The Trouble with being a Queen,
Is that everything one does will be seen:

Once Upon a Time 

I dreamed that I was not alone. I dreamed that I was held close by another person who didn't want me for my body, didn't want anything from me, just wanted to hold me close and was able to love me for myself, without any demand that I love them back, without any need for whatever it was that I possessed, and without any judgement of me. This person didn't bother about my name or where I came from, didn't regard me as an object, and didn't blame me for anything that I had done, or demean because of anything that others had done to me. It was so new a feeling, to be held without having to give, to be simple accepted as myself, without my asking, to be comforted without any pressure, any requirement at all. It was an unconditional love, of a kind that I had never experienced before, so strong and so selfless, so complete and so enduring, that I opened my heart to this person and took them into me. No words were ever exchanged, no names, no pack drill. I was given no orders, no instructions, no direction. Just an all-pervading love that suffused my whole being and invigorated me. I felt as if I had been re-born.

I did not consider this dream to be a religious experience; my parents, although they both came from families with long histories of Christian belief and tradition, had never opened any doors for me. Children of the 60s they had eschewed conventional religious life and had searched for Truth and Enlightenment in the East. they had immersed themselves in Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism. For my 10th birthday I was given two books: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and The Sound of One Hand Clapping. What a 10-year-old was supposed to make of them was never made clear to me, and I can honestly say I made it to about page 10 in each of them. Nothing remains except my love for riding on a motorbike, with the wind whipping my hair out – no crash helmet for most of my life – and seeing the road unwind like a reel of cine-film rolling around and often over hills, sometimes straight as a ruler, then whipping and twisting so that your bearings fall away and the only thing certain is the seat of the bike and the driver whose body you are clamped to. And for my 11th birthday, the last that I spent partly at home, before I was plunged straight into Dante's Inferno and from which I would not emerge for more than 4 years, I was given some artefacts from the Ba'hai Faith which I left behind together with my grandmother's locket which I had kept safe in my bedroom since I was 5 and had been a personal gift from the old lady whose stories about the seedier side of Edinburgh I had consumed voraciously for much of my early childhood. The fact is, I had been closer to my Grannie Dumbiedykes than I ever felt to my parents.

And Stacey was still a thorn in my flesh, the cuckoo who had been planted in my nest to displace me as my mother's only child and it would be at least 10 years and probably closer to 15 before any true acceptance would replace the bitter bile of sibling rivalry – ha! sibling hate, more like.

I don't claim some kind of revelation, anything like Saul the Tax Collector had which turned him into Saint Paul, Collector of Souls! I wasn't on the road to Damascus – I was in a damp and mildewed flat in Maryhill, not particularly clean and tidy (that's both me and the flat) and reeking of sex, having been the central recipient in a Bukkake Party given by a delighted father as reward for his son passing his Finals and now entitled to be called Doctor. And fifteen guys had stood around me, jerking off and squirting their spunk all over me – especially my face and hair; and this was after and before

various permutations had shagged me, two or three at a time. By the time I got back to the little flat I shared with three other girls, I was so drained and bruised that I just crawled into my damp bed and fell headlong into a black hole: actually it felt exactly like something out of an old film noir in which a silhouette of the heroine is shown spiralling into a well, I'm pretty certain I was still 12 at the time, not even officially a Teenager; just a cash cow for my owner who ran this little string of cheap whores cheaply enough to make a good living out of us – and he probably had more identical flats with more identical child brides for hire, by the hour or by special arrangement.

