Holly’s Tales…Part 1

Hope you enjoy, it gets drawn out a little. Going to add these in states if there’s enough interest. My first attempt and I’ve been allowed to post it here, so here goes…

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Holly’s Tales

I’m sitting in a large, black wooden chair in his office, my hospital gown exposing my bare skin to the cold wood every time I try to get comfortable. My therapist looks at me. I can’t stand him. I know what he wants to happen here, today. He’s’ been asking me for months. What he wants to hear so he can go home and jack off to his notes in the bathroom alone because his sex life dried up years ago. A virtual Sahara in the bedroom I’m sure. I could fill his head with more than he bargained for. I don’t want to. I want to lie and make up something, but I haven’t been allowed to lie in over five years. Honestly I’m not sure if I know how anymore. Yet, the courts ordered this circus and if I ever want out, he’s going to have to get what he wants.

He writes something down after looking at the clock over his black framed glasses, his pudgy cheeks pushing them higher than he’d like, and he resets them to look at me again. He smiles. I want to vomit, or preferably, run.

“Sarah…”

I sigh. He wants to push my buttons already and I haven’t been here for five minutes. I look down…at my hospital slippers…the standard office clock wall…anywhere but at him.

“Sarah…we need to start communicating here.”

“My name’s not Sarah.” I mutter. *She decided on my name and that’s not my name.*

“Sarah, please…”

I look up and meet his gaze. The reflection of the fluorescent lights above obscure his pupils. I’m sure mine aren’t. I’m sure he can see how tired I am, the emptiness I know I’m projecting back at his round red little face, his nose strained with the broken blood vessels of a vodka lunch for the last twenty years. He eventually looks back down at his notes.

“Sarah, we’ve gone over this. You’re Sarah Paulson, from Richland Hills, Texas.” He doesn’t look up from his notes. “You were born on August eight, in nineteen ninety-six. You’re now nineteen years old; you were an honors student in high school with a full blown scholarship to Stanford University in California and you disappeared eighteen months ago the night you graduated. Three months ago you were found tied up in a sex dungeon unconscious, dripping with blood from being whipped and your…dominatrix, I assume?…laying dead at your feet and the only person who has any idea of what happened is you. ”

He takes his glasses off and leans back and continues, “The court order has you here indefinitely, Sarah. Cooperate, and we can move forward.”

I shift in the chair, the chill of the wood on my back again and I wince. He’s wrong though. I’m not the one that knows what happened. *She knew.* Her last words to me a gentle reminder that she’s still in control*, “Sarah is dead, but you will tell them anything they ask you for.”*

“My name’s not Sarah.” It’s a meek, feeble voice. I’m looking down at my feet.

*She would have never allowed that.*

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and feigns an exasperated sigh. It pains him, but after three months of banging his head on a brick wall he gives in. “Holly…”

*My heart pounds, I don’t want to.*

I take a deep breath to try to relax, close my eyes, and I give him what he wants. *Good girl.*

​

I have no idea who my dad might be. I popped out of mom a few weeks early. I was so early that they didn’t give me much of a chance at first. Blame it on the alcohol her liver swam in or the drugs coursing through her veins on any given night, regardless I didn’t get much of a fair shake coming into to the world. While I recovered and am otherwise normal, I only push five feet in heels on a good night. They took me from her at the start, but however the courts in Alabama work, she got me back after a couple of years after she proved she had cleaned up. Manipulating the system, though, was about the only thing she was good at especially if it meant money in her hand. Unfortunately that never translated to food in my stomach or toys or decent clothes that wouldn’t get me side looks from other kids.

To be honest I really don’t even know that much about my mom. She was a high school drop out that turned to dancing, drugs, and eventually prostitution to get by. I’m pretty sure my biological father is some overweight, middle class cubicle working schmuck who managed to scrape up and hide an extra hundred in cash from the wife over a few months for a few minutes of instant regret. I don’t recall many fond moments with her. On my birthdays I might have had a cupcake and some new underwear. I have long since stopped dwelling on it. She isn’t winning any *Mom Of The Year* awards.

