My name is Sarah. This is the story of my salvation. I am not really sure where to begin. You may have read something about how art imitates life, or even that somehow sometimes life imitates art. My story is a little like that except the word art is not exactly right. Use the word “porn” instead. Sometimes porn imitates life. Sometimes also life imitates porn.
I was always the good girl type. I was raised in a small town somewhere out in the country. I went to church every Sunday. I always did my homework. It was always something a fairy tale life, perhaps even perfect in so many ways. Sometimes, even now that I am grown up, I get overcome just thinking about it.
That perfect life began to change as I grew up. I started to have carnal feelings which grew stronger in time. I saw how other girls changed with puberty, even heard their own lust filled confessions, but I knew that my own feelings were stronger and even darker. I felt guilty about them, even tried to repress them. Nothing really worked. They grew more powerful anyway. In time, I gave in. I knew that I could never control them. that in fact, they began to control me.
I refused to date. I was afraid to. I felt defective, and perverted. I was afraid to lose control. I felt so alone. Still, I managed to go on. People told me I was pretty. I grew popular, and yet somehow, I felt like I was living a double life. I felt ashamed even that the popular and pretty girl was a real hypocrite.
Then, when I was just fourteen, my life changed profoundly. My father took me to some old man’s farm. It was a mission for the church. We had promised to help him get rid of all kinds of stuff to give to our annual rummage sale. My job was to clean out the old machine shed next to the barn. I gathered up some old tools and auto parts. Then I climbed up an old ladder to the loft. I threw down some old musty blankets, a horse bridal, and a saddle, not much.
I noticed an old rusty metal footlocker, opened the lid, and looked inside. It was full of dirty magazines! These were old magazine from another era. These were the original pulps with names like MAN’S ACTION, MAN’S EPIC, or MAN’S LIFE. The covers were not at all like Playboy, or GQ. Cover after cover had been artfully rendered with lurid images of beautiful women, somehow bound and stripped half-naked. Their clothes, or what remained of them, were always torn to tatters. The predicaments were always different, but the situation was always the same. They were menaced by cruel sadistic men who were poised to strip them down the rest of the way, and worse yet, inflict some terrible and unspeakable torture on their tender flesh.
I took a deep breath and began to tremble. The stories inside were equally as sadistic: NUDE LUST SLAVES OF HITLER'S RUSSIAN MONSTER, CHAINED NUDES FOR THE SERAGLIO OF TERROR, THE SCREAMING VIRGINS OF THE CITY OF HORROR I was shocked. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought such things existed.
I flipped through a few pages and read a passage. “Stretched agonizingly on the rack, a young girl pleaded insanely with her torturers, her head bobbing wildly from side to side as the instrument of torment stretched out her body until the joints of shoulders and hips screeched their protest.” I felt my ears flush red and turn hot. There, alone, up in a dark loft, I became turned on, and turned on in a way that I had never felt before.
“Anything up there?” I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was my father’s voice.
“Nothing really,’ I said, still shaking. I shut the box, shoved it into a dark corner, and carefully placed a rotting piece of plywood in front of it. I made my way down the ladder. For the first time in my life, my panties had turned soaking wet. My stomach had turned to butterflies. I tried to look nonplussed as I came down that ladder. I studied my father’s eyes. My secret was safe. He had no idea.
The rest of that day was difficult. Time seemed to slow down. The magazine images and words remained almost burned into my mind. I could not, and did not, want to shake them. I told my parents I was tired, and turned in uncharacteristically early for bed.
Alone at last! I stripped down to my bra and panties, but I did not put on my pajamas. I got under the sheets and pretended to be one of those poor women tied up, ripe and ready for rape, and maybe even torture. I reached down and slid my hands over my torso. I pretended that they were not my own, that they belonged, instead, to be some imaginary sadist, maybe even a Nazi. I grabbed the waist band of my panties and slowly pulled it down below my hip bones, exposing everything but my pubic mound, pretending that my would-be executioners were taking in the sight of my near nudity. I twisted my hips from side-to-side as if to shield my modesty.
The hand reached down and invaded my panties. It cupped my sex. I turned away and closed my eyes. And then it penetrated me. The first two fingers went deep down into my sex and see-sawed their way into the old in-and-out. I breathed hard. My heart began to race. The hand continued to ravage me. My other hand reached into my bra, felt the softness of my breasts and teased my nipples before pinching them hard. I touched my clitoris. It didn’t take long after that. I was the biggest orgasm I had ever had. But one would not be enough. I took myself again and again that night.
I was dead tired the next day but I still couldn’t help but think about that foot locker. The mere thought of it aroused me. I decided that I would go back. I waited for everyone to fall asleep. I got out of bed at about 1AM and put on all black clothes. I grabbed a backpack and a duffel bag, and slipped out through my bedroom window.
