Prologue: The Confession
Imagine being 35 years old, obsessed with shit and soiled underwear. If you can’t picture it, let me help: picture me. My name’s Richard. I’m married, I’ve got a steady job, a wife who still sometimes kisses me goodnight, and a scruffy cunt daughter who leaves her dirty laundry in the hall like she’s daring someone to dig through it. You look at me, you’d see some ordinary bloke—maybe balding a bit early, beer belly, bit of stubble, the kind of guy who nods to you in the street and moves on. But inside? Filth. Rot. Hunger that never, ever fucking stops.
I’m not here to make excuses. Not here to cry about how I got this way, or try to convince you that deep down I’m a good person. I’m not. I’m the kind of man who gets hard at the sight of a brown streak running through cotton. The kind of man who sniffs a pad just to taste the iron and salt and skin that some other man would throw away with a gag. I’m writing this because I want you to understand just how far a man can fall when he stops pretending he’s normal—when he decides that shame is for people with less imagination.
Let’s get something straight: I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “today, I’ll ruin my life for a sniff of dirty knickers.” It started slow. A memory here, a smell there. You remember the first time you got a proper boner? I do. I was twelve, changing the sheets in the spare room because Mum had spilled wine on them. I found her knickers tucked under the pillow, streaked and stained, reeking of sweat and piss and that sour, musky tang that I would spend decades chasing. I pressed them to my nose, and just like that—fire in my pants, mind blank, hand working itself raw before I even knew what wanking meant.
They say the things that turn you on when you’re young never really leave you. Well, in my case, they never gave me a moment’s peace. My whole life, I chased that stink. I’d be on the bus, some girl with yesterday’s pants poking out the waistband of her jeans, and I’d have to cross my legs. At uni, I used to do the laundry for my girlfriend and sniff every fucking thing before it went in the wash. Always disappointed—she was too clean, too fussy, barely a stain, no bite. Not like Mum’s. Not like what I really wanted.
You get older, you get better at hiding it. You grow up, you get a wife, kids, a house, bills and responsibility. And you think maybe it’ll go away if you just play the part. But it doesn’t. It festers. It grows. You start looking for excuses to do the laundry, to check the bathroom bin before anyone else gets there. The tiniest little thrill—one whiff of piss, a brown mark in the crotch, a glisten of old discharge on cotton, and suddenly I’m in heaven. My cock would jump just from the sight of it.
My wife, bless her, is clean as a fucking whistle. Always on about hygiene, always soaking her pants in vanish before they go in the wash. I love her, I really do, but she’ll never understand. She’d be disgusted if she knew that the smell of her period, the rusty sweetness mixed with her perfume and sweat, is the only thing that makes me feel alive some days. She thinks I like the way she looks in her little silk knickers. I do—but only after she’s worn them for a week, bled through them, wiped herself with them after a shit and thrown them in the hamper without a second thought.
I know what you’re thinking. “Why not just get help? Why not talk to someone?” Fuck that. I don’t want help. I want filth. I want the dirty, sticky, brown-and-yellow-and-red stained pieces of cloth that everyone else throws away. I want to bury my face in a pad so soaked in blood it sticks to my cheeks, lick the salt and copper from a thong that’s gone stiff with dried cunt juice and old sweat. I want to chew the elastic, suck the crusty bits from the gusset, run my tongue along the edge of a shitstain just to taste the tang of another human’s filth.
If you’re still reading, you’re one of two kinds of people: disgusted, or hard as fucking nails. Either way, you want to see how low I’ll go. So here it is—the whole, nasty, honest truth. I’ll tell you about the first time I bought dirty knickers off the internet, the nights I sat up bidding on used pads like a fucking junkie, the hours I’ve spent with my face in a sanitary bin, praying no one hears me moaning in the dark. I’ll tell you about my daughter—oh, my daughter. The things I’ve done with her laundry would get me locked up if she ever found out.
I’ll tell you about the moment it all changed, the moment I stopped being a man and started being a pig—rooting, licking, begging for more, until even my own filth wasn’t enough. I’ll tell you about the day they caught me, and what they did to me after. But I won’t lie. I won’t pretend I’m sorry. This isn’t a story about redemption. This is about a man who chose filth, who chose shit and blood and the smell of another person’s cunt over anything clean or safe or normal.
So, if you’re ready for that—if you’re ready for the truth—read on. But don’t say you weren’t warned.
Because this is my story. And it only gets dirtier from here.
