My horny encounters with Bill
6-Jan-26 15:41
I explained to Dr. Curry that Bill isn’t just a client. He’s someone who discovered parts of me I didn’t even know how to name at first.
We met online years ago, and from the beginning, it was clear he wasn’t looking for touch. He was interested in control, in watching, in shaping me into whatever fantasy he was holding that day. He paid me for my time, yes—but what he really wanted was access to me. To my body. To my obedience.
Every session starts the same way. I arrive, and I’m told to shower. It doesn’t matter that I’m already clean. The shower is part of it—him standing there, watching, reminding me that once I’m in his space, I belong to his rules. When I step out, the bathroom counter is always prepared: clothing folded with precision, chosen carefully. Stockings. Panties. Sometimes nothing at all except something he wants me to wear later.
He gives me privacy to dress, but the anticipation is heavy. I know once I step out, I’m no longer deciding anything. Bill tells me where to stand, how to pose, how to hold myself. Couch. Bed. Occasionally outside, exposed to the open air in ways that make me feel both small and thrillingly visible. He films everything. Takes pictures endlessly. I never see them. I don’t need to. Knowing they exist is enough.
He likes me compliant. Still. Soft. Most of the time, I’m not allowed to touch myself. I’m there to be used visually, to be an object for his release, not my own. He’ll remind me of that if I shift too much or breathe too loudly. Other times, he gives me instructions that blur the line between embarrassment and arousal—telling me to do things that make me feel ridiculous, degraded, exposed in ways I never imagined admitting out loud to another person.
There are days when he wants to push that feeling further. He’ll talk about my body like it’s something he owns, something other men would want to look at too. A few times, he’s put me on webcam, letting strangers watch me while they pleasure themselves. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. I feel it in the way Bill watches me more closely then, the way he tells me to hold certain positions longer, to stay exactly as I am.
He tells me I have a beautiful body. That men desire me. I don’t see it when I look at myself, but hearing it from him—over and over—does something to me. His fetishes shift constantly. Humiliation. Control. Exhibition. Testing how far I’ll go without ever laying a hand on me. By the end of most sessions, my body aches from holding poses, from being frozen in place while he takes what he wants from the sight of me.
When it’s finally over, I’m told to shower again. Another reset. Another reminder that whatever happened stays there. Afterward, he leaves fresh underwear for me—always men’s underwear, always clean. I dress, and only then does the money appear. Sometimes it’s generous. Sometimes it isn’t. The price is never discussed. I learned early on not to expect fairness.
Once, after nearly five hours, I barely got anything. And I didn’t complain. I didn’t even feel cheated. Because the truth is, part of me didn’t come there for the money at all.
We don’t meet as often now. Life shifted. Maybe his interests did. Maybe mine did too. But when I think about Bill, I don’t just think about what he paid me to do. I think about how easily I gave myself over. How natural it felt to let someone else decide who I was for a few hours.
That’s what I told Dr. Curry.
And that’s my story with Bill.
We met online years ago, and from the beginning, it was clear he wasn’t looking for touch. He was interested in control, in watching, in shaping me into whatever fantasy he was holding that day. He paid me for my time, yes—but what he really wanted was access to me. To my body. To my obedience.
Every session starts the same way. I arrive, and I’m told to shower. It doesn’t matter that I’m already clean. The shower is part of it—him standing there, watching, reminding me that once I’m in his space, I belong to his rules. When I step out, the bathroom counter is always prepared: clothing folded with precision, chosen carefully. Stockings. Panties. Sometimes nothing at all except something he wants me to wear later.
He gives me privacy to dress, but the anticipation is heavy. I know once I step out, I’m no longer deciding anything. Bill tells me where to stand, how to pose, how to hold myself. Couch. Bed. Occasionally outside, exposed to the open air in ways that make me feel both small and thrillingly visible. He films everything. Takes pictures endlessly. I never see them. I don’t need to. Knowing they exist is enough.
He likes me compliant. Still. Soft. Most of the time, I’m not allowed to touch myself. I’m there to be used visually, to be an object for his release, not my own. He’ll remind me of that if I shift too much or breathe too loudly. Other times, he gives me instructions that blur the line between embarrassment and arousal—telling me to do things that make me feel ridiculous, degraded, exposed in ways I never imagined admitting out loud to another person.
There are days when he wants to push that feeling further. He’ll talk about my body like it’s something he owns, something other men would want to look at too. A few times, he’s put me on webcam, letting strangers watch me while they pleasure themselves. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. I feel it in the way Bill watches me more closely then, the way he tells me to hold certain positions longer, to stay exactly as I am.
He tells me I have a beautiful body. That men desire me. I don’t see it when I look at myself, but hearing it from him—over and over—does something to me. His fetishes shift constantly. Humiliation. Control. Exhibition. Testing how far I’ll go without ever laying a hand on me. By the end of most sessions, my body aches from holding poses, from being frozen in place while he takes what he wants from the sight of me.
When it’s finally over, I’m told to shower again. Another reset. Another reminder that whatever happened stays there. Afterward, he leaves fresh underwear for me—always men’s underwear, always clean. I dress, and only then does the money appear. Sometimes it’s generous. Sometimes it isn’t. The price is never discussed. I learned early on not to expect fairness.
Once, after nearly five hours, I barely got anything. And I didn’t complain. I didn’t even feel cheated. Because the truth is, part of me didn’t come there for the money at all.
We don’t meet as often now. Life shifted. Maybe his interests did. Maybe mine did too. But when I think about Bill, I don’t just think about what he paid me to do. I think about how easily I gave myself over. How natural it felt to let someone else decide who I was for a few hours.
That’s what I told Dr. Curry.
And that’s my story with Bill.
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