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The less control one has over their life, the more likely they are to act out in some fashion. I know this because my life was rigidly controlled and I acted out spectacularly. Luckily for me, my acting out was never discovered by my family, my fans, nor the press.
Maybe there really is a God.
I grew up in a musical family. Which is a major understatement. My family was a massive Christian Folk group. We toured the United States back and forth for decades. Our albums sold millions, but we never cracked the main stream Top 40. It didn’t bother most of us, we were just singing and playing.
I was born into the business. I was the last child of eight, every one of us in the band. The brothers had become a hit in the early eighties. My father was their first song writer, my mom the manager. By the time I was born the band had been touring for over a decade, making millions, spreading the Word.
When I was old enough to join the band at five, I had been training to sing and play anything with a string for as long as I could remember. I had watched my older siblings perform and couldn’t wait to be old enough to be allowed to be in the band.
I loved performing. Still do, which is why my details are going to be vague about where, when and whom. While on stage my life was pure heaven. I was adored, cherished and loved by everyone and I loved everyone right back. I was everyone’s little angel.
Offstage, I was lost in a maelstrom of personalities and political machinations.
Everyone, from my father and mother, to each of my siblings and all the crew who toured with us, each one of them needed something from me constantly. I was the youngest, popular, most pliable and the easiest to make into a product.
This isn’t going to be a Poor Little Rich Girl story, I am merely giving you a background for how I began acting out from the constant pressure and repression I endured. We were a celebrity family, when that still meant something, before Reality T.V.. We were Christian and made our entire fortune espousing the Word of The Gospel. Scandals had happened all around us, but never to us. My parents are True Believers, and refused to allow their children to be smeared by gossip and scandal.
They were strict. My father exerted extreme control over his flock. The older kids were paired up with younger kids, both encouraged to watch over each other physically and morally. We toured about 80% of the year, in four tour buses, and we were supervising each other constantly.
There was an abundance of love, but any misbehavior was dealt with publically, in front of the whole family and crew, and it was severe. Most often the offender was told to stand in the middle of the circle, told to find bible passages that related to their particular offense and then to improvise a sermon condemning their own behavior. Poor sermons were utterly humiliating affairs for all concerned. An awful punishment, not worth risking.
There was never any violence or physical punishment. It was all emotional and generally public, a minimum of seven siblings and two parents present. One was never allowed privacy to deal with humiliation, shame or embarrassment.
Puberty was awful.
It probably sucked for all of my older siblings for many reasons, but here is why it was terrible for me. Everyone else around me had already done it. I was the youngest person in my world at all times, except on stage. It wasn’t until I was 17 that one of my oldest siblings had a child.
Somehow they all noticed the moment I developed any hint of breasts.
My brothers, although still in direct competition with me for stage time and adoration from the crowd and our parents, had always been kind to me and physically affectionate. When one of them noticed I had a slight swell of breast when I was twelve, suddenly all four brothers and my father ceased touching me. At all.
At times we would brush against each other in the bus, or moving around the world, but they always flinched away immediately. It was devastating. I felt like a monster, a pariah. I wept and yearned for touch.
My sisters and I cuddled more, and it helped, but I’d lost four friends, and a father in a very quick period, and I was bereft of masculine energy all at once. Because of my breasts. My three older sisters all compared their larger breasts to mine, telling me any number of stories about what it now meant that I had breasts. All in all it seemed that breasts were a burden I didn’t want.
I learned later that my father was the reason the boys had stopped touching me. He’s set a strict rule for when the children entered puberty. Sex was a taboo subject, other than to acknowledge it existed as a means to reproduce and carry the Lord’s work forward. No touching.
Needless to say sex became an obsession of mine.
It didn’t occur to me until I was twenty that I could potentially seek out sex on my own.
I’m guessing that sexual desire is formed in each of us differently, bahis firmaları it sure looks like it to me, but mine was built around the forbidden aspect of it. The biblical aspect of sex, all the strange stories of incest and rape didn’t strike me as sexual then, though I read that it does for others.
