Claire Recounts her upbringing and perspective on what happened with Jack. I have tried to avoid the typical and often boring error of just recounting events from a different point of view. The reader begins to gain an appreciation of what makes Claire tick. Is she truly a sub?
New readers of this series should read the previous three chapters. Because this is not just a different perspective recounting of the exact same events you may be less entertained by this chapter without that knowledge.
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"I know his name; Jack. It's funny it took a whole day to find that out. My body's so sore. Jack," I thought again as I lay snuggled up to him. His cock pushed at my back, and I thought of the times I had seen it angry. I longed to feel it in me, but I feared I might not be able to take it, I was so small.
I cursed at how stupid I'd been. Tony had been such a dick on the plane. He was so needy, and coming off the horse he could be so edgy. I'd never realized why I needled him so much but, as I thought back on it, what Jack said made sense.
***
My father had been so good to me as a child. I'd never had to worry about anything. This big, warm block of a man who was always there for me. He was always hugging me in a fatherly way; big bear hugs, his laughter resonating in my ears. My home had been this calm oasis of soothing warmth.
But then he'd died when I was fifteen. My mother was useless afterward and I was left alone to fend for myself, trying to cope. I was a late bloomer and still hadn't had my period. Things quickly got out of control. Try being the only girl in your grade without a sign of femininity, and a good half foot shorter than everyone else. My safe warm life was turned upside down. I'd done well at school, but now I was slipping. The stress was incredible.
Then I got mono. How, I don't know. They call it the kissing disease but I sure hadn't been kissing anyone. Far from it. I was laid out in bed for weeks, and I lost a lot of weight, which I could little afford to lose. While I was sick my mother was stressed out and yelled at me a lot. I guess she was suffering from having to support the family, pay for doctor's visits, and tend to a sick child.
When I was finally better, her attitude didn't change, and I lashed back. I decided I wouldn't eat. Call it anorexia, call it what you want. This I would control, no matter what my mother said. As a result of my severely restricted intake I still hadn't had my period; in fact I could have passed for thirteen on my eighteenth birthday.
We lived in Lomen, Wyoming, a small god-fearing, republican-voting town in southern Wyoming, not far from Salt Lake City. Sex education was definitely not in the curriculum. Wouldn't want us kids getting any ideas. What I was taught about sex and the female body you could write on a small piece of paper. Even then half of it was probably wrong. I was sure that my mother would have curled up and died if I had ever asked her anything about it.
One day, shortly after my birthday my only friend told me about her cousin, and how she cut herself. I was curious, and one night found myself lying naked in bed with an exacto blade. I was propped on some pillows looking down at myself, skinny legs spread. I reached down and drew the edge very slowly over my skin for about two inches. It hurt at first but then it didn't. Well, it did, but in a different way. It was like an electric thrill running through my body. Then I moved to my other leg and inscribed an identical line. I surprised myself when a small moan escaped my throat.
It was then I realized where that thrill in my body had gone. My crotch was on fire. I ran my fingers up my slit and found them wet. This had never happened before. Rubbing up and down, I mixed the blood with my lubrication. It looked like the worst period of a girl's life, if I'd ever had one. I spread it on the cuts, the salt in my cream stinging sharply. But it felt good in a way. I giggled, but then my fingers found my clit, and began to circle. Holy shit! My legs fell open and for some reason my other hand sought my hole. That's what I called it back then. My hole. My finger slipped in and delved deeper until it found my hymen. I thought that was the extent of my pussy. I was pretty naive.
I began to slide in and out as my finger circled my clit faster and faster. I realized that I was panting very loud and scared myself. "What if mom heard." I had to control my breathing, which only made things worse. My clit throbbed and I suddenly slapped it with my hand.
An explosion had gone off in my gut, warm fluid seeming to flow there. I gasped, and quickly grabbed a pillow to shriek into, my legs clamping on my other hand. I felt that feeling in your gut you get when the roller-coaster goes over a bump real fast, like falling. Warm waves pulsed from my core up into my chest and down to my toes. I thought it would never end, but slowly I caught my breathe and settled down. I felt as if I had just run a marathon. It had been years since I had been that relaxed. I quickly fell asleep.
Next morning my bed looked like a scene from an ax murder. I grabbed the sheets and quickly took them to the laundry room, hiding the worst of the blood from my mother. She was surprised. "You finally got your period." Later she gave me a pamphlet she had got from the drug store. That was the extent of my sexual health teaching from mom.
Back in my room I sat on my bed admiring my cuts. The blood had clotted but they were still tender. It was fortunate I had space between my thighs and they didn't rub. I felt proud of them at the time. Thinking back I now realize the reason. They were mine. They showed my mastery over my body. I was in control in a different way. And God, didn't it feel good?
From that day on things got better for me. I started to eat again, and a few months later my period came for real. I even started to grow boobs, although they never got really big. I even grew a few inches. I was never going to be an amazon, but at least I fit in better with the other girls my senior year. My pubic hair never came in too thick, but that was fine with me as I guess I had gotten used to being bald down there for so long.
I wasn't as anxious, but every few days I would place two more cuts on my legs, evenly spaced. I grew proud of those lines, so neatly inscribed. They were like a badge of honor for me. They symbolized my control of my life. And of course I gave myself an orgasm to go with the cuts.
I had taken ballet lessons since I was five. My father had loved to come and watch. When he died I stopped. As I began to put on weight I still looked anemic. I certainly no longer felt like the swan he had called me, rather an ugly duckling. When I started cutting and realized I had a better form of control, I took up ballet again. I had to get a job to pay for the lessons as mom thought it was a waste of time.
I really threw myself into the lessons, and my body responded, my new weight turning into lithe muscle, my thighs and calves took on new form. I liked to watch myself in the mirror at the barre, and when I was stretching my legs on the barre I would look at my crotch and imagine the neat lines down my thighs. I could feel them as the fresh scabs made my skin pull. I always wore opaque tights so that the others would not see them.
There were a number of instructors at the school, but my regular was Madam Olga, an old Russian emigre who would often tell us tales of the Bolshoi. She had only been in the troupe, never a star, but still it sounded amazing.
One day she was ill and we had a sub, Jonathon. He strutted around barking commands at us. I was working en-pointe when he came up behind me and slapped my ass sharply, barking, "straighten up." The shock ran from my ass right to my pussy. Then a moment later he did it again on my other cheek. Shocked, I looked up at him in the mirror, eyes ablaze. He looked back, and I realized he was looking at my camel-toe. I looked down surprised, then embarrassed, to see a wet spot. Our eyes met and a knowing look came into his eye. "You, I want to talk with after class." Then he stomped off to abuse some other poor girl.
