Slutever Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  SADOMASOCHIST IN TRAINING

  Book Bitch

  I met my slave online, where I meet all my friends.

  It was the winter of 2010 and I’d been living in New York for just a couple of weeks. I’d yet to make any money or friends—save for Max, who was more of an infatuation than a friend—so I spent the majority of my time alone in my apartment, staring at the internet. Around that time, there was this random dude from England who kept sending me Facebook messages asking if he could buy me stuff. He looked normal. Creepily normal, in fact—the sort of person who you don’t notice even when you’re looking at them. He was in his early thirties with a dad-bod, brown hair, nondescript clothing, and that vaguely inbred-looking face that all British people have. He’d send me messages like “Hello there Your Highness, is there anything you need that I can buy for you?” I figured he was trolling me. However, after numerous emails of this type, I figured I might as well see if this dude was for real, so I sent him an Amazon wish list of books that I thought would look impressive on my shelf, in case my pseudoboyfriend ever came over. Sure enough, within a couple of hours he’d cleaned out my wish list. I was like…word.

  Pretty soon, I was receiving books from this dude in the mail almost every day. In return, I’d send him photos of myself reading them (and occasionally licking them, when he asked nicely). It was pretty simple. But not so surprisingly, things turned bizarre pretty quickly. I clocked that something unusual was going on the day he sent me a video of himself on all fours, crying, begging to buy me more books. Then came a series of selfies of him with BOOK BITCH carved into various parts of his body, smiling and holding up a bloody knife. And then there were the excessive TL;DR emails he’d send, telling me that I owned him. He was coming on a bit strong.

  At the time, I sort of knew about BDSM, but only vaguely. Remember, this was pre–Fifty Shades, back before every basic bitch on the planet kept a leather paddle in her handbag. I mean, I wasn’t totally clueless. I had pretended to read the Marquis de Sade in high school. Plus, I had that weird experience with the self-righteous house-cleaning slave from the squat. Thanks to that, I had a general understanding that there are dudes in the world who get off on doing mundane tasks for apathetic women. Also, given that I wasn’t raised in a black hole, I was familiar with the aesthetics of bondage, which have been present in culture in various forms over centuries. I had long been a fan of the photographer Helmut Newton, whose decadent and erotic images marry fashion and fetish. I’d seen iconic photos of gay leather daddies from the fifties, and Robert Mapplethorpe’s images of hot gay guys dressed up in latex, piercing each other’s buff bodies. And let’s be real, I grew up Catholic—the stations of the cross is basically BDSM 101. Essentially, I had a Tumblr-level understanding of sadomasochism.

  As pathetic as Book Bitch was, I really have him to thank for introducing me to the world of BDSM (which is a compound acronym that incorporates bondage and discipline, domination and submission, and sadomasochism; and sorry if that goes without saying). It didn’t take long for the relationship between Book Bitch and me to evolve beyond Amazon wish lists and self-harm videos. Soon he started begging to pay my rent. (Well, begging is probably an overstatement; I didn’t take much convincing.) Turns out, Book Bitch was a cash pig. Also known as a human ATM, or a pay pig, or a money slave. Translation: Book Bitch was into financial domination, which is an element of dominance and submission (D/s for short) in which a (usually male) submissive gets off on giving money and gifts to a financially dominant woman (also known as money mistress, findomme, or money domme). In other words, Book Bitch was the holy grail of slaves. Like, an average email from him would read: “Take my money, please Karley! I want you to have it, PLEASE. I’ll send it right now, please don’t say no!” Subtlety was never his thing.

  Book Bitch began PayPal-ing me rent money in weekly installments, in exchange for degrading emails and Skype humiliation. Who knew that treating someone like shit could actually make them like you more? (Actually, I’m pretty sure that everyone knows that. Cue Max.) The humiliation was primarily centered around him having a tiny, inadequate dick. (His dick was actually normal size, but he asked me to pretend that it was tiny, and once confessed that he was actively looking into penis reduction surgery.) So I’d be like, “Your penis is basically invisible.” And he’d be like, “Here’s a hundred dollars.” It was all very sophisticated.

