Chapter 4: After the Fall

If you think that it is easy going through life looking like me I have news for you. Try getting hints for your entire girlhood that you are worth nothing more than your beautiful face, and your glorious pair of tits. Then tell me what that does for your self-image?

Growing up, there was never any recognition that I was kind-hearted, or smart, or even hard working and capable. Instead people just kept staring at my chest and commenting about how “mature” and “developed” I looked.

I went all the way up to a “C” from a bra size that was so small it was more like a sippy-cup. That happened in far too brief a time during the sixth and seventh grade. My chest ached for two straight years. I was not fully grown and those things stood out on my tiny four foot eleven frame like the Grand Tetons.

They were absolutely embarrassing to a 13-year-old. And short of cutting them off, which I seriously contemplated doing, there was no way I could hide them, particularly with the styles back then. As a result, I couldn’t walk down the hallway at my junior high school without some loser trying to either grab my boobs, or my ass.

Nonetheless, during the exploration of my own developing sexuality I DID learn three critically important things.

The first was that I had something that every male in the universe wanted. Even my daddy’s ancient friends would stare longingly at my overdeveloped bust. Worse, I had achieved that kind of ego-expanding power without any actual effort on my part; just good genetics. The intrinsic message that delivered can do serious damage to your soul.

I was only a few years out of my childhood for Christ’s sake. And there is nothing worse for a girl to get an inflated sense of her own entitlement from nothing more than the size of her tits. Nevertheless, my pretty face and ripe body also quickly led me to a second much more significant discovery; which was that, boys will tell you anything you want to hear when they are trying to get in your pants.

Their lies never really worked with me. I am smart and even in my formative years I knew exactly what I had to offer. But the result was that very early on in my life I decided to never trust a single member of that treacherous sub-species called “men.”

All my accumulated knowledge eventually led to the final most damning discovery, which was that I didn’t even have to give a guy anything to get him to do that I wanted. All I had to do was put out the POSSIBILITY, and they would make Pavlov’s dogs look downright blasé.

So, I practiced my man-handling techniques throughout my teenage years. And since I could get the interest of any guy I wanted, I had a lot of opportunities to work on my game, even with the older ones.

I viewed what I was doing as a learning experience, not developing manipulative behavior. I knew that I would have to learn how to manage those simple minded creatures or surrender all of my free-will to one of them. And of course, nothing seriously sexual ever happened. I was way too full of myself to just randomly give it up to some horny male without a reason.

I finally had my techniques down to a point where I felt like I could safely take the definitive step. It was strictly my decision and nobody else’s. And it was definitely not the result of overwhelming passion. I just saw it as the right time to make the passage into adulthood.

So I lost my cherry at my senior prom, three weeks after my 18th birthday. The boy lasted all of 10 seconds. But those were heretofore the most exciting 10 seconds of my life. I leaned from that experience that I absolutely LOVED sex.

The feeling of that thing sliding up into me was so exquisite that I had to have it again as soon as possible. Needless to say, my boyfriend and I fucked the summer away. And his staying power improved along with my pleasure. By the time we went off to different colleges I could get him off twice a session, with a blowjob in between and I discovered that I was seriously multi-orgasmic.

Of course he was lying about being faithful to me. But that didn’t matter because I wasn’t planning on being faithful to him.

Growing up I had spent a lot of time in dance training. Dance was good for me. It had turned my butt into a big ball of muscle and my hips, legs and stomach were rock solid. I had finally reached my full height of five foot two inches and my chest had expanded another two cup sizes.

And I had discovered that I could get anything I wanted from any male on campus just by offering the prospect of fucking me. The feelings of power that gave a 19-year-old girl were deceptively gratifying.

A lot of my less attractive girlfriends slept with anybody. I needed the same kind of constant fucking. But because of my fear of STDs and pregnancy I was very selective. I wanted a man who would fuck me a lot and who I could trust not to give me a disease or a baby.

So, it always had to be with a single trustworthy sex partner. My looks let me prudently pick and choose who I slept with, which might indicate that I was sensible. But, most of my friends just thought I was stuck-up.

Because I looked like I did I was regularly fucking the highest profile guys on campus; in a serially monogamous fashion. We would go together for months and then one, or both of us, would get caught cheating and we’d change partners.

I was the one who was the most frequently cheated on, by-far. That was mainly because I was serious about the studying and most of my partners were in school strictly to get laid. It never mattered much to me when I moved on, because all I had to do was let the word out that I was available and I could pick through the new set of eager applicants until I found my next stud.

Nonetheless, that lengthy experience also enforced the fundamental belief that attractive men, particularly the Alpha Male types, couldn’t be trusted in a relationship. My first teaching job hammered that conviction home for me. It also marked the first time I experienced the pain of “big-league” cheating.

