( Caution: If you are a survivor of child sexual abuse, this story may "trigger" you)

Her voice is low and quiet as she begins to speak. Long hair hanging like a wall about her face, her eyes are hidden. She extends her hand and offers to take you on a journey. She tells you to close your eyes and imagine with her for a moment. Imagine a little girl clothed ridiculously in print dresses and cowboy boots. Tender and innocent, tripping through life carelessly. Long gold brown curls tumble merrily about her shoulders. Her body is sturdy but sturdy as only a 4 year old’s body can be, not encumbered with the weight of the world yet. Large expresso colored eyes peer out of an almost elfin face. Serious and somber, they take in her world with gravity.

The room is small, but serves as the living room to the garage apartment that her parents are renting. The floors are bare wood, highly shined and freshly dusted. Large blowzy flowers cover the faded wall paper. Here and there tatters of corners have begun to peel away from the wall as the glue has disintegrated. The furniture is worn and the couch is some god-awful faded rose color that has seen better days. Along one wall are two casement windows overlooking the bays of the filling station that occupies the lower floor of the building. Between these two windows sits an armchair. Not overly large, but serviceable, the wood of the arms is dark and scuffed. The fabric is something that originally was meant to compliment the sofa, but now just adds to the general air of disrepair that permeates the room. For all that the furniture and apartment have seen better days, the place is clean. Crocheted doilies cover the frayed arms of the sofa and chairs. They grace the side tables and lend a sad desperation to the chipped bowl of cut flowers that sits in the center of the coffee table.

Sitting in the chair between the two windows is a man. A large man with night black hair, combed straight back across his head in large waves. His face is not handsome but he is not ugly either. His nose is large, native american heritage showing strongly in the shape of it. His features are shadowed with this heritage in many other areas, and his eyes are that same expresso color as the little girls. As he peers around the room, the viewer can see that he has been disfigured. One eye is closed tightly, the lids sunken in over an obviously empty socket. The other eye is flashing and hard, no gentleness to be seen in its depths anywhere. Dressed in khaki work pants and a white T-shirt, one large blunt hand is resting on the arm of the chair. The other thick fingered hand has unzipped his pants and extracted his penis from the fly of his white boxer shorts. It is now wrapped tightly around his erect penis. Stroking it aimlessly, he waits. Into this scene comes the unaware child.

Catching her eye, the man motions for her to approach him. Hesitantly she steps toward him, the knowledge of the wrongness of this situation infusing her child’s awareness. The hand resting on the arm of the chair reaches out, grasps her around the waist and sweeps her in closer. Stumbling a bit, she comes to rest against his knee. He asks her if she knows what he is doing. Indicating that she does not, she turns her eyes away uncomfortably. Unwilling to leave the capture of his arm around her waist, she still does not want to stay either. The comfort of his embrace wars with the discomfort of the setting. He is her father and she loves him. A child that fades easily from other’s notice, she enjoys the attention she is getting at this moment. His large hand gently reaches out and stroke the hair from her forehead. She leans into his touch as he begins to tell her how much he loves her. He describes how difficult his life is, how much he just wants to be loved. Inside a tiny spark of understanding resonates to his voice. The little girl knows that ache, that need to be loved. She also, has always felt outside the rest of the world. Even though she does not understand all his words, she knows that this is her daddy and that he is loving her now, so she cuddles closer. The large man takes her little girl hand and placing it on his erection, asks if she understands. Tentatively, she nods her head. He smiles, but the smile never reaches his eye. Then he wraps her tiny child fingers around his erection, covers them with his own large hand and begins to stroke himself to orgasm. Panting softly, his huge body trembles and the child trembles along with him. His from excitement, hers from fear. Finally with a low groan, he ejaculates, the hot fluid spilling out onto the hard-wood floors, and covering her delicate fingers now clasped around the glans of his penis. Shaking, she attempts to withdraw, but his strong arm holds her close. He pulls her to him in a huge hug and thanks her raggedly for being "good to daddy". Paralyzed with fear now, she stands poised for flight as soon as his arm releases her. Finally he regains his composure, but before he releases his grasp of her hand around his penis, he extracts a promise. She promises to always be good to daddy. She promises what he has asked for. A promise made in a desperate attempt to escape his grasp, but also to make him happy. To assure that she has not made him angry and that he would love her still when he was not acting so strange. She nods her little girl head, tugs surreptitiously at the hand that he still clasps in his and wants nothing more than to go and scrub her hands. He releases her. She bolts for the door, but he calls her name. Recognizing the tone of voice that brooks no refusal, she reluctantly turns, her head hanging, eyes not meeting his. He gives one last command. He demands that she not tell her mother about their "little secret". Nodding a quick assent, the child flies through the living room door. Locking herself into the bathroom, she scrubs at the stains on her hands until the skin is raw and reddened.
 
