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A Girl Alone

If you want a cute little story about fucking and sucking go elsewhere—this ain’t it. This is a real story about a real woman, trading what she had for what she needed to survive.

A Girl Alone

A Girl Alone

By Matthew Dyne

Last night I read a story that got me thinking. It was about a girl like me who helped her neighbor fix his house. He was a nice guy, and even though he was older, in his mid-forties, she was attracted. It was obvious he was attracted, too. He tried not to show it, but he couldn’t keep from looking at her and especially down her shirt as she bent over, helping to put flashing around his foundation. He paid her well, but what the girl liked most was that the man recognized she was doing a good job, and he praised her for it. The girl never had a father.

In the evening the girl came back to the man’s house and told him she was a virgin and didn’t want to be, anymore. She wasn’t a virgin, though she’d only been with two other guys. She told the man she was a virgin, because she didn’t know if he would go to bed with her, because of their ages, unless she gave him an excuse to do something extra nice for her. That was the kind of guy he was.

The man gave the girl a bath, and then he made love to her. My first time wasn’t nearly that wonderful.


Now, I work as a nurse’s aide at a hospital, whenever I can get the hours. I’m in a prenursing course, at school, and yesterday I had four hours of classes, and at night I worked a twelve hour shift. I got home an hour ago and had a bite to eat and showered. I’ve got a two o’clock this afternoon. That’s what my days are like. I’ve got to get some sleep.


I ran away from home when I was fifteen. For a year I lived wherever I could. I begged for money and slept on the ground in parks, in an abandoned car for a month, places like that—nice accommodations. Then, while I was begging, I met a woman who took an interest in me. She took me home, fed me, cleaned me up, and had sex with me. When I was reading the story about the guy giving the girl a bath I remembered Carrie, because she started her love making while I was in the tub. We had a great afternoon, and then her husband came home, and we had a threesome.

I lived with them until I decided to go back to school. They weren’t interested in having a daughter, so I went to Child Services and was placed in a foster home. After I had been there a couple of months I started writing stories. I would write them and throw them away, but then I discovered Nifty. Nifty will publish anything. It was exciting to see something I wrote, actually in print. I put my first story in the Lesbian-Incest section. It was about having sex with my younger sister. I don’t have a younger sister or any sister or brother.

I got a lot of feedback on my stories, some from good people some from assholes. I also wrote a couple of stories as Carrie, same idea only from an older point of view—an older woman with a young woman.


I ran away two months before my sixteenth birthday. I left home with a small backpack full of stuff, mainly clothes. I was terrified—afraid during the day and afraid to go to sleep at night. For five or six months, I don’t know exactly how long, I didn’t stay with anyone. I slept in old cars, under bushes, wherever.

The night I left home I was picked up by a trucker. I lied and said I had an aunt in the direction he was heading. He let me off when we got where I said I was going. He was understanding and nice and didn’t hit me up for sex. And I didn’t have experience with sex, just kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend.


My mother was an addict. If she was at the breakfast table, at all, she had a beer in her hand. She used whatever drugs she could get.

My mother supported us by getting some welfare and working a little. She mopped floors in a school, stocked shelves in a grocery, and was a maid in a motel until they found out she was fucking guests for money. But what qualifications does a woman with no education, little experience, and on booze and drugs have to offer?

Mom loved to fuck. I inherited that from her. She quit the little work she got, because it interfered with her night life, but I doubt that any amount of money was ever agreed to before the act. She got whatever the fucker wanted to give her, if anything.

I saw what my mother’s addiction did to her. I remember it well, so there is no way I will ever be an addict to anything. There is one exception. I’m an addict to sex, just like her. I was a prostitute, and to some degree still am, but I always made sure how much my partner was going to pay for the blow job or fuck or cunt lick. Now I’m more of a kept woman, so to speak. I use kept woman as a way to distinguish from a prostitute. What I mean is, I have a few friends that I enjoy sex with who help me when money is short, but I don’t ask for money every time. As a result of friendship and sex I occasionally ask them for help.

I also share an apartment with another girl, but her schedule is almost the opposite of mine, so we only see each other a couple times a week. She loves me to bury my face in her pussy. I help her, with my tongue, but she doesn’t help me out financially. We just share sex and expenses.


