Chapter 1

My name is Betty C. and this is my story. It is fairly accurate in a general sense, except I must call it fiction, because I have embellished it a bit to make me feel better about my terrible decisions about almost everything related to sex and the business of spreading my knees for reasons of lust rather than love.

I was one of that early nineties generation progressives that had the ability to look like I was still in my early teens long after I had safely passed nineteen, because of the odd habit of walking everywhere I went. I never used an elevator or an escalator in any store or building and did little sprints on the spur of the moment like some demented person under the influence of some weird drug. It was a bit strange to be a mid-twenties female and look and act like an underage teenager with mush for brains. In retrospect, I suspect it was more a reflection of my personal attitude about hating the entire concept of maturity rather than some fad I adopted on some foolish whim that was here today and gone tomorrow. I expect it was my obsession with running that made me that way and it continues even now, almost a decade later.

My father had committed suicide in his early fifties, when I was only a year out of Wellesley College, and that terrible act followed his long flirtation with a destructive drinking habit. His romance with booze had exploded like a fragmentation grenade after my mother passed away from stage four cancer at a time when her Diva career was blooming like a beautiful rose budding in the garden. Please don’t lecture me about my silly attempts to bring him out of his depression with gifts of secret pussy in the middle of the night pretending to be his lost love with open arms. Of course, he pounded me like a madman in his drunken stupor, but I kept up the pretense of being my mother and took his frenzied passion with stoic silence. I even accepted the depraved perversions he preferred and in which I had absolutely no experience in performing despite my insinuations to friends and relatives that I was a person of hidden sexual skills. I had started lying about such matters shortly after my eighteen birthday party because I hated the assumption that I was a virgin just like my twenty year old older sister Angela with her nose in the air distain for anything male. My attraction to cock was ingrained in my persona like my love of running at the slightest excuse.

In a way, I felt we were fortunate mother had been diagnosed late in the game and her remaining time on Earth was short and lacking long-term drama with traumatic consequences.

My mother had told me quite calmly at a lunch in the College cafeteria about her illness and instructed me to try and ease father’s pain with tears in her beautiful eyes. Strangely, I later interpreted that plea with giving my dear Daddy nocturnal gateways to my pussy and other anal and oral pleasures that he seemed to relish like a man being thrown a life-line in the middle of a raging storm at sea.

My father, an ex-military man with a lifetime of death and destruction in his past didn’t shed a single tear and made no comment at the funeral or the wake that revealed his hidden depth of despair. That was typical of the man I called “Father” because he seldom made an issue of any domestic crisis no matter how complicated. I decided shortly after father’s funeral that I would take a year off traveling in Europe to regain my equilibrium at losing both parents in such a short period of time.

In college, I had been on the cross-country track team and came close to qualifying for the Olympic trials the following summer. I used the hard exercise on the track team as a way to stay out of trouble with boys because it usually left me so exhausted that I had no energy to flirt or actually fall into a physical relationship with one of the boys in the area surrounding the college grounds. I had established a friendship with a boy that worked at the coffee shop downtown that worked as a barista with a knack for concocting tasty drinks. I had allowed him to explore most of my external geography without him pressing for more intimate pleasures. I ultimately decided that he was one of those men-boys that hadn’t really made up their minds which gender was their object of devotion. It didn’t bother me at all because I benefited by not feeling any pressure to come up with the between-the-legs goods like the typical non-virgins around me. My virginity was more of a burden than a valued asset and I decided to give it to young Robbie to help him decide his direction in life after dipping his wick in a real live cunt.

I accomplished my little plot the weekend before my usually uncommunicative mother informed me of her short time left in this life. I decided not to burden her with my unwelcome news just as she was getting ready to check-out permanently from her parenting responsibilities.

My experiment with Robbie was finalized in the back of his delivery truck and I used my backpack with the schoolbooks under my rump to push my nicely curved hips up high for him to open me up with his immature but inquisitive tool. I had anticipated it completely from the beginning to the end and was not in the least bit disappointed, but I could tell straight off that he was not truly as comfortable as me. In fact, he seemed a bit pensive afterward like he had done something he now regretted like a little boy stealing a cookie from the jar. His cock was sated with my juices all over it but he knew deep inside it was really not what he wanted out of life.

