Painful Beginnings

A cub reporter goes from virgin to pain slut in one weekend

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Author's notes:

1. This story is a blend of fiction with fact. Despite this, the activities and practices described in this story are not necessarily either condoned or recommended. If you choose to do anything described in real life with real people you do so at your own risk.

2. Della is fictional and any likeness to any living person is purely coincidental; some other characters are not, but all names have been changed and the setting for the story is entirely imaginary.

3. This story is this author's celebration of the 100th story he has submitted to Literotica. It tells the story of his early life being raised by domineering, perfectionist and sexually inhibited parents and the results of this upbringing on his later life. Although the settings are imaginary, many of the events are absolutely true and show how easy it is for parents to screw up a developing adolescent in real life and the ongoing effects of this early programming on a person's later life. I leave it to the reader to separate fact from fiction if they choose to do that.

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'Hi -- I see you write for Literotica. I love their website and love writing too. I've almost completed my journalism course and I have to interview and write an article on an author. Can I please contact you directly and make a time for an interview? Thks. Della'

I read the email a second time as I ate breakfast, wondering if it was genuine or someone winding me up. I was intrigued why Della had had picked me, so I had some interviewing to do myself. What the hell, why not, I thought.

'Hi Della -- be pleased to meet you. Call me.' I emailed back, adding my cell.

My phone rang a few moments later.

"Hi Della."

"Hi, Scorpius1945. Thanks for replying so quickly."

"Well, your text intrigued me; I guess I'm flattered to think that someone from journalism school should want to interview me."

"Well, I've read all your stories and I love your writing, so I figured for my final assignment I'd see if I can write your story. So hopefully you'll let me come around and we can do a full interview."

I thought about this for a few seconds and decided that it could be interesting. I gave her my details and some instructions for finding me. I live in a beautiful part of the world so I invited her around for a weekend if she wanted. She wanted and was keen to stay, so keen that she asked if she could arrive on the Friday night, two nights hence.

"Yes, that's fine. Come around for supper then we can start for an evening session if you like."

"Thanks so much. See you then."

"Yep, drive safe."

I mentioned Della's visit to my wife.

"But I won't be here this weekend, honey, remember I told you I was going on a workshop with my group."

I had completely forgotten; this was to be one of my home-alone weekends which I so enjoyed as it gave me some quiet writing time. So why could I feel my heart pounding at the thought of there being just Della and me at home?

"That's Ok, sweetie, we'll just fend for ourselves. I'm sure Della will be happy with reheated leftovers or something I can concoct out of the freezer and garden."

On Friday afternoon my wife was collected by her group of girls, as they called themselves.

"Be good," she said out of habit as she kissed me goodbye and walked down the driveway to their car.

"Always am," I replied out of habit, "Have fun. See you Sunday for supper."

I waved as they left and hurried back inside to prepare a reasonable meal for Della.

The doorbell rang and I opened it to see a young woman dressed in a short skirt and tight, low cut top grinning up at me.

"You must be Della," I said holding out my hand.

"And you must be Scorpius1945," she replied, ignoring my hand and wrapping her arms around me in a bear hug, pressing her young body against mine.

I was totally taken aback, but then the thought crossed my mind that this would probably be par for the course for a young woman into reading and interviewing authors of stories on Literotica. What had I expected, a nun? I felt my cock stir a little at the thoughts of possibilities for the weekend. I also told her my real name, which she promised not to mention in her article.

She entered and I escorted her to her bedroom, where she placed her small overnight bag and briefcase, then I showed her the rest of the house ending in the sunroom, where I offered her a drink.

"I'll have what you're having," she said.

I collected a bottle and two glasses and poured our wine then sat opposite her, trying, but not succeeding, to avoid staring too intently at her crossed thighs beneath her now very short skirt which seemed to only just hide what we both knew was up there. This could prove to be an interesting weekend, I thought.

