I was born Faye Alexandria Maratov, and I am a whore.
This means a variety of things to a variety of people. To most men this means that (despite the biological and psychological impossibility of it) I am ALWAYS wet, ready, and more than willing. With few exceptions, even the most sensible of men is willing to believe that I want nothing more at that moment in time than to be shoved up against a wall and fucked.
To a great many women, I am either a) a convenient excuse to get their fat, lame, annoying husbands to take their four inches somewhere else for the forty seconds it takes, or b) a threat to their home/security/way of life. Either way, neither group is overly fond of me. One lacks all respect for me, and the other sees me as “out to get them”. Finally, the religious people. To them, I represent all that is morally wrong with the entire distaff population in existence. I am Lilith and Eve and Jezebel, all wrapped up in one and I was born on this earth solely to a) corrupt the good, upstanding population of whatever faith they represent, or b) be saved.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I get no respect. My word is worth nothing. A man’s word is his bond, but a whore’s is a joke. That’s the way of things; I have come to accept it, and it no longer worries me as it once would. However, a problem arose because society no longer sees me as a person who can be trusted.
Here is my story.
I was twenty. I had been whoring since eighteen, so I didn’t look too bad yet. What I couldn’t make by selling myself, I made by stealing. It wasn’t an easy life, nor was it a good one, but it was a life, and a better one than many people in the world experience, at that. Content with the knowledge that I gave some of my meager earnings to charity, anonymously, each month, and that there were people out there whose lives were much worse than mine, I went on with my life as cheerfully as I could.
I was unable to get pregnant, so that was not a worry I had to deal with. Disease was always a problem, but I was careful. No matter how kinky or how vanilla a person was, I was always careful.
I was arrogant, a bit, as well. I had yet to meet a man who could surprise me. The pimps were easy to predict, difficult to control, and impossible to love in any healthy manner. The johns were my toys. Even the ones who wanted to dominate me were at my beck and call. I returned society’s opinionated lack of respect by knowing for a fact that a great many of the men in society didn’t deserve respect.
Growing up, I had been a hopeless romantic; no more. My illusions had been shattered, replaced with cold, hard reality. My sisters received a little money from me every once in a while. The poor received some as well. I kept little for myself, and I needed little to survive.
I was hanging out in a bar, that night. No, I wasn’t working. I’m not quite that stupid. However, a man there recognized me, and tried to strike up a half-hearted conversation about the weather that led, of course, into a proposition.
I said no, of course. I wasn’t working on that particular night, and if I didn’t have to, why on earth would I want to fuck? It’s not like he’d be any different from any of the times he had paid for it. He just figured I would be easy.
Well, I put him out of mind after that one, little confrontation. He returned to his table, and started drinking. Not heavily. It’s not like the guy was heartbroken or anything.
I danced. I may not like sex, but I loved dancing above all things. The music doesn’t care who you are or what you do. There is a sort of loss of self that occurs when one truly meshes with the music.
I didn’t know if anyone noticed me. I didn’t particularly care. I suppose if someone enjoyed sex, they could equate what I was doing to with having sex with the music. For me, the music merely meant freedom. I didn’t have any worries. I didn’t have to think about what my life consisted of, what I’d do for my future.
Nothing mattered, as everything was perfect.
Looking back, I realized that there was still innocence in me then. Maybe everybody is a little innocent, no matter what. I don’t know. I don’t pretend to be a philosopher. All I know is that, for all my arrogance and beliefs to the contrary, I was still a bit naïve.
After a few hours of very little drinking and quite a lot of dancing, I felt the urge to go run off to the restroom. I did.
I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and was walking to the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It pulled me around, to face the furious, flushed face of my former john, Mr. Michael Ray. He was very, very drunk, and I got very, very worried.
“You filthy whore, you can’t say no to me!” he hissed. He clamped a hand over my mouth and pushed me back into a stall. Out of one pocket came a knife, which he held to my throat. “Now listen up, you stupid cunt, you do as I say, or I will destroy you.”
I nodded silently, frantically. I may not have liked my life, but my sisters did need the money, and just because I didn’t like life didn’t mean I wanted to have my throat cut by a drunk with a rusty knife. I was paid to fuck; I would just be getting paid a lot more this time.
