Not Broken Just Bent

_____________

Author's note:

This work is significantly longer than anything I've written before, and more thematically complex. It developed from a few discrete ideas, which melded naturally together and created this tale, which took on a life of its own. I've submitted it in its entirety with internal chapter breaks instead of breaking it into multiple parts and posting as a series.

It tells of a woman's unorthodox journey of recovery from the damages of emotional and psychological abuse—including breaking down her metaphorical protective emotional wall, vicariously living through others, sexual self-help, and voyeurism—and her rediscovery of her true beauty, emotional gifts, and love. As always with my stories, this takes place in a universe where unprotected sex has no consequences or health risks, so please enjoy it as such.

It is, at its core, essentially—and most importantly—a love story. But with lots of sex.

I hope you'll find it engaging and meaningful—it was for me creating it—and please let me know your thoughts, feedback, constructive criticism, or suggestions. I do read all messages and comments, and appreciate the time you take to create and share them, even if I'm not able to promptly respond.

All characters in sexual situations are 18 or older. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any event or person, past or present, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

________________

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."

~

Eden Ahbez, Nature Boy

_________________

Prologue:

I was broken. Ok, maybe not broken, but as the song goes, just bent. Pretty badly bent. Years of body shaming and denigration, emotional manipulation, and psychological abuse had taken their toll. Mentally and emotionally, I was pretty messed up.

Now, before you jump in with platitudes and social commentary about body image and rejecting misogynistic societal ideals, please understand that I already know. I know all that, and I knew it then. I know women should reject artificial beauty standards and embrace their bodies and selves for who they are—not tolerate or suffer misogyny.

And for many years, I did. For most of my formative years, it wasn't even an issue. I just was me, and that had always been ok.

I'm generally considered pretty by many—I was always pretty. That's still hard for me to say out loud, but I'm learning. Not stereotypically beautiful with a killer body, but attractive and nice looking. So this isn't a cliché, "ugly duckling into swan" tale; it's more complicated than that.

Life was humming along, then turned sideways and went awry. Very awry. Then, my life took many unexpected, sexual, somewhat kinky, and wonderful turns on its way back on course.

My name is Veronica, Vera for short. And I'm no longer broken or bent. This is my story.

*****

CH. 1: The Beginning

By the time I reached high school, I was athletic, trim, and popular, with thick dark hair, large, expressive brown eyes, and an infectious smile. I flirted, dated, had my first time, and had a few minor relationships. I got mostly top grades, was Captain of the high school Dance Team, and played piano with devotion and commitment.

In my senior year, I met and fell in love with my future husband—my high school sweetheart, Derek. He was ruggedly handsome, strong, smart, funny, and doted on me like I was a precious treasure he couldn't believe he had discovered. We married the next year, both young at 19.

Life was good. Before things went wrong. Before things changed. Before Derek changed.

Derek followed his dream of becoming a cop, successfully meeting the entrance requirements and getting accepted into the Police Academy. It was stressful, yes; demanding and challenging, yes. But I supported him wholeheartedly, and we were generally happy then. But looking back, cracks and warning signs were slowly manifesting.

Our marriage was never quite what the young idealist in me had hoped. There was nothing tangible that I could put my finger on; it was more just lacking the "magic" and romance I'd envisioned we would have together. The "honeymoon period" lasted little longer than our disappointing weeklong honeymoon in Las Vegas.

Vegas was not my first choice for a romantic getaway, but Derek had always wanted to go, and I thought it could be an exciting and memorable adventure. Neither of us was really into gambling—or so I thought—but there were fabulous shows, great food, music, dancing, and the ubiquitous people watching. And there would be sex, of course. Lots and lots of unbridled Newlywed Sex to look forward to.

We had sex once.

While in Vegas, Derek proudly paraded me around in public—in the casinos, clubs, and on the streets. He insisted I wear very sexy and revealing clothes. Knowing he loved me and was proud to be seen with me, that he wanted to show me off and found me beautiful and attractive, was flattering and fun for me. But that seemed to be limited to when we were in public.