When the stripping had to stop because of gravity, and the various warrants would rack up for misdemeanors, she landed cash paying bar jobs here and there. At times she’d be juggling up to three gigs, and we’d move from town to town and I’d move from school to school. Like my attendance record, her choice in boyfriends tended to be spotty at best. Some of her screws treated me ok. Some of them didn’t. Some of them liked to hit. Most of the time they were drunk and smoking weed. Sometimes they would stand and scream at me and smack me if I did something like sneeze around their weed. I don’t know why I cared, but Mom would get it worse if I ran, so I would simply freeze, remain silent and try not to make things worse by talking back or doing just about anything. That saved me many beatings. That is, until mom met Greg.

Greg was a drifter and a loser she latched onto one night at a bar when I was thirteen. He was an angry but thin man with narrow green eyes just short of six feet with wispy thin red hair, and a nasty scar on his right cheek that made him look far more terrifying than he actually was. If he weighed more than a hundred and forty pounds I wouldn’t believe it. But, he had a regular supply of weed and other drugs, a hat’s when mom got hooked on coke. That’s also when the whippings started.

Greg took over our lives. He didn’t have a job, and would always force my mom to hand over any assistance checks coming in. He would steal, and sell drugs, and he and my mom would smoke and snort their lives away. When mom wasn’t down at the Waffle House fending off the hands on her ass, she was usually passed out drunk. In doing so, it opened the door for him to abuse me. Nothing I did was ever good enough, and it usually ended in a beating. Spill the milk, a belt whipping. Sneeze while he’s on the phone, a belt whipping. Flush the toilet while he’s in the shower, a belt whipping. I tried running away but he turned it on my mom. I didn’t care at first, but she couldn’t work if she was marked up. I gave in. I would capitulate and bow my head and always try to be good. I suppose I’m fortunate he never forced himself on me, but I know now that standing there naked being whipped with him having an erection in his stained white underwear briefs wasn’t much different in terms of what he was enjoying.

The bad whippings would take days to heal. I knew better than to let anyone notice. More than once we had moved in the middle of the night because someone had noticed and the authorities had been out. Usually we moved because the cops were getting sick and tired of Greg. We had bounced around a few places in Texas until Greg managed to buy some clean piss and somehow fooled a school district into giving him a janitorial job up around the Dallas/Fort Worth area, a little suburb called Watauga. He was still selling drugs of course, even to students, and mom was still coked up or drunk most of the time, but she’d found another job at a Waffle House and would at least bring in a little food from time to time. I was about to start high school. We stayed in a one bedroom apartment in a rough little area of town, and I was given what would normally be a small dining room. I had a sleeping bag, some cloths and toiletries, my pillow, and Holly the Christmas Rabbit, a little purple stuffed rabbit too old and tattered to recognize anymore, but she was the one thing that I had always managed to hold onto.

With Greg actually working during the day and being forced to get out at night to sell his wares, the whippings cut back a bit. As for me, high school changed everything. I was able to get there early, and stay almost as late as I want with various programs. As sick as it sounds, I have to credit Greg with the improvement in my educational career. With no other options that seemed viable, I decided to I needed to get out on my own. As a result my grades improved, and I decided to join the volleyball team for even more excuses not to go back to the cigarette and weed smelling apartment that could go days without power because the bill wasn’t paid. I looked for excuse after excuse to avoid going home. I made some friends, although I wasn’t popular…and I had to keep them at bay at bit because of the overwhelming fear that I’d just disappear into the night again without ever having a chance to say good-bye.

Volleyball turned out to be my forte. I may have been small by any standard, but I had powerful legs. I never sat in front of a tv; I was usually out walking, running from bullies, from the cops after stealing something, from Greg, from other boyfriends that mom never even bothered to learn their names. I could move around the court and track the ball quicker than anyone. It made me a great setter. So great, we nearly won state my junior year. Stanford offered me a full blown scholarship before my senior year even started. There were other offers, but that was a no brainer. California was about as far away from my nightmare of a life as I could hope for. To even think I was going to college was something I had never considered.

When I turned sixteen in my sophomore year I was able to start working legally. I would spend the next 2 years pouring coffee as a barista at “you know where”. That job allowed me to join a small, local fitness gym that was open twenty four hours a day but entry required a key card, so it wasn’t always operated with an employee there. The important thing was the locker room and showers. The only reason I ever went home was to actually have a place to sleep, and even then I managed to find alternatives from time to time. The gym owner would turn a blind eye if I could a few winks here and there. I could walk from school to work to the gym and home fairly easily. I could have joined the national chain gym even closer to the coffee house where I worked, but they were too expensive for my meager budget. Of course, then I wouldn’t have met *her.*

I turned eighteen the August I became a senior. Due to my rather erratic attendance history, I wound up being one of the older, although still shortest, seniors that year. That I was now of legal age for just about anything may have made all the difference in the world in how things unfolded that year.

