tagLesbian SexEighteen Years and 5 Months Old

Eighteen Years and 5 Months Old

bygirt©

Don’t let fact get in the way of fiction.

[This is a continuation of the Literotica story ’18 years and forty two days old’]

“My name is Esme Martin and I am 18 years and five months old,” I replied. Which wasn’t the complete truth, because the real Esme Martin had died 96 days ago when she had been raped, violated and abused by a pop mega-star. Since then only the shell has remained.

I had found out the address of Humfrey Hurgen’s hideaway. As everybody must know, Humfrey Hurgen is the lead singer with the ultra successful pop band, the Polkadot Enemas. When I arrived back in the country, after a five-year absence, my first self appointed task was to go to Wisconsin and break into his wilderness retreat. I know that it was wrong of me, but I didn’t mean any harm. And I certainly didn’t deserve what happened to me.

He arrived, discovered my hiding place, and took my virginity. Or to be more accurate, he took all of my virginities. My cunt. My arse. My mouth. And then he left me; shut in a secret room, where I think he had plans for some of his Hells Angel friends to kill me. But I escaped, before they arrived.

However, after the first flush of freedom, I found that something major had died within me. I was dirty. I was spoiled goods. I had no right to mix with normal, happy, healthy people. So I didn’t meet up with my friends as planned, but registered in a small ramshackle motel, and stayed there for three weeks until I was due to start work on my Masters at Boston University.

I hoped I could buck myself up and get back into the swing of things, but I discovered that once I was in the dorm building, I still didn’t want to go out.

My attendance was only required at a few lectures a week because for the majority of the time I was due to work on my own. But I didn’t even manage to attend all of them. I went to two the first week, and only one for the next two weeks. And I’ve done no work on my thesis. I just sit in my room, without even switching my PC on, and look at the walls.

I don’t know if it’s fortunate or unfortunate, but I’m not sharing a room, so I have plenty of opportunity not to be disturbed. I don’t open the windows, so I don’t know what time it is. I know that on one occasion I actually roused myself enough to get dressed for a lecture, only to go outside and find that it was the middle of the night. There’s a 24-hour cafeteria on campus, where I go to eat when the hunger pangs get too bad. In four weeks I have only managed to shower six times, and twice of them was today and yesterday.

One of the things that has wormed it’s way into my conscious mind is the curious fact that though I loathe and detest Humfrey Hurgen; to the extent that I would pay for the privilege of seeing him ritually disembowelled, I still like his music. I sit and listen to CDs and tapes for hours. I tried the radio, but reality kept trying to intrude, so I stuck with pre-recorded music.

Anyway yesterday, I decided that another degree was not for the likes of me, and that I would be better off in the jungle, where I didn’t have to mix with people. So I showered, dressed and went to the Administration building and told them that I wanted to drop out.

The person I saw was very nice, and accepted what I was saying, but he kept on and on at me, about reconsidering. More to shut him up than anything else I agreed to be allocated a mentor, and to have a talk with her before making any irreversible decisions.

All I wanted to do was get out of his office, and get back to the safety of my room. I could see by the way he looked at me, that he could see the guilt I carried with me. And whilst the words he said sounded sincere and caring: the way in which he said them told me that he actually thought something completely different.

He was sneering at me. His tone of voice was telling me that I was unclean, and not worthy to be in the same building as nice people. He said that he would arrange a mentor to visit me, but I knew that he was only going through the motions.

I would have agreed to anything to get out of there.

So I made my way back to my room, and sent an e-mail to my parents, saying I wanted to come home. They haven’t replied yet, but they are busy people, and no doubt they’ll get around to it. When they’ve got nothing better to do.

I doubt that the counsellor will arrange for anybody to visit me, but a few hours ago, I thought I’d have a shower and change my clothes again. Just in case.

And then a couple of moments ago, there was a knock on the door, and a smart looking woman identified herself as Christine Miller. She said she was my mentor, and she asked me how old I was, and how did I prefer to be known.

