(ASS) Marie Chapter 13 part four of four parts (end)
FRIAR DAVE
And then, he said, it was my turn to feel nice again. I was glad to
oblige, rolling onto my back and spreading my legs. As he got down
between them, I pushed my little slit up at him and said, "Eat me all
up!"
He grinned oddly and muttered, "Yeah, you're big enough -- already
telling me what to do, like a real grownup girl..."
Then he went back to eating me, and this time it felt even better. I
think I was close to maybe even having an orgasm when he started
working one big, calloused finger into my cunt. It was a surprise and
didn't so much hurt as it felt funny to have something going in where
nothing had ever been.
He knew his stuff. He kept licking me and moving that finger farther
and farther, stretching me by stages -- until he hit my hymen. That
hurt.
"Owwww!"
He immediately pulled the finger back, still licking, and looked up at
me. "Gee, I guess we'll have to stop. You still have your baby skin
there."
But the licking had felt so good, I didn't want him to stop. I told
him so.
"Honey, as long as that baby skin is there, we can't do this. We have
to wait for you to be grown up so it'll go away."
"But can't you make it go away -- like when the dentist took out my
baby teeth?"
He looked skeptical and warned me that it would hurt, maybe a lot.
"But then we can play this special game, and I can have fun with you!"
He made as if to get up and move away. I closed my thighs around his
head.
"Please, Daddy, please!"
"Are you sure...?"
"Oh, Daddy, I'm sure!"
"Well...okay."
And he did. He licked me and sucked me, and then he rammed his finger
through my little hymen, and I thought I was going to die, it hurt so
much. The blood at least lubricated his finger a little, but there was
no pleasure now -- just the pain between my legs.
He knelt up, my blood on his lips, and sucked the blood off his
finger. "There, it's all gone now!" he said. I just kept crying and
asking him to make it stop hurting -- and the blood scared me.
"And now for the nice part," he said, crawling up over me. I didn't
know what he was planning to do -- until I felt his cock against my
little cunt. His cock had seemed immense -- hell, it *was* immense
compared to my size -- and if his finger had hurt that much, this was
going to tear me apart.
I was terrified, hurting and bleeding. I begged him to stop, to not do
it.
"Yeah, a real grownup, a real bitch," he growled. "Get a man excited
and try to close him out." He forced his cockhead into my cunt.
I was sure he was splitting me in half. I screamed for him to stop, to
not do it, but he did it. He drove his cock all the way into me,
crushing the breath out of me with his weight, and started grinding
his dick in and out of me. It as like someone had rammed a burning log
up inside there, just fire and pain and agony. But he kept doing it
for what seemed like hours, and then he grunted and split me open even
more, and then he collapsed on top of me, panting.
I tried to move him off me, and he finally rolled away. His cock hurt
coming out, too, and what I saw was really scary: my blood and his
semen were all over my cunt, my thighs and his limp prick.
I got up and it hurt. I walked and it hurt. I went into the bathroom
and peed. Hurt. I washed off the blood, wondering how to stop the
flow, but it had already stopped. It still hurt. I couldn't stop
sobbing.
Over the next couple of hours, the hurt started to fade, though it
stabbed through me when I sat on something hard. When Dad finally came
downstairs, he gave me a kiss and said now I was a grownup girl, and
it would stop hurting very, very soon -- even faster than having my
baby teeth pulled. I was a little reassured, but not much.
I didn't tell anyone.
But a week later, Dad and I were sitting up, watching television. He
was drinking beer and giving me sips. He told me to come sit in his
lap. I didn't want to. He ordered me to sit in his lap and I did; we
all knew how mean he could get if he'd been drinking.
Soon enough his hands were all over me, and this time his finger
didn't hurt when he poked it inside. Still didn't feel good, either.
Then he took me down to the basement, put some Vaseline on his dick,
and he fucked me again. I felt like I was being punched and bruised
inside, but there wasn't any blood this time. When he touched my
clitty with his fingers, it did, indeed, feel good. Very good.
Before too long, he had me getting into bed with him a lot, a couple
of times a week. He taught me to lick him, and eventually, when I
could open my mouth enough, to suck him off -- the way he liked. But
he preferred to fuck my cunt, said I was the tightest and bestest
little pussy he'd ever banged.
He always licked me first, and sometimes it felt so good I didn't mind
the discomfort when he fucked my baby pussy. He'd taken to using KY
and other lubricants, which helped a lot. He didn't use them for my
sake, mind you; my dry cunt chafed his cock. See, at that age there's
no such thing as natural lubricant.
And he'd do things for me, too, like stick up for me with Mom and slip
me a little extra change when I went to the store. Rewards for being
his toy.
I got into the habit of having my pussy regularly strained by his
prick. And when it hurt too much, I'd just try to pretend it wasn't
happening to me, that it was happening to someone else.
