A recounting of the trials and tribulations that have turned me into the woman I am today.
Sarah: An Auto-Fession
Hello. I’m Sarah Hopkins, and this is my auto-fession. If you’re reading this, then you’re one of three possible types of people.
The first type is the oppressors; the type of people that persecute and put down others to make themselves feel better, more important. I’ve met a lot of oppressors in my life. The second type are the narcissists; the abundant group who love themselves so much that they only dabble in other people’s lives in order to assure themselves of how truly great they are. The third and final group is the perverts; the ladies and gentlemen who will read my words simply to get off.
I like this last group the most.
I call this collection of words, sentences, and paragraphs my “auto-fession” because it is really the only word to describe it. It’s not really an autobiography. I don’t truly believe in autobiographies…how can someone write about themselves and be 100% truly objective? As the oppressors and narcissists would be the first to show, such a feat is surely impossible. And it’s not really a confession either. Confessions, to me, signify guilt. Of doing something irrevocably and irreducibly wrong, and then telling someone about it. I have no remorse for the choices I’ve made in my life, thus this could hardly be called a confession. Thus, for my own nefarious purposes, “auto-fession” will have to do.
If you are indeed still reading, then you must be a part of that third, dedicated group of people. Most of the oppressors and narcissists I’ve met aren’t strong readers.
So why did I feel compelled to tell my story, you may ask? Well, why does anyone decide to write a journal, short story, or novel… fictional or otherwise? I simply had the urge to tell my tale, that is all. To some, it may come off as interesting. Others will undoubtedly see it as tragic…and not in the good Shakespearian sense. I am at least sure that all will find it to be...memorable.
And that’s saying a lot, considering there are very few things that I am sure of. That’s just who I am. Most would say that I could attribute that to my upbringing. My father left my mom when she was 6 months pregnant with me. I met him for the first time when I was 18 at my high school graduation. My mom tried to raise me as best she could. I was an only child, but it was still hard for her, considering she was a high school drop out herself. I don’t blame her for not being able to be both a supporter and a role model. In fact, I’m sort of, in a weird, sadistic way, thankful. She helped turn me into the woman I am today.
But, of course, I can’t give her all of the bounteous credit.
Thus, my auto-fession was born. In it, I can disclose all of the hidden details of my past that have some relevance with my present. Naturally, being the first entry, I’ve decided to start with what I consider to be the catalyst for my descent into madness. Er, womanhood.
The day I lost my virginity.
I was 14 years old, and a freshman at Losman District Secondary School. I developed early, physically. At that age, my hips had already started to widen, I was getting taller, and my boobs completely filled a large B cup. I was constantly reminded of the adage that girls who developed early were always popular with the boys. I quickly found out that it wasn’t true.
It’s not that I was ugly, or anything. At least, I don’t think that’s what it was (see? The whole objective, autobiography thing’s already flown out the window). I had straight, brown hair that was a little longer than shoulder length, with dark chocolate eyes to match. My face was maybe slightly chubby, but I’ve always had a fairly clear complexion. And, like I said, I had fairly big boobs. And they were still getting bigger.
I knew I wasn’t super attractive, either. Not like any of the cheerleaders, like Alyssa Stone or Carly Wizener. And I certainly wasn’t bubbly like either of them. Personality wise, I mean. I was shy, quiet, and perpetually alone. I didn’t have any friends, girls or boys. I read a lot. I got good grades. Not great…just good.
My least favorite subject was always math. To me, the subject just felt so cold and disconcerting. I preferred the arts, which a lot of people find strange, considering my complete lack of creativity. Anyways, my math teacher during my freshman year was a tiny little man named Mr. Kravin. “Yeah, he’s totally craving a dick in his ass,” my classmates would say behind cupped hands into one another’s ears. I never understood that, considering his name was spelt with a “K”. Then again, I only overheard it being said. No one ever whispered it into my ear.
When he would teach, I would often zone out completely. I knew I only had one more year of math left, and then I would never have to determine the hypotenuse of an isosceles triangle again. Whatever the hell that was.
When not listening to Mr. Kravin, my mind would drift good and far away from everything around me. I thought about why I didn’t have any friends, and how come everyone around me got to be so happy. I thought about my mom, miserable at work. I didn’t know if she was in fact miserable – I had never seen her at work, so I just assumed. I also thought about my dad, and why he had left my mom, beyond the obvious explanation, of course. I often envisioned that he was a powerful politician, and an illegitimate child would ruin him. Other times I fantasized he was a powerful spy who left to protect us from any old enemies he might have. I always ended up coming to the same, rational conclusion though; he was more than likely just a dick.
“You, in the green!” a shrill voice squawked, jarring me from my daydreaming. Looking up, I saw that it was Mr. Kravin, pointedly looking down his inch thick spectacles at me. “Miss…” he stalled, looking down at the seating plan positioned on his desk, “Hopkins! Yes, Miss Hopkins…do you know the answer, hmmm?”
