Soccer Mom Slut

He parked up and turned off the engine. Then he turned to me. It was an older vehicle, with a single bench seat up front. I was backed up against the door on the passenger side. He looked at me for a moment, smiling a creepy smile that made me want to be sick.

"Are we not going home?" I asked.

"Yeah, we will. I just thought it would be nice to spend a few quiet moments together, away from everyone else."

"I think we should leave."

"I can't stop thinking about what we did last night."

"Oh..."

"You're so pretty, you know that, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh you are, Sweetie Pie. Sooooo pretty."

"Th...thank you," I muttered.

"I liked kissing you," he said with a leer, "did you like kissing me?"

"Uh...I guess..."

"Do you want to do it some more?"

"I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't."

"Come here."

He beckoned me towards him. At first I didn't move, but then I slowly shifted across the bench. He took my hand and pulled me in his direction. He kissed me again, his tongue pushing forcefully into my mouth. I sort of reciprocated, kissing him back a little, or at least as much as I thought he might accept. Once again, it didn't seem that bad. I liked kissing, even if it was with a creep like Bob.

But then suddenly his hand moved between my legs and he was fingering me again.

"No, no, no, don't! You shouldn't do that!"

"Shhhh," he said, smothering my mouth with his.

He carried on rummaging around inside my panties and within a couple of minutes he had made me cum. I was crying, panting and cumming. He undid his pants and fished his dick out again. It was every bit as scary and fascinating as it had been the night before. He didn't say a word and I, unprompted, start jerking him off. A few minutes later he came, another piss-weak spurt of spunk dribbling out of his cock.

He softly caressed my cheek, told me I was a good girl, and then he started up the car and we drove off.

That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I made my way downstairs and met him in the living room. I had even put on a little make up, to make myself pretty for him. I was wearing a t-shirt and a nightgown and he made me take them off. I stood there naked, desperately trying to cover myself up with my hands, weeping in front of him. He kissed me and hugged me. And then he lay me down on the couch and went down on me for the first time.

It was becoming readily apparent to both of us that one of the curses of my life, that would also prove to be a blessing, was the fact I was incredibly orgasmic. I could cum on a hair trigger, as I was proving with every sordid assignation I endured with Uncle Bob. He was sexually abusing me, and yet, on a primal physical level, I kind of enjoyed what was happening.

Within a few days, he made me suck his dick for the first time. We drove off on one of our little rides together and, after parking somewhere suitably discreet, he pulled out his thing and pushed my head down on top of it. I resisted, a little, but he overwhelmed me physically. I gave him the most desultory, inexperienced head possible. And yet my cunt pulsed and clenched in pleasure and excitement. It didn't take long for him to cum and I almost threw up when he squirted his seed inside my mouth.

Pretending to be my father, he was able to persuade a local a doctor to give me a prescription to the contraceptive pill. Not long after that he fucked me. Raped me. I was bent over the hood of his car, my panties round my ankles, my skirt hitched up round my waist. It was agony. It was amazing. I came so hard, and yet I cried like a baby.

This was how my life worked now. This sordid, tawdry, abusive relationship. But over time, I stopped resisting, stopped crying, stopped saying no. I began, in a weird and twisted way, to enjoy it. It excited me. It turned me on. I looked forward to seeing him. I would rush out of my final class and look for his car. I would wave at him, gleefully, a big stupid grin on my face, as I sprinted towards him.

I would kiss him and hug him, my hands moving across his body, squeezing the front of his pants, telling him how much I had missed him. He would make a silly joke and I would laugh as if he was the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde, Lenny Bruce and Robin Williams, all wrapped into one. Then we'd disappear somewhere and have sex.

Usually, if we didn't do it in his car, we'd check into a cheap motel and he would fuck me on ragged, threadbare sheets. Or I would kneel on a dirty, tatty carpet; my head bobbing up and down as I sucked his prick. It made a perfect kind of sense for us to go to those kind of places. They were sleazy and trashy, just like the relationship we were participating in.

Why didn't we go to his place, you might ask. Well, it turns out he lived with his mother. One of the reasons he had come sniffing around my Mom, was he was looking for a way to get out of his own less-than-ideal domestic situation. Having an eighteen year old girl as your personal sexual plaything was just an unexpected bonus.

