If you do not like it or want it dark, don't read it. Please, DO NOT walk down this path.
In many ways, it would to read earlier stories - but it is not necessary
Just know I did not get this way over night.
MOST IMOPORTANTLY! Do not think that because this turns me on that it turns every woman on. Not even close. There are (I hope) very few that it turns on. DO NOT do this to someone that does not know what she (or he) are getting into and has given full permission.
Also, I have a pretty good idea of what I am - I do not need to be saved.
Confessions of a Slut
Chapter 14
Asking for help
By Kristen Shigh
I want to finish telling you about what happened at the bar and I will. It has been a difficult one to tell. But first I wanted to answer the question I am asked most frequently.
You think I haven't had therapy?
Yes, I have. Shortly after I went away to college, I did see one. I was a freshman and my head was twisted sideways.
I looked like I was twelve. I was shy and was (still am) interminably horny. I was away from home for the first time in my life so I had no social life yet, I wanted to have sex with everybody and everything I met. Consequently, I didn't have sex at all. I masturbated constantly. I got caught twice by my dorm-mate. She hated me.
The events of last summer after had ultimately left me shell shocked. Who wouldn't be. I think I told you about a few of them. I mean, I knew not everyone only wanted to have sex with young girls, like all of Mr. Peterson's "friends." I wanted to have sex with someone my age - well besides Sarah. But how?
Who would be attracted to me - except some perv and only if I dressed up like a little girl.
I wanted to prove that Sarah Evans was wrong. Sure, I looked young, but I could be sexy without dressing up like a fairy princess. That is what she made me do. I called her. She did not answer. I missed her. I hated her. I was in love with her. I was so fucked up! I missed all the attention. Sarah had taken pictures of me and put them on some internet site where she would set me up with dates.
I got a lot of attention that summer. I am sure I haven't told you just how much. She had replaced Sheila as my dearest friend even though our relationship was so fucked up, so brief and had a man standing between us.
Sheila, of course, would not speak to me. The same man stood between us.
I don't blame her. She knew. She Knew I knew. And that I knew she knew I knew and so on. If it had only been the one time - that first time - the one I told you about - I might have had a good argument for being a victim. But It wasn't - it was me.
I went back. I kept coming back. No matter how warped it got I kept coming back. I loved the adoration - regardless of how perverse.
But now, I was lonely. Sheila had made me into a legend for one glorious summer and even though it was truly depraved, I was a kind of celebrity. At least in my mind. Many of them told me I was. I hate myself. I masturbated constantly. I considered "dressing up" again and going to a bar - but as a freshman I was not old enough to get into a bar - the time between 19 and 21 seems like an eternity. I was not very good with computers and did not even know how to get to the sites where Sarah had put all the stuff about me up on. I tried. I goggled myself. I had seen the pictures. I posed for them. I knew they existed. I wanted to see them again. (Keep in mind that was like seven years ago and the internet was slow and you had to know what you were doing.) I am telling you all of this to illustrate that I really had to talk to someone. I was (still am) a mess.
I needed a professional.
It was one of those community based clinics you could go to on the cheap - if you were a poor college student. I saw him once a week for a little over a month. We talked about nothing. I didn't have the guts to tell him about my three months with Mr. Peterson, or Sheila, or Sarah, or all of the old men, or the one in the diaper, or even my little visit to the shoe store a year earlier. Can you blame me? Things had gotten out of control. So out of control I couldn't even tell a therapist why I was going to see him.
We talked about my classes, and how shy I was, my lack of self confidence and how I was making the transition from Louisiana to upstate New York.
I missed Sheila. I told him about her - not that I had been fucking her father of course. After several weeks of this he seemed to be growing disinterested in my story. Who wouldn't? If I told my life story without the sex I would kill myself.
I wanted to kill myself.
I had to tell him. I had to tell him something. Something. I had to. But how do you tell someone that you have been fucking your best friend's father for the past three months. That I dressed up as a little girl and let him and his friends fuck me in the toy room. That I played with dolls and had tea parties just to arouse dirty old men - who just wanted to - FUCK...
