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But suddenly, realization hit me. Because we were on the last page, and this entry read March. It was September now. Was there more? Was there another notebook?
And flying into action, I scrabbled through the drawer, tossing things left and right. Who cared if I had to fold these clothes all over again? Who cares if I was making a mess? All that mattered was getting to the bottom of this sordid mystery.
Unfortunately, there was another book down there. Another three books to be precise. And like a woman in a trance, I picked up the newest-looking one, also a cheap wire-bound, blue with stiff, fresh sheets.
Opening the pad, I flipped to the last used page. And there it was. My nightmare stared me in the face, throat going dry as a scream welled up inside.
July 10. Elizabeth (Beth). Luscious, curvy, ripe. Hot as hell. Wanted her the second I saw her. Virgin. Her hymen tasted almost too good to be true. Fucked it out of her. Loves to take my dick almost as much as I love giving it to her. A+
My eyes began to sting, a real scream ringing out then, shaking the walls of the closet.
Mason did this? He did this? To me?
I started to hyperventilate, the breath whistling in and out between my vocal cords. Saliva filled my mouth, and yet it was dry as a bone. Because my heart was broken, shattered into smithereens, left here on the floor of the closet. The book slipped from my nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a light thump.
But then it got even worse.
Because pictures had been tucked away among the pages, and they tumbled out now.
Naked pictures.
The ones he took of me way back when.
My thighs spread wide and slutty, smeared with juices.
My pussy open for the camera, pink insides gleaming.
In fact, Mason’s fingers held me open in one shot, a big digit teasing my hole.
They were clearly me. My face in the far corner of some shots, eyes drowsy with lust, boobies huge and heaving. And worst of all were the captions written at the bottom, clear as day in big bold letters.
Hymen visible #1.
Hymen visible #2.
Hymen visible #3.
Oh god, oh god. Categorizing them, numbering all the shots so that they were organized and clear. And sure enough, there it was. Deep in my insides, there was the tangible proof of my innocence, the tiny bit of tissue winking and gleaming.
My hands trembled, flipping through the photos, barely able to fumble through. A photo of his dick deep in my insides, the shaft spreading my pussy lips as I threw my head back lustfully. A close-up of my clit, hard and stiff, begging to be rubbed. And then the final one. Mason’s huge dick, spent and shiny, still drizzling cum from the tip, with a telltale smear of blood on the side.
It was a nightmare come true. My worst fears brought to life in blinding, 3-D focus. Oh my god, oh my god. I’d forgotten about these pics completely, caught up in the bliss of my new life. After all, it’d happened so long ago, never to take place again.
So what was this? What the hell was this sordid collection? Some kind of personal Playboy stash? And with trembling fingers, I shook each one of the notebooks, revealing a flurry of pictures, all of them labeled with the names, positions, and kinks of various women.
Oh god, god.
What?
Why?
And most importantly, who’d seen these?
I sobbed and grabbed my chest. Because the pictures had to be for sharing. Why would they be labeled meticulously, other peoples’ fingerprints practically visible? No way was Mason keeping a log just for kicks, to read and re-read on his own. Other men had seen these photos and devoured the entries, hooting and hollering with amusement. I’d been used. We’d all been used.
A nasty sob tore through my chest then, loud and ugly. Because the truth was crushing. These weren’t the actions of a man in love. These were the actions of a man who used women, who didn’t give a shit about the females who creamed on his dick. All he cared about was another notch in his bedpost, another feather in his cap. And I just happened to be the latest feather. Maybe even the biggest, brightest feather, seeing that Mason had taken so many hymen shots, labeling them all carefully.
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
Please God, save me!
But nobody was listening.
Crying with heaving spasms, I grabbed the notebooks and shoved them into my backpack, hands trembling. My body ran hot and cold at once, face flushed, palms clammy and wet. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel, and ravaging pain tore through my soul, making me double over.
Because my dreams were crushed.
They’d been nothing but the imagination of an innocent girl.
