Well that escalated quickly slowly…
1990:
In the woods behind the middle school gym. Playing a little “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” with Jimmy Vickers. Something he had done, I’m sure, with at least a few other girls my age. But I wore the biggest bra in the entire eighth grade. So while we stood there naked, with me gasping in amazement at his growing and twitching adult-sized wiener, he completely ignored my unremarkable crotch. Instead his eyes were fastened securely to my nipples. And then so were his lips…
“Hey!” I objected. “No touching!”
And that’s when our friendship took a dive. Literally. He was on the wrestling team; And suddenly, I was on the ground. Straddled by a hormone-crazed teenage athlete. My arms were pinned over my head. His face was in my face. “I’m gonna put this in between those. And if you tell anybody… …I’ll tell everybody!”
When he was done he tossed me his shirt to wipe the mess off my neck, my chin, my face, my hair, and my left ear. (When one of the final blasts skipped across my lips and into my nostrils, I finally had the presence of mind to turn away.)
“Wash that and get it back to me.” He ordered, pulling his shorts on, and walking out of the words shirtless. But I kept it. There was $20 in the pocket, a whole weeks’ worth of lunch money. I kept that too.
I wore the shirt the next day. He just glared at me while mooching off the trays of his fellow teammates at the wrestling table.
Miss Robinson pulled me aside after gym class to ask me about the bruises on my boobs. Thinking quickly, I blamed it on my neighbor’s easily excitable sheepdog Fritzi.
1993:
“Please come with me young lady.” I avoided eye contact when I asked him why. “I think you know why. “ I followed him through a door marked “fire exit”, down an unheated corridor and down a rusty iron stairway into the bowels of the mall. He led me into a tiny room with a desk from the 1950’s that took up half the room. A duct-tape patched swivel chair behind it, and 3 metal folding chairs in front. The walls of this room had never seen paint. Someone who shot a police officer would probably be interviewed in a nicer room than this.
There was an old black and white TV on the desk, and a VCR that was connected with bare wires to screws on the back of the set. He turned the TV on with a pull-out knob, and it went THUNK and crackled as the image materialized. It was undeniably me, at the moment I slipped the red lipstick into my coat pocket. He made a “give it here” gesture, and held out a clear plastic bag for me to drop it in. Then he sealed that a sticker, which said “EVIDENCE: RECOVERED MERCHANDISE”
Flushed with the shame this was going to bring upon my family, I was still avoiding eye contact, scanning the assortment of the anti-shoplifting posters that adorned the unpainted walls:
“No ifs, ands, or butts. Shoplifting is stealing.”
“Free bracelets [photo of handcuffs] and a ride in a police car to anyone caught shoplifting.”
“We may be the friendliest store in town but we still prosecute all shoplifters.”
And one that was so politically incorrect I had to read it twice to believe it:
“This is your butt hole [tiny dot]; This is your butt hole in prison [huge circle] DON’T SHOPLIFT.”
“I had almost enough money to pay for it. I’m just starting a new job as a waitress, AND the other girls say that you get more tips if you wear red lipstick...”
He held up his hand it to stop me. “This is how we do it. You look like a minor. If you cooperate, we call your parents. You make arrangements to pay us 100 times the cost of the stolen merchandise. Then you sign a pledge to never come to this mall again.
“If you don’t cooperate, we call the police, and they take you in for a body cavity search, to see if you’re hiding any more stolen merchandise. Then they lodge you overnight in the county jail. Tomorrow morning, you see a judge. He sets bail. And if your parents can come up with the money you get to go home tomorrow afternoon.”
Obviously, neither of those options would work for me, since they both involve my parents finding out. I was starting to cry. “Please, I’ll do anything to keep my parents from finding out about this.”
“Anything?” He perked.
“Oh, no. No. I didn’t mean…”
“Well then decide right now.” He said, looking at his watch. “Parents or cops?”
“Or?...”
“Have you ever given a boy a blow job before?” I shook my head vehemently. “Well don’t you think it’s time you did?” I nodded slowly.
He ripped open the plastic bag and handed me the lipstick. “Put this on. And take those off.” He gestured UP toward my top; and DOWN toward my pants.
And then he reached over and twisted the lock on the door…
And that’s the story of my first blowjob.
PS. I got to keep the lipstick.
1994, FALL:
I can’t believe I agreed to go to the prom with that big jerk Jimmie Vickers! But he did look nice in his tux; and I felt pretty in my backless dress. He brought my mom flowers and me a corsage that matched the color of his ruffled shirt. He posed patiently for pictures, and then we were off in his rented limo for a spectacular dinner at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse.
