Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  My eyes narrow with sudden suspicion. Did André betray me, telling Renata things I shared with him in confidence? In my heart I know he wouldn’t, but I have to ask. I have to be sure.

  I clear the thickness in my throat. “Did André discuss this with you?”

  “Nope, never—I simply understand how sexual predators groom children. There are differences in each case, of course, yet many commonalities. In general, pedophiles make Machiavelli look like a kindergartener when it comes to manipulation. They twist everything around and leave their victims so confused that the poor things don’t know if they’re coming or going. André would’ve discussed this with you.”

  “Yeah, he did.” I raise my eyebrows. “At length.”

  “Sounds like André,” Renata says with a wry smirk. “He’s very thorough. He would’ve mentioned pedophiles gain a child’s trust and often associate their secret ‘games’ with ‘love’ and affection. They make sure the children they prey upon feel pleasure so the victim feels responsible for their abuse, because ‘they wanted it.’ It’s all part of an extremely calculated plan.”

  I nod because what she says is spot-on. Also, my mouth is so dry I don’t know if I can speak. How many times did I initiate our sick games? Thirty? A hundred? More?

  “OK,” she says. “What we’re going to do is change the associations. I know you’re the king of control in the bedroom, but do you mind if I take charge for a little bit?”

  I envision her in high heels and a red bustier, holding a riding crop. The desire to laugh and a need to fuck her war within my thoughts. My lips tug into an instant smile. “Knock yourself out.”

  Her grin blinds me. “This could be fun! To start, you really need to lose the clothes.” She shakes her head. “Why are you still dressed? What’s that about? How can you get me off three times, but never even take off your pants?”

  I stand up and unzip my fly. “It helps me restrain myself when I keep my pants on,” I say, lowering my slacks and underwear at the same time. My cock is at half-mast and my testicles ache like nothing else. I’ve had an erection for almost an hour, with no release. I hope I come before my balls turn blue.

  “And self-restraint is important to you?”

  I pause, then clarify, “Control is important to me.”

  “Okey-dokey.” Renata stands up and takes me by my hands, bringing both of my palms to her lips and kissing them. Grinning, she spins me around and backs me to the bed until I sit down on the edge. Grabbing a pillow for her knees, she spreads my legs apart and settles herself down between them.

  “Before we begin, I want to clear up a couple of things,” she says.

  “All right.”

  “I’ll get the ball rolling, so to speak.” She smirks at the play on words. “Whenever you’re ready, you go ahead and take over,” she says. “We both know you like that.” Renata snorts and rolls her eyes mischievously. “Once you’re running the show, you’ll feel more at ease. Hopefully, by then your naturally bossy self will take over.”

  I grin. “My bossy self, huh?”

  “Absolutely,” she nods. “You’re a pushy tyrant in bed. Are you OK with that?”

  “Sure.”

  “So,” she asks, “when it comes to blow jobs, have you any idea what you’re afraid of?”

  Don’t tell her.

  My reaction to her question is instant and unconscious.

  A sharp pang of anxiety stabs me like an icepick direct to the heart. My pulse stutters and my chest expands with a sharp breath. A fresh rush of adrenaline has me on edge.

  I act as though everything’s normal. Maybe if I pretend I’m fine, I will be. Fake it till you make it. That’s how I’ve managed difficult situations previously.

  “I’m pretty sure once we get started, I’ll be OK,” I say, giving her a tight smile. I avoid answering her question, while desperately denying the sense of dread that’s inching up my spine.

  Ensuring she doesn’t return to the topic I desperately want to evade, I change the subject to throw her off track. “I’ve fantasized about you taking my dick in your mouth so many times.”

  “Really?” she asks, absolutely delighted.

  “Really.”

  As nervous as I am, I can’t help but smile. Renata does that to me. We’re discussing a subject that’s disturbed me for years. She makes everything easier.

  I swallow, but manage to continue, “Oral sex, both giving and receiving, is normal as hell—so I’d like to feel comfortable with it. The idea of it inhibits me, so I’m not sure I can climax. But mainly, I’m worried if I come, I’ll freak out.”