I looked straight into his comically magnified eyes, then to the blackboard. Pictures of triangles, quadrilaterals, and formulas that might as well have been a foreign language bombarded my sight like an explosion of bright fireworks. Shifting my gaze back to the irritated teacher, I shook my head slowly.
“Humph!” he breathed, before I had even given my head two shakes. By now, everyone in the class was looking at me; the quiet loner girl who sat in the back row in order to avoid this very situation. I blushed. “That’s what I thought. Eyes…forward…PLEASE!”
Everyone sat up in their plastic chairs as the tiny man turned rapidly, like he was wearing a cape to whoosh for emphasis. One boy, however, didn’t look at the front of class. He was still looking at me. Deryl Spinster was his name, though I didn’t know that then. He sat in the desk two chairs in front of me, and one to the right.
I was pretending to look at the front, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that he was staring at me like I was about to burst into flames. His eyes were dark, that much I could tell just from my peripheral vision, and he was looking at me like he’d never seen me before. Chances are, he had never seen me before.
My blush was reddening, and I could even feel a bead of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. I couldn’t stand it much longer. With a quick flash, I looked directly at him, but my gaze didn’t return to the front of the room like I had planned. My eyes were glued to his, like his stare had its own orbit.
I was right; his eyes were dark. Jet black, almost. His hair was shaggy and blond, and threatened to cover his alluring eyes. On his face, he wore a sly grin. As we looked at each other, his eyes lowered for a fraction of a second, his gaze locking onto my chest. Looking back up, as if I didn’t notice, his grin grew slightly, almost wolf life in appearance. For some reason, this made me want to giggle.
For the next few days, Deryl didn’t look at me. I was kind of saddened, but not overly disappointed. My expectations for friendship weren’t set particularly high. About a week after the stare down, however, he acknowledged my existence once more. Of course, the reason for our eventual meeting was set in motion by forces beyond my control.
Firstly, it was laundry day at home. That meant that the only bra I had to wear was a few months old, and could barely contain my continually swelling breasts. Since it was just an A cup, and I was quickly approaching a C, I was literally overflowing out of it.
Secondly, I had spilt my morning tomato juice on the white tank top I was wearing under my forest green sweater. Already being at school, I had no choice but to go into the ladies room, take it off, and stuff it into my backpack. It didn’t seem like too big of a deal, until I tried to do up my sweater, only to discover that the top three buttons had fallen off weeks ago, and mom had never gotten around to sewing them back on.
So, I walked the halls of Losman District Secondary School in my green sweater with the top three buttons undone, and my squished boobs threatening to pop out at any second in a violent explosion of flesh. Then again, I wasn’t overly concerned at my predicament; I was so used to fading into the background that I figured I could be naked and not elicit a response.
Boy, was I wrong.
As I walked, and jiggled, down the hall, heads turned from everywhere. Boys, girls, even teachers watched as my sweater puppets threatened to jump on out and put on a show for all to see. Smiles grew on every boy’s face, which made me happy in turn. The response from the girls was a bit more diverse, ranging from embarrassment, to jealousy, and to the sweet, sweet emotion that I would learn to be envy. As I walked into Mr. Kravin’s classroom, I could feel a slight dampness in my panties.
As I sat down, almost everyone stared at me, much like that fateful day a week ago. Similarly, I was blushing, and I eventually looked towards Deryl. Like most of the other guys, he was staring at me too, although this time he wasn’t trying to mask what was holding his gaze. Reaching to grab my pencil, and inadvertently squeezing my arms into my chest, I noticed that his smile grew even bigger.
That’s when I discovered the joy of cleavage.
After the class, I was gathering my things nice and slowly like I always did. I didn’t like being in the line up to race out the door. When the voices had died down, I looked up, ready to head to lunch, and the empty table in the cafeteria with my name on it. Standing in my way, however, was Deryl.
“Hey,” he said, his voice somewhat deep. His dark eyes were looking into mine, although it looked like it was taking quite a bit of restraint. I just stared at him. This was literally the first time anyone had talked to me.
“Hello,” I squeaked out in a pathetic voice, sounding like a five year old. Looking past Deryl, I saw that the room was now empty. Even Mr. Kravin must have been ancy to get to lunch.
“Do you like me?” he asked nonchalantly. I just continued looking at him, my eyes wide with fear. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but it must have been clearly obvious that I was afraid.
Before I could respond, he smiled that wolfish grin. “You’ve got a nice rack,” he said.
This genuinely confused me. I didn’t know what a rack was…well, of course I knew what a rack was, but not that kind of rack. In my confusion, all I could utter was a “Huh?” But he seemed to like this response, as his smile grew even more lupine like, and his hand not so discreetly made it’s way to his crotch.
“Your boobs,” he said slowly, like he was talking to someone who didn’t speak English, “are really big.”
“Oh,” I breathed. I didn’t really know how to react to that. People sure seemed to like it when my breasts were on display. And other girls seemed to flaunt theirs around a lot. I had always thought that a girl’s chest was supposed to be private. Then again, maybe it was that thinking that was the reason I had no friends.
“Thank you,” I said, jutting my chest out slightly, proudly. I looked down at his hand, and saw that it was covering something. “What’s that?” I asked. Stupidly.