I didn’t invite her in. But she walked in anyway, and sat on the bed. I stood there for a while, and she told me to shut the door, and sit down. Which I did.

Since my rape, I’ve found that I’m good at following orders. It’s relaxing. I don’t have to think or remember. Which is pleasant.

“Mr. Burgess asked me, if I would be your mentor,” she informed me. “He told me that you seem to be experiencing a few problems, and before he would allow you to drop out, he wanted the college to do everything they could to help you.” She paused. “So here I am.”

She waited for a reaction. I gave her none. I just sat there.

I was surprised that they had sent anybody, but I quickly worked out why. It was because of the foundation that my mum and dad worked for. It made sizeable charitable contributions to the University, and the board thought very highly of my parents. So the college had to be seen to have gone through all the motions. I allowed myself to show no satisfaction, but that is what I felt, because I had worked out their motives for sending the woman.

She looked nice.

Funny word nice. My teachers in primary school, used to say that there was no such word as nice. But for something that doesn’t exist, it is very important. I was no longer nice. I was no longer fit to mix with nice people.

She continued to sit on the bed, saying nothing. Her gaze was directed at my shoulder. It may have been meant as non-threatening, but it told me that she was too disgusted to look into my eyes.

“I’m on the faculty here” she suddenly spoke. Or maybe it wasn’t so sudden. I’ve been having problems with judging time. “I teach Art History.” It was a course I knew nothing about. “Perhaps, it would help, if I started to tell you a little about myself and the mentor programme.”

She looked at me as if she expected me to nod in agreement. Or give her some sign that I had heard her. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I remained motionless. Apart from my eyes, which were flickering everywhere. I couldn’t focus on one thing. It was like I was looking for somewhere to escape to.

“My name is Christine Miller. I’m 36 years old, and before coming to Boston U, three years ago, I spent all my life in New York. I went to school and university there, and used to spend hours if not days, at a time, in the Met”. I caught her looking directly at me, for a minute, and I deliberately turned my head away.

“I haven’t got tenure, but I hope to in about another five years. I am very happy here. There are some good museums and art galleries, and there is a lot of historical data in and around Boston. Much of it to do with paintings and sculpture.” She paused for breath.

“The mentor program is that each student is allocated a mentor which is either a senior student, undergraduate or member of the faculty which otherwise they would have no connection with. They are meant to provide a sympathetic, impartial ear to hear the student’s worries and fears, and to offer whatever help is available. The only qualification that mentors are required to have, is that they care, and they have attended the university for a couple of years, so that they know their way around”

She stopped talking again. The pause lengthened, until it became uncomfortable. At least for her, it became uncomfortable. I was too busy trying to think of a way to end this interview.

“As I understand it, you have spent the last five years up the Amazon, living in the jungle. That sounds fascinating. I’m sure you have many stories to tell.” She looked at me expectantly, but I was too clever for her, and kept my silence. So after a while she continued.

“Apparently you have worked remotely. Using the radio and the Internet for your studies. And you have received accelerated training because you did so well. Before this semester you were running three or four years ahead of normal. But since you started here, you have not been attending lectures, and you haven’t talked with any of your professors, and you have given every impression of not coping. And now you say you don’t want to continue.”

I continued to remain silent.

“I have talked with your parents on the phone” as she said this I couldn’t help myself, but my head shot up, and I looked directly at her face. “And they are frankly surprised. They knew that being amongst people again would be a big adjustment, but they honestly believed that you would be able to cope. They also told me that apart from a note, you have had no contact with your two best friends, and have actively been avoiding them. Apparently they were so worried that they contacted your parents, a couple of days ago. And your parents are so worried that they are on their way here.”

“You’re lying” I managed to say. “They haven’t even answered my e-mail” I almost spat out the words.

As if amazed by my vehemence she paused to gather her thoughts. “That’s because they must have not seen it yet. According to what they said last night, they haven’t heard from you, apart from a couple of single line e-mails to say you’re OK, since you left San Francisco. So when your friends said that they hadn’t heard from you either, they made arrangements to come, and they’ve been on the road since the day before yesterday. They tried to phone you, but your cell phone was switched off, and you haven’t been using your computer or else you would find messages from them on it.

