Being a beauty pageant girl wasn’t my life-long ambition, or even my plan. That was my older sister. I was just a typical looking Filipina school girl up until I hit thirteen. The one exception to my normality was that I had big, well actually, huge tits, for a Filipina.
My breasts started growing when I was eight. By the time I was nine, I completely filled an A cup bra. I needed a B cup at age ten. I was wearing a C cup bra by the time I was eleven. When I was thirteen, I needed a DD bra to keep my unruly tits under some semblance of control.
I discovered very quickly after my tits started growing than I could get better grades just by unbuttoning a couple buttons of my school uniform blouse and showing off my boobs to some of my teachers. Almost all male teachers were susceptible, and I soon learned to spot the female teachers who wanted a look down my shirt. My mom wasn’t poor, but she was very stingy with money. I had a tendency to be chubby, so it was difficult for me, but I kept back my lunch money and went to Victoria’s Secret for sexy, sheer or lacy bras to enhance the view I gave certain teachers in order to improve my grades.
I never delivered, I just teased, but I still labeled myself a whore.
My face changed when I was thirteen, and I went from nondescript school girl to beautiful, exotic temptress, mysterious oriental, and a bunch of other descriptions that were just meaningless syllables to me.
My older sister told me that life was tough for a Filipina, and we had to grab at any chance life gave us.
She pointed out the 2015 Miss Universe winner had been just another Filipina model until she won the crown. Then she used the title to land modeling and endorsement work that ensured her financial security for the short term. The publicity introduced her to wealthy men from all over the world. She was careful and didn’t grab at the first offer, but waited until she met a man who seemed to really love her as well as want to collect her as one of his trophies. While marriage can’t guarantee lifetime financial security. It is often the best hope a pretty Filipina has. My sister told me she thought competing in, and ideally winning, pageants was my best chance of having a better life.
That’s when she started entering me in small beauty contests.
Do you think all beauty pageant girls are whores? I’ve thought about that a lot. We are showing off our bodies for the promise of money, if we win. If you think that is prostitution, then combined with giving peeks for grades, I’ve been a whore for a long, long time.
We watched a lot of pageants on video, and one of the weaknesses contestants had, especially Filipinas, was poor English skills. That was why my sister decided to hire a tutor for me.
The person she picked was a retired native English speaker. He had taught in American public schools, but he had also worked in the computer industry, so he wasn’t as stuffy as a career teacher might have been.
I liked him right away, because he understood why I needed to improve my English and what I wanted to accomplish. He set up my lessons to not only improve my spoken English pronunciation, but to improve my understanding of questions spoken in English as well as my reasoning and ability to quickly formulate an answer.
My sister noticed the improvement right away, and she increased my lessons from three, to five a week.
Spending five hours a week with another person can open a fourteen-year-old girl’s eyes to either his faults or his strengths. In my eyes, Sir Gerald had no faults.
I had been too busy for crushes, and besides, the boys at school were disgusting. They told me that my tits were the only important thing about me. They explained that serving as their cum dump was an honor and should be the limit of my aspirations.
Now, sitting in Sir Gerald’s living room, trying to be lady-like in my “interview dress,” I found myself assailed by unfamiliar feelings.
I should explain that in The Philippines, an older foreign male, especially one who is well off or has a profession, like a teacher, is often addressed as Sir and their first name. Sir Gerald was a retired American teacher, not an Englishman with a title.
To resume my story, I was getting warm, then hot, and then hot and wet, between my legs. My nipples were tingling, then throbbing, then aching and throbbing, when Sir Gerald looked at me. I found myself trying to make sure Sir Gerald was looking at me a lot. I wanted him looking at me as a woman, and not as a kid who was a student and source of income.
I stopped wearing my “interview dress,” because I felt too squirmy, and I wanted to give Sir Gerald a good long look at my panties, not just a glimpse. I especially wanted him to see the very obvious wet spot in the gusset. I was afraid I’d strip in front of him and beg him to take me on the floor. I started wearing the smallest jean shorts I could find and tight little tops that made my tits impossible to ignore. I’d been working out, and my sister had been starving me until I had the kind of figure men notice, and of course many pageant judges are men.
