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I went to a rural school in Scotland during the late 1950s when teaching for girls was quite limited and concentrated mainly on domestic and clerical studies. It is hard to imagine today but back then it was considered a waste of time and money to teach girls in the sciences or technical subjects since they were only going to be wives, servants, shop assistants or secretaries. This stupidity was not confined only to girls. There was also discrimination against farmers sons. After all, they were just going work in the fields so why waste time on them. Of course, even lower in the food chain were farmers daughters like me. So, when you hear people today sounding off that schooling is about enabling youngsters to develop their full potential, it was not always so. Back then, it was about selective elitism and preserving the status quo.

I rebelled against these restrictions. I enjoyed mathematics, chemistry, and physics and demanded to be allowed to continue them to advanced level. Even by then, I was considering the possibility of going to university as an opportunity of a better life. There was much resistance to me attending these classes, particularly among the boys. How dare any mere girl think they could do such difficult subjects. Fortunately, the headmaster was less traditionalist in his views. He allowed and indeed encouraged me to do them, with the proviso that I also did as much clerical and domestic studies as my timetable would allow. The advanced subjects were tough but very rewarding. I achieved grades that were as good as those by the boys. I was also a top secretarial pupil, but my cooking and domestic skills were, and still are, very average. At 18 years old in my final year at secondary school, I qualified to do science at university. Again, this was a first. No girl from the school had before gone on to further education.

I had reached this point through my efforts and with the support and encouragement of my parents and the head master. I did not realize that my achievements had triggered great resentment amongst the other pupils. They thought I was ‘lucky, the teacher’s pet, the chosen-one who got opportunities that should have gone to them.’ In hindsight, schools the world over are a maelstrom of hormones, angst, bitching and bullying. I should have noticed this anger directed at me but I tended not to mingle so was oblivious to it.

It turns out that my year class was most upset and Neil, the senior boy, was particularly annoyed at my ‘special treatment’. He was the big I am, always top of the class in everything he did. He looked down on girls, considering them as a waste of space other than to use in bed. Neil said he could get any girl he wanted, but I blew him off a few times when he tried it with me. He could not compete with me in class or have his way with me. This loss of credibility must have pissed him off.

It was lunch time on my last day at school when Tanya and Jess from my class grabbed me.

“Neil wants some fun,” they said as they dragged me to an empty classroom at the far end of the school.

All the girls from my class were there. They stripped me, tied my hands, gagged me and lay me down on a rug on the floor. They pawed all over my body, some even sucked on my nipples and stroked and fingered down there.

“Get her pussy warmed up; it is about to get plenty of action.”

I was wondering why they were doing this when the boys, led by Neil, walked in.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? The chosen-one ready for action.”

With that, he let down his trousers and pants, got between my legs and proceeded to push his erect cock deep into my pussy. He broke my hymen. I was bleeding and in extreme pain but could not make a sound because of the gag. I could only try to struggle, but this did not put him off and probably even excited him. He then started to drill me hard and fast while the audience clapped and cheered him on.

“Go on Neil, ride her stupid.’

Even my supposed ‘best friend’ Gemma joined in.

Tanya leaned down beside me. “I guess you are a stuck-up bitch now.”

Neil hammered away at me for a couple of minutes then I heard him say “Oh god, I’m ready to cum” and with a sudden shudder of his cock spunk started to splatter the back of my tortured vagina. He leered contentedly at me as he pulled out.

I was lying there thinking that it had been bad but not too bad when I heard the words: “okay boys, she is all yours now. Enjoy.”

Seven boys then took me in turn. I cannot even now describe the horror and pain I endured. Once all had done their thing, they and the girls trooped out leaving me on the floor soaked in sweat and cum.

After a few minutes, Tim, the supposed shy boy of the class, came back. Good, he is here to free me, but no, he wasn’t.

“You have always been my cock-tease. I am going to make full use of you now that I can.”

He started to ride me again hard and fast, but since this was seconds, he pounded me for a very long time without shooting a load. The pain Gaziantep Onkoloji Escort became so intense that fortunately, I passed out.

