I got home somehow but was out of my mind a good deal of the way. The last thing I remembered, before waking a day and a half later, was seeing the back of the house a half-mile in the distance and thinking that I still had to feed the animals.
I must have done it, too, I checked later and found that they'd been fed at least once after I went for a walk. That meant that I did it, in spite of the fact I was out of my mind and in so much pain. I had done what I knew had to be done.
Maybe you can call me stubborn, I don't know. I've just always done what I had to do and gone after whatever I knew I had to have. I didn't realize it then but those two qualities would almost destroy me in the next few weeks.
It wasn't going to be petty this time, like tearing another girl's hair out over a boy friend or changing dirty diapers, in a nursery to raise enough money to see Elton John. My mind was about to snap and deny me the very reason to exist. I was going to go after the one thing in life that meant life was worth living – orgasms!
It was almost noon when I was awakened by Cuddles, my poodle, affectionately licking my face. My body felt like it had been rolled over by a steam roller, pulverized with a sledgehammer and stretched on a rack. I remembered the boys coming at me on their cycles. I remembered running as they chased me. I remembered having my clothes ripped off, a piece at a time, as they got close enough to grab me. I remembered being knocked down and held while they beat and kicked me. But the only thing I remembered at that time about my rape was the climaxes I'd experienced.
Burning with shame I dragged myself out of bed and found my legs wouldn't hold me. It took almost twenty minutes of painful struggling to get to the bathroom. Cuddles and my aunt's two dogs, a German Sheperd named Strike and a collie named Loredo, followed forlornly behind.
I managed to run a tub of almost blistering-hot water and got in. Each time the water cooled I'd soap my body and drain the tub. Without getting out, I'd run another tubful and soak and soap again. By one in the afternoon I was able to lift myself from the tub, dry off, and limp back to my room.
The day was pretty outside my window. It didn't cheer me, but I knew I'd feel better if I got outside. Picking up the large towel I'd used to dry with I struggled through the house toward the back door. Once outside the secluded house I spread my towel. I hadn't bothered to put clothes on because no one could see and with doss playing there I knew I'd be safe. With my tan I didn't need to worry about using lotion. I stretched out on the soft lawn on my stomach and tried to relax. Before long I fell into a weird, trance-like sleep and must have rolled over.
My mind rehashed the rape. It lingered on the orgasms and condemned me over and over for having them. I was a nice girl! I had pride! The boys had done things to me that no nice girl, no girl with pride, could enjoy. Guilt flooded through me. I sat in judgment of myself. I was guilty! Guilty! Guilty! I had to punish myself – I had to suffer for not being a nice girl! Just like that, in my sleep, not even really in a dream, I took away my right to have orgasms.
It was like my mother punishing me as a little girl by taking away the one thing in the world I loved the most – my doll. Only now it was me, taking away the one thing I needed most. The one thing I had to have if life was going to have any meaning or joy for me. I was going to have to hunt for it desperately – having to get it back to survive.
A strange sensation came through my dreams as I lay there bathed in sweat and whimpering. My tits began to feel wet and tingly. The warmth seemed to tie in to my punishment. Like a warning that while I could be aroused, I couldn't get my cookies off. Shifting restlessly, I raised one knee and my legs fell open.
The light, wet caress on my bruised tits was accompanied by a new, stronger thrill between my legs. I felt it in the strange, never-never land at the edge of my sleep. I enjoyed it, but feared I wouldn't feel the final, grand climax.
The wet massage continued to arouse me and I came around slowly. I realized it wasn't a dream and opened my eyes. If I hadn't been so aroused by it already – so fearful that my dreamlike sentence were true – I would have been shocked beyond belief and would have put a stop to it on the spot. In my mind it wasn't the perverted sex I'd been forced to endure, the torture, nor the memory of all those cocks that had fucked me, but the fact I'd gotten my cookies off, not once but several times, that really bothered me. Running my fingers back up, away from the hole, I traced the slick split. First I followed the gulley at each side to its source. Then I spread the slime down the crest of my clit-hood and the delicate, wrinkled cuntlips.
Laying the greased palm of my hand flat between my legs I covered the dark forest of my cunt and applied pressure to increase my heat. My middle finger slid easily into my slit and explored the deep hole. I let it thrill along the silky, slick sides and tested the difference between the smooth walls and the tongue-like texture of my cunt's roof.
Curling my finger forward, I rubbed and teased the funny little nook where the cuntlips joined the inside of my barrel. Rubbing my hand flat across my match I massaged and pulled the lips at different angles until the cunt-oil flowed, dripped past my buried finger, and trickled to the cleft of my ass.
Between the bath and short nap in the hot sun a lot of the soreness left me. If it hadn't been for the raw fear that I'd lost my ability to climax I would have been well on the road to recovery. Instead, as the millions of leaves rustled on the elms and the shadows fell lazily across the lawn, I hooked my fingers in my hairy cuntlips and exposed my clit.
My greasy, well-oiled finger popped from the steaming cave and began to spin crazily over the extended clit-button. I spun it in circles, massaged the shank, dragged my fingers up and down and from side to side. It grew so hot I could have lit a cigarette on it. My passions grew and expanded. My belly tightened and knotted from the effort. My nipples swelled and jutted skyward passionately. My breath came through my slack, spit-covered lips in quick bursts and the cunt-juice wet both sides of my ass-cleft, making the giant muscles of my ass rub wetly against each other as they tightened and relaxed.
I'd used things like that before and they'd helped. Why not? I could get a lot deeper penetration with one of them than I could with a Coke bottle. A pencil had been fun when I was six or seven but there was no way something that thin could do anything for me now.
Getting off the bed I went to the dresser and pulled the wax stick from its holder. I didn't think to wet the waxy surface and instead, pushed it against the lips of my cunt.
I stood with my knees slightly bent and my legs spread, watching myself in the mirror. The image, as bruised and scraped-up as it was, still looked lewdly wicked as the brilliant white candle slid in and out of my brown-haired cunt.
The candle was going in butt first and the molded base felt like the crown of a man's cock as it caught my sensitive cunt-wall on the rim. It still wasn't quite slippery enough so I pulled it out and let my tongue slide over the acrid smelling thing. Dropping my hand again I spread my outer cuntlips with my fingers and sent it hotly home. It turned me on slowly, bringing me to a medium level of heat, but refused to do more. I tried twirling it. That didn't work. Carefully, so as not to bruise myself, I held the wick end and moved my hand in broad circles, making it jab and probe at every part of my cunt. It didn't do enough either and only made the longing for the real thing worse.
My aunt had arranged for a clerk to deliver groceries every Friday. Tomorrow was the day and I could hardly wait. The clerk that always brought them was a horny old man that I wouldn't have even considered unless I was desperate. I was desperate! It was easy to decide to seduce him. Mr. Walker was going to be fucked.
I took a long, lingering bath before I went to bed and laid out my frilliest underwear in anticipation of the following day.
The man knocked on the door at exactly ten and almost dropped the bag of groceries when he saw me.
'H-hi…' he managed.
I wouldn't really call him old. I imagine he was around forty. He was in pretty good shape for his age. He had big shoulders and a barrel chest with lots of hair on it. The only bad feature was the big beer-belly which hung over his low-flying jeans.
'Would you like a cup of coffee or something?' I asked with my heart in my mouth as he set the groceries down.
'Sure,' he grinned, and plopped into a chair at the table taking his eyes off me.
