“So, you want to know why I do it, why I’m like this?” she asked, taking a deep draw, exhaling the smoke slowly through her nose. “I don’t know, honestly. Not fully. I mean, stuff happened, early on, later, but I felt like I made it through all that. I stayed sane, true to myself, pushed forward. Finished High School. A rarity in my family. Then after leaving them all behind, traveling halfway across the country to leave it in the past, started college. All on my own.” She took another deep drag and then fidgeted with her fingers, looking down.
“I even finished college. Got a good entry level job. People would have called me a fucking success story. Small town girl makes it big. And by that standard, I guess I did. I was going places, a shooting star, going up, up, up. And then, life changed.” She stubbed out the cigarette and got another out, offering the reporter one. He shook his head and she shrugged before lighting up. The smoke curled in the small changing room.
“That seems like such a simple way to put it. Life changed. How does that sum up leaving that, leaving a law firm to strip here, 2 or 3 times a week? To cover yourself in tattoos. To give up your life and future like that?” he asked, incredulous. She shook her head, already frustrated with his direction, his line of questioning. Those outside of her world rarely could.
“You’re already off base, chasing down dust in the wind, while you’re ignoring the storm. You say I gave up my life, my future for this, but this, this is fun. This,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “is exercise. It’s a hobby, nothing more. No Sir, I didn’t give up my life or future to strip. I gave it up for him. For this.” She leaned forward, tilting her head down, throwing her hair over her face, so he could see the tattoo on the back of her neck. A literal bar code, with numbers, lay there. She snapped her head back and pushed out her chest, noticing him glance at her cleavage before adjusting himself.
“That’s a bar code? I don’t understand, what does a tattoo have to do with anything,” he asked, his brow furrowed. She almost envied that innocence. Once something is lost like that, it cannot be reclaimed.
“You know what Freud said right? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar? Well, this is the opposite of that. Sometimes a tattoo is more than a tattoo.” She grinned, showing him the back of her hand. On it, a tattoo of a keyhole was there, easily visible in dark black ink. She then spread her legs and pulled up her gown she had on, showing the reporter her shaved cunt. She noticed the subtle biting of his lip, the narrowing of his eyes as he looked at her, and the “Daddy’s Girl” tattoo right above it.
“I have several tattoos as you can see, and more that you can’t,” she said smiling, teasing him. “But the barcode, the keyhole, are different from the rest. They have very specific meanings and are part of the course my life has gone on.” The reporter looked back at her face, blushing a bit as she re-crossed her legs.
“And those are? How can a tattoo change your life?”
“They can’t,” she said. “It’s what they represent. The barcode is my registry number. I’m a slave. Willingly, of course. The keyhole? It tells any man who recognizes it that I’m free to use. To fuck as they please.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said, eyes in shock. That statement made her laugh.
“Oh, but I am. When I met him, my life changed. I realized that I had been living a lie up until that moment and becoming his? That choice, that sacrifice set me free.”
“You became free? By becoming a sex slave?” he said, clearly not understanding.
“It’s hard to process, so let me tell you a story, you can write it down later, make it pretty, whatever. Call it Jane’s Journey,” she said, licking her lips. It goes something like this…
Jane’s Journey
Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Jane. She was a pretty woman, but she was unhappy. She worked hard, led a good life, had move on from dark parts of her life. But at the end of the day, no matter what she did, she felt no joy. No spark. Days, weeks, months, they all blended together. That continued until one day, while out at a bar, she met John. John was older by almost 20 years, but was in good shape, just a hint of gray hair, but most of all, he was direct. John didn’t play games.
See, John came up to her and didn’t just throw a one liner at her. He didn’t try to get in her panties. He didn’t ASK. Men like John, even when they give you a choice, it sounded and felt like a demand. An order. And well, that night, it touched a primal part of her that hadn’t been touched in a while. When he rested his hand on her ass, she didn’t shove it away. She probably could have, if she had been firm about it. Later when he stroked her face, it made her smile. And when his hand dropped to cup and massage her chest she tried to pull away. He slapped her for that. Then went back to it. She didn’t resist after that. He knew her type. He had guessed correctly her reaction. A token protest because society demanded it. But he was beyond what society wanted. What he wanted was her.
