TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

I know, you probably found me in a bizarre compromising position, an 85-year-old woman in a run-down old-fashioned house in some hard-to-imagine circumstances. There is a story here that you probably won’t believe, but ask yourself, what else could be the reason to find a woman my age sucking on a baby bottle with a vibrator buzzing on her clit, or her hair up in pigtails wearing little girl socks impaled on a dildo bouncy ball, or whatever of the three other possible ways you found me? It’s quite a story, I promise.

A long time ago I was married to a guy who was, let’s say, ‘unsatisfying’ in the sex department. A doggy-style rabbit fuck, no foreplay, thirty seconds, splurt, and that was it. He was deluded, thinking he was God’s gift to women, decent enough paycheck, muscular, handsome, some status, but otherwise unimpressive and completely unimaginative. He was a mistake.

After a while, I began looking for other ways to enjoy sex without him. Masturbation, fantasy, some porn, a couple of toys, you know, some things to supplement the bend-me-over-and-that-was-it. I got into reading erotic fiction, which was mixed: good and bad and a lot of bad grammar and mis-spelling. Oh, did I mention I got an MA in Psychology and had a counseling practice for twenty-five years before I got married? I did. Try not to judge me too harshly for winding up how I did.

Back in those days they had things called “websites” with “webpages” which held articles and pictures or stories, and one of those sites had stories about erotic mind control. I found these types of stories fascinating and compelling, and I brought myself to orgasm after orgasm reading them.

I enjoyed them for a year or two, and discovered an author whose work I particularly enjoyed. In story after story the fantasies were a bit more depraved, changing women into bimbos or making them think and behave in such sexy and bizarre ways. I was so intrigued that I actually contacted him through what we called “email”, which was kind of like what zip-messaging used to be, if you can remember back, but it was a lot slower and it could be relatively anonymous.

So he and I corresponded that way for a while. I told him my fantasies, and he wrote a few stories specifically for me, most of which he didn’t even share on the website. He created artwork for me. I told him of my situation, and asked him to make subliminals for me to accept my desires, leave my husband and free myself, and encourage me to make my fantasies come true. He did that for me, too.

We got close, even though we lived half the world and an ocean apart. I know, we live in a world where full-body VR, thought- and dream-sharing systems, and universal time makes that a complete non-issue, but back then it was quite an obstacle.

The subliminals didn’t really work like they did in the stories, which disappointed me a lot, but while I didn’t up and leave my husband, I did get more indulgent in my fantasies. I got particularly turned on by mental age regression fantasies. The idea of being made to think I was a four-year old girl in a woman’s body with a woman’s needs who was thrilled by acting like a slut was a major thing for me, possibly because I knew it would be a huge turn-off for my husband, the bunny-fucker asshole.

I also got extremely turned on by the fantasies of being made to do things I would never do, things that my station in life would never allow me to do. I thought about being made to worship a woman’s pussy, groveling at her feet, being made to have a strange man’s child, to be forced to lactate and nurse grown men and women, sometimes while thinking I was a little girl.

I wanted to explore these fantasies with someone, but the only person I could really talk to was far away and in a completely different country and time zone. I was also petrified of being discovered. Email was nice and anonymous, and the distance was actually a bit of a security blanket for me.

Finally, I broke down and bought a “burner” prepaid cellphone that you could load with talk time for cash -- I know, it was a long time ago! It probably sounds to you like communicating by telegram would have sounded to me when I was your age. I’m guessing you’re about forty, by the way. Oh, and “burner” meant you could discard or destroy the cellphone and leave very few traces leading to you, just for the record. It was almost as anonymous as email. I gave my number to the author and he called me, and we talked.

We talked a lot. I really liked his voice, his accent. He’d sent me an audio file of one of his stories, one that he’d written for me alone, and, well, I’d listened to it a lot. We wrote stories together -- he would come up with a premise, I would come up with a fantasy, and we would make it sexy together, then he’d write it up and post it on the website.

We talked about our own fantasies, of course. I know he fell for me, really. His own personal fantasies were less debaucherous, and I think he admired, or at least appreciated, that I actually desired some of the things I did. I wanted someone to make me call them Daddy, and to make me make Mommy cum over and over again in six different ways. He thought having a woman have him suck on her milk-filled tits was hot, while I jilled myself to screaming orgasms imagining him doing that for me, and what my tits would look like afterwards, when they were empty. I have a thing about my breasts being droopy, and imagining how much more they would droop after being filled full with milk and drained repeatedly was a huge fucking turn-on. In fact, as I write this and play with my saggy aged tits, I’m jilling myself.