When the trucker left me off the only things on my mind were staying away from home and what happened that made me leave. I didn’t know where I was going or how I was going to get there. I thought about a couple of friends, but it was late, and I knew their parents would just being me back to my mother. Whatever I saw was scary and bleak.

I was hungry as hell, and the truck stop, where I was let off, had an all night diner. I went through their garbage and found something to eat and slept on the ground next to the building.

The next morning was like the beginning of a lot of mornings. My first urgency was food. One of the gals that worked in the kitchen found me going through the cans and brought me some cereal and toast. She didn’t offer anything else, but that was wonderful. I got to thinking about where I was going to stay, but I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t want to go to the police for fear they would send me home, so I wandered around, looking, for what I didn’t know, just looking.

I spent several days like that, maybe a week, maybe longer, always going back to the truck stop. Every morning the gal would bring me breakfast. One morning it was a different person, an older guy the woman had called. He was a counselor from Children’s Services. He was nice, and he told me he would help me, but he said I would have to go to the facility.

I was still afraid. I told him, “No.”

He said I could leave anytime I wanted. Then the gal came out and chatted with him, and she told me he was okay and helped a bunch of kids get things straight, so I went.

I had my first shower in I don’t know how long, a real meal, and I sleep in a real bed. There were two other girls there, and we sort of bonded. I still see one of them, once in awhile. The other one died of an OD after she went back home.

The system was and probably still is fucked up. I was put in a foster home that was abusive. How they got to be a foster family is beyond me. Mom, dad, daughter, and son treated me like shit, like I was there to be their slave. The son was eight or nine, but he had been trained to be like the others. His sister was my age but a pig. I’ve thought about going back and seeing if they are still with the program. I sure hope not.


I’m comfortable with myself. I’m proud of things, such as I’m not addicted to booze or drugs, I’m working hard to make a place for myself, I haven’t caused anyone any problems, and I don’t take shit, though I try to do that in a good way.

When I first went to work at the hospital the head nurse was a bitch. She gave everyone a hard time, and all the girls said to watch out for her. I was only there a couple of days when she got on my case, because I hadn’t done something right, some little thing, like maybe I didn’t get a bed pan dry after I washed it.

I asked her if I could chat with her for a minute, and she said okay, and we went into her office. I told her that I appreciated her concern, but that I didn’t like working in an environment that was like a bed of nails, that I was there to learn and was eager to do so, and that I’d had enough shit in my life and didn’t need any more. “So, please,” I said, “if I’ve done something wrong correct me, but make it a learning experience, not discipline.”

She looked at me for a minute or two with no expression on her face. I figured I was out of there. Then she smiled and said, “I think we are going to get along just fine.” And we have. She’s getting along better with everyone.


When I wrote that I had no experience with sex other than kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend, I wasn’t completely honest. I don’t want to talk about that, yet, but sometimes I wonder how much of my sex addiction is my nature and how much comes from experiences? Everyone is into sex, more or less, but experiences confirm and magnify nature.

The woman who took me home when I was begging, I’m sure she intended to have sex with me, and I’m sure sharing me with her husband was part of her plan, too. She told me about other girls and boys, even younger than I, that she and her husband had shared. Why they didn’t get caught I have no idea, but remembering being with boys and girls and playing around, I’m sure it was only a matter of time before I had willing sex, anyway.


In my book, anything I do that doesn’t hurt me or someone else is okay. If a girl having sex with a dog bothers you, don’t read this next part. I have a close relationship with my dog Dude.

Imagine, you’re a single girl. You come home form school or work, and it’s been a really shitty day, real bad. You’re tired, pissed off, and horny, and this big black buffun greets you and wants to be petted and wants to cheer you up.

You head for a shower, but while undressing you feel this cold nose on your butt, and you turn around, and you feel this cold nose near your pussy.

The nose is insistent and pushes, so you back up until you flop backward onto the bed. Then the nose pushes its way between your thighs, and a rough tongue comes out and starts licking.

At first it feels uncomfortable, because it is like sandpaper, but pretty soon the sandpaper feels soooo goooood you spread wider.

The tongue keeps lapping. Then you notice an angry red cock hanging from the underside of said buffun, and soon his front legs are up beside you, and his drooling mouth and rough tongue are only inches away from your face. His angry red cock is stabbing, trying to find your love nest. And when he does, in about three humps the whole thing is ramming in and out of your cunt, today doing the missionary.

