Shame: My Freshman Year

By Ashley Zacharias

Sadhbh O’Roark is socially incompetent. She does whatever she wants and says whatever she thinks because she doesn’t care what people say behind her back. The threat of being shunned holds no terror for her because she’s always been a social outcast. In her freshman year at university, she openly embraces her sexual masochism and shocks the entire school. Her outrageous behavior thrills the boys, infuriates the girls, drives her favorite professor to the brink of nervous exhaustion, and terrifies the university administration. She’s the baddest ass on campus. And no one pronounces her name correctly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Zacharias
• Release date: Jun 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463403167

Ashley Zacharias

I am a post-modern woman who lives a vanilla life but fantasizes about adventures in masochism. I appreciate readers who purchase my books but, more than money, I need your honest response to my writing. Review my books or contact me at ashleyzacharias.com and let me know what you think of my stories. Good or bad, as long as you are not indifferent, your honest response will help me to write more and better stories.You can find my thoughts about my own stories athttp://ashleyzachariascommentary.wordpress.com/Yours, Ashley

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

On a scale of one to ten, my face rates barely a four. My cheeks are scarred from the ravages of teenage acne. My eyes tend to squint. My nose is on the large size and has a notable hook. My chin is weak and my forehead slopes backward, which makes my nose stand out even more. My hair is thin and the color of a Norwegian rat pelt. I wear it cropped in a pixie cut which does not flatter me at all.

The overall effect is a head that looks like a fuzzy soccer ball with a large beak pasted on one side.

On the same scale, my body is a solid four, though definitely not a five. My tits are big enough but droop pendulously. I’m not fat, but my gut has a natural paunch that I can never diet away. My ass is two round dumplings and my legs are short compared to my torso.

My personality, on the other hand, would be hard pressed to rate a three. I don’t understand other people and can never predict how they might react to anything I say or do. I have no wit. I am blunt and honest. People don’t laugh with me; they laugh at me. Though not often because I avoid interacting with people as much as I can. It’s only on rare occasions that I accidentally play the clown.

So why are men who you’d rate nine or better on every attribute eager to date me? Why do I get more than a dozen marriage proposals every year? All of which I refuse.

My popularity with desirable men is going to take some explaining. At the root of it all is my psychology. I’m a sexual masochist. But if you think that means I beg men to abuse me, you have the wrong idea entirely. I don’t tolerate abuse and can’t respect any woman who does.

Rather, my masochism motivates a variety of behaviors that make me highly desirable despite the shortcomings in my looks and personality.

My masochism does not make me shameless. To the contrary, I feel shame acutely. So acutely, my shame feels like a physical pain. But because I’m a sexual masochist, as long as my shame is sexual in nature, I not only embrace it, I seek it out. I deliberately do the most shameful things I can precisely because it makes me feel so bad.

My masochism does not make me brave. I’m terrified of physical pain. If I know I’m going to suffer even a hand spanking, I can barely make myself lay across a man’s lap. And if I see a paddle, I want to drop to the floor, curl into a ball, and whimper inconsolably. But because I’m a sexual masochist, I seek as much pain as I can tolerate precisely because it terrifies me so.

My masochism does not make me lascivious. I am a prude by nature and upbringing. My ideal would be to have sex only in the dark, only in the missionary position, only with my husband. If not for my masochism, I’d likely never have had any sex, especially not the kinky, perverted things I’ve done in public. But my masochism is an inescapable fact. I hate the things I’ve let people do to my cunt. I hate sinking to my knees and taking a man’s cock in my mouth. I hate getting my asshole fucked. I even hate using words like cunt and cock and fucked. So, my sexual masochism forces me to say those words and do those things as often as I can. And when I do these things, which I do all the time, I have yet another earthshaking orgasm, even when I’m getting fucked in the ass. I feel my shame so deeply, I feel as though a knife is cutting into my heart.

My paradox is that I love the shame and pain and degradation. I live for it.

But I didn’t come to the place I’m at now all at once. I matured into it slowly, beginning when I entered university, just after my eighteenth birthday.

CHAPTER TWO

I never dated in high school. I barely existed. The student body was someone else, not me. So high school isn’t worth talking about. My real story begins when I started my first year of university.

