I reacted.

All either of us knew at the moment, was that I was uneasy and I needed Him to take care of me.

I asked Him to touch me. I asked Him to hold me. He spooned with me.

I needed to feel safe and secure again.

He kissed the back of my neck and held me as long as I wanted.

“Sir?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Make love to me.” He slipped His fingers into my cunt. I was soaking, sopping, noisily wet.

We kissed. I eased myself back into His touch, touched Him greedily, grabbing at Him, His smooth skin easing my weary heart. I kissed Him hard, asked to orgasm as He made love to me. He said yes.

I orgasmed.

I held Him as close to me as I could. Squeezed Him. I told Him I loved Him, very much.

I don’t think I could have loved Him any more at that moment.

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So, for the most part, the rut has been broken. Sir spanked me, roughed me up, and slapped my face. All things I was craving, but things I didn’t realize I was actually craving.

He made me cry. He slapped me to tears. He would tell me later that He could sense that I wanted to cry, that I craved the release. He made me put my hands above my head and slapped me, repeatedly. I think this has turned into an almost failsafe way to make me cry. He slapped my face over and over until the tears came to my eyes. Then even after they fell, He kept going. I was crying, sobbing openly, my hands above my head, so I couldn’t wipe the tears away. He kissed my cheeks, his lips immersed in my tears. At first, I didn’t know why I was crying. Then I did feel a tug inside me, something tearing away gently, a barrier of frustration and anger, and I just let go.

I said it again, as I sobbed, “I missed you so much.”

I *sort of* know why we were in a rut to begin with. Real life was getting the both of us down; friend in the hospital (Sir) and extremely stressful finals (for me) and those things made both of us tired and worn out. All we wanted to do was cuddle with each other, and fall asleep. No long scenes in a while, no canings, some pain, but not as much as before. Both of our sex drives were out of whack, and we both felt ‘off’.

What worried me was about two weeks ago when I just plain felt angry and frustrated, as evidenced from my post two weeks ago. I felt like I was on such a short fuse, I was just angry angry angry. And I had no interest in sex, or masturbating, or thinking about anything BDSM related. Sir was worried. I had zero percent interest in the contract, or my submissive training coming up. What was more distressing was the fact that I just felt SO disgusted with my body, and SO mad at myself and SO ordinary and fat. I would brush off any compliments Sir gave me.

While in some ways, the rut gloom has broken, I’m still a little messed up. I’m having a harder time orgasming lately. It feels wonderful to be touched and licked and to have my clit rubbed, but while Sir and I were ‘reconnecting’ that gloomy Tuesday morning, I just could not orgasm. I would get frustratingly close, but then not be able to go over the edge. Of course, Sir was determined to make me orgasm (“You’re not leaving here until you orgasm.” He said) and I did, later on, when He was fucking me.

I suspect one of the reasons I was orgasm challenged, besides the whole rut thing, is the fact that I’m not exactly comfortable with oral sex being performed on me. It feels great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s just… I’m not one hundred percent relaxed with it. I’m totally and utterly comfortable giving blowjobs, that’s not a problem for me at all. I adore sucking Sir’s cock. That’s not it. I just feel so… awkward, receiving oral sex. Self-conscious. My ex-boyfriends weren’t really keen on giving me oral sex. Maybe I’m just not used to it? I don’t know. I understand it’s not really dominant to lick a submissive’s pussy, but… sigh. I have a hard time articulating what feels good and what doesn’t, and a hard time relaxing enough to actually orgasm.

That cloud of awful self esteem is still hanging around me. I still don’t think I’m anything that Sir thinks I am. He compliments me and tells me I’m beautiful, sexy, extraordinary… and I don’t believe a lick of it. Sometimes it makes me cry, which I feel awful about because, well, compliments are supposed to make you feel good! When he says those things on IM, I just type something like, “well, I don’t think so” or “you have to say that kind of thing” or even just a simple “meh”. I don’t know why my self esteem took such a nosedive in the past couple of weeks.

At least now I have an interest in pain, BDSM and sex again, despite my orgasm difficulties. I have a craving for bruises, but I feel like my pain tolerance has been shot to hell. I haven’t been caned in weeks, clamped in even longer. I had pretty/freaky/cool looking bruises on my breasts when Sir slapped them hard. I liked having my breasts slapped.

I have a training session lined up for next week. Three days. I’m looking forward to it, so much. We’ve been talking about it for ages. Sir has been very mysterious about what’s going to happen. I’m very excited.

So things are better than before, but still not one hundred percent.