Due to my volleyball scholarship to Stanford I spent as much time at school and at the gym as possible to pass the time and to ensure I burned the bridge when I left. My favorite exercises were leg routines. Squats, presses, calf curls, you name it. Being short gave me an advantage, and I gained mass in my legs and developed quite the nice derriere as a result. I didn’t have much of a bust, maybe a mid B size on a padded bra day. They were still cute, and I had good definition but not overly so. The attention I would get from the boys at school told me I was good looking.

My sex life in high school was akin to watching Homer Simpson navigate doing his own laundry. I tended to attract jerks for some reason, but then I guess I don’t have the genes for picking good ones. Perhaps the silver lining here was they were at least good looking jerks who turn on the charm up front. Mom would pick from the trash heap behind the bar and be a happy little trash panda begging for more. Unfortunately, it always led to the usual desires horny teenage boys have. There probably needs to be nothing said about how damaging to my sex life back then Greg had been, standing there in his stained, erection filled underwear hitting me with a belt. Even though by the time I had turned eighteen and he hadn’t hit me in nearly two years, my sexual desires and experiences were lacking. The few boyfriends I maintained I kept at bay with blow jobs and hand jobs. They wanted more and I didn’t. While I liked the dick, I didn’t like the dick it was connected to.

Sexual orientation for me in my teens was a hurricane of frustrating emotions and experiences. While not exactly a pariah due to my success on the court, I wasn’t exactly at the center of the social scene either. The boys I blew but didn’t fuck would talk, and their failed exploits turned into conquests of victory out of my earshot. I had a reputation as a slut in certain circles and as a result the girls didn’t trust me to be around them and their boyfriends. If they only knew I didn’t want to fuck boys. I didn’t want to have much to do with boys in general, but the south isn’t kind to that way of thinking. Plus, I still had an attraction to a penis. The only time I had ever been fucked was my freshman year by a trans boy transitioning to a female and was on hormones. She went by Jackie, and dressed and looked by all accounts a pretty girl. She was a powerful personality, strong and sure of herself; strong enough to come out as transsexual in a Texas high school. I was more drawn to her than any other boy, her overwhelming strength, her sweet scent, the caressing yet commanding touches. She kept herself clean and groomed, and seeing her hairless, naked body was the only time I remember getting wet other than through masturbation after being punished.

Greg’s whippings taught me shame and humiliation, along with the fear of rape. While he never said anything about that, he never touched me with his bare hands, I never knew if each beating was going to escalate. He was hard and turned on and I was young and terrified. As a result, the fear of sex with a man took root like a cancerous tumor and metastasized throughout my body. The whippings weren’t always bad, but sometimes he’d get drunk and then he could hit pretty hard. A couple of the severe ones left me curled up in a fetal position in my small corner of the room. That’s when I discovered masturbation.

My fingers found my button once when my hands were simply between my legs trying to hold myself together and make myself smaller in the corner, and the sudden influx of pleasure helped to override the pain. I would literally rub for hours and between the pleasure and the pain, a hypnotizing effect that would send me floating in a strange, fantastical black space of recurring stars that would dim and fluctuate, and colors that would flow in different shapes and hues. I didn’t masturbate outside of the disconnection I needed after the beatings. I didn’t know what an orgasm was or felt like at that time. Years would pass before that occurred. But, it was my escape from reality. Unfortunately not even Jackie could make me orgasm, even when I let her take my virginity.

Despite the world in which I grew up in, I escaped the cliché sexual abuses I easily could have been subjected to. All of the elements were there; abusive boyfriends, drugs, crime, shitty neighborhoods, all night parties. And yet, I didn’t give my first blow job until my freshman year. I lived at the libraries when I could, and stole books when I could get away with it because I couldn’t get a library card. I always returned them when I was done, though. That’s where I met Jackie. She, too, found the library a nice respite from the constant teasing and intolerance from the masses. We hit it off right away.

