Now come days of worthlessness. Days of shame.
The complete confrontation with the reality of her exposure online shook her to her core. Before, when she'd first moved to Boston, she had been able to delude herself. It was life-ruining footage, already, but it would fade into the depths of the internet, and with a move across the country and a false identity, she would be able to eventually escape it for the most part. That is what she had thought. The virtual tour she was given in the hotel suite, nine months ago now, had shattered that delusion.
Her footage, her story, had caught into some internet zeitgeist. It was not going to go away. She had thousands of dedicated, some borderline obsessive, fans. They all were communally dedicated to virtual (and real-life) stalking of her. She would never be able to hide from them. They would duplicate and spread her footage, and endlessly seek to create more content of her. They wouldn't let her move again and change her identity. She couldn't go to the cops. They obviously didn't take her side one bit. She realized, only just now in her post-jail freedom, that she was completely and utterly fucked.
She sat on her bunk one morning in a women's shelter she had gone to while she considered what she could do or where she could go next. She wanted to be somewhere with no men. She hadn't gone outside in three days. She sat and stared up at the high window. She was utterly baffled with what she should do next. She seemed to have been pushed into an impossible corner. She had no money, no possessions. Her reputation was utterly ruined, socially and professionally. What could she even begin to do with herself? No matter where she went, it seemed like a dead end. Should she just kill herself? She knew she wouldn't, but she could think of no logical reason not to. She was finally accepting what her assailants had told her so many times -- that she had nothing to live for now except cock.
A disheveled woman with sunken eyes was sitting on the bed next to hers. She had a magazine of some kind in her hands. They had talked a couple times in the last few days, just a word here and there. Now she kept glancing from the magazine to Melody and back again.
"This your skanky ass?" she asked, and handed it to her.
It was called "Jailbirds," one of those garbage rags they sell for 75 cents at gas station checkouts. It was just a collection of recent mugshots in the county. The top of the page it was turned to was labeled "Prostitution." There, along with 20 old hardened hags and methed out homeless looking women, was Melody, clear as day, standing out so much with her youthful beauty, despite the wild hair and dried clumps of cum. "FREE BLOWJOBS" right across her forehead. "Melody Ann Ainsley, 26. Multiple counts of prostitution, drug possession, public indecency."
She didn't even have a response for the woman. She just stood up, threw the magazine on the bed, and walked out, as the woman watched her leave in shock and disgust.
She wandered the streets for two hours, worried all the while that someone would recognize her. If they did, they didn't say anything. Would this be how it would be every day for the rest of her life? How could she operate like this?
No money. No possessions. No phone. Nothing except the donated clothes on her back.
She hitched her way to a rest stop off I-95. From there she met a trucker, an older, rugged female, who agreed to let her ride as far west as she was going. Melody rode in the cab, glad she had found a woman. She spoke very little, and luckily the woman didn't press. She had no plans. She just knew she had to leave Boston.
The woman drove her west as far as Detroit. From there, she told her she'd be heading north into Canada. Couldn't tag along if she couldn't provide the documents to cross the border.
She hitched again further west, and then again, going wherever she could find someone willing to take her. It was mostly men who drove her, but luckily no one recognized her or sought sexual favors. For a moment she let herself once again begin second guessing the extent of her exposure. She had assumed people would recognize her everywhere she went. Maybe, just maybe, if she stayed off the grid she could get by like a normal person?
She quickly squashed the idea. She knew she was going down the same path of mental self-delusion as last time. It would only lead to a harsher reality check. She was a known, publicized, ubiquitous webslut. And real life slut. She just had to find a way to accept it. To live within that framework.
To reinforce the idea, she went into a public library when she was in Denver. She signed up for a library card, rather easy even with no ID, and then got a private booth to use the Internet. There were no restrictions on the browser. She typed in her name.
Page after page after page. All her. Just dozens and dozens of videos, hundreds or pictures, endless pages dumping all of her personal info, her history, everything. She found the page that documented every single square inch of her body in extreme HD, and couldn't bear to click on any of the images. Just the search "Melody" still had her on the first page.
Her heart was racing, despite herself. She already knew all this was there. Why did it elicit such a panic response to see it? She clicked on the fan forums dedicated to her. The board was very active. Guys posted every day. They loved digging up old pictures of her, old videos, and splicing them next to the most explicit content of her that they could find. The innocent vs ruined dichotomy.