 

Taking a deep breath, the woman before you stops talking for a moment. She reaches for a cold drink and swallows convulsively. It is obvious that this telling is painful. Small chills wash over her now and again, like the shivers caused by a bone-chilling cold. Raising her head briefly, her eyes sweep the room. Unfocused and filled with pain, they are dark and fathomless. Having regained her composure, she continues her tale. Softly her voice fills the air, hanging heavily like an incantation against the evil she relates. And she asks you to continue your imagining and to step forward with her to a later time.

Another rented apartment upstairs. Another home filled with furniture that has been ill-used by previous tenants. The apartment is shotgun, all the rooms open off of a main hall that began with steep stairs to the outside world. Just through the front door and three steps into the hall, to the left is the family room, to the right is the kitchen. The kitchen is a huge open area, with room for a breakfast table and large, laughing family gatherings. A small window above the sink overlooks the tumbling waves of the bay. The gulf breezes blow constantly through the windows. At night as dusk falls and the lightening bugs flicker their love signals, the high laughter of children at play can be heard drifting in the windows. Three more steps down the hall, to the right a formal dining room, to the left a bathroom. Again, three more and the end of the hall is reached. To the left is the master bedroom, no description exhists of this area except a dark cavern like place. Forbidden to entrance by small children, it stands with its door half closed, a mysterious world of grownup doings. To the right is the second bedroom. It is here that our story continues. Huge roses cover the wall paper of this room, but instead of being sad and faded, they hold an air of promise and peace. Twin beds sit side by side in the middle of the room, with a small bedside table between them. On this table sits a radio, and a lamp. Late at night when the apartment is all silent, the radio plays the top tunes of the ‘50s. The AM Deejay’s voice fills the night air with hearty false enthusiasm as he spins record after record of lost and found love. Soft night winds ruffle the starched white organza curtains. In the bed closest to the window, the little girl lays propped on a fluffy feather pillow. She stares out into the night and dreams of escape.

The soft exhalations of the child’s older brother whisper into the night. The dark settles around them like a blanket. Heavy footsteps sound in the hallway and the little girl, her curls now shorn in a short, straight bob, buries her face in her pillow. Over and over, like a prayer, she whispers for him to go away, go away, go away. Her mother is not home this night. Some business somewhere has taken her out of the apartment. A sliver of light from the hallway slices across the bedroom. Huddling under her covers, wrapped in her cocoon, she waits, not daring to even breathe. Softly the steps approach her side of the room. A pause, checking to see that her brother still sleeps. Then the creak of the bedsprings as his weight sinks into the mattress. Rat-like scratchings as his clumsy fingers tug at the sheets binding her body. Then his hands, touching, exploring, caressing. His breath is soft, but heavy, panting raggedly out of his throat. She feels him fumble in his lap and knows he is taking his "thing" out. The rhythmic movements begin and she scrunches her eyes closed to block out the mental picture of what she knows is happening. Another pause, expectant listening, her brother sleeps on. The warmth of his hand creeps between her firm tanned thighs, roughly spreading them for easier access. Large rough fingers dig at her body, rubbing and stroking the outside of her sex. Wriggling, she tries to clench her thighs closer together, but that only makes him more determined. One stubby finger pushes in deeper than the rest and he finds her wetness. Sliding the finger back and forth between the hairless lips of her vagina, he rubs her repeatedly until he finds her clit. Centering in on that, he begins to stroke himself with the other hand again. The child whimpers quietly, then gives up the battle. Waves of pleasure begin to course through her body. A hot burn fills her vagina and she is afraid she is going to urinate on herself. As he comes ever closer to orgasm, his touch on her vagina becomes frenzied. A gasp, then a shudder as he climaxes into his hand. Then turning his full attention to his efforts between his daughter’s legs, he spreads her lips and rubs her clit back and forth with powerful strokes. Closing her mind firmly as if shutting a door, she withdraws and the throes of her own orgasm rocks her small body. Her vagina is soaked and raw feeling as he rolls her to her side, and patting her buttocks, slips back out the door. Hot, salty tears flow silently down her nine year old face and the radio plays on into the night.
 
