“Just stay quiet,” he tells me. He sounds mad, so I do as he says. “I’m only hugging you, Rachel.”
He brings his hand down to my bum. I feel him touch me between my legs with his fingers, and I feel funny inside. I’m tingling in my body.
The boy rubs faster and faster. He closes his eyes and then he groans loudly. When something warm spills on my belly, he stops moving. When it’s over, he stands up and looks down at me and smiles. His face is red and sweaty. I watch him push the ugly thing back inside his pants. I’m glad it’s gone. I don’t like it.
“Don’t tell anybody about our little secret up here, okay?” He grabs a tissue from a box and wipes the sticky stuff off me.
I nod my head. “Okay.”
He pulls my panties back up and my dress down. I stand up from the bed.
“Can I have the candy now?”
“Sure, here you go.”
He hands me the big candy bar, and I smile. I don’t know what happened, but I now have candy and something inside of me feels good.
“Thank you.”
“Want to come back again? Did you like that?”
“I guess so.”
“Good, when you do, I’ll have another candy bar for you after we play our little game.”
“Okay. Can I go home now?”
“Yes, but don’t tell anybody about our secret. Promise? If you do, there will be no more candy.”
“Okay. I won’t tell anybody.”
* * * *
I wake up in a start. The red numbers on the clock show two in the morning. My hair is wet from sweat, and my body is aroused. I know why. I’ve had another dream. It’s too hard to dismiss, and I lie quietly in bed waiting for my arousal to subside, but it doesn’t. It increases. My heart pounds in my chest, and I ache for release.
My eyes are closed, and the door to the dark room in my mind opens. My tormentors start their usual taunting and tempting to succumb. I’m stimulated because of the boy that touched me and held me down in his bed.
Just think about him hurting you, the voices start. Go ahead, touch yourself. You know you want to, because it feels good and you need it.
My self-hatred grows. I’ve been masturbating since I was six years old. One pedophile stamped my brain with his revolting desires, and I haven’t been the same since. I was introduced to the male penis and sexual arousal when I should have been playing with dolls. He rubbed himself against me time and time again, fondled me, and I prostituted myself out for a chocolate candy bar each time he invited me to his bedroom.
I’ve since learned the sick word for what he did to me—frotteurism. Why psychiatrists give it a name, I have no idea. Some men get off rubbing themselves against others against their will. Why don’t they call it what it is? Sick!
I’m angry, and the torment in my body continues. My hand creeps down, and I fondle myself. I’m wet, aching, sore, and hurting. I just want to make it go away, but it won’t go away until I take care of it. I’ve tried, time and time again, but my flesh is stronger than my spirit, and I can’t resist.
In the darkness, I close my eyes and stir my imaginations. I’m bound by some stranger with no face. The abuse begins, and I submit and let the man do to me what he wants. I hate it, but long for it. He violates my body and tells me that I’m worthless. This is my punishment for being a bad little girl.
I imagine the pain, the bondage, the forceful grasping of my flesh, and to my utter shame, I enjoy it immensely. A moment later, my body responds to the captivity, and an overwhelming orgasm rages through me.
My fantasy has conquered me. My abuser has won again by arousing my needs. I hurt myself, because I don’t know any other way. At a young age, he taught me how to enjoy sexual arousal through self-gratification, and nothing I do will make it stop. When the dream comes, I’m at his mercy once again.
At last I feel the comfort flow through my stressed body, and the dark desire slips away. My tormentors return to the closest of my mind, taking with them the little girl. I turn over on my side in remorse and disgrace for what I cannot overcome. It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s all I respond to—bondage, hurt, and being forced. How will I ever tell Ian what I want him to do to me, let alone why? He will be appalled, and I will lose him for sure, if I do.
My eyes lift to the clock on the table by my bed. The red numbers stare back at me. It’s two-thirty in the morning. I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. After tossing and turning for another hour, I crawl out of bed, start a pot of coffee, and wander over to my computer and turn it on. I wonder if Ian has emailed me. The coffeemaker slurps its last drop into the carafe. I pour myself a cup and add some powdered cream. Afterward, I wander back down the hall to my small desk.
I sit down and know in my heart nothing awaits me. Sure enough, there is nothing. No notice of Ian’s mail, and my heart sinks. This short-lived, tumultuous romance is going nowhere, and he’s probably reconsidering suing my ass for running into his spiffy car.
There are no words inside of me to type him a note either, but I click on his page and see his status has changed to, “in a relationship.” A relieved grin spreads across my face. Maybe there’s hope yet, and for the next few minutes I struggle whether to change mine from single to match his. As soon as I do, I’m sure all my nosey friends at work will be asking for specifics.
“Oh, what the hell,” I mumble.
Afterward, I pop over to one of many pages and groups created for those who have suffered childhood sexual abuse. One that I frequent now shows over seven thousand thumbs up. I shake my head. My eyes scroll down the wall, reading comments from suffering men and women. It validates to me that I’m not the only mental case around with sexual issues.
There are so many tormented and hurting people that it makes me sad. I wish I could help them, but I can’t. What can I offer? Comfort? A hug? Hang in there, it will get better platitudes? Heal thyself, my mind reminds me. How, I have no idea where to start.
