My name is Rebecca and I am 34 years old and I have a story to tell.
I was the only child of small town parents whose names I cannot bring myself to say. My father was an accounts clerk for the large major employer in town. This company was owned by another family whose name I refuse to even let pass my lips.
They were ‘old money’, privileged and thought the whole world was theirs by right. My father was a subservient little man who thought likewise and saw his role as being slavish to ‘his betters’.
I was sixteen on the fateful day which would forever change my life. My parents were beside themselves with foolish pride as they prepared me for a date at a concert. I was young but they had decided that it would be ok for me to go with him, as his family were rich – therefore respectable.
I was going with the son of the mill owner.
Oh how they had boasted at the club when he asked me.
The evenings proceedings are irrelevant, the whole point of this story revolves around what happened at the end of the night.
I felt a little dizzy and a little woozy as my date led me to his car. I couldn’t understand why, as I had drank very little.
The upshot of all this was waking up in the woods in his car. He was outside in the dark smoking a cigarette when I came to. I was confused and disorientated but as my head slowly cleared, it became obvious that my clothing had been tampered with.
That was the least of my worries.
As I moved I felt the wetness between my legs, shakily I felt myself.
I was sodden in my panties and when I removed my hand from myself I looked at my fingers.
They were covered in blood and a white sticky substance.
I had been raped.
Under the influence of alcohol or drugs or whatever he had given me, he had violated my body. I started to scream at him and tried to hit him with my fists. He very arrogantly just held my wrists and laughed at me.
On my arrival home, I ran to my parents crying hysterically and blubbering out all that had happened. The rich boy stood by his car, arrogant and unworried as though he was untouchable and above the law. When my father (respectfully) demanded to know from him what had happened, he told my father that we had had sex and that I had begged him for it.
My father, being a miserable, pathetic and subservient man, who thought the rich family to be his betters, believed him. That night he told me that I had shamed him because ‘people like them wouldn’t possibly lie.’
My pregnancy changed things – for the worse. People now thought me a little slut who had got herself knocked-up because she couldn’t keep her legs together. No one would believe me, even my parents still thought me to be a tramp.
A few weeks later my parents disowned me, threw me out and I found myself in a hostel for unmarried mothers.
My reputation followed me where ever I went. My rapist’s family, in a desperate bid to protect their son, used power, money and influence to besmirch me and blacken my name.
In the hostel I made no friends except one girl who was in the same boat as I was.
Nine months after my rape I gave birth to a beautiful little boy who I named Tom.
Due to my position and condition, I had to put myself at the mercy of the welfare. They placed me in a low-rent shit hole on the worst estate that you can imagine. My life took no turn for the better, as even the local scum looked down on me and assumed my unmarried status showed me to be a dirty slut.
For years I struggled to make my way on my own. I had a friend now and she would look after Tom for me while I did evening work and tried to make ends meet. All I could ever get for employment was minimum wage drudgery, as everyone who ever interviewed me for a decent job, shunned me – as the immoral unmarried mother.
The only attention I ever received from men was the worst kind. They all simply expected me to sleep with them at the drop of a hat, because I was a slut.
The irony of all this terrible reputation that I endured, was that I actually considered myself a virgin. I had neither deliberately nor consciously given myself to a man, the only evidence of such had been between my legs all that time ago and my baby boy sat on my knee now.
Throughout the next few years I determined to keep my self respect even though I received none from anyone else. I kept my dignity and brought my child up clean, tidy and respectable. Tom was taught right from wrong and was a studious and respectable pupil at school. However even Tom was shunned by his peers as the bastard son of ‘Rebecca the slut’.
Although Tom and myself were both attractive in both face and body, no one wanted anything to do with us for fear of peer pressure. I am sure that both of us would have attracted plenty of attention from the opposite sex had it not been for ‘our’ reputation.
Some days I would be stoic and think to hell with everyone else but some days I was desperately sad, not just for myself but for what my innocent son was being forced to endure because of me.
Then suddenly one day our lives changed, I won the lottery.
Don’t get me wrong this wasn’t hundreds of millions but it was tens of thousands and I meant to use the money wisely.
Suddenly I could now afford a higher bond on a rental property and I could afford the higher rent on a nicer house in a better area. My son was now eighteen and was hoping to go to university. We moved town and house but the old problem now had a different context, we had both become so insular and didn’t mix, that now we found ourselves alone even still.
I struggled to make new friends and found that I was still unhappy. I may have had a little money to ease the pressure on me, yet I was terribly lonely.
One day Tom came home with a few cuts and bruises on his face. When I asked him what had happened he didn’t want to tell me but I eventually squeezed enough out of him to get the gist of it. He had been fighting a boy to defend my reputation, I needn’t say more!
It was all too much, my life ruined by a rapist, the loneliness and unhappiness terrible but yet even worse, now my son was having his life destroyed by the same thing.
I cried and cried and cried.
I found myself stood in the kitchen in my son’s arms, the crying had stopped and I dabbed at my eyes. At that point I had never needed a man so much in my life. Oh how I desperately wanted a man to hold me, to feel the warmth and security and to revel in the glow of mutual love and attraction.
I raised my head and looked into Tom’s eyes,
“Don’t worry mum, he said, I love you more than you can ever know.”
With that he bent his head and kissed me incredibly softly on the lips. It was just one peck but it lingered maybe one second longer than you would expect such a kiss to last. Still gazing into my upturned face and holding my eyes with his, he slowly bent again and kissed me again.
My heart was doing somersaults and by the third time he ever so lightly brushed my expectant lips with his, I was going under fast.
The fourth little peck that he gave me simply turned into one long kiss. I knew this was so very, very wrong, yet I needed Tom, I needed his love, I needed his affection and I so desperately needed his lips on mine.
I needed a man.
I had never felt what it was like to be held and caressed by a man. I was a young woman still and I knew I had a very attractive face and figure, yet as I said before, in my own eyes I was still a virgin. I know you will think that to be nonsense as the very presence of my son made that impossible but I truly believed myself to morally be still a virgin.
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