When we were alone, Derek's behavior towards me was different. I felt that he became disinterested in me after I'd served to publicly boost his masculine ego.

Most nights, after wonderful evenings out together, rather than sequester ourselves in our room for nights of love, sex, and romance, Derek would leave me alone and go to the casino. At least, that's where he claimed to go, and I have no reason to doubt it. He made it clear I was neither invited nor welcome to join him. He needed some "alone" time.

Instead of spending time with his new bride, Derek drank and gambled unsuccessfully. He was not a very good gambler. His gambling losses—while not numerically particularly high—frustrated him and soured his moods, which soured our time together. The trip was not a disaster, just disappointing.

******

Life went on; Derek worked hard at the Police Academy, and I majored in music at the university. We socialized and went out regularly, and although we had times of stress and occasionally argued, our relationship was stable and mostly satisfying.

I was thrilled to receive the gift of motherhood a little over a year after we married, and gave birth to a perfect baby girl when I was 20. Derek, however, was apparently less than thrilled at our blessing. Maybe it was the pressure and stress of his Police Academy demands, or the intimidation of being a father, or something deeply hidden that chose to rear its ugly head. And ugly it was.

To say Derek did not appreciate the miraculous womanly changes I exhibited when pregnant would be a criminal understatement. He called me fat and sloppy (I remained relatively thin and hardly showed) and complained that I wasn't sexy or appealing.

My libido was on fire; his was non-existent.

Derek's one "positive" comment about my physical changes during pregnancy was a demeaning backhanded compliment—that I finally got a proper pair of tits. Not that he took advantage or physically appreciated them in their enlarged state.

Derek had never claimed my tits were substandard before I got pregnant, so his comment was as confusing as it was disturbing. To the contrary, he always seemed to love my boobs; at least, that's the inference I drew based on the level of groping and playing with them he had previously engaged in.

I was married, pregnant, and had great friends and family but felt alone. Abandoned. My hormones were raging, and I was unusually horny for over half my pregnancy. I had to remedy my arousal by myself since Derek was apparently disgusted by me.

After our daughter Angie was born, Derek mostly ignored me. Our sex life crashed from several times a week before marriage to maybe every other week after marriage to once every couple of months, if lucky, after Angie was born. But it was not the diminishing sex,

per se

, that was the biggest problem. It was the loss of intimacy. Of caring and love. Of our friendship.

Our relationship deteriorated, and Derek's personality changed over time. Derek did not physically abuse me—I suppose I should be thankful for that—although he came close and was rough at times. But he grew to be cruel and emotionally and psychologically abusive.

Within months of graduating from the police academy and starting to work as a cop, Derek became even more emotionally withdrawn from Angie and me. He became inconsiderate and self-centered. He lost all sense of empathy or caring and pretty much behaved like a misogynist pig. He expected dinner on the table, me to serve him and his buddies beer and snacks when they watched a game, dishes, and laundry done—the whole 1950s stereotype. We had ceased to be the close, loving couple we had been before.

Growling and surly muttering replaced conversation and terms of endearment. Sex was still somewhat satisfying when Derek deigned to provide me with that honor, although it was a bit rough and usually self-centered. At least I rarely faked orgasms. Romance was a distant memory, and my hopes of living a life of love and devotion into old age were shriveled and dying.

I didn't understand what had gone wrong, why it did, or how to fix it.

******

CH. 2: "Pussycle" and the Death of a Marriage

By the time Angie was 5 years old, Derek and I only had sex infrequently and on rare occasions—months apart. Derek blamed me for not being feminine and attractive enough to arouse him and let me know that at every opportunity. I hadn't physically changed much since high school despite giving birth, so his criticisms were both upsetting and baffling.

The criticisms of my body and my femininity increased in frequency and harshness over time. This increase was matched by decreased tenderness, caring, or quality time together as a couple. Derek's insults gradually went from demeaning to cruel.

Because I was thin and had small boobs, Derek started telling me that my pussy was the only part of me that was good for anything. According to him, the rest of me was a turn-off, and sex with me was akin to fucking a board with a hole in it.

