Important questions

I don't know where this story comes from. I just kind of thought of it this morning while I was getting up. The look on her face as she spoke, the smirk in her eyes, the tease in her tone... they were all there, ready to go, waiting for me to sit down and start writing.

I still need more requests. But in the meantime, please enjoy....

Important Questions

            I have to wonder. What do you find humiliating?

            Some men like to be insulted about the size of their cock. But you don’t have a small cock. I’m not saying it’s huge or that you should be in porno, but it’s not exactly small. It’s of fairly average size, I think. Big enough to do what it needs to do, not so big that it will frighten anyone.

            I can’t insult your weight. You’re no Adonis, but you’re not in bad shape. A few extra pounds here and there, but no one is perfect. I don’t expect you to spend all your time in the gym. You’re fit enough.

            And sure, there are a few stretch marks from where you gained a bit of pounds here and there. But that’s life, isn’t it? Nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly nothing I can insult you for. I’ve got marks of my own; it happens.

            You’re not disgusting to look at. If you were, I wouldn’t be interested in you. I know that sounds shallow, but it’s the truth. There has to be something about you that’s easy on the eyes.

            And you’re not an idiot. You’re not dull or boring. If you were, I wouldn’t care about you. I wouldn’t want to be here, wouldn’t want to do any of this. If you actually were a pathetic little shit, a worm barely worthy of licking the soles of my boots, then I’m not sure I could respect you enough to let you do it.

            You’re not a failure. I don’t know if you’ve succeeded at everything you’ve ever tried; probably not. But then, who has? The only people who always succeed are the people who never try anything difficult. You’ve had failures, but that’s part of life, isn’t it? You have a job, you make enough money to support yourself, and enough money to go out on dates. That’s something, isn’t it?

            I can’t insult your wallet. I can’t insult your brain. I can’t insult your body, or the size of your penis. What, then, can I go after? How am I meant to humiliate you?

            You’re not perfect. But no one is.

            I can’t humiliate you based on sexuality. If you are gay, if you do like sucking cock, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s nothing wrong with being homosexual. I know the word ‘faggot’ might get you a bit riled up, but that’s just feeding into a stereotype. Liking men doesn’t make you less of a man. There’s nothing wrong with you wanting so badly to suck cock. There’s nothing wrong with you begging to be fucked in the ass. It feels good. We both know that. So why would it be degrading?

            And besides, you can’t be gay. You’re here with me. I’m a woman, all the way down to the chromosomes. And you think I’m sexy, don’t you? Of course you do. So you’re not gay. You might be bisexual, or even sapiosexual. But not homosexual. And if you were, so what? There’s nothing humiliating about that. No, I have to find something else.

            I could go after the fact that you want to be humiliated in the first place. I could say that you should be ashamed of the fact that you get an erection when I suggest that you are a faggot. That it turns you on to think of being gang banged by dozens of men, guys with huge cocks filling your ass and your face, pounding away at you with reckless abandon, drowning you in cum and filling your insides with sperm. I could say that you should be ashamed of the fact that you like that idea.

            I could call you a liar. Tell you that it’s pathetic the way you insist that you’re straight, but have so many gay fantasies. But I don’t think that’s it, is it? You don’t insist you’re straight. You’re bi curious. So having gay fantasies shouldn’t even be a surprise.

            And besides, it has nothing to do with being gay or straight or bi. It’s not about any of that. It’s about the submission. It’s about being tossed around like a rag doll, being passed around a circle of men like some kind of fuck puppet, like a dumpster for cum, a receptacle for waste. You aren’t turned on by the men themselves. It’s the idea of it. It’s the submission, the lack of power. You’d be just as happy if you were being violated by women with strap ons, wouldn’t you?

            I can’t insult you for that. I can’t humiliate you for being submissive. What’s wrong with submission? If there were no submissives, there would be no dominants. No one to dominate means no fun. Or, worse, it means the only way to satisfy that kink would be without consent. I don’t want to do that. I like to think that most people don’t want to commit rape. I’m no rapist. I like that you want to submit. It’s one of my favorite things about you. How can I humiliate you for one of my favorite things about you?

