Prettynosferatu in topic Teen
LATE BLOOMER
You always were something of a late bloomer. Not physically, obviously- even you could tell, by age fifteen, that your body was certainly not the body of a child... if only because of the looks and generosity of your male classmates, and the advice of your friends. But you didn't really have an interest in sex, almost as if you mind lagged behind your body, like a switch that should have been flipped remained firmly in place.
That is, until last night.
It's silly, you know. Everyone ignored the warning on the websites, but you were raised to be an honest person: when a website asked if you were eighteen, you didn't lie. But last night, you didn't have to lie.
It was the song, really. Your mum loves that song, so of course you played it at your birthday party. Such a devoted daughter, pride and joy of your parents. But yesterday, the lyrics hit you. They hurt, a sword right to the chest. It's stupid. It's a dumb, bubbly pop song. And yet...
You are the dancing queen / Young and sweet / only seventeen...
Only seventeen. Well, you're no longer seventeen, and you certainly never felt like a queen, dancing or otherwise. Or a princess. Or, for that matter, a woman. You've felt like a friend, and a helper, and a daughter, and a model student. Did you miss out? All your friends seemed so thrilled, talking about boys and popping cherries and secret encounters behind the gym. You knew nothing of such things, nor did you care. But now couldn't stop thinking, as ABBA sang on. Did you waste your best years?
There was a rush of adrenaline, going to that website. You chose it almost at random, mainly because it was very bright, and very pink. The name was weird, something something hypno, but to you, all the names of... adult sites sounded alien anyway.
The shock was almost too much to bear. You knew what a penis looked like- you aced Biology, after all. But the faces of the women... were they acting? Or could something feel THAT good? And was it normal that the images flashed and words came up? Was al pornography like this?
You scrolled down. And kept scrolling down. Hard to remember exactly what you saw: it was like being overflooded with information. And the words, such terrible words.
Slut.
Fucktoy.
Bimbo.
Cumdump.
Rapemeat.
When did you start masturbating? You didn't know. But you know you did. You must have. Your chair was soaked, and your puss- vagina throbbing, and it was four in the morning. Four in the morning? No way. Were you looking at that... stuff for five hours? You went to bed. Did you sleep? You must have. And yet the images and words kept assaulting you behind your closed eyes.
You woke up, and ignored the stain on the sheets. Like a zombie, you opened your laptop. You want the pink site.
Worship cock.
Cum is fun!
You belong on your knees...
That was two weeks ago. Hard to believe, but they do say late bloomers bloom hardest. You were a virgin two weeks ago, and now look at you.
You don't even care about their names, as your head bobs up and down, goes from tasty cock to tasty cock, your hand furiously fucking your hungry cunt, right there, in the middle of some park by night. It just feels so wrong, and so good. You have to keep going. You have to make up for lost time. You missed so much cock, so much cum, so many fun games! You're a girl in a rush. You've let your teachers mount you like a bitch in heat. You have let it be known that you suck any cock during recess, and pretty much all your classmates have used your whore mouth. You have pierced your nipples, and your hair is now a nice, bubblegum pink. You wear a choker, hoping to signal that you are just an obedient toy for Men to use. And there's still so much to try! Your father has resisted you so far, but you know he won't hold out much longer.
Yes, you have to make up for lost time. And any time not getting fucked mindless was lost time.
You're a late bloomer, after all. You need to catch up if you're going to become the perfect Good Girl.
You always were something of a late bloomer. Not physically, obviously- even you could tell, by age fifteen, that your body was certainly not the body of a child... if only because of the looks and generosity of your male classmates, and the advice of your friends. But you didn't really have an interest in sex, almost as if you mind lagged behind your body, like a switch that should have been flipped remained firmly in place.
That is, until last night.
It's silly, you know. Everyone ignored the warning on the websites, but you were raised to be an honest person: when a website asked if you were eighteen, you didn't lie. But last night, you didn't have to lie.
It was the song, really. Your mum loves that song, so of course you played it at your birthday party. Such a devoted daughter, pride and joy of your parents. But yesterday, the lyrics hit you. They hurt, a sword right to the chest. It's stupid. It's a dumb, bubbly pop song. And yet...
You are the dancing queen / Young and sweet / only seventeen...
Only seventeen. Well, you're no longer seventeen, and you certainly never felt like a queen, dancing or otherwise. Or a princess. Or, for that matter, a woman. You've felt like a friend, and a helper, and a daughter, and a model student. Did you miss out? All your friends seemed so thrilled, talking about boys and popping cherries and secret encounters behind the gym. You knew nothing of such things, nor did you care. But now couldn't stop thinking, as ABBA sang on. Did you waste your best years?
There was a rush of adrenaline, going to that website. You chose it almost at random, mainly because it was very bright, and very pink. The name was weird, something something hypno, but to you, all the names of... adult sites sounded alien anyway.
The shock was almost too much to bear. You knew what a penis looked like- you aced Biology, after all. But the faces of the women... were they acting? Or could something feel THAT good? And was it normal that the images flashed and words came up? Was al pornography like this?
You scrolled down. And kept scrolling down. Hard to remember exactly what you saw: it was like being overflooded with information. And the words, such terrible words.
Slut.
Fucktoy.
Bimbo.
Cumdump.
Rapemeat.
When did you start masturbating? You didn't know. But you know you did. You must have. Your chair was soaked, and your puss- vagina throbbing, and it was four in the morning. Four in the morning? No way. Were you looking at that... stuff for five hours? You went to bed. Did you sleep? You must have. And yet the images and words kept assaulting you behind your closed eyes.
You woke up, and ignored the stain on the sheets. Like a zombie, you opened your laptop. You want the pink site.
Worship cock.
Cum is fun!
You belong on your knees...
That was two weeks ago. Hard to believe, but they do say late bloomers bloom hardest. You were a virgin two weeks ago, and now look at you.
You don't even care about their names, as your head bobs up and down, goes from tasty cock to tasty cock, your hand furiously fucking your hungry cunt, right there, in the middle of some park by night. It just feels so wrong, and so good. You have to keep going. You have to make up for lost time. You missed so much cock, so much cum, so many fun games! You're a girl in a rush. You've let your teachers mount you like a bitch in heat. You have let it be known that you suck any cock during recess, and pretty much all your classmates have used your whore mouth. You have pierced your nipples, and your hair is now a nice, bubblegum pink. You wear a choker, hoping to signal that you are just an obedient toy for Men to use. And there's still so much to try! Your father has resisted you so far, but you know he won't hold out much longer.
Yes, you have to make up for lost time. And any time not getting fucked mindless was lost time.
You're a late bloomer, after all. You need to catch up if you're going to become the perfect Good Girl.