The band at the prom was awesome, and we danced a lot. But even when we weren’t dancing, he couldn’t keep his hands off my naked shoulders and back. On the way home we sipped whiskey and diet root beer on the rocks. I gotta give him credit for knowing that this was my drink without ever asking me. Before I knew it we were stopped, and the Cadillac’s big moonroof slid open wide, revealing a clear night with a million stars--maybe a billion (before this night was over, I’d lose count.) “Where are we?” I asked, impressed with the view.
“Well,” he replied, nodding to the left. “That’s the old middle school.” Then he nodded to the right. “Remember those woods?”
I drew back to slap him, hard. And if I would have connected it would’ve spun his fool-head all the way around. But instead he caught my wrist, and twisted it in a way that instantly forced me to lie down on the seat. His other hand was sliding my dress upward. “Lift your hips” he demanded. I refused. He twisted my arm farther, and sure enough, I raised my hips. Where do boys learn these rape moves?
Now my hemline had tumbled to the underwire of my bra, and with a little help from his right hand, the bra and dress both were up to my armpits. Then, with two quick rips, my panties were off in his fist and then in his pocket. “I’m keeping these.” He taunted, reaching for his zipper.
“I’ll scream, and the chauffer will come help me!”
“No if you scream he’ll come help ME. In case you didn’t notice, our chauffer tonight is Andy the African, from Central High’s Football Program. He likes to dew white girls up the butt. He told me so. We’ll make a sandwich out of you so fast, Subway will have to put you on the menu! So I’d suggest you just keep your mouth shut, and your legs open.”
He’d pried himself between my thighs, but my leg muscles instinctively resisted, holding his hips at bay while his heat seeking missile was still an inch from its target. Until his left hand closed over my right kneecap, clenching it and uttering those three words that strike terror into the heart of any ticklish girl: “Giddy-Giddy-Goo!”
I maintained my composure for at least a half-second. Then I saw stars.
Two minutes later Jimmy cummed, and it was over. (A minute after that is when I would’ve cum, if he hadn’t.)
1995, SPRING:
Freshman orientation week at UNC. Fraternities were allowed to have kegs of beer at their parties. Sororities were not allowed to have any alcohol. You know, for “safety reasons”. How’s that for a boys club?
I attended my first frat party that Friday. I was offered a beer but it was Pabst Blue Ribbon, which has been known to make me hurl. However, that frothy pink stuff in the icy punchbowl sure tasted good! And it tasted like it hardly had any alcohol at all in it.
Anyway…I woke up the next morning when the sun shone through the window of an unfamiliar bedroom. I was face down, and my shorts and panties were tangled about my ankles.
My head ached, my throat was scratchy, my stomach was in knots, and my asshole was throbbingly sore. I kicked off my shorts, tripped out of my panties, and stumbled rapidly to an adjoining bathroom.
Failing to check the seat, my butt landed hard on the cold, unforgiving porcelain. No time to correct the mistake, as my stomach immediately went into convulsions. I managed to catch most of the vomit in my hands, and glancing at it I saw a lot less pink than I expected; and a lot more white.
I quickly chucked it into the bathtub.
Something had simultaneously escaped the confines of my rectum as well, leaving behind the intense burning feeling of salt rubbed in an open wound. Standing briefly to reposition the toilet seat, I glanced at that discharge as well, expecting to see blood-red water. But no. It too was predominantly white, with just a hint of cherry and a swirl of caramel.
I sat back down, peed, and reached for the toilet paper roller. Typical to a boy’s bathroom, there was exactly one square of paper left. No matter. I helped myself to a shower, scrubbing myself until the water ran cold. Trying, in vain, to get clean.
I dried, dressed, and departed the huge vacant house for the long, sore walk back to my dorm room.
Pink Punch joined PBR & Tequila on my lifelong “do not drink” list.
2000:
I’m one of two substitute teachers in the tiny (but wealthy) Mapleton Community School district. One day after school I’m summoned to the superintendent’s office. Doctor Simon has grim news: Mr. Amidon, the fifth grade teacher I was subbing for, had gone to the hospital that morning with chest pains. It was determined that he was having a heart attack, and needed open-heart surgery immediately. He did not survive the operation. Thoughts and prayers. Yada yada yada.
But this meant there was a job opening. That had to be filled immediately. Now, this didn’t mean I would automatically get the job. After all, I just happen to be the first one to answer the phone that morning. The other candidate was just as qualified as me . More-so. He had more credits toward his Master’s Degree. He had 100 more hours of classroom experience.
