Rape Stories

Warning!

I'm sorry

by Psiberzerker

Author's note: This is an old story of mine, updated a little, and altered to conform to the 15 and up proviso. When in Rome... Call it my homage to Nabokov. All the "rape" is statutory.

First off, I'd like to say that I'm not a pedophile. I've never been attracted to children before, and the thought of a man using an underdeveloped little girl like that is repugnant to me. On the other hand, I am a man. Therefore, I am susceptible to being seduced.

I wish I could say I'd never found a little girl attractive, but As I've said, I'm only a man. They're pretty, but I never thought of them sexually. Whenever I'd mastrubated, I thought of grown women, Supermodels, or Athletes. Then, I met Jodi.

She was a "bad girl", A hell raiser with numerous arrests for shoplifting, trespassing, assault, and vandalism by the ripe old age of eleven. That's what brought her to me. Her mother couldn't handle me, and as a certified councilor, I was supposedly better equipped to.

She didn't trust me, at first, they rarely did. Part of my training is in fostering trust in children with behavioral problems. The trick to it is compromise. Give a little, and they appreciate it eventually. These kids have never gotten a damn thing but the breath of life from their parents. They're abused, and/or neglected, so they tend to expect the same from everyone.

It also helps to get a little background first. The difference between an abused child, and a neglected one means a different set of padded tools must be used. It also helps to rule out simple spoiled proto-sociopaths who often act similarly.

Her father was a jailbird. At the time, he was serving the third of a twenty year sentence for Aggravated Assault, and Battery in the commission of a robbery. He'd beaten the sixteen year old cashier at the local grociery store so badly she had to be hospitalized.

Her mother also had a rather long, and colorful record. She'd lost her driver's license for a couple DUIs complicated by drug possession. She also had some old solicitation of prostitution charges from before Jodi was born. The fruit of this union, Jo Dean Haggarty, was practically bursting with "issues".

When she showed up in my office, I first thought she was a boy. It was hard to tell with early adolescents, and she was certainly dressed the part. Her hair was short, but looked more worn off than cut. It was filthy, as where her clothes, which fit her like a tarp. The tee shirt was decorated by some unrecognizable logo reduced to white flakes by unimaginable washings, and wear. Once black, it was faded to a sort of bluish gray that no one dyes a shirt intentionally. The jeans where faded the old fashioned way, right through in some places, and the cuffs where rolled up to make room for canvas high tops. These where a free association piece in mixed media, white out, magic marker, and biro with open toes to display matching holes in the toes of the once white socks, and the never groomed nails that apparently put them there.

As I let her in, and up to my office, I caught a whiff of stale Marijuana smoke wafting down from her. I had to search her, but only came to light with a smoked down cigarette butt, matches, and a single edged razor blade. I confiscated the latter two.

"Where did you get the grass?" I confronted her once I'd finished, and sat her down, "From friends, or your mother?"

"My mom doesn't give me weed," she defied in a voice roughened by the ravages of early adolescence.

"That doesn't prevent you from raiding her stash," I pointed out, and she tried vainly to cover a guilty smile.

"You took my mathces, and blade, but not my smoke?" she wondered aloud.

"I can't keep you from smokeing," I compromised, "But you can do some damage with these."

"Well, how the fuck am I suppost to light it?" Like the cigarette, I decided to let the language slide until I made a little progress. Despite this, the obscenity sounded somehow more perverse in her tough little voice.

I lit one of my own, and passed it to her to "Monkey fuck" hers to light from the burning end. She took a drag first, and made a face, "Menthol".

"Beggars can't be choosers," I cliche'ed. She flicked the end off onto the carpet before using it to spark up her own, then passed it back to me. I slid an ash tray across to her as a hint. "Can I smoke here?" She asked belatedly.

"Tobacco," I qualified, "but I won't help you in any way."

"You gave me a light," she pointed out.

"After depriving you of one," I finished for her, "We're even." Hopefully, this would start some sort of precedent for the give and take relationship necessary for me to help her.

"Cool," she shrugged noncommittally.

"In return," I laid it down for her, "I expect you to behave better from here on out."

"Like what?" she asked in feigned innocence.

I opened her folder, but didn't bother checking it, "I see you've met 'Mr. Molotov'." I noted.

"Who?" I expected.

"Those bottles you where caught hurling into a car lot are known as Molotov Cocktails, after a Russian rebellion they where used extensively in."

"Oh," she took in my history lesson, "Those."

"No more vandalism," I decreed, "Or breaking and entering, nor stealing."