The next thing I was aware of was the school nurse, and some teachers gathered around me. The nurse was untying and ungagging me and trying to clean me up when a teacher said, “why did she let the boys do this to her? Why did she entice them? Why did she not fight back?

I was dumbfounded and incredulous. “Eight boys have just taken me while tied up and unable to move and you are saying it was my fault?”

“The boys say you were gasping for it.”

Immediately, I realized how things were going. Boys were sacrosanct, and the teachers were now circling the wagons to protect them and the school. You must remember that this was a time when unmarried girls who got pregnant were still considered to be sluts and usually thrown out of the family home for bringing shame on it. In contrast, the boys responsible were studs.

“Shut up. Cover this up if you want but at least have the guts to acknowledge that I am the victim. You make it sound like I assaulted them.”

I got up and redressed, while they muttered amongst themselves.

“I wish it could have been a happier ending, but I will spare you further inconvenience. I will leave the school now and will never be back.”

I made the mistake of going straight home. My mother asked why I was back so early and like a fool, I told her. I expected her to understand and help me. No way. “What did you do to them? You must have teased them or egged them on. They are such good boys.” My father made it worse by inferring I was a disgrace.

Obviously, boys could do no wrong, and it was always the girl’s fault for leading them astray.

I went to my room, tossed and turned and cried for most of the night. Finally, I realized that it was impossible for me to stay around there any longer. I had to get away. In one weeks time, I was due to start a summer job and had already rented a room to stay in that was convenient for both this job and attending university after the holidays. Although bruised, battered and sore, I summoned enough strength to pack my bags and go before dawn, leaving a note:

‘I was ravished by a gang of boys through no actions of mine. I am disappointed you did not believe me and felt I had embarrassed you. So be it. I cannot stay here any longer. I must move on. I will always be your daughter and will try to do everything that would make you proud, but do not look for me. I will not come back’.

I caught the first train and four hours later was starting the next chapter of my life. During the journey, I had many lows. What the boys did to me was brutal and inhuman, and I could never forget or forgive. Nonetheless, I felt the actions of the girls were as bad. They watched while I was being banged and did nothing to stop it. In fact, some, including my ‘best friend’, even encouraged it. How could they let that happen to another girl? The message was clear. From now on I could trust no-one, boy, girl, man or woman. I was on my own.

The owners of my rented room were surprised about my early arrival but were okay when I said I wanted to explore the city before starting work. Furthermore, I had already paid the rent. I mainly rested and allowed my bruised body to recover over the next few days. I sent a letter to my parents to let them know I was safe but did not tell where I was or what I was doing. The following week, I started at the nearby department store. I mainly worked alone handling purchasing and stock records. I spend ten hours a day at this for the whole of the summer. It was a case of just work, eat and sleep, and this was all right with me. I wanted to be on my own, not to socialize. It also meant I had little time to brood over earlier events. I did have some scary nightmares about the attack but seemed to be coping.

This situation was to change when I started at university. It probably was the sudden exposure to so many new people and being confined in lecture theatres with them that triggered my anxiety. I became even more reclusive and withdrawn, interacting with fellow students reluctantly and only when necessary. I was having regular flashbacks and significant mood swings, leading to days when I was unable to function.

It was on one of those bad days when Malcolm approached me in the cafeteria after class.

“Are you okay, you seem very down? You were bright and enthusiastic in class yesterday, but today you were almost incoherent.”

We had not talked before, so I was taken aback by this approach, but he looked genuinely concerned. I tried to cover up by saying, “bad period.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” He didn’t seem to be convinced by my answer but just said “I hope the worst is over. Take care.”

I felt guilty at giving him the brush off. “Would you like coffee?”

“That’d be great.”

I bought two coffees, well what the cafeteria described as coffee, and we sat and chatted for about an hour until the start of my next class. Malcolm was studying mathematics with the aim of getting into the new field of computing sciences.

“It is going to be huge in the future.”

