The darkness was all she knew. Molly was a quiet girl, damaged at a young age by her unhinged and irresponsible parents. Her father was absent and her mother was an addict, and she spent most of her time in those formative years alone, nurtured neither by family nor friends. She had none — even though she was exceptionally bright and pretty and charismatic when she felt like it, Molly was withdrawn and sullen and defeated. The world was her prison, a palace of pain and self-hate and enervating loneliness. Every other day there would be a new man in the house, staying anywhere from an hour to a couple weeks before her mother was onto the next one. Molly’s mother provided her shelter and comfort when she could, but she was too far gone most of the time to even communicate beyond basic questions like have you eaten, how was school. Well, school sucked most of the time, until Molly turned 18 and began her senior year of high school. Puberty was kind to Molly — she was endowed with enormous and firm breasts, a Hollywood actress’ iconic face, dimples and freckles and cheeks that begged to be pinched and squeezed, and a truly remarkable ass, a monument of want and the topic of much conversation for the boys (and many girls) of the school ever since it emerged out of thin air. Molly was aware and deeply uncomfortable with her body and all the attention it entailed. She didn’t date or go to any of the school dances for her first three years because the thought never even crossed her mind. She was useless, a sack of garbage incapable of bonding or communication, chained to her wretched life at home watching over her poor mother as she tumbled from boyfriend to boyfriend.