A history of sorts - Part two

As I got more used to it all, I found I didn't need to drink myself incoherent before I could face leaving. That made things better all round - I didn't have to spend so much, I didn't get so hungover, and I met a better class of people. Whatever else they may be, men who need a woman to be legless before they can make a move are not good in bed. In fact, it came as a complete surprise to me when, after several weeks of one-night stands, I had an orgasm during sex for the first time.

It felt very odd: Orgasms had always been something intensely private and entirely under my own control. I was even more hopelessly befuddled than usual when I had one courtesy of somebody else. It made me feel somehow helpless, as though I'd lost control in some way.

The biggest thing was, I think, that it seemed to make me a participant. Always before, I'd been able to think of it in terms of "Them fucking me" - I wasn't doing anything, I was having things done to me. But reaching orgasm suddenly turned it into "We were having sex" and suddenly I was just as responsible as they were. It put me into a much more active role, and I wasn't sure how to cope with that - I was only used to "They fuck me", I didn't know how to be an equal partner. It made me feel a need for guidance.

He evidently noticed. I suspect I'd slept with him before and he noticed I was acting differently than before. I really was at a loss, and guidance of any sort seemed helpful, regardless of its source. So I accepted his instruction to slide down the bed and suck on his cock, something I'm sure I'd done before, but only when too out-of-it to really realize. (I'd woken up with gunk on my face, but no memory of getting it there.)

Despite the fact that I'd had sex with quite a number of men by then, I'd never given head while aware of what I was doing. It always seemed too intimate a thing to perform oral sex. But I was too drunk and confused to resist that time. I steeled myself, open my mouth, and sucked his cock as far down my throat as I could. I even swallowed obediently after his cum made me gag slightly.

I'm almost certain that it was him that picked me up the next night. I didn't cum from sex that time, but after he'd rolled off me he shoved his fingers into me and masturbated me until I did. I found this even more confusing than the sex-induced orgasm - somebody else's fingers roving in and over me felt even more intimate and penetrating than a cock inside me ever had. It made me feel very helpless again, very much like he had taken some of my self-control for himself.

I wondered if he was just after another BJ, but instead he guided me out of bed to kneel on the floor beside it. I remember noticing his hands were trembling, and wondering if it was cold or something. I wondered why he wanted to get out from under the covers if he was cold.

I found out when he got behind me and I felt his cock at the entrance to my pussy again. It made me feel a bit better: I thought I knew what he was up to then. He wanted to try it doggy-style.

And indeed, his cock slid in briefly, but then he removed it again, to my surprise. Surprise turned to shock when I felt it pressing against my anus. I think my exact words were a mumbled "No. Don't wanna!" and I half-rose, but he insisted it was okay, I shouldn't worry, I just had to stay still. This was something, he seemed to imply, that I had to do. In my confused state, I couldn't bring myself to argue.

Meekly, I sank back down and did my best to relax as his cock forced its way up my arse. It felt huge. He kept shoving until I felt his thighs pressing against my arse cheeks, and then he started to pump his cock in and out. Drunk & disoriented, I was momentarily unsure if I was being screwed or going to the bathroom: every 'out' stroke felt like having a dump.

I have never understood why so many guys seem so fascinated by anal sex. It's awkward, uncomfortable, and undignified. What's worse, it always makes me feel like I desperately need to go to the toilet. But it seems to fascinate most men.

So, I just knelt still and waited for it to be over as he groaned and humped his way to a second orgasm. It was a relief to feel him pull back out, and he dressed and left almost immediately.

It was a long time before it occurred to me to stop kneeling on the floor. I have never felt so at a loss, before or since. I was in completely uncharted territory - nothing in my past experience gave me any clues about how you should act in such a situation.

Lacking any better ideas, I took care of what felt like the most urgent needs: I went to the toilet and then had a shower. Then I went back to bed and waited for daylight. I didn't get any sleep that night.