So it was more like the sleep of the dead until the dream started, until I felt myself wrapped in a protective blanket of love – not sex, LOVE! And I surrendered myself to it, willingly, hopefully, totally, although I had no idea what it was. It seemed to surround and fill me, at one and the same time all-knowing and not-caring: not caring who I was and what I did and what was done to me; this was the first time in my life – well from the time I became aware of the world around me – that I had been held and sheltered and enfolded so completely. And for the first time in a long while, I felt turly safe and protected. I didn't know if I was awake or dreaming, alive or dead, and I honestly didn't care. The only thing I wanted was never to have to wake up and open my eyes and find myself in that damp bed in that damp and stinking hole of a flat and once again the property of my owner, the man who had bought me like a bag of groceries – and probably for not much more than that – and who milked my body for every penny it could earn. We never got to keep any of the money, we got fed minimum wage but not in cash, just basic food and drink and enough drugs to keep us able to work the streets and the parties and the specials; Cindy, Candy, Cody and Cassie – the names the man had given us and we answered to, having all but forgotten our true names, because what did they count for? I'll tell you what: Nothing! I was Cindy – probably the umpteenth Cindy in his string, for all I knew there were likely Cindys, Candys, Codys and Cassies in every flat the man owned. They could have been numbers tattooed on our wrists for all the difference it would have made. We did what we were told, with whoever we were told to do it for; we asked no questions – of the man. of the punters or of each other. You quickly learn that it's too dangerous to ask questions. You just open your eyes in the morning, or the afternoon, or whenever you need more dope, and carry on as before. Days, weeks, months – who's counting? It wouldn't have made any difference. There were no set working hours, we worked when and where we were told. No days off, we worked every day and night. And the only thing we had to look forward to was enough dope to get us to sleep and enough dope to keep us awake and earning.

I couldn't tell you how many men had me – I didn't care. I was nothing to them and nothing to myself. All I wanted was to close my eyes and never open them again. Actually that's not true. All I really wanted was enough dope to deaden my senses and keep me that way, so I wouldn't feel the men on top of me and inside me. They treated me like a doll, well I wished I was a doll and they could do whatever they wanted without me knowing or caring or feeling them. Because I knew, sure as Hell, that I didn't have the courage to take that step and kill myself. And yet, and yet.

As I felt my entire being wrapped in that soft and supportive embrace, I wondered if this was what it would feel like to be dead. I had never listened to my parents when they spoke about their religious searchings, so I didn't know what they knew about After Death, or probably After Life! I just thought of it as a big nothing. Total shut-down. Like when you switch all the lights off and are left in absolute darkness. But their was something different now, filling my head with light. Not blinding, dazzling light, like when the man shines his torch in your eyes and tells you to shift your arse, he's got paying customers waiting. Not that kind of light that makes your brain ache so much you want to scream – and sometimes do, which just gets a slap on the head or a kick on your legs, and more orders, get up, get dressed, get fucked and earn him his money.

No, this was a warm light, more yellow than anything, and the softness of the light and the softness of whatever it was that surrounded me, made me feel happier than I ever remembered. I never heard any words, but I felt thoughts inside my head – as if someone was communicating with me without speaking, or maybe it was all my imagination, but at times it felt like a conversation, between something in me and something outside. And yet none of it was in words that I could make out. I'm not very metaphysical, much more existential, but it reminded me of the way a mother instinctively knows what her baby needs – now, how the fuck would I, at still only twelve, know about what being a mother entails? Yet it was like being cradled by a mother – not my real mother, that's for sure – but a mother with an intense closeness to and knowledge of her baby; and I was that baby, or more to the point, that baby was inside me, I can't explain it any clearer. My body was inhabited by this mother's baby. It filled my mind, felt my pain, I suppose I'm talking about my Soul or Spirit or whatever consciousness is. I don't think I'd ever thought about it before, about having a Soul that was more real than my body. But it melted away all my fears and pains, and I surrendered myself to it – without really understanding what it was – surrendered completely and absolutely. But I had no idea what to do about it!