The drunk “upstanding citizen” (who, by the way, is not only a teacher, but is married, too), pushed me over the toilet seat. He started to giggle a bit as he pushed my skirt up to my waist. He tore my panties off and stuffed them in my mouth, and with no preparation whatsoever, thrust himself into me.
I was so dry, I may have screamed, except for the knife and the panty-filled mouth. He wasn’t exactly large, or medium, but still, it was no joy ride. The shock was nothing knew. Men don’t use foreplay with two types of women: Whores and wives.
He grabbed me by the hair as he rode me, thrusting in and out as hard as he could. I could feel him moving about inside of me, carelessly battering what little pride I had left. With a grunt, he came inside of me. I could feel his sperm filling me, and realized that, for the first time since I started whoring, I was being fucked without protection.
He grasped my hair and gasped as he came, until he pulled me to my knees. I smacked me, twice, as hard as he could, and left me dazed on the floor. At least it was over.
But it wasn’t. He apparently told a few buddies of his that there was a girl in there who was willing to “take care” of them. Said I was real dirty, and that I would be willing to do whatever they wanted.
Three more men visited me. The first humped my cunt a few more times, unprotected, before adding more sperm to the mix. He wiped himself off in my hair (my hair is my pride and joy, a long flowing mane of midnight black), streaking it with sticky white cum. The second did the same, humping me harder than the first two as he spanked me. He kept whispering in my ear, “Oh, you’re such a dirty little cunt, aren’t you. You like being fucked up your dirty pussy, don’t you, you stupid little whore.”
Men are so uncreative when it comes to insults and dirty talk.
The third one was the most vicious. He shoved his cock, thicker than any of his friends’, up my cunt a few times, slowly. I thought I was in for a gentle ride. Then, suddenly, he pulled out. Was he having second thoughts? Of course not. In one brutal thrust, he shoved his thick, cum-stained cock up my ass. Had the panties not been stuffed out, I would have screamed bloody murder, knife or no knife.
He grabbed the back of my head as he fucked my lovely rear, and shoved me, face first, into the filthy toilet. He never spoke, but I nearly passed out before he let me back up, choking up toilet water. He shoved my head back under just as he climaxed, spurting his cum deep into my bowels. I passed out, then.
I woke a few minutes later. He was gone. As there was no man fucking me at that point, I assumed that they were done. I tried to stand, and found that my ass was bleeding. By panties were soaked through with toilet water, and the blood was already trickling down my thigh.
I slowly made my way out the back door, into an alley. The indignity of having to limp out, bleeding from my anus and possibly having gotten one or more STDs from these men, is what decided my way.
I slowly, painstakingly, made my way to the police station.
I said to the receptionist, “I’d like to report a rape,” before falling on my face.
I woke slowly, but felt much better. I made my way to an open door, and found myself in a waiting room. There were two officers there, joking. I said to them, uncertainly, “I’d like to report a rape.”
One officer turned towards me. “Yeah, we heard you the first time.” He sort of snickered after that.
I wondered what was going on, until the other cop turned to face me. Vice. He’d busted me once for soliciting. He grinned, his cocky grin, and asked, “What’s the matter, honey, didn’t you get paid.”
I shook with fury. How dare they! I was a citizen in the country, and I’d been raped. What were they doing about it? Nothing.
Still grinning, he took out his wallet. He tossed me a fifty, and said, “Get outta here, honey. You weren’t raped and you know it.”
Laughing, he and his partner exited the room.
I may not have finished college. Or even started it. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew how to make them respond.
There’s one group of people the police hate above all. The group that’s always actively interfering with investigations. A group of people trained to steal secrets and sell them to the highest bidders.
I sold my story to a newspaper, first. I actually managed to get five hundred dollars for an exclusive, first-time interview. The story printed two days later, and caused immediate controversy. I still remember seeing the headlines: POLICE REFUSE TO AID RAPE VICTIM.
Classic. I was riding high when Nick Latishead found me. He walked up to me, dragged me into an alley, and backhanded me. “Hello to you, too, officer Nick,” I had said once I recovered. “Why did you just hit me?”
Before I go any further, I think I should explain this: I took some of the money I got for my story, and invested. I had invested in a very lovely device that records sounds. Very helpful. Back to the story.
“I hit you because you deserved it, you stupid slut!” He hissed.
“Why, officer, I did nothing but tell the truth.” I smirked at him, but kept my tone completely serious. After all, the device couldn’t pick up facial expressions, and I sounded very earnest. I am, after all, something of an actress.