I even told myself I was in love with him. It was nuts. It was crazy. It was a lie. But that's the story I had come to believe. I had fallen in love with my own rapist. I know the truth now, looking back from my perch as a mature woman, but I was deluding myself back then.

If nothing else, Uncle Bob had introduced me to sex, and, as it turns out, me and sex got on pretty well with one another. Like a house on fire, you might say. I discovered that I loved fucking. I loved being fucked. I wanted to suck dick. I wanted my pussy eaten. I wanted to be fingered, caressed, kissed, devoured. I wanted to be desired. I revelled in the power I now had over him. I revelled in the hunger I saw in his eyes, when I spread my legs for him and started rubbing my clit with my fingers.

And pretty soon, fucking and sucking with ol' Uncle Bob just wasn't enough to satisfy those urges. I needed more.

One Saturday lunchtime, I was sitting in the park, by myself, reading a book. It was a sunny day and I was wearing a short, summery dress and knee-high socks. I felt horny. I always felt horny these days, and I was struggling to make any coherent sense of the novel I had in my hands. I would make it through a couple of sentences, but then I'd have to go back and start all over again, my concentration lapsing every time.

Then I noticed a few guys hanging around nearby. They were boys from my school and I vaguely recognised them from class. They were sniggering and whispering amongst themselves. Then one of them summoned up the courage to speak to me.

"Hey, Esther!" He said.

I looked up and stared at them.

"It is Esther, right? From school?" He asked.

"Yes, that's me," I replied.

"I'm Rocky, and this is Doug and Crowbar. I've seen you around."

"Oh," I responded, noncommittally, perhaps wondering why anyone could be called Crowbar.

"Yeah, we haven't talked that much. You've always kept yourself to yourself. You never seemed very friendly."

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said, smiling sardonically and putting my book down on my lap, "I think I can be very friendly, when I'm in the right mood."

Five minutes later, we were hidden in amongst some trees, and I was on my knees sucking dick. I blew all three of them and then they took turns fucking me. I came half-a-dozen times or more. Then, once they were all satisfied, I thanked them, gave Rocky my soiled panties as a souvenir, and walked off home.

It was close to the end of the academic year, so I never quite managed to solidify a reputation as the school slut, but holy Christ, did I try. I was making up for lost time. The floodgates had opened and I had become an almost insatiable nymphomaniac. I pretty much fucked anyone and everyone. You just had to ask. Boys used to line up outside the school toilets; I was in one of the stalls, sucking dick after dick after dick, until my jaw was numb and my belly was bloated with spunk.

One time I was caught by a teacher, screwing some jock in a store room. Twenty minutes later, I was bent over that teacher's desk and he was fucking me in the ass. He couldn't even look me in the eye as I slipped out of his room, his cum dribbling down my legs. Although he would fuck me on that desk a few more times before I walked out of that school for the last time.

Bob had, unwittingly, unleashed a monster; let a genie out of a bottle; squeezed some fairly sordid toothpaste out of its tube...choose whatever cliche you like. I was basically a sex addict, getting off from being used. I was insatiable. I didn't want a relationship, I didn't want a boyfriend. I just wanted to fuck. More accurately, I wanted to be fucked. I wanted my body to be violated and abused.

I was outrageous. I was depraved. Let me give you an example...

There was a lovely elderly couple who lived next door to us called Hetty and Victor Lyons. They had been our neighbours all the time we lived there. Mrs Lyons had babysat for me as a child. Mr Lyons used to talk to me as he tended to his garden and I played in my back yard. They were sweet and friendly and I loved them both dearly.

One afternoon, not long after I had discovered my new calling in life, I was sunbathing out back. I was wearing a new bikini that Bob had bought me. Skimpy and revealing. I was almost dozing when I heard Mr Lyons power up his lawnmower and started cutting the grass on his side of the short picket fence that separated our yard from theirs.

"Hello, Mr Lyons!" I shouted out to him, summoning up as much charm as I could muster.

"Hello, Esther," he replied, his eyes moving up and down my body.

I lay there, in the mid-summer heat, suddenly feeling incredibly horny. Before I knew what I was doing, I untied the straps of my bikini top and let it fall to the grass beside me. I then, somewhat ostentatiously, rubbed suntan oil into my breasts, tugging at my nipples with my fingers. I heard the lawnmower stop and looked up to see Mr Lyons gawping at me. My whole body shivered in excitement.