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He says it without fail, usually when we’re squashed together on the couch watching television, or when we’re naked and lying together on His bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out at a college party, or something? Doing something… collegiate?”

Admittedly, though I enthusiastically signed up for a bunch of clubs at ECU’s clubfest, I never really went to any meetings. I don’t really know why- maybe apathy, maybe laziness. Who knows. What I DO know, is that I do plan on being more involved in the goings on at ECU in the fall.

What I’ve come to realize is that this, all this- my collaring, my BDSM, all the screwing around I did before I met Sir, is part of that quintessential college experience of Finding Yourself.

I’m really not grasping at straws here. Hear me out.

Around May/June, all this graduation talk starts floating around. And what do most people say to high school graduates? College is where you go to start Finding Yourself.

I know I sure as hell didn’t know who I was when I graduated high school. I was a dumb, trapped, depressed, suicidal girl trapped in a relationship with a fucktard emotionally abusive boyfriend. I cried when we threw the mortarboards in the air because I didn’t know if I’d live to see my college graduation. Deep down, I truly did not know.

When I started my BDSM-in-the-flesh explorations, I learned a lot of things about myself. Things that I might never have learned, or only learned when I was 40. Things that I’m glad that I know now. My pain threshold, both in the flesh and mentally. My own deep down needs and desires, that I probably wouldn’t have been able to put a name to before. My courage to explore things that some people might never do. How I learn what I’m capable of doing, whether it’s stepping into a BDSM club or baring my basest needs and desires to another human being. How I learned what intimacy really is.

The contract that Sir and I had has run it’s course. I’m uncollared now. Only temporary. The next contract is going to be more restrictive than ever.

He took His time removing my collar. Then He handled me roughly, asking repeatedly, “Why are you here right now? You can walk out if you’d like, why are you here?”

I was shaking. I was near tears. He slapped my face, slapped my tits, shook me, slapped my ass until I almost fell from the force of it.

“I need this!” I said quietly at first.

“You need this?” He said, slapping my tits repeatedly. (Which I actually sort of liked- He hasn’t really done too much of that.)

“I want this, I need this. Please, I don’t want to leave.” I was practically yelling. I just kept repeating, I need this, I want this.

I’m reasonably certain that two years ago, I would think that I was simply not capable of wanting something as much as I do now. To desire something so fiercely that I know deep down, I’d bleed for it. And that ‘something’ is my desire to be owned.

BDSM has taught me a lot of things.

I haven’t had a chance to meditate too much on the temporary loss of my collar, as I’ve been studying for finals all week. I still have a paper due Monday. Then home. Home, with television and snacks and a large bed and someone else to do my laundry. I can blog more now.

I guess the point of this whole post is to hone in on the fact that although I haven’t had the most conventional college experience, I’m not lacking in anything. There’s time enough in the fall to join College Democrats, write for the school paper (Think they’d let me write a sex column? Doubtful.), get involved somehow. I’ve already thrown myself into the deep end and signed up to work at our school’s Welcome Week for freshman.

So! My first semester at ECU has been quite the experience. Getting sloppy drunk for the first time, getting collared, experiencing life in the BEST SCHOOL EVER, falling in love with my Sir, seeing California for the first time, meeting my best friend A and finally, finally being content.

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You know, it’s interesting; it’s pretty much finals week here at East Coast University. My University is offering “stress release” activities every night this week, from massages to snacks to ice cream to coloring in coloring books. They try to placate us and ply us with activities so we don’t get stressed out and kill ourselves.

But do you know what I really, truly want as my stress relief?

To not be placated. To not be relaxed and stuffed with fatty foods.

I want to fight.

I’m not particularly angry, to be honest. One of my classes is kicking my ass, but on the whole, I’m pretty on the ball. I’m leaving myself PLENTY OF TIME to do things.

I just feel this itch in my hands and legs to fight and rebel. I feel energized but aggressive and I’d love for nothing more to take it out on Sir.

I do feel like subconsciously I’m begging for it. I’m supposed to ask for permission before I masturbate or have any sort of orgasm and I totally didn’t. I just went ahead and used my bullet vibrator on myself during one of my, uh, study breaks. (aka the rare occasion that my weirdly anti-social roommate left the room for more than five minutes)

This term paper is staring me in the face, and Sir just found out about my disobedience, so I guess I should attend to both.

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One of my new obsessions in food are these tasty popsicles that Trader Joe’s carries. Knock-off frozfruit bars, basically. I love them. I eat them all the time. However, every time I mention that I’m eating a popsicle, Sir snickers at me over the phone.

