Emily Pt 09

I awoke the next morning to the sound of my family banging and crashing downstairs and my father shouting my name. From the light forcing its way past my curtains I could tell it was no longer early morning. Groggily I turned to look at the clock next to my bed and groaned. I felt sore all over, like someone had pummelled me. I swallowed down the images that came instantly to mind.

It was past 10am and after a moment of confusion I remembered my sister and I had the day off from school because of a teacher training day. Unfortunately, I also remembered my parents had decided to make the most of the long weekend and take us on an overnight trip to see our grandparents.

My father shouted my name again, impatient with my inactivity, but just as I was about to start moving, there came a gentle tap at my door. It opened slowly and from around its edge came my mother's face, she was smiling kindly.

"Hello, dear." She said. "Are you feeling ok?"

"Yes, mum." I managed to reply, "I just had a hard night at the takeaway."

"Oh yes, your father mentioned you looked a bit frazzled last night when he picked you up." Concern in her voice. "Did you have lots of customers?"

I felt my cheeks go red with shame and all I could do was nod my head. Her words were only too accurate. I had had many customers last night but they had not been buying kebabs, they had been buying my body. Luckily the dim light in my room hid my shame from her.

"I'll tell you what," she said then, "Why don't you stay here and rest today? The three of us can go and see Granny and Gramps and leave you to your schoolwork."

I could not believe my luck. Was she really going to allow me to miss the boring family trip and laze around the house on my own for two days?

"That would be amazing, mum." I replied eagerly. "I can get so much work done."

"Ok." She said, "but see that you do."

"Thanks mum, I will, I promise." I replied.

She disappeared back downstairs and two seconds later I heard my sister erupt in indignation. I smiled to myself, it served her right for being such a busybody.

"When you have a job and work as hard as your sister you can miss family trips too." I heard my father say firmly. "Until then, missy, you can get your backside in the car." She soon shut up.

A few shouted goodbyes later, along with the standard request not to burn the house down, and they were gone.

I lay in my bed for another hour enjoying the quiet and slowly working up the courage to get up. When I finally did I almost went straight back to bed, my whole body seemed to ached. My shoulders, my knees, my hips, my neck, even my jaw ached. Wincing in pain I finally managed to stand up and begin shuffling towards the bathroom and its promise of a hot, soothing bath. It took me a few painful minutes to hobble, zombie-like, down the hall and it was then that I realised my aches were in all places I had exercised so much last night. My knees and shoulders where I had been on all fours for so long, my hips because I had had my legs spread so far apart and my neck and jaw from all the blowjobs I had given. I felt revolted at this sudden realisation but I also felt a jolt of guilty electricity spark between my legs.

After what seem ages I finally arrived and stood in a daze as the water slowly filled the bath. Then, with a start, I felt something on my thigh. Looking down I felt a wave of revulsion as a thick, congealed glob of grey-white goo ran down my inner thigh. I watched with sick fascination as it slid over my smooth skin. It left behind a sticky trail, not unlike a slug. I tasted bile in my mouth as this unasked-for reminder of my perverted behaviour threatened to turn my stomach.

I quickly grabbed some toilet tissue and picked the horrid thing off my leg. I was shocked at how large and firm it was - like a piece of playdoh. Revolted, I threw it in the toilet and flushed it away. I took a few deep breaths and gradually my stomach settled down. Unfortunately, it was only temporarily as, looking up, I noticed my reflection in my dad's shaving mirror. It was angled so that it caught the image of the main mirror above the basin and in it I could see my back.

What confused me, though, were all the red marks that were clearly visible over my normally clear teenage skin. As my addled brain slowly orientated my twice reflected image I realised that the marks were actually scratches. Sets of three or four parallel lines of varying lengths, each red raw scratch made by those nameless, faceless men.

I was revolted by how I had been marked by those lust crazed men but, just as I started to turn away, something else caught my attention. Across my lower back I could see what looked like some faded black letters and some small lines. Confused, I moved around so I could see them better and, after some twisting and turning, I could see the letters were a P and a M. The lines had been drawn alongside each letter but did not seem to mean anything.

I stared in confusion at the revolting mess the men had made of my back. The scratches were horrid but I could understand them. I had often seen groups of girls in the school toilets giggling as one of them showed off a scratch on her shoulder supposedly made by her boyfriend. Everyone knew what scratches down someone's back meant but what were the letters and lines?

I continued to look but twisting my aching body like that was starting to hurt. But just before I straighten up I was struck with a vague memory from my maths lessons. I felt my stomach lurch again - the lines were not just lines, they were roman numerals! And, if that was right, it meant the letters were there to represent a category. It did not take long to realise that the P must stand for pussy and the M for mouth. It was then not a huge revelation, even for my barely functioning mind, to see that the numerals must represent the number of men who had used that particular part of my body.