That was all I needed to confirm my suspicion that he was headed in the direction of a male only future that would exclude women as competitors for masculine attentions.

From my biased point of view, it was definitely a successful experiment because I was rid of the virgin label and I knew Robbie would not be broadcasting his inferior bedding skills because he was heading down a different path entirely.

He would not be pestering me for follow-up sessions and that was a big relief because I was only interested in a one-off and was ready to move on to greener pastures with men that knew what they wanted.

Then, my mother interrupted my devious plans with her news and shortly after my father added to my grief with his unfortunate demise.

Now that I was finally graduated and free from all responsibilities, I decided a full year of travel in Europe was my first priority to give me the polish I needed to meet all contingencies without lacking confidence in my feminine abilities.

The airline was not in the least bit pleased that I only wanted to book a one-way seat and insisted on paying in cash because my father told me in confidence at some undetermined point that it was the only way to travel when one is uncertain about the future.

Of course, I had an innocent look about me and there were no blemishes on my personal record to restrain me from travel to any country in the European Union. The embarrassment of constantly being carded for minimum age requirements was a pain in the ass but it reminded me that I must be repeatedly viewed as “jail bait” by the average pussy-hunting male ogling ripe female bums wherever they walked or ran.

The fare to London was ridiculously cheap at that time of year and I was quick to take advantage of the cut-rate by riding coach. I only had my fully stuffed backpack and a zipper bag around my hour-glass waist that carried a lot of small items I needed on a daily basis.

Everything else I regretfully put into a temperature-controlled storage facility a short distance from the rented townhouse that was in now in my name and fully paid for with no mortgage. After the taxes and insurance, I had a healthy income from the rental to be sent each month to the American Express office in my current country of travel as per my detailed instructions. That way, I was able to keep my principal trust fund untouched and actually increasing due to wise investments by my departed father. My account at the American Express was protected by a series of code words that changed according to a time-related system devised by my secretive parent.

Before I departed on my long anticipated flight to London, I went to a local bar in our neighborhood and pretended to be drunk enough to let a nice-looking Irish boy take me up to his apartment in the basement of his parent’s home for a night-cap promised to be the best I ever had.

Just as I expected, the boy was quick to get me in the horizontal position on the white leather sofa and he used a rough-rider rubber that he opened and put on with a flair that made me smile in panting anticipation.

This boy called Patrick was quite a bit different from Robbie with his gentlemanly ways and his constant checking to make certain I was fully onboard with every move he made in removing my virginity.

Patrick actually spanked my backside hard right after he got my panties down to my ankles and he inserted two work-hardened fingers right up my astonished rear door like it was my birthday and I needed to be given a rude awakening with his hardness from behind. It was all new to me and I was glad I decided to expand my knowledge of carnal action before I embarked on my truly maiden voyage.

My daddy and Robbie had both been circumspectly respectful each time they came knocking on my front or back doors of carnal pleasure and such treatment was totally beyond my ken in terms of physical contact.

The stressful stretching I received from Patrick back there where I knew it was a filthy sin was a shock to my system but after a few moments, I relaxed and discovered it was so hot and dirty that I reveled in the sheer nastiness of it and let him have his way in that manner just slapping and tickling me in a way that led to my disgraceful spraying of female juices all over that basement carpet. He taught me about taking it rough and some other new tricks that I never suspected men and women indulged in when they were behind a locked door with lots of privacy.

I gave Patrick my cell phone number and told him,

“Just text and I will call back when I have a chance but don’t be angry if it takes some time because I will be traveling and sometimes the reception is not all that good.”

He was nice enough to send me a long letter shortly after describing his home near Belfast in Northern Ireland and told me in the letter that he would be in Ireland during the month of March for a wedding of his younger sister. He invited me as his date for the wedding providing I could spare time from my travels on the Continent.

His words did a lot to raise my spirits and I knew down deep that doing normal things like going to a wedding would bring me back to a level keel for the long game of life and lust and love. I sent Patrick a letter promising to be there in Ireland during that entire month and hoped he would find time to act as a tour guide.

In the back of my mind, I knew the young Irish boy wanted to use my nubile body for his carnal purposes and we put up a front of stable relationships in America for his family’s consumption to explain my presence at a family affair.