"6": An oral history

I loved the feeling of being owned by him. Of being his property. I thrilled at the idea that he could use me any time he desired and that my primary purpose was for his sexual gratification. His, and anyone else he might choose to have me service.

I loved that he had the balls to take me naked into rooms full of people, his ownership revealed by the collar around my neck, the tattoo of his name on my belly and my utter and complete subservience to him. I adored the insolence of these rooms full of men staring pointedly at my pussy. My ass. My tits. For as long as they desired. They didn’t need to look at my face or ask my permission for anything. I loved every second of it and found it endlessly arousing.

I am a sexually voracious woman. However, no matter how much I am fucked, or how thoroughly, I always, always want more. I used to fantasize about the scene in Last Exit to Brooklyn where Tralala rips off her blouse in a bar and invites 30 men to fuck her. Or the scene in Suspicious River where Leila is held captive and made to fuck a room full of men. I like being a sexual object whose only purpose is to suck, fuck and be a receptacle for cum. I like the idea that men can do whatever they want to me. I will please them over and over and over again until they are utterly satisfied. I love the idea of them taking turns with me, one at a time. Or more at a time. One with his cock in my pussy, the other in my mouth. Those two will cum, just barely pulling their cocks out of me and then others will take their places. By the time they’ve all finished, the initial set of men will be hard again and ready to fuck me once more. Or twice more.

I love this idea of being taken and used. That I exist only for their pleasure. My own is an afterthought. Or rather, my own pleasure is derived by how effectively and thoroughly I can please them.

These are the things I dream about.

So when A proposed owning me and making me his sex slave, it was a dream come true. Thus “6” was born. Or perhaps just unveiled, as my alter ego. But, the more I indulge her, the more lucid and whole I feel in my “other” life. Sometimes I wonder if my incessant love of cock and its incessant use on me is some kind of metaphor for a type of penetration I crave – being fully opened emotionally and spiritually. Perhaps it is. Or maybe it’s just that I love to get fucked.

A lot.


Photo: Cynthia Cortes