But one night, when I was over at my friend's house on a sleepover, he
came home drunk. I found out that he and Mom got into a terrible
fight, and she'd loaded all the other kids up in the car and taken
them to grandma's, to wait for him to sleep it off. And as soon as
they were gone, he called my friend's house and ordered me home.
Drunk or not, he wanted to fuck. I said, "No, please" just once, and
he hit me across the face hard enough to send me sprawling. Then he
grabbed me and fucked me, hard and brutal, no lubricant except my
bleeding. He did that three times that night and again the next
morning. Each time I pretended harder and harder that it wasn't
happening to me, that it was someone else, that it was a nightmare. My
daddy wasn't hurting me; it was some monster pretending to be my
daddy. I was trying to blot it out. I felt utterly helpless.
Mom and the rest came back that night, and she asked me about the
bruise on my face. I told her, and then I blurted out what he'd done.
She shouted and slapped me. She scolded me, saying Dad was a good,
hard-working man who did everything for us, and how could I possibly
make up such an awful, evil lie? I was never to tell anyone or I'd be
put in a bad place for telling such a story, and I was to forget all
about this terrible thing I had imagined or made up.
I became feral, learning to avoid being alone with Dad until I could
stay out of his clutches for weeks at time. The memories got easier
and easier to suppress as I got older. And when I was 10 I started
trolling for boys to fuck, and even men, and tried to -- I dunno -- I
guess somehow make it right by doing it on my terms. It didn't work,
of course. I had a lot of fun, a lot of kicks. But nothing will ever
erase what that son of a bitch did to me.
When I finished the story, Dan was sitting there still as stone. He
cranked his head around toward Jeanne.
She nodded. "And Alexis."
"So I try to deal with it. Therapy helped a lot," I said, remembering
how much the remembering had hurt. "I try to forgive him, and think I
can -- and then this hurt and fear and anger comes boiling up and out.
I have to find some way to put it behind me."
"And you trusted me after you saw what Irene and I did?"
"I knew the difference, still know it. She came on to you."
"I didn't try to fight her off," he said. "Even encouraged her to do
what she did."
"What she did," I echoed. "She started it, she knew what she was
doing, and she wanted it and liked it. And you were so sweet and
gentle with her -- I was jealous."
He shook his head. "In answer to your earlier question -- yes, I would
have stopped it. I just wonder if it's stopped now."
"He hasn't touched me in -- well, not since I was 12. But inside, in
my head, in my nightmares...it's never stopped. He's still raping me."
Jeanne spoke: "We try to keep an eye on him, we even got him into
counseling -- twice. He showed up twice, then refused to go again and
'listen to those bitches' lies about' him. We never leave our kids
around him, even if someone else is there."
"We have to do something to be sure he doesn't fuck up more kids."
"We're still trying to deal with our own conflicts, Dan," I told him.
"You can't know how hard this is for us." I was starting to weep
again. "And Mom still won't face up to it."
I was crying then, and so was Jeanne, and we clutched each other and
Dan. I finally got my longtime wish...sort of.
I spent the night with his arms around me. I spent the night sleeping,
waking occasionally to touch his face and Jeanne's, reassuring myself
that it was not a dream, that I really was safe from the monsters.
In the morning, they brought Dad home from the hospital. Things seemed
to go okay, except Mom just wanted to stay in bed all the time. It was
severe depression.
That night, Dad was holding forth about never seeing his
grandchildren, especially Jeanne's little girl. My niece had just
turned eight. My eyes filled up, and I rushed into the kitchen. Jeanne
and Dan were right behind me.
Jeanne held me, and I wept and wept and wept, and finally I just
looked at Dan and sobbed, "I just don't know what to do...I'm always
so afraid the monsters will get me! I just don't know what to do!"
"I do," my brother's voice said. Jeanne asked him, but I knew from
Dan's tone exactly what he was going to say.
"Kill the son of a bitch."
We never touched him, never moved his pills away from him -- nothing.
But with Mom doped into unconsciousness, and Alexis on a 747 heading
East, he was as much at the mercy of Jeanne and me as we had been
subject to his tender mercies, this unrepentent baby raper.
Dan drained the batteries on the cordless phone with a paper clip,
then wiped his prints when he put it back. Dad never noticed. He was
laying back in the big recliner, mesmerized by what Jeanne and I were
doing: talking.
Yes, we sat on either side of him and told him what we did with each
other, what we'd done with so many other men and women and boys and
girls. His blood pressure rose, and his heart rate accelerated.
"Such sluts, such bitches -- Son, they ever take care of you? Don't
this stuff give you a hard on?"
Dan was standing with his back to the door. "Show them who's the boss,
Dad."
