The Secret Chat That Turned Me Into His Toy

I was in a hurry and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I left the office without saying goodbye to anyone, drove to the outskirts of the city, and it didn’t take me long to find the place: an abandoned old textile factory, with shattered windows and ivy climbing over the concrete. The instructions were simple. Park far away, slip through the wire fence, find the old office area, and go up to the second floor. He had warned me I might run into some homeless person. And he had forbidden me to go in dressed.

There was no one in sight. I climbed the fence carefully and crossed the empty lot holding my breath. I recognized the offices by a row of windows different from the rest of the building. I went up to the door. Broken glass, dust, rust. I looked left and right several times. Nothing.

I loosened the belt of my dress and started unbuttoning it with clumsy fingers, never taking my eyes off my surroundings. I took it off, and I took off my heels too. The floor was cold and uneven beneath my bare feet. I found a cardboard box and put my clothes inside. All that was left on me was a black lace set, the one he’d allowed me to keep. But I paused for a moment.

He probably prefers the other thing.

I took off my bra and panties and left them on top of the dress. Completely naked, embarrassed, and more aroused than I had ever been in my life, I crossed the threshold of that ruined door.

How had I ended up here?

***

It all started a few days earlier, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how many. My name is Lorena, I’m twenty-nine years old, and I live in a city in the south with my uncle Ernesto, who’s pushing seventy. Ernesto is, let’s be honest, a dirty old man. I know he used to spy on me, I know he had seen me in my underwear more than once through the crack of a door. He never made me an indecent proposal. And the most unsettling thing is that it didn’t bother me. I liked him. I found him funny.

That afternoon he had left his computer on. Now I’m convinced he did it on purpose. He had gone to his room, and when I got back from work, I sat down in front of the shared machine to finish some spreadsheets. When I touched the keyboard, the usual desktop didn’t appear, but an open window that looked like a chat.

My first instinct was to close it. I didn’t. For some reason, I kept reading.

It was a sex chat. Frustrated men, I assumed, talking about things that turned my stomach and yet wouldn’t let me look away. They talked about submission, punishment, women used like objects. I read line after line, amazed at how far someone’s imagination could go. And then I noticed it: I was getting turned on. I shut off the screen abruptly, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

I tried to work. Impossible. I showered and got into bed, but the phrases I’d read kept spinning through my head, one after another. My uncle liked that world. Fuck. It took me a while to fall asleep.

***

I went back to the computer the following night. I turned on the machine, found the page I remembered, and went in. It asked me for a nickname. I typed the first thing that came to mind: “LRN29.” And I sat there watching other people’s messages scroll across the screen.

Someone asked what woman wanted to hand over her underwear. Another wanted a girl with no taboos, willing to obey. I accepted both. After the usual greetings came the usual questions.

—Are you really a woman? Where are you from? Age? —the first one wrote.

I discovered I liked answering. I liked lying halfway and telling dangerous truths.

The one who wanted my underwear lived in a nearby city. The other got hard when I confessed I lived with an older man. Neither of them believed they were talking to a flesh-and-blood woman, so I let them hear my voice in a message. That was enough to drive them completely insane.

—So it’s true, you’re real —the second one wrote—. Would you mind sleeping with a man that old?

—I wouldn’t mind —I typed, playing along, my heart in my throat.

They wanted to see me. Photos, video, whatever. I was terribly hesitant about taking that step. The underwear guy suggested we meet at a shopping center: I should wear a pair of panties and hand them over there on the spot. It seemed so filthy and so tempting that I had to close my eyes for a second.

The other one kept going on about my uncle.

—Has he seen you naked? Do you think he jerks off thinking about you? And you about him? —he asked.

The words slut, whore, submissive kept appearing over and over. I accepted them with shame, yes, but also with a naturalness that surprised me. I took a photo of myself wearing only the lace set, covering my face, and sent it to him.

—That’s my good bitch —he replied—. I bet you’re dying to let him see you too.