In fact, explained Dr. Simon, choosing me over the other candidate could expose the district to a reverse discrimination lawsuit. But sometimes these decisions just come down to a gut feeling. And Dr. Simon liked me. He thought I would be better at following directions and taking orders.
But he had to be sure. Could I put his mind at ease?
“How?” I asked
“By playing a game.”
“What kind of game.”
“Simon Says. ADULT Simon Says.”
“And if I play?”
“You get the job.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t. I’ll just play it safe, and choose Dave…”
2009:
I’m one year away from having tenure. My student loans are paid off. So is my mortgage. So is my Chevy Cavalier. Another year, and I’ll have my Doctorate. Unlike “Dr.” Paul Simon. Turns out, He just made people call him that because he was tired of all the Paul Simon jokes. Also turns out that in addition to being a pervert he was an embezzler. A sloppy one. And when it was discovered, he quietly went away.
Yes everything was going just fine in my life, until that night when the Pizza Hut delivery guy showed up, and waved off the generous tip I was offering him. Instead, he dumped an envelope of pictures onto the top of the pizza box I was holding.
“Where did you get these?”
“I took them.”
“Took them from who?”
“No I mean I took the pictures. I took them myself. Don’t you remember me? I’m Andy the African! I drove you and your boyfriend to the senior prom! May I come in?” He forced himself inside without waiting for an answer.
“If I may say so, Ma’am, you haven’t aged a bit. Your face looks exactly the same as it does in these pictures. And those tits! Oh my God! And these are just photo copies. You should see the originals! There’s 9 of ‘em. All with your face clearly in the shot. And your tits hanging out. And that little mole that we both know is right there...” I slapped his hand away before his index finger touched my left under-boob.
He laughed. “Of course I’m not much of a breast man. I’m much more of an ass man, really. Now I could just mail these pictures to the school board anonymously. Or, you and I could make a deal…”
“What kind of a deal?
“A deal where you get free pizza! That’s right, once a month, on the first day of the month, about this time of night, I’ll come over and bring us a pizza just like this! And I’ll rape you up the ass. But then I’ll leave one picture behind. Starting tonight. Now don’t fight me, Baby! We both know you got no choice.”
2010:
I had my pictures. All of them. I had my tenure. I had my degree. And I had an asshole that was beginning to return to its normal size. But I had put on a little weight. So that was the autumn that I started jogging. Up and down the rail trail. It was a little chilly that night. But still I was surprised to see a man running toward me wearing a black ski mask. He turned as soon as we passed, and grab me from behind. I couldn’t breathe. Everything went black.
So now I spend all of my days and nights chained up naked in his basement. The chain runs from my padlocked ankle to the bolts that hold the toilet to the floor. He doesn’t even bother to lock the door to the small, windowless room. He must live alone.
The amenities of my room are sparse. In addition to the toilet I have a sink with hot and cold water but the water barely comes out in a trickle. There is soap, a bag of disposable razors, toilet paper, and paper towels
Oh. And there’s an exercise bike. It’s rigged to generate enough power to charge the battery of this old laptop computer, which in turn gives some light to the otherwise pitch-black room. There is no electricity here.
20 minutes a day on the bike is enough to give the computer a full charge that lasts an entire day. I must keep it charged, otherwise I may lose the reliability of the computer’s clock. Since there is no Wi-Fi connection, I have no idea if the clock is right, but it seems to keep good time. And as such it has helped me figure out the man’s schedule. I think I know when he goes to work; and I think I know when he sleeps.
He visits me once a day, to rape me, and to bring me food. Healthy food. For the first time in my life, I’m on a reasonably healthy diet and exercise regime.
The tiles on the floor are 12 inch squares. Based on that and my grip on the chain, I’m able to take my measurements regularly. My goal is to be 38-24-36 by the time I leave here. I still have a ways to go.
I close the laptop when he comes into the room. He suspects I’m hiding a secret from him. And I am. But he likes it dark because he feels that then he doesn’t have to put on his ski mask. I like it dark because it hides my secret…
It matters not, to me, whether he rapes me orally, vaginally, or anally. I’m numb to it. Immune to it. Bored by it. “Am I hurting you?” He used to ask. I’d shake my head “NO”. He doesn’t ask anymore.
As soon as the deed is done, I get cleaned up for dinner. Ride my bike. Type in my Journal. And then get to my other task. The most important task of all…
In a corner of the room where he never goes, hidden by the toilet, is a loose floor tile. Underneath it the floor is concrete.