"Yes, goddamit! Give me some relief, you bitches! Come on and make it
happen or -- " He jerked around as if to grab for us, as if he wanted
to get out of the recliner. " -- I'll grab you just like when you was
little! You think I can't still -- still -- "
And then his eyes went wide. His face contorted, and he knew. He
finally knew what we had done.
Of course, none of the physicians were surprised. My little brothers
wee heartbroken. Even Jeanne and Alexis and I cried at the wake and
the funeral. Mom was medicated into the Twilight Zone.
Dan didn't cry. Didn't even get misty-eyed. Back at the house
afterward, Tod -- Darlene's brother -- chugged a couple of beers and
started in on Dan about not being a good son and not mourning his old
man's loss. Dan told him to shut up. Tod's dad, who'd taught his
darling son everything he knew about raping babies, joined in. Dan
invited them to continue this lively and stimulating discussion with
him out behind the garage. Alexis spotted him leading them through the
kitchen door and knew there was going to be trouble. She, not knowing
Dan as I did, was worried about our big brother. She was maybe 60
seconds behind them. She was too late.
He had savaged them. Tod was unconscious, with blood all around his
head and his crotch, The only reason his father's fingers got broken
was that they were covering the remains of his own crushed testicles.
Alexis got Dan to stop.
We made sure my uncle told the doctors that he'd fallen down -- just
like he used to make Darlene say at school if someone questioned her
bruises. We made sure he understood the irony in that. We also made
sure he knew what would happen if he ever touched another kid -- or
knew of a kid being abused and didn't stop it.
Y'see, it's not enough to keep one particular kid safe. You may get
one little girl or boy away from an abuser, but there's always more
kids, more prey, more targets. And the abuse doesn't stop for the kid,
ever. I know; I'm still being abused.
Oh, sure, I had a lot of fun fucking and sucking and messing around --
but only when *I* started it, when *I* wanted it. I probably would
have, anyhow.
But my abuse fucked up my character. It scarred me and hurt me in ways
that I tried to salve with indiscriminate fucking, with drugs and
booze. I've spent most of my life behaving in ways guaranteed to make
everyone see me as the one-purpose bitch-slut I'd been told I was,
always getting into relationships that were bad or wrong from the
start -- or seeing to it that they ended if they turned out to be good
for me despite myself. After all, if I ever loved anyone as much as
I'd loved my Daddy, I'd have to be hurt like that little girl was,
wouldn't I?
I'm one of the lucky ones. A lot of kid hurters were hurt themselves,
the same way. Some of them have grown up to be even more twisted. The
next time you read about some mass murderer or torturer, listen to the
testimony in the trial. Over and over again, you'll hear "abused as a
child." Fact is, you should take the time to find out how often abuse
as a child is mentioned in the records of the recidivists -- repeat
felons -- who account for more than half of the crime in this country.
The percentage will take your breath away.
They have to be stopped. They have to be helped, if they're willing,
but they have to be stopped. The cycle has to end.
Even now, the monsters still pursue me in my nightmares, where I'm
always a terrified little girl. But sometimes now, that little girl
hears my brother's voice saying, "Kill the son of a bitch," and she
turns around and finds she's in the middle of a crowd of frightened,
weeping children. And up at the front of that terrified mob, she sees
a human wall standing between the monster and the kids. The wall is
all the other survivors and their families, standing scared and weak
and shaking -- but standing there, holding their ground and staring
the monster down. That little girl looks at those people, and among
them she sees her sisters and brothers and her grownup self, and she
just knows that if she can get through the crowd to her, she'll
finally grow up to be that woman in the front lines, the woman who
fights back and protects kids.
I just hope she gets the chance.
* * *
[Okay, you got all that, right? No, no, I'm okay. Just give me a
fucking kleenex so I can blow my nose.
[No, it doesn't feel better to get it off my chest. I never really
wanted to tell it all like --
[Maybe I did. Maybe that's why no matter how much I moved around, I
kept the diaries -- so I'd never really forget. Maybe I really wanted
to tell it all to someone. Especially the last part. But that was the
important part.
[It better. I'm not convinced this will work. I read what you did with
the first part, and I think it's just going to turn a lot of them on.
I hope they get the point about forcing and tricking and abusing --
[That's why I said it.
[No, I don't want to see them. Just do like you said, okay? But I want
to know if this hotshot idea works, if anyone really does get the
message with this big mysterious computer network thing. Tell me,
okay?
[I know. It didn't bother me because you didn't pretend it didn't. It
should have turned you on -- it was pretty hot. And you didn't seem
real thrilled when I told you about the first time. You looked like
you were going to barf.
[Now, you tell me something -- if you'd known me then, and I'd come on
to you, what would you have done?
[I thought so. But then we couldn't have talked about it. Stay in
touch, okay?]
END
This concludes the MARIE series. More than this, deponent sayeth not.
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