Into the Deep End

Paige, for her part, just continued to roll from peak to peak. The constant, persistent sexual tension—the unprecedented arousal—incited by the non-stop activity, created a field of sexual energy that sparked and spat continually. Even as the afternoon wore on, and her energy faltered, Paige marveled at levels of excitement she had reached; how incredibly turned-on she remained.

As things began to slow, as the tangle became less frenetic, Paige became vaguely aware of her surroundings. She gradually recognized that phone images were being recorded, and had been all along. Photos and video clips being taken throughout. And she, more than just suspected, she knew for certain that some of these files were destined, sooner or later, for the internet.

And when the orgy eventually ground to a halt, when no-one could get it up any more, Paige was left lounging, enervated on the cushions, her body dripping and glistening. She looked completely spent, like some semen-soaked rag; still, there was a look of blissful satisfaction spread across her face. In a fog, she was helped up and shown to the upstairs bathroom where she could lock herself in and take a leisurely shower, which turned out to be surprisingly hot, and wonderfully bracing. It allowed her to regroup. Stepping out, feeling ever-so calm and relaxed, she dried herself slowly with a plush towel the host had provided, the echoes of her wild time still echoing in her head.

Emerging from the bathroom, wrapped modestly in the towel, Paige located her clothing—neatly folded in the Granny's bedroom. As she dressed, she heard some conspiratorial, if rather indiscreet, conversation from somewhere outside the door—in the hallway or an adjacent bedroom. "...watch this one!"

Suddenly intent, she listened.

"Yeah. I got some dynamite pics and video clips, too. Look at this."

"God, what a slut."

"Oh, but what a slut!"

"More like nymphomaniac!"

"I think she's fantastic—literally! I mean, she's pretty, and eager, and energetic, and talented..." Paige felt a blush rise to her cheeks, in spite of herself. "I'd do her again in a heartbeat..."

"Yeah, only if you could get it up, again!" Several of them, out there, apparently, gathered on the landing, shared a chuckle. "You oughta see the stuff that Doug got!"

"Well, I'm just glad I heard about this. I mean, she sure knows how to pull a train."

"Oh yeah, she's good, all right. How much is she chargin'?"

"Nothin'! That's the amazing thing. She's doing it for free!"

"Well, geez! She sure performs like a pro!"

A new voice piped in, "Apparently she was a virgin up to a couple weeks ago!"

"No?"

"Really!!"

Then another voice; this one slightly familiar. "Yeah. She's known as The Ice Princess at school!"

"No matter. Evan and I are going to gather some of the footage from you guys, compile and edit it, and submit it to one of those amateur porn sites."

"Man-oh-man, is she ever gonna get an instant rep when some of these pics get out, eh?"

"I almost pity..." The voices faded as the boys filed back down the stairs.

Paige's blush flared on her cheeks, as she finished dressing—it didn't take long. Oddly, though, she was unfazed by what she'd heard. "I mean," she thought, "What can I do about it, anyway?" And she realized, then, that she really didn't care. On the contrary, a smile crept to her lips. She suddenly felt proud of the impression she'd made.

As she exited the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser-mirror. Still dressed like a little tart, she was pleased that she didn't really look much the worse for wear—especially considering she'd just done a marathon of fucking! Just mulling over those very recent memories put a smile on her face that she couldn't wipe off. Paige descended the stairs, and, re-entering the living room, was greeted by a round of applause.

At some point that afternoon she had lost count, but there had to be, at the very least, sixteen—sixteen different guys who had screwed her; however, they'd gradually lost detail, as the party progressed, until they were simply targets of stimuli—objects for stimulation.

While some of the revelers had left already, there were still twelve footballers present in the living/dining room. Paige silently surveyed the assembly. It occurred to her, in retrospect, that, despite the sheer numbers, the footballers had treated her much better than the hockey players; more asking, more concern, less objectification; more like a person than an inanimate cum-dump. And she wasn't at all surprised when one of them—not Otis—stepped forward and asked, "Any chance we can do this again?" To which several others nodded their heads and a few murmured their consensus.

"Yeah," someone added, "especially for the guys on the team that missed out."

Paige lowered her face, coyly. "There's always a chance," she said, trying to be non-committal.

"What's your number?" several asked at once. "How can we get ahold of you?"

"Ask Otis. He knows where to find me." Glancing at Otis, Paige immediately regretted saying that, but, hey, you can't unsay something.

While Otis was getting their coats, ready to drive her home, one of the boys handed Paige a shoebox. "Here," he said tentatively, "We put out a 'tips' box for you."

She accepted it, giving it a little shake. It was light—didn't seem to be much coinage in it. "Thanks," she murmured, surveying the group. They were all eying her as if she were some rare, exotic bird preparing to take flight. She didn't open the box until she was sitting in Otis's car and part-way home. She was shocked to see it was full of paper money—tens and twenties, with the occasional fifty. She even thought she saw a hundred before she quickly closed it again. Paige didn't want to contemplate what that made her. "Mind you," she rationalized, gratuities were not actually wages; they were tokens of appreciation, not fees for services!

Paige was amazed at her own transmogrification from sweet, innocent virgin to promiscuous, unrepentant slut in under two weeks, but she was more amazed at how calmly, and completely, she embraced the being she had become. She chuckled to herself, muttering, barely audibly, "I really was thrown into the deep end, this weekend."

Otis dropped her off at home, with a chaste kiss, and she managed to sneak into her bedroom undetected by the family. She flopped onto her bed, fully clothed in her skanky costume, and stared at the ceiling. Thrills and chills were still running rampant through her psyche and she realized her newly minted desires had been quenched, but not extinguished. "No," she admitted to herself, "I'm going to have to do this again, and soon. This is what I was made for!"

Undressing languidly, and hiding away her costume, Paige climbed under the covers, playing visions of her most fantastic recent experiences over and over in her mind. "What a beginning!" she thought; "What an entrance!" as, full of sexual anticipation, she drifted into a contented, exhausted sleep.