The BodySale webpage estimates your hypothetical purchase value based on race and gender and the answers to questions such as: “How tall are you?” “What’s your IQ?” “Are you attractive?” “How much money do you make?” “Would you rather have sex with men or women or both?” The most expensive woman listed goes for a whopping 7.2 million dollars with the average cost of a female coming in at just over 5.8 mil. It turns out the price to buy me is under seven figures, but that’s no surprise. I’m short, dumb, less than beautiful and broke, and while I’ll get naked for anybody I’m also a tad crazy.

My age and emotional stability issues are prime causes of my worthlessness. My 30th birthday rolled by about a month ago, a day like all the others except for the passage downhill into middle age. And just like most mornings since my sexual distress erupted half of my life ago—when I woke up sweaty and breathless for the first time with my nipples hard as marbles and the gooey gusset of my panties sticking to my crotch—I cried my eyes out for no reason other than the inability to stop. It doesn’t happen exactly like that these days but only because I don’t wear panties anymore. My underwear drawer is empty. It’s been that way since the 12th grade.

Fortunately, none of this keeps me up at night and it's a good thing. I miss enough work as it is, calling in because I can’t explain the craziness to anyone, including myself. I never remember what I dream so its 15 years later and I still have no clue what this is about. All I know is I wake up soppy. I wake up thirsty. I wake up aching for something it feels like I shouldn’t. I wake up messy, synapses to toenails—a steaming train wreck of skin and confusion all wet and twisted up in the sheets.

I’m not going to work messed up like that so I’m lucky Principal Taylor is okay with the way I suddenly ask off. He’s a decent man with a thorny high school budget to juggle and certain knowledge that work missed by this nonessential personnel is money in the bank. See, I’m a great custodial assistant, a dirt-busting bitch with a rag in one hand, a bucket in the other and an affinity for working on my knees. Being the part-time wench I don’t have to deal with annoying stuff like paid leave, vacation and overtime pay. This leaves me free to focus on the important things like scouring toilets and scrubbing floors. And like the good little tramp that I am I scour and scrub with a song in my heart and take care of the rest too because Principal Taylor hired a kid to be boss. It’s more than a full-time job for anyone, but I’ve got nothing better to do and since I signed up for six hours of work six evenings a week, six of six minus any time I take off is exactly the time I turn in. I work a lot and get paid a little, and I like it.

I walk everywhere I go. Rent has to be cheap. And I don’t eat much. Nobody around here bothers to ask questions so this job in this place is good enough for me. I’m a tireless worker when the task is something I enjoy and there’s almost nothing that makes me feel more like I belong someplace than being elbow-deep in hard dirty menial labor that no one else wants any part of. I’m perfect for what I do.

Anyway, Jason Bailey is my boss. He’s 22. Principal Taylor offered me Jason’s job a year and a half ago, before he hired Jason, but I didn’t want it. I’m much better at taking orders than I am at giving them and Jason can be a little bit imperious sometimes, so he and I get along great. He has a girlfriend named Willow who’s a lot younger than I am. She has bright red curls, adorable dimples and fantastic boobs, but she’s also the jealous type. Sometimes I catch Jason checking me out. Willow catches him sometimes too and torches me with those illegally sultry green eyes of hers. I think Willow hates my guts.

I can’t say that I blame her. Jason isn’t just domineering. He is intimidatingly tall with great big hands. He’s handsome too and has this brooding darkness about him that makes my nethers sweat. I love the hungry way he looks at me, like I’m a piece of meat or something, and how he tells me what to do without ever saying please. The tone in his voice takes my breath.

Jason doesn’t talk to Willow like that or anyone besides me that I’ve ever heard. And I’m glad. I like people thinking they’re better than me, because they are. And I like being told all about it.

I also like the way Jason never leaves me a to-do list anymore. Now he just assumes I’ll take care of everything while he and his buddies play cards. Because I will. I bring them snacks too, keep their cups filled and clean up when they’re done. There’s usually six or eight of them but sometimes 10 or 12 and sometimes even more. Always his hunting pals but not always the same bunch. I don’t pay much attention but I catch snatches of their conversations now and then. They talk mostly about drinking, shooting stuff and screwing girls. Lots of bragging. They talk about me too once in a while. Boy talk, like I’m not even there. I’ve been flirting with them lately, like a raging slut, so it’s frustrating the way they talk and look but never touch. I even wear this tight white tank to make my nipples fair game and a pair of bluejeans cut so short that I’m mostly wearing pockets. I joked the other night about being the strip part of a game of strip poker. Maybe I need to just skip the poker part all together. Jason tells me to watch talking that crap, but I don’t always listen to Jason.

Two of the guys did ask for my number a while back. I declined politely but in no uncertain terms, trying to explain that dating wasn’t my thing. That did not go over well, and frankly I’m surprised none of them has stepped up to thrash the tease out of me yet. I mean, I’ve been doing my part. I slink around in front them half-naked with a soaked crotch and desire sliding down the insides of my thighs. And…nothing. All I can figure is they think no desire for chocolate and flowers means no desire to open my mouth and spread my legs. Gah! Maybe I need an ad in the paper or a billboard or something. If they want to use my body they don’t need to ask. All they have to do is take it. I’m not looking for a boyfriend.

Anyhow, I’m not a virgin. I left that club my senior year of high school and I liked it. I liked it a lot. But this was not Little Flower discovering the pleasures of love. No, this was Poor White Trash ravenous for the weekly gang molestation of which she’d become the willing and eager object. But one night out of seven just wasn’t enough. It was always four hours of brutish unprotected sex, stupidly dangerous, something that only an idiot would consider. But it was the first time in my life anyone had ever wanted me for anything and I couldn’t get enough. I was no smoke show though. I wasn't hot. Hardly even warm. So what I couldn’t figure out was, why me?

In the end I guessed it was because I was the lowest hanging fruit, a loner no one knew or ever noticed—at least until I grew boobs. Finally. Sort of. And, well, because this was BFE. Because I had holes. Because I was legal. Because I would. Because I could follow instructions, shut the hell up during and never expect anything after. Because nobody cared and I liked it. Long story short I was safe. I was the surest of things, and of that I made sure they stayed well aware.

Lucky for me these guys were men and these men never asked. They just told me when and where to be. To get there get naked and assume the position. And it was never long until they’d show up and go to work. And work me they would—hard and harsh like doing damage was the plan. The tough part was the ten minutes they required me to wait once they’d finished and gone, shivering and wishing it was next week already. Especially on nights with temps in the teens and the wind whistling through, and really especially in the snow. (That only happened once.)

What I learned was that clothes and upright postures made me invisible. No one ever looked at me except for those men, and they only looked for four hours late on Friday nights while they were taking turns banging me black and blue. I was no one to anybody anyway, but those winter evenings out back of town, naked in the woods on my knees with a gag filling my mouth and plugs stuffed in my ears, a bag pulled over my head and cinched at the throat, wrists cuffed behind my back, tits in the dirt and ass in the air, I wasn’t a girl. I wasn’t even human. I was a slab of warm, silent, anonymous meat. I was theirs and that was way more than okay by me.

