I let my new boyfriend talk me into a lot of things. Actually I was more interested than I cared to admit... I liked to pretend I was prudish and indifferent to the kinds of things he wanted me to do, and it's true they did in fact make me feel uncomfortable, and in fact I was scared. Of course this stuff made me nervous, especially when I knew it would really happen if I caved: Mason was pretty pushy, and he had a lot of what he liked to call "follow through". What that meant was that if I reluctantly half-agreed to something, or just didn't exactly give him a hard "NO", he would consider it a promise and he wouldn't let me back out.
At first he wanted me to risk exposing myself publicly. This was a huge turn-on for him, and as for me I could never be sure if I was responding to his intense reaction to it, his insanely hard erection that wouldn't let up until he nailed me to the floor or any other convenient surface (rarely the bed). Or whether I was just telling myself that, and actually I was just as much into being exposed as he was into exposing me. I definitely got a thrill out of it, but I also felt dirty and gross for doing it. The memories of the expressions on peoples' faces, especially older ladies and mothers trying to steer their kids away from the spectacle, kept me up nights wallowing in self-hatred and guilt. And yet I did it anyway, night after night, trying to convince myself that Mason had sort of forced me. Or that my need to please him was really what tempted me. But I knew this wasn't exactly true, even though I would never admit it, neither to him nor to myself, nor to anyone else, ever.
I would frequently rage at the big bully, but Mace would just laugh at me. "Then why do you do it, honey?" He was such a cocky bastard.
But he had my number. He knew how wet I got, and how hard I would cum when he rammed it into me in the gas station bathroom, or in the car in the mall parking lot, after everyone in town had just seen my naked, shaved, swollen red vagina. The more people saw me, and the more they saw of me, the friskier I got. We both knew that, but I was the one who complained and blamed and said "I hate you for this" a thousand times. He made it clear I sounded ridiculous, and that gave me another rush of humiliation, which in turn sparked another round of wanting to be pounded. And more and more, during those second rounds, he'd make a point of slapping me around a bit and making sure I knew he thought I was a slut. Sometimes I would cry, which was easy to do when he whipped me hard with his belt, because even as it was impossible to resist, it also really did hurt. Mason was not into light, "sensual spankings".
But soon he lost interest in the Mall and the Gas Station and the Movie Theater and those sorts of places, and started taking me out to strange parking lots in secluded areas, where we started to engage in an activity called "Dogging". That was right before we broke up.
We went a few times, but none was very notable until the last one. Although I did spend a lot of time naked, and out of reach of my clothes, and I did get groped by strangers, and my pussy and ass were both penetrated, by fingers at least. But on the third and final occasion, although I will not go into all the details, I can at least say I was properly gang-banged. And I cummed. Hard. And Mason was not in control, which is what he hated about it. And the fact that I could not hide my enjoyment of the situation made him hate me, I think. In any case, that night ended in a fight that turned out to be the end of our relationship.
But one of the guys there at the "Dogging Session" had slipped his card into my pocket. And although I was scared of this guy, he interested me... he interested me rather a lot. You might say I became a little obsessed with him.
He was not quite right in the head, I felt I could tell. He had whispered a few things into my ear that were not even remotely appropriate, were not at all okay, as a matter of fact. He was not the first to fuck me and he was not the last, but he did get me alone for a little while... he muscled in while Mace was off fucking a girl in another car, and for a few short minutes the other guys got out of the way. And when none of the others were looking, he put his hand over my mouth so I couldn't scream, and bit down on my nipple HARD! Then he slapped me and whispered in my ear that I deserved worse than that, because I was a depraved little whore and he knew I liked it. Then he let go of my mouth and I did not scream. So he looked me right in the eyes and he spit on my face. Then he just fucked me, and as the other guys were looking in and lining up to get in on the action I started to cum for him. And I came harder as he reached behind me and started to pinch my ass. He pinched me brutally, bearing down with a vice-like grip. And he didn't spare me his fingernails either. And I just cummed and cummed, and very vocally. Mace was watching, and I didn't care. I didn't care about myself, how could I care about him? But the weird guy was still on top of me, and before he left he leaned over my face and spit directly into my mouth, calling me a "disgusting whore". Then he was gone... but later I found his card in my jacket pocket. It did not list an occupation or a business, it was just a picture of his face with a name and number.
I didn't call him right away. I was scared of him, of course. I didn't want to subject myself to that kind of experience ever again. But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Mason was gone, and I was alone in my apartment, really going crazy with images of "The Creep" as I had begun to call him, filling my head and spurring me on to crazier and crazier fantasies about calling him, meeting him, letting him have me. I dared not think of what he might do to me if I did offer myself to him, but I could not stop thinking about it. I was scared to think about it, scared to touch myself while thinking about it, scared to fantasize properly because I genuinely didn't want to know what sick images I would find coursing through my mind if I yielded to the temptation and let myself get swept away into some sort of masturbatory frenzy. Which is where I was headed, almost certainly.
And in the mean time I was catatonic with self-hatred and shame, and it got to the point where I could barely leave the house. I was between jobs, which made everything worse, because my fear was compounded by the fact that rent was due soon, and I didn't know how I was going to pay it, and I didn't know what would happen to me if I didn't pay. I had nowhere to go, no savings, no friends or relatives I could possibly borrow money from, and no actual experience being this broke. I had always taken care of myself fairly competently. But now I couldn't do anything. I couldn't sleep properly, I couldn't take care of anything, I couldn't act on my own behalf at all. I couldn't even open my bills, much less pay them. I could barely bring myself to eat.
All I could think about was calling this disturbed, misogynistic man who wanted to hurt me and spit in my mouth. I would lie down on my back in bed or on the couch, reach to touch myself, and then suddenly pull my hand away. As desperate as I was, there was an urgency not to take care of my own needs, not to take care of myself in any way, even by pleasing myself. Something deep inside me felt that I was too "disgusting" (The Creep's words) even to be touched, even by me.
So one night, unable to sleep or concentrate on a television show or do anything whatsoever to distract myself, I gave in. I called The Creep. It was well past two in the morning, and to be honest I hadn't slept in days. His name was Luther, or so it said on his card, etched in gaudy, decorative script, right beneath his mocking scowl.
His phone rang eight times before he picked up.
"Hello?" He said raspingly. He coughed and cleared his throat before I could answer.
"Hi" I said. "My name is Jan. Do you remember me?"
"No, I don't," He said decisively. Decisively and dismissively, no curiosity in his voice whatsoever.
"Well I remember you. At the car park. Two weeks ago. You slipped your card into my jacket pocket."
There was a long, almost interminable pause. I finally asked, "Are you still there?"
"Mm," he said, noncommittally. There was another long pause.
"Jan," he finally said. "Jan, I'm going to ask you something. You have to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Jan, do you hate yourself?"
This time it was my turn to pause awkwardly... I mean I was shocked. This was beyond nervy, and although I really did not know what I had expected from the call, it was not this. This was not even remotely appropriate, and furthermore it hurt my feelings and seemed somehow too demoralizing for any kinky game that I had ever heard of. It actually made me want to cry, right then, to be asked something like that, especially at this low point in my life. But as I lay there on my mattress with my blankets wrapped around my thighs, I realized that in fact I did want to answer him. And I did want to answer him honestly. But my first feeling was that I needed some time to think about my answer. I started to say "it's complicated," and then shut my mouth before anything but an "um" got out. Because all at once I realized that I did not have to think about it at all. It wasn't complicated at all. There was absolutely nothing to think about. "Yes," I said to him. "Yes I hate myself."
"Why?" asked Luther.
