The Collared Coed

I was giving up.

It was summer 2007, and it was August.

I had spent the summer meeting men off of craigslist, and I was tired of it, and I was giving up on finding someone to fuck regularly. I was getting ready to go back to a college I hated and to work at a job that bored me.

Yes, Mark and I met on craigslist. I almost didn’t post the ad that led me to meet Mark.

But at the time, I figured that one last post, one last hurrah, wouldn’t hurt.

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(Not quite a ‘point of origin’ for my OCD mind; a pre-point. Haha. And can you tell it’s almost finals week here at ECU? Look at all these posts!)

Fall of 2006, I decided to try and fulfill my BDSM desires in secret. Finding someone just to fuck. I rationalized that if it was just sex, it wasn’t that bad. I know, I know. More than a little flawed. I had my reasons for what I did. I felt trapped and oppressed and felt like fucking someone else would ease that pressure. I’m a cheater.

I had looked at craigslist ads with varying degrees of intensity. Collarme just overwhelmed me, and I didn’t even know about alt until I met Sir. craigslist is a funny bird. It’s great for women and absolutely horrendous for men. I wrote that I was inexperienced at BDSM and was looking to explore it with someone. I also wrote my real age, that I was 18. I hit “post”.

I rethought something, went back and edited my post, adding the postscript that older men were welcome. I shut the browser down.

And then promptly drove over to C’s house for a date. I kept fidgeting and was acting flighty during the whole date. I came back to my room six hours later and had 50 or so replies.

Despite my insistence that I wanted ‘intelligent’ domination, I received a lot of dumb, misogynistic, or just plain idiotic replies from people. I also had a disturbingly large age range. People took my post script a little too seriously.

I could talk about craigslist for multiple posts. The important thing is that from all 100+ posts I received, only one stood out.

We might be able to have a mutually beneficial relationship.

A man in his early 30s that seemed smart, funny, sane and at least somewhat versed in BDSM. I quickly sent out an email. We played a fast set of email tag. We learned about each other. I quickly deduced he was married. Let’s call him G. G wasn’t feeling too much guilt fooling around with a college freshman; apparently, he had cheated on his wife before. We exchanged phone numbers. He said he would call me later on in the week.

I got a rather hot voicemail (from a payphone, go figure) from him. He lamented the fact he had missed me, and said all sorts of dirty things.

The next email from him, he discussed meeting. I’d like to take a walk with you. A walk into the woods.

Ha. I initially thought he was joking. He wasn’t. His initial reason for meeting in the woods, he informed me later, was so that he could touch me. “And it’d help me determine whether you’re really up for this.” He wrote.

So I obliged. I wore a skirt, but I had to wear a parka because it was November. In my car, I slipped my fingers into my pussy and rubbed a bit of it behind my ear. What he wanted. I waited for him at the train station, nervous as hell. I swear I nearly walked away a few times. Then he came up behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder. I turned around. He looked like his picture. Handsome, unassuming. A dermal punch in his ear. Blue buttondown shirt, jeans, a jacket, glasses. He put his hand on the small of my back and we walked into the woods.

We made awkward small talk; what classes I was taking in school and whatnot. Then he pressed me up against a tree, my nose pressed up against the tree bark. He came up behind me and put his face in my hair. Then he slowly pulled my hair to one side and smelled behind my ear. “Such a good girl.” He said warmly. He grabbed my ass underneath the skirt. Then he slid my panties aside and slid his finger into my pussy.

“Fuck, you’re fucking tight.” He groaned into my ear. I could feel him pressing himself into my ass. He pulled his finger out and turned me around. “Did you like that?” He asked me. I nodded.

He jammed the wet finger into my mouth.

Then he took my hand and pressed it into the bulge in his jeans. I could feel his hard cock, and the amphallang piercing through the head of it. I sucked on his finger. “Do you want to suck my cock?”

My mind reeled. I was aroused, wet, overwhelmed, excited. I nodded yes with his finger still in my mouth. He gently guided me onto my knees in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the morning, and tugged his cock out of his jeans. I’d never seen a pierced cock up close. I sucked his cock for a little bit. Gagged on the piercing. Then he pulled me up. He didn’t come. He handed me my parka, told me to zip up, it was cold. We trekked out of the woods.