They all always seemed pretty pissed about something but most just fucked me, came and dismounted. The rest were a little more violent about things. They liked kicking me around until I couldn’t breathe, then slapping and twisting everything they could reach as they slammed themselves into me. But that’s as far as that ever went. Me, I never made a sound. I never so much as exhaled so they could hear. I’d fallen into this fun via the internet and as a volunteer I’d agreed to their rules. Arrangements were handled online so everything was nice and tidy. Insulated. Safe. I could probably tell some of them from the others if they were inside me but I never saw them. I could smell their misery and taste their hate, but I could barely hear anything and certainly never caught any names. They did the only touching and only when they were on top of me. I never knew them at all. So it was fair.

The simple truth is that they could not have enjoyed using me any more than I enjoyed being used. Whatever demons they pumped into me week after week after week I welcomed with feverish hunger. I wanted their rage, needed it inside me so badly that the moment the last of them had climbed off of me for the night I was ready to give my life if they would line up and thrash me just one more time. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I was never worth that much.

I craved the darkness, I think probably because there was a hollow in me where a soul was supposed to be.

While those nights were lonely and degrading and painful, I miss them. Other than the pounding I took over the course of that winter my sexual resume is pretty bleak. It consists of one pathetic year of college where I tried. I really did. I gave them all whatever they wanted wherever and whenever they wanted it. And while I’m pretty sure I satisfied most of them most of the time it just wasn’t the same. There was something missing. Isolation. Helplessness. Savagery. Something. Whatever it was, the sense that I’d lost half of myself was ever-present. Raw. The way reality bludgeoned me over that period devastates me to this day. I cry all the time as I type.

College classes were actually easy for me. My schedule was just very demanding. I flunked out halfway through my second semester for a bunch of reasons but mostly because I spent half of the time on my back with my feet in the air and the other half naked on my hands and my knees. That was okay. I couldn’t afford school anyway and I did gain some useful skills. I learned some stuff from my courses as well, but the most important thing I took from college was something I discovered about myself, sentiments I’d always felt but never understood. In a nutshell what I came to understand was that I was made to be used.

Dating. Relationships. Affection. Trust. Respect. Intimacy. Love. None of that is for me. I just don’t seem to do the human thing very well—a fact I accept and embrace. I actually like what I am. This small quirk does however make existing among the other members of my species difficult at times. I do okay as long as no one expects me to take anything from them or reciprocate genuine emotion. I’ve faked it in the past but I’m an easy read, and it’s never long before the lie is doing more damage than if I’d just turned my back and walked away, as I eventually did. I packed up. Moved across the country. And found a job that would pay the rent and deal with student loans, with enough money left over to buy tampons, birth control pills and something to eat. The place was tiny and rural, somewhere I could get lost, be nobody and spend my time giving up. I was rolling along and handling things quite nicely too. Until last weekend.

It’s Thursday now. I made a promise and it’s cold enough to wear a scarf, so I’ve been making it for my weekday afternoons at Mercy House. I like talking to the girls anyway and they seem to like talking to me. A lot of them have taken way worse beatings than I have and they didn’t ask for it, so helping them out a couple of hours a day seems like the least that I can do. But I’m not going to work tonight, again. Jason will just have to deal. I have a nasty cold and besides the fact that I still can’t walk without looking like I have a telephone pole between my legs, the pretty black bruises still ring my neck. I can’t stop shivering. It hurts to wear clothes. I can barely breathe without screaming and sitting or lying down for any length of time is still out of the question. I’ve been standing here in my bedroom staring at myself in the mirror, and I have to say, the welts and bruises striping my body are beautiful. I definitely look my best when I’ve had a good beating.

In fact, without some wood work I’m kind of a mutt: Five-foot nothing—in three-inch heels. Somewhere around 95 pounds. I have narrow shoulders, a slender torso and a tiny waist but my hips are wide, my thighs are thickish and my bottom is plump. I think the word I’d use for my legs is “average,” which all things considered makes me a pear with okay stems. My boobs are bigger than they used to be just because I’ve gained some weight over the years, but probably not so much that anyone would notice. I’ve never been measured and I haven’t worn a bra since high school. The last one I owned was a 32D and I got totally lost in there. It’s a good thing my social life dictated that I lose the thing well before activities commenced. Dating would have meant some poor boy digging through bushels of tissues just to find my little bumps.

I think I have pretty aureolas though, quarter-sized and the color of wild roses. My nipples stick out like swollen Tootsie Rolls when they’re hard, which is almost all of the time. But other than that, my skin is fair. Almost pasty. My eyes are a nondescript blue-green-gray. My hair is mousy brown and boy short. And I have a ski jump nose that I’d say is my best feature if a guy hadn’t told me once that I have the most fuckable mouth he’d ever seen.

This is actually the description I used in the personal I posted a month ago yesterday. I’d been thinking about doing something like this for years. After all it worked great the first time. But I wasn’t the fearless girl I used to be. I’ve never owned a smart phone and I don’t have a computer since I can’t afford internet access at home anyway. So I’d just never done it. I did like reading what people had to say on some of the alternative sites. It was interesting and helped take the edge off some. So on nights I worked alone I sneaked into the librarian’s office and checked stuff out.

I was especially bored that night or nostalgic or something. It was Sunday, which meant I was all by myself until 5 AM. So I tiptoed in, started Googling and opened an account on the most obscure BDSM meet and greet site I could find. It was free and although it claimed to have successfully brought like-minded folks together in the smallest of localities, I had my doubts. Lets call it “PervLand.” It seemed like a fly-by-night operation to me and way too dinky for more than one of the deviants here in Hickville to have discovered it. I had needs. It felt harmless. So I let it fly.

Over the next three hours I told it all, completely, honestly, without holding back. I didn’t plan. I didn’t edit. I didn’t even think. I just typed as fast as my fingers would fly, describing all of me in thorough gory detail. Then I hit SEND.

My head didn’t register what my fingers were doing until the deed was done, and in that split second I was right back in the clearing—naked, blind, bound, as exposed and helpless as a being could be, waiting breathlessly to absorb all the fury anyone cared to unleash. The idea that I had just posted the most intimate parts of myself for the world to see, provided contact information for discussing it and signed my name at the bottom was terrifying. At least at first.

I missed a day of work because I couldn’t sleep a wink or eat anything without puking. But nothing changed. There were no smirks. No prank calls. No bricks flying through my windows. No Molotov cocktails or crosses burning in my yard. And as Monday rolled by with my neighbors ignoring me as usual and their pitchforks still parked in their barns, my angst over someone reading what I’d written and recognizing who I was evolved into horrible fear that no one would. Either way I had to find out.