There are snippets here and there from counselors and quotes from books on how to win the battle. Funny thing is, I’m not sure if I want to beat this rap. That’s the sad part. After struggling with myself for so long, I’ve decided this is who I am and not much can be done about it.
Over the years, I’ve read about women who have the same tormenting need for bondage. They seek sexual relationships with dominate men. I know there are males in the BDSM community who would do to me everything I crave. However, I’m afraid to go there, even if the thought is pathetically stimulating. There is a word for people like me with bondage and pain propensities—masochist. I can barely admit the dark truth to myself.
Conversely, I want to pollute dear Ian enough to bring me to that edge where he’s forceful and hurts me so that I can scream underneath him in utter pleasure. Perhaps I find it more comforting to cross that line with him instead. All he knows is smooth-going sex, tenderness, and respect. I’m horrible. I’ve been corrupted, and now I want to corrupt another human being with my unusual desires.
I’m so damn conflicted over the entire thing that I stare at my computer screen and zone out for a few minutes. Ticked off at my state of affairs, I walk away and crawl back in bed. For the next hour and a half, I stay in the dark trying to sleep but get nowhere. I decide to stay put, until the alarm goes off, and I need to get ready for work.
Chapter 10
Setting the Rules
The next few days crawl by. Ian hasn’t called or emailed. I’m filled with worry, but have convinced myself that he’s been busy with work.
When Friday morning arrives, I stare at my computer and feel nauseated inside. I don’t want our relationship to end so soon, because I know I could easily fall in love with him. He embodies the normalcy that I desire in life, along with an unscathed past and emotional health I lack.
At three-thirty, which seems to be his calling hour, my cell phone vibrates on my desktop. Caller ID shows his firm. I jump up from my chair, run over into the employee lounge and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” Ian announces half-heartedly.
“Hi, me.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, and I’m petrified.
“Sorry I haven’t called, but I’ve been pulling a few all-nighters at the office.”
“That’s okay, I figured as much.”
“Listen, I need to get away for the weekend to unwind.”
My heart drops to the floor. I can hear the thud and see the pool of blood at my feet. He doesn’t want to be with me.
“Hey, I understand, Ian. No problem.”
“That’s not what I mean, Rachel.”
I draw in a breath of air and hold it in my lungs. “What do you mean?”
“Come to the coast with me this weekend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. We need to start spending some serious time getting to know one another.”
I quickly disassociate myself from the threat, and my mind breaks out into that stupid song, “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…”
“You there?” he asks, since I’ve wandered off to my safe place for a second or two.
“I’m here.”
“Is that okay? You and me, at my place?”
“Yeah, but I’m scared.”
“Not of me, are you?” His voice sounds exasperated that I don’t trust him yet.
“No, it’s that getting to know you part. Well, not you, I mean you knowing me.”
“Scared or not, you’re coming.”
He’s telling me what to do and making the decision for me. I nod in agreement, even though he can’t see me. I couldn’t say no, even if I wanted to.
“Okay.” There’s that submissive word again from my little girl.
“Can you be packed and ready to leave by seven o’clock this evening? I don’t want to leave in the morning. I’ve got to get away from this damn office and city sooner than later.”
“Seven o’clock is fine.”
“Good, see you then.”
The call ends, and I let out the air I’ve been holding in my lungs in a huge sigh of relief. He wants to take it to the next step. That’s a healthy sign. Well, sort of, or it could be disastrous.
I walk back to my desk with the “King and I” soundtrack blaring in my head. This isn’t going to be easy, but at least I’ll get to see the ocean again, and that brings a slight sense of peace to my panicked state of mind.
* * * *
When seven o’clock arrives, I’m standing salivating at the door. As usual, he’s punctual, and I swing it open and smile.
“Hi.”
“Can I come in? There’s something I want to talk about before we hit the road.”
I’m worried, but I surrender to his request. He glances around like he’s looking for the cat, but Whiskers is sleeping on my bed, as usual. Then his eyes look at me, and I see a serious expression spread across his face.
“Listen, Rachel. I want to set the rules for the weekend before we leave.”
“Rules?”
“Yeah, rules.” He shifts his stance as if he’s nervous, and then he looks at me straight in the eye. “I’ve felt pretty crummy these past few days about how fast I allowed our relationship to get sexual. It was disrespectful to you, and I’m thoroughly pissed at myself. We’re obviously not ready for such intimacy.”
My mouth drops open over his confession. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if he’s regrouping, and then looks at me seriously and continues.
“This weekend it is hands off, except for kissing and hugging. You sleep in the loft upstairs, and I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs. I don’t want us to have any sexual relations whatsoever. The weekend is for us to grow closer together.” He lets out a breath of air like he’s relieved he got it out of his system. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
For a second, he sounds like my father scolding me. A part of my body is disappointed, but another part of me is relieved. But when I chew on his earlier “getting to know you” comment, I’m afraid I’ll be pressured into confessing my past before I’m ready. I think back to my counselor’s advice of safe zones. Boundaries, I repeat in my head. Boundaries. Not that I’ve ever succeeded in keeping them, mind you, but the thought of trying oddly helps.