...I thought about all the little girls out there who I might be saving by letting these pervs have their evil wicked way with me - instead of them. At least that is what I convinced myself of - FUCK, I am an idiot.
I couldn't tell him that I thought I was doing some twisted community service. I couldn't tell him that he had probably... I don't want to think about that -- I don't really remember. My head was so twisted from months of costumes and pretend and little girl talk that anything beyond that got pushed deeper and deeper. I couldn't tell him that I was in love with Mr Peterson, or that he was a recurring fantasy when I masturbated, or how guilty and depressed I got after I came. That I cried when I cum. That I fucking hate myself.
It had been over a month and the "meetings" were going nowhere - I had to do it. I was going to tell him. Something. I didn't know what.
He stared at me with that earnest vegetarian gaze, in his geeky wool South American sweater vest and Birkenstock sandals with Guatemalan socks. He was youngish - I mean compared to those old men that Mr. Peterson and Sarah - fucking Sarah - hooked me up with. He wore glasses and had a far away detachment from everything. He seemed shy - like me. I think he got into this line of work because there is no other way he would ever have a conversation with somebody.
I couldn't look at him. I asked him to turn the lights off. He turned them down low and closed the blinds. He had done that before, saying that he was trying to make me comfortable and create a more intimate setting. He lit some stupid candles. It was kind of gay. But... it is the only time I can remember the word intimate turning me on. Or maybe I was turned on because I was going to tell some boy about it. You know, IT.
I closed my eyes and imagined I was telling him some of the juicy details about calling some strange man "Daddy" while I let him lick my lil saucy through lil Mermaid panties. Or how I let some old guy buy me a pop cycle and then let him fuck me with it. I did that. I did worse. A lot worse. But I couldn't tell him. Maybe I will tell you one day. Instead I could only tell him that lately I masturbated a lot. Just doing that... telling an authority figure that I was always uncontrollably randi all the time made me, well... uncontrollably randi.
We sat in the semi darkness and he assured me that most people routinely masturbate.
"Everyday?"
"It is not uncommon."
I was getting more aroused. "Several times a day?"
"Sure. But it is often a sign that someone is very unhappy."
My hand slipped under the table and involuntarily made its way inside my skirt. Holy cow! I was fingering myself in front of my therapist and he didn't even know it. I had fingered myself in public before but not like this!
"Are you unhappy?"
"Right now?" I answered slyly. I was full on diddeling myself under the table. Wowzers.
I wanted him to know.
"Yes." I made it a bit more obvious, but still secretive.
"Because of how often you masturbate?" I spread my legs but he couldn't tell. There was a table between us.
"Partly, but it might be the only thing I do that I actually enjoy." Gosh I love my lil quim. Especially when she gets all slick. I could smell myself. I was officially horny. There was no turning back.
"Why do you enjoy it so much?" Holy FUCK! It was hard to keep a straight face. My clitoris was so tender, little fingers rubbing her, another dipping inside me.
"Do I have to answer that?" I said laughingly kind of hoping to change the subject. I was finding a rhythm as my pointer and birdie glided in and out with heavy lubrication. My thumb hinged across my clit with each breach. Each breach went deeper. The deeper I went the hungrier I got.
"Have you ever thought about it before?" The hungrier I got the more I wanted to get caught.
"Because it feels good?" Oh fuck does it ever - especially right now!
"What do you think about when you do it?" I twitched and lurched forward. I was crossing the line. The one where there is no way back.
"Nothing special - just random fantasies." I was so fucking lying. But I could not tell him the truth. I would wind up in a straight jacket. I wanted to tell him about my dark dark fantasies - the thought of telling him was turning me on so fucking bad I thought I might cum right there.
At that point, most of it was just fantasy I was nineteen. Well, except the part about... Fuck I don't want to think about that right now. I'll tell you later.
Let's just say I was wet! And back then I got VERY wet. Remember how wet you got when you were nineteen?