The City University of San Diego is a good school. Not an academic pressure cooker like UCSD and not a party school like San Diego State, but a place where a girl can get a good education without being driven to despair in her third year or graduating into a twelve-step program after her fourth. It was the right school for me.

I had no hope of being pledged to a sorority, so I didn’t even try. When you have a personality that rates three out of ten, you’re not going to get rushed.

The administration automatically invited all the students to a mixer on the Saturday night before classes began. Ostensively, the intent was to integrate the incoming freshmen into the student body. Make us feel like we were welcome on campus.

Most of the freshmen attended because we didn’t know any better and had nothing else to do. Most the losers in the upper classes attended as well. Maybe they hoped to improve their status among their peers. Or maybe they thought they might find a freshman who was naive enough to go on a date with them. Curiously, though, there were also a fair number of cool upperclassmen who came out. Mostly, they wanted to look down their noses at the rest of us, sneer to our faces, and laugh behind our backs.

There were fifteen thousand students in the school, and nearly half attended the mixer, so we weren’t going to fit in a gymnasium. But the weather is fine in San Diego in September, so the administration held the mixer in the open space, called the quad, in the middle of the school, expecting it to spill out into surrounding green spaces.

I arrived promptly at eight, the time announced in the emailed invitation. I didn’t realize that was too early. The time on an invitation is a strict instruction for a formal cocktail party, which this was not, but is not even a suggestion for an informal party, which this was. The time on the invitation is purely ironic.

The cool kids knew that, so none of them were present when I got there, only a handful of fellow losers.

We clustered awkwardly in the center of the quad, too shy to introduce ourselves to each other. Instead, we instinctively faced outward, like musk ox forming a circle to defend ourselves from the wolves who were surely stalking us. We occasionally snorted and muttered incomprehensible mundanities to no one in particular but didn’t engage in anything like actual conversation.

People slowly trickled in, pretty much by rank of coolness. First, other, more socially attuned freshmen joined the core herd of losers, followed by sophomore and junior losers, then a mixture of the least cool seniors and the coolest freshmen. The last to join the party were the seniors who were natural denizens of the loftiest ranks of coolness. By the time they showed up, the quad was packed, but the crowd parted to let them stroll among us, a small gang of men and women wearing the latest fashion with a casual aplomb that declared how little they cared about fads and trends.

Walking to the center of the milling masses would be too much bother for these pashas. They sauntered just far enough into the crowd to be able to pass silent judgement on their newest classmates.

I was awestruck.

For an hour, I watched the aristocracy of the undergraduate population from afar. They didn’t linger as a group but broke up into pairs and triplets to drift about and amuse themselves with exercises of sarcastic wit at the expense of the rest of us. So sly was their banter that, more often than not, the targets of their condescension never realized they’d been insulted.

They did not insult the freshmen. We were so far beneath them that merely admitting they noticed us would have lowered their status. Rather, they aimed their barbs at lesser seniors and students in the middle of the junior class. But their sharpest darts were aimed at the coolest sophomores.

It wasn’t long before the biggest, coolest senior of them all, the leader of the pack, drifted near to me. At the moment, he was traveling in the company of a single coed. He was as handsome as a movie star and his companion might have won a beauty pageant, had she not considered that sort of display beneath her dignity.

Beauty alone was insufficient to propel a student to the top of the university hierarchy. The way others deferred to this couple left no doubt that both were habitually on the dean’s list and would be graduating cum laude at the end of their year.

It happened that I was standing near one of the cool sophomores. Not the top of the sophomore hierarchy, one of the lower ranks, but still a member of their aristocracy. In terms of the British peerage, not a duke or an earl, but a baronet. Someone who is part of the aristocracy, but not technically a peer.

He was standing somewhat in front of me and slightly to one side, close enough that I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation with one of his classmates. She held a distinctly lower social standing than him, and clearly aspired to increase her status by being associated with him.

He was not loathe to the idea, so had been chatting amiably with her. But when he told her he knew a place where they could get some privacy, she demurred. His intent was clear, he wanted a quick toss in the sack—the place he had in mind was likely at his frat house—but she wasn’t going to give herself to him that easily. She wanted him to work a little for her favors. She understood that being an easy lay, even for a cool, handsome fellow, would decrease her social standing, not increase it.