The trouble with being a Queen,
is that everything One does will be seen: 
Whether it's selling One's quota of 500 bunches of flowers a day in order to cover the wage bill for the Buck House Gardeners;
Or being obliged to wear a Lamp Shade on One's head to match the latest coat that has been foisted on one by a Committee;

Demonstrating to the Public Gaze that even One's nice but dim son and heir has the peculiar fetish of sniffing the slightly smelly socks One has worn all of the previous day;
Working as Bingo Caller at the Buck House Aged Gentleperson's Club on alternate Friday Afternoons;
Being reduced to leaning on a wall for support while waiting outside Waitrose for the bus back home after putting One's Lottery on - and devoutly praying that the 'Care in the Community' pair behind One aren't waiting for the same bus!
Having to depend on One's occasionally nice but increasingly dim Consort to spot the best escape route from the determined Chuggers who make trips to Waitrose  extremely hazardous;
Wondering which cretin in One's staff was responsible for sitting One beside this Wily Oriental Gentleman for the Buck House Aged Gentleperson's Club outing to A Night At The Opera;

Resenting that One can't even go Dogging in Hyde Park any more without the Papparazzi getting wind of it;

And embarrassed that One's nice but dim son and heir can't resist telling everyone on the Tube about his "Four Times a Night!" sexploits with his bint, the appropriately named Camzilla! 

The trouble with being a Queen,
is that everything One does will be seen: 
whether it's helping a poor unfortunate fallen woman to her feet,
Doing the Hokey Cokey when One's Consort has lead in his boots,
Realizing that One's Consort's warm welcoming handshake has entirely missed the Ali bin Bali Hai Bhin Bhag of Baghdad's mitt and wrapped itself around the Bhin Bhag's #15 Bhint's hand a tad too warmly,
Noticing that the hem One took up last night for One's granddaughter-in-law is coming apart faster than she can walk in those shoes,
Trusting that One will be on One's flight home before they notice that One has managed to leave the silly pointy that they gave One on the mantlepiece,
Popping along to Waitrose to put One's Lottery on and buy a couple of Scratchcards and being harrassed by poor homeless beggars let down by Care in the Community,

When One's nice but dim granddaughter-in-law can't encounter a Chugger in a pair of curtains without asking if she was a Munchkin in The Wizard of Oz,
Or the Lady Mayor of Solihull without asking if she was R2D2 in Star Wars,

What's Love Got To Do With It?

What's fair got to do with it? Right there and then all I knew was that life really sucks, and if your a thirteen-year-old girl, they even make you suck it yourself. That's another thing I want to complain about: Men want to fuck your See You Next Tuesday, and while that was never any fun for me, I don't suppose that's a valid objection, don't imagine anyone would stop if I said I didn't like it, cos they just say it's normal for grown men to fuck kids, and anyway, all girls are asking for it, begging for it, just putting up fake objections, cos they want to be forced, like it rough, cos they all love that!

Which is, of course, CRAP!

And then they want to fuck up your bum. And nobody could tell you that was normal. And if you let on you didn't like it, that it hurt, they really did get rough. They'd slap you about a bit, twist your arms, maybe give you a shiner. And they'd still do it up your bum. Complaining, or struggling would never stop them, cos they were always bigger than you, heavier and rougher than you. So she learned not to complain, not to object, not to give them an excuse to rough her up, that it was always quicker and safer to let them do what they wanted.

And then, always then, they wanted you to suck them off. Seemed to think it was the best thing on earth to fuck your mouth, your throat, your face. To taste them, and you. And it was soon obvious to her that they never washed their cock and balls before fucking you. That there wasn't anything remotely romantic or loving about what they did, that none of it was for your pleasure, only theirs – oh some of them talked a bit of the talk, and if you feigned an orgasm, and managed to feign another one, and even a third, if they fucked you in all three places, and acted as if it was the sweetest pleasure for you to have their dirty, smell cocks ramming you and then getting their scummy cum squirted inside you, they'd sometimes give you a tip, but mostly not, but at least you might get away with just a rotten taste in your mouth, pain down below, and some bruises on your wrists and maybe just a few on your face, it was another job over and on to the next.