We chatted about nothing in particular as we sipped our wine and watched the sun set behind the hills, followed by the evening twilight painting the sky and few clouds a flaming orange, slowly turning to red. I refilled our glasses and told her I needed to prepare the meal.

"I gave the chef the night off," I joked, explaining that my wife was away for a weekend 'with the girls' so we had to fend for ourselves.

She proved to be quite a useful addition to the kitchen and together we cooked up a storm and prepared a delicious meal, which we ate at the table. I directed the conversation to her, wondering what had made her take up journalism.

"I simply found that I enjoyed writing," she said, "And asking questions. I prefer asking to answering," she joked, her laughter tinkling around the room. "I hope you'll have some answers for me this weekend."

"Hmmm, maybe we can find some answers for me too," I replied, wondering how deeply she would delve and what I would come up with from my past. "So, what else do you do? What hobbies do you have? Do you have a boyfriend or partner?"

"Hmmm, I thought I was supposed to be interviewing you," she grinned.

"Well, inter means between, so it obviously goes both ways. Just like other inter words, like intersect and international."

"And intercourse?" she asked, eyebrows raised above her smile.

"Yes, and intercourse; social intercourse is interaction between people, and there was another inter as well." She seemed almost let down that I hadn't risen to her bait, but I was having fun, I realized. "But you haven't answered my question. I'm sure that you've been trained how to get people to answer questions instead of avoiding them, like politicians do all the time."

"Ok, you got me. No steady boyfriend or partner, lots of one-night stands. Journalism school has taken up most of my time for the last few years so no real time for other activities. I guess my main hobby, if it could be called that, is research into sex, which is why I'm here, to find out how your life experiences have allowed you or caused you to write the stories that you do."

"I admire the way you always seem to bring the topic back to me," I replied with a grin, "Not that it concerns me. This seems to almost be developing into a word duel, which is something I totally enjoy. However, maybe I'm being far too frank with a reporter. So what sort of sex stories do you like most?"

"Yours."

She didn't elaborate; she simply sat at the table and reached around her plate and took both my hands in hers. I didn't pull away; hey, I'm not that stupid. We sat for several minutes looking into each other's eyes, holding hands across the table. Finally, it was me who broke the spell.

"Let's go into the lounge; we can be more comfortable there."

We stood, cleared the table into the dishwasher, then walked through into the lounge hand in hand! And it felt so natural. This young woman, younger by far than my youngest daughter, had me hooked, and I felt flattered by her attention. She had taken our word duel to a whole new level and I tried to backtrack through my mind to see where it had happened, what was the tipping point in her favor.

She avoided the chairs and led me to the two-seater, where she sat and pulled me down alongside her. I fully expected her to begin kissing and cuddling me then quickly we would make mad passionate love, which was how I would write it in a story, but instead she simply sat chastely at her end while I sat at mine, turned slightly towards each other, her short skirt raised by sitting but still covering all that was necessary, but . . . . our knees were touching, just lightly, but definitely touching and it was definitely deliberate. I broke contact by a few millimeters, and she moved ever so slightly to remake the contact. She was obviously trying to seduce me; it was working.

"So, you were about to tell me about your sexual research hobby," I reminded her.

"Yes, well, um . . . ." she suddenly seemed unsure of herself, as if the spell had been broken, and yet her knee told a different story. I love mysteries and she was developing into one.

"I like all sorts of sexy stories," she finally began again, "I find they take me to a world of fantasy where I would never dare go in real life. Yet I wish I could; I wish I just had the freedom and sheer guts to do what your heroines do in your stories. I guess I like to experience what they experience but through them, you know, vicariously, without having the real pain or risks."

"I think a lot of people read stories such as mine for that reason. With all the social media these days, it seems that many people live their whole lives vicariously. This is great if you're in a wheelchair or confined to bed, but life is meant to be lived and you can't do that reading stories."

She looked downwards, eyes unfocused, unseeing, as she went somewhere in her mind. A tear ran down her cheek. She finally raised her head decisively and looked directly into my eyes.