Too much? Well, you saw what I was into when you found my body. Get over it.

Nevertheless, he really, really loved me, and wanted to help me, even to own me, because that was my fantasy. He often told me how much he wanted to make my desires come true for me. For me! I think if he had been closer, I would have taken him so deep into depravity that I’d have spoiled him for any other woman, ever. I know he wanted to fuck me while I made his wife cum.

We created a fantasy where I was their droopy-titted maid and sex slave, with my head shaved so I could wear a wig of tight gray curls some times and and a wig of pigtails others, or maybe one of long dark hair to drape across their skin, wearing vibrators as I cleaned house in a sexy topless French maid uniform and heels. I’d stop whatever I was doing at the slightest hint of their desire for me and fulfill it in whatever depraved way I or they could think of, and on my knees far more than my feet or even my back. Funny, that was one of the first things that drew us together, the idea of me on my knees, because early on he told me “cowgirl” was his favorite position, which was delightful because it was mine as well. But that was only one of many ways I wanted to be on my knees.

They say that the sub is really the dominant person in the relationship, that the dom dominates because the sub wants or needs to submit. I don’t know if that’s really true, but I think it was in our case. I really wanted to be made to be depraved, because I couldn’t be unless I was made to do so -- it just “wasn’t done” by women of my station, certainly not ever even acknowledged privately except, perhaps, under duress or to a trusted and kinky partner, and I couldn’t bring myself to actually do all the things I so desperately and ardently desired out of an overriding fear that someone might find out.

We talked of this, and we talked of my moving to America, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was certain I would lose everything, and I couldn’t do that. I talked to him of fantasies where I was drugged, kidnapped, and forced to submit -- it couldn’t be my fault that way, you see, even if I were found and it all came to light. It would be someone else that made me do those terrible, depraved things. Even if there were a scandal, I could claim I was forced, not depraved myself. It would have been sad and traumatic for me, but I certainly couldn’t have enjoyed it! People would think I just shut my eyes and thought of the Queen, or England, or something and soldiered through.

Daddy, um, the author I was talking about -- I have to call him Daddy now -- was not that kind of guy. He would never abduct someone or kidnap and drug them. It had to be their choice, my choice, of my own free will. For instance, I told him what to put in the subliminals, and he gave me a list of all of the suggestions that were actually in them. I could listen, or not, it was my choice. He required informed consent and choice, which was difficult for me in one way, and very reassuring in another.

So all this brings me to the crux of the story, I guess. He knew someone who made talismans, the real thing, that were charged magically somehow to create specific changes in people. Daddy worked out a list with me of the things I wanted to be forced to do, for him or for others, at his command. He took this list to that person, and they made a choker that would make the woman who wore it do and be those things for him. He offered it to me, and for months I delayed, and now how I wish I hadn’t! I finally gave him a mailing address, a mail drop not linked to me in any way, and he mailed it to me.

I got the choker wrapped in black velvet in a little wooden box. The letter said if I wore it overnight, it would change me, and that I would be compelled to go to him and do all the things I had told him I wanted. In fact, I would want to do so, more than anything, and that would become my sole desire.

He had done this to give me opportunity to choose to do it or not, and to give me the opportunity to make whatever arrangements I wanted or needed to make beforehand, such as divorcing my husband.

I delayed again. I wish now I had not. We exchanged several more emails for a couple of weeks, and then I didn’t hear from him and didn’t hear from him for weeks. So much time I had wasted, time I could have spent with my Daddy. If I had been there, the accident that took him from me wouldn’t have happened.

You see, Daddy didn’t see well, he was partially blind. He had to read and write my emails with a special monitor on his computer. His wife worked and he had to do a lot of things for himself in the home. One morning, Daddy ate a muffin that had mold on it, a deadly mold. If I had been there, I would have been preparing his food. He would never have eaten that muffin. It sounds so silly, doesn’t it? Mold. He died from a deadly strain of mold that had grown on a muffin he ate for breakfast, and died alone while his wife was at work.

I got the news from a friend of his, who had been left the passwords to his writing and he found our emails. He was nice, but obviously uncomfortable in telling me the news. I think he may have thought I would have saved Daddy, too, if I had just done what I should have. He may have been the one who made the choker, I don’t know, but he seemed to know a bit more about it than what was in the emails. He said I should destroy it.