She held up the stub of a fag, inspected the end, then twisted it out in the ash tray. It was done anyway, but I took it as a protest of her own. She smoked like she'd been doing it a while, she didn't cough, or tear up from the "after burner," and lit it with some acquired skill.

"What about friggin' off?" she tried to offend me by letting her legs fall open.

"Perfectly natural," I conceded, "Until you're old enough to start having sex."

She covered her giggle with a limp hand, the first effeminate gesture I'd seen from her, "Oh, I'm not a virgin."

"Who?" I secretly moved to ready a pencil over my notebook.

She shrugged yet again, "Some of my dad's friends," despite her feigned nonchalance, she shifted uncomfortably, and wrapped her arms around each other in a self embrace, "The real one, not a Father-of-the-Week." she further qualified. I noted the double meaning, it could've just as easily have been spelled weak, a reference to her own perceived strength.

"Where was he when this happened?" I wondered, now incensed.

She shrugged again, a gesture I was now seeing as characteristic, "In the other room," she informed me, "He set it up."

Despite the bad taste in my mouth, I had to ask, "How many?"

"Three," she gripped herself a little tighter, "And I didn't get a penny out of it."

I felt like I needed a hug too. He'd been in a few years, so she couldn't've been more then nine when her father had sold her out for some sort of gang bang with his beer buddies. "How many times?" I feared to ask, but had to for my job. God, I hated it sometimes.

"Just that time," She rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her shirt. It was a warm summer afternoon, and she had long sleeves on, but the chill was from within. I could feel it too. "He got taken away right after that."

"Did you want to do it?" my voice cracked despite my age. I was trying not to cry, and doing a worse job of than her.

She shook her head, but threw in a conflicting shrug, "I didn't want to get gang raped," she qualified with impressive alacrity, "They would've if I hadn't consented."

I shifted the subject uncomfortably, "Have you been sexually active since?"

She repeated her contradictory gesture, "Tried, boys my age are so dickless."

Most girls loose all sexuality from experiences like that, Jodi apparently wasn't one of them. That's assuming she was telling the truth, but she relaxed enough to let her hands fall into her lap, a supporting sign that she was too young to know how to fake. I'll give her credit for the requisite intellect, but this was way too subtle. "So," I co ncl uded, "You'll have to wait."

"Yeah," she thrust her chin at me, "Until I can find me a man."

I changed the subject some more, this was getting counterproductive, "What's your home life like now that your father's gone?"

True to form, she shrugged again, "Mom's never there, even when she's home, she's gone..." It was a subtle play on words, and vindicated my prior assessment of her cleverness.

"She still single?" I wondered about income. She had a brother, plus several addictions to feed.

This time, her shrug was accompanied by a nod. No less unsure, just in a different direction, "There's a new guy every other night, or so, but she just fucks 'em, then puts 'em out." She pronounced "puts" like the German putz, but I figured it was unintentional. If not, it could've been a reference to doucheing.

Mommy was apparently subsidizing welfare with her boyfriends, and little Jodi seemed to know it, though she wouldn't admit it aloud. "Would you consider leaving for a better situation?" I offered.

"Foster homes," she spat out like an obscenity, "Fuck that, mom lets me get away with murder!" I noticed a taint of insincerity in her venom. She resented her neglect, but glossed it over with a health dose of denial.

Unfortunately, we where interrupted by the arrival of my next appointment. I saw her off, but decided not to let the last issue go.

Chapter II

She was scheduled twice a week, but showed up more frequently. I guess she liked that an authority figure let her smoke, and curse. To her credit, she held up her end of the bargain, or at least didn't get caught.

I kept pestering her about her living conditions, and stopped in to see how bad they really where. "Home" was a tiny third level sufficiency. The term could actually be laughable with a sick enough sense of humor.

The door was answered by a Haggard woman aged well beyond her thirty odd years. She seemed relatively sober, if a bit hung over as she squinted into the blinding sun. I couldn't see how anyone could bring himself to fuck her, much less pay for the privilege.

She blended right into her surroundings, like a moth on a compost heap. A blue quilted moving blanket was tacked up on the other side of the window from the bars with yellow plastic washered nails. I lit a cigarette to kill the stench, and exhaled through my nose.

A lamp shade had been hastily set over the water bong on an end table. There was a razor blade on the glass coffee table, and white powder that hadn't yet been scrounged from the crack around the edge. A snoring lump in blue jeans reposed on a couch that looked like it'd been rained on before being picked up from the curb for her. On the other end from the Bong "lamp" there was a black lawn and leaf bag full of Jodi's clothes with a beer can converted to an ashtray balanced precariously atop it.

