Straight Female / 24
The Blade
I am five years clean today.
Five years since I’d woken up in that dirty halfway house bed, and decided I was done. Five years since I swore I’d never go back. And yet, on days like this, the memories felt so close I could almost reach out and touch them.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sipping cheap coffee from the chipped mug I bought at a thrift store last week, when it all came flooding back. The nights, the men, the endless blur of survival.
Back then, it was all about the next fix. I didn’t care about food, shelter, or even my dignity. If it wasn’t tied to getting high, it didn’t matter. My world revolved around those tiny baggies, the ones that seemed to promise escape but only dragged me deeper into the hell I’d created for myself.
The blade. That’s what we called it—the stretch of street where women like me lined up, waiting for headlights to slow and windows to roll down. I hated it, every second, but I didn’t have a choice. My addiction didn’t give me room to say no. Some nights i went car to car sucking dick almost like a robot just getting in a car not even caring who's dick it was, what he looked like, or if i felt safe, only caring if he could show me money and and how fast i could make him cum with my mouth to get to the next car. It saves time if you can make them cum in your mouth on the blade, car fucking takes longer and is risky but i did both.
Some time though it was slow. I can still feel the cold seeping into my bones as I walked up and down the sidewalk, my heels clicking on the pavement. It didn’t matter if it was freezing or raining; I had to be out there. Guys didn’t care about the weather—they just wanted what they wanted.
Sometimes, they didn’t even get out of their cars. They’d just pull up, lower the window, and mutter, “How much?” like I was a vending machine spitting out prices. I’d lean down, my breath visible in the night air, and tell them what I needed to make it worth my time. Not that it was ever really worth it.
Hotel rooms were different. Cleaner, maybe, but not easier. I’d meet them in lobbies, trying to look like I belonged there, even though my cheap dress and shaky hands gave me away. Once, a guy booked a room in this fancy place with white linens and a minibar. I remember sitting on the bed, running my hand over the duvet, thinking how out of place I looked in a place like that.
Then he came in, and reality hit like it always did. It wasn’t about the room or the lights or the fleeting fantasy of normalcy. It was about him, about what he wanted, and what I had to do to survive. I was a c**t to fuck to him, too most of them. I didn't matter only my three holes mattered to them.
The men blurred together after a while. Businessmen with wedding rings they tried to hide, truckers passing through, college kids too drunk to care spliting the cost with a buddy or two to share me. They didn’t see me, not really. To them, I was just a transaction, a body to fill a need. A true cumdump.
I remembered a particular guy who smelled like cheap cologne and asked me to call him "Daddy." And insisted on calling me his daughter name and whispered "Katie, it is our secret don't tell mommy what you did for Daddy." He was so rough I thought I’d never stop shaking afterward.
The first time I got high, it felt like magic. Like I could escape everything—my shitty childhood, the loneliness, the pain. But it didn’t take long for the magic to wear off. After that, I was just chasing it, one hit after another, one man after another, hoping to feel normal again.
Then there was my first time I sold it. I could afford my stash and was withdrawing and desperate. I put an ad on bedpage and fucked the first random guy that responed just for enough for a bag. I was withdrawing hard and he took advanage of me and fucked me bareback and cummed in my pussy several times. It was my first abortion not my last.
Sometimes when a guy looks me, even now I wonder if he fucked me or I blew him. I litterally did so many guys while to high to remeber that i seriously when i meet someone if the look at me too long i can't help but feel they know or worse yet was in me.
5 years. I the shame never ends. I hope they enjoyed me.
Five years since I’d woken up in that dirty halfway house bed, and decided I was done. Five years since I swore I’d never go back. And yet, on days like this, the memories felt so close I could almost reach out and touch them.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sipping cheap coffee from the chipped mug I bought at a thrift store last week, when it all came flooding back. The nights, the men, the endless blur of survival.
Back then, it was all about the next fix. I didn’t care about food, shelter, or even my dignity. If it wasn’t tied to getting high, it didn’t matter. My world revolved around those tiny baggies, the ones that seemed to promise escape but only dragged me deeper into the hell I’d created for myself.
The blade. That’s what we called it—the stretch of street where women like me lined up, waiting for headlights to slow and windows to roll down. I hated it, every second, but I didn’t have a choice. My addiction didn’t give me room to say no. Some nights i went car to car sucking dick almost like a robot just getting in a car not even caring who's dick it was, what he looked like, or if i felt safe, only caring if he could show me money and and how fast i could make him cum with my mouth to get to the next car. It saves time if you can make them cum in your mouth on the blade, car fucking takes longer and is risky but i did both.
Some time though it was slow. I can still feel the cold seeping into my bones as I walked up and down the sidewalk, my heels clicking on the pavement. It didn’t matter if it was freezing or raining; I had to be out there. Guys didn’t care about the weather—they just wanted what they wanted.
Sometimes, they didn’t even get out of their cars. They’d just pull up, lower the window, and mutter, “How much?” like I was a vending machine spitting out prices. I’d lean down, my breath visible in the night air, and tell them what I needed to make it worth my time. Not that it was ever really worth it.
Hotel rooms were different. Cleaner, maybe, but not easier. I’d meet them in lobbies, trying to look like I belonged there, even though my cheap dress and shaky hands gave me away. Once, a guy booked a room in this fancy place with white linens and a minibar. I remember sitting on the bed, running my hand over the duvet, thinking how out of place I looked in a place like that.
Then he came in, and reality hit like it always did. It wasn’t about the room or the lights or the fleeting fantasy of normalcy. It was about him, about what he wanted, and what I had to do to survive. I was a c**t to fuck to him, too most of them. I didn't matter only my three holes mattered to them.
The men blurred together after a while. Businessmen with wedding rings they tried to hide, truckers passing through, college kids too drunk to care spliting the cost with a buddy or two to share me. They didn’t see me, not really. To them, I was just a transaction, a body to fill a need. A true cumdump.
I remembered a particular guy who smelled like cheap cologne and asked me to call him "Daddy." And insisted on calling me his daughter name and whispered "Katie, it is our secret don't tell mommy what you did for Daddy." He was so rough I thought I’d never stop shaking afterward.
The first time I got high, it felt like magic. Like I could escape everything—my shitty childhood, the loneliness, the pain. But it didn’t take long for the magic to wear off. After that, I was just chasing it, one hit after another, one man after another, hoping to feel normal again.
Then there was my first time I sold it. I could afford my stash and was withdrawing and desperate. I put an ad on bedpage and fucked the first random guy that responed just for enough for a bag. I was withdrawing hard and he took advanage of me and fucked me bareback and cummed in my pussy several times. It was my first abortion not my last.
Sometimes when a guy looks me, even now I wonder if he fucked me or I blew him. I litterally did so many guys while to high to remeber that i seriously when i meet someone if the look at me too long i can't help but feel they know or worse yet was in me.
5 years. I the shame never ends. I hope they enjoyed me.
- That's Juicy! 18
- Remove It! 1
