And Then I Was His Slut.

"How do I...." I was trying to phrase the question in a way that was least embarrassing to me, "What do I...say to him?"

I was playing coy. A little bit because I couldn't really believe what he was telling me to do and a little bit because I didn't want him to see that I really did want to do it. Of course it had come up before but only in whispers, and in breathy dirty nothings exchanged in scented letters and over secret midnight phone calls. It had come up like fantasies and sexual realities always come up, in the heat of the moment, but this, this wasn't the heat of the moment. 

"Don't​ pretend you don't know how to get a guy in bed," he smirked as he said, "We all know how you and I got together..."

It wasn't untrue and he never let go of an opportunity to remind me that I had somewhat of a reputation when it came to his circle of friends. I'd been with most of them before we got together and for several years in our relationship his constant humiliation of me had to do with the fact that I was the easiest slut him and his friends had ever come across. I was easy, maybe I still am, but back then if you had a condom I was good to go. Every day, for months, he'd told me how much shame I brought him by being this person but he couldn't help that he loved me despite it. Every day, he told me what his friends thought of me and what they said about us being together. 

"Do you really want me to do this?" I asked him seriously, maybe a part of me hoped he would say no, while another part of me knew I could only be with someone who would say yes to that question, "I'm serious, tell me." 

He looked at me. It was a look I learnt to identify and interpret later but back then it just looked like an evil look. I've seen two other people exhibit that look in my life and they were both raping me as they did it. It's a horrible look, a look that says I will deliberately do you evil, but it made me weak in the knees. 

"You're going to do this," he said. 

......

Five days later, I left his friend's house late in the afternoon after being underwhelming fucked by a disgusting ogrish man-boy. I told the driver to take me home while I texted him that I was going to French class. He hated it when I didn't see him every single day. It made him so mad. He would throw things and yell. I don't think that's something I could have put up with if I wasn't as young as I was. It scared me when I didn't do what he said because he truly could make me miserable if I upset him. Even as I rode home, I worried that he would show up outside French class to see me before I went back home. I worried that I wouldn't be able to explain why I had lied and he would think I was up to being "my old self" again. I worried he would break my little heart just so he could teach me a lesson. 

'*So did you do it?*' he replied to my text. 

A part of me was relieved he wasn't focused on the part where I wasn't coming to see him. Another part of me wanted to just forget the awful sex I had had for the benefit of no one. Yet another part, and this part wins every battle in my life for the next five years, loved that he would ask me to do such a thing. I didn't understand it so much back then. I saw it just as a man taking the object of his pleasure and making her do whatever he pleased. There's more to it. It's not all healthy sexual fetishism but it didn't matter so much back then. Nothing really mattered so much. So I told him that while the sex was awful, it felt good to he doing the things he made me do. I told him that it felt good that it didn't matter who was touching my body, so long as my body was doing what he told me to do. I bare my soul, I do, it's a weakness and a strength. Depends on who I reveal myself to. To him, I revealed everything, and it was a weakness. 

'*Slut.*' he replied to my lengthy texts. 

I didn't hear from him again for two whole days. 

.....

'*Come see me this evening*' I heard from him two days later. 

I hated that he was constantly doing this. Expecting me to be available whenever he wanted no matter what. Seriously, it didn't matter if I had class, an exam or a surgery scheduled. If he wanted to see me and I wasn't there it always meant that I didn't care about him. I didn't respect his needs. I didn't understand his feelings for me. I tried not to refuse when he said I should come see him, I just did what needed to be done to make it happen. 

'*I'll see you at 5,'* I told him. 

.....

Exactly at 5, I rang the doorbell to his apartment to no answer. I called him several times but when I got no response, I just sat outside and waited. He always did this. Not once in nine years of being with him was he ever on time. Not once. Not even when I was the one going to see him. One time he told me he was on the way from over from another city, every ten minutes he would say he was ten minutes away, but he arrived 24-hours later. That day he was back within the hour. Waiting for him had become such an integral part of my life. I hated it but it worked. When he was silent, I dreaded him most. 

I followed him up the stairs to his flat, he didn't say a word as we walked up. He didn't touch me or even say hello. He never apologized for being late, in fact, often times he managed to make me believe that it was my fault that he was late. I don't know how he did that but I remember, quite vividly, apologizing for his delay. As soon as we were inside his place, I sat down on the chair while he went into the bathroom. Sometimes I think he purposely spent hours in there just so he could make me wait for him some more. 

"You're never going to change," he said just as he came out of the bathroom, just in his jeans. 

He had that look on his face again. It made me want to crawl on the floor and spread my legs. 

"You'll always just be a slut who will have sex with anybody," he continued as he walked towards me and unbuckled his belt, "It doesn't matter who it is, you'll just fuck anyone..." 

"But you told me to..." I started to say when I felt his palm land against my cheek. Even today, if you slap me, I'm putty. 

I lay back and tried to protect my face when I saw him wrapping the belt around his fist. How I loved that belt. I worshipped it. Most people I've been with who want to hit you will tell you to take a position— bend over, lie back, spread your legs, something— he didn't care. He didn't care where he hit and where it landed so long as it met skin. And just like that he was beating me and I was tossing and turning. He was pulling me to him and undressing me. I was screaming and he was holding my mouth shut. I was begging and he was laughing. 

"I don't understand why I'm with you," he yelled between strokes, "You're such a slut, no one should be able to love you." 

Somewhere in the back of my mind I was confused about all of this. I couldn't really understand why he was doing this. After all, everything I had done had been his idea. But the back of your mind doesn't get its chance to speak until the the inside of your cunt stops speaking. And mine was, humming. I didn't want him to stop. I didn't want to understand what was going on. I just wanted the pain to never ever stop. 

"Do you ever wonder what people think of you?" He asked me while he pushed my head into the bed and his cock into my ass, "Everybody thinks you're a shameless, desperate slut." 

I figured he was probably right. In sane mind, I don't give two fucks if the whole world thinks I am a giant slut but with his cock up my ass and his fingers digging into the welts on my back, I felt like scum. As it often did with him, apologies fell out of my mouth before I could catch and question them. The more I told him I was sorry for being who I was, he harder he fucked he. The more I promised him to be good, the more he told me that I would never stop being this slut. 

"What are you?" He asked urgently pulling me back by my hair so my ear was right next his mouth. 

I felt his cum drip down my ass and to my thighs and he held me in a grip I couldn't get out of. 

"I'm a slut," I told him, with downcast eyes that make me want to wither away with shame. 

"No, you stupid cunt," he said tightening his grip on my hair and reaching over to touch me between my legs with the other hand, "You're *my* slut."

.....