We were together about a month. She taught me how to put on makeup, do up my hair, take care of my body. All the things a mom should have done. Maybe she took advantage of my shyness and tendencies to obey, but it wasn’t threatening. She was forceful, but guiding and compassionate. When her hands grabbed my head and down to her lap, I didn’t resist. Her cock was in my mouth and I liked it. Hers was the first I had actually seen…sometimes I wonder if I should have thanked Greg for never taking his out and ruining the sight of an actual penis. Hers was a good size, nearly six inches. She was circumcised with a nice purple head bulging like that of a mushroom. It wasn’t too thick, but she had to guide me into what to do. I learned how to give a blow job, although it was more like a blow attempt. I gagged and drooled throughout most of it. What I wasn’t prepared for was the explosion of cum in my mouth. Even though she said she was “about to cum”, there was nothing she could have said to prepare me. The taste wasn’t pleasant, a little salty… but oddly enough, I enjoyed it. It was from her. As we lay there together, she slowly slid her fingers down between my legs. She brought her hand back up, the clear sticky lines of my juices between her fingers. “Jesus, you’re fucking wet as hell.”

I let her fuck me a few minutes later after she got hard again. Even without a condom I didn’t hesitate to let her. I couldn’t get enough of her touch . It hurt at first when she broke through my hymen. I was laying on my back with my legs around her as she penetrated, and I closed my eyes and arched back, my mouth open in a silent scream of pain. Her tongue found my open mouth and her soft lips closed around mine as she began slowly moving her hips, her swollen member sliding in and out. Pain became pleasure and I was hers. I remember opening my eyes with her tongue in my mouth and her throbbing cock between my soaked lips. I wanted nothing more than for her to continue as long as she wanted. I would do anything for her. When she asked, “Can I cum in you?” I didn’t hesitate to close my eyes and wrap my legs around her to pull her in closer. She finished. I don’t know how long she lay on top of me, but I was in my own state of bliss. She promised me she would bring me to an orgasm next time. She was beaten into a coma three days later by a group of bullies who were never identified. I knew who they were, but was told no one would miss me either. I never saw Jackie again.

I maintained boyfriends for protection and a heterosexual image that helped get me through the rest of high school. My focus was also on my grades and volleyball. The Stanford scholarship was everything. It meant a real life ahead of me. I was dating a Chris towards the end of my senior year. He was the twin brother of one of the girls on my team, and a good player for the boy’s team as well. By the time I dated Chris, I was getting better at picking boyfriends and as they come he was ok. He hung around for the blowjobs which I didn’t mind because he had a cock that reminded me of Kristie’s and he kept himself clean. He was getting antsy to fuck because we were graduating in a month and he knew I was headed to California. He wasn’t the worst jerk in the world, he had only slapped me once and that was because he thought I had looked at someone else. I was, so it was a bit justified. Again, I liked the dick, just not the dick’s owners, and Amy had turned into something resembling a friend, so I literally swallowed and used him for my front and the free meals that he came with.

Volleyball season had ended in the fall. I wouldn’t play again until I was in California and away from the nightmare my life had been for eighteen years. Greg gave me the last beating I would receive at his hands the day after the season ended and we had lost our second playoff game. He was drunk and jealous and called me a “loser”, and I made the mistake of responding in kind. He left me quivering in the corner that night; snot nosed, sobbing, red welts everywhere on my back and legs where I couldn’t cover up. There was no hiding it that time. I limped to the school nurse in the morning and in a tear filled break down I told her everything. He and mom were immediately arrested, and I was put into foster care with a local family where I had a bed of my own for the first time. Because of my scholarship and GPA, I would be allowed to finish high school where I had started. I had barely two months left as it was.

The foster family I was placed with wasn’t terrible, but didn’t much care what I did as long as I didn’t “…*bring home any boys, we’re a Christian household here.”* I didn’t dare tell them anything more than I was thankful for the house and bed and looking forward to starting college.

I worked and saved everywhere I had the chance. Chris would buy me dinners from time to time in order to secure a blowjob, and school handled lunches through the assistance programs and my foster parents did provide what they could even if it wasn’t much. I had managed to save up about two thousand dollars in my account. That was what I had to get me to California and tide me over until I could find another barista job, or whatever might come my way. I didn’t care, to me it might was well have been two million. It was enough and that’s all that mattered. I had a ride out there via some other students from a neighboring school who were also going to Stanford. Mom was put into a recovery program after I testified in her defense against Greg. He was given ten years. Life was going my way for once. Until I met *her*.