That Tuesday morning I called Jason to let him know I’d be in. He seemed more short with me than usual, rattling off a laundry list of busywork for the night. He said he was taking the day off and ordered me to cover. And I couldn’t blame him. I was making it easy for Principal Taylor to keep my hours down, avoid buying me insurance and all that. But if I missed too much time Jason had to pick up the slack, and Jason wasn’t used to doing his own job, much less his job and mine too. Honestly I’ve never been sure exactly what Jason’s job is. I’ve just never asked because as long as he was playing dictator with me I didn’t care. I didn’t ask Tuesday morning either, instead suggesting to Jason that he forget the day and take the whole week, totally on me. “You deserve it,” I said. And he wholeheartedly agreed.

I also never mentioned how thrilled I was he’d be gone. An entire week alone with internet access? Hell yeah! I was going to have to figure something out for poker night, which Jason had moved up to Thursday for some reason. But I’d been alone many times before at the mercy of mobs of men who I’d known far less about than I did Jason’s bunch. And that was the best time of my life. There was more at stake than just me this time though, and the way these guys drank, without Jason there to keep things sane poker night could get out of hand—fast. As the only county employee present whatever happened would be on me.

Of the stuff I could imagine these country boys cooking up there really wasn’t anything I’d care if they did to me. Heck. I might enjoy it. But I knew Jason was their glue, their leader, their voice of reason, and if they got toasted, went nuts and decided to start a bonfire in the gym or something, there wouldn’t be much I could do. Ah well. No use worrying about it now. It was almost 11 o’clock.

I walked to school. Did my work. And headed for the library. It had been three days since I’d posted and I was anxious. For nothing as it turned out. No one had even looked at my thread.

So I’d come in here stoked high and hot, half afraid I’d find something and half afraid I wouldn’t. And now I was crying like a baby. What was that? Relief? Rejection? More of the same? I was a simple animal really, easily captured in a page. And I’d dumped all of me into this one, from the dark details of my inhuman nature to the raw meat of one decadently degenerate winter of a lifetime ago. It was vivid. It was extreme. It was twisted. But it was the truth. All of it. In all of it’s perverted glory. A lusciously lurid true life story that no one wanted to read.

What did I expect? Applause? Damnation? A drumbeat of hungry flesh eaters pounding a path to the feast between my legs? What an idiot. I had picked PervLand on purpose because it was small and remote with little to no traffic and near zero possibility that anyone would ever read anything that I wrote there, much less respond to it. And now three days in I was sitting here bawling because no one had? Dumbass.

Not even a view.

I spent the next two hours diddling the refresh button. Then I went home.

Wednesday night was more of the same. Slow. Quiet. No answers to my post. But hey, I got one view!

More diddling.

I had plenty of time to think about poker night and the more I thought about it the better I was feeling about things. I was at least eight years older than any of those guys. Certainly no prom queen. But they were still boys and I still had a tight, eager little female body.

They say males think about sex every seven seconds. Unfortunately for these males living smack dab in the middle of downtown nowhere, the availability of real live focus material seemed pretty limited. Which was where I came in. Everybody knew everybody in this place. Everybody but me. I was a mystery. I was the taboo. I was the dragon-riding whore all these mamas warned their little boys about. And around them as time moved on, I was becoming less and less shy about the fact. I openly advertised most Friday nights and poker crowds were getting bigger. Coincidence? Probably. But I was still hoping the row some of these young farmers were hankering to plow was mine.

The plan was tried and true and it wouldn’t take much. I’d lost the earplugs but still had some cuffs, and would forego the bag and gag this time. I could fashion a blindfold easily enough, mostly for effect. And that was it. Take my clothes off, fix myself up and wait. When I really thought about it my expectations for this bunch of studs seemed maybe a little steep, but I assumed they’d figure things out fairly quickly anyway. They’d be free to ream me raw from both ends for as long as they wanted. What male could say no to that? Et voila! Crisis averted! I was a decent enough piece of ass, right?

I sure hoped so. I was a little bit of a different conquest at least. I doubted they’d ever had condom-free sex and almost certainly never cum inside a woman. They may have had their cocks in mouths before but I wondered if they’d ever experienced attention like I would give them. I mean, I spent my entire college career practicing for this. I didn’t just open up and slurp. To me there weren’t many acts more subservient than pleasuring someone orally. It deserved devotion. It deserved care. And oh was I devoted and caring. I always demonstrated the immensity of my gratitude too. Licking them. Caressing them. Adoring them with my mouth. Gazing up appreciatively as I tasted them cum. Feeling their semen warm on my tongue and embracing them gratefully as I swallowed, deep in the hot tunnel of my throat.

So Thursday morning. Brain buzzing. Tummy in knots. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. All I could do was think about tonight and try not to throw up. I was about to put myself alone in a room full of hormone-ripped, alcohol jacked, ruthlessly horny 20-something male savages whom I’d been teasing for months. And take my clothes off. Like tossing a piece of meat to a pack of starving dogs. How did that usually go? The idea scared me breathless but also thrilled me out of my skull. I hadn't felt this alive since the last night I spent on my knees, tied up amid a mob of rabid predators raring to brutalize my body. I was built for this. It was my reason for being. And despite the dread welling in my heart I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything.

I picked up a cherry red lipstick at the drugstore along with a fat black Sharpie, and it was going on three PM by the time I had finished. I wanted to get my work done and be ready for the boys before they showed up, so I needed to bounce around. I stopped by the Y to take a quick shower, dressed and headed home. I tossed some stuff in a bag and off I went.

BCHS sat way off the beaten path in the foothills of the mountains, a rural high school of about 500 students that educated the young men and women of an entire county. The building itself was a two story antique with a columned entryway in front and rectangular bay windows lining the two rows of classrooms stacked and spreading away on either side. The school looked huge the way it rose out of the hillside. It had been overcrowded for a decade and busted at the seams when school was in session.

It was a healthy 50-minute walk from my trailer if I cut through the hills and dusk was fading fast by the time I stepped out of the woods and onto the tarmac of the deserted student parking lot. The evening was frigid, headed for single digits, and the wind was getting nasty. I was eager to get inside.

Above the loading dock, a bank of fluorescent lights illuminated steps that stretched the width of the cement bay where busses dropped kids off in the morning and picked them up after school. Skipping up the steps, I unlocked the middle door—as usual—and stepped inside. Any other time I’d secure the door behind me, but not on poker night. It was five o’clock. I went to work.

I scoured the bathrooms with speedy care, vacuumed the classrooms and offices, swept and mopped the halls and unleashed my flock of eager feather dusters on every raised surface in the place. It was a ton of work for one person but I was used to it and I was good. It didn’t hurt that I had a little extra pep in my step this evening either, and I finished it all in record time. I grabbed my bag and glanced at the clock on my way up the hall. 10:08.

I stalled mid-step. Where was I going? The boys played cards all over this building, everywhere from the stage in the auditorium and the benches of the machine shop to the teachers’ lounge and the guidance conference room. And never the same table two weeks in a row. Bad juju Jason said. I had no idea where the guys would be heading tonight. So what now?

Well—there was one place I could be sure they would find me.

