One of the worse things of being prostituted, is how often orgasms take over during abuse, and how you so used to faking orgasms.
To be honest, I really don’t know when I had real orgasms and when I was acting. Hell, it is so bad that even when it my own hands giving me arousal, I have no idea if I have cum.
I want to write to explore what the hell is an orgasm to a whore. I may go all over the place, I may get close to pain and grief and want to run away, I say sick jokes.
All this and much more to find what the hell is the essence that could be call an orgasm – what was mine, and didn’t belong to any man, was not made by abuse, not done to fit in.
Did I ever cum just for myself – or did my whole life of orgasms just performances to stay safe enough not to die.
As a child, my stepdad made me wet.
I had no idea what it was. I know it made me float away, give me a grief that had no meaning or words.
As I went wet, I landed on the ceiling seeing me, seeing red in the face fingering and eating me.
“See, you enjoy that, you’ll ain’t you”.
I first came when I was round six. My body flooded out, there was blood, but some white and yellow came out too.
All I knew was he so happy, and I was so sad.
That became part of me, as I learnt to please and shut down all that sadness.
As I grow to early teens, my stepdad would finger, eat and lick until I would cum. He would never allow it end till I wet enough for his fantasy.
Often it would hurt, hurt that I wanted to scream, hurt so I wanted to run away, hurt that I wanted to smash his head open – but I would still bloody cum.
I hated my body, it was betraying me.
I knew through his eyes, his smiling, his porn, his words – that being wet meant I must be enjoying really.
The more wet I got, the more hard and fast he went in.
Now cumming once was never enough, now I was his porn-star I had to have multiple orgasms.
This was my personal hell, I had thought if I taught myself to seemed to cum then I would left alone.
No such luck.
My stepdad wanted to be a stud, in his dream he fucking his young mistress who loved him much she came and came and came.
I knew he was dreaming as he turn out all the lights, never looked at my eyes, call out other women’s names – and when he choose to see would throw me out the bed in disgust.
So, my stepdad taught me how to orgasm, and taught how to hate myself.
When I was fucked by johns, I knew from far too young how to fake it, how to be an actress.
I knew the right noises, I knew how to smile, I knew how to lessen some of the pain in simple penetration, I knew to hide fear, pain or grief.
Getting wet was very hard when being raped over and over and over.
But learning to act as if it did not matter was vital to survival.
Also, survival often hinged on making some johns, too many, think they had been sex gods.
No matter if they had torture you, no matter that you cannot knew where or who you are, no matter that it was rape, no matter that your body wants to die – no bloody matter.
What matter, what is important, it that he made you cum, and hopefully more than once.
Then, it all ok coz it was mutual fun than – see, you enjoy that didn’t you.
So, I was left with the poison of their hate and contempt – but also with the poison of so many orgasms betraying me.
Of course, my logical brain knows it was just a biological reaction.
Orgasms are common in rape, orgasms are one to let go of terror.
Orgasms will happen whether you want them or not, if sexual organs are used enough.
Christ, their penetrating, their fisting, their eating me out, their fingering, their placing objects into my sexual organs, their blocking up of all holes – what was my body meant to do besides dying.
An orgasm at least shown I was still alive.
All this I know where my logical mind, but there is the screaming and the rage.
Did I enjoy it really.
How could my body betrays so often.
How do I see and know how often that I smile, how often I made the men feel they were special, that I held them so they thought I was cumming for them, how I was so wet, how often I left them thinking it was the best ever.
That was a betrayal.
When I wanted to kill them, when I wanted to scream in agony, when I should of been sobbing, when I didn’t even know it was rape or even wrong.
Instead I just would cum.
And hear how I had enjoyed it.
I would cum when I was dead, when all that was left was a machine that made men happy.
That was orgasms for a whore.
That is what I still get nightmares about.