My Four Favorite Freaky Ways to Fuck

* * * * *

Author’s Note:

Those of you who have already read some of my other stories posted at this site may recognize specific passages in this story. In writing this story, I have chosen to make use of several excerpts–either copied over verbatim, or in most cases, edited–from other stories that I have already written. I felt like there was no need for me to “reinvent the wheel,” just so that I could share this particular facet of my life story with you.

* * * * *



My Four Favorite Freaky Ways to Fuck
by slick_chick


* * * * *

From the time I had my very first menstrual cycle, all the way up until the time that I finally reached menopause (I was in my mid-40’s when that “less-than-pleasant event” happened), I had always felt like I was a true freak-of-nature. Like something was “wrong” with me. I had no idea why I always craved sex so much. But I couldn’t deny the fact that I did.

And I realized that I was a “sexaholic” at a very early age. But due to the fact that I was growing up as an oversexed female in the United States of America–with its deeply-ingrained Puritan cultural roots–I was left with no other viable choice, but to live a double life.

God, I was one horny little bitch! I pretty much stayed in a horny state most of the time. Of course, nobody really knew this, but me.

Since I happened to be born as a female, I have always had the natural tendency to keep my much-stronger-than-average sex drive repressed and well-hidden, because I wanted to be thought of as being a “nice girl,” instead of a “wanton slut.” And in the United States, it has been my personal experience that a post-pubescent girl automatically gets labeled as being either one, or the other (by both her male and her female peers); and that this behind-the-back, black-or-white, blanket categorization is bestowed upon girls and women in direct response to the level of sexuality that they outwardly display.

But I was also always on the lookout for those “special times” when it was safe for me to “let the tiger out of its cage,” so to speak. And that can be taken both figuratively and literally, since you could think of “the tiger” as being my hairy pussy, and “its cage” as being my cotton panties.

And that’s just the way that things were–and had always been–for me, ever since I was a young girl. And I’m positive that there are a lot of you oversexed women out there in America who must feel close to the same way that I did. Let’s face it. I knew that I wasn’t the only oversexed female in this country. And therefore, I couldn’t possibly be the only one who went through this kind of double life stuff.

I feel that I need to mention here that being an oversexed woman is not the same thing as being a nymphomaniac, even though they are both forms of female hyper-sexuality. According to one Internet-hosted dictionary, “Nymphomania is characterized by recurrent sexual intercourse with different male partners, promiscuously and without falling in love (but not as a paid prostitute or call girl).” Therefore, I did not fit the definition of a nymphomaniac, because I was in a monogamous, loving sexual relationship for years with my live-in boyfriend, who would later become my husband.

I suppose that the best way for me to start my story is from the beginning. I was born in 1953 into a lower middle class Hispanic family of Mexican origin. But I don’t look Mexican-American at all (in spite of the fact that the rest of my immediate family definitely does). Instead, I look like I’m European-Caucasian.

Throughout most of my childhood I was a tomboy, in every sense of the word. And I had been a nightly bed-wetter for as far back as I can remember. I was also a very rebellious child.

I’m not sure exactly when the oversexed part of me actually started to “kick in.” However, I do remember that throughout my early childhood, my mother was always chiding me and ordering me to stop playing with myself, because I had a natural tendency to reach down between my legs and hand-massage my crotch, right in front of other family members. I even did it when I was out in public; which I am sure was an on-going source of frustration and embarrassment for my mother.

Looking back on my younger years, I can identify two distinct pivotal events that were very influential in the development of my unique sexuality.

The first pivotal event took place when I was only 11 years old. It took the form of me having my very first period and reaching puberty.

That “totally unexpected event” scared me half to death! I had no idea what was happening to me at the time. All I knew was that my pussy was bleeding; and that no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. I thought I was literally going to bleed to death. I kid you not.

And to make matters even worse, when I frantically ran up to my mother and told her what was happening to me down between my legs, her response was to roughly grab me by the upper arm and drag me along with her into the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the bathroom door, quickly wet down a washcloth under the sink faucet, shoved it into my hand, and sternly ordered me to “deal with it,” as she was leaving the bathroom and then closing the bathroom door behind her. And by the way, “deal with it” was the only thing my mother said to me in the bathroom that day.

The next thing I knew, while I was naked from the waist down and busy cleaning up my pussy with the damp washcloth, the bathroom door all of the sudden opened up just wide enough so that my mother could stick her forearm through the door opening to quickly toss an already-open package of feminine napkins into the bathroom, before she yanked the bathroom door shut again.

Mind you, my mother didn’t even show me the common courtesy of knocking before she opened that bathroom door. Nor did she ever bother to tell me later what a menstrual period was, or explain to me why I was having one. As you can well imagine, to this day, I do not have warm fuzzy feelings when it comes to my own mother.

