Ricarda – The Filthy Feminist. Activist by Day, Cam Whore by Night.

The following story contains vivid, explicit descriptions of extreme fetishes, such as self-humiliation, masochism, and fetishization of shame, bodily residues, and body odors. If any of this isn’t for you, please move on to something else.

If this brief overview sparked your curiosity, it’s time to get comfy because you are in for a ride.

Consent is sexy! Always play safe! Don’t try this at home!

CONTENT NOTE

Submission to Strangers / Masochism / Self-Humiliation (Verbal / Performance) / Anal Display & Insertion / Body Gaze / Self-Objectification / Looking at Webcam Self / Body Writing with Lipstick / Clothespin Play (Nipples, Labia, Tongue, Clitoris) / Control Dynamics (Chat Commands / Remote Control of Actions) / Degradation (Verbal / Psychological) / Exhibitionism (Broadcast Nudity) / Financial Transaction (Paid Access for Acts) / Gagging / Mouth Restriction / Humiliation (Verbal / Public) / Objectification (Being Treated as Image/Commodity) / Orgasm Control / Edge Play / Denial of Permission / Used Panties in Mouth / Pain Play (Candle Wax, Toothpaste, Nipple Pining) / Pubic Hair Fetishization / Public Shaming / Remote Control Toys (Vibration via Chat) / Light Scatophilia / Fluid Tasting/Olfactory (Piss/Farts/Ass Sweat) / Self-Licking (Oral-Finger Play) / Urophilia (Urine Drinking/Play) / Video Recording/Auto-Voyeurism (Watching Own Stream)

Prologue

It was 5:30 AM, and I was kneeling on my bed, bent over, my face buried in the pillow, sobbing and whimpering. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so wretched. Everything hurt, my entire crotch was stinging, just like my breasts. The skin in the corners of my mouth was torn, I was sticky and sweaty, my mouth tasted rancid, my rectum felt bruised, and I didn't even want to think about the state of my cunt. My thick, dark blonde pubic hair was damp and emitted a strong odor, and it was matted with dried toothpaste and candle wax. I could still feel the indentations from the clothespins that had been clamped into the delicate flesh of my labia, and I was sure that even through the thick pubic hair, the marks would be visible.

But the pain wasn't even the worst part. It wasn’t like those men did all those things to me. I hadn't just been a passive victim. I had actively participated in it all. No one had forced me to do anything. I had enthusiastically joined in every act. I had willingly offered myself to be abused, and I had gotten what I wanted. Well, maybe a little more than I expected, but nothing that I didn't consciously agree to. I was like a frog in a pot of boiling water, oblivious to the fact that the temperature was constantly rising. What was even worse, the hotter it got, the more aroused I became, like a true little slut. At some point, it felt like a video game, only I wasn't the player; the men at their computers were controlling my movements and actions. I had never experienced anything like it, and at some point, probably early in the evening, my mind and my judgment must have shut down. Otherwise, I couldn't explain how I could have allowed myself to be so degraded and subject myself to all those humiliating things. What I couldn't understand, even less, was how I could have enjoyed it so much, and not just for a bit.

I was just a piece of meat, devoid of will or dignity, marked with all the outward signs of a self-aware feminist who rails against the patriarchy and rejoices in the male tears online. This seemed to excite some of the men at their screens more than usual. They weren't interested in me as a person; they had never seen me before. I would say that for most of them, it was all about what I represented. I wasn't a person to them; I was just a moving image that they could direct according to their desires. This image represented ideas that they felt threatened by, which is why they saw it as their duty to »correct« it. They wanted to see the hairy feminist slut break down, sweaty and flushed, gagging and whimpering, loudly admitting to her own depravity, and thanking them for every humiliation.

Now, I was sobbing like a child, consumed by shame. How could I have betrayed everything I stood for? How could I have allowed myself to be turned into a public exhibition for strangers on the internet, willingly performing every perverse and degrading act with a cheerful grin and a submissive »thank you«? I had completely succumbed to the most concentrated form of patriarchal oppression that I loudly fought against during the day, and my cunt had become so wet that now, with the laptop closed, I wanted to disappear into my pillow out of shame. My damn cunt, this dirty betrayer. A few comments in the chat, and she becomes so fucking wet and tingly that I throw my ideals overboard with a stupid grin and my tongue hanging out. How could she do this to me? How could she be so cheap? That's what I wondered as I cried into my pillow.

