The Secret of the Nympho

Chapter 1

You really want me to start by introducing myself? Fine...

My name is Nicole. And I'm... I don't know, just a regular person. Pretty normal. The kind that blends into the background anywhere.

I never really cared much about getting all dolled up. Baggy jeans, old t-shirt, hoodie when it's cold, beat-up sneakers—that's always been enough for me. It was only more recently, like after seventeen, that I started wearing dresses once in a while. And it wasn't even to look prettier. It was practical. A dress makes it... easier to fuck, you know? Just hike it up and you're good.

I'm quiet. Always have been. I don't talk much, don't look at people much, prefer to keep to myself. As for friends... I had two, sort of. We'd text back and forth, sometimes hang out. But then they stopped talking to me. They said it was because of my "reputation," but I know that wasn't it. They were never real friends. They just wanted to go to my dad's condo complex, swim in the pool, hook up with the guys there. I was just the excuse, the in. A friendship of convenience.

You want me to keep talking about my family? Okay... I'll tell you.

My parents split up about two years ago. I don't know if that's good or bad. Sometimes I think it's better than listening to them fight about money all the time, sometimes I miss having a home that feels like a real home.

My dad's... I don't know, a logistics manager or something like that. He makes good money, lives in one of those gated communities with a pool, gym, all the bells and whistles. But he's always traveling. When he's home, he tolerates me. Doesn't fight, doesn't yell, just... exists nearby. I think he keeps me around because he can't just kick me out, you know? Laws, custody, all that shit.

My mom's a nursing assistant. One of those tough ones who work double shifts and still give half their paycheck to the church. She's super Catholic, like really intense about it. And she... she doesn't like me. She's called me a slut, shameless, a bunch of worse shit. Sometimes to my face, sometimes screaming on the phone. I think she sees in me everything she thinks is wrong with the world.

Deep down, neither of them likes me much. I feel it. It's not like they beat me or truly abandon me, but... I'm the baggage left over after the divorce, or whatever caused the divorce.

And then there's my brother. Two years younger, but he might as well be from another planet. Handsome, smart, full of friends, super outgoing. Everybody loves him. We get along... normal. Sometimes we fight bad, sometimes we laugh together, depends on the day, the mood, whatever. He's my opposite in every way. And sometimes I envy that. There are moments when I just wish someone in the family would look at me like I was worth something more than the white elephant in the corner of the room.

You want to hear about the nympho part, right? I know that's what everybody's waiting for. Fine... I'll tell you. Nymphomaniac. That's what you want to hear... It's the thing about me that makes people the most curious.

Actually, that term doesn't even exist anymore. Doctors call it "hypersexuality disorder" or whatever. Doesn't matter to me. The name doesn't change what I feel. They say I'm someone with really high hypersexuality and... totally fucked up in the head. That's it.

I tried to get treatment. Went to psychologists, psychiatrists, took a ton of meds. The kind that kill your desire, leave you doped up, no urge for anything. But they wrecked me. Made me worse. I stopped eating, sleeping, turned into a ghost. I tried to kill myself a bunch of times. Didn't work. And one day I just said fuck it. Stopped everything. And in a twisted way, it got better. At least I started feeling something again.

Before fifteen, my life was chill. I was the most ordinary girl you could imagine. Went to school, got good grades without trying, went to church a lot with my mom—she dragged me every Sunday, catechism, mass, youth group. I was super controlled, wore those baggy clothes, skirts below the knee, no makeup. And I think up until fifteen, I was actually happy. No emptiness, no constant hunger.

Can I tell you about my first kiss? I like that story, nothing big deal about it.

My first kiss was exactly on the day I turned fifteen. Sounds like a cheesy movie script, huh? It was with a boy hired to be the prince—at one of those church-organized debutante dances. He made out with me behind the school gym. Now I laugh about it. I remember not feeling a thing. Nothing at all. I was just shaking all over, sweating under that huge dress with all the layers, heavy makeup my mom had slathered on me. My friend Clarice was keeping watch from the corner so no one would see us in the dark. I thought it was supposed to feel like fireworks, butterflies in my stomach, whatever. But I felt nothing. Just fear of getting caught and a weird emptiness after. And that's when things started to change. Slowly. But they did change.

Back to the nymphomania...

How the nympho thing started, I don't know exactly, but I have an idea. It wasn't because of the kiss with the boy, I still don't know what it was for sure, but I have an idea. I think it really kicked off at the height of my parents' separation. My brother and I were used as human shields when it suited them and shoved around from one to the other. My parents were absent: my mom, even when she was physically there, her head was always on church stuff; and my dad, chasing some career promotion, was traveling all the time.

My brother thought that freedom after the split was awesome. He dove in, made new friends, went out more, like the world got bigger for him. Me... I sank. Got really bad. In the shitter for real. Cried all day, locked in my room, feeling guilty for everything—thought the divorce was my fault, for not being a good daughter, for not being perfect like my mom wanted.

It was around that time I started poking around online. Me, who'd only kissed one boy in my life, stumbled on videos and posts about masturbation. An influencer I followed said it was totally normal, helped you relax, eased stress, helped you sleep better. And the best part: no need to stick anything in, didn't lose your virginity. Perfect for me! I still wanted to get married in white at church, be the perfect bride my mom dreamed of.

Jerking off was forbidden at home. Straight up. My mom was always saying if I felt those urges, I should pray, get on my knees and ask forgiveness. She reminded me all the time about the shame I'd feel in confession, telling the priest. "Imagine having to say that to a man of God, Nicole?" She repeated it like a mantra to drill it into my head, and it worked.

Funny... now I go to church every week, step into the confessional and spill it all. Every fuck, every place, every detail. And look, it became my favorite day of the week. I whisper it low, feel that shiver, and walk out feeling light. Sometimes even wetter than when I went in.

I'm gonna tell you about my first real masturbation attempt, but first you need to get how my head was back then.

I liked boys, okay? Felt attraction, would check out some at school, thought it was cute when one smiled at me. But it wasn't lust. Not that urgency that takes your breath away, that fills your head all day. My sexuality just hadn't woken up yet. I didn't think about it. Sex was for grown-ups, movies, other people's talk.

I knew if I touched myself my body would respond, that it felt good. But every time I thought about trying, the guilt hit hard. My mom's voice echoing: sin, shame, confession, priest. And the fear of getting caught, of becoming a dirty person, of losing my virginity to my own fingers. I froze. Always froze.

Until one random afternoon—I don't even remember the exact day or date, just that it was a normal day, dad traveling, brother out, house empty. I call that afternoon day zero. The day it all really started.

And then... in the next chapter, I'll tell you what really went down.

Promise.