The Slut Show

Show your manners and present your body for the men to see, slut. The man I know only as “Dean” has added me to a chat group of random men who know each other only from the internet. The group is called “Degrade and Abuse” and that’s what we’re all here for. Until I ask to leave the group, they can tell me to do anything they want. Up until a minute ago, I would have described myself as curious, nervous, and incredulous that I was doing such a stupid thing. Now, I’m suddenly more turned on than I’ve been in my entire life. My hands shake as I unbutton my jeans. 

I get on my knees, snap a photo of my naked body from the neck down and hit send. Usually I take five nudes and send the best one, but Dean has specified in-app photos and the app doesn’t save them if you don’t send them. And, the chat is already filling up with messages demanding to see me. The photo shows the tattoo over my left breast, a no-no for sharing photos with strangers like this. I hope that I can keep my face out of future pictures. There is so much technology out there to connect my professional self to my nudes, or even create nudes from scratch using deepfake technology. But if I’m being honest with myself, the risk is part of what is making my pussy so wet it threatens to leave a puddle on the floor. 

With some difficulty because photographing your own butt is hard, I comply with their next request to Turn around and let’s see the whore from behind. Welp, there’s my other tattoo, good thing practically everyone I know has this black linework botanical bullshit on their shoulders. And I really don’t know what to do with the request to spread your ass for me. I don’t have three hands and the camera doesn’t have a timer. I decide to go for a short video instead. I’m so wet my hands slip. 

Thank god they let me lie down next and show them my fingers slipping in and out of my glistening folds. Much easier to photograph, for one, and less danger of showing recognizable parts of my body, plus I might pass out from horniness if I have to remain standing and not touching myself. The quick escalation to seeing the most private parts of me makes me throb even harder with a potent hormonal cocktail of eroticized fear—we’re less than 10 minutes in and I’m already showing them my pussy, where else is this going to go? I could see myself falling down this rabbit hole big time. Chasing the intensity, going more and more extreme to recreate the feeling of this first time. 

Beg us to abuse and degrade you. Oh good, words, my favorite. I’ve gotten good with using words to drive my long distance lover wild these last few months. Maybe if I beg good enough I can stroke my aching pussy in peace for a few minutes. But no, the anonymous men demand to hear my voice begging on video. It’s not that I don’t want to, but it scares me. So much of my kink since the pandemic has been conducted through text. Using my voice forces me to inhabit my body, not just my head. It makes it more intimate, more real, and it forces a decision about whether I want to put a character spin on it...Do I try to sound sensual like a porn star? Scared like a submissive? Is my normal voice “sexy enough?” 

The weird thing is that in a context like this it doesn’t really matter if I am “sexy enough.” The entire point of this exercise is to shatter my ego into oblivion. They won’t say nice things about me because that’s not what any of us is looking for from this space. I won’t be enough for them and there will be a stream of “sluts” before me and after me who also won’t be enough for them, and how we look or sound won’t matter. And yet, if they’re truly not turned on by the experience of having me totally in their control because my thighs are too jiggly or something…. how SAD for them! And that doesn’t affect the experience I’m having at all. It’s weirdly freeing. I speak the script in my normal voice and don’t listen back to the video. 

One person leaves the chat. I find myself intensely curious about him. Is he in the middle of a date and doesn’t want the notifications of anonymous genitalia blowing up his phone? Is he feeling uncomfortable with his participation in nonstop intense objectification? Will he be back? 

Who are the men in my anonymous audience? Maybe they are like me, feminists with a perverted side they want to explore safely. Maybe they are genuinely bad dudes who feel entitled to treat any woman this way, not just the ones who are into it. They could be rapists, white supremacists, people I would never want to erotically relate to in real life. My worry is not so much for my own safety, but that by saying yes to the premise of men’s complete control of women, of me, I have helped set a dangerous precedent for the next woman.

Erotic imaginations are powerful. I’ve felt the pull in my own body towards ever fewer limits. I could well imagine someone who has access to a stream of women saying yes to his every whim missing the distinction of consent, and getting addicted. What kind of responsibility would I hold were that to happen, and would I ever know? I think about the latest in a long lineage of white male mass murderers who blamed his violent choices on women’s sexual availability to him or lack thereof. These men are radicalized by the communities they find on the internet, just a search term away from where I found this chat room. There was no vetting for me to join, all I had to do was be willing to take my clothes off. I’d assume there was just as little vetting for the men.

I can’t dwell on my second thoughts because the instructions are coming fast and furious in the chat. They want a toy in my ass—Let’s see the biggest one you got. Here, I depart from their instructions for the first time. They don’t know my toy collection; I can’t actually take my biggest butt toy, especially not warmed up, which is why I recently purchased a smaller one. I insert that one and they are perfectly happy, as am I since it actually feels good. I ask permission to cum, knowing it will be denied this early in the game but that it will probably turn them on even more to think of having that extra control over me. 