“What you did was damage the rep of the officers. You know, the people who go and protect the citizens from harm.” Oh, he was furious. You could tell in his voice.
“I am a citizen, and I didn’t get much help,” I pointed out to him, calmly.
He laughed harshly, then spat on me. “How do you think the people would take your story if they knew you were a whore?” he asked.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I replied, and then strode off.
The tape went for three thousand dollars to channel 5 news. They aired it on the 6 o’clock NATIONAL news. The story of the department that not only refused to look into a rape, but tried to silence the victim…caught all on tape.
Finally, I did what I do best: I sold myself. Using my money, I bought a decent wardrobe. Then, for seven thousand dollars, I did a live, exclusive, one on one interview with, again, channel 5. On national TV, I proclaimed the name of my rapist, my profession, and the reaction of the local police.
I was sitting in a comfy chair in my home, which was obviously threadbare. My ankle-length gray skirt and my poofy, formless blouse made me look like the proverbial church mouse, not a whore. The beginning questions were obvious: Who had raped me, had I reported it to the police, what had their response been, etc…
I answered each question calmly, acting as demure as I could, which was, I’ll admit, pretty damn demure.
Finally, a question that surprised me. The reporter, a pretty young woman whose name I never bothered to remember, asked me, “Well, Faye, what is it that made you become a whore?”
No one had ever asked me that before. I could feel tears welling up, but I sniffed them down. One escaped. It wasn’t planned, but it was perfect. I felt that, if ever I could tell my story, it would be then. So I did.
“I grew up,” I began, “in Texas. Real Bible Belt country.” My accent was still pretty noticeable. I doubt anyone was surprised. “I was a senior in high school, there. My life was going fine. I didn’t get straight A’s, of course, but I was no slouch. I did most of my school work, hung out with the right crowd, did everything that was expected of me, with a father who’s a minister.” I sniffed, and more tears came. The reporter silently handed me a handkerchief (I guess they keep them on hand in case an interviewee gets emotional). I nodded my thanks silently.
“As I was saying,” I started again. “It was senior year. Second semester, and no one was taking it seriously. There were two weeks left when it happened.
“I had been at a party. I hadn’t been drinking. I still don’t, because I know that that’s at least part of why I am where I am. However, a lot of my friends had been. My ride home was pretty drunk, so I decided to walk. It was only midnight, after all, and we lived in a pretty safe neighborhood.
“So, I got about halfway home when I start hearing noises. Now, I wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark, you know, it’s just that I was getting a little creeped out. Well, it turns out I had reason. I was grabbed from behind and shoved into a tree, face first. I never even saw the face of my attacker.
“He pinned me to the tree, hiked up my skirt, tore off my panties, and…” I broke down in sobs here. Again, unfeigned. I wasn’t lying, and this was the first time I had ever told anyone outside of my family the whole story. The news crew looked sympathetic, and the reported was misting up a little herself. I continued. “He tore off my panties, and thrust himself inside of me as hard as he could. He started to laugh once he realized I was a virgin, but he certainly didn’t stop. He raped me as hard and fast as he could, against that tree.
“So, I arrived home. My thighs were bleeding from my broken hymen. My panties were missing, and my blouse was unbuttoned. My mother, sister, and brother were more sympathetic than they had ever been before.
“My father beat me so hard I passed out.
“The next morning, he ordered me to forget what had happened. I couldn’t, but I knew I’d be punished if I didn’t at least pretend. Life went on.
“Life went on, that is, for the next month and a half. Long enough to verify that I was, indeed, pregnant. I’m sure my mother knew, even though she denied it when my father asked. Mothers just…know, sometimes. It’s what they’re there for.
“Well, to make a long story short, I was given an ultimatum by daddy dearest: Get an abortion or get out of the house. I chose to get out of the house.
“Now, you see, the irony of it all, the irony that kills me every night, is that four months later, I miscarried due to malnourishment. The baby died, and so, do to complications, did my ability to ever have children.
“So, I had no money, little education, and I was pretty sick. I needed to get by, and this was the only way I could. Men don’t care if you aren’t feeling good. As long as you have an open, semi-healthy hole, they’re perfectly fine. So, I started whoring. It was the only way. On my first night, I got picked up by a vice cop, Nick Latishead. He picked me up, took me in. After that, there was no real way I was going to get a real job. Who would hire me?”