We talked a little more, then went our separate ways.

Then I went to my car and masturbated furiously. I was so turned on and light headed and bewildered and excited.

We wouldn’t fuck for the first time until the next week. I’d get my first spanking, too.

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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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Sir and many other men that I’ve spoken to about BDSM all, at one time, expressed envy that I grew up in the Internet age. No magazines or slow downloading times or text-based Internet for me. Any porn or erotica I wanted was just a click away. I think I was the nightmare of many parents, the latchkey kid with the Internet access who got up to no good. I think I was so horny and so unsatisfied with my boyfriend at the time that I’d consistently watch porn almost every other day during junior year.That’s the problem with growing up having all this knowledge of what you want. I went to a local BDSM social group last Tuesday, Sir-less. When I introduced myself as a college student and, when asked, showed them my collar, they were all impressed and a little jealous.

I was picking at my food and talking to two older couples. Sir had suggested I stick with couples so I wouldn’t feel creeped out being there alone. One couple in their 50s, whose wife had just been collared, made it known that she was envious. “God, if I had known when I was your age, what you know now, I would have made very different life choices. You’re so lucky.” She smiled at me, a little sadly.

What I feel like they don’t see, is that it DOES cause some problems. Mainly, before I met Sir and discovered that it was TOTALLY OKAY to feel like this, I had far too many awkward moments with my teenaged boyfriend, C. Granted, we had huge emotional problems, but as my desire for submission became more and more defined, it was harder for me to tolerate having vanilla sex. Don’t get me wrong! I love vanilla sex. But I became more and more curious about BDSM and desperately wanted some sort of indicator that it was okay to be like this. I didn’t know how to communicate it. The only reason I say it was hard for me to tolerate vanilla sex is because I very, very badly wanted to have D/s, BDSM sex even once. Just once.

It became this really horrible give and take situation. There were a billion things he wanted to try, like any teenaged boy with a girlfriend who happens to be a bit more sexual than most. Some of them I tolerated, some I just downright disliked. I didn’t -hate- anything. There were some that I found a little strange at the time, but I don’t anymore. Things like titfucking (when I’m barely a B cup) and giving him a footjob after he watched me give myself a pedicure, I approached with an open mind. I was less happy about fucking in the woods, only because I wasn’t getting any pleasure from it and frankly, we were too close to civilization for me to relax fully. (What’s ironic is that Sir keeps alluding to playing in the woods, and a few years later, I’m totally game on for it.) I was also less happy about fucking in cars and fucking in weird locations, only because we got busted by the cops once and they almost hauled him off on stautory rape because I didn’t have a state ID on me. It didn’t help that he LOOKED older than 18 and the cops thought I looked closer to 14 or 15.

In the midst of all this, I felt like what I wanted would just be seen as completely crazy. Being tied up and slapped, spanked and throatfucked, being made to cry and then orgasming while I’m still crying… you get the picture. It was like it was MORE culturally acceptable for me to fulfill his wishes, then for him to help me fill mine.

Around this time, one of his friends had approached C and I in confidence; one night after fucking his own girlfriend, and experimenting with spanking her, she HAD started crying. He was horrified and so was C, and I had to sit and pretend that I hadn’t masturbated the night before to being hit until I cried and being fucked anyway.

Of course, we experimented. Really awkward experiments. He blindfolded me, and tied me to the headboard of his bed, NOT from my suggestion, mind you. His own. He didn’t quite know what to do with me, and he did not want to hit me at all. I had to do the same to him, tie him up and blindfold him and THAT was EXCEPTIONALLY awkward. I hadn’t a fucking idea what to do with him. It was extremely uncomfortable. Then I would go home and masturbate in the dark of my room, under the covers.

So there is this downside to having this sort of advanced knowledge. You know what you want, and it’s just out of reach. You watch porn, read erotica, even troll craigslist and look at the ads of people. To reach it would involve cheating, or leaving the person you’re with. For a good two years, those weren’t options.

Then I decided it was an option. To cheat.

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