"I know. But I have, and I know I have, and I need to experience life as it is, warts and all, all the pain, disappointment, heartache, joy, excitement and love. I've had none of it. I was brought up by strictly religious parents, went through an all-girls school and barely knew how to speak to boys when I reached twenty. I spoke of one-night stands, in my dreams," she paused for a few seconds to allow the bitterness to dissipate, then she lowered her voice and looked down again. "I'm still a virgin," she muttered shamefully, "Twenty-two and still a virgin," she repeated, shaking her head as though she couldn't believe it herself. She looked up again, tears streaking her cheeks. "How did I ever get to be like this? Please, darling, can you help me? If anyone can, you can. Please."

I reached out and she sank into my arms. I held her body as she sobbed out her heartbreak, misery, loneliness and shame. Eventually she calmed down, her sobbing ceased. I used a tissue from a box on the table to wipe her face, she used it to blow her nose, then she sat back, moving away from me as though I'd suddenly become too hot to touch.

"You must think I'm an awful wimp," she said with the start of a grin again, "But I mean it; please can you help me?"

I needed to clarify things. By help, did she mean she wanted me to take her virginity or offer her counselling? Get it wrong and it was either a waste of opportunity or I'd end up in Court.

"So how would you like me to help you, Della?"

She seemed to physically take a grip on herself and looked at me again with her disconcerting stare.

"Please take me to bed and make love to me, take my virginity, make me a woman, just like your heroes do with your heroines."

This was the reply I'd been hoping for, I realized. I hugged her to me and we kissed, gently, tenderly.

"Yes, darling, I will," I replied softly into her ear, "But not just yet. Before then, you can hear the beginnings of my story, the interview you wanted. It will be better if it's in several parts; tonight, you'll get the first part, then we can continue tomorrow and maybe Sunday as well. I also want to hear your story; maybe I use material from it in a future story I write, who knows."

"Thank you, honey," she acknowledged, making no effort to move away from me.

We held each other like that for a long time and then she seemed to make a decision.

"I guess if I want to get to bed tonight and make love for the first time I'd better start recording your story," she said looking up at me and grinning.

She went to her bedroom, which now probably wouldn't be used, and returned with a small recorder and notebook. She resumed her seat next to me and turned the recorder on, opened her notebook and made ready to record everything I said. My mind went back through the years; where to start? When was my first sexual experience? When was my first experience that began the dark path which I trod for most of my younger days? I began.

"I was probably aware of my genitals from a very early age. Freud will tell you this is quite normal for children, but the earliest experience I can remember was when I must have been about a year old. I remember being in my cot and can remember distinctly the room I was in, a large room that was used as my mother's sewing room when I wasn't sleeping in there. My cot was at one end and I'd been put down for my afternoon sleep. I remember that my nappy had come off, possibly with some help, and I needed to urinate. So instead of putting my nappy on and doing it, I wrapped my crotch up in a sheet and peed a little, then used another section of sheet and peed some more, until I'd managed to saturate most of the sheet and I was empty. There were no repercussions; mom obviously thought I'd wet the bed because my nappy came off and, of course, I probably didn't have the language to explain what had actually happened, even if I'd wanted to. The main thing I can remember was the feeling of joy I felt doing it, almost as though I was getting back at her, but I had no idea why I wanted or needed to do that. I guess I was weird even then."

I saw that Della was smiling, but she made no comment, just waited for me to continue.

"That was the only vaguely sexual memory I have in that house. However, we lived next to the school so I could hear the bell in the morning. They had two bells, five minutes apart, and I could leave on the first bell and arrive on time. That meant I didn't have to play with anyone. At morning play, as they called it, I played with several other children, all of whom were dropout types of kids, often slightly mentally retarded, which I was not; I was socially retarded, but that condition wasn't recognized then. At lunch time I would return home for lunch and eat it with my mom, or, later when she took a job, would eat on my own. Then I'd return to school for the afternoon and go home, to mom at the start but to an empty house later when she worked.