The foyer inside the loading dock doors was a high ceilinged and drafty vestibule, roomy enough to accommodate throngs of students as they flooded in from the busses or while they waited out of the cold for their rides to arrive. It funneled into a narrower hallway between the cafeteria and the auditorium, up a ramp and into the main lobby.

If I was doing this I was doing it here. Not off behind closed doors somewhere but out in the open, in the middle of everything, right where God and everybody could watch. Not exactly ideal. But was anything?

Seven long years ago I had hidden myself here to live in emotional chastity. But things had changed. I had been seduced by new people and new experiences and the new opportunities of a brand new life. I had put myself in front of people. I had touched them and let them touch me. I had let myself be seen. I had let myself yearn. And now I was exploring the urges of my inhumanity once again. Sometimes opportunity knocks and you just have to say fuck it, no matter the risk or the ultimate cost. And this was one of those times. Besides, somebody had to keep those animals from burning the fricking building down.

I knelt at the center of the foyer and dumped out the contents of my duffle: Scarf. Sharpie. Wrist cuff. Tube of Continuous Color Really Red 575. The wind roared like a freight train outside, rattling the doors in their frames.

I picked up the tube and rouged my lips. I wasn’t sure what made a mouth look fuckable, but I hoped I wasn’t screwing mine up. I hated the greasy way lipstick felt so I rarely used the stuff. Half of it always ended up in my teeth anyway. But I did like the shock of bright red against my pale skin, the way it made a target out of my mouth. Deposits wanted here, boys!

I stood up, shivering as I shucked my clothes and stuffed them into the bag. There was something electrifying about nudity in public, especially if there was nothing I could do about it. Getting caught with your pants down was one thing. Getting caught bare assed and having no pants to pull up was quite another. This was more than just a bad case of exhibitionism though. To be the lone, hobbled doe amid a pack of starving wolves—naked, bound and unprotected. Unable to see them. Unable to hear them. Unable to taste anything but their cum or to feel anything but unbridled violence as they ravaged my helpless body… MMMMM. There are no words. I’d been there. I’d savored every second. I’d wished a billion times over 12 long years that I could go back. And tonight my dream was coming true.

Mm. Yeah. So…

I trotted nakedly up the cold hallway on the tips of my toes and pushed through the cafeteria door, weaving my way among the tables and around the end of the buffet bar. I tossed the bag up on top of a giant stainless steel fridge. *THUNK* Out of reach, out of mind. And scampered back the way I had come.

The building was old. It had gaps in everything. And there in the foyer I could feel the night creeping in. Through the windows, around the doors, circling, reaching, groping my body with its icy claws. A single floodlight in the center of the ceiling spotlighted me where I stood, spilling over me and onto the floor in a cool halogen pool. Goosebumps beaded my skin. Beautiful, I thought. Overt evidence of the fantastic fear that was gripping my heart. I stole a glance at the clock on the wall. It was 10:43.

Squatting on the balls of my feet, I grabbed the Sharpie, popped the cap and leant forward onto my knees. I’d practiced this a hundred times with a brush and some water colors and had gotten pretty good at painting my own tush. This time was a little different though. This time I was marking myself with something a bit more indelible than a child’s paint set, and although I could always hide it under a pair of pants, the permanence of what I was about to do was exciting. The operation was nearly blind, an unavoidable reality that came with the act of drawing on my own bottom. But I did exceptional work. Those boys would see without doubt exactly what I wanted.

Ten minutes later I had a scarf wrapped around my head and my wrists cuffed behind my back. The side of my face pressed to the floor, raising my butt toward the door, spreading my knees across the cold slick surface of the tile and opening me wide for business. I was eager. I was ready. But I was shaking like a leaf and my heart was hammering its way out of my chest. “Please…Please…Please...” I heard myself panting.

I tried to envision the boys walking in, how they’d look at me here on the floor. Compromised. Naked. Shivering. My meaty cheeks lifted and spread just for them. Would the sight of me helpless like that make them wonder or get them hard? Would they question how I’d gotten here? Would they care? Would they see me or just some woman? Or maybe neither. Maybe, finally, just the tawdry piece of meat I’d been waving under their noses for months. They weren’t blind. Not really. There were no witnesses here. And hell, I was asking for it in no uncertain terms. For crap’s sake, it said FUCK ME PLEASE! in great big black letters, right across the quivering moon of my ass.

Was I pathetic or just weird? I figured some of both. And it fit. It felt right. Always had. Probably always would. I liked being different. I liked being nobody. I enjoyed the invisibility and isolation that came with being me. I tried to imagine normal sometimes, what it must be like to have a family and friends, to love someone or at least want something like that. To be worth something to somebody beyond the number of dicks I could accommodate or the amount of cum I could swallow in a night. The truth was though, I felt subhuman and irrelevant like how I felt female and crazy about chocolate. Less somebody than some thing. I couldn’t explain it. It just was. And being able to do my small part was always a thrill.

Frigid wind whooshed up my body and down the hall, lapping at the wetness between my legs.

The door banged shut. I flinched. My knees ground against the floor, my face rubbing the tile as I shivered.

Guys?

My heart fluttered.

Like everybody, I could sense the presence of people sometimes when they entered the room or walked up behind me or whatever. Just now though, all I was sensing was cold. The doors were bumping. The windows were rattling. The wind was whistling. And I was being naked on the floor of Blake County High School. Alone.

“Hello?” I whispered.

I cleared my throat and spoke louder. “Hello?”

It had to be 11:30 by now at least and if there was anybody here but me I had just become the biggest joke in the world. What was I thinking? Here I was, a grown woman acting like—what? Queen of the perverts? What sane female of any age would do this? I was 30-years old for crap’s sake. Wallowing around nude on the floor of a fricking high school?

Those guys weren’t coming. Never planned to, had they? For months I’d been parading myself in front of them like a love sick old whore, telling myself that this pack of young wolves was looking at me and licking its chops. They were hungry. Just too shy to claim their meat? Idiot. They weren’t afraid of me. They’d been laughing the whole time. Thing was, I’d known better. I’d come to this place for a reason. I’d settled in. I’d found a decent life. And then stupidity beyond stupidity, I’d persuaded myself that I could have more. Dumb bitch. You deserve what you get.

I struggled to my feet. Look, ma. No hands! That wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

It occurred to me then that I had a little bit of a problem. I’d always loved the image of my wrists tied instead of cuffed, without the clumsy metal and mechanics of my Smith & Wessons. There was just something elegant about the minimalist approach, with my wrists skin to skin, cinched together in a single keyless loop.

I bought myself a cuff like that back in the day for 95 cents straight off the internet, A 22-inch strip of white nylon with smooth edges looped with itself through a self-locking pawl. I used to play with it all the time, stick my hands through and imagine trying to escape. I never worked up the nerve to cinch the thing though because really, the only way to get out of it was a knife. I have to confess, sometimes it really was just the thought that counted. Trust me.

Sometimes it wasn’t though, and I’d been thinking about this one for a long darn time. I figured, I’ve provided the evening’s entertainment. The least the boys can do is cut me loose when they’re done.

