Shame, Shame, Shame; Shame of Fools

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This isn't the usual opinionated piece you find at Sex Kitten, full of rants and raves about how you should be free to express your sexuality without shame or fear of shame.

This isn't about why it's OK to be a pervert; it's about a specific perversion Secondhand Rose has...

I must have been about 10 years old or so when I found my parents stash of porn. My sister and I were home alone, playing hide-and-seek in the house. I went to hide in the one space I knew she'd never find me -- the one space I'd also be afraid to seek in for fear of a person jumping out at me -- our crawlspace.

(For those of you who don't know what a crawlspace is, it's like an attic, only it's under the eves of the roof, so no ladders are required; and you cannot stand, but only crawl. Hence the name. But it's a spooky place. No windows for light, just what comes from the bulbs on the walls; and if you light them all the junk makes looming shapes about you, as you crawl on your hands along what must be a narrow crawl-way as it's a very narrow place in general. The fear of something popping out at you while you can neither turn or run to get away is dreadful.)

Feeling brave that afternoon, I entered the crawlspace and sat a few feet from the tightly closed door. After a few heart-pounding minutes in the arid space, I turned on the light (which could never shine through to the other side as the door fit tightly and it was daytime anyway) and looked for something to occupy myself. I poked in the box closest to the door. That's where I found the then-current porn magazines.

I flipped through them, saw all the photos. Mostly women with their come-hither stares, big and wild hair (both on their heads and covering their genitals), and glossy lips. I didn't feel much of anything at first. Certainly not uncomfortable, for I continued to flip through the pages of first one magazine, then another and another. Until I hit an illustration.

I think it was an advertisement for a bondage swing, but I can't really recall... This paper-white woman with ink-black hair was set against a vivid purple square. Her fascinating red lips were pursed around a ridiculously large black circle, its black lines drawn against that white-white skin, holding the ball in place in her mouth. Her body was also bound in the leather strips, providing more black lines against white skin -- lines to read between. This woman was bound, apparently suspended from what I could only imagine was a ceiling painted as grape as the walls, and naked she sat, or swung, on display in a position similar to my sit-squat against the wall. Splayed. Bound. Gagged.

Instead of being disgusted, or even confused, I was mesmerized.

Something pulled me. Not just commanding me to look at it, or even demanding me to like it; but something, somewhere, pulled at me, within me.

I know that pulling ache now. It's name is arousal. But at that age I had no idea what the funny feeling was. I had nothing to compare it to, nothing to relate it to. I liked staring at the image, even if I didn't understand it; but eventually that funny feeling was more than I knew what to do with... I began to panic.

What if my sister were to find me here, staring at porn -- my parents hidden porn?! What if they found me?! Oh God!

I snapped the magazine shut and like any good sneak I went about the business of returning the magazines to the box exactly as I had found them. I listened at the door, pulled the chain to turn off the light, and satisfied my sister wasn't awaiting for me on the other side of the door, I crept out of the crawlspace.

When I found my sister she was near hysterical, demanding to know where I'd been hiding. Still under the stupefying effects of pre-adolescent lust, I was in no mood to deal with her so I let her pronounce me a cheater for having left the house to hide and went to our room to be alone and read. Alone in our room I felt no better. Of course reading didn't calm me down and I had no idea how to satisfy this then-unknown desire.

Dissatisfaction and unhappiness led to guilt.

What kind of big sister abandons her little sister? What sort of daughter snoops through her parents' things? What sort of girl would look at that stuff and like it?

Like any good kid who feels they've done wrong, I wanted a punishment.

Maybe my sister would still be wound-up when our parents returned home and I could get one of my Dad's you've-really-disappointed-me spankings. Reserved only for the most serious infractions, I as a good girl had rarely experienced them and normally was mortified to even hear the threat of one -- but now I felt I deserved one. I wanted one.

However, by the time my parents came home my sister had forgotten all about her trauma; and I was left alone with mine.

Years would pass and I would completely forget about the incident. But one day, for no particular reason that I can recall, I felt that pulling ache. Funny that I can't remember what set if off when everything else from that moment is crystal clear...

Instantly I remembered being in the crawlspace. The heart-pounding excitement from hide-and-seek, the thrill of being so adventurous as to hide in the scariest place, the naughtiness of breaking taboos -- my parents' privacy and looking at those adult magazines... the dry air as stifling as I imagined a ball-gag would be... being as immobilized by my lust as that inked lady was in her straps... the desire to be caught and punished for all my sins... all wrapped-up in that sweet aching.

There was a tingling between my legs and instinctively I began to rub it, like an itch that momma said not to scratch. I felt the heat of shame wash over me -- but it didn't make me stop. Instead I rubbed harder. My legs pressed together hard on the sides of my hands -- hands pressed back painfully into my thighs. More pleasure. More shame. More rubbing. More deserving of a spanking. More rubbing. Until-

Sweet-shuddering-shame.

After that I never had a problem answering that special ache -- in fact, I could bring it on any time I wanted to. All I needed to do was remember that picture, feel that shame, picture myself getting that oh-so-deserved spanking and BAM! If I fell asleep thinking of those things I could wake in the throws orgasm -- even without touching myself. How do I know? One night I bound my wrists with a nightie and tied them to my headboard and I still awoke to the blissful state of sweet shame sweats... the wonderful aroma of a wet happy pussy in the air.

Over the years I've added many other fantasies and manipulations to my repertoire, but shame is still one of my favorites. Its power lies in secret places, in my secret place and my brain, and just thinking about my dirty secret makes me wet -- panties shame-ful with my secret-ions.

It took me awhile to be able to find the nerve to tell lovers of my shame-filled perversions. Just because I derived such physical satisfaction from them didn't mean I was ready to face the emotional derision from a man I cared about. I would fantasize about telling them, turning their disgust into a shame-orgasm alone in private, yet withholding it from reality. But eventually I wanted, needed, to be punished. And so I confessed.

Mainly I got my 'wins' from masturbation because most didn't really get it; they may not have laughed & left, but they didn't get into it. Even those who thought giving me a spanking would be fun didn't really have the hunger for humiliating me. It's one thing to give a playful spanking, yet quite another to call someone you care about a bad girl for being such a slut -- and say it with contempt as they smack you with a vengeance.

I consoled myself with masturbation.

And I dommed a few others simply because I understood the need & so was able to do the deed.

But I still wanted the real thing for myself. Leather straps, rope ties, flesh surprised with sharp smacks, a ball -gag preventing me from crying out or protesting... and a firm voice telling me how bad I am.

Eventually I found a few lovers who were more than willing to punish me for my bad ways, who understood that using shame to tug at my pussy-strings was indeed a way to my heart.

You got me where you want me
I ain't nothing but your fool
You treated me mean, ohh yeah, you treated me cruel oh yeah
Shame, shame, shame, shame of fools

Bind me, spank me, yes; but please-oh-please tell me how naughty I am. Tell me to be ashamed of myself and my dirty ways as you treat me so cruel. Take me back to that subspace in the crawlspace.

From time to time I search for that old ad. I flip through now-vintage porn mags like Hustler, Eros, and Playboy, use Google; yet I've never found it. Maybe that's a good thing. If the walls were not so purple, if her lips were not so red, if the straps were not so black against such white skin would my arousal fade too? I don't want anything to disturb my memories, change the eroticism. I'm a bad, dirty girl. And I want to be treated like one.

Secondhand Rose, writer turned phone companion and conversationalist.

 

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