Perhaps, the worst part of all this was that the feminine napkins that my mother gave me simply didn’t do the trick for me. You see, I have always experienced extremely heavy periods, and my very first period was no exception to this. In fact, it ranks as being one of the heaviest periods that I have ever had. And to me, it seemed like I went through what was left of that box of feminine napkins in a heartbeat.

So I went back to my mother–because frankly, I really didn’t have anyone else to turn to–and I told her that I was going through those napkins like crazy. And she gave me her personal box of tampons, and told me use those, instead of the napkins. And so I did.

And thankfully, the tampons worked as advertised, and finally stopped me from bleeding like a stuck pig. Of course, I first had to read the instructions on the side of the box to figure out how to actually go about using the tampons.

Once again, keep in mind that I was only 11 years old, and that this was my very first period ever, and that I was forced to resort to using tampons up inside of my virgin vagina in order to control my super-heavy menstrual flow. At the time, I still had absolutely no idea why my pussy had all of the sudden started bleeding in the first place. Nor did I have a clue about why my pussy just kept on bleeding over the course of the next five days, before automatically stopping on its own.

The reason why I listed this first-ever period of mine as being a pivotal event in my sexual development is that, before this pivotal event took place, I would normally focus my attention on my own pussy for just a few minutes at a time. But once this pivotal event got underway, my own pussy seemed to be the only thing that I thought about for five whole days straight.

And even after that first-ever period of mine was finally over with, I still continued to focus my thoughts on my own pussy much more frequently, and for much longer periods of time–which naturally led to my previously-innocent, childhood genital explorations “magically” transforming themselves into adult-style, orgasm-oriented masturbations.

And for several years after I had gone through that unnecessarily-traumatic, first-ever period experience, I continued to remain very naive and innocent for my age.

Back in the 1960’s, there were no school-sponsored sex education classes for me to attend. And for all practical purposes, the Internet didn’t even exist yet. So I was pretty much left to learn about sex on my own, from wherever I could find the information. And thanks to my strict Spanish Roman-Catholic upbringing–in conjunction with my two parents, who steadfastly refused to discuss things like “the birds and the bees” with me–I lived a very sheltered life, and therefore didn’t have much access to that kind of information.

Then one day, out of the clear blue, an older boy named Freddy came along and taught me more about sex in 15 to 20 minutes, than I had managed to learn throughout my entire life, up to that point in time. And that was the second pivotal event that took place in my life, back when I was a young lady.

Here’s a quick synopsis of what happened that fateful day:

On a hot and sunny Sunday afternoon, Freddy unexpectedly cornered me in a small bathroom at his and his mother’s house (which just happened to be located out on the back yard my own family’s house). And then he sexually molested me for an extended period of time, before he finally raped me.

And I didn’t do anything to try to stop Freddy from having sex with me. I didn’t try to talk him out of it. I didn’t put up a fight, or scream for help, or try to run away from him.

Instead, I cooperated with Freddy the entire time, as I was letting him take my virginity. In fact, to be honest with you, I actually did a lot more than just “cooperate” with Freddy. But that’s a whole other story, and one that I have already written about in depth.

Looking back on everything, I can honestly say that, without Freddy, I know I wouldn’t be the person that I am today. My single, unexpected sexual encounter with Freddy in the bathroom that Sunday afternoon ended up drastically changing the very core of my sexuality. And it permanently altered my sexual desires and preferences to this very day, naturally causing me to become a huge fan of rape-fantasies; as well as pure, raw, animalistic-style sex (in other words, the same kind of sex that Freddy and I ended up having together in the bathroom that day).

Despite the fact that I was merely cute-looking, and definitely not gorgeous, I went on to have a string of boyfriends throughout high school, and during my first year at college. By this point in my life, I was definitely a girly girl (I especially loved wearing mini-skirts with sheer pantyhose underneath), and so I no longer looked or acted like a tomboy. But I also wasn’t a “goody two-shoes” either. I did my fair share of French-kissing and mutual body-groping with my boyfriends.

But outwardly, I always played the role of the “nice girl” who had a reputation to keep. And I let every one of my boyfriends know up-front that I was a virgin (liar, liar, pants on fire!), and that I wanted to avoid having sexual intercourse until I got married, and let my groom fuck me on my wedding night.

However, the real truth was that, once I became sexually excited enough while making out with my boyfriends in the back seat of a car, my rational mind would go right out the window, to be quickly replaced by my living-in-the-moment state-of-mind, where it really didn’t matter to me how “far” my boyfriends went with me. In fact, thanks to my adolescent sexual intercourse with Freddy in the bathroom, I yearned to feel a guy’s dick–and especially his sperm–in my pussy so badly that I could hardly stand it.

Ironically, none of my boyfriends ever “took advantage of me” during a date.