Whoops.

Lucky for me I was as flexible as I was stupid. Took me all of a minute to get my hands under my butt and step over the slip of nylon binding my wrists. I unwrapped the scarf. Nobody but me. And ten minutes later I was standing buck naked with free hands, up on my tip-toes on the counter in the kitchen, fishing around on top of the refrigerator for my stuff. I thought about what I’d do if someone walked in at that moment, decided it depended mostly on who was doing the walking in and agreed with myself that honesty was probably not the best policy, no matter who showed up.

I stretched as far as I could, just touching the bag with my fingertips—a lump of rumpled polyester wedged precariously between the wall and the back edge of the fridge. If I pushed at all instead of grabbing it was going to take someone a lot taller than me to get that thing back. But, hey: sweats, tube socks, a pair of ten dollar sneakers. I could get more of all that at 7-Eleven. And I could find something lying around here to cover myself with for the time being. Heck, I’d run home naked before I’d try explaining this to anybody anyway, through the nasty pitch black freezing ass night if it came to that. The real issue was the keys. I couldn’t just go home and grab another set of those out of the drawer. Though, it wasn’t like I’d made a habit of misplacing work equipment. This was the first time, and making new keys was a piece of cake. It was just that unaccounted access to the building drove Principal Taylor insane, and he’d be all up in my shirt until I found mine.

The wind pushed the loading dock door open. It kept doing that. And I jumped every time it banged back shut. This was the Universe laughing at me I knew. Nobody was walking into this place at a quarter to one in the morning. Still, I was so edgy about the whole thing that I kept forgetting to breathe.

I grabbed a pasta claw from a crock of utensils on the counter at my feet and began raking at the bag. The process turned out to be much easier than I’d expected and it wasn’t long until I had my sweats and keys and stuff back in my frigid little paws.

I shivered. I loved the feeling of nudity. Of being exposed. Of being vulnerable. Of being vulgar and primal and profane. And lately I’d been spending all my off time trying to feel this way. I’d been naked for a heck of a lot longer than this before too, in a lot colder and more public places than this one, and I’d felt nothing but gleefully alive in those moments. But that was a long time ago. I was a lot younger then and just now it sure felt good to put on some clothes.

The problem was, I hadn’t tasted the bliss of subjugation in a really long time and that night whetted appetites in me that I had worked very hard to overcome. Images burned in my brain, memories of me suffering for other peoples’ fun, of being the target of their misery, of existing to absorb all the frustration they needed to purge. The inferno of my lust had abated over time, but as I squatted there on the floor, stripped and offering myself without condition, all the ecstasy of a decade before came flooding back. Desolation rolled over me like a cold black wave, consuming me in the darkness of its depths and then spitting me out—bare, raw and shivering.

Brutal. Complete. The despair of my own emptiness was merciless and amazing. I wanted it. I needed the pain with the same desperation that a beached fish needed water. But if the self-contempt I embraced that night taught me anything, it taught me that we don’t always get what we need. That everybody has problems. That we adapt. That either we suck it up and move on or we shrivel up and blow away. So as I always do, I did the right thing. But I did the right thing knowing that without water, no one sucks or blows anything for very long.

Lucky for me I was alone the entire day following that fiasco and Jason-free for six more days after that. I couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like doing anything else, so I had a lot of time to lie around, wallow and imagine creative ways to hurt myself. If nobody else wanted that fun I would at least fantasize about making it happen.

I did shower every day, mostly because I wanted to at least smell attractive. I kept my promise to the girls at Mercy House and I did go to work. After everything, I still didn’t care to lose my job. But the reality that not one of those 20-somethings had shown up on a night without Jason, without interference from anybody else in the world, to at least try something with me? Short of stripping and spreading my legs right there on the table could I have made my desire more obvious?

Nah. They just didn’t want me. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure it out. I was 30. I wasn’t beautiful. My boobs could be bigger. But I was tight and definitely had child-bearing hips, a feature of femininity you’d think these country mamas would’ve taught their babies to appreciate. Since when did a guy care about anything other than the availability of my holes anyway?

Maybe word had gotten around that after all the flirtation and teasing I’d unceremoniously shot two of the boys down. But if that were the case, I’d have been branded TEASE by now and the bunch of them would have been out on the war path. Right? If anything, poker night had been a chance for them to put me in my place. Show me who’s boss. Teach me a lesson. Give me what I deserved. Exactly what I’d been praying for for months. I’d have happily explained my disinterest in dating, and by the way, if you wanted to cum inside me please line on up! Or maybe we were already beyond that type of chitchat. Maybe I was going to step into the parking lot one night and the bunch of them was going to show me just how pissed off they were.

No mops or brushes on Friday night. Just a rag, a bucket and lots of elbow grease, and really sore knees by the time all was said and done. Ten hours of good old fashioned self-pity. Unfortunately the effect was kind of lost, as there was no one around to watch me mope. Which was a shame. I was really good at it.

I finished up around 9:00 the next morning and was hobbling down the hall when I passed the library and a hot little flare went off in my heart. I’d been so preoccupied over the past couple of days that I’d completely forgotten the whole PervLand thing. Hmm. A few teachers, coaches and other faculty would be filtering in any time now for a little bit of weekend work, but there was no way I was leaving here without checking my thread.

I tiptoed in, slipped into Mister Barber’s comfy office chair and launched the internet browser. Little particles of dust floated on a sunbeam that slanted in through the window and fell in a warm yellow shard across the desk. It smelled like old paper in here.

I logged in.

> pwt

> **********

A small dialogue box popped up.

> You have 1 new messages. Read now?

My heart erupted into my throat. Fire ripped through my quivering flesh. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop shaking even as damp warmth spread between my legs. All I could do was stare at the screen, wetting my pants and letting my mind run rampant.

Read now???

Heck YES read now!

I clicked.

> Sunday, 1/10, 6:00 PM. Chat. Do not be late.

And then almost swallowed my tongue.

Saturday was the longest day of my life. I spent some of it running 15 miles through the hills, as usual when I needed to be somewhere besides inside my own head. I stopped twice when I couldn’t take it anymore, ending up once on my back in the brush with my hands in my pants and once squatting in the trail with my pants around my ankles, lapping my body’s nectar from my fingers. Might as well do something fun and yummy too if ya gotta waste time.

Unfortunately, that was as good as it got. The rest of the day I spent in a hungover dream featuring the slowly flipping square red digits of the alarm clock sitting on a footstool beside my pillow—blinking, blinking, blinking, burning through my eyelids and into my poor lickerish brain.

Though I left home at nine o’clock the next morning my time card would say 23 to oh-five-hundred. Ten in the morning was a weird time to be showing up for an 11 PM shift, but nobody would ever know. I was a part-time janitor with no name. Nobody would notice. Who could possibly care?

