Chapter 3

This is the third story about my life as a hooker. This is the story of how my stepfather crossed a line that should never be crossed, especially too q 16-year-old girl.

It’s a story about a young girl coming of age in a world shaped by defiance, of the rules I was taught, of the shame imposed on my body, of the silence expected of me, and my own identity. I sought out freedom in dangerous places, chasing experiences that blurred the line between rebellion and self-discovery.

I created a world of my own, where desire dictated the rules and innocence was redefined, and I ended up choosing the wrong path.

Important disclaimer:
Not all characters are over 18 years old.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. As a non-native English speaker (I’m Swedish), please forgive the occasional grammatical error or awkward phrasing.

Characters:
Me, Sarah 66, a prostitute
Paul, Mom’s boyfriend, apparently my “Uncle”, 37

Ok, ready to go? Let’s roll part 3.

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Part 3 - Uncle Paul

This is the journey of a girl trying to understand who she is, through pain, through awakening, and ultimately, through resilience.

A timely reflection for a society still reckoning with power, consent, and identity.

It’s been six months since it happened. Six months since everything in me split open and rearranged itself into something I barely recognized. Six long months since the two older boys drugged and raped me. But, you’ve probably read about that in the first part of this serie; A hooker takes on 2 virgin boys.

Trying to get back to a normal life has felt like learning to breathe underwater, possible only in theory. I smile when I’m supposed to. I laugh when others do. I nod when asked if I’m okay. But inside, I am still rearranging the ruins.

The world around me kept moving. School bells rang, seasons shifted, people talked about TV shows and weekend plans, as if the earth hadn’t cracked beneath my feet. At first, I tried to match their rhythm. I dressed the part, played the role. But pretending to be whole only made the emptiness louder.

There were days I hated my body, and other days I ignored it completely. Nights blurred into mornings, sleep into numbness. I kept my secret like a glass shard under the tongue: sharp, invisible, always there.

But somewhere in that slow unraveling, I began to find small anchors. A friend who sat beside me without asking questions. A therapist who didn’t flinch when I finally spoke. A song that made me cry for the first time in months, because it meant I could still feel something.

Getting back to “normal” wasn’t the goal anymore. I learned to build something new, something honest. A life that includes what happened, but isn’t only defined by it. A life where I’m allowed to be messy, angry, soft, healing, all at once. I really felt that things were going good.

This is not the end of my story. This is the part where I begin again.
____{br}

For as long as I can remember, we were poor. Not the kind of poor you read about in books with noble endings, but the grinding, day-to-day kind that seeps into everything. I still remember one Christmas when all I got was an orange and a toothbrush. That was it. I was six years old, in first grade.

When school started again after the holidays, I couldn’t bear to admit the truth. So I invented a dazzling list of imaginary gifts, dolls with blinking eyes, a toy piano, even a bike. I told my classmates that the presents were too expensive and precious to bring outside, hoping that excuse would explain why no one ever saw my supposed treasures. It was easier to lie than to let them see how empty my Christmas really was.
That was the pattern in those early years, pretending, covering, surviving.

My father never came back from Korea. He didn’t die there, as I once believed. I found out later that he simply chose not to return. He vanished from our lives like a ghost that never intended to haunt. My mother did what she could, I suppose, but life with her was chaotic. A steady stream of men came and went, some stayed for weeks, others just for a night. None of them stuck around long enough to matter, though a few stayed long enough to hurt.

Looking back, I can see now that my mother wasn’t equipped for the life she was handed. She was the kind of woman life seemed to trample over without pause. And the men she chose? They were broken, drifting, losers, just like her, and to be honest, she did way worst things.

She was a small-town Nebraska drunk and part-time prostitute, well-acquainted with the local Sheriff’s office and not-so-affectionately known as the neighborhood whore. Her advice was far from conventional, but somehow, it stuck with me.

I was probably only fifteen, and I remember how embarrassed I felt when men stared at me. Their eyes always seemed to follow the same path, and even though I tried to ignore it, I felt exposed and uncomfortable. My body had developed early, something my mom had warned me about. She said it had been the same for her, growing up too fast in a world that noticed too much.