"Even in class, girls and boys were kept separate so there was little interaction between genders. In fact, boys talked down to girls and all boys knew that girls had fleas; that false myth was an on-going insult through my elementary schooling.

"We moved house and I went to a new school for two years. Now we lived further from school so I cycled to school each day but had to remain at school for lunch. While most kids my age would play games and run around, I spent most of my time in the relative seclusion of the library. I sure read a lot of books but it certainly didn't help me to develop my social skills. I did find I was fairly bright academically, but woefully ignorant in other aspects of life.

"It was one of my friends, another dropout type of guy, who pushed me along the path of sexual discovery. By my last year I'd started maturing sexually and was having erections, or hard-ons as they were called. As we cycled home together we discussed these and he mentioned that if I was to rub my penis when it was hard some milky stuff would come out and it would feel good. So, I tried it; it did feel good and after a while milky stuff did come out and that felt even better. I'd learned how to masturbate and I'd had my first orgasm.

"Very quickly masturbation became my release from life. I became addicted to it and would masturbate as much as I could, when I awoke, when I arrived home from school, before I went to sleep were the minimum number of times. I wouldn't be satisfied unless I'd cum at least three times a day and sometimes, a few years later, I reached a peak of around seven times a day. I didn't know to use lube and my poor cock was literally rubbed raw. It hurt like hell to masturbate, but I did it anyway, and after several months the scabs fell off and the skin toughened so it could take everything I wanted to give. Clearly, I was completely addicted, but I didn't know that and even if I had, I probably wouldn't have changed it as it provided one time for solace and enjoyment in otherwise desperately unhappy days.

"My parents wanted the best for me, as most parents do for their children, although some have funny ways of showing it. Mine fitted that category. I had homework every night and they drove me to do school work every weekend and during the holidays. If we had a test and I came second in the class, that wasn't good enough, I had to be first, and even then, if I got any wrong (and who doesn't?), I was punished for not getting everything perfect. It was hell on earth. Nothing I could do was any good, compared with my younger brother, who was absolutely perfect all the time and he was used as an example of the person they wanted me to be. To make matters worse, I had been put up a class early in my schooling and after that was consistently the youngest kid in class, which didn't help with academic or social development.

Looking back, I now realize that mom wasn't well. She was hospitalized on several occasions for what would now be called depression and she had a doctor's visit every fortnight for an injection of something that prevented her from being completely sadistic and vindictive all the time. However, even knowing her condition would not have helped the younger me deal with the situations he faced on a daily basis.

"If I was naughty, and I never tried to be, mom would send me to my room (where I would probably masturbate) until my dad came home from work, then she would send dad in to punish me. That consisted in belting me with a narrow leather strap usually around my bare legs and ass. I screamed every time; it hurt like hell and left red welts on my skin for several days."

"Oh, you poor boy," Della interjected, a tear running down her cheek, "Just the thought of all this torment and abuse makes me feel really upset. How did you get out of the situation?"

"Patience, sweetheart, all in good time. During this time, we would all go to church every Sunday, everyone in their Sunday best; we heard the preacher tell us how loving and forgiving God was but also how judgemental and how we all had to strive to be better. I took it all on board and believed it, ignoring the many contradictions. My dad was some sort of official in the church and gave out the hymn books to people as they arrived, collecting them again at the end. I also attended Sunday School where we learnt about one version of God and colored in a picture, etc. In fact, I was so indoctrinated with all this religious stuff that I joined a club at high school and went on several religious camps during school holidays, away from parents, which was probably the main attraction. When I was in my mid-teens I even became a Sunday School teacher, but that didn't last long. It's hard to teach what you don't believe, and my logical brain was working overtime and was coming up with lots of discrepancies. Eventually I found hiking and found that if God did exist, He was in the forests, not a church building full of hypocrites. But I've got well ahead of myself.