My Life As A Willing Sex Slave

It all started off with the basic texting after meeting on the site, and then of course talking about what we liked sexually was brought up. I, being the 23-year-old college grad, single, and loving a good time, was more than eager to open up to this guy I met on there. Unlike all the other Sugar Daddies who are balding, gross, beer-bellied men soon to retire, this guy was HOT. I have always been attracted to older men, older men like this one. He was my real life version of Daniel Craig. He was in his forties, very athletic, and had the perfect smile. I felt like I had nothing to lose by being honest about what I was into, and he was more than ready to open up as well.

The texting was nonstop and incredibly flirtatious. I said I did enjoy rough sex, and he responded, “I would love to tie you up and blindfold you. Teasing you softly and the next second spanking your ass until its bright red.” This excited me beyond belief. Never, in all my other relationships, has a guy given me that rough and sensual feel that I so desperately wanted to experience. Not even close. I was completely inexperienced to this dark and sexual world.

We met that first time at a hotel, where he quickly threw me against the wall and undressed me. Before I could speak a word, I was on my knees with his cock in my mouth. I left that day being slapped across the face, and that was after he fucked my ass. The first time ever. I was so shocked and dumbfounded when, after all the rough sex was over, he pulled me in tight, shushed me to a complete calm, and just held me in his arms kissing me softly on the back of my head. The same arms that just backhanded my face were now soothing me and making me feel safe.

I quickly became obsessed with this fucked up relationship we were developing. The sexual texts that left me glued to my phone between meetings. Texts that started off with, “I like to be dominant” and “I will tie your hands if you try to fight back” all the way to, “If you cant find a way to make me cum…I’ll destroy you” and “I want you for an hour…beaten and tortured.” That first time as he said was “just practice” for what was to come. What was to come was experiencing so much more brutality and severity.

Our meetings got moved to the warehouse he owned, where there was a pole I would get tied up to from time to time. There I was, helpless, in a huge abandoned warehouse where no one could hear me scream no matter how loud I was. Oh and I was loud. You would be too if you got beat with a belt time after time again on your bare ass and back. The real struggles were when I was not tied up though. If I dared to block a hit I would only get it 10 times worse. This guy, you see, was a sports coach. His athletic body was trained to know how to tackle. I was half his size and nothing I could do would ever come near to being enough to stop a blow from him. Instead, my human instinct to guard myself from a huge fist slamming into my ribs, jaw, back, head, and stomach only angered him more, to the point where I would get hit so hard I was doubling over gasping for air, crumbling to my knees. If I fell to my knees I was yanked up by my long hair and forced to start all over. Once, he went to slap me and I moved my face and instead got slammed right in the eye. I screamed out, “MY EYE!! I can’t see!” and his only response was, “You don’t need to see.” I laugh this off as I realize how fucking crazy I was to literally put myself in the arms of a dangerous monster.

The next week I was repeating pathetic excuses to every person I met who asked, “Do you have a black eye?!” If only they could see the artwork that was the black and blue bruise marks scattered all underneath the long-sleeved shirt I was wearing in the middle of the summer. I was experiencing a mixture of being desperate for more and feeling so alone on the inside from keeping this a secret from everyone. I was defending this abusive man by making up excuses to anyone who asked where the bruises came from.

I cannot explain why I was hooked on this abusive relationship. Why? I had no daddy issues. As a matter of fact, my relationship with my real father was and still is great. I have men attracted to me left and right, real men who want to meet me outside of a warehouse, who do not want to have me on my knees begging for air after choking desperately for air from their cock.

I still can’t answer why. Why did I go through so much, and for so long? The ass-fucking, the mouth-fucking, and the constant hitting were all so intense. Every time it got pushed further. Once, I was tied with metal hangars made into wire cuffs to a bar. After being whipped for five minutes with the belt, and screaming, he grabbed my neck, squeezing so tight and in the most malicious voice I have ever heard he repeated over and over, “Shut up you whore.” I saw stars once after having my head slammed repeatedly into the ground as he grabbed my neck and ceaselessly banged me up like a rag doll.

He always said his goal was to go until I cried, but I NEVER could cry. Whether it be my own fucked up head, my honest ability to endure pain, or the God-sent overflow of adrenaline I had each and every time we met, I never cried even though so much of what we did deserved tears. I always wondered if I was the only one. Was I the only girl being degraded in this sex dungeon/warehouse? Was I the only girl willingly coming back to get some more? I was Little Red Riding Hood walking right into the arms of the Big Bad Wolf each and every time. I look back on the girl I was, and I wonder what miracle let me survive those hours spent being at his mercy. I look back on that girl, and I feel sorry for her—her innocence and her heart were each stolen and in return she was handed many aches and pains—mentally and physically.

I guess I’ll never know if I was the only one, if there is a new “me” going there, or what went through his head or even mine at the time. I eventually realized how crazy it was. I was developing feelings for a person who enjoyed seeing me suffer at their hands. Whatever angels were looking out for me and made me walk away, to them I say “thank you.” It was not easy to finally leave but, four months later, I did. Fifty Shades my ass, I experienced the real deal.