At that age, I was small, barely over 115 pounds, but my body had developed in ways that drew attention I neither wanted nor understood. The older boys would flirt, tossing out comments they clearly thought were flattering. I didn’t know how to respond. I only knew that their words made me feel exposed and uneasy, especially after the rape.

My mom was strict when it came to dating. I wasn’t allowed to go out with anyone until I turned sixteen. It felt like a contradiction, because while she kept such tight control over me, she was also letting men sleep in our home, men she relied on to get by, well, she let them fuck her in plain words.
At the time, I grew to understand what she did.

Later in life, I came to understand more. I saw the choices she made not just as survival, but as a sacrifice in a life with few good options. But back then, I was just a girl trying to stay invisible. And honestly, I was relieved she kept the door shut on dating, because the world already felt too close.

I had long blond hair and my mom’s fair skin, and people often commented on how “pretty” I was. But beneath the surface, I just felt like a kid trying to navigate a world that treated me like something else entirely. I didn’t yet have the words for it, but I knew there was something wrong with being seen before I was ready to be known.

I remember how disgusted I was at first, how boy’s and men’s eyes would travel from my breasts to the area between my legs, then back to my breasts.
I was probably only fifteen when I first became aware of the way grown men looked at me, eyes drifting, pausing too long, scanning me like I was something on display. It made my skin crawl, but I didn’t know what to do with the shame. I tried to act like I didn’t notice, but inside I was shrinking.

I’d developed early, too early for my own good. My body drew attention I never asked for, and my mother, who had gone through the same thing, warned me it would happen. But warnings didn’t prepare me for how it felt. I was a child in a body the world had decided to see as something else.

Mom was strict about boys. I wasn’t allowed to date until I turned sixteen, though that didn’t stop the older ones from trying. They saw my appearance, not the awkward, unsure girl I was underneath. I’d inherited my mother’s looks, fair skin, blond hair, and a face that people called “pretty,” as if that explained anything about what I was going through.

On the outside, I looked put together. On the inside, I was growing up in a house where survival came before safety, and appearances mattered more than comfort. I learned to keep quiet, to play along, to hide what I really felt. That was how I got by.

I started retreating into a fantasy world, trying to fill the hollow, love-starved space that passed for my life at home. Home, what a joke. I didn’t have a home, not really. Just a place I slept and survived in, nothing more.

Maybe that’s why, when Paul Sorenson first came to see Mom, something in me lit up. He wasn’t like the others. While I got ready, he sat down and talked with me, not at me, not past me, but with me. He asked about school, listened like he actually cared, and treated me like I was a person worth talking to. Like I mattered.

It was such a stark contrast to the usual parade of sloppy, drunken men who barely acknowledged I existed. I floated through the house like I was weightless. Smiling. Giddy. For a brief moment, I felt seen. Noticed. Like I counted.

Someone, finally, took an interest in me. The real me.
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A couple of weeks later, Mom told me that Paul was moving in with us, and that I was to call him “Uncle Paul.”

When he arrived with his luggage, he handed me a small box, carefully wrapped in pretty paper. “Here, Sarah,” he said softly, “this is for you. It matches your beautiful blue eyes.”

I carefully unwrapped the box to find a delicate nylon blouse and a blue ribbon for my hair. I was so touched and thrilled that I threw my arms around him, almost crying as I thanked him. In that moment, it felt like someone finally saw me and cared.

Clutching my gift, I rushed to my room, determined not to let my mother’s sour mood ruin what felt like a rare, magical moment. I slipped into the blouse and tied the ribbon in my hair, then stood before the mirror, admiring my reflection. I turned this way and that, lifting my chin, throwing my shoulders back to subtly emphasize the small but promising curve of my breasts.
I practiced the look I’d seen so many times on the silver screen, the sultry half-smile, the heavy-lidded gaze of the glamorous heroines I worshipped. Movies had always been my escape hatch, my portal into a world of beauty and longing, offering dreams far beyond the reach of my everyday life.

