Always 9

I've always wanted to be a sex slave. Even writing those words makes me feel warm and comfortable. Safe. Secure. Like snuggling under a warm duvet. It's all I've ever wanted.

Of course, I never told anyone when I was a child. I don't think I even knew it in definite terms. I put forward a front of normalcy. Locked away my desires behind a facade. I was a pretty girl, I know. I'm told things come easily to pretty girls. It never felt that way to me, but I guess things dropped into my lap. As an only child, my parents spoiled me a bit. I had the toys I wanted, the dresses, the after-school clubs. The birthday parties. I used to have fabulous birthday parties. If a nine-year-old's birthday can be a must-attend social occasion, mine were. Behind it all, though, I didn't want to be a princess or a queen. I wanted to be the serving girl, the maid. Ignored. Quiet. Demure.

In high school, I hid in plain view. I was one of the popular ones. One of the beautiful people. Looking back now, I was pretty horrible to quite a lot of people. I guess I was trying to compensate for my secret. I don't remember thinking that at the time. It wasn't deliberate or anything. Like most teenagers I was a mass of conflicting hormones and emotions. I dated, of course. Jocks, mostly. Decorative boys, not too smart. Fashion accessories for the fashion-conscious. I realize now that they were a long way from what I wanted. It's the substance, the authority, behind that matters. And I need someone with that authority and strength to give me what I want. I know that now. I'm not sure I knew it then.

I've never been stupid. I'm not a brainbox, but I did well enough to get places at good, if not great, universities. So I progressed from high school to college without too much trouble, and for a year or so, I continued with my normal life. Still my secret was kept buried. I didn't want to be in charge. Didn't want to be the leader of my little social clique. Sure, I used my looks, my platinum blonde hair (thanks, Mum's Nordic Ancestors). But it was empty. Soulless. Just a pretty girl going through the motions. Looking, but not really knowing what I was looking for. I had a boyfriend, of course. Reserve Quarterback. Quite a catch. I remember that I thought I'd done quite well there. That was before I met...him.

I didn't pay much attention to him the first time I saw him. Nor the second or third, I think. Appearance wise, he didn't even blip on a radar calibrated for square-jawed all-American boys. He was a post-grad, a bit older. In the biology or psychology department, or something like that. Many of my friends thought he was a bit creepy. I didn't think of him at all.

My parents had this bizarre idea about making me make some of my own way. They could have paid for just about everything I wanted, but they obviously decided they had spoiled me enough. I wasn't going to starve, or sleep in the streets, but luxury spending I would have to earn. So I had a weekend job, and I was always on the lookout for little bits of work that school throws up. I hated it. I told everyone that it was beneath me, but that wasn't it. I hated being in charge of myself. I know that now. It went against my nature, my desires. It wasn't what I'd always wanted.

Fifty dollars was a lot of money for an hour's work. And it wasn't even really work. Just fill out a survey, answer a few questions. He was the one giving the survey. Asking the questions. It was the first time I'd spoken to him. I completed the forms, and then he started asking the questions. And the hour extended into two, and then into three. It just felt so easy talking to him. It wasn't about anything, really, at all. Certainly not about my secret wants and needs. Just about life, about views of the world.

That night, I remember clearly, lying on my bed masturbating. And my fantasies, up to then so unfocused, found a focus. I imagined myself kneeling at his feet. Naked. Waiting for him to tell me what to do. I fantasized about being turned over his knee and spanked. Not in an intense, personal way, but in a dispassionate, clinical way, as if it was just procedure. Just part of my life. Now, of course, it is. It's part of my daily routine. I get spanked first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It helps me remember my place, my role. It's the sort of regular discipline that I've always wanted. My ass is always sore, and that serves as just another reminder.

I remember orgasming like I had never done before, that night. The next morning, he called me. I was never so pleased to get a call. He said there were a few follow-up questions he wanted to ask me. I doubted they had anything to do with the survey, but the memory of his intensity, and the intensity of my fantasies about him, made me agree.

That afternoon, I split up with my boyfriend. I remember how crushed he looked. How weak. He said I was a "stone cold bitch". Perhaps. But when you finally see what you've always wanted, you go for it.

Our conversation that night was even longer than the day before. I remember being impressed by the way he controlled it. How he picked the topics. How assured he was. How confident. That night, as I masturbated furiously again, I imagined a brand with his initials on my thigh. Marking me as his. Now, I look down at my thigh, and I can see that brand, real and red and still raw. It's been a week, and it hasn't calmed that much. Still hurts, but nothing worth having comes without some pain. In fact, the pain makes it more valuable. And, to be honest, pain has become so common in my life I don't know that I could survive without it. It's a symbol of how much he values me.

He called me first thing the next morning. And told me to come to his apartment that evening. He didn't ask. I remember feeling a chill run from my spine to my fingers and toes. He didn't even wait for me to agree.

I did call him back. I asked him what I should wear. That night, I found myself nervously ringing the doorbell wearing an impossibly short skirt, a pair of strappy sandals with five inch heels and a top that bared both my midriff and most of my breasts. I'd never worn anything so slutty. Had to go and buy it specially. I didn't have any underwear on. In fact, that afternoon was the last time I wore underwear. A sex slave should be available at all times, and that was what I'd always wanted.