Smooth, unfortunately.
But still, hard as steel, and capable of providing friction.
A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. When I rub the link 10,000 times against the concrete, I can blow away a little bit of concrete dust. And a little bit of metal dust.
I devote nearly all of my waking hours to this task. In a few months the chain will be weak enough to break, and I will leave this place. I will take his valuables, if any, and then I will open the gas valves, and torch the house.
Then I will come back and extort from him his insurance money, and half of all of his future earnings, as severance pay for what he has done to me.
2011:
I’ve reached my goal measurements, and presumably my goal weight and BMI index as well. The chain link is more than half cut. And today I got an unexpected message from the computer saying that the clock has been reset for daylight savings time. This means there was a Wi-Fi connection, no matter how brief! Could the man have been stupid enough to get Wi-Fi? Or did of his neighbors’ leave theirs momentarily unprotected?
I feel that my chance of escape has suddenly doubled as I monitor the computer, ready to send an SOS at the slightest hint of a Wi-Fi signal, while still working full time at my chain cutting job.
The man has grown fat and old. Not to mention completely bald. While I’m in the best shape of my life.
I could kill him. Easily. He probably knows it. But he also knows that I rely on him to bring me food. Still, as the chain becomes weaker day by day, his life becomes less valuable to me.
“Rape me up the ass one more time! I dare you! I double dare you!” …is what I’ll say if my SOS finally reaches the Ethernet.
2012.
Still no Wi-Fi hits, but the chain is cut all the way through! The gap isn’t big enough to pull the links apart. I’ll keep working on it. Another month, tops. Meanwhile the man says he has a special surprise for me tomorrow. Whatever.
Today. The man brought me a hot fudge sundae for dinner. I don’t know why. I set it aside, preparing myself for the rape. “No no”, he said. “Eat it first. Otherwise, it will melt.” I did not argue.
And then, instead of raping me, the man pulled out a gun. My eyes grew wide with fear, but he pointed at his own head. “I have cancer . Pancreatic cancer. Fourth stage. There is no fifth stage.
“There’s some money in my wallet. I want you to have it. Please don’t tell the world what an awful person I was.”
“Wait ! How will I get out of here?”
“You’ll figure it out.” BANG!
JESUS! That was loud!
If ever I was afraid of guns, doubly so now. But eventually I got the courage to pry it from his cold, dead hand, and I aimed it at the weak link and fired. And missed. So now I wedged the link between the barrel of the gun and the concrete floor. I pulled the trigger. The gun kicked back and either sprained or broke my thumb. OK. That’s enough gun handling for me. I’ll just patiently keep grinding away at the link, while bunking with a dead body.
I went through his pockets, searching in vain for a cell phone. I opened this wallet. It contained 50 $100 bills. Great. Maybe the IRS will come find me.
His keys were there. Fat lot of good those did me. Unless…Yes! There was a key to a padlock! A master-brand padlock! And it fit the lock that held the chain to my ankle! I turned it. The lock was rusty. But I banged it on a few times with the palm of my good hand, and it popped open!
Upstairs, in the garage were four 5-gallon gas cans. And a note that read:
Please cremate me. Take my car. The title, My Last Will and Testament, and my life insurance policy, are all in the glove compartment. You are my sole beneficiary. My kids can go fuck themselves. Enjoy your new life as a Mercedes-driving millionairess.
Fondly, Henry
2022:
The Mercedes was a stick. And I don’t know how to drive a stick. So it perished in the 4-alarm house fire.
That’s OK. Between Henry’s car insurance, homeowner’s insurance, and life insurance, I got myself a new Mercedes. A Limousine. Andy the African is my full-time chauffeur. I bought him a nice new Nikon, and let him take a few more sexy pictures of me, so he can Blackmale me all over again.
Paul Simon is my accountant. He surprisingly good at finding deductions. We still play “Simon Says” from time to time, only this time I get to be Simon.
I tracked down the Loss Prevention guy. I was going to teach him a new angle on the whole “forced oral sex” thing. But unfortunately, he was shot in the face while working security for a private contractor during Desert Storm. I’m told he spends his days drooling and eating apple sauce through a straw at an assisted living community.
Remember that big ole Frat house? Well, now, it’s MY house. And I’ve added a swimming pool.
Jimmy is my groundskeeper and pool boy. If it’s hot and he’s thirsty, I let him come in for a cold, diet root beer. And maybe a shot of whiskey.
And yes, he rapes me. Oh well.
What can you do?