Now, for the first time, a man had given me a gift, not out of obligation or pity, but simply because he wanted to. My thoughts soared at the idea of it. His warm eyes, the way he’d handed me the present ... it felt intimate, like a secret just between us. And though I wouldn’t admit it out loud, I was secretly thrilled at the thought of my mother being annoyed by his attention toward me.

In the days that followed, I looked for quiet ways to show Paul I cared. I polished his shoes until they gleamed, made sure he always got an extra helping of dessert, and even washed his car when no one was watching.
Small gestures, yes, but they meant everything to me. His easy grin and the way he called me “my little angel” were like golden coins dropped into the empty cup of my heart. At night, I lay awake for hours, imagining the future I hoped we might share, something tender, something thrilling, like the love stories I’d seen played out so many times on screen.

My understanding of love came entirely from those films and a handful of romantic novels, NOT from real life ... No, I believed in it all, the gentleness, the gifts, the whispered words of devotion, the happily-ever-afters. To me, that was love. And love was what I wanted. What I craved. What I was ready for, or thought I was.

But I was still so naïve. So unprepared for what came next.

It started the weekend Mom had to drive to Denver to visit her mother in the hospital. I had just turned sixteen, and I felt happy just to be with Paul. He had changed Mom so much, she never went out at night, never brought strangers into our house. No, we were a family, and I felt loved.

The trip was nearly two hundred miles each way, and I knew she’d be gone the entire weekend, leaving early Saturday morning and returning sometime Sunday evening.
I heard her drive off just after six-thirty in Paul’s car. The moment the rumble of the engine faded down the road, I slipped out of bed, threw on my robe, and padded into the kitchen.

The coffee pot was still warm, Mom had made a fresh batch before leaving, and the smell filled the room. I made toast, scrambled a couple of eggs, and poured a glass of orange juice, arranging everything carefully on a tray. I didn’t question what I was doing; it felt natural, like a little ritual of affection I’d seen in movies. Tray in hand, I walked quietly to Mom’s bedroom, balancing it on one arm as I knocked gently, then eased the door open.

Paul blinked up at me from the bed, his blond hair tousled, his face still soft with sleep. “Well, what’s this?” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You little angel, breakfast in bed? I haven’t had that in twenty years.”

He sat up against the headboard, dragging the covers up over his lap. I noticed, probably too noticeably, the bare skin of his chest and the sharp lines of muscle beneath it. I must have stared a moment too long, because he chuckled and said, “Gotta keep the covers on, Sarah. I sleep in the nude, you know.”

I hadn’t known, or maybe I just hadn’t let myself imagine it. I nodded silently and stepped forward, carefully setting the tray across his lap. He dove into the food with boyish enthusiasm, gulping the juice, tearing through the toast and eggs like he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he leaned back with a contented sigh, patted his flat stomach, and cradled the warm mug of coffee in his hands.

“That was beautiful, baby doll,” he said, looking at me with a smile that lingered just a little longer than usual. “And you are beautiful, too. Beautiful for doing it for me, and beautiful-looking, both. Whattaya think of that?”

“Oh, I was glad to do it, Uncle Paul,” I said. “You’re always so good and kind to me, I just want to do things to please you ... because I love YOU,” I added.

“And I love you, too, Sarah. Really, I do. If you were older, a grown-up woman, you’d be perfect for some man. Honest. You’re cute as hell, and know how to be nice to a guy.”

His hand reached out and took mine, and I felt him tug gently, so I edged closer to the side of the bed, and felt him pull my body around, and I just naturally sat on the bedside. His hand went up behind my head and drew my face closer and closer to his, and I shut my eyes and let it all happen. I felt as if I had had it happen often before, I’d thought and dreamed and hoped for so long.

The first kiss was a soft, tender, warm, gentle moment of happiness. After a few moments, his lips left mine, but I kept my eyes closed and just lay my head on his shoulder and sort of let my body slump against his hard chest as his arms were around me, pulling me gently up against him.

In a minute I felt his big hand cup my chin and lift my face up for another kiss, and this time I felt the lips part, and his warm wet tongue came against my lips, so I opened mine, too, and his big hot tongue crept inside my mouth, and it felt as if our two bodies and souls were melting together, and I liked it, I loved it, to be more accurate and honest.