This Is How A Normal Girl Like Me Went From Heartbroken To Being A Submissive Camgirl

My Love lives an ocean away from me and I am here waiting for a chance to go to him and see if we’d become the exception to the rule. For now, there are things tying me here at home and I feel like I will explode from fear and anxiety and uncertainty just from the act of standing at a crossroads.

I am a month away from getting my law degree and after years of study and work and stress, I can only think of staying happy as a barista somewhere in Europe, giving away smiles inside of coffee cups. Instead, I am chained to debt from reckless, fearful decision-making from my early twenties. I need a good-paying job for my $1500/month minimum loan payments. I pursued an advanced degree for every reason other than wanting to.

He had agreed to wait for me as I saved at home for a while to lower the payments, that is, until the day he broke up with me. He grew tired of how I would project my uncertainty and anxiety onto him. He had done nothing but show me how much he wanted me, but I wouldn’t allow that to be good enough. My eyes were glass for two days and I felt like a fool. I hated feeling as we’d never speak again. My chest tightened at the thought of it. I could go on about how I love him but you know that story. We’ve all felt it.

Days later, after I went from devastation to numbness, I finally felt again. I was manic. I anonymously posted all of my favorite nudes I sent him online. I hated him. This was my way to show myself that I didn’t belong to him. I was tired of being away from him and feeling the insecure and holding onto him. I wanted to be free.

Sir messaged me a day after I posted them. He offered me $4,000 a month to be his sub. I ignored his message for a while, until the numbers flowed through my head. It’s not as if I never thought of it before- sex work is an easy “out” from student loan debt for many women. I had fantasized about fucking an older gentleman for an entire weekend to pay off a $5k loan from undergrad. That’d be $50 in my pocket a month for the next six years. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I messaged Sir back and I created a Skype username to talk to him about this proposition. He told me that he enjoyed my body. By this point, the exhilaration of posting my ex-boyfriend’s nudes had begun to fade. I was having my regrets, yet I pushed them aside for a moment at the idea of $4,000 a month. I was making $15/hour at a temp agency placement in a field outside of what I was even interested in. I worked a second job collecting pennies at a library. I felt cheated. An education is supposed to give me stability. Instead, I’ve sent thousands of unanswered emails to ignored inboxes. No one wants me and I work endlessly to make ends barely meet.

Sir wants me, though. More than any job I’ve had and more than my Love who shattered my heart in a million pieces, as well as any other suitable cliché that goes with breakups. I should talk to Sir.

He immediately wanted me to get on cam. I was working my night job but the thought of it ran through my body like lightning.

I hid my face.

“Hun, show me your face,” he said to me on chat.

“I’m scared,” I typed.

Eventually, after some coaxing, he convinced me. And then he convinced me to take off my bra. I cannot wear it until he tells me I can. He told me to take off my panties. I cannot wear any until he tells me I can.

“Yes sir,” I said and I did it for him immediately.

His demands felt addicting and I wanted to be his good little slut. I wanted to address him the way I am supposed to. I wanted to please him. Any distraction from obligation and heartache and fear was welcome.

He told me I could ask him questions.

“What do you do?”

“What did I say about addressing me?”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

I am an educated woman, a month away from an advanced degree and I am showing a faceless stranger every piece of me. I know nothing about him. He could ruin me. I am living the horror story mothers tell their children when they glance over their shoulders as they play computer games. I should know better.

He told me to put my fingers inside me. I was in the bathroom stall and I could hear muffled steps from everywhere. What if someone walked in? He told me to go faster. Faster. Move the camera. Faster. Now stop. I can only cum when he tells me I can. I pulled up my leggings and left. I could feel every cell within my body. Lightning shot from my ears and my face was hot. He was not done, though.

I sat at the check-out desk.

“Put your hand in your pants, hun.”

I did. I was completely his.

“Put a finger inside there.”

My coworker was ten feet away from me, reading with headphones on.

I put my fingers inside.

“Faster.”

“You can cum.”

So I did.

Sir told me to walk around the halls of the library and pinch my nipples.

“You’re so turned on, you like this, hun. You will be my good little sub.”

As time went on, Sir told me more rules. I can never go on a date without asking for permission. If there is anyone I am interested in dating, Sir needs to know about. I can never tell any boyfriend about him. He told me he would be understanding of my schedule and my time. He explained hard limits and soft limits. I felt as if I was floating outside of my body or that I was watching myself on a movie screen.