He lived alone in student accommodation and did not socialize much, just not his thing. He had a long-term plan and needed to do well in his studies.

I felt surprisingly at ease with Malcolm, and it was not just because he was a nice person. A deepness and thoughtfulness were there. He had ambitions and plans for a better life much in tune with my own. I felt strangely reluctant to leave him to go to class, but I also needed to be sure I did well in university. Later, I was to discover that we also had not-so-good experiences in common and that may have contributed to the moment.

It was four days later while walking through the park on my way home that I spotted Malcolm. He was sitting on a bench, crying his eyes out. This sight shocked me. Men aren’t supposed to cry.

“What is the matter?”

“It is nothing, just leave me alone.”

“Something is very wrong. I will not leave you like this. I live near here. Let’s have a coffee and a chat.”

I had continued to work at the department store on weekends, and they were so happy with my input to the section that they helped me find and rent a nearby one-bedroom flat.

Malcolm and I went there, and I prepared something that resembled real coffee. The conversation was very stilted until Malcolm said he was sorry that I had seen him in that state.

“What was the cause?”

“I have been having flashbacks, and they are driving me to despair.”

“What are they about?” I thought it might be an accident, illness or a death of family or friend, but no.

He started sobbing again as he said, “I was gang-banged by four men during my first week here at university.”

I was horrified but had never heard of sexual assault of men on men before. I asked what I now realize was the most stupid and insensitive question ever. “How?”

He went bright red and stuttered. “To be as delicate as possible, you have three points of possible entry to your body; I have two. They were both used on multiple occasions by the men over several hours.”

I was almost physically sick at the thought of the horrors he had suffered. For that moment, my assault seemed unimportant.

I held his hands. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

“No, I am so disgusted and ashamed, I couldn’t. You are the first one I have told.”

I found myself saying, “it not your fault, you are the victim, but you can’t deal with it on your own.”

“If it comes out, people will think I am a wuss or worse still, wanted it. No, I will handle it by myself.”

Typical male stubbornness.

“You cannot bottle it up.” I recognize that this was the pot calling kettle black. “Talk to me. I will listen without judging and aid you as best I can.”

“Thank you; you have already helped by being here.”

We talked about things for a while without going into graphic detail and agreed to meet again two days later to continue. I also told Malcolm to leave a note in my university post box if he needed to meet sooner.

I did not mention my assault at that time because I did not want to add to Malcolm’s burdens, and I was still not yet ready to talk about it. That soon changed. Malcolm and I met three times during the following week, and he seemed to be more comfortable and beginning to think of moving forward. The downside was that I began to have more memories and flashbacks of my assault.

I became increasingly stressed and depressed. In the end, I could not shut out an ongoing image of Tim’s sneering face as he rode me mercilessly for that second time. One morning I opened the first bottle of wine as soon as got up and am unsure how many I went through during the day before collapsing on the floor. I became vaguely aware of a constant ringing noise. It was the doorbell. Malcolm was there. I managed to crawl to the door and unlocked it before passing out again.

The next thing I remember was waking up in bed with a massive hangover. Malcolm appeared soon after with a cup of strong coffee.

“I heard a noise; I thought you must be stirring.”

“Thanks, how long have I been out?”

“About fifteen hours. I checked on you during the night while grabbing some sleep on your couch.”

I suddenly had this urgent need to go the loo and tried to get up, but not surprisingly was very unsteady. Malcolm saw this and helped me through. I was seated there emptying my bladder when it dawned on me that I was in my pajamas, but yesterday I was wearing a dress. Malcolm must have changed me.

I went through to the living room and screamed, “Did you take my clothes off? Have you been touching me?”

“Calm down; it wasn’t how you think.”

“How was it then?”

“When you unlocked the door, I found you passed out on the floor.”


“Well, you had also had an ‘ahem’ accident.”

“Oh, you mean.”

“Yes. You were wet. I undressed you, dried you, put you in your pajamas and tucked you up in bed. Your clothes are in the laundry bin if you want to check.”

“You did not touch me?”