Your friend is a great, if brief, lover and pounds your pussy for only a few minutes before you feel a big baseball being stuffed into your cunt, and then you feel hot, hot juice filling your channel.

You stay tied together for about ten minutes, and what started out feeling uncomfortable begins to feel pretty damn good before it starts loosing size. Then he pulls out, and his cum oozes out of you.

The one thing I have taught him, yet, I’m working on it, is to clean me up before he cleans himself.


I’ve had Dude since he was a puppy. He was about a year and a half before he gave any indication he was interested. If I call him puppy he knows I’m interested. If I call him Dude he knows I’m not. He only expresses interest if I initiate it.

I was on a Yahoo chat site talking with other girls about dogs, and several said they can’t get their dogs interested, at all, even if they play with their dogs’ cocks first, or anything.

My thought is that dogs are a lot like men—some like doing it and some don’t.

I’m glad that Adam and Eve got it on. I don’t think they got thrown out over a fucking apple. Sex is entertaining, but I’ve discovered not all men are as horny as they’re made out to be. It’s difficult to gauge that, in most men. That’s the main reason I’ll probably never marry. Some men would be willing to have all kinds of sex before they’re committed but not afterward.

There are two kinds of sex—recreational and business. I can’t pinpoint when I realized that sex had monetary value. I don’t think I ever thought: tonight I’m going out to make some money fucking guys in the ally behind the bar. I never looked at sex as income, just a way to survive, trading what I had for what I needed.


I couldn’t register for school without a transcript from my old school, and I didn’t want my old school to know where I was, because I was afraid they would tell my mom. I probably would have needed her signature, too, but Children’s Services helped me with all that. I don’t know if my mom ever found out where I was, but if she did she didn’t give a damn. I never heard from her.

I got friendly with a girl in school, and for awhile I stayed with her and her mom. They were great, but the girl and I were very different. We lived in the same room, and she was a slob. Not that I’m perfect, but when she took off her clothes she couldn’t be bothered putting them in the hamper and stuff like that. But the biggest problem was me. I was used to being by myself, so, eventually, I moved on.

If I was going to get through school I had no choice other than to go back to Children’s Services.  No landlord would even talk to someone my age about renting a room. How would I pay for it, anyway?

I got a new counselor, and she agreed, after reading my history, that I could visit a home, for a few days, before I was assigned to it. That worked.

The new home was special. The husband was an electrician, and the wife worked part time selling advertising. They had no kids, so all their attention was focused on me, and there were never any sexual under or overtones. I was never touched, by either of them, except for a hug or a kiss.


I went to a fun party, last night. I was a naughty girl.

There were three other girls, at the party, but they all had boyfriends. I knew one of the couples, from school, but I didn’t know anyone else. Before we went, my friends told me that it might turn into a sex party, and they asked if I was willing. “Sure,” I said, thinking I would be with one guy or girl. I didn’t realize I would be the only unattached girl with eight or ten unattached guys.

When we got there I realized I was going to be a gang-bangee. I was reluctant to have to give attention to all the unattached guys, but I was only reluctant for about thirty seconds. Then I sucked every cock and was fucked by most of them. The guys liked that I wanted their cum in my mouth, not all over me. The party happened in the apartment of one of the guys. He said he should have sold tickets.

Would I do it again? Duh! As I said, I’m a sex addict. I need my fill of protein. Here’s how I look at it.

Some people are Steeler or Duke or NASCAR fans. I’m a sex fan. I love the feel of a cock in my mouth or hand or pussy. I love the feeling of giving pleasure to my partner and the excitement of pushing the limits, like by giving my date a hand job under the table in a restaurant.

Sometimes I do naughty things. Sometimes I’m more normal, like going out with an old friend or a new meet. But I don’t give a damn about being conventional. Life sure hasn’t been conventional with me. If I do something naughty, like getting gangbanged, I don’t care what guys think of me. I gave up worrying about that a long time ago, but that’s only part of who I am. There are other parts, like I work harder then anyone to get what I want.