            I can’t humiliate you for wanting to lick my boots. It’s a fetish. And that’s okay. You like to run your eyes up and down my legs, to see the leather pulled so tightly against my flesh it’s like a second skin. You like to see the long heel, the tight buckled straps, the sharp toe. You like to think about being kicked, about being trampled. And you love to worship them. You like the smell, you like the feel of the leather. And you love to run your tongue up them, don’t you? You love to slide your tongue into that little groove between my foot and the sole, and the arch at the top of the heel. You love to lick the inside of my foot, the curve of my calf muscles, the lines of my leg.

            You love it, and I love it too. I love the soft pressure, the gentle firmness of your tongue as it works its way around me. I love the attention, the focus. And I love watching you. The way your eyes close, the calm and placid look that comes over your face. I love the obvious joy you feel licking them, and how doing that, and only that, is enough for you. You would happily lick my boots clean every day, even if there was nothing else, even if we went no further. You don’t want, or need, to pressure me for more. You’re happy just licking them. And I’m happy getting all that attention.

            So how can I humiliate you for that? Do I say that it’s disgusting? I can’t do that; I enjoy it. Do I say that it’s perverted? Of course it is; that’s the point. Do I say that it’s not normal? Fuck normal. I can’t deride you for doing something that both of us love so much.

            And I can’t humiliate you for your fantasies. How am I supposed to do that? I have my own fantasies. Some of them are dark. Sometimes I think about kidnapping you. I imagine following you through the parking garage, timing my steps so they land at the same time as yours, so you don’t know I’m there. I imagine walking up behind you as you get to your car, then jabbing a taser into your side. I imagine you convulsing as I push you up into the trunk, then drive away.

            I imagine you waking up locked in the trunk, no idea who took you or where you’re going. And when we get there, I’m wearing a mask, and I put you out again. You wake up naked and tied up, with no idea if it’s me or not. And I beat you, savagely. I fuck you hard, and I ignore any attempt you make to get me to stop. I imagine pushing your battered and brutally fucked body out of the car, completely naked, a whole floor above your parking spot, leaving you to wonder what happened and never telling you it was me.

            I have dark fantasies. How can I humiliate you for yours?

            Anything I try to do will seem so fake, so forced. Am I supposed to call an average sized penis a tiny nub? Do I call someone who is sensitive and kind a sissy? Do I insist that one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever known is stupid? Do I call someone I love a thing?

            It doesn’t make sense. I can’t do it.

            I can’t even point out how hard you are right now, how turned on you are by all the things I’ve suggested, as something worth being ashamed of. I don’t want you to be ashamed.

            That, I think, is the crux of it. I don’t want you to feel ashamed of your desires. I don’t want you to think that it’s wrong to want to be my doormat, to have me stand on you, grind my heel into your flesh, and wipe mud off on your skin. I don’t want you think that it’s wrong to want me to fuck you in the ass with a strap on, then demand that you lick it clean to see if you’ve used an enema to clean out your ass like I instructed. I don’t want you to be ashamed that you want me to hang you from your wrists and beat you like a punching bag until you cry.

            I want you to be proud of the things you feel. I want you to be proud of your desires. I want you to be proud of the suffering you go through to feed the sadist in me. I want you to be proud of the lengths you will go to for my pleasure, of the depths you will lower yourself at my whim. I want you to be proud of yourself. Proud of your desires.

            How can I humiliate you for your desires, even the most depraved and, frankly, disgusting wishes when they all come from a place of servitude to me? I don’t see how that works. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to make you feel bad about the things you want. I like that you want them. I love that you’ll do them for me. I love that if I told you to, you’d lick your own cum off my boots. I love that you’d lick someone else’s cum from my boots. I love that you’d keep licking them if I told you I stepped in dog shit. I love that you’d let me put a hood on you and then have half a dozen people watch as I whip you until you cry. I love that you’d let me rent you out to a friend, that it would turn you on to be called a cheap whore.

            I love all those things about you. How am I supposed to make you feel ashamed of them? How am I supposed to humiliate you?

            How?