Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  Chapter 73.

  “And those who were seen dancing, were thought to be crazy, by those who could not hear the music.”

  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “Rest up against me,” I direct her, as I grip around her waist with both arms.

  I pull her up so she straightens, her back and shoulders pressed against my chest. Kneeling on the bed, just as I am, her body leans back against mine. The sensation stuns me.

  Renata’s ass seems even more completely jammed full of my cock.

  “Oh, God,” she gasps.

  One hand stimulating between her legs, she throws the other arm around me, her fingers clawing my neck. Panting and writhing, she holds on for dear life.

  Now, we both face the mirror.

  For a moment we freeze, just staring at each other.

  My eyes rake over her soft, feminine shape and flushed breasts. Eyes dark and wide, her features are ravaged with lust. Her lips are red and swollen from kisses, yes, but mainly from use after I so thoroughly fucked her face.

  And she’s fully impaled… sitting on my thick cock.

  Fuck. This is too good.

  This penetration is at a completely different angle; it feels even deeper. Tighter. Panting and savage with need, my arms lock around her waist. I withdraw and thrust upwards so hard—the force lifts her knees off the bed. Renata’s breath catches in a surprised moan.

  I grunt from effort and pure pleasure.

  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this.

  “Feel that?” I rasp, pulling out most of the way, and then slamming back hard into her ass once more. “Feel how deep I’m buried inside of you?”

  “Yes!” Her features twist from extreme pleasure. She’s close to climax.

  “So tight and hot,” I growl. “Tell me you want me—tell me you’re mine.” The possessive demand surprises me, but I need to hear the words. I need to know she’ll be mine forever.

  When she doesn’t reply, I grip her tightly. Driving in and out, I pound into her with punishing strokes. Again and again, I ram inside. Faster. Deeper. Harder.

  “Say it,” I demand.

  “I’m yours!” she agrees with a gasp.

  “Yes,” I shout in triumph. I’m aroused past the point of madness. I’m a mindless animal, seeking oblivion.

  “I’m going to come,” she cries breathlessly.

  “Yes, come,” I growl, one palm cupping her breast; thumb and finger pinching an erect, sensitive nipple. I’m so deep inside of her that my balls and thighs press against her slick, dripping sex. I’m desperate to shoot my load.

  “Do it. Do it, do it now. Come for me! Milk my cock while your ass is stuffed full of dick!”

  This dirty talk sends her right over.

  I might think I’m prepared for her climax, but I’m not—not at all. My own orgasm takes me completely by surprise. It’s brutal, intense and overwhelming.

  "Oh, oh, ah," Renata cries out.

  Bucking and jerking, the muscles of her anus grip my cock like a hot, pulsing fist as pleasure rips through her. Her eyes squeeze shut, while her face contorts in the throes of passion.

  An electric haze of indescribable white hot rapture makes everything stop.

  I throw back my head, shout her name and that’s the last I remember for a long while. For a second—or a minute, my brain ceases to function.

  Panting like a racehorse, I suddenly find myself lying on top of her back. Momentarily stunned, I withdraw from her. Rolling on to my side, I’m pleased to see cum drip from the puckered ring of her anus.

  Why do I feel such ridiculous and primal satisfaction at the sight?

  Somehow, I can’t muster up the strength to chastise myself for enjoying something so nasty. Who cares? I love what I love, but so does Renata—delicious, wanton slut that she is!

  We always have great sex, but that was super intense.

  It fact, it was fucking amazing.

  Renata’s eyes are shut, she’s breathing fast, too. My body is utterly sated. I allow myself just to relax back and feel.

  I smile when I remember how hard she came. What we do together, as dirty or offensive as it may seem, is always lovemaking. Love, love, love. It took thirty years, but I can finally say, I know what love is.

  But what is this I feel right now?

  I feel different. Changed.

  Freed.

  I’ve gone full circle.

  Anal sex. Sodomy. Butt fucking. The devil’s work. Homosexuality. Perversion.

  As a child while attending church regularly, and being warned against the sins of sodomy and homosexuality, my father did this to me. He taught me to tolerate it and to ultimately enjoy it.

  It was difficult to admit and disclose these details to André, but that’s the truth.

  Due to biology, psychology, or simply a desire to please him, my penis became hard with my father. I first climaxed without ejaculation at the tender age of six.

  When I was old enough, I climaxed and I ejaculated when he did this. I loved my father, I honestly did. Yet, even with dubious childish ‘consent,’ what he did to me wasn’t consensual sex—it was rape.

  What he felt for me wasn’t love, either.

  Over time, even an abusive relationship seems normal.