She wasn't out on the streets now, ever. She accommodated Titch's yuppie and luvvie friends at House Parties and the rest of the time she went on what he called 'dates' with guys who got their rocks off on the idea of fucking a kid. She told them she was eleven or twelve, whichever she and Titch thought she could get away with, A couple of them said they wished they'd known her a couple of years ago, which didn't put them off putting it up her now, and she wondered if she could become an actress, after all she was getting good at playing a part in these 1:1 dates. But she never tried to play it too convincingly – Titch let her know that he was keeping her and didn't want any of his punters getting

the idea of keeping her for themselves. And there were certainly two, a pair of movie actors, she'd seen them playing gangsters in some DVDs that Titch had, who always took her for a double date – not two couples, just one girl between two Men – and she knew that if she hinted, they'd buy her like a shot, but she also knew she was worth more to Titch being rented out and that a buy-out would never compensate him for what she could bring in night after night after night after night. For she was out seven nights a week, and sometimes two or even three dates in a night, and in the summer there were afternoon dates as well – never in the morning, these punters never seemed to rise until mid-day. And that was her life. And she felt old and worn and shrivelled, but every day she put on her slap and pinched her cheeks to bring some colour and freshness to them and put on the school uniform and her

condoms in a bag – though most of the punters wanted her bareback and were more than happy to pay the extra for what a lot of women would deny them – and went out to get fucked. And she hated every minute of it and had even begun to wonder what would be the least horrible way to end her life.

And I've just realised that halfway through that, I stopped giving a first person narrative, and slipped into third person, as if I wasn't wanting it to be about me any more, but about someone else, some other poor girl who was being abused and raped. That's called distancing and people do it when they are under so much pain ans grief and sadness that they can't hold it close to them any more. And that was what I was doing, telling some-one else's story and not admitting that it was my own. And that shows how bad it had got – at thirteen, I was imagining all they ways I could think of to kill myself!

 

Belonging

I don't know what deal Titch struck with Des, who was one of the guys at the party, but the upshot was that Des bought me off him, and surprise, surprise, it wasn't to work the streets any more. I'm not saying that he was in love with me, he never said that either, but he wanted me to be his – well, his and his chums. I suppose in a kind of a way it was like a Weegie version of the Edinbuggers Ring that I had belonged to – OMG that was like years ago, although it can't have been even a year because I was still 13, even though Titch often told me to say I was 12 or if the punter was shortsighted, 11. But I don't think Des was too specific in his requirements, just that I was young and white. Cos that was what he liked. Young and white. But he did call me Teri, and said I was to call him Daddy, cos he was my Sugar Daddy and if I was sweet to him and his chums, I'd have an easy life.

But not a quiet one. Des was one of those guys who could keep his pole up for hours and only cum when he wanted to, and then it was a pint-full pumping away inside me. But, I'll say this, he never slapped me or hit me or anything like that. He did sometimes tie or strap me up, especially if he was having a particular friend or group of friends over, cos some of them have to see a girl whose not only submissive, but is restrained, completely helpless and at their disposal. I can't say I really se the point of it myself, but certainly I know there are lots of guys who like that.

Now Des was a hairdresser, which was kinda funny in a way. He was quite big and black and strongly built, and I can assure you he was 100% straight, not even remotely bi-sexual, but on a few occasions he took me with him when he was working on a TV show or movie, and he put on this absolutely ace camp persona – he should have been an actor, because I swear anyone who didn't know he'd been fucking me all night before, would have sworn he was gay. Maybe it's what's expected of people in jobs like his, in TV or Movies, they are expected to be gay so act it, if they aren't already.

Anyway, Des had this idea. Which I've heard more about since, that white girls and women have a duty to please black men, because of the slavery stuff. Which in a way I can understand, cos their ancestors were really badly treated and white men used black women as prostitutes or concubines,

But on the other hand, that was nothing to do with me! And they do say that two wrongs don't make a right. But either way, I belonged to Des now, and I suppose that meant I was his slave, and he and his friends used me, It wasn't dangerous and scary like being out on the streets, I wasn't freezing my arse off trying to pick-up some drunk punter who might give me a social disease, but I was still being used. I didn't have any rights, or freedom, and I certainly couldn't say “no!” All in all, my childhood was really down the toilet and not one of the guys who'd used me gave a toss about Me! They just wanted my body, or to be specific, my See You Next Tuesday and my Bum! Oh, and my Gub!

