I Was A Slut
I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be someone I’m not, and I just can’t do it anymore.
When I was little, my uncle started touching me. I was seven or eight the first time. He’d call me into his room, sit me on his lap, and slide his hands under my clothes. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew it felt good. Weird, but good. I liked the way his hands made me feel. Special. By the time I was nine he was licking me and giving me orgasms, so naturally soon after I was licking and sucking him off whenever he asked. I didn’t just do it because he told me to, I wanted to. I craved it. I would think about it all the time, how his cock tasted, how he’d moan when I did it right. I’d touch myself at night, imagining his hands on me again.
By ten or so, he was fucking me. Not just touching, but really fucking me. The first time he pushed inside, it hurt, but in a way that just made me want more. I would almost beg for it, even though I knew it was wrong. He stretched me open, fill me up, and I’d love every second. Afterward, I’d lie in my bed, my thighs sticky with him, sorta wishing he’d come back for more.
Then his friends started joining in. I was scared but let them all take turns, let them do whatever they wanted. I loved the way it felt to be used like that. I loved how they’d groan and call me cute and a good girl. I’d pretend to be shy around everyone during the day, but alone with him or tgem, I’d spread my legs and take every inch.
By thirteen, I was sneaking out to meet older boys and men. I’d let them gangbang me, trying to chase that same full, stretched feeling I got when I was little. I’d come home with their cum dripping out of me, my body sore in the best way. I’d act like everything was normal, fine, like nothing was going on, like I was still innocent, but the truth was, I was a slut and I loved it. I lived for it.
I got good at hiding it. I’d smile and blush and act like I didn’t know what sex was. But the second I was alone with them, I’d drop to my knees and take whatever they gave me. I’d pretend I didn’t want it, that I was being forced, but really, I was the one begging for more.
I got married young, had a daughter, and tried to be the perfect wife and mother. I never told my husband about any of this. I acted like I was pure, like I’d never been touched before him. But the truth is, I’ve always been dirty. I’ve always needed it, but felt like I had to hide it, hide me.
Now, watching my husband with our daughter, I feel it all again. That same hunger, that same ache. I tell myself it’s wrong, that I should stop it, but I don’t. I watch them, my body burning, my panties soaked. I remember what it was like to be that little girl, to be used and filled and wanted. And I crave it. I yearn for it.
I’m not angry. I’m not even disgusted. I’m just... needy.
And for the first time in years, I don’t have to pretend.
