Your ex-boyfriend's telling stories about you to his friends

"Right there and then where anyone could see, and she kept screaming 'fuck me harder! Harder!'" says a voice you know all-too-well.

Before Jacob there was a boy named Brandon. He was took every opportunity to flash his wealth to the world. Outwardly he was posh and good-looking, but his only interest was in impressing others.

Initially you fell for his showy persona, but quickly realized how boring he was. When the two of you consummated the relationship (an embarrassing thing to remember, really) he turned out to be somewhat doughy in body, pasty of skin, and tiny of dick. Add his attitude of you being another of his inflatable dolls and you'd confirmed yet again what you've always known: rich boys make lousy bed partners. You'd tried to make it work - your mother had always told you that girls had to work hard to please their men and make them think they were amazing.

"What a whore!" sneers a voice you recognize as Leo. A rather thuggish sort, you'd never been able to understand the friendship, but you know they had had some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement since their early school years. You'd never asked why, wanting as little to do with the large rough-looking boy. The shelter of a row of books suddenly seemed paper-thin.

"Well," Brandon hedges, sounding rightfully hesitant, "A die-hard slut at least. I mean, she's wanted it in the car, under the stands in the dirt, in an alley, in the back of a restaurant, and one time in a briar patch."

"Ow. That sounds painful," another voice says, and you the voice of Damian, a nerdish friend of Brandon's. You could barely understand him half the time. He had strange obsessions with science-fiction, and fancied himself a magician and a hypnotist. One time he'd asked you to be his stage assistant, another time he asked you to wear some weird space cadet outfit or something, and another he tried - and failed - to hypnotize you. You remember celebrating with a group of Mexicans afterward. In fact that might have been the beginning of your adventures.

"Well, I was able to avoid getting many scratches or dirt on me but she was filthy and covered in scratches by the time we were done."

"Rich, beautiful and kinky. Lucky bastard," said yet another voice, and you recognized his third friend as John, son of a plastic surgeon and following in his father's footsteps. He's actually very handsome and rugged looking, but thought he always eyed your body he didn't look at you with the lust the others did, he looked at you like you were a test subject, looking for flaws he could correct. Not that he could have found any. Your pole dancing instructor kept you incredibly fit and flexible while the naturopath kept your body glowing with health and your skin blemish thanks to his nutritional advise and emphasis on frequent colonic cleansing. Then of course there was John's father, who corrected any remaining imperfections, enhancing what nature had already given you. All flaws had been erased. Hadn't they?

"Man, if you could marry her..." Damian begins, but Brandon laughs scornfully, making your eyes narrow. Was he laughing at you? You of all people?

"Not likely. She's a snob, too snooty to be a good politician's wife, but I'll use her for the sex a bit longer."

"Yeah, why marry a slut who'd put out for anyone who asked anyway?" Leo sneers.

"You wouldn't marry her?" Damian asked, sounding puzzled, and you feel your fists clench. As if you'd marry the rat, especially after he made up all these lies. Feeling fabric in your hands you realize your hands have drifted, one up by your breast, the other down at the hem of your pleated skirt.

"Of course not. She's hot as hell and loaded, but without her father's money she's just some dumb bimbo with an insatiable cunt."

Brandon's words strike you straight in the crotch. How could those words affect you so much? Or were they just reminding you of the fierce ache that's been building up the last few days.

"Oh God," you moan, forgetting about them for a moment, then biting your lip hard enough to taste blood as your fingers reach under your skirt, your other hand rubbing upward toward your eager nipples.

The tingly urge that drove you here seems to take hold like a spark on kindling a you listen to your ex-boyfriend talk trash about you, telling anyone who'll listen what a slut you actually are. And he doesn't know a tenth of it.