Timmys Story Pt 01

I used to be called Timmy. Nowadays, I'm called anything that gets my attention (and I'm shamefully, pathetically attentive), usually something like 'pussy', 'cunt', or 'whore', but occasionally I do still get 'Timmy'. Often this is a sign that something really hard is coming - that I'm going to be asked for my consent to something further, some step further away from the fantasy that I could ever mean anything. Some step that will be agony to take, but which both I and whoever it is asking for it know that I will be helpless to resist.

I have never learned to feel happy about being called 'cunt'; it hurts every time (hurts not in some snowflakey emo way, but because it is such a direct and honest label for what I am, and probably what I am about to be used as, when I am so called), but it is much less frightening than being called 'Timmy'.

But back in the day (can it be less than three years?) I was called Timmy. Of course, that wasn't my given name - my weekend-hippy-turned-bourgeois parents gave me the name 'Timna', which had been shortened to Timmy by the time I was two, and which I never wanted to reclaim (ironically, it seems that Timna means 'protest' - not something I am not able to do, much less permitted). And so 'Timmy' I was.

When my story starts, I was 20, halfway through my studies at the Sorbonne, outwardly a good, upper-middle class French girl, careful of her appearance, quite pretty, a little sexy, very together, studying hard, working towards a 'right-on' but successful career, 'committed' to making the world a better place, while at the same time carefully conserving the family reputation and building its resources - the French way.

In reality, I was bored stupid, lost in some no-man's-land between the certainty that I did not want what my parents had, did not want 'the French way', and disdainful rejection of the various 'alternatives' that my hipper, 'cooler' classmates advocated - variously; drugs/rebel chic/rock and roll, activist, quasi-religious politics, or total renunciation/back to nature - all of which seeming like nothing beyond refusal to face the reality that life is meaningless. At least that's what I thought then.

Now, I know that life is meaningful - that it's my problem, that it's me who doesn't know how to mean anything, that the closest I can come to meaning, it seems, is to be a vehicle for the purposes of others. Others for whom it is abundantly clear that life has obvious meaning, for whom everything adds up. And that they only find me meaningful for the impersonal and untrammelled satisfaction of their animal desires - principally, and most insistently, their lust and their cruelty. That somehow, the ways in which I respond to being used like this (and also, I suppose, the particular features of my poor sweet body) are entertaining enough to make me a valuable possession, so that my subjugation is experienced in settings of equally obscene luxury.

In short, I am meaningful as cunt, but as nothing else.

I exist as a nameless sex-slave, passed from one rich pervert to another for large sums of money - passed on because cunt, in the end, is boring. What is entertaining to these people, what they really like, is the active degradation of cunt. When they first get to use me, I am new, different - my body and my mind are shaped according to my particular history, and there is mystery there, explorations to be made, voyages of discovery as to where my remaining shame is still raw, can still be teased into real fear, real distress, real despair, voyages of experiment too as to what I can achieve with, what can be done with, my soft and open body, in service of their pleasure.

But as time passes, the mysteries are resolved, the new territory annexed, more or less violently reshaped, and all that is left is my own will to please. Just another pathetic, eager, desperate cunt.

Because I am desperate; I strive, strive ever harder with each sale, strive to be entertaining, to expose my raw nerves for them, let them see the pain, the humiliation, the terror, to maintain and offer my body with total, sweet commitment. I strive both because I have to - because this is my only meaning, but also because I have seen, in this small and well hidden world, what happens to girls like me (am I still a girl? I should be clear) - to slave-cunt like me - when there is no-one left who finds them entertaining in that way. That there are lower circles of hell, still, to fall into.

But all of this is the end of my story, really, and I have said too much, perhaps, already. I hope not. For this story, too, is only meaningful if it serves your pleasure, your lust, your fantasies of cruel whims enacted without restraint upon a willing and well-formed young woman who is not only helpless to resist, but will be your sweet and willing partner as you casually, wantonly destroy her, who will giggle prettily for you in her weakness, nervous at the knowledge of what is coming for her, at how terrible it will be, smiling sadly at you, even while you can see in her eyes that she knows quite well where such complicity leads, that she knows there is no happy end.

I will begin to make good on this offer in the next chapter.