I jogged back toward the farm and stayed as far away from the street as I could. Every so often as a car approached, I would dip back into the shadows, even hide in bushes. Later, I cut through a cornfield and approached the old man’s farmhouse from the backside. There were no lights on, so I forced my way into the machine shed. I used a flash light and make my way up the ladder, trembling with fear and excitement. My heart pumped wildly. The foot locker was still there!
I filled my pack and the duffle bag and made my way home as fast as I could. I took a few magazines for my room and stashed the rest outside under the potting shed. I got back into my room and into bed wearing bra and panties again.
I opened the first magazine. The picture on the cover was sexy enough, but the story inside really turned me on. It was HORROR ORGIES OF THE HUN FROM HELL. I imagined being with these girls, even felt their fear, and shame. The thought gave me an adrenaline rush and set my mind and body on fire.
I read, “In the center of the circle lay Katherine’s 22-year-old sister, Jadwiga. Her hands had been tied together and now were stretched far above her head. Already her damask skirt had been shredded from her limbs. Katherine noticed the redness around Jadwiga’s thighs where the cords had cut off the circulation, distending the veins and arteries with imprisoned blood. She saw the wriggling toes which bespoke the abject condition of her beloved sister. She saw the heavy ropes which had been laced through the ankle and wrist bindings.” I touched myself and read on.
“Now Gyorgy Dozsa crouched beside his lovely victim. Spurning the preferred knife, he set about stripping the last of the garments from Jadwiga with his bare hands. Where his fingers traveled cruel scratches and bruises appeared on the exposed nakedness of the lovely girl. Dozsa's men tightened the circle around their leader and his prey.”
I imagined once again, that my own hands were those of my captors. Before I long, I had cum again. Already turned on by my own real-life fears of getting caught, my orgasm was even more powerful than the night before.
I opened another magazine. The story inside was TORTURED NUDES FOR THE DEVIL'S CHARNEL HOUSE.
“…When he reached the front room, he found Donna gripped by two guards, stripped naked. He stopped at the entrance, his breath catching. The girl was breathtakingly beautiful. Her body was slim and white, the breasts full and high, the legs long and straight. She had not inherited her mother's blonde hair, but she had something which excited him even more: pride. Even now, even naked before the guards and before the Count himself, she held herself with upright dignity, her eyes blazing at him as he stood watching her…”
Wow! This time I cast off my bra and panties. I rubbed myself as slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. I came again, of course.
The third story was BLONDE NUDES FOR THE CULT OF AGONY.
“Each of the captive women was young, utterly desirable, and quivering with terror. Irma Mirau walked among them, a short handled whip dangling from her slim hand. Her eye lit on the girl whom Sophia had seen on the bus. The whip whistled in a short arc. The rattling of chains and the girl's torture-strangled cry answered its obscene crack. What had remained of her dress had been ripped from her shoulders. She tried to cover her body, to protect it from the lascivious gloating stares of her tormentors. But chained as she was, she was helpless.”
I had cum again of course. I fell asleep soon after, but not before thinking, “Oh my word! I’m turning into a first class pervert!” I was frightened by this new “thing” I had become, but still I found myself thrilled.
I read new magazines each night. The old man had saved other magazines too. Some were erotic science fiction. Some were books. Still others were crime magazines.
Some showed women in stockings often held up with garter belts. They often wore high heels. I was particularly turned on by their stockings and heels. I had never seen anything like that in church on Sundays. Secretly I wanted to dress like those women.
The stories were wonderful, of course, but so were the ads. Fredericks of Hollywood were the best. There were hundreds of them too, so many, in fact, that I and made my own little scrap book. I hid it in the heating duct next to my bed. Just paging through them made me so turned on that I couldn’t resist playing with pussy and ass.
I was too young for racy lingerie. I wasn’t even permitted to wear heels nylons, but my luck was about to change. My parents went to a party one night and left me alone at home. I raided my mother’s closet and played dress up. I had maybe done this as a little girl, but this time my thoughts were not innocent. I got out my old Polaroid camera, and set the timer. I posed half dressed and pretended to be in peril. I put mom’s clothes back back as carefully as I could, spread my pictures out on the bed and masturbated.
I grew even more conflicted. I felt like I was living a dual life. Guilt and shame seemed to wash over me during the day, but would dissipate at night when I opened another magazine.
I began to go to the school dances and to interact with boys but they were all as pure and innocent, nothing like the men in the stories. I fell in love my senior year. He was a preacher’s son: handsome, polite, and very sensitive. My parents were delighted. We did the things that teenagers do. We went to the movies, often for ice cream after, and sometimes even an occasional square dance. He held my hand. We always kissed good night, but sex wasn’t really part of it. Slowly but surely, I had resigned to become the good girl I always wanted to be.
We got married. I got laid. My wedding night experience only five minutes. I never got to orgasm. The subject of sex was never discussed. Our sex life never got better. Years went by. Sex became less frequent. Tragically my parents were killed in an automobile accident. We moved into the o