But at least I got regular meals and his flat was nicely decorated and there was this huge free-standing bath-tub and I could have lots of real soapy soaks. And when he was out I could sleep or watch TV or videos or read any of his books, so in a way I was able to educate myself, although if you've been fucked non-stop for four or five hours, you're head's mince and you just want to sleep. So I can't say I honestly did a lot of self-improvement.

The truth is for all the time since I'd left home, what I mostly did was get fucked. Day in, day out, by lots of men. Old, Young, Black, White, Brown, Yellow, Scots, English, Pakistani, African, American service-men on a pub crawl, Football fans out for a shag, Stag parties with the Groom putting it up a wee lassie the night before he gets wed, I'd been someone's birthday present from his pals, someone's retirement present from his colleagues, even someone's productivity bonus after a good quarter's sales figures. I'd had all sorts, and sizes and shapes of cocks inside me, been filled with cum, showered with cum, pissed on by a group of Bankers all high on coke! And I accepted whatever happened to me. Even the dogs. And in a way I felt closer to the dogs than to the Men, cos they were just being used to entertain the men exactly the same as me. That was all I was. A bitch.

 

I sometimes wonder why so many men want very young girls – or boys. They call it Paedophilia, which literally means child-love. Which sounds fine and good. But they don't love children the way mothers and fathers are supposed to, caring for them and nurturing them, teaching them about the world and how to grow and develop their skills and abilities and be happy and part of the society they live in. These particular men, or at least a lot of them, or of the ones I was abused by, don't do any of that. What they really are, are Child Users, they maybe aren't able to relate to adult women, or they can pretend to, while also having a part of their life where they do things to kids. A bit like the men who used to get married although they were actually gay, but they managed to hide it away, to act like loving husbands, maybe even fathers, while their real preference was for other men, and sometimes that stayed hidden all their lives, and sometimes it came out. No pun intended.

And I think the men who like women, or at least girls who have been through puberty, to be smooth and shaved, really want them to look pre-pubescent.

I saw the movie about Effie Gray and John Ruskin and then read a bit about them. He had never seen

a woman's private parts before his wedding night, and at that time, in 19^th century England, art – paintings, sculptures – didn't show pubic hair, so he never knew of such a thing. Or so it seems. Maybe no-one showed him any pornographic photographs. But anyway, he was so horrified by what he saw that he was unable to consummate the marriage. And she later married Millais, who was fine about hairy pubes and they had lots of kids. But Ruskin later formed an interest in a young girl called Rose La Touche, although I don't think anything happened between them. I suppose lots of people’s lives have been blighted because of some kind of hang-up or lack of knowledge or understanding.

Fuck me, I amn't a psychologist or anything like that and sometimes my fingers just run away with me and I type lots more than I ever meant to!

Troo Fizz: I quite liked being with Des, he was nicer to me than my previous owner, but I spose I kept hoping that I might meet someone who loved me. Des didn't. I think he liked me but I know he didn't love me. He enjoyed fucking me and so did his friends, but none of them loved me. And that was what I wanted, to be with someone who actually loved me for myself, not just my body or what they could use it for. But how? At 13 I wasn't an adult, was I? And no-one seemed to be prepared to let me be a child. If Des found another kid he fancied more than me, what would he do? Just dump me? Or sell me back to Titch? Or someone else? It just wasn't right and it wasn't fair!

 

Dogging with The Boys - a Party Animal

I don't think I believed him. I know I didn't. I got this idea of a kind of half-puppy-baby and him not giving me an abortion, or of trying to and something going wrong and being taken to A&E and the doctors finding this thing inside me and I was really scared and evry time he fucked me, or anyone fucked me, I kept crying and hoping I could die!