The reporter dabbed her eyes and sniffed a little, and I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing once or twice. She signed off, sent the crew away, comforted me a little, and then took off.
I stayed there, shaking a little, for a couple of hours. It had been a few years, but the pain never really went away. Still hasn’t, as a matter of fact.
So, a couple days passed. I could actually afford some clothes and food. I didn’t have to whore, because no one would take me. For fear, I guess, of being accused of rape. That’s okay, because I wouldn’t have done it anyways. First off, I didn’t want to continue on with this life. Second off, it would seriously damage my case.
Well, the public was backing me 100%. However, I had stepped on more than a few feet, apparently. Events would make that increasingly clear.
Two days after my interview aired, I was attacked in an alley. There were two men, and they wore masks. I was defenseless. I carried mace, but it happened so quickly. I never had a chance.
They bent me over a garbage can they had tipped over. Shoving my face in garbage, they tore my jeans down. They didn’t bother with the panties, this time. They cut a hole in them and left it at that.
“Now listen up, you stupid whore, you will DROP your case. You will tell everyone that you were lying, or mistaken. You can make up whatever you wish, but we will find you, and we will punish you, if you choose to pursue this path.” With that, the man thrust up into my cunt.
I had masturbated earlier, in the shower, so I was still a little wet. He noticed. “Oh, so the little whore wants to be fuck, huh?” he asked, his voice hateful. “Well, we’ll take care of you.” While he pumped his cock in and out of my cunt, his friend busied himself with kicking my sides.
After having the man saw in and out of me with his thick cock for about three minutes, I felt my cunt fill up with his semen. He grunted loudly, sounding much like a pig, until the last of his cum had filled me. His friend jumped on, and started to fuck me a lot harder than the first man. The first man took up where the second left off, kicking me and cursing me.
Finally, I felt my womb filled with cum again, and the two men left, delivering one last reminder that I had to change my story. Or else.
I was bruised as hell. I had just been fucked, unprotected, two more times, and I was still awaiting blood tests from the original rapes. I would get raped more, possibly killed, if I didn’t stop soon.
However, I had my honor. I knew that other whores did as well. And if I recanted then, it would never end. We’d be open game. This wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about respect. It was about America’s “untouchable” cast, who’s word meant nothing, and who had no real rights.
So I dragged myself off to the police station. I passed out on their doorstep, so to speak.
I don’t know how long I was out. It was much longer than it should have been, and much longer than I had suspected it would be. I woke in a dark room, again devoid of human life. I followed the same path I had before, and met Nick Latishead.
He wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t cracking jokes. It looked as though he’d been crying.
He looked up at me, his eyes haunted. “I’ve never hit a woman before,” were the first words he spoke to me that night. “I’ve never done it before. I don’t know how I did it with you, save that I couldn’t believe that you were telling the truth. I thought you were only out for the money.”
I looked down at him, sympathy in my eyes, but steel in my voice. “And now?” I asked him softly.
He looked down, as if he couldn’t meet my gaze. “I saw what they did to you. I…I was outraged. I haven’t been sleeping well, wondering if maybe you were right, but now I know. Now I…” He stopped, swallowing convulsively. He took a deep breath. “I saw what they did to you, and I want to help.” He met my eyes again. “Will you forgive me?”
I looked into his eyes, and answered without thinking. “Yes.”
And that was where I found out why I was trying to be silenced. I was raped by four men. One of them was a teacher, a teacher whose cousin was also a police officer. One was the nephew of a judge. The other two were the two sons of the mayor. Apparently, they had been slumming, and I had presented quick, free pussy. They knew I was a whore already, so they didn’t care about my feelings, and knew that society wouldn’t either. Nobody wanted this thing exposed, and they figured that they could threaten me off.
But, as I said, it had moved beyond that. Against orders, Nick was investigating my case. When I got out of the station, I found a large black man, and two very fiercely dressed women, one a statuesque blonde with “dominatrix” written all over her features and muscles to shame a professional athlete (she looked like a goddammed Valkyrie), the other a very pissed off looking Latino woman with a very sharp knife, flanking me. The man, a pimp I only vaguely knew by reputation, walked up to me. “Hey, babes, I respect what you’re doin. Is good for us all, getting some respect around here. Some don’t think we deserve it, but you’ll show them a thing or two, won’t you?” He smiled, revealing beautiful white teeth. “And while you do, me and da girls, we’ll watch your back.”