We ate, talked. I was desperate to have him touch me, hold me, fuck me. He didn't. He was cool, calm, reserved. But he picked the topics, again. He guided the conversation. By the time I finally got home, I was fit to burst.

I called him first thing in the morning. I had two questions. What should I wear that day, and could I see him that evening. To my despair, he answered the latter question negatively. He said that he would tell me when I would see him. I apologized profusely. Abjectly.

I spent that day with only two things in my mind. Him. His voice, his eyes, his hands. And how I was going to cover up the damp patch showing through my white lycra miniskirt. Oh, and learning how to walk in five-inch heeled white boots.

I met my ex-boyfriend in the corridor. He called me a whore and a slut. Told me that it was about time I started dressing like I was. I think I turned a violent shade of red. I went in to the toilets and cried. Because it was true, and because I couldn't see a way that I could get what I always wanted. To be a slut and a whore for the man who had taken over my thoughts.

I called him that evening. I know I shouldn't have. But I begged him to let me see him. For the first time I heard a note in his voice that has become familiar -- the note of disappointment that means I have angered him. It's a note that never fails to cut me to the core. He said that I should write him a letter, telling him what I wanted and why he should let me see him.

I wrote the letter. I spent hours over it, and then drove over to his house to deliver it. Posted through the letterbox, obviously, as he did not wish to see me.

"Sir, if I may call you that. You asked what I wanted. What I want, what I have always wanted, is to belong to you utterly. To be your property. To be guided and controlled by you, to have you rule my life. To serve you in whatever way you desire. I have always wanted to be owned, to be disciplined, and I believe you are the one person who can do that for me. I beg you to accept my offer, to take me and use me for whatever purpose you want."

I called him the next morning. I asked him what I should wear that day. He said that I should come to his apartment that night. I had never heard sweeter words.

Once again, I nervously rang the doorbell. It felt like I was barely dressed. All I had on was a bra-top and a pair of hot-pants. There was nothing I could do to hide the wet patch with these. I was so turned on, and so desperate to hear his reaction. I didn't have long to wait. He answered the door holding my letter. As soon as I was inside, he spoke. "I've read your letter," he said. "And I don't believe you."

I collapsed to the ground, groveling at his feet. Begging incoherently. Pleading frantically. He stopped me with a word. "Stop. Prove it," he said. I asked how. His only response, as he opened the door to let me out, was "Find a way."

I didn't sleep that night. I thought desperately. And then I knew what I had to do. After calling him that morning, I went in to the University office and submitted my formal withdrawal from school. Handed in the notice on my accommodation. Gave every item of clothing that I had from before I had met him to Goodwill. Sold my car. Everywhere I went, I got two sorts of looks. Disapproving and lustful. I guess when you're flashing your cunt from beneath a skirt that's basically a belt, and your nipples are clearly visible through wafer thin fabric, that's all you can expect.

I went back to my apartment, and waited for his call. Just sitting, looking at my phone. Would I get what I'd always wanted?

Eventually, it rang. "Good enough," he said. I breathed out. I hadn't been aware that I wasn't breathing. He told me to come that night, and not expect to leave any time soon. I have never been so happy. Everything I'd always wanted was to be mine. And now all that I wanted was to be what he wanted.

The taxi-driver kept looking in the mirror on the way over. My holdall seemed very small to be holding all I owned. And all that was was the clothing he'd told me to buy. There was nothing left of my old life. And I didn't care.

He opened the door and let me in. Told me to put my holdall down and strip. It didn't take long. I wasn't wearing much. And then I was naked before him. I dropped to my knees at his feet. He turned and walked away, telling me to follow. I made to stand up, but a quick "on you knees" stopped me. I crawled after him, through the lounge and into another room. In the middle of the room was a wooden horse -- like a trestle. He told me to arrange myself over it, grasping the legs with my hands. He said that if I let go before he told me, he would kick me out the door as I was. With nothing.

The first time he ever touched me was a stinging slap to my buttocks. I almost came there and then. I did come some half-hour later. And then again fifteen minutes after that. The cushion of the horse grew wetter and wetter. And all the time he was beating me. First spanking, then a paddle, then a cane. I lost track of everything. Everything but the sensations in my buttocks and in my cunt.

Eventually it ended. With roughness, he lifted grasped my neck and half-pulled, half-guided me off the horse. I knelt again in front of him, my rear smarting from the attention, and it felt like the glow spread through my body as he told me that he was pleased with me. "Look up," he said. I complied. In his hands was a collar, leather, perhaps an inch and a half wide. Substantial without being ludicrous. "Is this what you want?" he asked. "It's all I've ever wanted, Sir," I said, quietly. He placed it around my neck, and I felt a click as he closed the lock. A click that represented the achievement of a life's goal. I had all I ever wanted. There was nothing more that I could possibly want. I was his. Everything was perfect.

Oh, he's calling me. Back in a moment.

The best news! Sir has just told me that he's arranged for me to have breast enhancements. DD cups! I've always wanted bigger breasts. For as long as I can remember, that's what I've wanted. To be a big-breasted slutty sex slave. After I have my breasts, everything will be perfect. I'll have what I've always wanted.