Dawn happened very slowly, but it didn't really seem to be morning to me until I heard an alarm clock go off in the flat next door. That seemed to make it 'official' that the night was over and it was a new day. At that point, the numb emptiness wore off abruptly, and I started shivering uncontrollably. Like a switch had been thrown, I was suddenly really scared. I curled up on the bed and pulled the blanket over me like I had when I was a little girl hiding from the dark.

It had all come crashing in on me just how incredibly vulnerable I was making myself with my nightly misbehaviors. A hundred "what ifs" flooded through my mind: What if somebody had spiked my drinks with more than just alcohol? What if a non-student had gotten into the club and lead me off-campus where nobody would know where I was? What if, what if, what if?

After being starved of sleep all night, the images of what could have gone wrong all those nights flashed through my head like vivid dreams, like they were really happening. I ran from one nightmare to another until it my half-asleep panic I fell off the bed and woke up properly.

I finally admitted to myself that my attempt to make myself feel better after the first night had not worked. I no longer felt so bad about that night, true, but I didn't feel any less bad overall: I'd just given myself more things to feel bad about, so I could divide the badness up amongst them into manageable pieces. Each was a small thing on it's own, but cumulatively they were as bad as, if not worse than, how I had been when I started out.

I stayed in bed for most of the rest of the day. My mind was raging with all the What Ifs, Should Haves, and Could Haves: All the things I could have done, all the things that others had done to me, all the things that could have happened, all the things that HAD happened. I was trying to sort everything out and deal with it, but it all seemed overwhelming.

And then gradually it all went calm. All the dreadful thoughts and bad memories seemed to just fade away, and I was left feeling almost empty as they vanished. When I thought about the things that had seemed overwhelmingly awful, they didn't bother me at all. There was just a strong sense of apathy, of not being connected to any of it. Like the difference between remembering something that actually happened to you and something you just watched on TV. None of it seemed to matter.

So I'd been sleeping around. So what? So I'd been drinking heavily. Who cared? So something could have gone wrong. What did it matter, since it hadn't?

I didn't understand why suddenly everything was okay. But I wasn't about to go trying to undo it. I figured I had worked through the guilt and shame and dealt with it, so now it was gone. I got up, cleaned myself up, dressed and got myself something to eat. When Shelley, my clubbing friend knocked on my door and asked if I was going out with her that evening, I said yes, and out we went. Maybe it was a silly thing to do, but I just didn't care.

I didn't need alcohol as a crutch any more either. I still drank, but not out of a need to overcome my inhibitions enough to get picked up. My apathy even stopped me caring about that. I knew I was going out to get laid, why should I need to be drunk for it?

Although not completely sober, that was the first night I wasn't out-of-it drunk when I was taken home. When I was undressing in front of him, there was some embarrassment, but it seemed external, somewhere outside, happening to someone else. I tried to ignore it and show I wasn't ashamed by encouraging him to suck on my nipples. He seemed to like that. In fact, after fucking me (not to orgasm, sadly) he encouraged me to suck him back to hardness so he could put his cock between my breasts and fuck them.

Again, there was a feeling of shame at the idea, but I ignored it. Again, I tried to drive it out by one-upping it, and threw back the bedcovers. I laid naked, in full view and masturbated in front of him. He lost no time in getting his cock to my mouth, and I carried on finger-fucking myself as I built his erection back up. It didn't take long, and he'd switched to tit-fucking by the time I got myself off. He came just after I did, and I blinked furiously as his cum went over my face and got in my eyes.

For the rest of the first year, that night was kind of the pattern. I could happily do what I liked, carefree and unbothered by it, so long as I could do something to drown out the feelings that seemed to float just outside. If there was a twinge at someone groping my breasts over my top, I could silence it by guiding his hands under my top. If I felt reluctance when he rubbed his cock between my buttocks prior to fucking me from behind, I could dispel it by suggesting he go ahead and fuck my arse instead. Everything was fine, so long as I could be over-the-top enough to make the bad feelings go away.

It was like they were all happening to somebody else, and she would shut up and go away if her objections just made things worse. It kept working, so I kept doing it.


Continued in:

ID: 970800   (Rated: XGC) Title: A history of sorts - Part three  Description: Into the next phase By: tatty_oldbitt