Everyone has hangups, things that happened in the past that don’t really go away. People in the scene are not different. Everyone has something they did once that they didn’t like.

Me? Foreign object insertion.

Sir LOVES to make fun of me for this one. It isn’t really so dire or negative, it’s just turned me off from sticking objects in my cunny.

When I was first starting out in BDSM and searching for someone who had experience, I met up with an odd bird of a guy. 32. He lived alone, and seemed very self contained. No pictures, not a lot of personal effects. He lived in an apartment building and was very self conscious about noise. So he’d always blast classical music during our scenes.

I’ll talk about him more in my ‘points of origin’ series, but the main bit of the story is that one day, while hogtied and naked, we experimented with object insertion. He had a mattress on the floor, we weren’t in a bed or anything. At first, it was just toys and vibrators, which I was fine with.

Then I felt something big and COLD press up against my pussy. It was cold, and painful, and sticky. It was one of those pops that come in the yellow box. You know what I mean. It melted quickly, from my arousal and from it being warm in his apartment. I bucked and shrieked, not caring if my noises weren’t being sufficiently covered by the music. It was SO fucking painful, even though I was going numb.

He fucked it in and out of me a few times, as much as he could. Then, he pulled it out and stuck the mess in my mouth. I tried to be a good girl, tried to relax, but it wasn’t helping.

I was shaken, the popscicle a temporary gag in my mouth, as I felt something else pressing up against my cunt. I didn’t know what it was, I spit out the popscicle and gave in, shrieking the safeword, physically shaking at this point. Piano sonatas still playing to futilely cover up the noise. He fumbled with the knots while was freaking out, but then he pulled out his safety shears and cut me out. I was still shaking as he carried me over to a chair and sat me in his lap, patting my back and waiting for me to calm down. I eventually did calm down, and he revealed that the second thing was only his fingers, but my cunt was so numb from the popscicle that I couldn’t tell.

So there’s one of my stories, one of my hangups. I still feel panicky and anxious at the thought of any sort of object going in there. Everyone has things in BDSM they won’t try anymore because of a bad experience. I won’t try it any time soon. Maybe another time in the future. But definitely not anytime soon.

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I suppose that I should just start from the beginning.

“Why go backwards, Delilah?” You may ask. There’s something that I should probably talk about that I haven’t told anyone. Except Sir. I’ve gone through two therapists and I’ve never divulged this to either one of them. And I mean, I told my second therapist EVERYTHING. I told him about my BDSM, about Sir, about all my craigslist hookups and practically everything else.

This is hard to write, partially because I feel a little guilty. I guess this is sort of weird territory for me. I have a hard time even telling Sir about this. I start waving my hands around, a nervous tic.

Remember how I wrote that I was an avid pornography watcher when I was younger? Even younger than that, I hung out in cybersex chatrooms. So I was essentially a cyber Lolita. Once upon a time, a certain big ISP had unmoderated ‘romance’ chatrooms. This was before To Catch A Predator. This was before myspace and Facebook. This was before the big whole push to ‘protect kids from cyberpredators’. I was little red riding hood, fifteen or sixteen, dangling myself in front of wolves.

I’ll admit it. I was a lonely, confused, extremely sexual teenager. So I didn’t hide how old I was, but I’d never show my face. Just by signing into a sex chatroom with a female sounding name gets you bombed with IMs. Bombed with IMs from men old enough to be my teacher. My father. My grandfather. Oh, I knew damn well what I was doing was wrong. I knew about age of consent, and about pornography laws. I was on Model United Nations, and we had debated over obscenity laws.

In the chatrooms, I knew what to say to get them to talk to me, what they wanted to hear. It was like I was visible again, instead of the invisible, too smart, nerdy, awkward girl in the back of the classroom every day. I’d go home, lock my door, sit at my computer and talk to these people. They would ask me questions about anything and everything. It makes me a little sick to my stomach to think about it now. I can’t watch To Catch A Predator without feeling a little ill. You know those excerpts of chat conversations they post, that are supposed to make you feel disgusted with ‘those perverts’ right before they catch the guy coming to the house?

They’re aren’t too much different from what I heard on a daily basis.

Why would I do something like that? I don’t know. I could blame lots of things. Lack of a paternal figure, my burgeoning sexuality, my precociousness (I was put into Honors classes when I was 8, classified gifted at 12) or the fact that I was just a lonely girl. After a while, it wasn’t even about sex anymore. I saw it like a game. I didn’t feel disgusted, or aroused, or ANYTHING. It was just something I did. It was pretend. It all happened and didn’t mean anything at all. I could sit there and paint glitter on my toenails and play with these perverts like I wasn’t completely fucking psychotic.