I met Alex my very first day at work. He was the principal and he wanted to “welcome” me to the school. I remember walking into his office feeling nervous and tentative and him rising gracefully from behind his desk to take me by the hand and escort me to a seat. His charm and wry sense of humor almost immediately put me at ease.

Alex was engaging and impressively knowledgeable. To say the least, he was handsome, well over six feet with dark good looks and a devilish smile. He was ten years older than me and he had been divorced for almost five years. I could immediately sense that he wanted more from me than my ability in the classroom.

At the end of my first school day he dropped down to my class and offered to take me out to get a bite to eat and debrief. It was all professional, principal stuff. The day had been stressful, as all first days are, and I really DID need to talk to somebody.

In fact, I have always turned to strong men when I am feeling vulnerable. Yes, it is probably a “daddy” thing. My daddy was always “there” for me no matter what.

I know what you’re thinking and I want to assure you that I’m not THAT naive. Even back then I knew that there are no other daddies in your life except the one you were born with. The rest are just predatory males. Alex conclusively proved that to me.

He was single, and uber-sure of himself. He was also in a league of his own sex-wise. The seduction started with a lot to drink that evening. It then continued up to his apartment. And it concluded with him fucking me three times that night. I had never had orgasms like I had with him. And by the time the sun came up I was ready to face the onslaught of third graders with renewed vigor.

I was so overwhelmed that I would write Mrs. Janet McIntyre on my lesson plans like a 13-year-old girl. And I ached for his touch; so much so that I decided to surprise him at his apartment one sunny Saturday morning.

Big mistake! I was breezing happily up to the door of his apartment, dressed in nothing but a trench coat and thigh high silk stockings, when I heard the sound of a woman being noisily and thoroughly fucked on the other side of it.

I thought to myself, “My God!! Am I that loud?!!” I frankly couldn’t decide whether to pound on the door until the cheating sleazeball answered it; or just slink away with my tail between my legs. Being who I am I went with what was behind door number one.

His eyes got as wide as saucers when he saw me. He had the good grace to actually turn a little red. I was already in the process of delivering the roundhouse slap that I had been saving up for him. That was all he saw before I stomped off back to my car crying like a little girl.

I sat there in the parking lot waiting for him and his floozy to come out. It took a couple of hours before they finally emerged from his place. They had a touching good-bye kiss and she drove off. He must have called me 100 times after that. I deleted all of his voicemails. He had the good sense to avoid me at school. We both liked our jobs and I couldn’t guarantee my behavior.

The following Saturday morning I had just come back after an invigorating six mile run. I heard a knock at my door and Alex was standing there. He looked pathetic, like a puppy in a rainstorm. So fool that I am I let him in.

He dangled the usual line about how it was a one-shot thing, and how he only loved ME, and how devastated he was by my leaving him, and how sorry he was that he had hurt me, and how he would spend the rest of his life making it up to me.

I am sure all the women reading this have heard the same bullshit before. Then he started to cry. I fell for it hook, line and sinker. What can I say? I was only 23 at the time.

We fucked all weekend. I have never had such an extended period of pure lovemaking. The Chinese delivery boy made daily trips to my doorstep and we never left the bed. He proposed and I accepted. I told him that I was his forever.

He was so dominant and masterful in the way he handled our life together that I was beginning to feel lost in him. But I didn’t care. He was making me feel so well-taken-care-of that I was in heaven. Then, two months later I happened to run into his fuck-buddy in a restaurant. She had never actually seen me. She had only witnessed Alex getting the slap of his life.

I couldn’t pass up the chance to learn some more about the floozy who had nearly ruined my upcoming nuptials. So I slid into the booth next to hers. She was effusively telling her friend about her lover who was, to quote her, “An orgasm machine.” My ears perked up because that was a pretty good description of Alex.

She went on-and-on about how frequently they fucked and the interesting places they did it in and how much he loved her. Then she put the final stake through my heart with, “And Alex has promised to marry me as soon as he ends his foolish engagement to that little teacher person at his school.”

To my credit, I showed no emotion as I paid my tab and left the place. I cried for two hours in my apartment. Then I dried my eyes, blew my nose, and sent the treacherous son-of-a-bitch an e-mail. It said, “Never contact me again. If you do I will make certain that you will never be able to use that pathetic little excuse for a penis, AFTER I tell the School Board what you did to me. Give my regards to your OTHER whore and tell her I enjoyed sitting next to her at the Hideout listening to her stories.”

He tried the same thing again. This time it didn’t work.

That event scarred my soul. It was humiliating to be lied to and manipulated like that. And Tom gave off the same vibe when I first met him. He was a totally confident and self-possessed alpha-male with the intelligence and wit of a major player with women.