He called me fuckpuppet

He called me fuckpuppet.

I thought I was a sweet girl.
Cute girl.
Naughty girl who slowly peeled off her sodden knickers in front of the unflinching eye of the webcam.

Teasing girl who turned and flashed the barest hint of her arse towards her audience.
Bold girl who rose on her knees to present her breasts and buck more forcefully against the dildo between her thighs.
Wicked girl who licked her fingers and rubbed her clit with urgency, her moans piercing the rafters of her tiny studio flat in triumph.
Desperate girl who begged to see his cock.
Slutty girl who watched with lustful hunger whenever the role reversed and she lay on her belly watching intently as he stroked himself evenly, firmly and told her to face the lens with her tongue stretched out so he could think about coming down her slick pink throat.

But not fuckpuppet.

fuckpuppet was a different girl, a stronger girl. fuckpuppet belonged to someone. fuckpuppet wore what she was told, dropped her knickers when she was told, fucked her cunt with whatever was to hand when she was told.
fuckpuppet lived to serve, just say the word and watch her spread her thighs and show you her wet, inviting hole; her soft, supple breasts.
fuckpuppet was desirable.
fuckpuppet never left anyone wanting.
fuckpuppet delighted in being debased.

I was sweet girl.
Shy girl.
Innocent girl.

That December it snowed more than I had ever known, unusual for England. He threatened to buy me a gift, to meet up with me before we went home for the holidays.
Shy girl repeated no, hated fuss, thought he was joking.
Until at work, he texted that he was on his way.
He texted that he was near her street.
He texted that he had left the gift in her bins.
Shy girl found the cellophane-wrapped book in the bottom of her recycling bin, her fingers stiff with the bitter snow-flecked wind.
Far in the future, they would laugh about ‘that time I left porn in your bins’.
Shy girl tenderly relieves the volume of it’s clear plastic skin and sinks into the vile and wondrous worlds. This book is his essence, distilled. It is an unspoken manifesto of who she is, who he knows her to be. It speaks to her so frighteningly, she snaps it shut and sets it aside.

December 25th. 10.52am

Merry Christmas, fuckpuppet.

Warmth spreads over me like the sun in August, and smiling, I take the book from my case, and begin to read.


9 thoughts on “He called me fuckpuppet

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