That's where the real problem began. How could I have been so completely overtaken by it, more than I ever had been before, even with Alex? My first orgasm in front of a camera, which admittedly took a while to build up, was so intense that I thought it would tear me apart. It felt like I had made all the wrong choices in my previous life, or rather, until early that evening. It felt so good to surrender all control and expose myself this way. I felt seen in a way that was completely foreign to me, because I had never shown that side of myself to anyone before. Not even Alex. I had always only allowed myself a fleeting glimpse of that side, and when I caught myself, I blamed my internalized misogyny and the patriarchy that had raised me which I desperately needed to free myself from. I was afraid of that side of myself.

But I was curious. I just wanted to see for myself. Even if that isn't entirely true. It wasn't just curiosity, it was a deeper compulsion that I couldn't resist for long, and then the rest happened very quickly. Ridiculously quickly. Less than an hour had passed before I was completely naked and had the first red marks on my breasts, and an hour after that, the handle of my hairbrush stuck in my ass. From there it was just a matter of one thing leading to another, with every slight sense of shame that crept up to me just adding more fuel to the fire. I had fucked a cucumber from my refrigerator, drank a glass of my own piss, licked and sucked objects that were still warm from my ass, and of course tasted of it. I found it all incredibly funny and didn't once wonder what I was doing, not really.

The funny thing is, those few hundred men with their unimaginative screen names didn't even have to offer me much money. It was enough that they bombarded the chat with questions, suggestions, demands, and borderline creepy compliments, for which I would have publicly dragged them across my social media bubble. Instead, I often read the comments out aloud and said »thank you«, fingering my clit. They gave me instructions, asked questions, rated my body parts, and each one of them let me know what they would most like to do with me if they were alone with me right now. They all had their penises in their hands, many of them had a sleeping woman in the next room. I suspected the first and was sure about the latter, but even that didn't stop me – quite the contrary.

It's not surprising that the chat really took off once they spotted that framed International Women's Day poster on my wall. That made it clear to everyone who they were dealing with, and that my unshaven armpits weren't about a fetish, but about my refusal to submit to the male gaze. From that point on, no one in the chat referred to me by my hastily chosen and admittedly not very original profile name. From that point on, I was just »the filthy feminist,« and I would be lying if I said that I didn't get incredibly horny from that. The fact that my body reacted so intensely to the humiliations, long before my mind even understood them, was the worst part of it. I had always considered myself a decent person, educated and self-determined, and I couldn't reconcile that with how incredibly wet my cunt got with each new comment.

Now the laptop was closed, and I was sobbing and whimpering into my pillow, which was now wetter than my crotch. I didn't know who I was anymore. I had marched in the front of the rallies on International Women's Day rallies and Christopher Street Day, not just as an ally. I had never been afraid to confront arrogant men with their unchecked privileges. And now I had just shoved my gaping holes right in their faces, allowed them to inflict pain on me for their entertainment, let them say and do degrading things to and about me, let them reduce me to a toilet, got off big time, and I had enjoyed every second of it. How could that happen? A question echoed in my head again and again: »Who are you?«

Chapter 1

I had completely different plans for that evening, actually. I don't want to pretend that I just passively stumbled into this mess without any of my involvement. That would be a blatant lie. Then again, I seem to have lied to myself about a few things for a while now, otherwise, this couldn't have gone so far, and certainly not at such a ridiculous pace.

I hadn't intended to stay at Rainbows for long. While the only queer bar in our neighborhood was practically my living room, I was already tired when I arrived in the late afternoon and wasn't particularly in the mood to discuss with Salome, Ronja, and Lisa how »Sex work is real work,« the demand for the introduction of the Swedish model, and the even more radical demand to completely outlaw pornography and sex work could be reconciled in solidarity. This time, it was Salome with her dirty blonde dreadlocks who wanted to burn everything down, because she had seen a video about the webcam industry.