I talked to a lot of men that probably did have some sort of compulsion. Or mental illness. Or little girl fetishes. Some men did block me on their accounts when they found out I was underaged. Some men just became more motivated to play with me when they found out I was underaged. I heard a lot of dark, twisted, morbid things from those men. Ageplay isn’t ‘play’ anymore when the girl is 15 and the man is three times her age.

I don’t feel a compulsion, sitting here wearing an ECU shirt and drinking Starbucks, safe in my dorm room at 20 years old, to make it seem any better than it was. Most of it was chat roleplay, some guys just wanted to talk to me because of my age.

I did have standards. I wouldn’t send pictures, talk on the phone, look at webcams or talk to fathers who wanted to screw their daughters. Especially when I was their daughter’s age. Or older. Was I ‘victimized’? Was I just some poor girl that was being manipulated by older men so they could jerk off imagining they were fucking a schoolgirl? I can’t answer that. I can’t tell.

I was just desperate for attention. I’d rarely talk to the same guy twice. Until I encountered someone shortly before I turned 16. Let’s call him “R”.

This is the part I have the hardest time writing.

I met him in some user created room for “smart girls”. I know, it sounds ridiculous now, but a user had made a room specifically for younger “shy and intelligent girls for older men”. I don’t remember what my user handle was at that point. I ‘met’ this guy in the chatroom. We did a non-consensual roleplay, a physics teacher blackmailing an Honor student into letting him train her as a submissive. Ugh, GOD is that hard to admit. I almost always responded to more intricate roleplay, even at that age I didn’t want some stupid, lame roleplay. I’d close the IM windows with lame roleplay scenes. I didn’t close his. I played with him, and he added me to his ‘friends’ list. And to be honest, I actually got aroused during that roleplay.

We kept talking. Slowly, so slowly, not only did he gain my trust and slowly learn about me, but he found out about my desires and fantasies. He found out I was submissive.

Then he explained everything.

Stop. Stop assuming that this was what got me into BDSM. Stop thinking that this experience is what shaped my sexuality. Despite the fact that yes, R did teach me about BDSM, why pain can be pleasure, why some people want to obey and some want to control, I do not think that it had a huge impact on why my sexuality developed the way it did. R taught me a lot of things, and internet BDSM can mindfuck you as much as real mindfucking can, but I don’t assume that he did too much to influence me. A lot of things that he talked to me about, such as watersports and puppy play, I don’t do today.

I was some sixteen or seventeen year old girl talking to a man twenty years older than her. I wasn’t a complete fool, though. No naked pictures. I sent him some vanilla ones. Me in full symphonic orchestra dress, with my trumpet. Me in my prom dress.

Things around me were falling apart. This was happening at the same time as my other origins post, I just kept this all secret. R would tell me I was so beautiful, so smart, so sweet, so unique and perfect.

He didn’t want to meet me until I was legal. He admitted he didn’t trust himself around me and that he’d probably try to fuck me if we met in person. The online roleplaying we did got darker and darker the more we knew about each other. Lots of forced sex. Just dark as hell. Creepy to think about. What really unsettles me a lot is that we did daddy/little girl play, and he had a little girl. I was breaking my rules for him. I even had phone sex with him multiple times. He’d tell me what he’d do to me, call me names, while I hid in my bed, cellphone pressed to my ear. He was breaking the law, technically.

We emailed and IMed and talked obsessively. I would email him long, sad, depressing emails full of details about my teenage life. The problem was that I was so desperate for attention, I told him everything. My shitty boyfriend. The bulimia I developed to deal with my shitty boyfriend. My boyfriend, C, was a fucking psychopath. Worse than the awkward sex; emotional abuse. I couldn’t deal. I couldn’t leave. I ran to someone who I thought would help. R.

He was the one who said he loved me.

I became suicidal around two years ago. Family issues, boyfriend issues, college issues, all compounded. He would write to me and tell me not to hurt myself, to get help. He even admitted he harbored fantasies about divorcing his wife and coming to find me.

My 18th birthday present was his real name and his location.

The summer after I graduated high school, he sent me a terse email saying he enrolled in Sex Addicts Anonymous.

He said he was sorry, he loved me, but he had to face his addiction. To porn, cybersex and come to terms with the fact that he had seriously considered divorcing his wife for an eighteen year old. He was so addicted to porn, he was rubbing himself raw and never touching his wife.

He deleted the only email account I had for him.

Later that year I’d post my first craigslist ad.

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