My Bad Boy's Secret: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance (34 page)

              If you’re thinking that the guys were being purely generous because they were such good people and getting nothing out of this arrangement, you’re hopelessly mistaken. After fulfilling their end of the bargain, the guys found creative ways to satisfy themselves. One thing virtually every guy who came into our house liked doing was finding out what it was like to have sex with an underage girl. The younger, the better. Those four words were spoken a lot. I heard them waxing lyrical about the virtues of tight young pussies, and every one of them bragged about their dicks being the biggest and hardest, and how their thick cocks could barely squeeze into a young cunt, but would always and inevitably have no problem entering and fucking a slut all day and night. She’d always scream for more, and bitches were always willing to swallow more cock with either pair of lips.

Some guys preferred boys, and they’d find ways to spend lots of time with my brothers, which wasn’t too difficult, considering their mother would usually be in another town or state getting high and fucked. The guys would take my brothers to sports games, hunting and fishing trips, or any other place the boys wanted to go. They’d buy them beer, porno magazines, and other things they wanted but couldn’t easily get. Then they’d get the boys excited about sex, telling them how fun it would be to play with a big cock, to feel it up their asses, and to become a man. They did it on truckbeds, in tents, or in the living room while I sat there watching TV. Sometimes they were in the bed next to me. I actually used to be a bit jealous of my brothers for getting so many goodies from their new best friends, until I saw how they looked and acted after being raped.

You’re probably realizing what I’m getting at. I grew up fast, which is surprising considering how little I ate and how hungry I always was. For as long as I can remember, people kept telling me that I was easy on the eyes. I learned that the hard way from kids at school, from grown men shouting to me how they’d like to fuck me as I walked down the street, and from a couple of my brothers explaining in graphic detail the positions and sick acts they would force me into one day. They didn’t care that I was their half-sister. To them, there was enough genetic distance between us that they still wouldn’t mind fucking me. That’s the Deep South for you.

Other girls let me understand in no uncertain terms that I was a looker. No girl ever wanted to hang out with me, telling me that I was stealing boys from them and to leave their imaginary boyfriends alone. The drug-addicted slut who was pregnant with me ordered me to stop competing with her and leading on her boyfriends of the week. I got used to death threats, rape threats, and calls of “bitch”, “man-stealing skank”, and “tarted-up diseased whore” as greetings and compliments. Before I even wore makeup, I was aware of the power of my appearance and sexuality, thanks to everyone being terrified and hateful of it.

So it’s somewhat understandable that when men started pampering me, I was kind of happy, even eager. It was exhilarating to meet people who didn’t exclude me and wanted to spend time with me. They didn’t insult me or threaten me, but actually listened to me talk, which no one else did. They bought me gifts, took me to eat anything I wanted, and gave me what I thought at the time was affection. All the guys, however, soon made it obvious that their favorite time spent with me was time when they wedged their penises into my holes or made me sit on their faces. All of them spent hours praising me for my long blonde hair, my clear blue eyes, and my willowy body. They groomed me to wear skimpy lingerie, pose for pictures, and complimented me to the stars about my breasts that blossomed early, my soft pale skin that didn’t bruise easily, and my flexible limbs that led them penetrate me in any contortion. Occasionally, the guys couldn’t wait to fuck me one by one and decided to share me, with several guys raping me simultaneously. They put photos of me naked or partly naked online, posted ads, and invited men from anywhere to come and get a taste of the pretty redneck girl from the middle of nowhere. I was a junior celebrity prostitute. Child molesters arrived from states away to pay big bucks to try me. I was a dream come true for predators. I had no idea how to protect myself or say no. I was willing to do anything at least once, as long as I got a reward later.

When I tried to demur or refuse, I’d get slapped, beaten, and deprived of food. The men would rape me anyway, and give me cigarette burns and spankings to boot. They’d lock me in a closet or bathroom and use me as a toilet. They traded photos and videos of me and came up with even more perverted and unconventional fetishes and sex acts to force me into. They recorded everything to watch again and again, and to plan what to do differently next time, like coaches planning the maneuvers for the next game. I was their sexual guinea pig, used to break taboos and satiate any sickening desire they had. I lost my virginity when I was eight, when a gun store owner and part-time meth cooker hanging around my house dragged me into a bedroom, tore away my clothes, and rammed his cock into my pussy to “show me what being a woman feels like”. I got used to all other guys doing the same. They couldn’t ignore a cute and vulnerable blonde girl who had no idea what rape was and had no way of resisting or getting justice. I was totally ignorant of everything about the law. I couldn’t describe any laws. I couldn’t define what rape or sexual abuse was, I didn’t know I could tell people I was a victim of rape, and I didn’t have the information or courage to find and punish my rapists. I wasn’t even aware that what they were doing to me was wrong. Talking to the police was inconceivable. The police only showed up to make everyone’s lives harder. Why would I go to those narcissistic bullies and try to get help? What was legal or illegal? What was a trial, and how would they even track down and punish rapists? Prison made no sense to me. If they didn’t kill them, how would the rapists ever be stopped and learn to not rape again?

People try to come up with quick and simple explanations for the circumstances of their lives. They want to justify everything at once, have an easy understanding of things, and not think too much about what may really be the problem. Personally, I was certain for years with one idea why I suffered so much. I told myself that I was cursed. I had sinned, or was born sinful, and God had cursed me. He was punishing me for something wrong I had done and forgotten about. He made me beautiful so that people would rape me as punishment. He punished me further by making me inquisitive so that I would be slapped for talking and asking questions all the time. I got hungry easily so that I carried the pain of an empty stomach every day. God gave me a strong body so that I would be tough enough to take constant beatings. He made me daring so that I would frequently spend time outside cold, lonely, and in danger. I reached puberty early so that more men would be motivated to rape me and do it more often. I had a fast mind to taunt me for living in a place where I had no opportunity to use or nurture my intelligence. In infinite ways, God saddled me with gifts that contributed to my curse.