The young hag signaled her position with the distinctive sound of a pop top. She emerged from the kitchen holding the hair of the rabid dog that'd bit her, and belched out the redneck mating call. "What'd you want me for?" she wondered after clearing her throat with the ironically named "high life".

I couldn't think of anything honest and yet nice to say to that, so I answered, "Nothing, nothing at all," and left it at that.

While I was being nosey, I swung by her school to check on her progress. I started by my peers in the guidance office, and renewed my thanksgiving for landing a private practice. In contrast to my comfortable office in my own home, the school appointed councilors worked in a cave that was only cleaner than the pestilential midden the Haggartys called home.

The dreadful cinderblock cell was appointed with two desks, and enough over crammed bookshelves to cover any windows had they been provided. I glanced down at the hard plastic seat provided for the children inflicted with 'guidance', and tried not to think of an electric chair. The bare tubular steel arms where scratched from having the more problematic ones cuffed to them.

Over the last few weeks, Jodi had managed not to be sent in for 'acting out', actually turned in some homework, and brought her grades up to a high D. I felt pretty secure in assuming the responsibility for her turn around. I was the new factor, and the only conceivable good one in her hard life.

With that in mind, I picked up some papers from the files, and made several copies for all the interested parties. I didn't have a Xerox at home, and they only charged me a dime each in the library. That done, I noted it was getting on towards the end of the school day.

I always did such errands on fridays. It helped to have a day off during the week when things are open, and it freed up saturday for appointments that couldn't be met while people are in work, or school as the case may be.

I managed to find her by her schedule, and caught up with her out side of her last class.

"Mr. Hunt?" she seemed surprised to see me.

"I'm taking you home," I informed her, but left out which home it'd be. She'd been coming over after school anyway to keep her from interrupting my appointments. I'd canceled all hers to free up the schedule some, and fed her whenever I could to put some meat back onto her malnourished body.

Her improvement was more than scholastic, she'd filled out a bit, and her cheekbones where starting to recede from their prior exposure. I couldn't blame her for her lack of hunger after seeing what she used to have to put up with for a kitchen. With a single glance I saw sanitary horrors, some of which could probably beat me a chess. I vowed that she wouldn't ever have to back to that while I had anything to say about it.

"You're taking me to my house," she noted brightly.

I nodded, kept my eyes on the road, "Our house," I amended, "At least until I can find you someplace better to live."

She shrugged, but couldn't hide a grin. I caught it peripherally in the rearview. "I wouldn't mind living with you," she let slip.

"On one condition," I lied, she wasn't going back there regardless, "You have to quit smoking."

She dug in her pockets, and tossed a pack of cigarettes out the window. "And littering," I amended. She giggled at that.

"What about swearing?" she dredged up from our original agreement.

"We'll see," she never did it much, and did so more appropriately than most adults I knew.

As I pulled into the garage, her barely contained excitement burst out in a frantic hug, and she mashed her mouth against mine. It was just a friendly kiss of affection, but I noticed her small proto-breast mashed into my right bicep with a twinge of guilt.

"Mmmmmwah!" she broke free melodramatically.

"One more thing," I admonished her, "Don't ever call me Dad, Daddy, Father, or..." I couldn't think of another one.

"Sure thing, pops!" she supplied for me, and dashed manically from the car. I reflected bitterly at having my home threatened by a barely teenaged cyclone, and got out to minimize the collateral damage.

"First," I admonished her, "Homework"

"But Da," I scowled at her, "I just got here!"

"The best time to do it," I instructed, "Then you have the rest of the night." I didn't add that it cut off using it as an excuse to stay up late. I've never had a child of my own, but years of parenting vicariously had clued me in to all the tricks.

She subsided, beaten, and towed her bookbag up the stairs with a depressive thumping.

I retired to the kitchen to do my own homework. I really had no authority, but when children's services went to see what I did this morning, they'd be on my side. I filled out junctions of intervention, and applications for official guardianship in triplicate. I wasn't lying about being called daddy. I didn't want to adopt her, just keep her safe until a good home came along, or she was old enough to get out on her own whichever came first. I figured I could handle her for five years, or so, if it came to that.

Chapter III

When I finished, I realised how quiet it'd become. It was one of those fearful silences I'd heard so much about, and I must say, I didn't care much for it.