But then, when nothing seemed to happen and I had a period I hoped that it was okay, and I wasn't pregnant. And then he sold me and I moved to Glasgow, which, for me, was like another country. My new owner, Titch, wasn't anything like his name. He was big and fat and black. I had been with black

guys before and they didn't treat me any different from white men or asian men cos when it comes to men and girls, they are all the same. Titch kept me and three other girls in a flat in Drumchapel, which is on the North-West of the city, and he had a patch near Byers Road where we worked. There were some trendy pubs and clubs there and that was where we picked up punters. He had a van too and we could take them there, or there were plenty of alleys which we also used for quickies. And a lot of customers for quickies.

I think this was when Yuppies were all the rage and the streets were full of sharp suits and coke. Of course Titch kept us supplied with coke and ity deadened our senses. I can't imagine what we talked about, it must have been a load of shite, but we seemed to think everything was fun and funny and the punters seemed to like us being wired and rapping with them. Life was a Big Fat Joke and we were the Punchline for the guys we picked up. Of course I don't remember much but from what I;ve heard and read since, everyone was hyped and these guys who were making big money liked to splash it around, drink, drugs, dogs. We were the dogs. That was what they called us and they usually wanted to fuck doggy-style. They didn't want to risk any lipstick on their collars so they just bent us over and shagged us. And they didn't seem to care where they shagged us - See You Next Tuesday or Bum. It was all the same to them. It was all the same to us. Oh and bareback was twenty extra and they still didn't care. I don't think I ever had a punter who wanted to use a condom, and they were happy to pay the extra. One, I do remember this, said: “my girl at the office always insists on a rubber, says she doesn't want me giving her the Clap, so it's only the wife and working girls that let me do it right,” and I thought, what a bastard, but of course I didn't say anything.

Oh and a lot wanted blow-jobs. It seemed that most of their wives didn't do that, or let them fuck doggy, so it was only with us that that they could do what they wanted. Someone said that we provided a Social Service, so for years afterwards I told people that I was a Social Worker, which is usually a good thing, except if there's a big case about abuse or murder where the Social Workers have fucked up and then I didn't say that, I said I'd been an actress, in Pantomime, which was kinda true, because I imagined that I was princess Charming and I was trying to find the perfect fitting cock!

But there was nothing funny about our lives, it was just one constant drudge, only bearable because of the Coke that Titch gave us. I always thought that he was really a Dealer and we were some kind of cover. He probably had boys going around the pubs and clubs pushing baggies while we were picking up punters, who knows, maybe even some of his boys fucked us as well.

It was like being on a treadmill or one of those running machines in a Gym: you can't stop, and the faster you run the more you stay in the same place. That was what the Red Queen in Alice Through the Looking Glass said and it was how my Fourteenth Birthday came and went and I never even knew. I felt I'd been doing this for ever – every day was the same, we worked seven days (or nights) a week; no day off, no holiday, no rest, nothing. Work, eat sleep, snort some coke and do it all again. And the punters all merged into one.

So I forgot about the dog-baby. Until the night this guy had a word with Titch and Titch sent me off with the bloke to spend the night. He was a pal of Titch. And he had some friends. And another dog. And I was fucked every-which-way by seven guys and the dog. Do all men like to watch a girl being fucked by a dog? I suppose in the country it's pigs or sheep or something – after all don't they say that all country boys get their first sexual experience with a sheep? Yes they do! And I believe it's true – and maybe that's why guys like fucking doggy-style, it brings back those happy memories of their Little Lamb or Fido or Rover when their parents were out at the pub. I don't have a high opinion of men.