Outraged, she reported on platforms on the internet where women undress in front of their webcams and then engage in »degrading porn stuff.« While they are getting paid for this, most of the money goes to the platform operators, like pimps who profit from the self-exploitation of women. These platforms promised the performers autonomy and self-determination, but as usual, this only applied to privileged white women, while all the women from poor countries in South America and Eastern Europe were completely exploited. They were not in the safe space of their own four walls, but were working sixteen-hour shifts for a pittance in giant factory halls with hundreds of small studio booths.

»And during that time, they're not just doing a little something in front of the camera. Many have to sell themselves as slaves and do really crazy things. Really sadistic stuff that really hurts. It's totally fucked up. They basically have to rape themselves for sixteen hours a day.«

»But you can’t just ban online sex work,« Ronja interjected, her messy henna-red bun bouncing. She was usually a strong advocate for the decriminalization of sex work and also felt attacked by Salome's statement about the privileged white women. »For trans women, online sex work is sometimes the only way to find a job in this queer-hostile society. Do you even think about that?«

Salome glared at her. Lisa, who took the minutes like she usually did, nodded along silently, but she also nodded when Salome spoke. I just watched like I would watch a tennis match.

»Of course, I've considered that,« she replied grimly to Ronja. »But the price can't be that less privileged women have to degrade themselves so much. Do you want to lie naked in front of the camera for twelve or sixteen hours every day and have your ass anally raped by big dildos all day long? Or have dicks shoved down your throat until you puke, so that those creeps can get off? That's not even about sex at all. It's only about humiliating and dehumanizing women. You gotta let go of your patriarchal fairy tale about the happy sex worker.«

Ronja felt rightfully attacked and prepared to counter, but Salome wouldn't let her get a word in. While she continued to rail against the fact that the entire online sex industry was solely for the purpose of systematic »exploitation of female bodies« and that every one of these platforms was actually just the digital harem of some disgusting tech billionaire, I suddenly felt like I was getting my period, and not just a little bit. My entire crotch felt damp and sticky, as if tissue from my uterus had detached and been flushed out by a rush of fresh blood, even though it was supposed to be a few days away.

Before the blood stain could ruin not only my underwear but also my pants, I apologized, rushed to the all-gender bathroom, took a tampon from the dispenser at the sink, and retreated to one of the stalls.

As I pulled down my panties there to assess the damage and stop the bleeding, I had to swallow hard. The pungent odor that greeted me was unmistakable. It wasn't blood. It was vaginal secretions. My thick, dark pubic hair was damp and matted throughout my crotch, so much so that the moisture had seeped through the fabric of my panties and was sticking to my inner thighs. While I had been listening to Salome's tirade about what was happening to the poor women, things had gone completely wild down there. Not only was I soaking wet, but my labia and clitoris were slightly swollen and extremely sensitive, and my nipples were clearly visible through my black tank top, too.

I was aroused and didn't know why. All I knew was that I had to get out of Rainbows quickly to sort myself out. If I had been a little more patient, I might have snuggled up to Alex for the rest of the evening and maybe even gone home with her, but she wasn't there yet. Alex always arrived late, and I wanted to go home. However, not before asking Salome about the name of the report about these exploitative platforms, so that I could take a position on it by the time the feminist solidarity meeting took place in two weeks.

♀

My panties hadn't dried on the way home, not the least. I ran up the stairs to my door as if in a trance, but instead of changing my panties, I just shed my jeans and sat down on the bed with my laptop. My face was hot, and my pulse was racing nervously. My nipples were pressing against the thin fabric of my tight tank top, and my panties, well, they were ripe for the washing machine, but I didn't want to part with them.

When I found the report that Salome was talking about, I quickly scrolled to the part where the webcam platform was first mentioned. While the sound of the video was still playing in another browser tab, I had already opened the page and was completely amazed. Of course, I had seen porn before, I didn’t live under a rock. But the small thumbnails here that filled pages and pages, they weren't leading to canned content. Everything was live. Everything I saw there in the small preview windows was happening right now.