For some time, I prayed. I racked my brain to think of how I had sinned. I asked God for forgiveness, and begged Him to show me what I could do in penance to be absolved of my sins. I read Scripture and tried to live as strictly by the Bible as I could. I followed every verse to the letter. I wanted to be the perfect Christian. I attended church nearly every day, and gave every penny I saved to the church. I was confident that if I changed my ways and lived with virtue, I would be rid of my suffering. I told myself I forgave everyone who ever hurt me. I stopped fighting, swearing, lying, cheating, disobeying, lazing, and everything else I usually did. I vowed that I would be a new girl. I let everyone have their way and I was positive that this change in myself would lead to a change in my life.

My suffering merely increased, with more rapes, more beatings, and more deprivation. The sense of betrayal I felt was the lowest point I felt thus far in my life. I didn’t know that it was possible to feel so much misery and hopelessness. I tried cutting myself, burning my skin, and hurting myself with stabs, bites, and punches. I debated committing suicide for long and tortuous times, but my fear of pain and death was too overwhelming for me to do it. I was too cowardly to even die. 

              I resolved at the age of twelve that I had to do everything I could to be different. I needed to change my life and set goals for myself to get out of Hornhead, a.k.a. Bumfuckville. If I stayed where I was and let my life take its natural course, I’d end up an OxyContin addict or a truck stop hooker, or maybe even both. If I was lucky, I might even work as a stripper or an IHOP waitress. Where I came from, living in a trailer park and selling drugs was cause for admiration. I knew I wanted to achieve a different kind of success than what my neighbors dreamed of. It didn’t involve having thirteen different children by thirteen different men, having sex with farm animals, or dying from an overdose at the age of thirty.

              One night, I lured a longtime rapist of mine into a bathroom, convincing him he was going to have an easy time violating me tonight. He was high and in a good mood, and never saw the steak knife I was hiding. I stabbed him right in the space of the scrotum between his testicles, and the sound of his screams and the sight of blood spurting through his pants was heavenly. I slit open his throat and watched him collapse to the cracked tile floor as he stared at me. I drank in his pain and fear.

              I set out trapping and murdering any other men foolish enough to be baited by the promise of sex with me. This turned out to be a large number. I relished getting my revenge, and I stabbed, burned, and poisoned dozens of men who had destroyed my life. With those killings, I was taking my life back into my own hands. I was amazed at how many men fell for my traps and how few of them realized that I was responsible. It was easy hiding the bodies in the local forests, lakes, and landfills. Becoming a murderer was a great way to celebrate my thirteenth birthday.

              Since the missing men were attracting scrutiny, I knew that it was high time for me to leave. I wasn’t merely thinking of leaving the house, I was leaving Hornhead once and for all. I had wanted to leave and never come back for years, and this was the impetus I needed. I stole all the money and food I could find and bought a bus ticket to Jackson. I arrived with only my clothes and hardly anything else. While I thought that I might have to end up a teenage prostitute to survive, I was fortunately wrong. After being caught stealing chips from a convenience store, I was directed by police to an orphanage and placed in foster care. I got new clothes, regular meals, and a room and bed of my own. Most crucially, I had to attend school every day.

              I had a lot of ground to cover both in and out of the classroom. I needed to study and master the entire elementary and middle school curriculum in a year if I was going to be prepared for high school. I never used email or credit cards before. I couldn’t name a foreign country. I heard languages other than English for the first time. I was surprised that I actually missed Hornhead occasionally, but I never let anyone know. My foster parents were a minister and his wife. They were obviously devout Christians and tried to get me to join them. I pretended to pray, read the Bible, and care for all that, but my ability to believe was long-dead.

              What I did take to was reading. I started enjoying reading and doing it for fun. I devoured every book at home and got my foster parents to buy me more. I spent hours having fun by myself in the library, blazed through every book in school, and even read stuff in textbooks that I wasn’t required to read. I was hooked on books. For the very first time in my life, I was learning and broadening my mind. I was painfully aware of how behind I was compared to most people, and I was willing to do anything to catch up.

              Education was my key to improving my life and making sure I never went back home. I wanted nothing to do with the things in my past. I tried to change everything about myself. I learned to get rid of my southern accent and talk like an educated and respectable person. I perfected my table manners and stopped burping and chewing with my mouth open. I said “please” and “thank you”, and got used to seeing and getting along with people of different races. I followed the news, thought of my own opinions on issues, and became familiar with technology and social media.

              On a few things, however, I stayed the same. If someone disrespected me or tried to take advantage of me like a few boys did, they quickly learned not to. I used my fists and feet to show them how dangerous it was to piss me off, and I made it clear that I didn’t mind using a knife. In no time at all, no boy ever tried to touch me or rape me again after seeing the error of their ways.

              I never made many friends in high school, but I didn’t care. To me, friends were overrated. I was too focused on learning about the world, since I had missed out on so much, and doing my best in school. I had a few people I trusted and liked spending time with, but I never told anyone about what I had been through as a child. I wasn’t ready to do that. My hard work paid off. I received straight A’s, snapped up tons of academic awards, and made the honor roll. I was a star student, a volunteer, and a youth leader in church. The orphanage held me up as an example of their good work. I didn’t care what lies they told. I was finally beginning to enjoy life.