One day, we were sitting in the living room doing nothing when Derek suddenly burst out laughing. I asked him what was so funny. He said it just occurred to him that I reminded him of a Popsicle because I was just a stick featuring a tasty treat. So I was a "pussycle"—a pussy on a stick.

He was so proud of his own wit and loved the new word he coined to describe me. I pretended to laugh at first, but it hurt deeply. I never found it remotely funny or clever, and it got old fast.

Derek's thing about not liking my body and breasts—and then pretty much all of me except my pussy—was something new, and certainly nothing that was an issue for us before then.

Yes, I had compact, A-cup boobs, but I wasn't totally flat: just small. My breasts were undeniably evident—a bit less than a whole handful—and I had always thought nicely shaped. My nipples were pink and pretty (and very sensitive). I hadn't been self-conscious about my boobs for years. I actually liked them up until then and was glad they were small, so I didn't have to worry about them flopping around when dancing.

Derek himself always seemed perfectly in love with my breasts, along with the rest of me.

I didn't change. My body and boobs didn't change. Derek changed. I never figured out why, or why he apparently felt the need to destroy my self-esteem, ego, confidence, and sexuality.

Derek continued a campaign of denigration and neglect, which slowly seeded or awakened my dormant body-image insecurities. And created new ones that I never had before. He subjected me to years of disparaging comments, shunned me or criticized me in the bedroom, and used the horrible 'pussycle' nickname to the point I began to doubt my own femininity and attractiveness. My self-esteem and confidence were nearly destroyed.

Eventually, to my shame and mortification, Derek started using the pejorative and offensive term about me openly with his buddies—often in front of me. His cop friends would laugh at my expense, ignoring my embarrassment and reddened face. After a few drinks, they would regress to a juvenile level and joke about my body. Mainly in a lighthearted—but devastating to me—way about my thin figure and small boobs.

Sometimes things went from uncomfortable to frightening when one or more of his buddies would laugh and suggest a visible verification that I really was just a pussy on a stick. Such suggestions were generally proffered with humor and met with laughter, but I worried that things might get out of control somehow and that I'd be helpless to prevent it.

Derek made such fears worse when he focused attention on my pussy, rather than on my otherwise unfeminine body. He loved to say my luscious (his word) pussy was my one redeeming feature. Naturally, the guys wanted to see for themselves, as a luscious pussy was far more interesting than a sexless stick body.

There were times I was terrified I would be forced—maybe violently—to show myself naked to the group. Or worse. Thankfully, the guys were only joking, so nothing like that happened.

Until it did.

I vividly remember the night our marriage died. Even though it would be another three years before our official split and divorce, the night Derek crossed way over the line killed us as a couple.

I was in our bedroom at the end of the hall while Derek and his cop buddies drank and played cards in the living room. I had already gotten ready for bed and was in for the night. I was wearing a light dressing gown over a short nightgown and curled up in a comfy armchair with a cup of tea, reading. The men's loud laughter and voices sounded distant and irrelevant, like the hum of distant traffic on a busy road.

I froze when a loud, drunk voice pierced the uniform buzz of voices and challenged Derek's description of me and his "pussycle" nickname for me. I heard every word clearly. A couple of other guys joined in. They said they'd heard this so often but didn't believe my tits were that tiny or that my pussy was that "luscious." They basically called Derek a liar for exaggerating so much.

Derek couldn't take a perceived insult or challenge to his honor or masculinity without responding. My eyes widened, and I started to shake as I heard footsteps thudding down the hall towards me. Panic swelled in my throat, and my flight mode kicked in.

I jumped up and ran to lock the door, but before I could get there, Derek burst into our bedroom. He dragged me roughly out by my arm and tugged me down the hall into the living room. I was off-balance and barely kept from falling over as I stumbled along, trying to keep my feet under me as he pulled me into the other room.