Sir wanted me to flash a man and I refused. The ache of wanting to please him surprised me, as we were still early at this together. I didn’t trust any of it.

One night, when I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, Sir told me to take off my clothes. I told him I wanted to take a shower.

“Get on your knees. Lower. What did I tell you about hiding your face?”

“I’m still scared, Sir.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I want this to be fun for you. Remove your hair from your face.”

“Yes sir.”

“Put your fingers on your clit. Rub. Yes. Are you getting wet?”

“Yes sir”

“Put them inside you now. Middle and ring finger. Go faster. Sit straight. Straight! You better show me your face or you won’t get to cum tonight.”

The exhilaration, the weirdness and the intrigue and the $4,000/month spun around in my mind.

I can feel free, now. Just get lost in this.

“Speed up and be loud. If you feel like you’re getting close, you must ask me for permission to cum.”

I could only feel the cold tile floor on my knees, the fiery closeness to an orgasm and the pit-in-my-stomach fear of wondering if my Love would ever be inside me again.

“Did you just cum? Talk! Don’t type.”

I nodded.

“Did you ask for it?”

“No sir.”

“What did I tell you about cumming? Now go again and make sure to ask me before. Be loud. Clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl. Now go ahead. Be loud. Talk, don’t type. Yes. Now go as fast as you can.”

“Yes sir,” I said aloud inside an empty bathroom.

“Don’t you dare forget to ask this time.”

This feels fucking amazing. Everything about it. Electricity. Wild. Stupid. I don’t think I could stop for him if he asked me to. I needed to ask for permission this time.

“Ask again. Louder.”

“Can I cum, Sir?” I whispered.

“I didn’t say whisper. Ask again!”

“Can I, Sir?”

“Can you what?”

“Please.”

“Full question.”

“Can I cum, Sir?”

“I can make you stop or I can make you cum. Which one do you want?”

“I want to cum, Sir.”

“Then ask me. Loud.”

“Can I cum, Sir?”

“Good girl. Cum. And be loud while you’re cumming.”

“Taste yourself,” he told me.

It was time for my punishment. I put my phone down, leaned against the bathroom wall. I spread my legs.

“Slap your pussy. Hard.”

I winced.

“Five times, now. And count.”

I winced but again, the electric slap of my fingers spread from there to the edges of my finger. My hair stood on the back of my neck. My heart was fire and I was entrenched. Suddenly I wasn’t me anymore and all of the stress that went into being me had drifted away further and further with every slap.

“You may shower now. Prop up your phone so I can watch you.”

The next morning when I awoke, he told me what to wear.

Hours later, my Love messaged me. This was the longest we had gone without talking. The heat of our fight had left him. I knew I had made a mistake. I didn’t trust him and I was always questioning him but he was nothing but wonderful to me. Now, to make things worse, I could only think of the pictures. I was immature. I betrayed him. By that point, I had deleted all of them, but nothing on the Internet ever leaves the Internet. This whole irrational, manic stint could come and haunt me again.

Yet, as we continued to talk, I became so happy that he wanted to work things out. We were going to do this again. I knew we couldn’t stop talking. I felt too connected to him. I thought of how different Sir made me feel. He made me feel electricity and fear and exhilaration. He wants me to parade myself to men. Sir wants my hard nipples to show though my shirts so he can watch me turn men on. He enjoys watching them avoid glancing at my chest. My Love had always wanted me to himself and now I felt ashamed of what I was doing and confused by how exotic it felt. Plus, wouldn’t this be good for us? The money solves my problem.

Three months with Sir would put a dent in my monthly payments. Would I be able to do this?

My epiphany moment came when Sir told me to go into the ladies room at my regular job. He told me to rip the crotch of my tights open and then go back to my desk to finger myself through the hole. I could only think of my Love. We may never make it. We could be over or hate each other long before I book my one-way ticket to him, yet I should know better. My Love reminds me how much I’d rather do this the right way. I’d rather give myself to him again completely. I want to trust him and know that everything will work out as it should. I am in this moment now, but I can do this. I can move on from this all and say goodbye to Sir.

I can do this- the emails, the phone calls, the job fairs, the waitressing jobs on the side. I can save. I can find my way to him. Sex work is different for every woman but it’s better as a fantasy to me.