Jodi was seated at my desk, books closed, and neatly stacked. She sat at attention, back rigid, and legs hanging still at a perfect right angle. Curious, I peeked around her, and she reflexively sneaked a glance out the corner of her eye.

That momentary contact was all it took for her to break up into hysterical giggles. She actually rolled out of her seat, gripping her sides.

"You," she gasped, "The look on your face," and she degenerated back into incoherent mirth. I lost it, and bent to tickle her mercilessly. She squirmed, and thrashed gasping, and shaking. She was laughing so hard that no sound came out, just reflexive shudders, and air from her silent gaping mouth. She turned beet red, and goose flesh stood out in prickles across what little flesh wasn't visible.

She'd stopped wearing long sleeved about a week ago, and that let me see what she was covering up. In addition to healing bruises, and what looked like cigarette burns, there where the scars of precise even scratches along both forearms. I knew what that meant, and even suspected it when I found a blade on her that first day. That made me think about the one I saw in the "Living room" where she used to live. She probably got a little high from the cocaine that was doubtlessly still left on it. Same brand, I had no illusions of where she'd gotten it. Single edged razor blades hadn't been used for shaving in at least fifty years, and where hard to acquire for a thirteen year old girl. She'd since had a birthday, but I hadn't found any more on her since, and the scars where old enough that she must've stopped shortly after she started seeing me.

In her thrashings, she rolled over, and my left hand inadvertently brushed across her breast. That was the second 'accidental' feel I'd gotten off her in as many hours, which led me to believe they wheren't all that accidental. Standing up, I searched myself, and found no lecherous thoughts, so I had to assume she'd done it intentionally. That disturbed me almost as much as what I'd seen earlier. I'd have to watch out for that, wouldn't want to encourage it.

She bolted from the room, and I heard her pound down the stairs before I'd reached the door. At the landing, I saw she'd resumed her rigid position on the couch, but she snickered when she saw me. If she wanted another tickle fest, she was in for a surprise.

"Ready to go out?" I called down while following my words.

She nodded, this time without the shrug, "Where?" I'd noticed her standard noncommittal response was occurring with less, and less frequency of late. I figured she had less to hide now, at least from me.

"Shopping," I offered evasively. I needed to get some grocieries, and she only had one set of clothes to her name. These where the ones I'd given to her for her birthday, along with some others that didn't make it out of the place she used to call home. I certainly wasn't going back to get them.

On the way, I dropped off the forms at a mailbox. Luckily, I made it before the 4:30 pickup deadline, if I hadn't, they would've been dated the following monday, and someone would've had grounds for a kidnapping charge. I was toeing the line as it was, it was too much risk to take leaving it till after the 48 hour missing persons deadline.
One of the copies was also posted to the woman that had managed to birth her. I didn't put on a return address.

Next came the Maul. I happen to hate the damn things, but couldn't argue with the concentration of clotting stores in close proximity. Call it a necessary evil.

I explained to her that I wasn't exactly rich. The less each individual article of clothing cost, the more of them I would be able to afford. She was very understanding, and stuck to the clearance aisles.

I suspect that this was the first time she'd ever shopped for herself anywhere but thrift stores. Most of her clothes where obvious hand-me-downs from her brutish brother, or syphilitic mother, so even that must have been a rare occurrence. She selected mostly dark shades in denim, terry, and similar tough cloths. I asked her about her bleak colour sense, and she explained that dark colours didn't stain.

I learned from trying to shop for her that pink wasn't exactly her.
What little fashion sense I possess apparently doesn't kick in until I see it on someone, and then usually when it comes out horrid. I told you, I am a man.

It turns out that she had the wrong complexion, or something for pastels, and anything with yellow in it. She could wear green, or red, but only in deep muted shades. Burgundy seemed the most popular choice, and I had to admit it brought out the red in her brown eyes, and hair. Dark green complimented it, and neither particularly clashed with blue jean blue. I took mental notes throughout, and learned a whole hell of a lot about clothes.

She was growing into a pretty young woman, I noted. Her hair had grown out some, and shone like fire in the sunlight now that she was washing it. I took her for a trim, and swung her by the cosmetics counter to satisfy her girly side. At the former, they hacked off the split ends, but that constituted about half of what she had left. The stylist did her job well, though, and came up with a cut that made her look worlds less butch.

She dismissed the makeup with a snort, "Waste of money," she judged laconically, "I'm too young to have anything to cover up." Indeed, her acne had cleared up as soon as she'd started eating right, and bathing regularly. It'd be years before she had to worry about wrinkles so long as she didn't abuse herself like her mother did. I reflected on that double meaning as she dove back into the changing room for another assault.

