My sole purpose in my relationship with Andre was to make myself thoroughly, constantly available. To him or anyone he might choose to offer me to. I loved this. I loved walking around with the feeling that anyone, anytime, could grope me, manhandle me, shove me up against a wall and lift my skirt, part my pussy and impale me. I felt open. Open to my sexuality, open to life.
For as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself amongst groups of men, their plaything, at their service, absolutely willing to do anything that will please them. And make them come. There's a part of me that could happily spend the remainder of my days as a fuck-cum-slut whose only purpose is to please men. I love this idea and it turns me on immeasurably.
From the beginning, I felt that this experience with Andre would be a powerful one if I was willing to give myself completely to it. And so I did. There could be no half measures, or I might as well not be doing it at all. This required complete trust. There were a few ground rules in this dynamic: 1) I was to tell him everything and keep nothing back. 2) I deferred all sexual activity to him – including masturbation and other partners. My entire being – my body, my thoughts, my feelings – all were his domain. My autonomy no longer existed.
This access extended to my inner life. He had me keep a journal (my book of revelation) of my experiences and my fantasies and to note any changes in them. These notes I was to present to him at the end of each week for his perusal. It was a very intimate act, to write openly for myself and let him see all of that. Sometimes I would hesitate in the writing, knowing he'd be reading in the future. But I'd write whatever it was anyway.
He’d mine my writing for cues, directions of where to take me, of which part of my psyche was begging to be uncovered next. My deepest fears and most secret desires became the scripts for our adventures. He’d extract them from my writing, these confessions, (mostly a desire for cock) and amplify them in real life situations. He was a master director, and I gave him free reign. He created opportunities for me to face my demons and disintegrate them. I would come out of these evenings - later spent with my head on his chest, his strong arms around me, encircling me - transformed. He took me demon-hunting.
During my first group sex adventure with Andre, I met a beautiful artist boy. He was very pretty, with wavy, dirty blond hair, full, ruby lips and a shy smile. By the end of the evening, I was lying on a bed with about five other people. I was on my back, with my head tilted to the side, softly kissing Andre, utterly melting. Another man stood over me and rubbed my nipples between his fingers. The boy who painted murals buried his face between my legs. He was very passionate, sucking on my lips while thrusting his tongue inside me. Very focused. Very loving. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received in my life. I worried that acknowledging this in my writing might hurt Andre but I wrote it. This bred an incredible intimacy because instead of a haggling, “Will you still love me if I tell you this?” there was instead a complete acceptance of desires, demons and weaknesses. Without judgment.
There were other rules. I was to always wear skirts or dresses. With no panties. (It's something I still do when I wear skirts, except when I know I'll be in the company of someone who makes me very wet. For the sake of saving my pretty silk dresses from being stained, I'll wear panties.) I was always to stand and sit with my legs parted, arms and hands behind my back, and my mouth open, constantly embodying these symbols of accessibility. When he took me out, depending on where we went, these rules always applied, and usually in greater degree.
If we went to visit his friends, I was to strip naked upon entering their homes and immediately make myself fully available to them. He would place me in the center of the room, naked in some kind of position that allowed my legs to be spread. I might be kneeling with my legs open, lying down on the ground with my knees up and pussy exposed. Or, I’d be on all fours in the middle of the room with my cunt thrust high in the air. The men would be sitting on couches around me, talking about their days and their businesses. Every once in a while, one of them would come over and play with me as the others would comment in low voices. Appreciative. Encouraging. Andre chose with whom, when and how. There was a beautiful thrill in the uncertainty of never knowing who might touch, enter or use me.
I loved being the center of attention, loved my cunt being the focus of the room. Loved the fact that any of them, anytime, might reach over and explore my pussy. My pussy, that would slowly start to swell and lubricate itself, involuntarily. Welcoming.
In my day to day life, I found that men could sense and smell my availability. I'd be in a grocery store and a man would react to me. He'd be standing with his wife, waiting to pay when he'd notice me and become slack-jawed. I'd smile, warm, inviting and imagine spreading my legs for him. And I'd smile some more. I'd look at him with a look that said he could have me. Right there. Right then. On the floor. With his wife watching us. Or joining us. Either was fine with me.
Photos: Cynthia Cortes and Chip Willis
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