His voice stood out in my morning rituals. Not so much by the way it sounded, but by what it would say. He’d speak often about sex and kink and debauchery. His cohorts would laugh nervously, make jokes, but those of us in the audience who knew …we knew.
At 20 years old and weeks away from moving out of my parents’ house for the first time, I could taste my freedom.
It was his birthday. He’d quipped that what he wanted for his birthday was naked pictures of sexy girls. He’d meant it as a joke.
I obeyed anyway.
I couldn’t have been the only one. The fact he responded to me was an enormous boost to my ego. He wanted more.
I was happy to give him more.
We met in person for the first time at a motel in Hollywood. I wasn’t concerned for my safety – he was a public figure. I knew him. I’d been hearing him speak to me for years through the airwaves.
He kissed me. It was a good kiss.
His dominance was unquestionable. He stripped me. I was stripped.
The blindfold went on and I was led across the room. I heard the closet door open. My wrists were bound and attached to the rod.
I was being touched, my body explored and my wetness examined.
His voice remained silent.
He walked away. I listened for sounds to tell me where he was, what he might be doing, but the room was completely silent except for the noise in my head.
And then I heard it:
I recognized the sound of a polaroid camera. I came.
The first time I went to his apartment, I was dressed (as directed) in plaid. Pigtails. Ruffled panties. Tits up to there.
I was spanked. My throat was fucked. The rest of me was fucked, too. He took every liberty with my body he could, and I enjoyed it. In the aftermath we talked of nerdy things and shared a sandwich.
I asked to see the photos. He pulled out a large envelope from the closet and poured it out onto the bed. I was just one of many. But I was the one he’d chosen that day.
He called to say he was coming over and bringing a friend. I struggled to clean the apartment; and ended up with a mountain of dirty laundry piled in the dining area. There was no place to hide it; but the bedroom was clean.
She was tall and thin with auburn hair. Older (but then, everyone seemed older back then). They talked about me in the third person. They laughed at my pile of laundry, and took turns spanking me for not having the apartment spotless.
I was forced to serve them both.
Sharing his cock with her is one of my fondest memories of that night. I was given the honor of his load.
He wanted me dressed professionally. I wore a dark green sheath dress, black heels, garter belt and stockings. With my hair blown dry, and understated makeup – it was what I had worn to work with my parents that afternoon.
Knowing that i was going from good girl to bad girl in a matter of miles in the same outfit made me feel delicious. I never knew what to expect with him; but always enjoyed it.
He opened the door to his apartment and looked at me.
He said “Wow.”
He invited me in and kissed me. It was different.
“Is it okay if I don’t put on a show?” he asked. “Can I just make love to you?”
As if I would deny this man anything he wanted.
Erotic fiction writer. Phi (pronounced “fee”) came into kink at early age and renewed her connection with the lifestyle in 2014 after a decade-long hiatus. A somewhat popular and undeniably avid blogger on fetlife.com under the name phi-is-me, she lives in the suburb of a suburb in southern California with two cats and six pillows.