"I hate the smell of olive oil. For a while, I thought it was something arbitrary, something unexplainable, like it was some sort of mental allergy. Then, one day, I realised why.
I was a young girl when it first happened. My father had gone through a bad patch and had hocked just about everything that could be hocked, just to keep the creditors at bay. When one more bill came in, he looked straight at me, and, despite my mother's strident protests, promptly had me sold away.
At that point, I had had no experience of sex, and very little contact with the opposite gender. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was 18 when it finally happened, but when Father sold me off 3 years earlier, I did not understand or know what it was that men did to women in their darkened bedrooms. My first 3 years were spent in hard labor, as I slaved in the kitchen, then began cleaning the rooms in the manor I was residing in. All the while, the woman who bought me scolded me like I was the most worthless thing on Earth; yet, she never laid a hand on me. In fact, she would smooth cream on my skin after my days' work, telling me that I would fetch a handsome price when it came my time.
At the time, I wondered what she meant by that. I thought it strange and a little unsettling that a woman who was not my mother would insist on paying such loving attention to me at night, while she screamed at me like a banshee during the day. Thankfully, I never referred to the woman who paid for me as "mother", because that would have completely screwed up my concept of the term. Especially the way I was set up the day after my 18th birthday.
I don't remember how it happened -- I suppose I could have been drugged or something -- but I remember suddenly waking up and finding myself in the dark. Oh it was daytime alright -- I could sense the warmth and light of day, as well as the movements of people around me and beyond the black hood that covered my head, I was certain there was daylight. But when I opened my eyes, all I could see was the dark, heavy cloth that covered my head. Then, I realized that I was bound by my elbows and knees, and was hanging off the ceiling. At least, that was what it felt like, because when I tried to move, I felt myself swinging... much like one of those chickens you see hanging in the windows of a Chinese restaurant.
And like those chickens, I was gloriously and undoubtedly naked. Not a stitch on me. I could feel a breeze blowing against my bare skin, on my breasts and further down, where... where no one had a right to see. Worse, I could hear the sounds of men talking nearby. They were laughing and making remarks that seemed strange to me. That scared the hell out of me because, as I'd already told you, I was not wise in the ways of the world, much less in what men wanted from a scared young girl that was hanging naked from the ceiling.
Suddenly, I felt something wet being squirted onto my private parts... and without warning, the first one came in. He had no finesse, no regard for my feelings, thrusting himself into my secret place down below like he was stuffing a turkey. I screamed in pain as I was impaled, the sensation of my flesh being parted and stretched by an alien object both curious and horrifying. What was I being stabbed with? Why was he trying to kill me? What had I done wrong? I sobbed and screamed again as his shaft met, then breached a barrier deep within me, sending further shivers of pain up and down my body.
Rough, callused hands descended on my breasts, kneading, pulling and pinching at my nipples, pulling me down towards the prong that was invading me, making me groan in shock and pain. I grasped at the ropes I was suspended from and tried desperately to pull myself away, away from the ever-encroaching thing that was threatening to split me in two.
He laughed. "That's it, love. Fight it. That's just perfect!" he whispered in my ear as I fought desperately to get away. "I love it!"
I could do little, suspended as I was, to prevent him from claiming me completely. I gasped when I felt the thing hit something deep inside me. It felt like the bottom of my stomach, and I wondered if he intended to thrust his weapon through the rest of my body. I was quivering, certain that I was near death, yet I was resigned to my fate. There was nothing I could do but wait. He had his weapon deep inside me, and I had no way of begging for mercy, much less removing the offending prong that was threatening my life.
Then I realized that I could feel his wiry fur in between by thighs. It suddenly became clear to me that the weapon with which he had stabbed me was a part of his body, no different from his arm or leg. That gave me hope that I would survive this ordeal, along with an overpowering sense of disgust and shame. What was this man doing, thrusting his body part into that secret part of me? What did he intend? I had kept mostly to myself as a young girl, and even when I worked for the woman who paid for me, I worked alone and spoke to no one... so I knew nothing of what was to come.
He noticed that I was keeping still and no longer fighting him, so he pinched me hard on my breasts, making me cry out in pain. "Are you getting used to this in your pussy, sweetheart? Don't get too comfy!"
When he started to pull his prong out of me, I dared believe that my ordeal was over -- such was my innocence then -- but he was to prove me wrong. Just as the tip of his weapon was about to slip out of my poor "pussy" (as he had called it), he thrust upwards ferociously, thrusting the air out of my lungs in a loud grunt. He laughed, and proceeded to saw his prong into and out of my private place, his pace making breathing difficult for me. Thankfully, he did not take too long in finishing, and in the midst of the discomfort and (thankfully diminishing) pain down below, I felt a gush of fluid spurting inside me.
I would have wondered about what that feeling meant, had I had the time to think about it. As it was, I was given precious little time to recover before the next man was upon me. This one was rather less intrusive, by which I mean his prong was shorter and leaner, so I experienced less pain from the repeated intrusions into my privates. Thus was I introduced to the notion that prongs differ from man to man, in terms of length, girth and hardness.
By the time the fourth man came and went, I was pretty much tired, and my pussy was sore. I wondered how many more men would come, and suddenly, I could smell olive oil. As I tell you about it now, I am repulsed to the point of vomiting at the mere memory of it, but then, I had no clue what the smell would come to signify for me.
What was he doing? Did he intend to cook something? Or cook me? Visions of a pot of boiling water under my naked and now dripping bum made me squirm. I swear I could feel the heat under me. Oh, what did he intend for me?
The answer came in a most unexpected way. I felt the oil being squirted on me down below, but not where the cooling fluids of the men who had come before were dripping out of me. No, it was being squirted up somewhere else. I wondered if he might have been shortsighted to have missed my sore hole... then I felt his prong pressing up against the same spot where he had squirted the oil.
No! I felt the oily tip of his prong press inward, my soft flesh no match for his persistence. I squirmed hard, trying to move him forward to where I knew he wanted to go. I badly wanted to tell him he was missing the place all the men were aiming for. But no, his aim was true.