They loved how she was reluctant now. They perceived her initial supposed consent to the gangrape in her apartment to be a one time mistake, a disastrous slip up that had spiraled far out of her control, that she didn't know how far it would go, and that she wished she could take it back. They loved that she was a punished whore, forced to keep living with the consequences of past fucks ups. Her reluctance was exactly what made it hot to them. She could tell they were all closeted sadists, cowards who had finally found a victim who couldn't fight back, who they could take out all their sexual frustrations and aggressions on without any consequences to themselves. The kind of thing they would probably love to do to all kinds of women they knew in their personal lives, but would never be able to. That's why she had developed such a dedicated fanbase online. She attracted every type of guy like that out there. She was the only person they would ever get the opportunity to take it all out on.
That's why they loved to dig up pictures from her old life so much, and hear old stories from people who knew her. They didn't just want a wanton slut. There were thousands of pornstars out there who were willing to be that. They wanted a good girl who had been reluctantly morphed into a wanton slut. The old pictures, blog posts, contrasted with what became of her, reminded them that she was a real person, a shy, reserved, private person who had somehow, against all odds, been pushed to the absolute extremes of human exposure. Levels that weren't even possible 30 years ago, before the advent o f the internet. Unparalleled in human history. Her obvious horror and tortured arousal over the situation was precisely what fueled them. This pussy, this asshole, all of these parts you could see in incredible HD quality, preserved for all time on a hundred different websites and growing, were never supposed to be seen by more than a small handful of lovers. Now their spread could never be stopped.
This was also why they loved so obsessively keeping track of her "number." It was a quantitative evaluation of how ruined she was. They loved the idea of adding on to this number, on and on, indefinitely.
A thread on the forums was titled "Take a picture of your dick next to one of Melody's selfies if it's ever been inside her!" The thread had been up for three months. There were hundreds of posts. She made herself click it and scrolled through. Picture after picture, all posted by guys with crowns and numbers next to their screennames, indicating they'd presented proof of having fucked her. Picture after picture of cocks posed right over or next to a selfie of Melody they'd taken from her Facebook or elsewhere at some time, her smiling face oblivious next to the bulging dicks. Dicks of every size, shape, and color. Some straight, some curved, some small, some huge. Cut, uncut. Clean, disgusting. Some had scabs or flakes of dried skin circling the ring of the head. All had been inside of her. She knew it was true, but it was difficult to wrap her head around. She felt her face flushing hot and red with shame as she scrolled down this long, long chronicle of her degradation. The cumulative effect was overwhelming. She felt so disgusting, so ruined. That this was out there for anyone to peruse at their leisure...her heart was racing. Seeing so many variations of cocks all at once, disembodied, it all seemed so crass, like alien invaders that had been forced into her. Yeah she looks pretty in these pictures, but look at all these cocks she's taken. This large sampling of humanity, who have all rubbed themselves to a gushing climax against her wet, pink walls. A single human female had never been intended to be used by this many men. It was a perversion of biology and nature.
She found another women's shelter in Denver and stayed there while trying to decide what to do next. What options could be available to someone like her? Had anyone even been in such a position before? Should she move to California and become a pornstar? Is that all that was left to her? But no, what studio would pay her when the worst content imaginable of her was already out there, with an unending potential for more to be created?
She stayed at the women's shelter in the evenings and at night, and in the day wandered the streets of Denver, wondering what to do with herself, always scared that someone would recognize her and call her out on the street. She found herself going to the library more and more, always taking a private computer room and looking herself up online. She couldn't help it. She would trawl through page after page, seeing the videos, the pictures, seeing the things people said about her, her face flushing red and her heart racing in panic and involuntary excitement. She hated it, hated every person who commented or reposted images or videos of her. And yet, it was all she could do to stop herself from masturbating in the library. Every time she would leave with panties full of girl cum and a conviction, more than ever, that her life was completely fucked.
She knew she needed money, before anything else. She had no drive, no real goal, but she knew she had to have money. She could stay at the women's shelter a while longer, if she had to, but that was not a permanent solution, and she hated it there.
She decided the best way to get money, quickly, would be by taking advantage of one of her fans, who she figured would act more deferential and attempt to charm her in a one-on-one discussion. She wanted to find one who lived overseas, who couldn't easily demand for her to come to him, and who was well off enough to give her money, but not in a life situation where he could just pay to fly her to him. That meant someone with a wife.
She made an account on her own fan forums, but posing as a regular person. A male. She participated in discussions, here and there -- mostly in the off topic boards, where she didn't have to participate in degrading conversations about herself, as much as the idea gave her a strange stirring between her legs. She prodded subtly, here and there, trying to prompt people to divulge details of their personal life, filtering through potential targets.
Finally, after her sixth day in a row of visiting the library and sifting through endless debasing descriptions of her body and details of ideas people had for further shaming and humiliating her, she landed on someone who seemed like he fit all of her criteria.