Weekends meant light traffic in the building. On a normal Sunday I would give the place a quick once-over and then hang around until 3 AM to crank up the furnace for the week. But this was no normal Sunday. I had a 6:00 appointment for which I -would- be prompt, and that left me some time to kill. After some idle milling, I decided to hand-scrub the floors and toilets again—which didn’t just pass the hours. There’s just something about doing dirty work on your hands and knees that really fans my flame.

By a quarter to five I was finished, cleaned up and sitting at Mr. Barber’s desk with the lights off and a browser open on the screen in front of me. The office smelled like old paper again, slightly tainted by the soft scent of soap—a small detail for which I was highly grateful considering how I’d soaked the seat of Mr. Barber’s chair just one day before.

I logged into a chat room and stared at the screen, as ready for this as I was ever going to be, trying not to hyperventilate or throw up as butterflies the size of buzzards batted around in my tummy.

5:58.

Mouth dry as dirt. Sweating in all my places.

6:00.

pwt: Here we go. :-)

6:02.

pwt: Whew. Hot in this place. ;-)

6:05.

pwt: I’m here…

6:10.

pwt: Hello?

6:25.

pwt: …

6:50.

pwt: Yes, I am a moron.

I stood up. Took a deep breath. Wiped my eyes.

Insanity supposedly meant doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Yeah. That wasn’t me. I’d made a habit recently of repeatedly sprinting down this twisted road. And here I was again. But I was hoping, not expecting, and I’d realized over the past couple of days that rejection wasn’t so bad. I’d get what I wanted eventually. But until then I’d do what I had to. Heck, I liked a good kick in the teeth.

So I’d bared it all to whoever cared to look and offered everything to anyone who wanted it. Openly. Without condition. No questions asked. A trim 30-year old female body complete with cuffs and zero strings. And not one predator had found me interesting enough to even take a sniff? It felt amazing to be that worthless.

I’d experienced a thrill like this from the other side too, once. Found someone who made me feel all silly and fuzzy. But no sooner had I begun believing I belonged in this place than reality was winding up and smacking me back down. Hard. Again.

Back in the pen, sow!

I’d finally learned my lesson, or so I thought, embraced fate and sailed through a nice quiet decade. Then what? Suddenly decided I needed another clobbering? Nah. I’d always known that. I’d just told myself that high school and college were phases so that I could sleep again. I’d grown up. Matured. Learned the ways of the world. Yeah. And the rules were very simple: No attempting to relate personally with human beings and no more thinking about handcuffs. I was too old for the meet me beat me scene now anyway and I wasn’t up for the pain of angry all-night gang bangs anymore. So I sat around gritting my teeth instead, pretending I believed any of this crap I was telling myself.

At least for a while. Principal Taylor hired Jason. One thing lead to another. Thursday night happened. And now here I was. Hot, ready and all by myself. Again.

Breaut: Birth date?

My heart stopped. My knees buckled. My butt dropped back into the chair.

Breaut: You do have one, right?

I swallowed, resting the heels of my hands between the desktop and the bottom edge of the keyboard. I was sweating like a whore in church and shaking like a pile of leaves in a windstorm. I began to type.

pwt: Yes, sorry. 1/3/1986

Breaut: Are you always sorry about everything?

pwt: I’m not sure what you mean.

Breaut: I’m sure you aren’t. Are you ready to move on now?

pwt: I think so.

Breaut: Yes or no. I don’t have all night.

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: Well then Miss Trash, here’s how this is going to work. I am going to ask some questions and give some instructions, and you are free to not answer or refuse to comply at any time. But as soon as you do that we are finished and you will never hear from me again. No hard feelings. If you choose to answer answer fully and honestly. A lie constitutes non-compliance. Got it?

pwt: Yes.

pwt: Yes Sir, sorry.

pwt: I’m nervous.  :-)

Breaut: First thing. Shut up. I don’t care. I’ll tell you when and what to feel.

Uh. Wow.

Breaut: You live in the county?

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: Address and phone number?

I gave them.

Breaut: Social?

I gave that too.

Breaut: You’re single?

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: Is your family in the area?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: Where are they?

pwt: Nowhere.

Breaut: Cute. What the hell does that mean?

pwt: I grew up in an orphanage and about 36 foster homes. I wasn’t born on January third. I picked my name and my birthday myself.

Breaut: I see. What about friends?

pwt: I don’t have any.

Breaut: Really? None?

pwt: No Sir. Really.

Breaut: Why not?

pwt: I think partly because I can’t and partly because I don’t want.

Breaut: You can’t have friends?

pwt: No. I’ve tried. I’m as horrible at having them as I am being one.

Breaut: Never had a friend in your life?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: And you don’t want any?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: Why not?

pwt: I just don’t. It feels, I don’t know, wooden. Like hugging a tree.

Breaut: Ever been in love?

….

Breaut: Hello?

pwt: Yes Sir I think so.

Breaut: Was he in love with you?

pwt: She, and I don’t know.

Breaut: Elaborate.

…

Breaut: HELLO?? Do you have somewhere else to be?

pwt: I’m sorry. This brings back a very painful time in my life.

Breaut: Okay. I thought we had this covered. Evidently we do not. For the last time: I DO NOT CARE. ANSWER OR LEAVE. It really is that simple.

Breaut: Clear?

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: So, elaborate.

pwt: I met her in the fall of 2004 at the hospital where we volunteered. It was my first time. I had seen her across the nurses’ station all evening and passed her in the hall a couple of times. I was watching her but she was watching me too.

Breaut: Fascinating. Go on.

pwt: We went down in the same elevator that evening and exchanged about seven words before ending up in her car with our clothes off. The chemistry was instant and explosive.

pwt: I think the greatest memory of my life will always be straddling the gear shift with her knees splayed in front of me and her fingers in my hair, pulling my face harder between her legs as I plunged my tongue inside her.

Breaut: Very nice.

pwt: It wasn’t the first time I’d gone down on a girl but she was so musky and soooo sweet, generous too and just…WOW. I will never forget the little whimpers as she came, the exquisite taste of her flooding my mouth, the way the light played over her dark sweaty skin as she panted, the harder shapes of her body beneath mine as we held each other, just breathing together.

Breaut: A black girl?

pwt: African American. Yes Sir.

Breaut: Sounds good to me. What the hell happened?

pwt: I’m not exactly sure. For a while we only saw each other at the hospital because when we were together we were doing something other than having meaningful conversations and exchanging house keys. I think she needed a body to cling to without having to be anyone or say anything. It was probably a month before we even realized we were attending the same school and only then because we happened to run into each other in the dining hall. Heck, we traumatized her poor car three more times before she even told me her name. 

Breaut: Okay…

pwt: My guess is it was probably a lesbian/race thing, at least partly. We were as different as we could possibly have been. She was a junior on the field hockey team, a talk, dark, statuesque beauty with long curly black hair and soulful chocolate brown eyes. And I was a freshman mutt. Plain pasty Jane. Nondescript. Nobody. I think she probably didn’t want it known that she was dating a white female, especially a homely little cracker like me. Heck, maybe dating nobody was the point. Honestly I’d been hurt plenty by people before, but I had no idea it was possible for a human being to bring me agony like that. She told me to go so I went. I still think about her. I die a little more each time I do, but I don’t blame her for that.

