Claire: Running up the body count

I should count Ramya since she broke me with the dildo, then there was Mark, so n=2.

I continue to date and focus on my job under Ramya's mentoring. Rapid improvement follows in my personal and professional life. As she foretold, the two are linked. The skillsets overlap.

Within a week a coworker nervously asks me out. I'm glowing from getting laid, and my new wardrobe shows off parts of my figure I've been hiding. I turn him down (no dating at work), but give him a hug that presses my breasts against him to leave him flushed.

Next week I’m made lead on a new project with four people reporting to me, including the guy who asked me out.

Jared (the cowboy) texts Monday. Saddle up. Dinner Wednesday, then sex at my place.

He’s not as thick as Mark, so no pain this time, just pure pleasure. He goes down on me first, makes me come, then compliments my big lips like they’re a gift. I reward him with everything he wants.

Joshua Friday. Ben the following Wednesday. I play a little hard to get, then steer them to my place. Condoms mandatory, using my own stash now, because Ramya was right: men never bring them.

The bodies stack up, n=5. My pussy is getting a workout.

Then comes Saturday mentoring with Ramya straight from CrossFit. Her sweaty sports bra is off under a loose tee, sagging torpedo tits swaying freely when she moves. I try not to stare, and I think she's doing this on purpose.

Demarcus (the black cowboy) calls my phone looking for Ramya. She gave him my number that night at the bar. He and I have a good laugh about it and set a date.

I ask Ramya why she took a pass on such a fine specimen. She just shrugs. "He thinks you're hot, too." She laughs. "My gift to you. It turns me on thinking of you with a black guy. I think you're going to like it."

It's only one of my biggest fantasies!

"Yeah, I'll try it."

"I need to go home and shower. I stink." Ramya stands in front of me, sweat drying. She smells great.

My mentor looks so adorable after her mischief, I can't resist. I tentatively pull up her shirt for the view. I've only seen them once, in the gym locker room ages ago. I grin and stare hungrily.

"You can touch," she says. "Safe to say you've earned it."

Stretch marks mar the pendulous flesh, battle scars from the body she chiseled into hard muscle. I reach out and cup them both, squeezing and lifting, massaging gently and pointing the nipples at me, marveling how soft and heavy they are. "They're perfect," I say.

"You know they aren't," she replies with a grin. "But I love you for saying that."

"They are to me." I stand and hook the waist of her leggings shorts, give her a second to object, then pull it out. I peer over the rim and am surprised to see a thick, full bush of jet black hair. I don't want to push my luck, so I let the fabric snap back in place, lean in and peck her lips, holding it just a second longer than needed. "Go shower. I will miss you."

She scoffs. "I thought we weren't taking this lesbian shit further. Now I'm all horny."

Demarcus turns out to be a solid guy. Good career, well spoken. I'm nervous, so it takes him two dates to close me for n=6. He brings his own condoms (thank God, because mine wouldn’t fit).

The interracial fantasy and big black cock live up to the hype. He’s huge, patient, and I come like crazy. I just might be a size queen now. I’d wear that badge proudly, because I had to work damn hard to earn it.

Time blurs. Work demands more. I’m leading teams and killing it. Church every Sunday, guilt grows then mercifully begins to turn to indifference as I fall from grace.

I settle into regulars: Jared (kinky, generous oral, let him take my backdoor once and he's mine forever if I want him) and Demarcus (straight dominant sex, huge cock, effortless orgasms, loves that my pussy is deep enough to take him all).

I take occasional new lovers from the dating apps, always condoms, always my place or theirs.

I learn from the men, I pay attention, and I become a skilled lover. I learn how to move my body against theirs, how to tease and drive them wild, how to make them beg for more of me. I'm kinky, I'm innocent, I'm aggressive, I'm submissive. I slip into any role that suits my mood and the man.

I offer oral finishes without the condom, straight from Ramya’s playbook. It's safer than coming inside me with protection.

I’ve grown to love the lewd rush of it, the taste, the way they lose control in my mouth or all over my face.

It's sustainable, I tell myself. Every aspect of my life is better and more fun. I'm safe, I'm responsible. My ultimate goal remains to marry the perfect husband. I know I need to slow down, be more selective when I spread my legs. I might miss the right guy if I don't take the time to get to know him first.

The changes are slow but creep in, then become obvious after several months. Steady sex with Demarcus is changing me, permanently stretching me, loosening me in ways that make Jared feel smaller. It doesn't help that I still masturbate quite a bit, and I use the same thick dildo Ramya used to deflower me. My pussy gapes a little at rest when I spread my legs, and it definitely did not before. The stretched flesh below the hole distends and crinkles up permanently, sagging lower to reveal my opening, also making the crack appear even taller and the lips bigger. The perineal area looks sad and indicative of a weakened pelvic floor, courtesy of sustained and repeated use with BBC. I administer Ramya's two-finger Indian virginity test, and it's a laughable, epic fail. To say I am "habituated to intercourse" is an understatement.

Ramya howls when I confess it, then scolds me for slacking on kegels.

But I don’t care. The seal is broken anyway.

Then I'm in the parking lot after church one day, already forgetting the sermon, thinking about the fact that Demarcus will be coming over later that evening to plow me out again. A great guy I've been flirting with asks me out. A guy I already know would be a great match.

I used to worry about losing my virginity. Now I worry I have too much of a past.

n=16.

Sixteen men. Sixteen different cocks. Sixteen times I spread my legs and let someone new inside. And one Big Black Cock pounding me raw on the regular, reshaping me looser every visit.

And now I can't stop. I'm addicted to the rush.

I pretend this is still improving my life with confidence, pleasure, and freedom.

But deep down I know the truth. I'll spread for any man that wants me.

One more cock, one more stretch, one more piece of my soul chipped away forever.

I'm just a used-up whore.