One of Papa's men, a grizzled, sweating middle-aged man with tobacco-stained teeth, swaggered in as my father exited. The man, a laborer in Papa's fields, grinned savagely as he fumbled with his belt buckle. The jingling of that buckle has been imprinted on my mind forever, the sound of what innocence I had left being eradicated.
He climbed on top of me. He smelled awful. An actual flea jumped from his skin to mine as he mounted me; and I could not flick it away. I could not do anything.
The rusty manacles flayed my skin at wrists and ankles as he entered me.
He was not quick.
None of them were.
Eventually I stopped thrashing…but only because I was weak from blood loss.
That was the last time I saw my father.
My hands tremble violently as the memory wracks me, and I suck a ragged breath into my screaming lungs.
That breath turns into a sob through gritted teeth.
I look at my wrists—the scars are faint. You'd have to look for them to notice. The same scars adorn my ankles.
I close my eyes again, and immediately the memory threatens to return. I had nightmares for years. Nothing helped. I tried sleeping pills, alcohol, meditation, cannabis…only with time did the nightmares subside—and even now, I'll still have one on occasion. I even tried talk therapy, but in three hour—long sessions I was unable to speak a single word of what happened.
I open my eyes again, focusing on the sound of the shower. I call up a different memory—that first time with Lorenzo. I remember seeing how obviously nervous he was, as he climbed up into the hayloft and approached me. I'd felt bold and daring as I dressed in my lingerie—chosen and purchased with this night in mind, with Lorenzo in mind—and carried the quilt and lantern to the hayloft. But then he'd appeared, dressed in faded, dirty jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and threadbare work boots. He was so handsome. I remember thinking that. I remember my desire—I remember that feeling.
Looking at him as he peeled off his shirt to reveal the hard, lithe, lean body of an eighteen-year-old—not quite a man, but neither a boy—and I remember how my hands itched to carve over his hard abs and broad shoulders, how curious I was to see his erection. I'd seen penises before, of course, and I knew perfectly well the details of sex. But I'd never wanted todoit with anyone until I met Lorenzo, until I tasted his kisses and felt his hands on my waist, until he dared grasp my ass, caress my breasts over my shirt.
My breath comes fast as I delve into the memory, and the emotions and sensations that accompany it. Lorenzo standing there in a baggy pair of boxers, erection bulging against the fabric, his eyes fixed on my cleavage; I'd stood up and shrugged out of the dress, and his erection had, improbably, seemed to grow. I slipped off my bra, shaking all over, a little scared and a lot excited, feeling like a woman for the first time as his eyes hungrily fixed on my bare breasts. We had both removed our underwear at the same time, standing naked in front of each other. I'd fought the instinct to cover my vagina, and the way he clenched his fists at his sides told me he was fighting the same urge to cover himself.
He took the first step toward me, and I'll never forget the searing heat of his hand as he placed it on my hip, a hesitant touch. That searing heat slid toward my bare bottom, and I'd sucked in a breath. His hand had flown away from me, worried, I think, that the hiss of breath was a protest at his touch. I had put his hand back on my bottom, and touched his as well.
It was a questing, awkward time, then, as we explored each other's bodies—bottoms, breasts, stomach. He slid a finger over my seam, and my legs had nearly given out. But when I went to grasp his erection, he'd stopped me, grabbing my hand, pulling out of reach.
He touched me, then. Explored my sex, delving a finger inside me, watching rapt as I panted when he discovered my clit. I'd shown him how to make me feel good—I had been masturbating regularly for years by that point.
Finally, we'd lain together side by side on the quilt and kissed and touched. His erection had slid against my belly, smearing leaking wetness all over me. I remember being on the verge of orgasm so many times as we'd writhed together, kissing, grinding.
He'd pulled away, snagged his jeans, and produced a condom from his back pocket. I remember the fascination I’d felt watching him roll it onto himself, and I remember wishing I could have done that. I wanted to know how a cock felt in my hand. I'd heard the maids discussing sex on any number of occasions when they thought I wasn't listening, and I remember distinctly a specific conversation where one girl told another about giving her boyfriend a blowjob. I'd been shocked, confused, and even a little disgusted at the time. But in that moment, watching Lorenzo put the condom on, I'd known I wanted to do that to him, too.
I remember clearest of all the moment he hovered over me. His cock had bobbed above my sex with each breath, one of hishands braced beside my ear, the other fondling my breast. He'd finally let me grasp his cock, just long enough to nudge him at my entrance. He'd waited, watching me carefully as he slowly slid inside me.
I had gasped at the alien sensation of being penetrated. It had hurt, at first. Especially when he broke my hymen. But then, slowly, gradually, the pain subsided and I grew used to the feeling of him inside me, and I had wanted more. Needed more.
He gave me more.
So, so much more.
He came quickly, and I could tell he was embarrassed about it.
He made me come with his fingers, a bit awkwardly and clumsily, but eagerly and thoroughly.
God, I had loved him, then. I began craving him after that night. My hunger for him was relentless and all-consuming.
I want it back.
I want to feel his hand on my flesh and not experience it as razor blades slicing me to pieces.
I want to kiss him and lose myself in that kiss.
He's in that bathroom right now, naked and wet, wanting me, and thinking of me as he touches himself.