Now that they know I have a well stocked toy drawer, they want more and more toys: rope around my breasts and my neck, nipple clamps. Neck rope that I’ve tied myself is within my kink boundaries, and I know that it will be a visual thrill while being relatively safe. It takes a while to re-engage my brain enough to remember how to tie a simple breast harness. The texts pile up un-answered. If I needed a reminder that I’m still actually 100% in charge of this scenario, this is it. They can call me a disobedient bitch all they want but I’m not going to compromise my aesthetic or safety standards. I send a photo with my hand on the neck rope as though it is choking me, though it’s actually holding it in place. They immediately want more. 

The commands overlap such that there is no way to do it all. Sometimes three men are asking for the same thing, their horny minds in tandem—a video of me sucking on a dildo. Sometimes the men are asking for different things, which gives me some choice of what to do first, what to ignore. Someone said nipple clamps, and that sounds more fun for me than sucking on a dildo. This isn’t a democracy. Since putting them on takes both hands, I give myself a break from sending pics and don’t send them any process shots, just the final result. Just the knowledge that so many horny strangers are waiting for me is keeping me aroused nearly at my breaking point; the actual reality of interacting with them I can take or leave. I capture video of twisting the clothespins nearly 360 degrees; it looks painful but the sensation is processed immediately into pleasure by my spinning brain. 

I’ve reached the point where I can’t stall any longer on giving them the dildo blow job they are clamoring for. They want me to take the silicone cock all the way down my throat. I’m not excited about the prospect; I will push my throat when sucking cock because I know it’s extra good for the cock owner, but to just fuck up my own throat for the sake of a photo seems like a waste. And it’s going to be hard to avoid showing my face. And yet, there’s that thrill again of having given up my right to choose or control the situation. I get curious about how far I can push it. I whine about the dildo feeling too good in my pussy, and Dean chimes in telling me to be a good girl and obey. I hate how much I love that. And honestly, it’s probably hotter for them to know that they are pushing my limits. I end up trying to swallow the dildo and gagging theatrically, and they don’t push it further. I “blame” my strong gag reflex on the fact that my husband has an average-sized cock, and they go wild, as I suspected they would. Now they want me to suck his cock on video. He’s in the next room playing video games and would not be into this at all—he lets me play with others because he’s pretty vanilla but wants to make sure I’m sexually fulfilled. I tell them he’s out and that I have to have dinner waiting when he gets home. It’s a Saturday but they lap up the 1950’s housewife vibe all the same.  

Why am I into this? I ask myself that over and over again, and the words that come to mind are “put me in my place.” As a feminist, it’s an uncomfortable phrase. In my vanilla life, I am trying to take up more space and show more leadership. And yet, it’s a difficult process where I’ve faced a lot of rejection. There’s something… comforting...? about the idea that, while I’m giving people pleasure here, I’m not “special.” I don’t have to craft the perfect experience because there is no perfect experience for 20 different guys all over the world. I’m not responsible for coming up with my own ideas, just complying with theirs. I’m just an anonymous slut on the internet and there will be another one along soon. 

At this point, another woman enters the chat. I’ve been told that it’s mostly “one slut at a time” but that more women get added periodically. It’s fine with me because I’m ready to tap out at this point, but I find her approach really weird. She says she can’t do live photos or videos and just spams the chat with photos from past play in quick succession, without waiting for the men to tell her what they want to see from her. I’m curious what’s in it for her—if she can’t do live photos, is that because she’s in a place where she can’t give her full focus to this experience? Why would she want to do something this intense in such a half-assed way? I wonder if she is, in fact, not the petite blonde woman in the photos at all. Sharing stolen nudes seems to be a very common kink, though I had to provide a “verification” photo before I started. Interestingly, none of the men interact with her at all. 

I say I need to go but it looks like you have a new toy to play with! They clamor to see me cum before I go. I am happy to try. I’ve never captured my orgasm on video, but I’m finally turned on enough for it to happen. For the last few minutes I’ve been deliberately holding it back, but the feeling of imminent climax is getting stronger and harder to ignore. I know I won’t be able to come back from the edge this time. The video button in the chat program I’m using thwarts me, though. There’s one button that you press for photo or hold for video, and there’s only a very subtle haptic notification that video is working that I’m way too wound up to feel. I am dutifully holding down the button and not recording anything. But my orgasm rips through me nonetheless, leaving me panting and shaking. Dean removes me from the chat.

Photo by Pixabay