  “What happens if you freak out?”

  “Then I’ll have to leave—fast,” I tell her.

  I don’t explain the terrible sense of panic, fear, self-loathing and confusion that rips through my guts like a dull, rusty knife. Not to mention my long-term conviction that I’m disgusting and inhuman.

  Monster! Pervert!

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” she says, her brow furrowing while considering the possibility of me taking off. “Anyway, so what if you run? It’s no big deal. You’ll come home again eventually, right?”

  Forcing a smile, I nod. She has a point. The only problem is, I might feel like shit when I return. There no way of knowing how long my self-loathing will last. In the past, I’ve sometimes been in a funk for weeks.

  “If you end up running away, I promise it won’t make me think less of you,” Renata assures me. “Hell, if you want, you can get your car keys and clothes ready now, in case you really need to go. If you leave, when you get back we’ll explore exactly what happened. That can be difficult, but in the end it’s a good thing—you know, getting to the bottom of a trigger. If you stay and we end up cuddling, that would be fantastic. If not, no big. Let’s just see what happens.”

  “Fine.”

  “Any last words before we begin?”

  Any last words. What a question. I already feel like I’m climbing a scaffold about to be executed. Fuck. Shifting restlessly, I wish I could back out of this. My hands are trembling. I wipe my damp palms on the sheets and shake my head, ‘no.’

  “Good, then here goes something.” Her sassy smile is infectious. “Feel free to jump in and boss me around anytime you’re ready.”

  “Count on it,” I growl at her, feeling a momentary flash of confidence—or is it anger? Wait. This feels like fear, fear masked by anger. Christ, I’m losing my mind. I can do this. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

  Why am I so frightened? I love her mouth. It's so damn sexy, like the rest of her.

  She places one warm palm on each of my thighs, edging closer, causing my dick to twitch. Lifting her chin, she grins at me with lighthearted amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this.”

  Still pretending to be calm, I arch an eyebrow. “You mentioned that once before.”

  “Did I? Hmm, and to think, I have the immense privilege of being the first woman to have your precious cock in my mouth,” she gushes in a mock Southern accent, intentionally over-the-top in her enthusiasm. She places her hand on her chest. “I'd like to thank the Academy and, of course, Grant Wilkinson for this huge honor!” Her eyes flare at the word 'huge,' punching the innuendo. She imitates giving a thank you speech after winning an Oscar. Then, poking lighthearted fun at the famous speech by Sally Field, she adds, "I guess this means you like me, you really like me."

  I laugh loudly at her absurd display as she giggles at her own antics. Her carefree humor is infectious. Renata's trying to set me at ease. As foreplay, it’s unimpressive, but as for lightening my anxiety, her humorous teasing is outstanding. I’m apprehensive, aroused and terrified, all in equal measure.

  I can do this.

  I'm giving myself an internal pep talk like the 'Little Engine that Could.' Man, I'm so fucked up. All of this for a friggin’ blow job from the gorgeous woman I trust and love. If anyone found out, staff from the mental hospital would lock me away
.

  Renata’s thick, golden hair is tucked behind her ears, so I can see her face. Her perfect lips are right there, between my thighs.

  Fuck. My heart pounds loudly, thudding so hard I’m afraid I’ll break a rib. I focus on my breathing and automatically reach inside myself for the numb objectivity I know so well.

  This immediately creates a familiar out-of-body-experience feeling, but it isn’t a good one.

  Perfect. Now I feel like a spectator. At least it’s better than running screaming from the room simply because a beautiful woman who I care about, wants to pleasure me with her lips and tongue.

  Hands on my thighs, Renata bends forward, kisses and licks the tip. She takes me into her mouth—all the way in. My breath catches. Wet and warm, her mouth feels so good.

  I’m barely semi-erect, so sucking me in isn’t difficult. Biology is presently overwhelming psychology, because of it my cock rapidly stiffens. Very shortly, I suspect holding me all the way inside of her mouth will be impossible.

