I woke up and groaned, before I could stop myself. I was sore, torn and disgusted with myself. And I remember, vividly, why. Which is why I had tried to stop my groaning.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on my left side and staring at the back of my boyfriend's head. I was spooning him, but now he twisted around to face me, running his hands over my hips and up my waist. I suspected he was headed to my breast. But just then, Jim, the latest in a seemingly unending parade of friends, who was spooning me, reached around and squeezed my right breast, hard. I flinched and groaned again, now in pain. My poor tit was still sore from the mauling this asshole had inflicted on them last night, in spite of my constant pleas for him to be gentle, and despite my actual weeping and sobbing in pain.
At first, I had believed Jim thought it was sexy or passionate to squeeze my breasts harder than a mammogram would. I had tried to stay sexy, like Josh had asked me too, telling his friend to "Be gentle, okay?" That didn't have any effect, so I tried, "Come on, Jimmy. That hurts. Let's keep it sexy, okay, babe?"
That had an effect, but not a good one. The asshole added twisting to his squeezing. That's when I started to panic, sobbing, begging Jim to stop, begging Josh to make him stop. But Josh was busy fucking my ass, which he knew I didn't like, although I let him. "Oh, babe! He's just having some fun with your pleasure pillows." He had laughed. "Besides, I can hear who wet you are!"
I had been wet, but from before Jim turn sadistic. But Josh was right. As he twisted my mammaries, Jim was also completing the DP action that Josh had wanted. And as he pounded, the slapping sound had very liquid tones to it.
I lost it. I kept sobbing and yelling "NO!" repeatedly, but that just seemed to turn on Jim. It didn't seem to deter or distract my "loving" boyfriend, either. The rest of the night I was incoherent, as they used me.
I don't know if it was the drugs that they'd plied me with or whether I was just broken, but other than moaning my protest, I was unable to effectively protect myself or fend them off. They used me repeatedly, anally and vaginally. That bastard Jim tried to face fuck me but kept scraping his dick on my teeth. He and Josh kept telling me to keep my mouth open, but have you ever tried keeping your mouth open when you're sobbing so heavily that your lungs are heaving?
When slapping, pinching and outright hitting me didn't get my jaws locked open, they gave up, not wanting to damage their precious penises. Instead, they decided to punish me with a double anal penetration.
When they finally tired themselves out, they fell asleep on either side of me, effectively locking me in. I lay there, awake most of the night, afraid to move lest I wake them and inadvertently start another round of abuse. I lay there, cataloguing my pain and suffering, realizing that I no longer had a boyfriend, just an abuser.
I wasn't raised in a religious household, but I might as well have been. My parents were very prudish. I think that their sex life had been as few times as needed to conceive me, their only child, after which my mother closed up shop. In college, I came to realize that my father had been a self-hating closeted gay who had married my mother as a cover and who was happy to never have sex with her ever again.
My mother, on the other hand, was just a real piece of work. She didn't believe in love, sex or really, any pleasure at all. She was a truly miserable woman, whose life work seemed to making sure her daughter was just as miserable as her. I wasn't allowed to have friends. I couldn't go over to anyone else's house and definitely couldn't have anyone over to ours, as if I'd ever had wanted to inflict that house of misery on anyone else.
If I accidentally let slip that I liked someone at school, my mother would have me moved to another classroom. By third grade I had learned not to mention any classmates to my mother; by fourth grade I learned not to give my phone number to anyone, lest they call me and alert my mother to my human contact; and by six grade I learn not to try to wave or show recognition of any classmates in any way. My mother had the eyes and instincts of an eagle. Sixth grade, when I began noticing boys as boys, she ran out of classrooms, and moved me to another school.
So, I learned. Even in school I had to avoid contact with others. My classmates soon learned that I wouldn't engage in any way. I sat alone, ate alone, and cried alone.
You're supposed to be sad when your parents die, and I suppose I was. I'd learned long before my 18th birthday to have no expression other than a sad looking neutral one. I displayed that at the funeral, which a lady from social services helped me arrange when my parents died in an auto accident.
They called it an accident, although a witness in the car behind them had said that the passenger, my father, had suddenly began attacking the driver, my mother. My mother's face did have extensive bruising, not all of which could be attributed to the overpass support that they plowed into. Unfortunately, my mother's classic 1970 Chevy Nova, a present from her father and her pride and joy, wasn't equipped with airbags. Both my parents died, my mother's chest crushed by the steering wheel, and my father, who must have taken off his seatbelt to better assault my mother, flying through the windshield to have his skull cracked on the concrete.
I'll always believe that my father finally had had enough of my mother's sourness, pettiness, and intentional meanness. He'd cracked before hitting his head on that pavement.
So, at the funeral, I maintained my sad, neutral expression while biting my lip to keep from smiling. Because I was free. Free to make friends, free to smile (once the funeral was over) and most importantly, free to go to the college my mother had forbidden me.
I'd applied to the local state college before talking about college with my mother. I had assumed I would be going, but when my acceptance arrived, my mother saw it first and accused me of trying to deceive her. I missed the second to last week of school, locked in my room as punishment.
"No college for you, missy," my mother growled. "No boys, no parties, no orgies! You think I don't' know what's going on behind that little miss innocent expression, but I do!
"You're not going to spoil your life with debauchery! You're going to work right beside me, in the factory. Get used to it, girl. You'll contribute to this house. Your paycheck will go into an account I control. I'm watching you!" My mother sneered at me, triumphant at spoiling my plans.
Because she was right. I had planned to escape her control by going to college. I thought that even if she made me live at home, she wouldn't have the same control of me in college as she had at the public schools. I would be an adult!
Through the years, teachers had tried to pull me out of the shell I'd built around me. "You're an intelligent girl. You have so much potential." I'd heard it over and over again, especially after any general testing. When I wouldn't engage with the teachers, sitting mute and staring at the floor, they would inevitably approach my mother. Sometimes I would end up changing classes, other times the teachers just gave up and left well enough alone.
But senior year, a guidance counselor began on me about colleges. She'd already been alerted by other teachers about my mother, so when I was first called out of class to report to her office, I was surprised and confused.
I thought she said she was going to talk to my mother, and I wondered why. Then I realized that she had said, "Megan, I'm not going to talk with your mother."
