Emily: Innocent Slut
Copyright© 2026 by Plumbr
Chapter 1
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Chris Hammer's future wife cucks him for the first time.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Humiliation Group Sex Interracial Exhibitionism First Big Breasts
Greater Manchester, ca. 2000-2001
I was your typical rebellious eighteen-year-old when it all kicked off. Just turned eighteen and convinced adults knew absolutely nothing. Mum got it. She’d been there, but Dad and I were at each other’s throats constantly. He never shut up about responsibility, the value of money, taking school seriously. Blah blah blah.
Weirdly, his nagging stuck in one area: I didn’t “go with boys.” Not that I lacked offers. I was one of the best-looking girls in school, or at least that’s what people said. Soft curves, heavy 36G breasts that made every blouse and uniform look ridiculous. Mum was always on about dressing modestly, but good luck with that when your chest arrives five seconds before the rest of you. I could’ve had anyone, including a couple of teachers who couldn’t stop staring, but I was with Chris Hammer. We’d known each other forever, our families were mates, it just felt ... safe.
Chris had tried pushing things a couple of times, but we never went past kissing and fumbling with clothes on, except one drunk hand-job at a party that neither of us could properly remember. I was dead set on staying a virgin until marriage, hopefully to him.
So yeah, eighteen, still a virgin, and clueless how much that turned certain older men on. Especially in my school uniform. I’d noticed the stares, obviously. But the last year, as my tits got properly big, the looks changed. Hungrier. Like I was something they wanted to own. It scared me. And yeah, if I’m honest, it gave me a weird little thrill too.
Life at home was boring as hell, me, my annoying little sister, Mum, and Dad in a nothing suburb. I couldn’t wait to finish exams and get the fuck out to uni.
One Saturday, I slept in till eleven, and Dad went off on one straight away. Fed up with me lazing about, not pulling my weight. Now I was eighteen, I should get a Saturday job, he said. I got properly angry, pulled some clothes on, and stormed out. Looking back, he was right. I was selfish and lazy.
Stomping down the high street, I decided to get my own back. If he wanted me working, fine, but I’d pick somewhere he’d hate. That’s when I saw the sign in the window of the grubby little kebab takeaway. It smelled of old fat and sweat. Perfect. Dad was quietly racist, never said it outright, but we all knew he couldn’t stand the Asian shops and especially that takeaway. He called it filthy, taking business from proper British chippies.
I walked in. There was a fat, sweaty Pakistani bloke in his late fifties behind the counter. The second he saw me, his eyes did that slow up-and-down thing, lingering hard on my chest like it was the only thing that mattered.
“I’m here about the job,” I blurted.
He licked his lips. “Girly want a job in Mustafa’s?” He had a thick accent, and his eyes were still glued to my tits.
I explained that I could only do evenings and weekends because of school. He didn’t ask about my experience or anything. He just kept staring. I knew exactly why he was offering it. For a second, I nearly walked out, but then I pictured Dad’s face turning white.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said.
“Start tonight. Six. Don’t be late.”
When I told Dad I’d got a job at the kebab place, his face went grey. I enjoyed every second of it.
That evening, he drove me there. As I got out, he muttered, “Take care, yeah?”
“Nothing to be careful about, Dad. See you at eleven.”
Mustafa was waiting. “Good, girly showed up.” His pudgy hand stayed on the small of my back as he showed me around. It slid lower until it brushed the top of my bum. I should’ve said something. I didn’t. He was the boss.
The night got busy. He kept squeezing past me in the narrow space, pressing right up against my arse. By closing time, a group of older Asian men came in, stared at me openly, and talked about me in Urdu. Mustafa grabbed my hips, bent me over the counter in front of them, and ground himself against me while they laughed. I felt his hard cock pressing against my legs. My face burned with shame, and my knickers were soaked.
I ran to the disgusting toilet. Hovering over the stained bowl, I blotted at the massive wet patch. I touched myself and nearly came on the spot. The humiliation had turned me on more than anything ever had.
I went home with way too much cash in an envelope and masturbated myself raw before falling asleep.
The next Thursday, I wore my old too-short school skirt and a tight white V-neck that made my massive tits impossible to ignore. Mustafa’s eyes lit up like it was the end of Ramadan.
That night, the groping got bolder. When the group came back, he bent me over the counter again. This time, his hands slid round and roughly squeezed my tits while Abdullah stood in front, stroking my cheek and calling me a dirty white slut. I denied it, but my pussy was dripping.
Later in the storeroom, Mustafa took my virginity over the potato sacks while Abdullah filmed. It hurt. The shame was crushing. But the orgasm that hit me was the strongest I’d ever felt. Later, I visited Brook Manchester for a Plan B pill and a prescription for both control pills.
Within weeks, Abdullah and several more regulars were joining in.
One night, they bent me over the counter right in front of the half-drawn blinds. I came so hard I cried, tears of shame and pleasure mixing while anyone walking past could’ve seen. After that single intense night, while I was still bent over, breathing hard with cum running down my thighs, Mustafa took a permanent marker and wrote on my lower back:
Pussy: |||| |||| || Mouth: |||
I didn’t see it until the next morning in the shower. The black numbers stood out against my wet skin while the radio downstairs talked about Pakistan’s latest IMF mess and the collapsing rupee. My stomach dropped.