I wanted to answer his question. That I thought about fucking random strangers in public places and about being gang banged and about ... Oh my!... I so so wet. Two fingers, Three. Gang banged. I wanted to tell him I thought about it a lot -- by lots of men. I wanted to be passed around. I wanted double penetration. Triple penetration. While others waited their turn or whacked themselves in my face. I wanted them to take turns making me suck their cocks. Lots and lots of cock. Lots of cock!
I could no longer focus on the conversation. I was thinking too much. I was too turned on. I was thinking about being tied up and being brutally brutally... but I said no more.
"What do you mean by 'Nothing special?' or 'Random fantasies?' Do you mean that your fantasies come to you randomly or that you fanaticize about random people?" He asked in a sober tone.
"OH Fuck did I just say that?" I thought. How did he get that out of what I said? Was that a Freudian slip? Was he Freud? Fuck Fuck Fuck, that turns me on. That I said that! "random fantasies." I wanted to shout, "YES! I want to fuck random men! I think about it all the time. No strings attached. Just fuck me. Fuck me now! In this restaurant or parking lot or barstool! Or... or...or this office." My fingers were out of control. I was beginning to twitch. There is no way I could keep this a secret. I was too turned on. I was going to cum! I mean I have cum in public before - I can hide it a little - but not like this. Not while having a conversation with someone - who if he finds out -- will put me in the looney bin. I couldn't help it. This was going to be a big one!
I didn't care. I wanted to cum. Hard.
I thought about being in a straight jacket - or restrained on some hospital bed. I wanted to go to the lonely bin. FUCK! I want to be strapped down and abused by some evil perverted doctor. Oh my God! I was getting close.
I let my head fall back. I spread my legs wide... I thought about being molested by the cast of "One Flew Over The Coo Coos Nest." I was so fucking wet! I was pounding myself. I was about to cum!!! When... when... He noticed.
Holy fuck he noticed. I wanted him to notice. He had to notice. How could he not? I fanaticized that he had noticed a long time ago.
"Are you?... uh..."
I closed my eyes and ignored him. Except for the fact that I was caught and THAT turned me on!
"You can't do that in here. Miss Shigh."
"Miss Shigh," I thought. Fuck that turns me on! Speak to me in that authoritative way again - please - just once - I am sooo close.
"You are going to have to stop that right now." It turned me on to touch myself with somebody - especially "an authority figure" telling me to stop. Tell me again please - Tell me! I am soo close.
I sooo totally ignored him! It was like I was in a trance. Fuck, it was turning me on. Especially because I could tell from the tone of his voice he was uncomfortable and - maybe I was reading what I wanted to into it - but - I don't think he really wanted me to stop!
He grabbed my arm and demanded me to halt. There was tension. It kind of felt like when Mr. Peterson would spank me -- and I knew he wasn't really punishing me.
I think that is why I resisted. Him pulling on my arm. Me fingering my pussy. He pulled harder - I pulled back even harder until I slowly slowly let him win. You have to let them win. I kind of expected a spanking. My arm relaxed as did his. There was an awkward oddly erotic moment as my wet fingers surfaced from below my skirt. The smell of sex filled the room. I had found a way to tell him what a nymphomaniac I really am without actually having to tell him. He gradually released his grip.
Sweet sweet saucy was literally dripping from my fingers. I might be in love with my own musk. It is pungent and peculiar. Pleasing. I smelled them. I wanted to lick them clean - just for him. Oh Goddess, I smell good.
We made eye contact. The silence was so loud. Laser beam tractor tow force fields locked our eyeballs. We both inhaled and exhaled at the exact same velocity. The bouquet was intoxicating. Lifetimes passed as my soaking fingers went up and up and up to my face - No... to his face... across his tenuous lips... pushing into his reluctant entrance. He wanted to turn his head. He wanted to but he could not resist. I am soooo bad. The sweet aroma of ecstasy was too much for him. He moistened his lips. My wet wet digit penetrated our trust.