  My body is willing, but I’m freaking out.

  I can do this. I can do this.

  If I think it hard enough and often enough, maybe it’ll be true.

  Shadows of my father penetrate my thoughts, but I can deal with it in this dissociative state. I’m numb. As a child, when he first introduced me to this ‘game’ it was our secret. It was kind of weird—OK, seriously strange—but it felt good. As usual when we played, my father praised me, making me feel special and loved.

  Tough, engaging and respected by everyone—he was my father. I admired and looked up to him. I loved him so much.

  The crack in the dam is becoming a hole. Fear is seeping in. Suddenly I can’t breathe! Will my building panic break?

  In my nightmares something or someone is often trying to kill me. Trains chase me, guns shoot at me, lions and bears tear me apart and complete strangers stab or strangle me.

  Chilling images of these dreams flash through my consciousness. My mouth is open, my breath rapid and ragged.

  I can’t be detached anymore.

  I suddenly recall what Renata asked me, the question that terrified me—the one I didn’t want to answer, Have you any idea what you’re afraid of?”

  I grind my teeth, my jaw flexes painfully. An unexpected memory shatters my awareness—it’s something I’ve blocked out for years. The sudden jolt of clarity makes me gasp. I feel as if the air has been punched right out of my lungs.

  How could I forget? How could I not know?

  This dark and terrible knowledge must’ve been hidden in the depths of my unconscious.

  It shocks the hell out of me.

  Chapter 11.

  “The darkest fears and most hidden truths can be discovered at the beginning. This is the foundation, the basis for all of the evil that follows.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  I feel lightheaded. Am I going to pass out? I’m probably white as marble from all of the blood that’s drained from my face.

  Renata pulls back, releasing my now flaccid dick. She meets my gaze with an expression on her face I can’t read. Her eyes soften with concern. She notices something’s changed—something is wrong.

  “Grant, tell me what’s happening,” she asks calmly.

  “I wanted it to be different,” I blurt out. I’m confused. Frightened. Lost. I hear the urgency in my own voice and realize what I said makes no sense at all. How can I explain?

  I can’t.

  Calmly raising herself to her feet, she takes my hand and sits next to me. Her gentle touch recalls me to my senses.

  We’re both stark naked, but in the face of this fresh memory, this means nothing to me. Tears sting my eyes, I blink them away. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much heart-wrenching pain in my life.

  I stare at her palm, surprised at how burning hot it feels curled into mine. After a few beats, I realize her hand isn’t hot. My hand is freezing.

  Shock, I think to myself. I’m in shock.

  “Mmm?” she murmurs, prompting me to continue.

  In the back of my mind I recognize she’s flicked into counselor mode. She’ll have to wait, because I don’t think I can speak right now. Echoes of my past rip through me. I struggle to regain my composure.

  My brows draw down while I seek out the exact memory, going over the details.

  How? How could I forget this? And the obvious answer comes to me. I didn’t want to remember.

  It’s so odd. It’s like knowing the middle and end of the story, but not the beginning. The beginning is dark and murky, filled with vague impressions, fear and confusion. I’m seeing through the eyes of a child.

  Is this real? Am I imagining this? Jesus H. Christ, I’m a mess.

  Renata stands up, gets a thick blanket, wraps it around me. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “You’ll stay right here?”

  I nod vaguely, without looking at her. Time passes. While she’s gone the tears come. Sobs wrack my body, shaking me to the core. I bend over, my hands cover my face.

  Why am I crying? I hardly know. I fight to control my breathing, struggling through a dense emotional fog. How can I face these memories?

  I’m back in my father’s man cave, back to that first time. I want to please him but dread claws at me. He’s angry. Red-faced, he scowls.

  I panic. I don’t want to play.

  I’m trapped. Help me! Someone help!

  I tremble, I sweat, my breath is ragged. I’m a ‘good boy,’ I’m his ‘special boy.’ I want to be brave like my father. I’m not a coward, yet fear grips me.