  At first I was just amused and vaguely grossed out by him. But unexpectedly, in the weeks that followed, we developed what I suppose could be called a friendship. Or at least, we would confide in each other quite a bit, which I guess is what friends do? For instance, I’d talk to him about how the guy I was dating didn’t want to have sex with me, and he’d tell me about how he couldn’t have sex with a woman without crying. Or he’d regale me with stories, like the one about the time he was meant to go see MGMT with a prostitute he met on a fetish forum, but then she didn’t show up, so he stood in a corner by himself, creepily smiling at strangers and wishing he had friends. Or the one about the fifteen-year-old girl whose phone bill he was paying, who (ironically) wouldn’t answer his phone calls. His stories were unanimously depressing, but on the plus side they made my life seem less tragic in comparison.

  Our Skype sessions tended to follow a similar routine: For the first ten minutes he would jerk off while I told him he was pathetic and would never get a girlfriend. Then, after he came, I’d ask him questions about his cash pig exploits. A typical Friday night for Book Bitch generally went down like this: He’d start chatting with a woman on a fetish forum, he’d meet up with her at an ATM, and then she’d force him to get down on his knees and take out £300 for her. And that was it. That was his passion. Another one of his hobbies was to show up at a restaurant at the end of a woman’s date and pay the check for her and her boyfriend, and then he’d go home and jerk off. He said the amount of money he gave to women per month was directly proportional to how often he got horny. When he was getting laid regularly (so basically never) he barely gave away any money. But the more he went out drinking, the more horny he would get, and the more often he’d wake up in the morning and realize there was £500 missing from his account. He said that some of the people he sent money to online were definitely men posing as women, but that usually he was too horny to care. (I mean, gender is over anyway.) (Just kidding.)

  Sadly, a couple of months into our friendship, I received what was essentially a breakup email from Book Bitch, saying that he’d been laid off from his job and couldn’t afford to send me money for a while. (What is it with slaves dumping me?!) He also hinted at the fact that I was never very good at insulting him, and that I was “too nice” (translation: a bad dominatrix). I was hurt…sort of. But our relationship had sparked my interest in the world of BDSM, and as a parting gift, Book Bitch gave me the contact information of a prominent New York dominatrix, saying that if I really wanted to learn the ropes and become a good sadist, I should spend some quality time with her. And this is how I came to meet the woman who would change my life, for better and for worse: Mistress Daisy.

  Peeing My Way to the Top

  The first thing I learned from Googling Mistress Daisy was that she’s “New York’s reigning queen of forced-bi.” Forced-bi, I also discovered, is when you make straight guys suck cock as a form of degradation, and since not all dommes do this, it’s sort of a big deal. She seemed impressive. So I decided to call up the Mistress to ask if I could tag along with her for a few days, hoping that the experience would help me decide if the dominatrix life was truly what God or Satan or whoever had always intended for me. To my surprise, she said yeah, she would love to have me. She said quite a few of her clients were into having “civilians” observe their sessions—I guess it adds to the humiliation factor—so this arrangement could work out for her, too.

  My first visit to Daisy’s home was on a Tuesday afternoon to watch what her email described as a “1-hour in-person w/ male submissive.”
She answered the door wearing a sheer red thong and nothing else. Wavy chestnut hair, porcelain skin, huge tits for someone so petite. “Cool, you’re not ugly,” she said, and motioned for me to come in.