He continued tending to his garden, desperately trying not to look at me. Or at least desperately trying not to get caught looking at me. I was wearing sunglasses, so I could spy on him with abandon. Not only was I feeling horny, I was feeling naughty. Without giving it much rational thought, my hand creeped down my front and disappeared inside my bikini bottoms. I began to masturbate, rubbing my clit with a feverish intensity.

I moaned and Mr Lyons looked up. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open, as he watched the teenage girl he had known since she was a toddler, abuse herself in the most obscene way possible. I gasped and panted, groaned and giggled, bringing myself off; slipping my fingers inside my cunt. My hot, tight, sopping wet cunt. It took me no time at all to cum, and I glanced over in Mr Lyons direction. He had disappeared back inside his house.

The next day I waited for Mrs Lyons to leave; then I clambered over the fence between the two properties and knocked on their back door. I smiled innocently when Mr Lyons saw me. I had chosen my outfit carefully; another short, summery dress and not a stitch of underwear.

"Hey, Mr Lyons," I chirruped gleefully.

"Hey, Esther," he replied.

His eyes were almost misting over with lust and longing. A look I had come to recognise in almost every man who now met me. Not a word more was said; he simply stepped back and let me walk into the house. He quickly glanced around, seeing if anyone had witnessed my arrival, and then closed the door behind us.

I have lost count of the amount of men I have slept with down the years - I know it's a pretty big number - but there are few fucks I remember with more affection and fondness than the time I spent with Mr Lyons. He was well into his seventies by then, but he was still pretty vigorous and active. And he was hung like a horse. I rode his cock like a bucking bronco and then he held me in his arms and gently kissed and caressed me with a tenderness and affection I would rarely ever experience.

"We shouldn't have done this you know, little girl," he whispered softly.

"It was nice, Mr Lyons," I offered in return.

"I think you can call me Victor now, honey."

"Okay."

"You mustn't tell anyone about this. Not my wife and certainly not your mother."

"I know. I'm not stupid."

"No, I know you're not. But I must be."

"Don't say that, Mr Lyons. It was lovely. You were lovely."

"Not as lovely as you, sweetheart."

"Can you just hold me, please?"

"Okay."

He did and a little later we made love one more time that afternoon. Then I sneaked back home. Mr Lyons and I - I would never get used to calling him Victor - would meet up once or twice a week from then on. I know I said I liked being fucked, but with him it was different. There was always a sweetness and tenderness to our lovemaking. Sometimes we wouldn't have sex. He would just cuddle me in his arms and I might blow him or jerk him off.

Not long after I left for college, Mr Lyons was doing some weeding in his garden, when he suddenly keeled over with a massive heart attack. Mrs Lyons was later told he was probably dead before he hit the ground. When my mother informed me, somewhat in passing, that he had died, I wept with an almost hysterical fervour. I immediately went out and seduced one of my professors, hoping to replicate the same kind of tender sex I had enjoyed with Mr Lyons.

The period of my life between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one were something of a blur. An unending cavalcade of debauchery, self-indulgence and excess. I got drunk. I took drugs. And I fucked. I fucked and fucked and fucked. But throughout that time, I never enjoyed a sweeter or more earnest connection than I did with Mr Lyons. He was the closest thing I got to a new father figure. Or a grandfather. A grandfather whose dick I used to suck, but a grandfather nonetheless. I still think of him with great fondness.

I only hope I made his final years a little more enjoyable.

So, college life was pretty crazy, to say the least. I did next to no studying and I partied like it was about to be made illegal. I slept with other students. I slept with professors. I picked up guys in bars. I got picked up in clubs. I ate pussy for the first time, which I really, really enjoyed, but it was cock I really yearned for.

My roommate was a preppy blonde called Whitney. She was pretty, smart and funny. She was the best friend I had made in years and I loved spending time with her. So I felt really bad when I seduced her father. He was a peppery-haired hunk, that was clear when I met him for the first time, when he dropped her off on at the beginning of term. I would have let him have me that afternoon, but that was probably a little impractical.