Breaut: Very sad. You say “at least partly?”

…

Breaut: WAKE UP!

pwt: Sorry, was typing…

pwt: At least partly yes Sir. We were seeing each other on campus some, lots of clandestine sex. About that of course I cannot complain…

pwt: God, physically we were amazing together. I can’t imagine two people being hotter for each other than we were when we were alone and naked. She was just so far out of my league in every way that it was ridiculous. So we never hung out. She never asked me to games or introduced me to her friends…

pwt: I loved her though with all of my heart and I told her so one night. She said it too, and I can say without thinking that had my ticker stopped at that moment I would have died the happiest animal on the planet…

pwt: But I was stupid. As clearly as I knew I didn’t deserve someone as beautiful and amazing as her, as surely as she was the love of my life, as insanely mind-blowing as intimacy was between us, I couldn’t be satisfied. No I had to push. I had to have more…

Breaut: Oh goody.

pwt: The last time I saw her field hockey was in full swing and she had quit volunteering at the hospital. It had been two weeks since we’d been together. We had just shucked our clothes and were having fun all over each other when the heat of the moment made me brave. I pulled out my handcuffs and pushed them into her hands. The most monumental mistake of my life. She just sat there looking from them to me like I had just handed her a dead rat and grown an extra head or something.

Breaut: Oops.

pwt: Yeah oops. I begged her to say something, anything, but when she finally did I wished I’d kept my big mouth shut.

Breaut: So what she say?

pwt: Are you fucking kidding?

Breaut: That’s what she said?

pwt:  That’s what she said.

Breaut: Wicked.

pwt: I tried to explain but the more I tried to help her understand my little submissive side the further away she seemed. It was like she was looking at me for the first time and seeing a stranger, a reaction I would not have expected from her in a million years.

pwt: I actually thought she’d think the handcuffs were sexy or at least like the idea of me wanting her to take me that way. Shows what I knew.

Breaut: I guess. Just seems like kind of a self-loathing attitude to me. I don’t know you. You might be as dumb as a post and as hideous all the way around as you seem to believe you are, but you’ve obviously got something if hot chicks are jumping you at a glance. You at least don’t type like a moron.

pwt: Thank you SIr. You are too kind.

Breaut: Yes. So what happened?

pwt: Like I said, whether she really couldn’t handle my darker side or just wanted a way out, she told me to leave. So I went and I never saw her again.

pwt: Days, weeks, months went by, and all I could do was miss her. Well that and have sex. I opened my mouth and spread my legs for anyone who wanted to stick something in me. There was no dinner, no movies and zero conversation. Heck, none of them ever really even looked at me, but it sure felt good to be of use…

pwt: Five months later I had flunked out of school and was on my way here.

Breaut: You were 19 at the time?

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: What kind of car do you drive?

pwt: None. Never had a driver’s permit.

Breaut: No shit?

pwt: No shit SIr.

.

Breaut: How’d you get here then?

pwt: Hitch.

Breaut: And your stuff?

pwt: I carried it. Everything I owned fit in my backpack.

Breaut: Well aren’t you just the pathetic little sob story.

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: No?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: You seem pretty pathetic to me.

pwt: Maybe so but if I am I’m despicable not tragic. Please use me. Hate me and abuse me. It’s why I’m here. But no pity please. I’m not worth it and I don’t want to be.

Breaut: How dramatic. You really believe that or is this a role you play?

pwt: This is what I am. Please let me show you.  :-p

Breaut: Good enough.

Breaut: What were you like as a kid?

pwt: Shy. Not popular. A loner I guess.

Breaut: Very sad.

pwt: Not really. It’s a cliche but from kindergarten on the boys liked cornering me at recess, lashing me to a tree and peppering me with mud balls. They chose me because I faked distress really well and cried but never tattled. I always cleaned up the evidence when they’d finished and took the blame for all the dirt. Unfortunately the boys lost interest in me as soon as the other girls grew boobs.

Breaut: So sad. Favorite color?

pwt: Green.

Breaut: Favorite food?

pwt: Bing cherries.

Breaut: Prize possession?

pwt: The gold broken heart locket Sinda gave me.

I touched it reflexively through my shirt.

Breaut: Sinda is your ex?

pwt: Yes I guess.

Breaut: Height?

pwt: I’m almost 4’10”.

Breaut: Weight?

pwt: 90’ish.

Breaut: Ever been measured?

pwt: As in 36-24-36?

Breaut: Is that you?

pwt: Uh, no. I’ve never been measured but I’m probably more like 24-20-40.

Breaut: How old were you when you had your period for the first time?

pwt: 15.

Breaut: A late bloomer. Tampons or pads?

pwt: I hate tampons but I haven’t worn panties in 12 years, so.

Breaut: Excellent. Tattoos?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: Piercings?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: Moral objection?

pwt: No Sir. Morals are not mine to have.

Breaut: Good to know. Where do you work?

pwt: I’m a janitor at Blake County High.

Breaut: Since when?

pwt: 2005.

Breaut: What’s your take-home?

pwt: A little over $250 a week.

Breaut: Jeezus. Food Stamps?

pwt: Heck no! I may be broke but I do not take handouts!

Breaut: Heh. I like that but damn, 12 years and you’re still making what, like $12-13k a year? You must have started at $4/hour or something. Or maybe you just suck. Are you a suck janitor Miss Trash?

pwt: Yes Sir I do suck and better than you’ve ever had, but I’m just as excellent at my paying job.

Breaut: So there is a little devil in there. Now we’re getting somewhere.

pwt: If you say so Sir.

Breaut: How in the hell do you work somewhere for 12 years and barely clear $7 an hour? Is that even minimum wage?

pwt: It isn’t minimum wage Sir. I’ve turned down a lot of raises.

Breaut: Quantify a lot.

pwt: Uhm. All.

Breaut: Are you f’ing kidding?

pwt: No Sir. It’s a big county school on a little tiny budget and times are hard. Just doing my part. My needs are simple.

pwt: In the spirit of honesty and full disclosure I must confess that I like being poor and hungry.

Breaut: You like feeling sorry for yourself then.

pwt: Not at all. I like being a commodity—having nothing, taking nothing and giving everything. Being…consumed. It’s hard to explain. I just feel right when I have nothing to give but myself and somebody is taking all of me.

Breaut: Well I can’t follow that. What’s your favorite TV show?

pwt: I don’t have a TV.

Breaut: Movie?

pwt: I don’t see many movies. I’ll say The Notebook.

Breaut: Oh brother. What’s your favorite music?

pwt: I don’t listen to much music. I heard a song the other day I liked, something about turning boys into men.

Breaut: Shish. How about a book?

pwt: Reading puts me to sleep.

Breaut: Do you have a hobby?

pwt: Does daydreaming count?