And an hour later, in his apartment, he got her. He choked Jane, slapped her, shoved her around. He fucked her brutally and she took it. In her mind, history was repeating itself. But this time, she was soaked, wet, wanted it. She felt alive. And after, he cuddled her tight in his arms and Jane felt safe in a way she hadn’t in a very long time. Later, she woke to him pushing her flat, shoving against her ass. She flailed, tried to stop him, but he slapped her and kept at it, until he was in her ass. She cried but didn’t struggle, as he forced himself deeper into her ass. After several painful minutes of fucking it, he came in her bowels. Then her head was jerked up and spun around and his cock was in her mouth. She tasted the shit and more, the sheer presumption that she would do it. But she did, she clean John’s cock and after, he held her tight again, stroking her hair, telling her how proud he was of her. It was confusing to say the least.
John and Jill started dating after that. Most of the time it was normal, and then, there would be the scary, exhilarating times, where John just did what he wanted. Often it hurt, often it humiliated her. But every time she felt alive. When they took a week-long vacation in the mountains, he kissed her, then punched her face, giving her a black eye. He hit her, tossed her around, and left her with a dozen bruises. She sobbed, but afterwards he told her how beautiful she was. That she was the most beautiful woman on Earth. And John meant it. He took her out to dinner, feeling embarrassed, feeling the looks at her like she was some battered woman.
But she didn’t feel battered. She felt his passion, his love. And sometimes that love hurt. But those hurts also made her feel alive. She grew to love the bruises, the pain, and every time he treated her worse and worse, she felt more and more alive. She’d encourage him to start, often went to work with bruises, as he had her move in, she just wanted to spend more and more of her time with him. He was what she was missing. Day by day, her world began to consist more and more of him. He would break her down more and more, but the smile, the hugs, were all worth it and she always got wet in the ways she never had before as he molded her willing body and mind to something better.
And one day, after a year after that first night of passion and anal rape, he told her what he wanted. He wanted Jane to be his, forever more. It wasn’t even a choice. She took the tattoo and quit her job, leaving her old world behind. Her molding intensified, he started sharing her regularly, and she slowly stopped thinking of herself as herself. She was John’s and that was all she needed and wanted. One day after leaving a bar, her body covered in cum and bruises, he asked her if she wanted to leave all choices behind. She nodded, because she knew it was what John wanted and her body wanted what he wanted as well.
So, Jane got her second special tattoo. One that marked her as free use to any man. Day to day her life was still mostly the same, but one day, a man grabbed her hand, smiled, and told her to follow him. She did, as he led her to a bathroom in the mall, shoved down her panties and fucked her in the bathroom. He came in her cunt, slapped her once, and left, never to be seen again.
On and off it would happen, most would just use her mouth or her cunt, some used her ass. A couple even raped her, just kicking her, shoving her around, punching her, and she came and cried and when John got home, he stroked her and told her that the life of a cunt could be hard. He’d always ask her if she had doubts, but she’d look up, bloody and broken, and smile, kissing the entirety of her world. It was worth it, for him.
“And that’s the story of Jane,” she said, stubbing out another cigarette and nodding at the woman at the door who was saying she would be up next. “Any questions?”
“How could you stay with a man who beat you, shared and passed you around? What about Feminism? Don’t you have any respect for yourself and what you had accomplished?” he said, just wild eyed and in shock. She sighed, knowing he would never understand.
“Sir,” she said, standing up, stroking his crotch, feeling his cock hard. They could act as society wanted them to, claiming outrage, but in the end, they were almost all the same. “Sir, John freed me. I am happy with myself, my place, and I feel joy almost every day. How many people get that?” She unzipped him, stroking his cock as he started to protest, but her expert hands had his eyes rolling back.
“He beats me because he knows it makes someone like me feel alive. He shares me and lets anyone that wants access to me have me because in those moments, I feel alive. Feminism? Fuck society’s broken idea of that. It’s about women having the power to make choices. And I made mine, to submit, to serve. Even to stroke your cock,” she said, smirking.
“I’m proud of who I am. I may be a cunt, but I’m the happiest fucking cunt I can be. I have joy in my life, do you?” she asked. As he shuddered, she leaned down, swallowing the reporter’s cum. She swallowed it all, enjoying his taste, teasing his head as he trembled. Then she stood up as the song on the stage outside died down.
“I’m free. To rape, to fuck, to use, to share. I’m free, I’m living in joy, and in my truth. That’s why I’m here, and why I’m like this. And I’m not ashamed,” she said as she tossed off her gown and walked off onto the stage, leaving the man hastily zipping up as she stepped out, leaving him behind. And then she danced for the men who watched her, wanted her, needed her, and she, as always, felt alive.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/dlyjvy/so_you_wanted_to_know_why_im_like_this_mf_nc
Hot, deeply written tale.