“Deal, but I have a requirement too.” I can barely speak, as I choke out the words. My voice is trembling.
“Sure, what is it?” He looks intently into my eyes.
“That when we get into these getting to know you sessions, if I start feeling uncomfortable, I get to say ‘time-out.’ I can’t tell you everything about me in one single weekend.”
A worried look spreads across his face. Maybe he wants full disclosure. He probably thinks he can place me on the stand and ask me questions under oath. It’s his attorney-brain mentality. Raise your right hand. Rachel Ann Hayward, do you agree to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Hell no! After thinking far too long about it, he answers.
“All right, if you become uncomfortable over anything I ask, I’ll give you the safe exit.”
“Whew!” I say, heaving a sigh and wiping my brow. It’s going to take every ounce of strength within me to do it, but at least he’s left the door open for me to run out.
“Come on. Give me your bag to carry, and let’s split this place.”
“Gladly.” I grab my coat and call back to my cat in the bedroom. “See you later, Whiskers!”
* * * *
Ian has his spiffy roadster back in one piece, and I’m back in the cockpit. It’s close quarters, but I don’t mind. Our trip is quiet, interspersed with shallow chit-chat. I am curious about this job, because it seems to take a toll on him physically. It’s time to poke.
“So, can you tell me what you did this week at work? How come so many hours?”
He pulls his mouth to one side as if he’s uncomfortable about the subject. Ian shifts in his seat.
“Can’t talk about it much. Client confidentiality and all that stuff.”
“Oh, okay.” I’m disappointed.
“Just hours of negotiating with the other side over terms and conditions. It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, and I’m about ready to think of a career move.”
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” I say sympathetically. “Of course, I’m not the happiest in my position either, but we spend so much of our lives working, I often think we need to find a content-filled job—if there is such a thing.”
“You’re right, and one of these days I’m going to start looking. I can’t right now. Obligations.”
Ian grows quiet, and I sense he doesn’t want to discuss the matter any longer. It’s only fair that I give him the same out, as I hope he will give me this weekend. I leave the subject and gaze out the window. It’s almost dark outside.
We arrive at Cannon Beach at eight forty-five. Ian looks tired when he slips his key into the lock at his beach house, and frankly, I am too. He flips on the lights and expels his thoughts. “God, I’m exhausted.”
“You look drained,” I agree. “Why don’t we just call it a night? I’m kind of spent too.”
He lowers his head and climbs up the stairs ahead of me, carrying my bag. “Sounds good to me.” After plopping my suitcase down on the bed, he turns and puts his hands on my upper arms.
“I’m sorry. I’ve only had about eight hours sleep in the past forty-eight hours. My body is shutting down.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I bring my hand up to the side of his face and give him a comforting stroke on his more-than-five-o’clock stubble. “We have the entire weekend ahead of us. Get some sleep.”
He forces a tired smile. The light in his beautiful blue eyes is dim from exhaustion. Sweetly, he lowers his head and gives me a brief kiss.
“I just need to grab a blanket and pillow. Make yourself feel at home, Rach.” He walks over to walk-in closet and swings open the doors. On the top shelf, he grabs a blanket and pillow, some sweat pants, and clean tee shirt. �
�See you in the morning,” he announces, slowly descending the stairs. I stand and look at him adoringly and feel sorry for the guy.
When he’s out of sight, I turn around and look at the vast king-size bed I have all to myself. I feel selfish, and I hear him downstairs flipping the blanket open and tossing the pillow on the couch. My body and mind are exhausted, as well, so I start my own preparations to pass out. It doesn’t take long after my usual nighttime bathroom routine to flip back the blankets and crawl into Ian’s bed. The light in the great room has already been turned off, so I reach over to the nightstand and dim mine.
My head rests upon his pillow, and I can smell a faint scent of the shampoo he uses. I smile because it makes me feel as if he’s here holding me. After closing my eyes, I embrace the cased feathers and imagine his body next to mine, with his strong arm draped over my waist. It doesn’t take long before I drift off to sleep in the contentment of Ian’s presence passed out on the couch below.
* * * *
My nose inhales the aroma of coffee and bacon wafting up toward the loft. I hear the faint sizzling of the frying pan and open my eyes to be greeted by a glorious sunny morning. I sit up in bed and look at the view. For the first time in years, I pray. God, let me die here. A silly grin crosses my face when I see the white waves rolling into shore. “Just not today,” I add out loud, “or anytime soon.”
I jump out of bed and grab Ian’s robe hoping that he doesn’t mind me wrapping myself inside his cocoon. Quickly, I brush my morning breath away, run a comb through my hair, and then slowly sneak downstairs. Ian is standing in front of the stove flipping the bacon over. He’s dressed in sweats and a tee, and his hair is a tousled mess. I don’t care.
“Morning.” I greet him, shuffling across the hardwood floor.
“Hey, sleepy head, you’re awake.” He flashes me an endearing look.
“Yes. I can’t remember the last time I slept all the way through. You’ve got a comfortable bed.” I wonder about his night on the couch and the state of his back. “How about you?”
Conflicting Hearts Page 10