He did it. I knew he would! Putz. He opened, his tongue uncoiled till the tip lapped round them.
"That's it, baby. Taste me. I want you to. All three. The three I was fucking myself with. They are soooo wet!" I whispered as each one slipped inside his wet maw. My saucy is thick and slick and a little milky in color. It is has the sweet scent of salmon but permeating like ammonia. It is an acquired taste. A delicacy. I watched as he slowly cleaned them.
The tension in the room thickened as he closed his eyes and took all three of them in whole. Whole. I moaned an encouraging nothing in to the thick air. My other hand found its way to the top of his trousers. The head of his cock was already peeking over top. I was turning him on! Holy cow!
Ugly shy lil runt has some sex appeal after all.
I looped my thumb under the snap, his hard on relished its release. There was a sigh of distress and one of delight as I leaned forward.
"We really shouldn't." He objected in a whisper.
"I know." I said as I gave him a gentle warm innocent little tongue bath. "But you turn me on soooo much!" I was soooooo fucking lieing. But I was seriously turned on! I was touching myself but it had little to do with him. I thought he was a dick who did more harm than good. I was probably right. But FUCK! Did I want to suck his cock.
"But...We really..."
"SSShhh, It will be our little secret." I said as I inhaled him in one piece and slowly regurgitated his member slathered with my slobber. He was throbbing. "No one will ever know about us." It felt so fucking liberating to turn the tables, for once.
He stroked my hair. I wanted to bite his fucking cock off. FUCK! I am bad. Or he is. Or something.
I was sucking off my therapist! In his office. I am bad. Bad bad bad. I had to do a good job. A good good good job. I had to. I HAD to get him off. I wanted him to be proud of me. However, I was not sure if I was really any good at this. I had no confidence. How could I? At that point the only real sexual experience I had was all those weird friends of Mr. Peterson. That felt so wrong! This.... this was different - I mean he wasn't a perv answering an ad on the internet. He was a doctor - a normal person - a normal person that was very hard at this moment - and I was making him hard. Me. Kristen. I am a goddess. I mean it still felt wrong but at least it was a different kind of wrong.
"No, we really shouldn't." He objected. Fuck I love being bad! I pushed him past my tonsils and began to flail. I did not gag.
"Mmmmm." It was easy. I had had some practice at this in the past few months. I gulped. He throbbed. He whimpered. Tee hee. I am good at this. I am. I am!
"Stop, please!" Fuck that turned me on! Finally someone other than me was objecting.
My head bobbed more furiously with his dispute. He began to rock just a little bit with my rhythm, my cadence, my pace. Still he fought the urge. Or maybe he was objecting because he knew it turned me on. Either way. I sucked hard on the out take and released on the in. I wanted to impress him. I think I was.
"Stop... don't make me do this." Pace. Fuck, I love sucking cock!
"Please stop." Cadence. I love sucking cock!
"Oh, God - please don't let me do this." Tempo. I love sucking cock!
"Please." I was creating a rhythm. I love sucking cock!
"Please, God Please."
A rhythm from which there was only one escape.
"Please." I love sucking cock!
"Oh God." One escape, gimmie!
I love sucking cock! "God!"
Gimmie boy gimmie!
"Oh My God!" Fuck, I love sucking cock! I love sucking cock! I love sucking cock! Warm salty man cum spurted into my mouth. Yes! Loads. Ample loads. "Mmmmm!!!!"
I swallowed hungrily. Another little spurt followed and then a twitch and a whimper. I grabbed the base of his shrinking cock and milked what little was left and then blew that stupid fucking candle out. I am a goddess. Simple as that. There was an awkward awkward moment. We both felt it. I dropped his shrinking cock and headed for the door.
I did not even give him time to zip up. I turned the lights on as I left for good measure. I looked back and saw him in broad daylight with his pants down. Frightened, confused.
He - nor I - said a word. The heavy office door closed behind me. The next "patient" was waiting in the lobby. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and waited for the elevator.
I smelled of sex.
I am a Goddess.