Instead, I waited until the week before Thanksgiving, when Whitney invited me to spend the weekend with her family at their home in Missouri. I set my sights on him right from the start, and he put up little or no resistance. I blew him that night, after everyone else had gone to bed. Then he fucked me on the couch. When he came, he groaned Whitney's name, which slightly scandalised even me. But soon enough, I was calling him Daddy whenever we had sex.

Eventually, Whitney caught me and her father in bed together. He had paid a secret visit to the house we lived in at college and was doing me doggy-style, when she walked in on us. She went nuts, attacking both me and her father. She moved out later that afternoon. I was sorry to have upset her, but I wasn't sorry to have fucked her dad.

In so many ways, I look back on that period of life with almost a ridiculous sense of nostalgia. It was crazy, thrilling, exciting...and the sex was incredible. But there were plenty of times when I would cry myself to sleep. It's as if I wanted to feel empty, but I hated that yearning within me. I had zero self-respect, zero sense of self-worth. I was just a set of holes that needed to be filled. A body that needed to be used.

Rock bottom probably came towards the end of my sophomore year. I was quite the party girl and it wasn't unusual for me to end up involved in some sort of group-sex scenario. Guys liked to watch me make out with other girls, and I was always willing to oblige.

And then there were the gang-bangs.

I think I took part in my first one, after the college basketball team won a game against a local rival. There was a debauched party and I ended up fucking half the team at the same time. There were a few of us girls who sucked and fucked pretty much on demand, but I was always determined to be the best. I was ultra competitive about my sluttishness. I would bang more guys than anyone else. Every. Single. Time.

It became my thing, something I was notorious for. My party piece. No event worth its salt would end without me writhing around amidst a huddle of jocks or ballers, sticking their dicks in every hole I possessed. Invariably I would pass out, my body being handed over from one guy to another, like a rag-doll. I would end up exhausted, lying on the floor, covered in cuts, bruises, semen, spit, sweat, piss and blood.

I must have endured this experience a dozen or more times, and every time I would say it was extraordinary. Every time except the last time. I don't know why, but for some reason, the last time was one time too many. I don't think the men involved were unusually brutal or inconsiderate. I mean, they were really brutal and inconsiderate, but no more so than on any previous occasion.

Something broke in me that night. Something fundamental. More than two years of unrestrained, unrelenting hedonism, just caught up with me. Being treated like a little fuck-toy, no more than a plaything or a commodity. Abandoning any iota of self-respect. It all culminated in me lying on the floor of some crappy frat house, curled up in a ball, sobbing to myself hysterically.

Add on top of that the sexual abuse I had received from Bob. That continued when I came home from school. He still expected me to service his needs whenever he was horny. And I did as I was told. All that madness crystallised and coalesced into a very public breakdown and a subsequent, botched suicide attempt. One night, I took a handful of pills and swigged them down with neat vodka. Fortunately, I threw up in my bed and woke up to find the pills beside me, swimming in a pool of vomit.

It was around this moment in time, that Artie entered my life. He proved to be my salvation.

He was the first man I had met who hadn't simply taken advantage of me. The first man who said no when I threw myself at him. He was the man who I would end up marrying; the man whose children I would carry; the man I would betray more than anyone else when I started sleeping with our son.

I had seen him around campus. He was cute and kind of shy. We went to some of the same parties, but he was never present when I invariably got naked and started doing my slutty whore thing. I saw him in a coffee shop one afternoon and we struck up a conversation. He asked me out on a date and I accepted. We went to see a movie and when he dropped me off at my sorority house, he kissed me gently on the forehead and wished me goodnight. I had been perfectly prepared to let him spend the night, but he played the consummate gentleman and made his way home.

We started seeing each other, and I slowly rebuilt my life. It was quite a gear change to go from full-on, crazy sex chick, to sober, demure, faithful girlfriend; but I tried my best. There were a few lapses early on in our relationship, that Artie never found out about, but eventually I was able to pursue a monogamous lifestyle.

I fell deeply in love for the first time. Well, apart from the love I had felt for my father. Artie filled a hole in my life, figuratively and physically. The sex was a little mundane, compared with the crazy shit I had been getting up to before then, but the change of pace was somewhat welcome. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be sane. I didn't want to just be some plaything for any guy who felt like getting his rocks off. Not anymore. I wanted to be loved, and Artie gave me that in spades.