The underwear guy vanished without a word. I kept chatting with the second one until late. He wanted to see me fully, and I didn’t dare. But that night, when I went back to bed, I couldn’t stop touching myself. I came once, and then again, biting the pillow so Ernesto wouldn’t hear me on the other side of the hallway.

***

I woke up even more tired than if I hadn’t slept at all. My uncle was already in the kitchen and greeted me with one of his long looks, the kind that roamed over my body without shame. This time I looked at him differently. One thought wouldn’t leave my head: what would he write in that chat? He was no heartthrob, more like short and balding. We had lived together since my parents died, four years ago now. He had an adult daughter, older than me, and got along with her well. And yet that morning I watched him like a dangerous stranger.

I finished my shift and, when I got home, I couldn’t help going over to the computer. It was off. Ernesto had gone to play cards with his friends at the community center, as he did every afternoon. I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the page with my usual nickname.

The two from the night before weren’t there. But while I was poking around in the settings, I discovered something that froze my blood: a saved conversation file. I opened it.

My uncle was talking to another man about a woman he wanted to “tame.” He described her in detail: long hair, brunette, slim body, twenty-nine years old. There were attached images. I opened them.

It was me. Totally recognizable. He hadn’t even bothered to hide my face.

The discovery churned my insides, but it also soaked my panties in a matter of seconds. The comments under my photos were indescribable. A picture of me in a swimsuit had set their imaginations on fire. One offered to buy me if they could break me in. Another suggested displaying me like a cheap slut in some industrial estate. They asked him if he’d seen me naked and he admitted it, said he’d been spying on me for months. Other photos showed my underwear hanging in the bathroom.

I should have closed the computer. I should have been outraged. Instead, I slipped a hand between my legs while I read every filthy thing they planned to do to me.

A window flashed. Someone was trying to contact me. It was the man from the night before.

—Hello, slut. You there?

—Yes —I typed.

—I’ve been jerking off to your photo since yesterday, bitch.

—Glad to hear it.

—Have you touched yourself?

—Yes.

—Have you fucked your uncle yet?

—Of course not.

—Why not, bitch?

Under normal circumstances I would never have let anyone talk to me like that. But that conversation, added to the file I had just discovered, had me completely out of my mind.

—Because I haven’t —I answered.

—You’re a dirty little slut and you know it. I want to see you. Turn on the camera.

I didn’t answer.

—Come on, puppy, get on camera.

Shaking, and not exactly from fear, I turned on the webcam. The screen was still showing only me.

—I can’t see you —I wrote.

—I can see you. You don’t need to see me. You’re hot, slut. Stand up. Let me look at you.

I obeyed. I stood up slowly and let that stranger look me over from head to toe.

—Your uncle’s a lucky man. Is he going to fuck you today?

—I already told you no.

—Liar. You’re dripping just thinking about it. Take off your blouse.

I stared at the screen. I put my hand on the first button. What the hell am I doing?

—No —I wrote—. I’m not getting naked in front of a stranger who might be recording me too.

—Of course I’m recording you. I’m going to show you to some friends, and we’ll see how many more. Come on, the blouse.

This was madness.

—I’m not doing it.

—You’re dying to, bitch. Take it off.

—If I do…

—What?

—I’ll be exposed.

—Exactly. That’s exactly what you want. Do it.

I started unbuttoning one button at a time. I was trembling, yes, but because I wanted to do it. I wanted to expose myself to that insolent, cruel man. I imagined him touching himself on the other side of the screen while the fabric opened centimeter by centimeter. By the time the blouse fell to the floor, I was already lost.

***

That’s how it all began. The orders, the photos, the videos he sent knowing they were circulating among strangers. Every humiliation left me wetter than the last. And, in the end, the meeting came. The address of the factory. The precise instructions. The ban on going in dressed.

And now I was there, barefoot on the freezing cement, naked and exposed, gooseflesh rising on my skin and my heart about to burst. I moved one step toward the staircase that led to the second floor. From above came the sound of men’s voices, and then an expectant silence, as if they were waiting for me.

I climbed the first step without knowing what awaited me on those ruined floors. I only knew one thing: I no longer wanted to turn back.