I still squirmed a lot during my lessons, and I spent quite a bit of time checking out the state of Sir Gerald’s package. One day I caught him looking, and he was very obviously hard, so I brazenly asked him, “Do you see anything you like?”
“Well dear, you’ve been making sure I couldn’t help but notice your two best points for quite a while now,” He said.
“But do you LIKE what you see?” I demanded.
“Is it difficult for you to compete in pageants when you are so insecure?” He asked.
“It tears me up, because I’m never sure if I win or lose because of my humongous tits. And by the way, damn you for not answering my question!” I replied.
“Wow, since you can be honest about your feelings, I guess I need to talk to you like an adult, not a school girl, with a crush.
“What do you want from me, and where do you see things between us going?” Sir Gerald asked.
“I’m fourteen. I’m a virgin. What do I know? I think I want you to notice me. I think I like you looking at my body like I’m a woman you want, and I think I want you to touch me, like I’m YOUR woman,” I said.
“There is a lot of ambivalence there dear. If we were in America, I’d be petrified to be in the same room with you, no matter how I felt. Here, I’m almost petrified, because the law means one thing if you are a Filipino, and another if you are a foreigner like me, who can be blackmailed. Don’t go telling me the age of consent is twelve, because you know that only applies to people out in the provinces or members of some indigenous people. For you and me, it is whatever age the policeman who finds out, thinks will get him the most money,” He said.
“So, I’m detecting some ambivalence on your part, Sir Gerald. To me, that means we need to get to know each other, until we are both sure our feelings are real and we both have an uncontrollable need to act on them,” I said.
“Well, I have to admit your English and reasoning skills have both improved quite a lot,” Sir Gerald said.
I didn’t throw myself at him, but over the course of another month, it became obvious we both wanted the same thing. I didn’t find out I was a fourteen-year-old slut until he took me to bed the first time. After making love all afternoon, and having so many orgasms I lost count, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted Gerald to be making love to me every minute of every day and every night.
I suppose most people will think I’m a nasty girl because I’m in love with an old foreign man, and we have sex a LOT. Well, it’s a lot according to my girlfriends. Most days it seems just perfect to me. A few days every month, it feels a couple of orgasms short of perfect. My guy would eat me or finger me to get me off more times, but I don’t feel as satisfied if we don’t end up with his big dick inside me, and with him loving me really hard and deep with his thick prick.
I guess I’m addicted to cock and I crave getting fucked by a nicely sized, HARD cock, frequently.
Gerry is very sweet to me. When he is romantic, it makes me horny. I’m sure he knows that and does it on purpose, so he can fuck me even more often; not that he needs an excuse. He has an open invitation to take me any time he wants, and I always end up begging him for more.
An example of what seems romantic to me is if I start trashing myself and talking about what a slut I am. He tells me we make love, it’s not just NSA sex. He tells me I’m a woman with strong biological needs, so it’s commendable that I limit myself to just one partner. He says calling myself a slut can be fun when we are making love, if it gets me more excited, but aside from that, the word is meaningless. He tells me I shouldn’t ever trash myself for liking sex because that’s just the way Mother Nature made my body. He says that I shouldn’t let people with small minds impose their values or religion on me.
He only says positive things about me. I’ve decided I’m past being in lust over him. I really love him, and his actions show he loves me.
He’s nearly seventy, but he is strong and healthy. He lasts a really long time when he makes love to me. He makes me cum a lot of times, every single time he loves me. They aren’t little tiny school girl orgasms either. They are great big, grown up, female orgasms that make me scream my little school girl head off. Thank goodness, his place doesn’t let the sound carry, so I don’t have to stuff a sock in my mouth, because I can’t control myself at all when he makes love to me. When he fucks me, I’m cumming, and when I’m cumming, I’m screaming.
I didn’t need birth control because he had a vasectomy when he was with his last wife in the U.S. She was some kind of idiot because she ran off with a younger man. I swear if Gerry was any younger, he’d wear out my pussy and leave me bleeding or with callouses in my cunt or something equally painful.
He did take me to the doctor to make sure I was healthy and didn’t have any third world diseases or parasites.