My nausea grew rapidly as I hurriedly counted and recounted the lines. Next to the M were nine separate lines and, even worse, next to the P there were twelve. Disbelief and shock hit me, the blood drained from my face and I felt faint. Luckily all I had to do was sag to my knees as my stomach lurched again and I heaved its contents into the toilet.

I do not know how long I was like that. My naked body shaking as I desperately clutched the toilet and heaved and heaved until my stomach was empty. Sweating and out of breath, I reached up to pull the flush but then noticed the foul gooey mess that now floated in the bottom of the bowl. I racked my mind for the last time I had eaten but after a while I had to admit to myself that I had not had a thing since well before I went to the takeaway last night. I stared down the toilet again - it was just like an oil slick floating on the ocean - only it was an oil slick that looked like it had been made with like clotted cream. I heaved again but there was nothing else to come up.

Finally my body calmed enough for me to flush the toilet and rid myself of yet another reminder of my despicable behaviour. Holding onto the basin I slowly stood up and once again twisted myself so that I could see the writing on my back. Another feeling of nausea almost forced me to my knees again but thankfully it passed.

A little more composed at last, but wary of another episode of vomiting, I forced my mind to consider the image I was seeing in the mirror dispassionately. Strangely, the first thing I realised was that the men must have used a pen with permanent ink as, despite my scrubbing in the shower the previous night, the letters and numerals, although faded, were still clearly visible. I remembered Mustafa had a box of permanent ink felt-tip pens to take the orders with and suspected one of them had been used on me too.

Only once I got this bit of irrelevant information filed away did I allow myself to consider the roman numerals. As unemotionally as I could manage, I counted each set again and then again. I then checked a third time.

I tried to stay calm but the horror of what I was seeing threatened to overwhelm me. Memories flooded my brain with images from the previous night and suddenly I felt like I was there again. Dizziness made me sway as in my mind I stopped remembering the previous night and started reliving it.

Suddenly I felt terribly vulnerable as once again I stood naked in front of the Inman. I felt utterly insignificant again as he stared at me with those cold eyes. I felt them burning into me with disgust and lust. Then suddenly things moved on and I was standing in Mustafa's tiny lounge surrounded by those large sweaty men. Then I was lying on my back and I could feel again the dampness of the dirty mattress beneath me.

Suddenly there was a man above me, grabbing my shoulders, positioning me for him to fuck. I felt him push my legs apart and then his weight pressing me down as he mounted me. I felt again the violation as, between my legs, his hard cock pushed its way inside my body. I felt again the sordid excitement as I felt my inexperienced pussy penetrated. I felt again the humiliation and the thrill as I was used by him, taken by him.

I heard again the other men's derisory laughter as they stood around the dirty mattress and watched their friend fuck me. I saw their looks of disgust and heard their knowing laughter as, involuntarily, little moans of pleasure escaped me. Then, unbelievably, I felt again the thrill, and the slight disappointment, as the man between my legs stiffened as he came. Then I felt the now familiar feeling as the man's cock erupted its torrent of hot cum into my womb. Then, as I stood naked in the bathroom on that cold Friday morning, my twisted, shame fuelled subconscious gave me a massive and bone jarring orgasm.

I shuddered with pleasure and collapsed onto the floor, the room still spinning and my breathing coming in giant gasps. I could not believe what had just happened. I was stunned and scared at how intense and uncontrollable the memories had been.

Incidentally, years later I was told by my therapist that the experience was probably a flash back brought on by my conscious mind's inability to cope with a new reality. Apparently, my actions that night were so far removed from those of my own self-image that, despite being faced with incontrovertible evidence, my conscious mind simply refused to accept it. In order to stay sane my unconscious then forced my conscious to relive the experience and, like it or not, to come to terms with it. Forced it to come to terms with my new, radically changed, self-image. I joked with my therapist that I must have gone from naughty teen to wanton slut pretty much in one go. Instead of disagreeing with me describing myself as a slut he just looked at me over his half-moon glasses for a moment before saying, "Precisely."

I am not sure how long I was unconscious but at some point I became aware of the tinkly sound of water running into the bath overflow. I was cold and naked but at least my stomach seemed to have settled down and room had stopped spinning. Slowly I got onto all fours, crawled over to the bath and turned off the taps. Luckily it was still running hot so after draining some water from the very full bath, I lowered myself into its comforting embrace.

The hot water and the unusual quiet of the house eased my spinning mind and I decided I needed some time away from thinking. Some time without thoughts guilt and shame and lust. I closed my eyes and let myself be.

I indulged myself that day and, without my family to consider, happily used up all the hot water. I let the warmth ease my aches and simply refused to allow my brain to think about what I had done, refused to let it torture me with self-recriminations. Soon I drifted off to sleep.