Everyone has to do what they’re comfortable with. I’m a slut and a cum bucket and a whore. I like fucking, sucking, jerking, licking, swallowing…  Why? I just I like it. I like the taste of hard sweaty cock. I like getting nutrients when a man fills my mouth with cum. I like being loved as a sex object, and I like being loved as a friend. Can’t a person like being loved both ways? Does it have to be one or the other?

When I fucked those guys at the gangbang it was recreational. I was there of my own free will, and I enjoyed all those cocks, just for me. I wasn’t competing with other women. They compete with me. But I do it better.

When I give pleasure to a friend, that’s different. I enjoy giving my partner, man or woman, great sex. Sometimes, it’s the only way I have of thanking people.


My first time wasn’t like the girl getting the bath. It wasn’t wonderful like that. I was raped by my Mom’s drug dealer, because she didn’t have money to pay for her fix. It wouldn’t have done any good to report the rape—the dealer’s brother was a cop.

I was fifteen when the dealer did it. He wasn’t after anything. He knew we didn’t have anything, and if he hadn’t been drunk I’m not sure he would have done anything except wait for his money, like he had before. I don’t know, I just don’t know.

After he left my room, I had to shower to try to get his stink, or whatever, off me and, of course, out of me. While I was standing in the shower I decided I had to go. In half an hour I was out the door. That’s when I left home, but as far what caused me to leave, it wasn’t the rape. That was only the last straw.

That night, my Mom, drunk on her ass, begging for her drugs, offering her daughter in payment, thinking so little of me that I became a mere trading token—that’s why I left.


My mother didn’t care about me. I never knew my father, either. On my birth certificate, under Father, it says ‘Unknown.’ If my Mom knows who he is, and I don’t think she does, she hasn’t given me a clue. I talked with a couple of people who knew her back then, but all I find out is that she was much like she is today, except booze only—she hadn’t gotten into drugs yet. I don’t blame myself for not having a family, but I’m a bottle baby, for sure.

I have, really, I think, gotten over not having a father. Don’t get me wrong, my heart still twinges when I see a Dad being so obviously proud and happy with his kids. But, I guess, I’ve gotten over it, like getting over not being in a family with lots of money. Life goes on. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished and determined to live out my dreams.

I do admit that I am where I am because of sex. I’ve done whatever anyone wanted me to do, to get money for food or a place to stay or a grade, for that matter. A girl who goes out on her own as early as I did doesn’t have many employable skills, but she does have hands, lips, mouth, pussy, and ass, and if she learns how to use them well she can do okay.


I was thinking about times when I had sex with a guy, and he was kind of rough, and I kind of liked it that way. The night I was raped by my Mom’s dealer, he wasn’t mean, but I was scared and was fighting him, and he was rough. Now, I wonder, did I enjoy it? Is it possible that my mind won’t admit I liked it? The person being raped isn’t supposed to like it. I don’t know.


I wrote that not having a father is no big deal, but I just saw an AT&T ad for the first time, the one where Daddy goes on a business trip and finds his daughter’s teddy bear in his brief case. He sends his daughter pictures, via his cell phone to Mom’s computer, of the places he’s been. The last picture is from in front of their house when he gets home. I cried.

Yeah, it gets to me once in awhile. I don’t know anything about my father: who he is, what he did, nothing. I don’t think Mom does either. If I ever need to know, like for a medical reason, then I’ll be bothered, but I’ve got a lot of other things to worry about. He doesn’t know I exist.

When I was first taken in by Children’s Services a social worker told me that throughout life I would seek ways and people to replace what I thought a father and mother should have been. I haven’t spoken to my mother in four years, maybe more. I wonder if she loved me, even a little, back then. It’s a big question. Now, I don’t know if she’s even alive and if she is what her feelings are about me. If she continued doing meth, and stuff, like she was when I left, I’m sure she’s gone.

Categories: Abuse, Loneliness, Sex
  1. May 16, 2011 at 9:27 am

    really great sex appetite indeed !

  2. August 7, 2014 at 3:02 pm

    It’s remarkable in favor of me to have a website,
    which is useful designed for my knowledge. thanks admin

  3. September 24, 2014 at 1:13 pm

    You can ceertainly see you skilos in the article you write.
    The wordld hopes for more passionate wrters likle
    you wwho are not afraid to menton how they believe.
    Always go after your heart.

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