I first saw *her* at my gym in January. The gym had been purchased by new owners and a big “grand reopening” event was staged. The usual crap that goes down when new owners want to try to generate interest. I was “grandfathered” in as Craig said, the new guy working the front desk, to keep my existing rate. They helped me out when they could, and I tried to be as quiet as mouse when I was there. The new rates were going up, but they had purchase some empty store fronts to the left and right of the gym, and were adding in new spaces for class rooms and bigger locker rooms to justify the increased fees. My boyfriend, Chris, and their family were also members, so he and I would work out together usually. *She* showed up about a week after the reopening event.

When I first saw her, I was strangely drawn. I’m not great with ages but I think might have been in her late thirties, or possibly in her forties. I assumed she was a body builder. She looked the part, from the bottom up. I guessed she was about ten inches taller than me. Her calves and thighs and butt were arousing mounds of muscle sharply flowing from one group to the next. I would mesmerize myself staring at her perfect butt cheeks, hard and bulbous. She would wear ankle high Reeboks color matched to whatever her painted on leggings displayed, sensually caressing her body up into a two inch decorative elastic band that would lay flat against her chiseled abdomen. Wearing a tight fitting crop top with no sleeves, I could see about six inches of her rippled abdomen. Her skin, though, was smooth and soft, lying about what lay underneath. While her breasts were clearly implants, they were also clearly expensive…but complementary rather than obnoxious. They were round and proportional, yet barely contained by the curve hugging fabric. Her long arms were powerful, with biceps and triceps that would bulge when she lifted. She was triangular; wide, strong shoulders narrowed to her waist, then widening again to make room for those powerful and thick hips and legs.

Her face was almost comical though, and I could only initially call her “elf like”, as she reminded me of the pointy eared characters from those fantasy movies about rings and short people but without the pointy ears. Well defined cheek bones accented her narrowing chin, and full lips were always kept colorful and pronounced. Her eye lashes were always lush, long and black. While she wasn’t exactly pretty by magazine standards, I couldn’t help but find powerfully striking. Her raven black hair was long, sometimes spilling down to the middle of her back, or wrapped up in various styles, showing off the shaved lower part of her scalp from ear to ear which was usually bunched up in a pony tail when she worked out.

What really caught my fascination were her adorable ears. They weren’t huge, but more rounded, and were angled outward almost to the point of being ninety degrees. I loved those ears. I called them “*Dumbo*” ears once…and only once. Her deep blue eyes, when I could get close enough to see them, looked intelligent and focused. Many days would find me gazing up at her over on the stair master machine, methodically bunching up

While she was on the stair master, I would position myself on an exercise machine behind her and watch her legs and ass pump up and down for up to forty five minutes at a time. I would have to remind myself to move to a different machine from time to time. I could see her from just about everywhere though, with so many mirrors adorning the walls. Her manicured nails were about an inch long, pointed sharp, and always elaborately decorated. She didn’t mind being seen, and with a body like it’s not hard to see why. She spoke to the staff from time to time, and I could hear her voiced; stern, yet pleasant. Not low or raspy, but clear and resonant. She seemed kind to them, and they seemed to respect her in return. She was articulate, educated…and I couldn’t understand why I was so drawn. I picked up on her schedule and made sure to be there as often as I could to see her.

The dreams involving her started almost immediately. Sexual dreams. Violent dreams. Even though I had never been raped, in my dreams she raped me. She had a penis. She had a vagina. Sometimes she was in my apartment, whipping me with the belt like Greg would. I wouldn’t see her face, I could only hear what sounded like her voice and unable to make out what she was saying. Sometimes she was fucking me like Jackie did, sensual and caring. Sometimes her hands were on my throat squeezing while she pounded away. Sometimes her hands would force me down between her thighs to lick her clit, holding so tight I couldn’t breathe and I would wake up sweating. But I was also waking up wet. The dreams at night gave way to fantasies during the day. Eventually, even Chris and Amy noticed my distractions. I would casually bring her up sometimes in regards to her body and they thought she was disgusting. Amy would tease Chris that “*she has a bigger dick than he does and that I might leave him for her*.”

“*Sometimes you’re not wrong…”* I would fantasize about at night.

I came face to face with her in early April, and that’s when everything changed in my life.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/k8n0i0/hollys_talespart_1