So, I had protectors and investigators. I made the news again, this time without being paid. While the connections of my rapists had not yet been revealed, speculation ran rampant as to why the police were doing nothing about it, and the mayor was supporting the decision.
I gave them Nick’s description, said he was investigating for us. Said to let him in if he came. Then, I went up to my room, closed the door, and cried. Now, by my room, I mean the only room in my “house” that wasn’t a bathroom. I sat there, crying, so hard that I didn’t hear the door creak open about twenty minutes after I started crying.
Suddenly, I found I had a shoulder to cry on. A voice whispered, “Hush, hush, honey, just calm down.” I was rocked, gently, until I fell asleep on the shoulder of Officer Nick Latishead, my only ally that didn’t have a criminal record.
Time passed. I was too well protected for the thugs to strike again without risking serious injury to themselves. To them, this was a job, to us, on the street, this was a way to turn around. It’s no question as to whose dedication was greater.
Nick said that he almost had enough proof. With little happening, my story slowly began to lose interest. If it had just been left alone, it was possible that they would have won. However, the arrogance of evil is always their downfall, in the end.
I was attacked again, this time in my own home.
Tyrone (the pimp), Denise, and Susan (the Latino) were all there. Susan wields a wicked knife, let me tell you. I’m sure they would, but a few of them probably would never speak again after she was through with them. One did get a clean shot off, though, and it tore right through her left thigh. Tyrone through someone off my second story balcony, and, lo and behold, that whip that Denise carried was not only for show. She was in the process of tearing a layer of skin off the face of one of the intruders when I got to the hall. The men ran off, terrified of this new development in what should have been a pleasurable, simple assignment.
What happened one week later was the result of our cockiness. We thought that they wouldn’t attack me here again, thinking that I was well defended here.
We were wrong.
I woke up to a scream. This one was not my own, but the scream of Denise, your friendly neighborhood dominatrix. She went by Brunhilde, normally, but we had become friends. Susan was off duty for the night, still in the hospital, and Tyrone was visiting her, so it was just me and Denise. Simple process of elimination led me to believe that it was Denise who was screaming.
I was right.
As a dominatrix, she had told me that she had never let a man actually fuck her. The only virgin whore you could find, she would joke.
No more. There were five of them, now, though one was obviously dazed, and another was bleeding rather profusely from the head. That was the one who was currently between her thighs, pinning her to the single piece of furniture in the hall way, an old chair. He was humping into her as hard and as fast as he could, spitting on her as his friends held her down, playing with her breasts and feeding her cock. As I arrived, one pulled out and shot his load all over her gorgeous face. She was sobbing. Denise was one of the strongest women I knew. To see her sobbing made me break down.
I got ready to run for help, but one noticed me. Two of them came and grabbed me. They held me on my knees, and made me watch as the man with the forehead wound seized up and came inside of Denise’s bloody cunt. I knew she wasn’t on the pill, and I was desperately worried for her. Another stepped forward, and thrust into her sopping pussy, raping her with a savagery the likes of which I had never seen. The men all stood around laughing at her. One wrapped her large tits around his cock, starting to fuck her breasts, while a third man entered her once virginal pussy.
The one in her pussy came first, and then the last one started groaning. “You want another load of cum all over your face, huh? How about it, cunt?” he groaned. He exploded, his jism coating her lovely breasts and proud face, some splattering into her thick blonde mane. She was sobbing.
The men forcing me to kneel, finally pushed me towards her. “Eat out her cunt, you whore.” I could hear a gun cocking behind my head, followed by the cold touch of a gun barrel on my neck. I did as I was told.
I had never been with another woman before. I touched my lips tentatively to her labia. The stench of cum was overwhelming, and my eyes teared up, as I began to lick, first the outside of her vagina, then, slowly, moved to the inside.
Not wanting to hurt her, I stayed as far away from her clit as possible as I cleaned her of blood and semen with my tongue. I could feel her sobs, slowly ebbing as she relaxed- probably unconscious. I licked up through her pussy lips, and down to her ass crack, until finally, the men signaled that they were satisfied. Then, they kept me on my knees and lines up, until, one by one, they each blasted a load of cum all over my face and in my hair.