  The first thing you notice after entering Daisy’s apartment is the chandelier hanging at the center of the spacious living room, made entirely of glass butt plugs. As I walked in, a cool breeze came through the open window, causing the butt plugs to clink together, making a pleasant chiming sound. The walls of the room were lined with metal meat hooks, like the interior of a slaughterhouse. On one wall sat a large antique cabinet with glass doors, full of a combination of sex toys and torture tools. There was one shelf for dildos (there must have been a good twenty or thirty in there, all shapes, sizes, and colors, including one terrifyingly large black dildo that looked capable of damage I was reluctant to even imagine), one shelf for gags, one for masks (including a pink latex balaclava), one for whips, and so on. On the wall opposite, where most people would have probably put, like, a couch, sat an authentic stainless steel autopsy table. “A dominatrix friend of mine bought that at some sort of morgue-going-out-of-business sale,” Daisy explained casually, “but she ended up giving it to me because it was creeping out her roommates.” She paused, thoughtful. “It really comes in handy—ya know, autopsy fantasies, zombie role play, and my personal favorite: necrophilia fetish.” Later on in our friendship, Daisy would blame the interior decoration of her apartment for the fact that she’d been single for more than five years.

  “Just to warn you,” Daisy said between swishes of Listerine, “the guy that’s coming over sort of looks like a troll. Like, he’s old and short and has this weird hunchback thing. I think it might be scoliosis? Whatever, he’s harmless.” She pulled a black latex dress with military epaulettes, and matching latex knee-high boots from her closet. The dress was so impossibly tight that she had to cover her body in lube in order to get it on. Daisy was pretty in a 1930s movie-star kind of way, with a face that seemed to belong to another time. She reminded me of Audrey from Twin Peaks, only sluttier. “Oh shit, I forgot I have to piss on him,” she said, and ran to the kitchen to chug three glasses of water.

  When the doorbell rang, Mistress Daisy instructed me to hide in the bathroom and not to come out until she said so. She said the slave didn’t know I was coming, and that she wanted him to be surprised. So I sat waiting in the bathroom with my ear pressed against the door, feeling either excited or just nauseated—it was hard to tell. Soon I heard what sounded like a belt being undone and shoes coming off. I heard Daisy’s muffled voice saying, “I did a three-hour dungeon session last night, and these boots are filthy.” A few minutes later she called my name and I emerged from the bathroom feeling sort of like a stripper popping out of a birthday cake. What I found was the slave naked on all fours, aggressively lapping up the myriad day-old bodily fluids from Daisy’s boots. He crawled over to me, panting and drooling, and kissed my bare feet. “You can kick him if you want to,” she said. I told her I was fine for the moment. “Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “I was just trying to be a good host.”

  Daisy reached into her cabinet of pain and pulled out a tool consisting of two parallel metal bars clamped together at their ends. She then grabbed the slave’s balls and pulled them back toward his ass, clamping the base of his scrotum into the center of the bars, which sat horizontally behind his thighs. “Now try and stand,” she said teasingly, after which he made a feeble attempt to extend his legs, only to collapse to the floor in pain. This happened a few more times, each collapse followed promptly by a “Thank you, Mistress.” Eventually she pulled what was left of him up off the floor and rode him around like a horse for a while, giving him some vague verbal encouragement but mainly just looking absently at her nails. What surprised me most about Daisy in that first meeting was her demeanor. She wasn’t super angry or serious; she never raised her voice or yelled. Rather, she was really giggly and relaxed and self-aware, which seemed at odds with the image of the evil, man-hating sadist that I’d always imagined a dominatrix to be. She sort of flipped back and forth between being really “in it” and being obviously bored. At one point she was literally whipping the guy’s balls with one hand and texting with the other.

  Somewhere around the half-hour mark, Daisy led the slave to the bathroom and ordered him to lie faceup on the shower floor. I sat on the toilet and watched as she crouched over his wrinkled body and began pissing into his open mouth. Her bladder control was impressive, to say the least. She had this incredible ability to pee until the exact moment that his mouth was full to the brim with urine, stop and wait while he swallowed, and then begin her flow again with total ease. It was really amazing to watch. Only once did a tiny trickle of pee escape his mouth and drip down his cheek, at which point she shouted furiously, “DO NOT WASTE ANY OF MY PRECIOUS URINE!” The slave apologized profusely.

  Somewhere in the midst of the urine therapy I found myself thinking, Wait, is this, like, weird or gross or something? I quickly decided that yes, it was gross—but like, gross in an endearing way? I tried not to overanalyze, and went back to taking dorky notes on my very journalistic notepad. When she was done peeing, Daisy shoved her foot far down the guy’s throat and thanked him for being a “good little toilet.” The look on his face could only be described as pride.

