Chapter 2

Angela put her arms forward and placed her hands just above Mark's knees, leaning forward as if to kiss him. It wasn't a move made in rapturous passion. It was more of a perfunctory or automatic movement, like she was listlessly acting out the role she had played many times before in the theater of this or any of a dozen other similar hotel rooms.

Caught slightly by the unexpected move of this precocious teenager, Mark leaned back ever so slightly while grasping her left wrist in his right hand, and placing his left hand on her soft shoulder, stopping her from going wherever she was going. As her posture straightened due to his corrective hold on her shoulder, the quizzical look on her face told Mark that she was embarrassed, thinking she had done something wrong.

"It's OK, honey," he reassured her, and smiled warmly.

She said nothing, and just stood there, waiting for Mark to take the lead. She thought she knew what she was supposed to do, but now she felt inadequate and confused. Here she was, an intelligent young girl at the tender age of fifteen, standing partially undressed and seriously exposed before this matured man's burning eyes. It wasn't just the fact that he had pulled down her nearly translucent skirt that made her feel embarrassed or even ashamed. And it wasn't just the fact that this man had sucked all over her tender tummy as if he were sucking one of those lollipops you can buy at most candy stores that are too big to fit inside your mouth, but that are so syrupy-sweat you can't stop vigorously licking and sucking. And it wasn't even just the fact that he had had his face so near to her privates that he could see down the front of her cotton panties to the sparse growing hair on her mound, which nice girls always keep covered-up by their bikini bottoms when they go swimming. No, those were all things, in one form or another, that she had grown used to. She had learned to disassociate from her real self -- her individuality, her likes and dislikes, her hopes and dreams, and her true relationships -- during times like these. These men, whatever they are, had become objects or machines to her, somewhat as she always would be to them. When a man had his hand grasping her wavy brunette hair so close to the back of her head that he could control her every movement, and she had the thick of his adult cock almost all the way in her mouth, and he would pull on her head and say with a sinister gruffness in his voice, "yesss ... uhh, baby girl, you like daddy's cock in your mouth, don't you? Mmm, lemme feel that sweet teen throat honey -- let me feel you choke a little, girl," and then she would make herself switch-off her gag reflex like she had learned to do and hold her breath, hoping this gross man would just hurry up and cum ... when these things were happening, she felt like nothing more than a very expensive cog on a never-ending assembly line. It was just a job, and she was just a product being worked on by different men, none of whom she saw as real people with real lives and families.

She was used to being in these physically degrading situations with strange men. With Mark, there was something else that made her feel degraded though. Something beyond just his pawing at her body.

Often during encounters with men, she would find herself daydreaming or recollecting events from her past, to the point where she would even forget the present. Just a week ago, a 60-year-old man had her naked and sitting on his face on the bed, giving him barely any room to breathe, for what must have been at least 30 minutes. As she stayed in that position, she closed her eyes and remembered some of the times in the past when her cousin, who is one year younger than Angela, would invite her to the beach for a week during the summer. She remembered how much fun the girls would have swimming in the ocean, listening to pop music like the Backstreet Boys on their iPods while lying on huge towels in the sand, going to a nail salon and getting their cute little toes painted with bright neon-colored toenail polish, and walking along the edge of the sea, hoping to catch the eye of every cute young stud in sight. She remembered how they would dress in very short denim shorts and pretty halter tops and play putt-putt golf. She remembered lining up with her slender legs together and preparing to make a putt, bending forward slightly, and then noticing out of the corner of her eye a pretty teenage boy checking out her butt. This made her blush -- she was delighted. Then she would notice that the boy's father had also been staring at her pert backside, so visibly melon-shaped beneath her tight shorts. But while the teenage boy had a devilish smile on his face, the look on his father's face was different. His father's eyes looked tight. "He must not like me distracting his son from their family time together," she had thought to herself. But now, as various moaning and licking sounds filtered into her thoughts from the old man whose face was presently buried between her legs, she reconsidered her recollections. Returning quickly to her distant thoughts about the past, she considered now that -- perhaps -- the boy's father had not been angry at her for interfering with their family outing after all. Maybe he was angry or frustrated because he wanted her but could not have her. Maybe the boy's father wanted to be like the old man whose face she was currently sitting upon. Maybe the father's frustration was that he couldn't spend hours alone in a room with her, free to do whatever he wanted with her young body.

When her recollections turned into retrospective realizations of the depravity that she now assumed must lie within the mind of every man on earth -- her experiences over the last year had given her a more realistic carnal understanding of what men think about and really desire -- she would quickly start thinking about something else. It was as if her past experiences were pure and perfect. When she started now to see the vibrant sexuality and lust that had always been present, though not apparent to her at the time, it felt like the perfect world of her memories was being broken down. It felt almost like coming-down from a high she had been on her entire life, and realizing things were not as she had thought them to be. She could only dwell in her memories for a short time during these encounters with unfamiliar men before the sexual iniquity she was participating in would bleed into her thoughts and sully her memories.

But, right here in this hotel room, right now with this man named Mark, Angela wasn't able to disassociate from her true self. She wasn't able to objectify the situation, or the man, like she always could with other men.

Angela stood timidly before Mark, who was still sitting on the bed. His warm left hand firmly began to rub in a sort of circular motion around her bare shoulder, giving her a massage in part to set her at ease and in part because he loved the feel of her satiny smooth young skin in his hands. With his right hand, Mark lifted her left arm and then moved his hand into hers, their fingers interlocking in a lover's clasp. Her right arm hung straight down beside her -- almost too straight, in a way suggesting that the shoulder massage might not be completely welcome. She was nervous. More than that, she felt intimidated, inadequate, and insecure.

As Mark continued to massage her shoulder, his fingertips brushed over her thin white bra strap. Eventually, the thumb of his massaging hand slipped beneath the strap, and his massages started moving up her delicate young neck. His hand seemed to be more interested in roaming and exploring than in giving a massage, she observed. His hand, open-palmed, moved down and to the middle, softly running over the thin skin between her breasts covering her sternum. Being a tender teenager, the skin on her chest was as thin as film -- not an ounce of body fat. But as his gaze focused on her lovely covered breasts, he thought about the obvious fact that there were, in fact, tender morsels of flesh only inches away from his hand that he could squeeze and play with.