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!