"Hello. I'm Yesnia," I tell the stranger that's sitting next to me on the bus. And that's all I tell him. When I ride on buses, I get...tense. Even if this isn't a school bus but a public transportation bus, it still makes me feel...emotions.
I won't say what happened, but it did end up with me being a sex-slave for a homeless camp. Yeah, you read that right. Me. The nerdy, smart girl that has always been a good girl was a sex-slave for everyone inside a homeless camp. This valedictorian who has a full scholarship to her favorite college was a consensual sex-slave where men and women did as they wanted to me.
It's a long story how I got there, but short to say it ended up with me being constantly tied down and repeatedly fucked every single day. And it was by request too. I wasn't held captive or threatened. I wanted it.
There I lived off a poor diet of food scraps and cum, not to mention some water and a lot of liquor. I won't go into the details of my time there, like how once a day I was untied and made to walk around to be shown off to the camp and to get exercise.
It took three weeks for the cops to find me. My parents had called the police the day I went missing when I didn't come home. From that, they manage to flip one of the Goth Goons that started my descent. The Goth Goons were a group from school that kidnapped me to go on a school bus to a school function, where they molested me on the back street of the bus for hours.
From there they started looking around where they said they left me tied up. The cops then started combing the streets, back alleys, abandon building and more for me. They just didn't count on me being tied up as a sex object for the homeless.
Anyway, I was found. The cops raided the camp and found me, tied spreadeagle and naked, with a freaking beer bottle halfway inside my womanhood as when they raided the camp, some guy was having fun fucking me like that. I remember that too. It was scary but damn hot. Soon I was untied, covered up and taken away.
Therapy. Tons of therapy is what I remember happening next. Months of therapy. After I was returned home, everything felt mixed together, you know? And I felt that I really wanted to be used like they used me, where I was made into a sex object. But I was told that NO, that's not what I wanted. I was just confused by the situation.
I took the semester off from college to deal with my issues and try to get back to normal, which I think I did. To get back to being a now 19-year-old girl. I mean, I don't seem to act any different than I did before it all happened. Sure, I feel different, but that's to be expected. I mean...who wouldn't change after the hundreds of intense orgasms in just a few weeks?
"Oh really?" I respond to the stranger that sits next to me as she tells me about...something. I then notice that it's not a he, but a she talking. I'm not really paying attention. I never do when I'm on a bus. Just like I never sit towards the back anymore. Just brings back too many confusing memories, which is why I ride it every day in hopes of getting over it.
"So sorry, but this is my spot," I tell the woman with a smile as the bus comes to a stop and she's still talking. I get up and off along with the few other people. To get to college I take 2 separate public buses as I think it's better to take public transportation than be just another car on the road.
I walk down the somewhat busy sidewalk in my black slacks and button down dark blue shirt. I've given up wearing the clothes I used to use in hopes of feeling like a different person than I was. I used to love comic tshirts and blue jeans, but now that I'm changed, I look more professional. More adult-like. The girl that had all that stuff happened to was my version 1. I'm version 2.
I walk by myself, making sure to be on the look-out for anyone that might mean me harm. These days I carry not just pepper spray but a small measuring tape on my keys. A female cop once showed me this really cool move to do with measuring tape if you are being attacked, how you can wrap it around the bad guy's arm and neck and he'll basically choke himself getting out of it.
It may be crazy, but I often think about what happened to the homeless guys when the cops raided the camp. I know that the Goth Goons all went to jail. What they did was just the start of the reasons, but they turned on each other, and each got pinched for something, from drug possession all the way to illegal downloads. But the homeless guys? They didn't do anything wrong, you know? Afterall, I told them to do it.
I know I at the time I wasn't thinking clearly as I had been through trauma of what the Goth Goons did, but the homeless guys were not at fault. They did nothing wrong. Again, I told them they could do it. That they could take me to camp, tie me up, fuck me raw, etc, etc.
Now that I think about it, I never even knew any of their names. Hell, I never really even saw them as I had to wear a blindfold most of the time when I was a captive. I did remember a few of them based on the way they fuck-maybe I shouldn't say too much on that topic.
Hopefully they didn't get arrested or charged. I was never asked to testify, so I would hope they didn't, but that doesn't mean much these days. It's just...they were an okay group of guys. After all, they could have done so much worse to me, from beating me to even killing me, and they never did. They fed me, cared for me, even would put band-aids if someone got too aggressive.
I take a deep breath and stop that line of thinking. I'm just reasoning out how I believe what happened, happened for a reason, again. That's what my therapist tells me when I have such thoughts. That it's not normal to want to be a sex slave while I have a bright future ahead of me. After all, I already have 3 patents based on experiments.
"Hey, hey, hey!" I hear someone call out. Since I don't really know anyone in this part of town, I know they aren't talking to me so I don't even look about. Also, I know this is a trick that criminals use, as if you turn to look, people around will think you and the person are friends and not pay attention.
"Nerd-Nerdy Knockers," that voice then calls out. Hearing that term makes my blood run cold and my feet stop. The world sort of goes hazy as I hear that horrible term, which brings back so many horribly memoires. Nerdy Knockers is what the Goth Goons made me call my own breasts. It's what I called them for a very long time.
Stunned and terrified, I slowly turn, fully expecting to see one of the evil Goth Goons with a knife behind me. But no. No Goth Goons at all. In fact, I don't see anyone. There's just people walking to and fro, none even looking at me. They just walk past me, annoyed that I'm not moving.
Confused, I wonder if I'm starting to hear things from the trauma. Shaking my head some to get the cobwebs out, I turn around until I hear that name called again. This time I know it's not in my head. Looking around again, I try to see who in the world could be saying that. That's when I spot them.
There's an alley way nearby between the pizza place next to me and the dry cleaners next door. A small alleyway with the opening being the width of 10 or so feet. It's the sort of thing you see all the time and block out, like seeing the cracks on the concrete. Only at the lip of this alley, there are 2 homeless guys standing as if hanging out, both looking right at me.