I clicked from room to room and didn't even realize how my hand slid into my wet panties. Most of the performers were about my age, some dressed like porn stars, others much more natural. Some were just sitting around and talking about their week, some were just sitting around in silence and waited for something to happen, while others were really getting it on. Many of the performers had remote-controlled sex machines, others had vibrating toys in their body openings that were controlled remotely by the chat. Some had long, detailed tip menus and advertised their numerous other profiles, while others were playing with themselves in front of a sparse dozen viewers and seemed to simply enjoy the company of a few lonely men. But most of the rooms, at least the slightly more professional-looking ones, were packed with hundreds, sometimes over a thousand viewers who were flooding the chat with dirty comments.

While I was watching all of this with curiosity, I was absentmindedly playing with my clitoris. One fateful click took me to one of the rooms that Salome probably meant. There, I was greeted by a young woman who was barely recognizable as such, covered in a thick layer of saliva, smeared makeup, and body writing. I was shocked when I saw her, but not in a way that made me feel disgusted. Instead, I stared intently and increased the pressure on my clitoris.

She had long, smooth, light red hair and pale skin, was slender, and had probably looked very pretty just a few hours ago. With her hair, she reminded me of Ronja, but her present condition could only be described as ruined. Her mascara had run down to her cheekbones, and she had not only written the screen names of her viewers all over her body but also a lot of obscene insults, of which »cum dump« was one of the milder ones.

What was even wilder was how tightly her breasts were bound, which were now standing away from her like plump red balls, and on whose nipples were dangling clothespins. Her breasts looked as if she had had a very thin string wrapped very tightly around each one. It looked excessively obscene, unnatural, wrecked. I couldn't understand what attracted me to that image, but I couldn't look away.

While I wondered if the bound breasts hurt much, the fingers in my panties were moving faster. My other hand explored the underside of my breast, spreading my thumbs and index fingers, probing how far they could reach. If I had been a little more attentive at that moment, the rest of the evening might have gone differently, and consequently, the entire time after that.

But I wasn't. I was completely running on autopilot and was watching the redhead as she alternately slapped her bound breasts and her cunt with a leather-covered paddle. She was completely shaved and her labia looked inflamed and reddened. She was either a fantastic actress or she was really hitting so hard that it hurt so much it made her twitch and squeak with each hit. After each slap, she thanked »Daddy« in a noticeable Eastern European accent. I couldn't look away.

When she was done with the slaps, she moved her face close to the camera and shoved a long dildo made of wobbly red rubber down her throat. The fact that she was crying during this did not stop her from looking straight at the camera. I had never been as fascinated by anything in my life as I was by this sight and the comments that were constantly flooding the chat. About half of them were cheesy compliments, but the other half were mean to downright sadistic, and they were all delivered with the linguistic elegance of cavemen. »wanna lick ur holes,« »ready to cum for you,« or »spread ass for me« were among the more eloquent. But it was comments like »drink piss how much,« »four fingers in your cunt« or »clean your filthy holes with toilet brush« that sent a shiver down to my lower abdomen.

In retrospect, that was when it was over. The window through which I could have escaped back to my clean life had closed and I didn’t even realize. I had chosen my path, or rather, my cunt had done that for me while I was absent, without my involvement in the decision and without me being informed afterwards. She had basically let me find out for myself, as the management had already approved, signed off, and sealed everything.

Looking back at it now, I am most surprised by my own unchecked libido. After all, that was something I had always attributed to the guys who made unsolicited compliments to women, left embarrassing comments under bot profiles, and paid women to perform sexual acts platforms like the one I was about to sign up with. But now it seems I had been living in a glass house, throwing stones in all directions.

At the same time, it was all my own, conscious decision. My profile on that site didn't create itself, and no one held a gun to my head when I had to verify. The mouse cursor nervously hovered over the sign-in button for a while, that's true, but I clicked it myself, and filled all the blanks myself. The truth is that I didn't have to think about it for long. Just take a look, just to get a taste, I told myself, in my soaking wet panties.

But what if someone recognized me? That seemed like a legitimate concern, but I was so turned on at that point that I couldn't even let such worries get to me. Correspondingly, I hadn't even created a burner email address for this experiment and had instead entered my university address in the field. When it came to choosing a profile name, I didn't have much patience and quickly settled on the first thing that came to mind: Luna_Feral. Luna because of my moon phase tattoo under my breasts; Feral, because with my body hair I felt a little wild compared to the other women with their smooth, hairless skin.

