Show Me Your Pussy.

I have come to dread the anticipation of the nightly ring emanating from my computer. Time seems to have become warped. From the start of my day until five in the evening it seems to trudge, I can feel each second on the clock passing, announcing itself with a throbbing between my legs, but once evening arrives time seems to fly. The hours between five and nine seem to disappear like sand slipping through my fingers. At nine, each night, she calls. This tune that was once associated with ennui-laden business meetings that slogged on and on, now makes me shiver. A panic erupts inside my chest and even though I wait all day long to take her call, I wish I didn't have to be me when I do.

I prepare to take the call several minutes in advance and these moments I spend waiting are sure to become the most shameful memories I will have. There is nothing quite as potent as the shame one feels when they are alone. When I see myself set up my computer at the foot of the bed, gleeful in longing for the things she will say to me, I cannot help but wish I could destroy the mirror on the inside. The one in which I can always see myself. As I remove my clothes and unconsciously grab my breasts, squeezing them in my hands, before pushing my panties down through my ankles and to the floor, I feel the headiness of the moment, it feels like being hit in the nose with the back of a hand that was meant to swat your mouth. My eyes smart and I cannot keep them open, I cannot close them either, it's a stupor, not one that comes on slowly as glass-after-glass of wine disappears down your gullet, it's a sudden-onset stupor and it hits me in the chest like a cannon ball.

As the screen begins to ring, I kneel up in front of the computer to ensure I present to her only what she wants me to show. She doesn't want to see my face, she doesn't want to see my breasts, not my feet, nothing at all, she insists I answer the phone as nothing but my cunt. She doesn't talk to me, she talks to it. As soon as I answer the call, I move my hands away from her line of sight and place them behind my head, like a prisoner being inspected, not because there is something to find, but because the act of inspection is the humiliation in itself. As soon as she sees my pussy, she laughs. She doesn't say hello, she doesn't greet me or it, she just laughs. I suppose, I understand why she laughs, it is a laugh of pity and if I externalised myself I would pity myself as well. There is something pitiful about knowing this is what you must do to get off. She's not in my world, barely in my life, she doesn't even know my real name, I could so easily end this call, pull a vibrator out of the nightstand and end this. I could end the enforcement of her control that keeps me in this state and never think about it again, but I don't.

I cannot.

I don't want to.

I want her to call me every single night, to see my cunt presented to her instead of my face and laugh. As she laughs, I begin to moan and writhe. A lot of the weird stuff people like is easy to talk about, especially now, the world can handle floggers and choking, we're all doing it, but there are..these things. Maybe the world can handle these too, but how do you talk about them? How do you talk about being a woman who wants nothing more than to be seen as a pussy and humiliated?

I cannot.

I don't want to.

"I want to see my shoe use you," she says, "Rub yourself against my shoe, filthy little fuckhole."

I have her shoes lying beside me. She sent it to me. Well, to be more exact, I bought it from her for way more money than it is worth. It's not the kind of shoe you would expect, it's not a stilleto heel laden with gilt, it's a pair of well-worn loafers. I pick one up and place it against my cunt, holding it with both hands so it is steady enough for me to rub against. I rock back and forth over the shoe as the familiar fear of rocking too hard and pushing myself over the edge begins to preoccupy me like everyday. I moan helplessly, then I stop for a moment to keep myself from slipping, I moan again, I stop again. I begin to beg her. I am never sure if I am begging to be allowed to orgasm or begging her to stop bringing me so close.

"What is that I hear, cunt?" She asks, addressing my cunt and making me want to die, "Is a desperate little bitch opening a hole that isn't invited to this party?"

She tells me to smack my cunt with her shoe and the pain is a welcome respite from teetering around the edge, but it doesn't keep me from opening my mouth. I beg again, for something, it's impossible to tell what it is I want. I cannot explain this to people, not until they have spent months wandering around the edge of orgasm and never beyond it, and then I don't need to explain it. This longing never ends, it never reveals its object nor its goal, it just grows and grows and grows until you are driven mad by the depth of the filth-abyss. It is endless.

"It just won't shut the fuck up," she says, shaking her head, "It might be time to stuff its useless hole with my panties."

I bought those as well. They arrived earlier today, while I was still at work, and I spent all afternoon waiting to get home so I could tear open that package. I reach over to the plastic bag within which they lie, still sealed, and as soon as I break the seal, I can smell her. It isn't perfume and silk, it's cotton and cunt. I pull the wad of black cotton and stuff it into my mouth and as my tastebuds are overwhelmed by the feeling of her on my tongue, for the first time, I start to wonder if it may be time to remove the screen from this relationship and go over to her. I shake my head, as if to shake the thought out of my mind, and I focus on the continued assault on my pussy with her shoe.

"I think you need to be teased again, dirty cunt," she says, "My shoe seems ready to use you again, are you going to show it a good time?"

She animates her objects, as if they contain more life than I do, and maybe they do, I don't feel quite like a person. I don't feel like an animal either. I feel like an object that performs a single function. Just one part of a machine in a factory, a part that will never know what it contributed to making, a part that mindlessly continues to perform the only function it understands. I go back to humping her shoe, my pleas and groans of pleasure and need are pacified by the fabric I hold between my teeth. I begin to go mad with desire, unable to hold myself up on my knees, I sink lower and I begin to jump on top of her shoe.

"Stop," she says before I can drown in this quiet cacophony of arousal, "I am sick of watching this disgusting show."

I want to beg her to stop. To stay. To just play with me a little bit longer. However, that's not the deal. I am not allowed to speak to her. I will never speak to her at all. Somedays she plays with my pussy for hours and other days for a few minutes, and I take whatever she gives me, because her alms are like warm strokes of fingers against my clit, being a beggar for her attention is the only language with which I may express myself to her.

"Show me how dirty this pussy is before I go," she says, "Lean back and lift your legs to your shoulders, I want to see everything."

I lay back and raise my knees to my shoulders. I hate being in this position, I am convinced that we were never supposed to be in this position. It's too much exposure. Yet I wait for this moment, I think about this moment all day long. I can feel her looking at my holes, drenched and exposed, pathetic-looking, like a sad catalogue from decades gone by buried under old linens in a forgotten trunk. She laughs again, just as she did when I first answered her call.

"This is the most pathetic pussy I have ever seen," she says.

She laughs again.

And then she disappears back into the mire of the internet from which I cannot extricate her unless she chooses to come back.

I stay in that position and pull a pillow over my face.

Shame is most potent when you feel it alone.