 

Groaning softly, she asks to take a break. Rising from the chair, her body appears aged and worn much more than it did when she first entered. Reaching for her cigarettes, she steps out the door. A few moments pass, perhaps fifteen or more, then the door opens and she returns. Her composure regained, she indicates she is ready to begin this trip down the roads of hell once again. Taking a deep breath and curling her feet beneath her in the deeply cushioned chair, she tells you that the next snapshot in time is the last. Quietly she describes the scene to you, bringing you back with her, back to the replay of what was.

Another rented place, this time though it is a house. Isolated from its neighbors, it sets back from the road, a dirt drive leads to the front porch. White wood framed and sitting on concrete pilings, a smallish porch clings precariously to the front of it. Inside the tiny rooms are well appointed. Although the house itself is old and slightly run-down, the furnishings are relatively new and show the pride that only ownership can bestow. The living room has highly polished mahogany tables gracing its black leather sofa and recliner. As you enter the front door, you pass through the living room and into a combination kitchen/dining area. Off to the right of the main living areas are the bedrooms and bath. The walls of the house hang with artifacts and pictures from exotic lands, chronicling the travels of the man of the house. The bedrooms are separated by the bathroom, "hollywood" style. A door from each room allows all inhabitants of the house to enter the bathroom from the privacy of their own bedroom. The master bedroom is dwarfed by a large king-sized bed. It looms in the room like a giant white monster, over powering the other furnishings. It huge expanse is covered with a pristine white cotton bedspread. Made of chenille, it is one that represents eras gone by and not to be found for any price in the modern times of polyester and comforters. To the left of the bed along the wall that divides this room from the bath, stands a long, white oak dresser. It huge mirror dispassionately reflects the scenes of the bedroom. It turns a brutal, uncaring eye on the trivial happenings contained within those four walls. Draped across the top is a long, heavily starched white cotton runner. Its ends decorated with intricate french knots and tangled swirls of tedious hours of embroidery. Arrayed upon this runner are bottles of perfume, hairbrushes, combs and the other accouterments of a female inhabitant. Sitting directly in the middle, standing like a venerable old man, is a dark mahogany jewel chest. Hand-carved and lettered, it gives testimony of times past and times yet to come, a continuation of the lines of time. To the right of the bed and off in the far corner, a tall matching chest of drawers stands. Its top is bare, but peeking from the second drawer down, hangs a tender strap of a ladies slip. The leaving this morning was hurried and the drawer did not get quite closed in the midst of lateness.

A teenage girl on the verge of full blown womanhood. Her hair is long again, though not as dark as it was when she was a child. Her body shines wetly with droplets of water from her recent bath. Proud high breasts jut forward from her chest, their nipples still pale and fine, not yet womanly in coloring. Slender shoulders taper softly to a small waist, full hips flare from there. Her thighs are firm and lead to long, sleek legs, still well muscled from childhood play. A dark thatch of curly pubic hair splits her body where her thighs meet. She stands gracefully in the far right corner of the room, her back protected by the joining of the walls. A look of sick determination is plastered across her face, her arms crossed in a futile attempt to shield the physical vestiges of her womanhood. Laying on the bed, the large man curls in a pitiful mockery of his powerful presence. She had gone to bathe this morning, assuming since he was asleep that she had some measure of safety and privacy. As she lathered her body, she heard him begin to stir and quickly rinsed off, and stepped carefully and quietly from the tub. Grabbing a towel to wrap around her still wet body, she reached for the doorknob to her room just as the other door flew open. He stood framed by the doorway, dressed only in his crisply starched boxer shorts, his morning erection was pointing stiffly through the fly. Yelping in surprise and fear, she makes a feint for the door, but his huge hands grab her arm and pull her into his room. The towel falls, discarded to the floor. Tugging her to the bed, he presses her into the recently abandoned sheets, still warm from his body. Dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed, he wrestles her thighs apart. She knows better than to fight this. She has many times said no, many times fought, many times been overcome by sheer force or underhanded deception. Seeking that place in her mind that has become her refuge, she submits. The large dark head dips and buries itself between her legs. Unable to resist, the young woman’s thighs drape loosely at the sides of his face. Fumbling between them with his mean fingers, he spreads her wide. His tongue unerringly seeks her most private parts and begins to lap hungrily at them. Groans of passion rise from him now and again, and he snuffles against her like an animal. She feels her nipples begin to rise, her thighs tremble and spasm. Hot wetness pours from her like water and he eagerly slurps it up. Working now at the top of her vagina, he suckles at her clitoris until it is hard and throbbing. She counts the spots on the ceiling and when that fails to distract her, clenches her eyes closed and "goes away". Waves of heat grip her, straining mightily she tries to hold back from the deliciousness of the physical sensations. She refuses to feel what her body tells her is happening. Clamping her lips firmly closed so that no sounds escape them, she loses her battle. Slamming through her body like a freight train, her orgasm breaks. Her legs thrash and kick, bucking against his face in spite of her resolve. Her self that is away comes to full consciousness just as this man, her father, slips one of his huge fingers into her, pumping roughly. Juices flow out of her, pooling in the sheets and he greedily laps them up. Terrified she waits to feel something other than his finger entering her. Panting from the force of her orgasm, she feels his weight shift. It seems she has been given a reprieve today. Her inner self knows that this barrier has been crossed now though, that insertion has occurred and it will only be a matter of time until the full act is completed. Next time, the time after that, perhaps the time after that. But it is going to happen.