Anyway, this Party where I was the Centre of Attention was in a big house in the West End, just across the road from where we worked – Clarence Drive it was, near the BBC and that was how I realised that he looked familiar: he was the star of a comedy show, though I'm not sure how I knew that because we never got much chance to watch TV. And then I realized that BBC was also an abbreciation for Big Black Cock. Now, Titch was reasonable endowed, but there were a couple of much bigger cocks here. I had never been especially attracted to big cocks – for one thing: they could be quite a mothful, and for another: they could hurt. To be honest, I was already so experienced that I had long since realised that I didn't like them at all. Of course, I had to pretend – which made my later claims to being an actress quite fair. Men expect a girl to be overjoyed, so overjoyed I always pretended to be – regardless of the size, shape, colour, hardness or softness – but the thing that really did please me was when they came quickly.

For a lot of men, if you play your hand well, they can cum even before entering, between your legs or bum cheeks, or into your mouth, before you have to take the cock in. And then, their erection usually wilts quickly too. Sometimes, I could almost believe that there is a God in Heaven, or a Guardian Angel looking over my shoulder – though what she might think of me, I wouldn't like to know. Anyway, this party was better, for me, than that last one. The men all called me by name, and that is unusual. Christ, it's amost unheard of! Even Titch didn't call me Teri – just “you, babe, bitch, sweetie, cunt, cumslut, whore, fucktoy,” or whatever similar endearments came to him. I think the 'fucktoy' was the most truthful, because that was what me and the rest of the girls were to him, to the punters, to the guys he sometimes loaned us to. We weren't people, just toys to be used and passed on – or sometimes pissed on too!

But these guys, for some reason. Were different. I don't mean they were kind and gentle and lovuing, or any of that stupid nonsense. I mean, no-one loves a fucktoy any more than a sex-doll, but they didn't try to hurt me, or demean me, or make me invisible. Oh, they used me, oh, yes, they used me, but they did it with a kind of consideration – I don't know if I'm explaining it properly; I don't mean they were gentle or bothered about what I might want. That would be taking it too far. I was there for their pleasure, but it was like as if I was the entertainment but like a DJ, so they would say what they wanted and I would do it. You don't just let the DJ play his own favourites: you tell him the sort of stuff you like and while that's playing, you also ask for specific favourites of your own. And that was how they treated me. I wasn't expected to say “no!” And when I was asked, it wasn't really a question, more a statement of what I would do or they would do to me.

So while it wasn't as bad as that other party, it was much better than it could have been. I can't go so far as to say I actually enjoyed it – I never enjoyed sex with men, it was just something they did to me, but at least this wasn't as bad as it could have been. I've had BAD and I've had WORSE THAN BAD! So I know what I'm talking about. This one was survivable.

And then they brought in the Dog! I think this was meant to be the climax of the party. I realized it wasn't something that they'd done before, because they were trying to work out how to set it up. The TV star wanted to film it, and he had a camera – it was the biggest camera I'd ever seen, so it must have come from the studio or a movie set or something, and he was trtying to work out where to place the action while I felt the others just wanted to see the dog fuck me, but he was the Host and the Star and they all deferred to him, in everything, including who could fuck me and when; so he obviously wanted to film a good show, but he wasn't sure if the dog would perform exactly as he wanted.

It was actually a friendly and affectionate dog. They told me to suck it's tongue, which I did, and to kneel down so it could mount me from behind, which it did. I didn't know if was used to fucking girls, or just desperate, but it managed to get right up my See You Next Tuesday and give me a good hard fuck, which pleased the men no end, and particularly the host, who was also the dog's owner. He said to me: “Dixon likes you, Teri, that's the best I've filmed and you were good too, you got your rhythm right so he was able to go deeper into you. Then he got me to suck Dixon off, which wasn't too bad, really, though his cock did taste a bit like pee.

 

The Centre of Attention

That was one of the worst nights of my life! My owner loaned me out to a friend of his for a party he was giving for a couple of his buddies who wanted a young girl – and I was she! So far, so normal. I was used to being fucked by strangers who didn't care much about me so long as they got to stick their cocks inside me and get a good cummuppance. But these guys had a dog and their idea of a fun night was not just to fuck me themselves, but also watch their dog fuck me. Okay, it wasn't particularly me that they wanted their dog to fuck, it was anyone, anyone young and at their mercy. Which that night was me!