  The heads of all the animals on the walls of his den seem so scary and huge. My father killed them all. The dead animals stare down at me—glare down at me—with empty, lifeless eyes.

  I can’t say no.

  I’m dragged out of these filthy, frightening memories by the comforting smell of toast and chocolate. Renata’s returned, it’s such a relief. She brings me a mug of hot chocolate with tiny pink and white marshmallows, also cheese melted on toast.

  Pussy! Coward!

  I’m sick, I’m ashamed. I’m a grown man and I’ve been crying. I can’t look her in the face. I can’t.

  Now in her bathrobe, she cups my chin, tenderly brushing her thumb over my cheek. With loving sympathy, she wipes the trails of moisture left from my tears. Her face is grave, but there’s no censure in her expression.

  Not one word is uttered.

  I suck in a deep breath as the iron bars wrapped around my chest loosen. With her in the room, I can breathe once more. She doesn’t need to speak—I know what she feels. Her presence alone is worth more than a torrent of words or heartfelt embraces. She’s there for me.

  Sitting by my side, Renata’s soothing manner sets me at ease while we have a late evening snack. I’m not hungry, but I’ve been in this empty place before. I know the drill. André taught me, just as he must have taught her—feed the body, comfort the soul.

  Lord knows I need it. Body, mind, heart and soul, every facet of me feels absolutely shredded.

  There’s no conversation. Neither of us say a thing while we eat. Eventually, I begin to feel more like myself. I’m even able to meet her gaze from time to time.

  Once more, I appreciate she’s a restful, patient woman. Renata’s dying to know what happened, but she’s not pushing. She understands I need time to get my shit together.

  I have to figure out how to explain myself. I need her to appreciate what happened.

  I finally begin, “Can you imagine hearing a story where the narrator has left out the beginning? Maybe you started reading a book from the middle, when the first ninety pages are missing?” I ask her.

  “I haven’t done that, but I get the idea.”

  “For example the tale of ‘Snow White’ wouldn’t make any sense if you started the story with Snow White simply hanging out in the forest with seven dwarves. You need to understand the evil Queen’s part, right from the start of the fa
irytale.”

  “OK,” she says, her eyes soft and warm, her features receptive.

  “With my father, I so clearly recall the middle and the end of the story. It’s the beginning—the start of his abuse I couldn’t remember. I never gave it a moment’s thought. I blocked it out because it was too painful. Mentally, physically, even spiritually—it hurt. I never saw the beginning, because I didn’t want to know. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Sounds like classic denial to me.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “I ‘forgot’ because I couldn’t bear to remember. And I lied to myself first. Maybe I just wasn’t up to handling it before now.”

  Renata purses her lips, her eyes narrow. “Forgetting and denial are key coping mechanisms, often vital to an individual’s mental health. With many traumas, the truth is far too painful to face, so the mind protects itself by closing off details, entire events or even years. The only problem is, eventually the past surfaces.”

  I slowly nod, rolling this over in my mind. Secrets and lies. We tell ourselves the stories we want to believe. My father’s actions did a real mind fuck on me.

  Subsequently, because I couldn’t deal, I mind fucked myself.

  Aware I’m deep in thought, she waits for me to speak.

  I finally say, “When you attempt to deny or ignore evil—the more you lie about it or try to keep it secret—the more control it has over you. That kind of darkness should not remain hidden, it must be brought out into the light. That’s the only way to make it lose its power.”

  “Exactly,” Renata gapes at me in stark admiration, as though I’ve said something profound.

  Unexpectedly self-conscious, I glance away from those approving blue eyes. So stupid, my monstrous lack of courage. I don’t feel as though I deserve such praise.

  I’ve done this to myself.

  “I worked with a woman who couldn’t remember her childhood at all,” she says with barely a pause. “She told me quite sincerely she had ‘a wonderful upbringing’ and she was daddy’s ‘Little Princess’ even though from her behavior she exhibited clear signs of abuse. Eventually, with support, time and counseling, she grew stronger. Once she was ready, she remembered the painful truth about her past.”