Unfortunately it takes time to get back from Brazil, but they are expected to arrive at Boston airport later this evening. Perhaps I could take you to meet them?”

What she said couldn’t be true. I knew that my friends, whom I had kept in close contact with since nursery school, would be worried, but what did I have in common with them now. They were still nice girls.

They had told me in detail of their sexual antics and experiments and so I knew that they had done everything, or almost everything that Humfrey had done to me, but there was a big difference. They had done it because of love. I had no choice.

And as for my parents, I could soon prove that a lie. I went to my computer and turned it on. Almost immediately a message popped up saying that I had e-mail. I opened the first one, and it was from my mum, saying that they were coming. As was the second one, and the third and the fourth. In all there were thirty e-mails from my parents, the last one giving an arrival time of 6:20 local time in Boston. There was also ten from Josie, and fifteen from Mandy asking if I were all right.

As I read these, Miss Miller remained silent. Even when the tears started streaming from my eyes, she said nothing, but stood up and walked to where I was sitting and placed her hand upon my shoulder.

There was nothing I could do to stop the sobs that were racking my body. They were so fierce that Miss Miller shifted her grip, and knelt down and enveloped me with her arms, and held on fiercely, as I cried.

Eventually the tears subsided and she drew me upwards until we were both standing and directed me towards the bed, where we sat side by side. She held me in both of her arms and for a few moments I felt safe and secure, before the memories started to flood back. I started crying again, and she renewed her vice like grip, and held me even closer.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly. “You can tell me, and I promise that I won’t tell anybody else, if you don’t want me too.” She waited for a reaction.

“Is it the work?” she paused. “Is it the people? I expect this country is a bit crowded after the jungle.” I opened my mouth to say something, and she immediately stopped talking, and waited to hear what I had to say.

“No” I managed to say between sobs. She felt strong and like somebody I could rely on, and maybe tell my secret to. But I was crying too hard to make myself understood. The words were coming out like indistinct sounds, which she couldn’t understand. So after a few attempts, she went back to trying to guess what had happened to me.

“So it’s nothing about school?” I was trying to tell her I’d been raped, but I couldn’t get the words out. I was stuttering and stammering; the most she must have been able to understand was “I”. However, when she asked this question, I managed to shake my head. She was cuddling me so close, that she probably didn’t see the movement as much as felt it.

“Is it anything about living away from the jungle?” I managed to shake my head more emphatically at this.

“Did something happen to you?” I nodded, and started to stop crying. I was beginning to open up, and this kind of communication, just with guesses and nodding seemed to provide me with the hope that I might be able to unburden myself. Her arms about me, made me feel safe, and not so worthless.

The fact that she was trying to find out must mean that she cared. I started to hope that my parents and friends would not abandon me, if or when, they found out the truth.

She waited until I was almost silent, until they was only the occasional sniffle, or sob. “Were you robbed?” I was able to lift my head away from her, before I shook it.

“Were you assaulted?” I gulped and nodded my head a fraction.

She paused and looked at me, as if reluctant to ask the next question. I could see something in her eyes. At first I thought it was revulsion, but then I spotted the beginning of a tear, and realised that it was compassion. She asked the next question in the gentlest voice I had ever heard.

“Were you raped?” I couldn’t help myself from breaking down again. I almost shouted the word “yes” as I fell back into her embrace, and started weeping harder than I had ever done in my life before.

She started to mutter words of condolence and reassurance, which I could hardly hear over the caterwauling and ugly noise that I was making. It wasn’t gentile crying. It was close to hysteria. Tears were running down my face, and I was yelling. But not words. I was screaming like a mother in labour, or a weightlifter lifting a heavy weight. I was expelling the emotion that was trapped inside me, through the sheer volume and power of my cries.