“Oh, this?” He asked, a hint of excitement not so subtly hidden in his voice. Moving his hand, I could see the outline of something underneath his blue jeans. I remembered it looked like a sausage that my mom cooked sometimes. “This is something real special.”
“Really?” I asked, sincerely interested. I cocked my head slightly, my mind ripe with ideas of what possibly could be in his pants. “It looks like a sausage,” I blurted out.
He obviously liked this response, as he let out a sharp chuckle, akin to how a prospector might sound after having finally struck gold. “Well, it in fact is a sausage. A big, meaty one. Wanna have a taste?”
I looked at the clock. 12:15. Most of the school was in the cafeteria by now, and I was pretty hungry as well. “I guess,” I said, still sitting in my seat. Deryl’s eyes rolled back in his head slightly, his huge grin never dissipating.
What happened next surprised me a bit, but as a social outcast, I was dedicated to seeing this through. With his left hand, he unzipped the fly of his pants, reached in, and fished out what looked like a skin colored sausage, with a large mushroom on top. It drooped out of his fly, hanging just slightly past the opening.
Now, I may have been naive, but I wasn’t retarded. “So that’s your penis,” I said awkwardly. He didn’t seem to mind though. I wasn’t even sure if he heard me.
“Go on,” he urged, “just don’t bite!”
I looked at the open door, and saw that no one was in the hall. This seemed like something that I would get in trouble for, but it seemed like the risk was worth it. Leaning forward, I put my hand around the dangling member. The pungent smell of sweat and something I’ve never smelt overwhelmed my nostrils. It was a stinging smell, but I liked it. In my hand, the ‘sausage’ was warm and soft, and the mushroom-like head did in fact look quite delicious. As I put the tip in my warm mouth, the penis started to throb, and instantly began swelling, growing bigger and bigger.
It tasted salty and not particularly good, but the taste was not what I was mostly concerned with – I was enamored at it’s growth. He told me not to bite it, so I didn’t really know what to do. Being so uneducated, I simply sat there with his penis in my mouth. Yet the heat and moisture of my orifice was enough for Deryl, causing his dick to grow longer and straighter, heading dangerously close to my throat.
“Mmmm, that was great!” he said, taking his penis out of my mouth. I simply sat there, my thoughts dancing between the fact that I didn’t do anything, and how big and straight his member had grown. “But I wanna fuck now.”
Before I could say anything, his hands were groping me, squeezing and rubbing my confined breasts. “Mmmm, your tits feel great. Get up on the desk.”
Everything seemed to be happening so fast, the next thing I knew I was sitting on the desk. I don’t even remember if he had helped me get up or not. “Like this?” I asked, leaning back slightly.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling my skirt up so that he could see my pink panties. No one had ever seen my panties before. I enjoyed that.
Moving my underwear to the side so that my wet slit was visible for the world to see, he positioned himself so that his erection was pointed straight at me.
“You ready for this cock?” he asked, giving his dick a few pumps of his fist.
“I guess,” I said, not overly enthusiastic. Again, I don’t think he heard me. The next thing I knew, he was forcing the blood gorged mushroom into my wet pussy.
And then I moaned.
In my entire 14 years of life, I had never felt anything even remotely as good as Deryl sticking his hard cock inside of me. It was like taking every good feeling I’d ever experienced, combined them into one moment, and had them flood all of my sensory perceptions at the same time. A smile broke out on my face so big that I’m sure used muscles that had never been used before. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the desk as Deryl began thrusting in and out of me.
“Yes…” I whispered, my smile mimicking Deryl’s own. My nearly exposed boobs jiggled in rhythm with each thrust, dancing to the beat of Deryl’s denim jeans slapping into my inner thighs. “Yes.” I said slightly louder. It seemed like I had finally found the reason for everyone being so happy all the time. It wasn’t friends…it was sex! “Yes!” I huffed even louder.
“Oh…oh god,” Deryl breathed. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended as Deryl stopped thrusting in a series of short convulsions.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Keep going!”
“Sorry babe,” he said pulling out his dick. A dribble of thick, white liquid followed, “that’ll have to do for now.” Stuffing his glistening dick inside of his pants, I couldn’t possibly be sad. No one had ever called me ‘babe’ before.
“Well,” I continued, taking the initiative, “will we be able to do this again? Like…some other time?”
Deryl smiled, “Oh, definitely! You don’t have to worry about that.”
And with that, he zipped up his fly, winked, and was gone. I just sat there on the desk in my math room, my skirt pulled up, underwear to the side, and cum dripping out of my no longer virgin pussy.
So, that’s how it happened. Even though it may come off as nothing short of common rape, that event was fundamental in my development, and probably to this day, the most liberating moment of my life.
A slut. A whore. A tramp. I’ve been called all of these things in my life, and all of them are quite true. Then again, if you are part of that third group of people I mentioned earlier, the perverts, then I am sure you won’t mind me telling you about some of my experiences.
My name is Sarah Hopkins, and this is my auto-fession.