I filled out the rest of the profile without much thought. Age 24, I wrote, living somewhere on the internet, and then quickly checked a few boxes and was asked if I accepted private sessions that were charged per minute. I declined, because that sounded a little too intimate for me. Then I clicked on Save and Continue.

How badly I needed it at that moment should have been obvious to me from the lack of hesitation I showed when another hoop for me to jump through appeared, only this time it was burning in flames. I was being asked to verify my identity with a shady data broker. This would normally have been enough for me to immediately cancel the registration process, but at that moment, it just seemed like a minor obstacle on the way to something exciting. The fact that I was already violating so many of my principles with these very first steps was not a warning sign to me. But with the account verification, I was officially »on the record,« and I couldn't have cared less. Although, of course, I wasn't completely indifferent. I suddenly had a dirty secret, and that felt a little too exciting, even though I hadn't actually done anything yet. That would come later.

After uploading photos of my ID and a selfie holding the card next to my face, I was supposed to wait a few minutes until my profile was activated and I could finally enter this strange, unfamiliar world. I was as excited as I hadn't been in a long time and didn't know what to do with the waiting time. I decided to use the time productively and take one last look in the mirror before presenting myself to the world.

Ever since I had been part of the regular crowd at Rainbows, I hadn't really cared about pleasing a male gaze. My hair was dark blonde, and I had worn it long for most of my life, but in the third semester, I had cut it to shoulder length, got a short fringe, and shaved the sides. In between, I had dyed it turquoise or pink, but right now it was bleached blonde with my dark roots already showing, and a little messy on top. I only shaved my thighs down to my knees and kept them mostly hairless, because I like the feeling of smooth skin on my thighs. However, I let my lower legs, arms, and armpits grow, and I only trimmed my pubic hair a little bit. However, I removed the hair around my anus. I've been doing that since Alex did it for me once, and then she licked it and shoved her tongue in. It was the first time I had a tongue in my ass, and it left a lasting impression, which is why I've been shaving my ass ever since. The thing with Alex and me was a long time ago, but you never know how an evening at Rainbows might end.

In the summer, I like to wear tank tops and short skirts, both usually black, with my Doc Martens, so that both my smooth thighs and my hairy calves, and of course my fluffy armpit hair, are clearly visible. I understood my body hair as an expression of my protest against patriarchal beauty standards, and it seemed to work. I always enjoyed marching in demos or going out with the others from Rainbows and having guys on the street give me their disapproving glances. If they said something, I would tell them to cry quietly. I liked my strictly curated body hair. I thought it made me look fierce, and I liked how it enhanced my natural body odor. I smelled like a woman, and that's what those guys had to live with if they were bothered by it.

Today, however, I felt a rare urge to make myself look pretty – of course, only for myself, because I would also be seeing myself on the screen and was a little nervous about that. Not as nervous as I would be before an exam, but more like before a first date. That felt a little strange to me, but I let myself be carried away by my excited curiosity.

I ruffled my hair and brought it into shape. I thought the tight black tank top and the black panties with the wet spot in the crotch were a good fit and decided not to change. I already had eyeliner on because Alex likes it, but for »the occasion« – whatever I meant by that – I felt like putting on some cherry red lipstick I’ve kept in the back of a drawer for almost a year.

With bright red lips I went back to my bedroom and slipped into a pair of high wool socks with a rainbow pattern that went just above my knees. Now my hairy calves could no longer be seen, but first, I didn't want to go to a demo, and second, I felt comfortable in them, and that's the main thing. Dressed up, I turned on the LED light strip that illuminated the wall behind my bed in rainbow colors, tidied up a little dirty laundry, and got myself into position on the bed with my laptop. Sitting cross-legged, I activated the camera and microphone in my laptop, took a deep breath and clicked on START STREAM. A few seconds later, I was live. My heart was pounding nervously.

Then it calmed down a bit, because nothing happened yet. Nevertheless, I sat in front of the laptop with excitement, as if I were about to open my Christmas presents. My heart was jumping, my armpits got sweaty, and my pussy really wanted to be stroked. ...