I can remember the feeling of release that I felt when I admitted that I had been raped to another person. But that is about the only thing I can remember about the next couple of hours. I do remember that I didn’t give her anymore details, though she asked gently, a few times. But more importantly I slept properly for the first time since it happened.

All the time I was sleeping, I could feel her arms around me, and later when we shifted position so that I was almost lying on her lap, I could feel her constantly stroking my hair.

I awoke because Christine was gently shaking me, saying in almost a whisper that we had to go and pick up my parents. I felt so much better and stronger, knowing that at least part of my secret was out, and so I sat up. Immediately I started to feel mortified with embarrassment, because where I had been sleeping with my head on Christine, I had obviously been sucking her nipple.

There was a huge wet patch on the front of her blouse, and I could see her erect nipple outlined against the thin material. For the first time since it happened, I could feel a faint sexual stirring. But I was much more concerned about what she must think of me.

But she made no mention of it. She asked me if I felt a bit better, to which I nodded. Every time I looked at her tit trying to poke through her shirt I got redder in the face. I think that sucking her nipple, must have been a form of my seeking the comfort of being a child again. And I could only believe that she had also worked that out and so forgave me.

Maybe, if she could forgive me that, then I could be forgiven for being fucked and buggered.

I then realised that it must have been an incredibly uncomfortable position for her. She must have been half-lying on the bed, and half leaning against the wall, to allow me access to her nipple. And she had put up with it for over two hours. And she still wasn’t complaining.

My head still felt lost in unreality, but I could feel life tapping at the edges of my consciousness, and I felt better than I had since it happened.

I don’t know how long we sat there, neither of us, talking, but her blouse managed to lose some of it’s wetness, however surprisingly her nipple didn’t subside. I was confused by the fact that I noticed.

Eventually we both stood up, and she asked me where my car was parked. When I had arrived for registration, my parents or the foundation had arranged for a leased car, and they had given me the keys at the office. I could see them on my desk, with most of the papers I had been given at the same time. But I honestly couldn’t remember where the car was parked. Or what kind of car it was. I had taken a taxi from the airport, and walked to my dorm. I couldn’t remember ever having driven a car since I arrived in Boston. Granted I couldn’t remember much about anything since I had arrived in Boston.

“I don’t know” I told her. So she said that we would have to take her car.

“But it’s full of junk, so we’ll have to empty it a bit. Can I leave my stuff here?” She was asking this of me, as if it were a great favour. But she was the one that had broken through my barriers. She had earned my eternal gratitude. She could have anything that was in my power to give her. But all I did was nod my agreement, because I felt too emotional to say anything.

We went out into the hall, and for the first time, I noticed that there were other students in the dormitory, and that the corridor was alive with activity. I didn’t have any real memories of walking the hall before, but I must have done, however I was surprised that there was activity when I could have sworn there had been none previously. A couple of students nodded at Miss Morris, and she beckoned them over. “Have you got any boxes I could borrow” she asked. One of them disappeared to get some, after telling us to wait a moment, whilst the other, started to talk to my mentor.

“Is she alright,” she asked gesturing towards me. “Only she’s been wandering around like a zombie” I felt crushed, and could feel myself starting to withdraw again. But Christine answered by saying that I had been unwell, and not myself and that hopefully I would be better from now on.

I thought for one moment that she would tell the strange girl that I had been raped, and that the two of them would have a good laugh about it. But then I saw that my dorm mate wore a look of concern. She told Miss Miller that a couple of the girls on the floor had reported my behaviour to their own mentors.

Christine said that unfortunately the system wasn’t perfect and that this was demonstrated by the fact that their concerns hadn’t been passed on to her. I didn’t say anything, but I did give the girl a shy grin, which was returned by a huge and wide smile that creased her face in every direction possible.

I didn’t know that a young girl could have so many lines and creases on her face. I had seen pictures of apes that had a multitude of frown lines, and the thought of comparing this girl to a monkey made me smile a little. But I did so inside, so that nobody could see. I was not yet ready to laugh at somebody else, however innocent my humour may be.

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