Dear slut:
I’m sorry. When I was 18 you made an offer to an immature boy, not at peace with who he was on the inside, and he never followed through. The man he’s become regrets that, in many ways, and if you’d met me even one year later things would have been very different. I want to let you know that I wish things had been different and we both could have had a lot more fun that year you lived in the apartment above me.
I remember the first time we met. It was the week I moved in to my first apartment and we were both hanging out with the paroled felon, his pregnant wife, and his addict buddy who lived on the first floor. It was your day off and you’d been drinking since you woke up, unshowered and still wearing your pajama pants and a stained and almost see through threadbare white t-shirt, clearly with no bra. I couldn’t stop staring at your nipples. You caught my eyes and I pretended not to look. You kept engaging me and I tried to seem disinterested. You were my “type”, with dark hair, dark eyes, but you weren’t that pretty or in particularly good shape, what you did have was a raw and open sexuality, probably combined with the inhibition of the alcohol, and I found that far more attractive than your looks.
I was shy and at the time I had a lot of shame about my sexuality. I knew I was interested in an intense BDSM sexuality, but the one time I had shown the smallest part of that to the woman I was with it resulted in immediate rejection and social exposure. Yet you recognized the lust in my eyes, even if I kept averting then, and you kept engaging with me and getting closer. When you asked me to come up into your apartment my blood boiled with thoughts that at the time I didn’t dare go through with.
Your apartment was underfurnished and the tour quickly came to your bedroom, where you immediately asked me to lay down in bed with you. You told me about how you’d been teased in high school, how your step mother called you white trash Tanya, how your kids had been taken from you because you were an unfit mother, and then asked me to spoon you. I’d been with a few other women and had no problems making the first move, but with you my desires were dirtier, darker, and I just lay there; until you reached over and put my hand on your tit, then put it down your pantyless pants. The damn broke on my repressed desires.
I grabbed you around the throat and finger blasted you roughly through a powerful orgasm. You couldn’t stop saying “oh my god” and asking me how I did that; clearly the men before me had not put much effort into your pleasure. I got progressively more and more forceful, rougher, and more degrading; you never said no, but you broke into tears.
I felt immediate regret, fear, and shame, but more than anything, I crushed. I thought that maybe I’d found a slut filthy enough to enjoy my sexual desires, but your tears made me feel like a monster. Everything was stopped. I apologized profusely and went back to my apartment to sit in fear that the police were coming for me for sexual assault. The next week I heard from the downstairs neighbor that you talked to them about what happened and spoke well of me, because I stopped things when I did. After that, I tried to avoid you and put it out of my mind.
Four months later my roommates and I were having a big house party. After the crying incident I had done a lot of research on the actuality of bdsm relationships, learned about things like negotiating consent and safewords, things that were not an open part of the conversation back then the way there are now. A friend of a friend back for a week from Costa Rica had been flirting with me all week, but it had been in situations where it couldn’t be more than innuendo, and she had to leave early on in the party for dinner with her parents.
As clearly as I remember our first encounter, I remember the second even more vividly. I went to the bathroom to pee. I was standing in front of the toilet going when I heard the door open and quickly close. “Done in a sec” I said. When I turned around you were there, biting your lip, blushing deeply.
You asked me if I remembered the last time. I said yes. You got close to me, looking up into my eyes. What you said next forever changed the way I felt about my sexuality and desires. “You awakened something inside me” those were your exact words, your hands gesticulating in the air as though the words were insufficient for what you felt. You explained how you’d never been so turned on and ever since you kept wanting more, wishing I hadn’t stopped, that you kept fantasizing about my intensity.
You asked me to come upstairs again, promising to do whatever I wanted, without complaint. I grabbed you hard by the throat and asked “anything?” You face was a perfect portrait of total submission and desire. “Anything” was your confident reply. So, I sent you upstrairs, with instructions to be kneeling just inside the door wearing only your thigh high leather boots. I grabbed some condoms and a bad wooden replica of a roman gladius I had made for Latin class in high school, then slipped away from the party.
You were exactly as I had requested when I entered your apartment. On your knees, spread wide, wrists crossed behind you, back straight, eyes staring at the floor until I gave you permission. I grabbed you tightly by the throat and hair, commanded eye contact, gave you a safeword and told you that was the only way to get me to stop, as soon as you said you understood I dragged you to your bedroom.
Yours was the first ass I ever truly beat. I went at you with regular spanking until you were whimpering on the verge of tears and begging me to stop, so i forced you back face down into the pillow and put my foot atop your head, then I went at you with the gladius as a paddle. You writhed, screamed, sobbed, and begged, but you didn’t use your safeword, in spite of reminding you that was the only way to make it stop several times. When your sobbing was truly inconsolable, then I flipped you over, mounted your face, and shoved myself into your throat.
You were my first crying throat, the first stomach I emptied on cock, and my first sobbing cunt. I’ve used the holes of hundreds of submissive women since then, in my subsequent 20 years of BDSM and swinger lifestyle experience, but you were my first. I remember so fondly your gagging sobbing noises, futile struggles, begging for leniency, and especially the way your little feet kicked when I fucked your throat without letting you breath until you panicked, letting you gasp a couple short breaths, before forcing myself back in and the harshly slapping your pussy. I pulled you up to your knees and taught you to breathe and talk around my cock, making you beg me to fuck your cunt in those exact words. You were the first sub to beg for me. I bent you over, finished, in the condom inside you, then held you in a headlock all night long, then used you again in the morning.
You talked about wanting to be my slave, wanting me to come up and use you every night, to have me do every filthy thing I wanted to you. I planned to come back that night, but I didn’t. I thought about going back almost every night, but I didn’t. That night the friend of a friend crawled into my bed after I was already asleep and we played around some and spent a sweet night together, the complete opposite of what we had. That left me deeply conflicted. I wanted both, I wanted filth AND love, and although I enjoyed you as a fuck toy, I didn’t love you. In fact, back then I was pretty classist, I grew up upper middle class, and you were white trash Tanya. I worried about what people would think of me if I were with you. I worried how I would explain the attraction between us and how I used you. I worried that if I continued to go back to you it would redefine my sexuality and all I would ever be was a sexual sadist. It turns out what I really needed to do was accept that’s what I was and find a partner who accepted that part of me; which you did. You accepted me first, but I was not yet ready to accept myself; that took another year and my first actual sub.
I’m sorry that I wasn’t ready to accept who I was and to give you more of what you wanted from me. I went back to avoiding you, but I continued to lust. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you, it’s that I wasn’t yet okay with just using you as a sex object. I regret that I wasn’t ready to take what you were willing to give me. The last time I saw you, you were drunk again, falling off the furniture, clumsily flirting with me as your financial situation fell apart, saying how fondly you remembered that night together, and I remembered it to, I wanted to take you roughly, but I was aware my roommates would be home soon and I continued to worry what people would think socially. I’m sorry that I worried so much about appearances. I’m sorry that I wasn’t yet ready to accept the kink inside me. I’m sorry I never came back upstairs while you were there. You gave me my first hint that I might not be an unlovable monster, I just wish I had to follow through on who I’ve always been inside.
Sincerely,
The shy forceful boy who has turned into a confidant lifestyle Dominant
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/vhpclz/to_white_trash_tanya_wherever_you_may_be_mf