He stands. His erection is huge now. Tiny droplets of his cursed ejaculate hang from the tip. His mustache is coated with her recent orgasm and he licks his lips like a mongrel with a fresh bone. He comes to her, scooping the towel she dropped up off the floor. Offering it to her, he whines in a coaxing voice for her to roll over and be "good to daddy" now. She turns her back to him, hoping if she lays still long enough, he will get angry and go away. She knows she will pay for his anger in some manner, but anything is better than another session of masturbating him to completion. She already washes her hand more often than is necessary and recently in her high school play could not help but make a self comparison to Lady MacBeth and her damn spot. But he is not to be denied this time. He rubs her back, then shoves his body onto the bed next to her. Snuggling close he begins to tell her how much he needs her. He tells her how she is the only one that has ever loved him. As his hard penis brushes against her bare buttocks, she is galvanized into motion and springs from the bed. Clearing the room in one stride, she plants her back against the wall, covering herself as best she can with her arms. She watches as he takes his penis in his hand and begins to stroke it. Low tones growing ever more threatening assure her that she will pay for her refusal if she does not come help him out. Threats of emotional punishment, threats of physical punishment, escalating to promises of courts and homes for wayward girls spew out of him. All the while he continues to stroke his penis. Finally in desperation, she screams at him to stop. Telling him no loudly, she grinds out that she will never do this thing again, that he will never do this thing to her again. He stops, dumbstruck, silenced by the sheer force of her will coloring her words. Shaking, he looks at her with pleading eyes. Devouring her body, he hungrily begins to beg her. He tells her how lovely she is, how much he loves her. Sobs begin to rack his body. Tears stream from his eyes, ludicrously leaking from the empty socket of his bad eye. The girl stands firm. Somewhere inside the person that is who she really is coaches her, comforting her, telling her that she has to stop this now. He cries on, his penis now pitiful and limp, unsatisfied. Horror rocks her body as she watches her father become reduced to a mockery of a lover, crying for his lost love. Sliding along the wall, she slips out of the bedroom and grabbing a dress, throws it over her head and pounds out the front door. Later today he leaves on another trip. She knows this was her last chance. Before he returns she has to get herself somehow to safety. Some how. Some where. Some way.
 
 

Shuddering, she stops. Looking you directly in the eyes, she tosses her concealment of hair over one shoulder. Her dark eyes challenge you to speak. You find you can not. Pain mixed with anger flashes from her face. Her voice when she continues is still low, but filled with power. She tells you how she escaped later that month before he had a chance to come back and work his havoc on her. She goes on to describe years of pain and sorrow, futile attempts to repair the huge hole his touch had left in her soul. She speaks of foulness, soiling, and how she has fought for years to heal what he wounded. Then with a low chilling chuckle, she takes your hand and once more invites you for one last trip down memory lane. She shows you her healing.

The funeral parlor is silent now. All the visitors have signed the book, made their condolences and gone home. She sits, much older now, in a pale blue chair drawn to the side of the coffin. Laying in a bed of white satin, a neatly pressed light brown suit covering his body, lays her tormentor. His hair, once jet black, is a pure sparkling silver and looking at his face, it would be difficult for those that did not know him to believe he was so capable of such evil. She gazes at his face. This is the man that she knows as Daddy. Looking at his body laying there, so serene, so peaceful, she wonders why he could not have just once loved her as his daughter. Searching inside, listening carefully to her inner self, she seeks what she feels. Nothing. Or perhaps the more accurate expression is a lack of something. For the first time in her remembered life, she looks at this man and sees a man. And she feels no fear. Leaning over, she gently kisses his cold cheek. Then turning, crosses the plush carpet to the doorway, turns out the lights and goes home. Finally free.
 
 
 

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