Finally, they pinned me against a wall, stuffing Denise’s panties in my mouth. “You will drop this,” one man stated. “You will forget this. You will take the forty thousand dollars in this bag,” he said, indicating a bag on the chair next to Denise, who was by then coming around, “and you will leave here. You will change your name, and you will be forgotten. Okay?” he asked.
I shook my head. I would not be intimidated. I had let my dad intimidate me into leaving home. I had let fate intimidate me into a life I hated. Never again would I walk the easiest path solely because it was easy. The shortcut was rarely the right way.
The man pulled out his gun (silenced) and shot off my left pinky finger. I screamed, but he panties muffled it. I doubt anyone heard. “You will drop this.” It was a statement this time. Before I could answer, he shot off my right pinky finger. “I’ll give you a few days to decide,” he said.
With that, they were gone.
My decision was long made. Denise had been listening, obviously, and whether she would join me was hers. I had already cost her so much. But join me she did, and, for the third time, I marched towards the police station.
It was, by then, seven in the morning. People were lining up on the sidewalks, watching as we staggered down the street. Everything was silent.
We must have been a sight, Denise and I. Mostly nude, our faces coated in blood and cum, we limped down the street.
We didn’t even make it to the steps, this time. We passed out in the middle of the street in front of the station, her from exhaustion, me from blood loss.
I’m told I was smiling.
Even the police couldn’t ignore this. Too many witnesses, with too violent a crime. We got a court date, and all the proper people were being investigated.
A feminist movement sent us a lawyer. She asked that I not use her real name in this retelling, so I’m just call her Jane Drop. I just hate the way Jane Doe sounds.
Of course, being none too intelligent, the bad guys had to try one more time.
Jane felt that my house was unsafe, so we met in an office she had rented in a better neighborhood. A plainclothes police man walked by the building every hour or so, just to make sure. It was always a different one, always very nondescript. Very professional.
Well, the third day of this, we suffered our last attack.
The police man was scheduled to stop by in about thirty minutes when they burst in. Not a word was spoken this time; none were needed.
A man grabbed Jane by the neck and pinned her, face down, to the desk. I was stripped and immediately a man started fucking me against a wall.
I heard Jane, calling for help, practically screaming. No one could hear her. She started begging. “Please, I’m married, please don’t hurt me,” she wailed as her panties were removed. Her begging tapered off when the first thug thrust up into her married pussy as hard as he could.
I was being taken hard up against a wall, but I knew how to distance myself by then. She didn’t. The man humped her lovely ass hard, fucking her roughly into the desk, showing no mercy. I could tell he was getting faster, even as one man came up my cunt. So could she. She started begging again, saying, “Please, no, no, don’t cum in me, please, God, nooooo!!!!!!!!!” she started to sob.
The man clenched his buttocks, and started to hump his seed deep into her married womb. She kept sobbing, “I’m not on the pill,” over and over again, and the men had a good laugh at that.
I was turned over, and pushed face first against the wall. A thick cock was shoved up my ass, and a voice whispered, “Remember me, bitch,” as it started to pump. It was the one of the mayor’s sons, from the bathroom. The last man who had fucked me in the stall.
A new man was fucking Jane over the desk, humping deeply into her cunt. “Oh, I’m gonna give you a nice little bastard, you stupid rich bitch. Teach you to mind your own business and your hubby what a little whore his wife is.” Finally, he came, deep in her cunt, grunting out how he was going to get her pregnant as he fucked his seed deep into her womb.
I started to cry for her, and that sent the man in my ass over the edge. He spurted his seed up my ass, and then turned me around and forced me to my knees. He made me suck him until he was hard, but didn’t cum in my mouth or on my face. He grinned and said, “I’ve always been an ass man.” With that, he walked over to Jane, who was getting a facial from a thug, while another coated her sparkling wedding ring with jizz. The mayor’s son (whose name I have since learned is Jeff), stepped up behind the young wife. He started to rub his cock up and down her ass crack, listening to her plead with him not to touch her virgin anus.
I was already being fucked again, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. Finally, with one brutal thrust, he took her anal virginity forever, and left the devoted young wife to sob as she was anally raped over her desk.
I blacked out then. I woke to see the mayor’s son holding a gun to Jane. “Make this go away, or I will kill her.” It was said calmly.