Breaut: So no family. No friends. No TV. You work part time, don’t go to movies, don’t read and don’t have a hobby. What the hell do you do with your time?

pwt: Well, I run at least 10 miles every day and work out a lot. It’s cheap. I like to sweat and it keeps me skinny. I volunteer at Mercy House five days a week and at County Clinic when they need cleaning help. No one else wants to do it so I slip into the hills and abuse myself now and then.

…

Breaut: Are you a devil with a halo or an angel with horns?

pwt: I’m whatever you want me to be Sir.

…

Breaut: You said in your post that you will do anything short of hurting other living things and that anyone may do anything to you. Do you expect me to believe that?

pwt: I expect you or anyone else to be sane and rational, to not get off on permanently damaging your toy. I invite you to otherwise hurt me all that you want. You don’t have to take my word for anything. I’m eager and more than willing to prove what I say.

Breaut: In other words you have no limits.

pwt: I have plenty of limits, the amount of pain I can stand among tons of others. It’s just the life I live and the body I inhabit don’t belong to me so any limits I may have are irrelevant.

Breaut: You would blindly put your life in the hands of a complete stranger, just like that?

pwt: Like I said, its not mine. Who takes it and what they do with it isn’t up to me. I get to suffer the consequences, but so does a pinata. I just bleed more and scream louder when you hit me.

Breaut: You talk big for a chick behind a computer screen. Are you as brave when you’re buck naked and trussed like a squashed frog on the floor in a basement full of masked meat eaters?

pwt: No. I’m scared to death.

Breaut: Then why do it?

pwt: Because it feels good.

Breaut: Being scared to death feels good?

pwt: Yes Sir. When each breath I take I draw at the pleasure of someone else, it’s scary and it feels good.

Breaut: Explain.

pwt: That’s easier said than done,..

pwt: I think I’m wired differently than most people. You know I like being tied down and gang banged by strangers.  

Breaut: Yes but judging by your post you like a lot more than that.

pwt: Well, yes…

pwt: I’m here for whatever anyone finds pleasure in doing to me. When everyone knows everything about you and you know nothing about them, when they have access to all of you and unconditional freedom to use it however they want, when the last choice you make is the choice to surrender your right to choose, it’s kind of like you become nothing. That is what I want.

Breaut: Is that all?

pwt:  The reality is anyone including you could be a psychopath who’s going to skin me alive and then pull me limb from limb as soon as we’re alone, and that terrifies me. No two ways. But when all is said and done I’m still just a cow. I’m a piece of meat created for creative exploitation and I need someone to exploit me more than I want to live otherwise. At this point in my life this is a risk I can’t afford not to take…

pwt: To me submission without risking something precious is like playing blackjack for rocks. There’s just no thrill…

pwt: I honestly can’t imagine wanting to be on your side of this exchange. It’s instinct to survive but I wake up and exist because the possibility is out there that maybe today someone will give me the privilege of being alone and helpless, at the mercy of 1000 violent and horny savages who would just as soon beat me unconscious as cum down my throat.

Breaut: Fair enough. When did you last have sex?

pwt: College so 2005.

Breaut: Protection?

pwt: None.

Breaut: Wow. Birth control?

pwt: Pills.

Breaut: Taking them now?

pwt: Yes. They help regulate my periods.

Breaut: Have kids?

pwt: No Sir.

Breaut: Been pregnant?

pwt: No.

Breaut: STDs?

pwt: Excuse me?

Breaut: Do you have or have you ever contracted a or some sexually transmitted diseases?

pwt: No!!!

Breaut: How do you know?

…

Breaut: HOW DO YOU FUCKING KNOW?

pwt: I have had a pelvic exam every year since I started having sex.

Breaut: What do you think of anal intercourse?

pwt: Never done it.

Breaut: Why not?

pwt: Because no one has ever stuck anything into my anus.

Breaut: Because you objected?

pwt: No Sir. It’s a hole. It’s there to be used.

Breaut: How often do you masturbate?

pwt: Maybe a couple of times a month.

Breaut: Fingers, toys or both?

pwt: Toy if I’ve been to the grocery store. Usually fingers.

Breaut: Does size matter?

pwt: If it matters to you.

Breaut: Tell me three non-sexual details about yourself that no one else else knows.

pwt: I’m vegan, agnostic and I sleep on the floor.

Breaut: What is your greatest fantasy?

pwt: Living naked in chains and being used to sustain a large group of people somewhere remote in the world.

Breaut: Nice image. What do you mean by sustain?

pwt: For them to live off of my body. Load it down when they need stuff hauled, harness it to pull their carts and plow their fields. I tend their gardens, cut and split the wood for their fires, cook and serve their meals, wash their clothes and scrub their toilets and floors. My body provides them with milk every day, a bag to punch when frustration is high and three warm holes to cum in, along with anything else they want or need 24 hours a day.

Breaut: You said a lot of stuff in your post. I’m trusting that the history and personal details you included are honest and accurate. Is there anything you want to correct or would like to add?

pwt: Only that I’ve done some thinking the past few days and come to the conclusion that no one can break me. I was born broken.

Breaut: That’s it?

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: I’m going to take your words literally, every single one of them. Are you sure what you’ve typed in your post and here in this chat is what you mean and really what you want?

pwt: More than anything in the world. I’ve told everything there is to tell and am eager to give everything I have. I’ve asked nothing and taken nothing because I want nothing left when all is said and done—no need, no desire, no hope or dignity, no right to think, speak, go anywhere or do anything. No reason to exist beyond being a female body for anyone who wants to use it.

Breaut: You understand the doors this opens and everything taking a position like this invites?

pwt: I do.

Breaut: Do you have anything else to say? This is your one and only chance to speak.

pwt: Please take me.

Breaut: Then it starts now. Do you know Dannings Forde?

pwt: Yes Sir. It’s about six miles from my place. There’s a pretty trail that runs along the south side of the river and crosses at Dannings. I’ve never been further than that but I run out that way all the time.

Breaut: Good. The brush starts getting thick if you continue along the river, but after about 50 yards there’s a clearing right along the bank. You are to to obtain the items on the following list and arrive with them in this clearing at 6 AM on the 29th of this month. That’s a Friday.

pwt: Yes Sir.

Breaut: Here is the list. You may change your mind any time between now and the 29th and decide that this escapade is not for you, but if you show up, arrive with all of the following and nothing else but the clothes on your back:

He typed, line after line after line. My breathe caught several times. Five minutes later he was done.

Breaut: The steel can be found online and between Miller’s, Walgreens and the ABC store you can find everything else. You have 19 days to get your shit together and get checked for diseases. The last item on the list is a clean bill of health from the doctor of your choice. Don’t bother showing up without it.

Breaut: The list is non-negotiable so if our arrangement isn’t worth the described investment to you or its requirements are above your means, save your money and stay home.

Breaut: Lastly, ditch all forms of birth control immediately. Stop using them and throw them in the trash.

Breaut: Any questions?

pwt: Does this mean you’re interested?

Breaut: This means you get an audition.

> Breaut has disconnected.