  In the bedroom, Daisy and I shared a box of Godiva chocolates on her bed, resting our legs on the back of the slave, who had positioned himself to be our footstool. However, because of his hunchback situation, his body formed a stool that was more rounded than flat. “Oh my god, drop your hunchback down!” Daisy shouted, her mouth full of chocolate. “We literally have to crane our legs to rest them on you…Ugh!” And then she just laughed and popped another chocolate into her mouth, like, no big deal.

  For the session’s finale, Daisy ordered the slave to jerk off onto a paper plate, then proceeded to spoon-feed him his own come, swooshing the jizz-filled spoon around like an airplane—like you see mothers do with their toddlers—before shoving it into his mouth. I breathed through my nose, silently telling myself not to puke. As it turns out, watching a man consume bodily fluids for an hour is incredibly nauseating—at least, until you get used to it. This, I would soon learn, is the reason that BDSM dungeons require new dommes to undergo what’s called a “desensitization period” before they can be officially hired for a staff dominatrix position. It’s pretty much basic training, only far from the type that my dad had always planned for me. It essentially involves sitting on the sidelines during sessions led by other dommes until you’re able to watch a man gargle urine without either passing out or vomiting (a valuable life skill, no matter your profession). Vomiting on the job isn’t chill because it breaks the illusion that you’re “into” whatever kinky shit you’re being paid to do to/for your sub. Unless, of course, the sub pays you to barf on him—known as a “Roman session”—which is a different story.

  After the session was over, the slave excused himself to shower and get dressed, and soon emerged with a bright smile, passing for a totally noncontroversial member of society. But before he left he got down on his knees and thanked Daisy. This thank-you was different, less role play, more honest. You could tell that the past hour had truly been of value to him. That somehow, being reduced to a human toilet was exactly the medicine that this man needed.

  Maybe reading this today, in a world where you can literally buy a whip at Victoria’s Secret, everything I just explained seems like old news to you. But at the time, the idea that someone could make a living by peeing into the mouths of random investment bankers was pretty shocking to me. And it was all so casual, like these dudes just leave on their lunch breaks to go chug some pee and then head back to Goldman Sachs or whatever. That’s funny, right? It makes me feel better about the world somehow. And while it wasn’t like I had some crazy revelation after that first session—no lightbulbs went off inside my bladder—I was definitely intrigued. And so began my desensitization period.
/>   Later that week, I showed up at Daisy’s to find her midsession with a middle-aged Hasidic Jew who, she’d previously informed me, was into public humiliation and chastity. He was naked except for a pair of zebra-print panties and some studded leather handcuffs. Daisy was applying red lipstick to his pursed lips, saying over and over, “What a pretty little slut you are!” Underneath his thong, the guy’s dick was locked in a plastic chastity belt, the pressure of which had turned his balls the color of raw meat. This guy was a lot more playful and smiley than the previous slave. Like, he could easily have been your favorite science teacher in high school, or your goofy landlord (for a second I was like, Wait, is that my landlord?). I can’t explain it, but I sort of wanted to give him a hug.

  The three of us left Daisy’s apartment and walked to a nearby sex shop. Inside, Daisy ordered the slave to take off his coat, then scribbled the word “SLUT” across his chest in red lipstick. They browsed the store together, picking out a pair of fishnet thigh-highs and a rainbow penis lollipop. At the checkout counter Daisy gave him a knowing stare, and he immediately burst into song, singing a little jingle that had obviously been composed in anticipation of this moment.

  I’ve got all holes available

  Tell all your friends I’m salable

  I want to be used, abused, bent over your dinner table

  A faggy slut with all holes available

  The slave sang this through a couple of times, looking sort of embarrassed but also like he was about to come. The cashier—an apathetic black guy—was completely unfazed, like he’d seen this a million times. “All riiight, man,” he said, nodding in slow motion. “Whatever you say.”