I raised my chin. “Kill me instead, and it goes away anyways,” I said. Jane promised to be silent, and without a driving force, my movement would quickly die. I expected him to hem and haw, stall a little. He didn’t.
“Good point,” he said, and with a look of malicious glee, he shot me twice in the stomach.
I black out again, and didn’t awake for quite some time.
While I was out, I missed quite a bit. The men had laughingly returned to raping Jane. They had pumped a few more loads up her married cunt, but had overstayed the welcome. Three died when the police arrived.
I was rushed to the hospital, and Jane returned with her husband, another prominent lawyer, and a few others from various organizations. Together they dismantled our city. They tore it apart, piece by corrupt piece, and brought down everyone who had ever had a bad word to say about me. The previous statement is a very slight exaggeration, by the by.
Denise, Susan, Tyrone, Jane, Nick, and I were all heroes. Tyrone, the pimp who had helped guard me with Denise and Susan, had taken a lot of crap from a few people, but he had stood fast with me. Denise had gotten pregnant from her rape, and had chosen, like me, to have the child. Susan had lost quite a bit of use in her left leg from the bullet wound. Tyrone had a few new scars to show the ladies, but was no worse for the wear. Jane got pregnant as well, but her husband supported her 100%. He publicly asked her to marry him again. I was invited, and it was, in all likelihood, the most romantic thing I have ever had the pleasure to witness.
Denise got 7.5 million dollars rewarded to her. She kept it all, opened up a fancy restaurant called “Valkyries”, which is doing great.
I had won my battle (and a cool thirty million dollars). I gave Tyrone and Susan each five million, but neither Jane nor Nick would accept any money. Tyrone and Susan married and went into business together. They decided to try their hand at body guarding (professionally, this time). They hadn’t always been there for me, but when they had, they had helped. I gave them what support I could.
The first face I saw when I woke in the hospital was that of my sister, Laura. Daddy dearest, it seems, was in jail for murdering my mother only weeks after I left. Laura had been trying to track me down since them. We cried together, for the lost years, for the lost lives, for what I’d been through, and for our mother’s death. We cried for a long, long time, and when it stopped, it was like nothing had changed. We were sisters again.
Nick and I started dating, while I used the remainder of my money to build a woman’s shelter that would actually have the cash, and the reputation, to do something semi-useful. It was for any woman who needed it, but mostly for girls whose situations were similar to me.
My connections to the world of law, law enforcement, protection, and food services helped me get jobs for the girls who had thought they didn’t have any options left. I also started a side business, an antique shop downtown. I did good business, and the money I brought in solely from my reputation was enough to support the shop and help hold the woman’s shelter aloft. Donations quickly began to slip in, unasked for but wanted, and my shelter began to flourish.
A year after the incident, Nick and I married. We can’t have biological children, no, but he’s teaching me that not all sex is dirty and violent. I’m beginning to enjoy it, actually.
So my life is good. My life is good because I’m helping make other peoples lives better. I don’t have to worry about being attacked, or anything like that.
I realize now that, had I given up, my life would have been, for those few months, very much easier. Jane and her husband would never have had such a massive trial to their marriage. Susan would still have full use of both legs. Denise would still be a virgin, instead of an emotionally scarred single mother. Nick would still be a trusted member of the police force (none of them could quite forget that he had gone behind their backs to help me). I would have had to suffer far fewer rapes, and would still have all my fingers.
However, what would we have lost? Jane and her husband discovered new depths to their love, and were closer than ever. Susan would still be a whore, a woman with no future and no respect, and Tyrone would be on a similar track. Now they’re married (expecting their first in July). Denise would not have Faye (her daughter) or her restaurant in her life. Now, she’s a prominent member of society. Nick wouldn’t have me, and I wouldn’t have him.
Giving up would have been so easy. People would see me saying I was lying, and they’d just say, “Well, she’s just a whore, what can you expect?” Then, they’d forget.
They won’t forget now. I’ll make sure of it. I may not be a whore anymore, but I know the life. I know the dangers. I know the way people saw me, and I know how it feels, how it kills a little bit of your already dying spirit every time.
We still aren’t very respected. But things are changing. Denise, Susan, Tyrone, and I helped blaze a trail that’s slowly being walked by more and more people.
Maybe one day, everyone can find the respect, love, and happiness that I have.
I certainly hope so.