  What I shared just now with Renata? Somehow, it seemed to wash the sin of sodomy away. That was real. That was anal sex between two consenting adults, both enjoying themselves and doing their best to please each other.

  It was nothing like what I did with my father.

  “Hey,” she says, shifting on to her side toward me. Her features are soft with concern as she searches my face. “Are you all right?”

  My chest constricts because I know how much she cares.

  This is love.

  Emotion fills me so fully my heart feels as though it’s in my throat. I reach over and gently brush a lock of hair from her cheek.

  “I’ve never been better.”

  A slow smile spreads across her face. Her eyes dance, bright with naughty mischief and pleasure. “Me neither. That was out of this world, bell ringing, mind blowing and off the charts sex.”

  I raise a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She inhales deeply. “The things you can do with your cock! Not to mention your tongue.”

  I grin, utterly diverted. “Want to do it again?”

  “Yes. Again and again.”

  I laugh. “I was thinking of stuffing that vibrating dildo of yours in your pussy the next time I fuck your ass. How do you think that would be?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Too much? Would you be too damn full to enjoy it?”

  Renata throws her arms around me, strangling my neck—but I don’t mind in the least.

  “Hell, no,” She says, her giggle light and carefree. “Now we can enjoy each other without guilt. From here on we’ll both spend our time thinking up tons of naughty things to do to each other, without worrying about it. I told you once we acted out your fantasies, you’d get past your hang ups.”

  I press my face into her throat and breathe her in. “Yes, you did. As usual, you were right.”

  Chapter 74.

  “A reliable way to make people believe in falsehoods is frequent repetition, because familiarity is not easily distinguished from truth. Authoritarian institutions and marketers have always known this fact.”

  ― Daniel Kahneman

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “People believe what they are told to believe, mon ami,” André warned me. Which is how he convinced me to hire an expensive PR firm.

  As expected, when the Dallas Morning Herald began its series of articles on incest and child abuse resulting from Betty Jo’s ‘tell all’ story, the shit really hit the fan. Thank God Renata and I managed to have some quality time to ourselves during her birthday trip to Paris before it all went down.

  Thanks to André, I was prepared for the shit storm. The truth about my
sexual abuse was going to come out. For the sake of my family, I decided to go ahead and take the fall.

  Rather than try to ignore, deny, or avoid reporter harassment, my PR firm recommended I embrace it.

  “When there’s no information available, people make stuff up,” the head honcho of my public relations firm advised me. “That’s why you need to fill that vacuum with your message.”

  What is my message?

  That was a very good question.

  We ended up pushing four things, over and over again: First, I’m a decorated war hero, injured while serving my country. Second, my father was a pedophile who sexually abused me. Third, I’ve had extensive counseling to aid my recovery, which is why I began my foundation to help others like myself. Fourth, the United States needs to change its laws concerning the Statute of Limitations for such offences.

  I’ve even been on a couple of talk shows. With so many people staring at me and seeing my scars, I’m no longer on edge when I show my face in public. Many times I even forget I have them.

  My ‘Sexual Abuse Therapy Foundation’ is what I most discuss. Due to this exposure, people are beginning to make contributions toward it. I run it for now, but the way it’s going, I’m going to have to hire staff.

  I would never have recovered without excellent, face to face counseling, so the benefits of seeking therapy is what I hope to forward. It’s what I want my foundation to support.

  Our foundation’s mottos are: ‘No one should be ashamed to have been the victim of sexual abuse,’ and, ‘No one should be embarrassed to admit they need counseling.’

  The other point I advocate is to change the law on Federal level.

  It’s a little known fact that the statute of limitations prevents prosecution of child molesters. This is why despite the thousands of reported cases of child abuse, each proved in court with confidential financial settlements, one almost never finds a priest in jail.

  Most states have a ten year or less window to take legal action. Alabama’s limit is two years. Louisiana provides only one! In the District of Columbia, a child must report before they reach the age of 21.

  What kind of statement does that make when D.C., the home of the United States Capital, limits the prosecution of child molesters? Clearly powerful people, including child abusing politicians, are covering their own butts.

  What abused individual can get it together enough to even talk about their abuse, much less sue the perpetrator in so short a time?

  Police have a tendency to view child molestation as an isolated incident. They focus on the victim and investigate accordingly. The public’s usual reaction is one of utter disbelief. Nobody can imagine such terrible crimes, particularly if the perpetrator ‘Seemed like such a nice man!’

  The reality is most pedophiles fly under the radar, while abusing children for decades. Over the course of a lifetime, if they are not stopped, a pedophile can molest hundreds—even thousands of children.

  It’s up to all of us to find a way to stop them.

