Her

After the terrible night I spent tied up and tormented by “Him”, I went into a serious funk. My self esteem vanished, and I lived in kind of dull haze that barely kept at bay my terror that at any moment something awful would happen to me.

Drinking heavily kind of dulled the feelings, and I did that. So did sex, and I did that too. All the time. It seemed the more I had, the more I needed. The old floodgates thing. And, of course, by “sex” I still thought this had to mean men. Even though I feared them and wanted nothing to do with them.

I wasn’t picky. If a guy looked at me, I went with him. And they all looked. I’d go to a party, get drunk and wind up naked on a bed with someone. Not the best of sex, and in fact I rarely got off, but in the heat of it all I could forget.

Some were just other students, but some weren’t.

There was a maintenance man, whose van I would clamber up into, strewing my clothes around before lying on a pile of tarps. Looking up at the dented metal roof while he climbed on top of me, his hand over my mouth stifling my moans, his wedding ring digging into my lips.

There was a professor, who made me undo my blouse and write “I will not fuck around” on the blackboard while he groped me and jerked off, then made me bend over his desk so he could take my ass. Carefully, so as not to get any cum on his nicely creased trousers.

Then there was an oh-so-proper stock analyst – British accent and all - who took me onto the stock exchange trading floor after closing one night, promising to show me around, give me a private look at how things worked. Right. Just us and a whole bunch of his buddies, who got plenty of private looks at my body while holding me down on a trading desk as they did me, flipping me over from time to time to use another of my holes. Joking and giggling like boys.

And then I met Lola, a sweet, tough girl who knew what she wanted. And took it. But wound up giving me a precious gift: the rest of my life.