Even though he isn’t really rich, he is WHITE, which means he gets treated different. Most of the time it is bad, like people charging him more than what they would charge a Filipino in stores, or making nasty comments about me being the bastard daughter of his Pinay whore.
We usually pretend I’m his daughter when we are out in public, and we do a really good job of it.
He doesn’t understand the nasty words, so it doesn’t bother him, but it bothers me a lot. Still, Filipinas are taught nearly from birth, to shut up and not make a fuss, so I try to keep smiling.
But when it comes to important stuff, like getting to see a doctor or getting a doctor to listen to you, he can get stuff done in a flash, where it would take a Filipino a month, if a Pinoy could get it done at all.
Apparently he is rich enough to take me to the best private clinic in Manila.
When we were alone in the exam room, the doctor commented to me about my hymen being missing. I lied. I said I rode horses a lot, from a really young age. I said my dad liked to play cowboy, and so we started riding together every day. I said I’d read the trotting could tear a girl’s hymen. I don’t know why I lie first thing. Gerry tells me it’s common in the Philippines. I really try never to lie to him.
The doctor didn’t think he needed to tell “my dad” about the state of my maidenhead, so Gerry didn’t have to do any acting. I’m sure the doctor saw through my lie, because there are no traces of my cherry left. Gerry has completely obliterated all vestiges of that membrane from my teenage pussy with hard, deep, vigorous, and frequent penetration with his nice fat, adult cock.
My sister figured out pretty quickly that I was fucking Sir Gerald, and of course she wanted a confrontation. I explained that I loved him, that it was my idea to have sex, not his, and that he couldn’t get me pregnant. After that, she just wanted to blackmail him and extort as much money as possible. She just acted like any older Filipina female family member would, who had my best interests at heart.
She behaved herself though, and didn’t scream and cry like a character on a GMA drama. (GMA is one of the broadcast TV networks. They are known for soap opera style dramas where mama always cries like the world is coming to an end, no matter how trivial the problem.) Gerry did end up agreeing to finance a lot of my pageant expenses. My English lessons were free from then on. In exchange, I got to spend more time with Sir Gerald, including overnight, on the weekends.
I wanted to stop the pageant nonsense and concentrate on loving Gerry, but my sister insisted I keep competing because he was old and “might drop dead any minute.” If he did, she said my financial security would end. She wanted me to continue competing to increase my chances of catching a world class husband after Sir Gerald passed away.
Gerry was a good sport, and he worked with me on answering pageant questions. I got pretty good at thinking on my feet and coming up with an answer that didn’t sound like all the other dumb pageant girl answers. Mine were actually economically feasible as well as sounding not just plausible, but possible.
As part of my education, Gerry explained how the rich people all over the world had stacked the cards so 99.9% of us spent our lives working for the billionaires, and we never had a chance to get ahead. He gave me reading assignments that seemed to confirm what he’d told me. I was pretty cynical by the time I turned fifteen, but I made sure all my pageant answers were suitably hopeful. After all, who wants to give up on the dream of “World Peace?”
Gerry and I were actually in love, so we got really close. I understood him down to the depths of his soul, and I know he understood the version of myself I let him see. He cared about me. He dearly loved to fuck me, and I adored fucking him, so he wasn’t using me in any way.
When I turned sixteen, I had to move up into a higher level of pageant competition. My skill at answering the questions got me several second-place finishes.
Gerry and I agreed that my Double D tits had a lot to do with the judges’ perception of me. They assumed I was either an idiot or a slut because of my big boobs.
Unfortunately, I was too young and not medically morbid, so I couldn’t get breast reduction surgery.
It was tough for me to carry off the evening gown and swim suit parts of the competition because no matter how carefully I tried to “glide” across the floor, my hooters would jiggle obscenely, destroying any impression of elegance or class. Having big, heavy masses of flesh bouncing around my chest threw off my balance and made me look like a drunk Las Vegas stripper, trying to walk in FM shoes. (FM shoes have such high heels and are designed in a way that they seem to scream, “Throw me on my back, put my legs over your shoulders, point my high heels at the sky, and FUCK ME!”)