Instead my sexuality was formed in the tiny glimpses of sexual dynamics in films and on T.V., in overheard conversations and whispered curse words. To my young, pubescent mind sex became a terrifying, random, violent activity. One that fascinated me. No-one ever said sex could be about pleasure, but intuitively I knew there was a release of some sort, an abandon in sex that I yearned for.
Finally, it dawned on me that I could seek out that freedom and finally release the tension that constantly surrounded me.
The first time I got away it only worked because I didn’t make a big deal of it. I walked up to one of our security guards as I stepped off the bus outside the hotel. I said, “I’m just going to go for a quick walk. I’ll let you know as soon as I get back.” I smiled and wandered off into the night for the first time in my life without anyone at my side.
The freedom was intoxicating. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t stop grinning.
Also, I was amazingly horny.
Let me try and help you understand. I could masturbate, carefully and quietly. On tour it could either be in my bunk on the bus at night, but the tension of having my sisters above and beside me on their own bunks really limited the frequency and intensity. Once in a while I might try in an hotel room bed with a sister in the next bed, likely waiting for me to go to sleep so she could masturbate too.
So it was bathrooms, and the bus bathroom was never to be used for number two while driving. One couldn’t masturbate unless it was a quick one.
That left public restrooms.
Unisex restrooms have a lot of awful, intriguing ideas written on them. My imagination was a fertile bed for all manner of dark, sordid ideas. Staring at filthy words, or pictographs carved into metal walls, I touched myself and carved grooves in my psyche.
On that first night out in the world, without chaperone for the first time, I looked at every person as a sexual object. Old, young, male, or female I wondered what sort of awful, sexual things they would do when alone.
When a middle aged man smiled and winked at me as we passed, I stopped in my tracks and watched him walk away unaware of my fascination.
That had been the first person who had ever flirted with me when I was free to do anything about it, no sibling or parent in sight. I felt weak in the knees. That simple male attention was a drop of benediction to a dying soul bereft of masculine affection.
Am I being overly dramatic?
Imagine yourself spending the vast majority of your puberty unable to flirt with the gender you are attracted to? At all. Not even from the stage because cameras want you to be the angelic, perfect, virgin even though you are an adult and a sexual being!
Too specific…? My bad.
Suffice it to say I was vibrating as I walked down the road. In my demure skirt, and button down sweater, I looked like a Sunday school teacher. The men smelled my naiveté because I was literally gawking at all of them.
Eventually one approached.
This guy was exactly the kind of creep who would pounce on a girl as out of her element as I obviously was. He was older than me, but I was as young a twenty year old as you could imagine. He was wiry, strong, and intense. I suppose he looked Italian, but I couldn’t say. His skin was not pale, but it wasn’t Mediterranean dark. Brown eyes, dark thick hair and a huge smile were what hypnotised me.
I watched his eyes roam over my body, and it felt as palpable as a touch, I had never been so overtly assessed as a sexual being before. I began to blush as his eyes darted back and forth from my body to my face rapidly. As he spoke at an intimate volume, invading my space, I trembled. Oddly, I worried if I was pretty enough.
I never grew tall, Five foot three, and I’m quite petite. I sometimes weigh as little as a hundred and five pounds when we are deep in the tour, like that night. I never grew more than an A cup breast, and my hips were narrow and sleight. I had a good butt, I thought. Full and firm, but I was self-conscious of my small breasts and fragile looking frame.
I don’t get a lot of sun, so I’m pale, but our stylists loved my hair golden-blonde, so they dyed it to look like I spent a lot of time in the sun. My complexion was good so I didn’t need much foundation, but we always did my eyes and cheeks simply. The fans wanted me to still be who I was when I was younger, and I was dressed and made-up in a style I’d worn years ago.
What I’m saying is I didn’t feel at all like a mature, sophisticated woman receiving the attentions of a grown man. I felt awkward and foolish. I could tell he was laughing at me, and kaçak iddaa I burned with shame. I wanted to be worldly and desirable, not a child anymore.
I wanted to live the stories I’d picked up of people being spontaneous, aggressive and dangerous.