We stopped in the middle of the living room. Derek stood behind me with both of my arms pinned to my sides with a painful grip and turned me to face his group of friends. Like a trapped animal, my eyes darted around the room, to the sides, the hall, and the faces of five or six men staring at me. None looked concerned about my situation. Their eyes revealed interest, confusion, and eagerness. I felt helpless and slightly sickened.

Derek ordered me to show them my body. I struggled, told him to fuck off and leave me alone.

The guys catcalled, "Wooo," and one added, "You gonna let her talk to you like that, buddy?"

Looking at his cronies, Derek laughed and said jovially, "Don't worry, all part of a game we like to play. She loves the attention and would love nothing more than showing off her juicy pussy." He shook me roughly. "Isn't that right,

Pussycle

?"

The men glance at each other, both excited and uncertain. They were clearly unsure if Derek was joking or if they would actually get to see me naked. What I thought or wanted was irrelevant.

Derek stood very close, holding me firmly by my arms. Without moving his lips, he said quietly so only I could hear, with a menacing and deadly serious voice, "You fucking stand still and pull up your nightie so they can see your useless body, or I'll fucking break your arms and rip off your clothes right here."

I was terrified. Trembling with fear and panic, I did not doubt for an instant that, at that moment, Derek would do precisely what he said. And he was easily strong enough to do it. Wild thoughts of being hurt, humiliated, or even raped raced through my panicked mind. Self-preservation moved me to comply as the best means of staving off something worse.

Without a word, as if in a trance, I took a deep breath, then, with shaking hands, untied my dressing gown's sash and let it fall open. My heart raced, perspiration dotted my forehead, and I could hardly breathe. I reached down—Derek allowed me to bend forward but never released his deathlike grip on my upper arms—and pulled my nightgown up over my face, fully exposing my naked body from the neck down to the lecherous crowd.

As if far away, I heard the hoots and whistles, muffled through my wall of terror. I felt numb. Stupid. Angry. I crunched my eyes closed and trembled, tears welling and streaming down my face. I was glad I couldn't see their faces.

I don't know how long I stood there, with my nightie over my face and naked body displayed to the men. It probably was only several seconds—certainly fewer than ten—but it felt longer. I felt as if I were in a dream, and it was not really me there, naked, with drunk men denigrating my body, laughing at me. Agreeing with Derek and making lecherous comments about my vagina.

I vaguely recall someone asking Derek if my pussy tasted as delicious as it looked, but Derek shut that down before anyone touched me. Some irrational part of me flashed the thought,

at least they like my pussy.

I dropped my nightgown, and Derek released my arms. He commented to the group that he felt validated and right about me, and now they had to believe him and the like. I didn't listen. I wrapped my dressing gown around me, dropped my chin to avoid eye contact with my tormentors, and fled back down the hall to my room.

I slammed the bedroom door shut and locked it. I leaned my back against it and took deep, labored breaths, trying to calm my adrenaline rush. Tears scored down my face, and my whole body shook with humiliation and rage.

I couldn't believe what had just happened. I felt violated. Angry. Scared.

How could Derek do that? Be such a monster, so cruel? Fuck him, goddamn it, I'm his wife. What a total fucking asshole. And all his friends are assholes.

My mind seethed as I tried to make sense of the senseless. Despite the trauma I'd just endured, I struggled to make the surreal event rational somehow.

How could a group of grown men act like that? Was it me? Did I do something to bring it on?

It made no sense; I never said or did anything to warrant that kind of humiliation. It was Derek saying things.

Did I deserve what just happened, just for being me?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but other thoughts flooded into their place. Still outraged at what just happened, I stomped around in my bedroom. My mind reeled. I wanted to leave him. I had to stay for Angie. I feared something like it might happen again, but maybe worse. I didn't know what to do. I was paralyzed by confusion and indecision.

As the scene rolled in my mind, I began to doubt my own conduct.

Derek didn't actually physically hurt me or rip off my clothes. I did it myself—I exposed my naked body to those men. I chose to do it. I showed my boobs, my nipples, my belly, my pussy. None of them touched me. I couldn't report anything; they're all cops. What would I say? Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck all of them. They're all fuckers

.