I was bemused. I had no social standing whatsoever. I never had. Listening to a seduction play out like a verbal boxing match was educational. Never let anyone tell you you can’t get a good education in college. Especially if you keep your ears perked outside the lecture hall.

The sophomore’s attempt to seduce his admirer was extinguished when the pair of cool seniors drifted into range.

The senior woman glanced at the sophomore woman and smiled warmly. That blouse suits you. I have one just like it in my closet.

Thank you.

My grandmother gave it to me. I keep meaning to give it to Goodwill, but I’m not sure it meets their standards.

The sophomore’s face fell.

The woman hastened to add, But don’t take that the wrong way. You and I are different in so many ways. What’s great for you, just isn’t right for me. Her eyes sparkled as she twisted the knife.

The senior man shrugged at the sophomore man. She’s got a nice shaped mouth, though. I bet you could get some decent head from her if you worked at it.

The sophomore man reflexively glanced at his companion’s mouth. Her face glowed red.

I was appalled. I’d never imagined a college student could be so crude. I was no part of their conversation, but I felt my own ears burn.

The sophomore woman shook her head. I’m not a slut. He’s not getting any blowjobs from me. She turned and slunk off.

The two seniors laughed. Sorry, Troy. I didn’t mean to cock block you. He didn’t sound sorry in the least. Guess you’re going have to suffer the old blue balls for a while longer. He guffawed.

The sophomore gritted his teeth and glared at the senior.

Light dawned. The senior knew the sophomore’s name. This wasn’t an accidental meeting. These two had history. And it clearly wasn’t a good one.

I believe I told you I had no social skills. I may not have mentioned that I was bullied mercilessly for four long years of high school because I never hesitated to say or do the wrong thing. And when called on it, I never acquiesced to the bullies. I simply took whatever punishment they doled out and carried on, acting as though I didn’t care, pretending they hadn’t hurt me.

But I came to hate bullies with all my heart. I’d thought I’d left the worst behind when I walked out of the high school graduation hall and into the rest of my life.

But I’d barely entered college, and already I was seeing a new level of bullying, crueler and cruder than any I’d experienced in high school.

Before the sophomore could marshal a cutting retort, I stepped forward and stared at the senior. She may not be a slut, but I am. And I can tell you one thing for sure. You’ll never get head from me. Troy will, but not you. You’re the one who’s going to have the blue balls. I turned my gaze to the senior woman. Unless she’s going to drop to her knees for you. I managed to smile at the man. But I’ll bet she thinks her mouth is too good for your cock. She and I have that in common, I’m sure.

I took Troy’s hand and pulled him away before the seniors could think up any more insults.

We didn’t move fast enough. We were still in earshot when the senior shouted at our backs, Hey, Troy, is that’s some ugly dog you got there. You ought to look for an actual human girl to fuck.

There was no wit left in the senior, just crude name calling. That was a victory of sorts. Besides, his description was grossly unfair. I’m not as pretty as most girls. I can admit that. But a four is just on the low side of average. A dog would be a one or two.

I know because I’ve spent a lot of time looking at other girls, comparing myself to them, being as objective as I can.

When we stopped at the edge of the crowd, Troy looked at me just the way I looked at other girls, sizing me up. He wasn’t repelled by what he saw. Are you really going to give me a blow job?

I was already shamed by my actions. I’d publicly labeled myself a slut and proved it by promising a stranger a blow job. I felt my face flush brighter. Do you want one? I prayed he would show me some mercy and decline, like any gentleman would. I’d sacrificed my self-respect to save him. Surely, he wouldn’t hold me to my promise.

More than anything in the world. His eyes glowed with hope. His crotch swelled with expectation.

Damn. Not tonight. Too many people are looking at us. That was true. I could feel people’s eyes on me. Some guys who had been close enough to hear what I’d said had followed us through the crowd, trying to act casual, but eager to see if I was going to make good on my promise to Troy. I felt men staring at my mouth, thinking about their own cocks sliding between my lips.

When?

Tomorrow. Seven o’clock tomorrow evening. Meet me here in the quad at seven. I’ll be over by the fountain.

Promise?

I promise.

What had I done to myself? I stepped away. I’ll see you tomorrow.