Of course they went first, and I think that was so the dog would get the scent of me. They were both a lot older than me – which wasn't difficult as I was still only 13 and they must have been in their forties, and they were both big guys, heavy and with big cocks to match.

They treated me with as much care as they would have shown to a blow-up sex doll. They fucked me like a spit-roast, and swapped ends after they had both cum. Then, once they were both spent, they encouraged the dog to sniff at me and helped it mount me from behind. This had never happened to me before and I was quite scared, I didn't want to get bitten or clawed. I had no idea whether dogs might do that but I was scared of catching rabies, so I didn't put up any kind of struggle, which suited them and the dog. Thy needed to help shove it's cock up my See You Next Tuesday and then sat back and laughed as it shagged me and I knew they were taking photos or shooting a video, so I tried to just shut my eyesand pray for it to be over.

I had no idea how long it would take, and it seemed to take a long time, with them helping out whenever it slipped out but once the dog got a good hold of me with it's front legs it went at me like a jackhammer and I felt it shooting it's load inside me.

The stupidest thoughts were running around in my head. Could I get pregnant? I had no idea, but the thought of that gave me a panic attack and that seemed to excite the two guys, so they fucked me again. One in my bum and the other in my See You Next Tuesday, and this was the longest fucking of the night. They had both cum a couple of times inside me and probably wanked off while the dog was doing it's stuff, so this time took ages. There I was, squashed between their bellies, and it felt like their cocks were practically rubbing up against each other inside me, they were pushing me up and

down on their rods and trying to cum together. Anyway, they eventually did, and then just dropped me on the floor, while they wiped their dicks with tissues and then put on the tv. They never spoke to me, just left me to get myself up and dressed and then one of them called me a taxi and sent me back to my owner.

When I arrived, he showed me some photos his pals had posted on-line. The only saving grace, as far as I was concerned, was that no-one would recognise me from them. My face was never shown properly, their main interest being in their own cocks and the dog's. Myowner said I had been good and he wanted to reward me. That meant, he wanted to fuck me too. And he did. Afterwards, I asked him if I could become pregnant from the dog-fuck, but he told me that it was impossible. Then said, so far as he knew. Which wasn't much comfort. Then he said not to worry, if I ever do get pregnant, he'd fix me up with an abortion. Which was the glum thought I took with me to my mattress.

Written in the Sand - Postcards from the Sea Side:











One of my naughtier neices took this photo of me when I was deeply engrossed in the Tory and Labour Leadership Shindigs, and just to prove my lack of personal vanity I'm posting it here, albeit with a modicum of nervous embarrassment but, come on, it's not so bad really!

Our Holiday House was chosen for it's size and accessibility, it manages to cater for a lot of us at peak periods and is close enough to the village shop for essentials (alcohol and ciggies, for me and my ilk; and sweeties for the kids) and I can comfortably walk there and back in about 25 minutes - some of the younger ones actually include it as part of their jogging or running programme! Anyone who knows me knows I do neither of these two strange  forms of behaviour, though I have been known to put on a spurt when trying to catch a bus or train. As you probably know, our household is almost exclusively female, though there is a small annexe for Goldy and Gordon when they come. All they have to do is move out the lawnmower and rolls of hoses and use the foot pump for an airbed. It may sound basic, but they are used to stake-outs in less salubrious locations, so they manage fine and I don't think either of them is arachnaphobic, at least, not too much! And if the roof leaks (though we have had hardly any rain this summer - so far) we can always squeeze them under the stairs with the kids toys and the cats. Isa went out for eggs and came back with a hen and a small herd of cows, and as no-one had the nerve to do anything lethal to the hen, it was sent back - along with the cows. None of us are actually vegetarian, but we prefer others to do the dirty work for us, though I think Isa was getting a bit irritated with the hen giving her the Evil Eye!