Since he was very close to me, one arm pressed to the wall near me casually, his face was bent downward toward me. I could see him gazing at my small breasts, and it made me blush harder. Abruptly, without really thinking about it, I leaned in and quickly kissed his lips. Then I pulled back, ashamed of myself.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’
“I’m glad you did. That means I get to do it back.” And he leaned in slowly, and at first gently, then more and more firmly he pressed his mouth to mine. It was indescribably how powerfully the contact of his lips to mine affected me. Intense pleasure of a type I’d never tasted before came to life all through my body.
It wasn’t merely physical contact, it was a healing touch to a long festering wound. It was the first moment of sexual awaking with a partner. It was a confirmation of my desires. It fulfilled a need to be touched, lusted for, and paid attention to as a woman.
It was marvelous.
I had no idea who he was, where he was from, how old he was. Nothing. And that ignorance following a lifetime of being surrounded by the same intimate group almost exclusively, it was liberating. I wanted no information about him. I wanted him to be a proxy for all things male.
When he pulled back, his tongue darted out and licked my lips and I moaned audibly, it was unexpected and salacious. I grinned at him, shy and embarrassed by my obvious lust.
“Oh, you’re on drugs.”
I shook my head no, shocked.
“Yeah right. Okay, so it’s your turn.”
I didn’t quite know what to do, so I leaned in and kissed him again, happy to have the freedom to risk this behaviour. I held my lips to his longer and more firmly, relaxing my mouth and letting my tongue touch his lips. He opened his mouth wider and his tongue began to slip around mine amazingly.
Leaning in, I pressed my hand to his chest and he leaned in grinding himself against me. I gasped as the intensity of my feelings overwhelmed me, and stepped back slightly. I was happy to keep going, but I needed a moment.
The man looked at my face; I felt like a harlot behaving like this and glanced away. He hooked my chin with his finger and tilted my face up to meet eyes with me. I could tell he liked me, the way he was smiling, and gazing so intensely. I loved being looked at like that.
“My turn.” He whispered and I smiled, eager to kiss again.
He leaned in and his open mouth devoured mine, his tongue exploring me. I allowed him to kiss me, frozen still as his hand pressed to me chest the way mine had his. Then infinitesimally his fingers began to dig into the flesh of my meagre breast.
I gasped, inhaling his breath. It tasted of something smoky and sharp. Alcohol I suspected. Immersed in one of my favorite fantasies- that of being touched by any man who felt the desire- I was lost now to reality, I wondered if this was how it felt to be drunk.
I was silent, my habit after years of stifling any sounds of pleasure, but I swooned against him, submitting myself utterly to whatever he desired. His mouth continued to kiss me, my own mouth eager to learn what to do. With tentative attempts I learned what his mouth required of mine, while his hand grew bold and openly massaged my breast.
I ignored the fact that we were leaning against a building on a public street.
I was two blocks from my hotel, my entire family likely unaware that I was missing yet. Unbelievably I was allowing a man I had said hello to less than three minutes before grope my body on a seedy street while dozens of people walked past. Willing to let him do anything he desired I was just happy to finally taste the sweet bliss of mutual lust.
Sensing that, I suppose, he stopped and looked around at the passing people frowning at us.
“Come here.” He said his voice strained and tense sounding all of a sudden.
The man took my hand and I staggered along behind him as he dragged me deliriously into an alley. Almost running, he pulled me along and took me behind a dumpster full of trash. Then he whirled me around and pressed my back against the wall of the building.
Panting with desire, I was dizzy with passion. I wanted him to fuck me but I wasn’t clear how that was supposed to happen. Pressing himself against me he began to kiss me, but now it was quick pecks all over my face. He kissed my forehead, cheeks, lips, nose and jaw. I felt adored and my body trembled on the verge of something I’d never felt before.
He pulled my sweater open and kissed down my neck. I’d seen that happening movies so often it thrilled me to finally feel what a mouth licking and kissing my neck was actually like. I understood now the rapturous expression on the faces of the women kaçak bahis in those shows. It was delicious. I loved the sensation of warm, wet mouth, then cooling spit as his mouth moved on.
