Story 2 - I am a Whore

I am a whore. My name’s Beatrice, but I prefer Brea, and I am a whore. I call myself a whore without shame since I accept who I am as a whore.

I lost my virginity to a friend’s older boyfriend at 14 and never told her who I gave it to, no matter how much she desperately wanted to know. I told her all about the wonderful experience before kissing her passionately, which was something I always wanted to do with her. Our friendship changed after that, and not for the better since she pulled away.

By the time I was 15, I’d tasted a few pussies, which I still enjoy to this day, and sucked a few dicks. It took time to get used to not coughing it up when it hit the back of my throat, just like it did for me to swallow. I seem to recall just how soar my tongue and jaw were after the first time I sucked a dick, but that was a long time ago.

By the time 16 came around, I’d gone through the cheerleader initiation, which required me to service all of them with my tongue while getting fucked by all the football players. It didn’t happen quickly, but I made the team. One of the players took my anal virginity, which hurt like hell. I still don’t know who it was, but I hold no grudge.

It was shortly after I turned 16 when I had the scare. I never cared about condoms prior to being late, but believing I was pregnant was enough for me to care greatly. I’ve never allowed anyone to fuck me without one after that.

On my 17th birthday, I experienced my first orgy. There was something exciting about the whole thing since only their bodies could be seen beneath the masks. The lights were dimmed as I spent hours in the depths of pleasure without ever knowing who any of them were.

By my 18th birthday, I’d experienced my first foursome with three older guys, which felt wonderful. All of them were my married teachers who knew exactly what my reputation guaranteed. There was no promise of grades or any other form of enticement since I had never needed any of them.

Maybe I should’ve included this part earlier. I was raised by a bastard of a father who never touched me, unlike my brother, Wallie, who’s two years older than me. I had to watch my father beat the hell out of him since he threatened to do far worse to me if I didn’t. His threats were always of a sexual nature, which still make me cringe at the thought.

I cried every time I heard the belt, our father’s favorite, hit his body. During those times, he was called worthless and weak. My dear, sweet brother never broke to help keep me untouched by the bastard who had the nerve to force us to call him dad.

Being two years older than me and far smarter than the bastard and I put together, he graduated early without ever leaving me to my father. He had his pick of schools but remained close enough to live with us. The beatings never stopped, and Wallie never cried out. Tears fell, but never told him to stop.