He didn’t try to follow me when I went back to my dorm room, curled into a ball on my bed and whimpered, terrified by the commitment I’d made.

I had a choice. I could give Troy a blowjob and confirm that I was the class slut; or I could stand him up and spend the next four years being the woman whose word couldn’t be trusted. The woman who could talk a good game but was too scared to follow through.

Being a coward would be worse than being a slut. It would make me the target for every bully on campus.

I was going to have to make good on my promise.

CHAPTER THREE

I didn’t have a clue how to give a boy a blowjob. High school sex education hadn’t included that lesson. Damn their limp curriculum.

But I wasn’t discouraged. I hadn’t made the honor roll in high school by neglecting my homework. I’d have been class valedictorian if I hadn’t earned solid C’s in my gym classes. Those had pulled my grade point average down significantly.

I had until seven in the evening to learn the craft of giving head.

Sunday morning, I booted up my computer. Is blowjob one or two words? That was never covered in grammar in my English class. More limp curriculum. I typed it into Google as one word, reasoning that it was less likely to return results about job opportunities to blow dry hair in a beauty salon or blow a jazz saxophone in a nightclub than if I broke it into two words.

I spent an hour studying web sites. Cosmopolitan told me "How to Drive your Man Wild with Your Sexy Mouth" (their italics). Wikipedia explained the etymology of the word fellatio; and assured me that fellatio won’t make me pregnant. Like I didn’t already know that. My high school sex education course had been woefully short on practical skills, but heavy on anatomy. I already knew my mouth was not connected to my uterus, and I knew telling a child a baby is growing in Mommy’s tummy is not medically accurate.

Armed with more advice and knowledge than one person needed, I still felt ignorant. You can’t learn to ride a bicycle by reading Wikipedia. I know. I tried that when I was seven and got my first bike. I still have the scars on my knees to prove it.

I didn’t earn those C’s in gym by being a natural athlete.

I feared giving my first blow job would add more scars to my knees if I did it wrong. Though the scars might come anyway if I drove my man as wild as Cosmo told me I would if I followed their advice, which I intended to do.

I do tend to be an overachiever.

So, as a substitute for actual experience, I spent another couple of hours looking at porn sites. It took a bit of effort to find them. I needed free ones because being forced to pay money to teach myself to be a slut would add a bit too much to my already acute humiliation.

I knew there were free porn sites out there somewhere, and if thirteen-year-old boys could find them, surely an honor graduate from Chula Vista High School could do the same.

Googling blowjob videos did the trick. Before I could blink, I was watching Sasha, Alexia, and Cherry sucking cocks like crazy. But the star I studied most avidly was a Swedish girl called Miss Banana. Somehow, I doubt that was the name her mother had given her. It just doesn’t sound Swedish enough. She had a face shaped like a valentine and a mouth that looks a lot like mine. I may have mentioned before that my mouth is the most attractive feature on my face.

I watched videos until I reached the point where I was no longer seeing anything new. There’s only so much a girl can do to a cock with her tongue and lips. The biggest revelation was how much a woman’s hands are involved when she’s sucking cock. Seriously. Some women seemed to be giving men hand jobs while the cock was merely parked between their lips.

I did find a few videos where women gave men blowjobs while their hands were cuffed behind their backs. That seemed to require a different, specialized set of oral skills. That also gave me a damned juicy crotch. Handcuffs, rope, and chains have featured prominently in my fantasies since puberty. I’ve never needed a shrink to tell me I’m a masochist. I knew it long before I learned the word for it.

CHAPTER FOUR

The porn stars on the internet wore sexy lingerie when they went down on their men. I didn’t have any and didn’t see any reason to strip when my mouth and hands were the only body parts I intended to use, so I wore a sundress. I would have worn jeans, but I didn’t want to get their knees dirty. It’s easier to wash skin than do an extra load of laundry. Of course, I left my pantyhose at home. No sense ruining them with a bunch of runs at the knees.

I stuffed a handful of Kleenex in my purse. The porn stars invariably ended up coated with jizz and drool. In the videos, the men appeared to spurt half a cup of semen or more when they came. Not always—there seemed to be considerable variation in the output of the male organ—but it did tend to overflow the woman’s mouth more often than