Active hands pulled my sweater off and dropped it on the dirty ground, giving me a thrill of rebellion. My dress unzipped in the back and his fingers found and undid that zipper while his mouth found my unpierced earlobes and began to suck them, making me tremble with delight.
Distracted by that sensual feeling I hardly noticed what was happening as he pulled my dress off my shoulders and let it drop to the ground. With my dress pooled around my feet I was suddenly in my underwear in front of a stranger in an alley. It was fabulously sordid. My body tingled at being seen by him.
Those nimble fingers moved to my bra while his mouth found mine again and we feverishly kissed. I wanted to let him have anything he wanted as long as these feelings continued. It was amazing how far I was willing to go in order to feel the touch of a man.
Then my bra was undone and dropping from my arms. Next his mouth found my erect nipples and I shuddered and whimpered as pleasure keen and profound, enlivened my body. The feel of his mouth suckling and licking my hard buttons was sharp on the flesh of my breast, but I could also feel it echoing in my sex, the arches of my feet, my spine and exploding in my brain.
I couldn’t believe how all-encompassing the rapture of it felt. I’d never felt any kind of happiness doing… anything… that could compete with this utter bliss. As his mouth left one nipple, his hand would replace it and massage the small mound. The air was chilly where his mouth left my skin damp, and my nipples ached beautifully.
I opened my eyes and watched a couple walk by twenty feet from me. The risk of being caught naked was as salacious an idea as I had been able to comprehend growing up. I had eyes on me constantly but was never allowed to be seen nude. Now I was vulgarly exposed and it felt both thrilling and obscene.
It was the depravity of letting this stranger defile my virginal flesh that egged me on rather than shame me into stopping. Every voice in my head- and there were many- telling me not to do this only urged my lustful rebellion further, enflaming my passion.
When the man’s fingers delved between my thighs, shocking me, my labia thrummed with sensation. I opened my legs, defying every instinct I had to preserve that special holy of holies. I wanted my virginity gone. It was an unwanted symbol of my childhood that weighed on my mind constantly.
I knew that there were those that wanted me to be a saint and be a healer, but I wasn’t special. I wasn’t God’s chosen, I was just a woman who wanted to feel passion the same as anyone.
As this stranger groped my sex, I bit my lip against the tide of desire that threatened to spill out of me in songs of celebration. This was so much better than church. He pulled down my panties, my last bastion of modesty, and I lifted my legs free of them, glad to finally be utterly nude, baptised anew as a slut.
The man, my lover, grinned and said, “I haven’t seen pubic hair in a while. Cute.” And he buried his face in my blonde muff and I felt his tongue lick up along the groove of my sex, making my legs weak. I felt more vulnerable than when I went to the doctor, more violated than being groped in a crowd pushing against us at an airport or public event, and more lecherous than I thought possible.
As he lapped at my sex, the place I peed from, I shivered with delight and depravity. The more I thought about how filthy and immoral this was, the more my body shivered with bliss. I kept my eyes open and darting around. I was watching people pass the ends of the alley, and watching the top of his head and face as his mouth delighted me exquisitely.
This was having your pussy eaten. I could now tie the phrase to an action.
I really enjoyed having my pussy eaten!
Suddenly things got even more amazing when his slippery tongue found my clitoris. I had discovered that little marvel very early, but having someone else stimulating it was beyond anything I had ever dreamed of.
My hips jumped and I mewled my pleasure behind closed lips. His hands clamped down on my hips, holding me against the chill wall, and he focused his attention on my overwrought little nubbin. I lifted a hand and put a knuckle in my mouth to stop from laughing, or crying or something.
Yet I had this profound need to be witnessed. I couldn’t comprehend how one little body could contain so much rapture without sharing it with my fans.
I was born into a celebrity family, it does warp you.
Once I was more or less able to keep my hips from jumping as he suckled my button, his hands went back to groping my body. He kneaded my buttocks, lewdly prying them apart. Then one hand reached up for my breasts and pinched my nipples and fondled my small mounds.
Content to allow him to take his pleasure from me, I relished his attention and simply submitted to whatever whim moved him. Soon my sex was dripping wet and slippery. It felt delicious and perverted to see my juices glistening on his face.
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