I felt much better when, hours later, the cooling water woke me. My young body had already healed considerably and my aches were now barely noticeable. A rumble from my stomach told me I was hungry and I remembered I had not eaten since the previous night. Involuntarily the unpleasant and disgusting memory of vomiting up all that semen popped into my head and a hot flood of shame began to build. But, unlike before, this time I was able to simply acknowledge the memory and let it pass.

Surprised by myself I decided now might be a good time to think about what had happened, how I now felt about myself and what I was going to do next. I lay back in the bath and added some more hot water before slowly and carefully trying to recall the events of the previous night and the way it had made me feel. Over the next hour my patchy memories of that night brought up unpleasant feelings of shame and humiliation but also ones of pleasure and delight. Finally, as the sky outside started to darken, I came to a tentative conclusion.

What had happened to me was clearly not something most girls wanted to experience and I felt sure all 'normal' people would consider my behaviour to be whorish, cheap and downright filthy. The mere thought of my family or friends finding out about it made me wince with embarrassment.

On the other hand I could not deny my willing participating in, what was by any measure, an extreme sex act. Nor could I deny intense toe-curling pleasure I had received. I was pretty sure that nothing I had done was illegal - everyone involved had been an adult, had known what they were doing and no one got hurt. Finally my feelings of guilt and shame diminished and I was able to make a tentative peace with myself.

By then I had been in the bath for hours and my skin was well and truly prune like. Reluctantly I stood, stepped out of the bath and wrapped myself in a huge fluffy dressing gown. Back in my room I picked up my phone to begin the task of re-joining teenage online life but just as I was about to get into some serious Instagram action I remembered the numbers on my back.

I stood up, dropped the gown and twisted round to look at them in the bedroom mirror. The letters and numerals were much fainter now but still visible. I surprised myself by letting out a quick giggle at what they represented. Shaking my head in amazement I made myself say it out loud.

"Last night I gave blowjobs to nine different men." I said quietly. Then, more loudly this time, I said, "Last night I swallowed nine loads of cum." I felt so slutty reciting my actions like that - but also so deliciously naughty. "Yummy!" I shouted, giggling. Then came the truly shameful revelation, "Last night twelve different men fucked my pussy."

As my laughter died down I had a thought, the Inman had fucked me before all the other men had arrived and, given what I knew of him, I doubted he would have started the numbering. If that were true then it meant I had actually been fucked by thirteen different men!

Then, ignoring my inner censer, I closed my eyes and shouted, "Last night thirteen different men fucked my pussy and shot their cum inside me."

All of a sudden I realised my hand had drifted down to my pussy. I was so horny! With a jolt I stopped touching myself, now feeling guilty.

I looked at my naked body in the mirror and shook my head. I could pleasure myself if I wanted too. I could pleasure myself and if fucking thirteen men in one night and sucking a further nine gave me pleasure, then that was what I would do. I might only be a teenage girl but I was also an adult, an adult with sexual desires. My body might be skinny but it was toned and firm, my breasts were small but pert and proud and my stomach was completely flat.

Ok, I thought, so I have sex scratches from multiple men down my back and, yes, I have the number of men that fucked me in one night written there too, but I was young, happy and horny. I let my hand continue to rub my pussy and soon I felt myself getting wet. I flopped back on my bed, spread my legs far apart, and brought myself off with an amazing, guilt-free, orgasm.

After I came I slept again and when I woke up it was already Saturday morning. I felt was ravenous and quickly flung on some clothes and headed for the kitchen. On a whim, while waiting impatiently for the toaster, I picked up my phone and Google'd the average number of sexual partners people had over their lives. I quickly found a reputably site which said that, although the number varied a little from country to country, the number of sexual partners a women had over her lifetime averaged eight. I stared at the screen, unable believe what it was saying. I quickly found another site but it said the same thing. I found another and then another and then another but they all said pretty much the same thing.

Eventually I just had to accept it - I was barely eighteen and, including Mustafa, Abdullah and Craig, had been fucked by sixteen different men. It meant that, in the space of just a few days, I had gone from being a virgin to having been fucked by twice as many men as most women are in their entire lives! I felt incredibly shameful by my obvious promiscuity but then another, even more miserable, thought occurred - of those sixteen men I knew the names of only three of them!

I stood in kitchen, feeling like a worthless harlot, until another slutty fact occurred to me and suddenly I found myself laughing. Never mind names, I thought, I had not even seen the faces of many of the men who had fucked me!

After that I managed, with limited success, to keep my mind on school work. My feelings about what I had done, along with my aches and pains, continued to improve. But my experience had taught me one thing - being fucked by sixteen men in one night was probably too many, even for a total slut like me.

That was when I decided on two things:-

•I had to quit my job at the takeaway to avoid any possibility that Mustafa and Abdullah might persuade me to do it all again.

•I had to be sure that sexual pleasure was all the men had given me and so I needed to see Doctor Hadfield as soon as possible.