I’m home tonight, it’s Sunday - Superbowl Sunday in fact, which signifies nothing to me since I’ve never watched football in my life. The clock was closing on 8:00 pm, and I had just heated up a bowl of soup for a late supper. I planned to read the news online while I ate it, and then probably think about getting some rest, as I had been up late the night previous. Tonight seemed like a good night to just unwind. The cat agreed; she wanted me to go the fuck to bed so she could have the house to herself for the night, and was blunt about it, so I wasn’t going to argue.

I started to take a spoonful of my soup, and a signal came from my phone - the special bloop that only Kik makes. I checked it. Sometimes it’s just spambots, but on occasion…

Hi - Are you available tonight? I’d love to come see you.

Damn. “Come see you” meant “come fuck you”. It was the local Top who comes to my house to cunt me semi-regularly. He usually texts me on Kik about an hour before he wants to breed, which is, frankly, short notice.

With rare exceptions, he’s the only person who comes to my house to fuck me. The fact that he does means that my preparation for him isn’t just rinsing out my intestines and cleaning my body so that it can be used, I also have to make sure the rooms are presentable, the bathroom is clean enough for company, etc. - I have to play the host as well as the sex object.

But I do not refuse a man who claims my ass, if it is within my power.

So tonight I left my soup on the table, shut the (annoyed) cat in the living room, and with one hour’s notice I straightened three rooms, cleaned the bathroom, gave myself a basic pre-fuck cleanout, and still had enough time to watch a little porn to remind me what I’m for before I heard the telltale rattle of the doorknob as he came in.

My soup was cold, of course, after he left. The cat was, and is, pissed. My chance at a laid-back Sunday evening was lost. Now, you might say, So what? You got fucked, didn’t you? Bonus!

The thing is - and this is how I know - tonight, at this particular point, I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to have to let that Top come fuck me. So why did I? Nobody had a gun to my head. I wasn’t being coerced. For all that is said on this forum about how bottoms “must” submit to Tops, the truth is we really don’t have to if we don’t want to. Tonight wasn’t a case of me secretly wanting to - I really didn’t.

But I did it anyway. That’s how I know. The fact that something in me compels me to respond contrary to my own interest and desire tells me that the impulse isn’t contrived or imagined. It’s genuine. It’s real.

I know I’m meant to be fucked by men and to serve their sex because doing so comes so naturally and automatically that the impulse to do it is as powerful as instinct and the imperative is hard-wired into my body and my mind.

I have cold soup in my bowl and his hot cum in my ass. That’s how I know.