“No. Well, only as much as needed to get you safely undressed and redressed.”

“I am sorry. I should not have shouted or reacted so badly.”

“No need to be, I understand how it must have looked. Now, you had better go back to bed to sleep it off.”

“Are you leaving?”

“No, I am going to crash on the sofa again. I will make a light evening meal, and we can talk then.”

Just to be sure, I checked the laundry, and to my great embarrassment, the evidence was all there. Malcolm had told the truth. I went back to bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Malcolm woke me in the early evening. To my surprise, he was wearing a pair of my pajamas.

“I hope you don’t mind. I did not want to sleep all day in my clothes.”

“No, that is okay. The pajamas hang well on you. I will get dressed and come through for dinner.”

I realized immediately how stupid that was. Malcolm had seen me naked and dressed me in these pajamas. What was the point of dressing for dinner when could have a pajama party together?

After dinner, Malcolm got straight to the point. “What happened yesterday? You did not turn up to class, so I came to check you were all right. Why were you drunk?”

I held his hands as I told him the whole torrid story. We were both sobbing by the end.

“We are indeed an unlikely pair. I wish you had told me sooner, but I understand and appreciate why you didn’t.”

“Did you just say ‘pair’?”

“Yes, if you are happy we can try to overcome our problems together.”

I hugged Malcolm. He reciprocated, and we stayed on the sofa in an embrace while we chatted throughout the evening. For the first time in ages, I felt comfortable with another person. Reluctantly, I went off to bed while Malcolm prepared the couch for himself. I felt safe with him there and my, he looked good in my pajamas.

It took a while for me to get to sleep, so I was mulling things over in my head. I was in turmoil. Up until a few days ago, I distrusted all boys and girls, but I now had put my faith in Malcolm. Why? True, we had both gone through major trauma, he had been very supportive and protective of me and didn’t take advantage of me when he could have done, but that didn’t fully explain it. An image of Malcolm while we held together and chatted flashed into my mind. It suddenly dawned on me. He has many female characteristics and behaviors. In fact, he could be considered more feminine than a few women I know. Possibly, I was sensing that he embodied the best from both girls and boys without the negative sides of either. That may explain my contentment around him.

Recovery after sexual assault is slow and challenging, but not impossible. You go through many lows, including periods of deep anxiety and despair. I had gone through several before I became close with Malcolm. After my catharsis, Malcolm and I met every few days just to be together and chat about how things were going and how we were feeling. These discussions certainly helped me to cope. Indeed, it was two-way, in that we supported and jollied each other along through many crises.

Around six weeks later, I was walking home from class and saw someone in the distance that looked like Tim. I panicked and ran to my flat. I was safe, but it was enough to trigger flashbacks. I could not get the sneering image of him out of my head and started getting severe ‘phantom’ cramps and pain in my pussy. I broke down and began drowning my sorrows to try to block out the hurt. Fortunately, Malcolm came to the flat that evening. I was drunk but not totally out of it as on the previous occasion. Despite that, it was not an edifying experience for either of us: he had to help me in the loo while I was sick, clean me up and put me to bed. All the while, I was telling him in a rather unladylike language to go away and leave me alone.

I woke up next morning feeling so hungover and ashamed. When Malcolm came through, I started crying. “I am so embarrassed and sorry for what happened. I must be an affront to you.”

He came over, sat on the side of the bed and hugged me.

“No need to be. I know that unexpected things can bring it all back. What was it for you?”

“I thought I saw Tim on the street.”

“Oh, that would have been more than enough. I will have to think how to stop this being a problem.”

I rested and went back to university the next day. Malcolm called around every day, and things seemed to stabilize over the next few weeks. However, he was away on a university trip when a group of drunken students accosted me. They circled me and tried to grope and fondle me. I started screaming at the top of my voice, and that shocked them so much that I escaped. Although distraught when I got home, I thought I was okay and went to bed. The nightmare started soon afterward, and the whole horrible scene at the school replayed itself again and again in my head. I flipped, got up and started drinking again. I had to blank it out.

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