She didn't come out every outfit to model, just to exchange different clothes, and drop off the ones that made the cut. I gave her another run at it both because she'd saved money on face paint, and she was obviously enjoying it. I ducked out to get some hideously expensive calzones form the food court, and went back to stop her.

She spent over two hundred dollars on the clearance racks, but yielded a disproportionate amount of material out of it. In between bites, she explained that you could save a lot by not paying for logos. We avoided places like Gap, Structure, and A&F on this principle. That left her with a large, if drab wardrobe.

Finally, after getting thoroughly Malled, we retreated wearily to our new home. For her, it was truly new, while for me, it only seemed that way because of her. I realized belatedly that I hadn't gotten her a place to sleep, so without undue pomp, and circumstance, I relinquished my bed to her, and took the couch.

I woke to the sound of her light footfalls on the stairs. I hadn't noticed them creaking before, but perhaps the repeated impacts of her schoolwork on the risers had damaged them. I half pretended to be asleep because the other half was true. In my bleary state, though, I could see through half lidded eyes.

She was wearing one of my shirts, but it came down halfway to the knees. Unfortunately, my vantage gave me a good view under the hem as it came up on her thighs. In the dim light, I could just make out the white crotch of her panties. I was already erect from my slumber, and I told myself that's all that maintained it. I also cowardly closed my eyes, and made gentle snoring noises. Hopefully, she'd get a glass of milk, or something, and go back to bed. My bed.

By the time I realized she was climbing in with me, it was too late. The trouble with lies, even ones of omission, is that they tend to propagate . I shifted sleepily to avoid jabbing her with any incriminating part of my anatomy, and eventually fell back to sleep.

This was no longer the peaceful slumber she'd interrupted. If I'd dreamt before, I d idn't remember it. The images that plagued me after that will never leave me. She descended down an endless stair, thin pale thighs ever alternating, bringing flashes of pure innocent white cotton. A strange image for a nightmare, but it filled me with dread, and terror only Lovecraft could conjure with mere words. She was ever approaching, and what I feared was that she'd reach me. I feared myself, not for myself, but for her.

One of us had shifted in our sleep. Regardless of whom, my rebellious flesh was unfortunately pressed into her. Not completely, I realized with some relief, but it was cradled gently between her cursed thighs. The pain, and temptation where unbearable, I had to extricate myself with the utmost care. She mumbled my name blearily, and rolled over onto her back.

Looking back, paranoid, I noticed shamefully that her shirt had twisted under her. Her tiny perfect braless flesh pressed it outward, and it seemed some of her erectile tissue had engorged with blood as well. She moaned, and a flush spread across her.

I jerked my gaze back with little more than a glance, but that was more than enough to burn the image into my visual cortex as if it was framed in thermite. I realized the fire that put it there was in me, an irrational lust for a child about half my age. I fled upstairs in a panicked rout. My erection borne before me like an obscene pike, and dove into the shower.

There, with the soap, and white noise, I couldn't dispel it. Thoughts of big fat hairy bikers sodomizing each other couldn't evoke it. Finally, I gave in, and dealt with it. Steadfastly, I strived to think of my favourite goddesses of the media. Models, but they where too thin, too much like Her. That singer with the nice big tits, and round Latin arse, she stayed with me a while, singing dirty lyrics as I abused myself. Then, inevitably, I neared the end. She came to me then, naked as I was, and pleaded me to fuck Her. That's how She said it, fuck. Not make love, not have sex, or even screw, but fuck. I'd seen, and heard that brutally blunt fricative escape Her cute pink little lips a thousand time, and now it was the most beautiful, guilty, dirty, shameful, wonderful sound that ever reverberated through my head.

My lust vented in pent up arterial spurts. I washed away the evidence, and hurriedly dried myself. Wrapping it around my waist, I covered my sated shame, and slinked off too my bedroom with my tail between my legs. I glanced down the stairs as I passed them, and got another glance at her. Once again, it was enough to etch the gestalt into my mind. I was already out of the line of sight, hen I saw her in my memorie's eye.

She was still on her back. The sheet was tented between her knees where her arms disappeared. I didn't see anything else, but that was more than enough. She felt the same way, exactly the same way at the same time. It caused a thrill in me, a desperate painful thrill that blew large holes through my heart. I took my time dressing, trying not to think about her, to give her long enough to finish.

Continues in I'm sorry II