  I know a case where an innocent child was groomed and seduced at age ten. The girl became pregnant at the age of thirteen by her abuser—a forty year old married man, a ‘friend’ of her family. She kept the identity of her baby’s father a secret for ten years.

  This is a common occurrence. Pedophiles are extremely manipulative and the ultimate brainwashers. They constantly admonish their victims ‘not to tell,’ to the point where speaking about one’s abuse becomes almost impossible.

  The girl, of course—although she’d only been intimate with her abuser, was considered by one and all to be a ‘slut.’

  When, as a young woman, she finally had enough counseling to find her voice and be able to speak openly of her abuse, she sought justice. However, her case was not allowed! The statute of limitations for her state was ten years. She was twenty-four by then—one year too late to prosecute.

  Despite irrefutable DNA evidence, her abuser never even had to go to court—smug bastard. He, of course, was an upstanding member of the community who said the girl was "no virgin" and she "came on to him." Playing the role of the wrongly accused victim, he walked away unpunished.

  How many other children was he free to abuse? What does that say about a society that blames the victim and protects the abuser?

  The messages my PR firm are pushing are designed to create dialogue on these issues. In Texas, the statute of limitations for a child to report abuse is age twenty-three, which is clearly not enough time. However, not all crimes are governed by statutes of limitation. Murder, for example, has none.

  Like murder, I feel there should be no limitation for reporting child abuse. That’s what I’m hoping for.

  After all, in the case of sexual abuse for those under the age of consent, the individual’s childhood has been taken away, lost and destroyed—killed by a sexual predator.

  All in all, a hell of a lot of good is coming out of this huge family crisis. If nothing else, countless other victims have learned they are not alone. People are calling my foundation and seeking support. That’s significant progress to my eyes.

  I’m just beginning to get comfortable with being a local celebrity and the focus of front page news, when the real news breaks.

  It’s a shock.

  A game changer.

  It’s something that takes everyone by surprise.

  Yet, the way American people react to these events makes me proud to be an American.

  Chapter 75.

  “A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”

  — Christopher Reeve

  ~~~

  Gabriela Lopez

  Side by side at the table, nine-year old Sammy and eleven-year old Susie, sat eating in the huge dining room, both dressed in green track suits.

  “Gotcha!” Sammy squealed gleefully, after knocking against his friend with his knee under the table, making her drop her forkful of scrambled eggs.

  “Gotcha back!” Susie said with a giggle, bumping him with her shoulder, so he hit his plate. A tussle ensued, followed by a tickling battle and whoops of laughter.

  “You kids had better settle down,” warned Miss Buttercup, sternly.

  “Yes, Miss Buttercup,” both children sang back dutifully, while continuing to bump and knock each other in a much more subtle and furtive manner. With their actions hidden by the table, the game was even more fun now, as they were forced to remain quiet and keep a straight face.

  Miss Buttercup smiled and returned to her kitchen.

  Susie wasn’t worried about getting into trouble. Miss Buttercup had only chastised them in case someone was listening on the video. Miss Buttercup liked to see children play. She loved knowing ‘her kids’ were having fun.

  She also gave great, big hugs.

  Miss Buttercup was African American. She had smooth, dark skin, long black eyelashes, pretty brown eyes and the best smile ever. Susie loved her. Of all of the supervisors, Miss Buttercup was her favorite. A fantastic cook, she continually made special treats.

  Miss Buttercup was one of the good ones.

  My name is Gabriela Lopez, Susie thought. She liked to think about it often, glad to know her real name. Sammy couldn’t remember his birth name. He couldn’t even remember his parents, a fact that made Susie sad.

  They never lacked for food in the Big House. For breakfast, they had pancakes, fruit, bacon, scrambled eggs, juice and toast. Many times before Susie came here, her empty stomach had cramped and burned with all too frequent unfilled need to eat.

  Now, she never went hungry, except for the aching hunger in her heart for her parents.

  It was 11:00 a.m., time for breakfast. Sammy and Susie, who were highly sought after as a couple, often worked together. They’d been up with a client until late the night before, so no one else ate with them. The other children were either at work, still asleep, or maybe they had exercise or free playtime—things the kids did each day.
<
br />   The doctor said it was important for them to be healthy.

  All seemed fine as they continued to play their game and ate. The first moment the kids became aware that something was wrong was when they heard loud, unfamiliar noises from the front of the house. It sounded like men shouting and people screaming.

  Miss Buttercup came out of the kitchen, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She looked very, very strange, as though she didn’t know what to do. How could that be?

  Supervisors always knew what to do.

  “What is it?” Susie asked, but Sammy didn’t wait to find out. He immediately jumped down to the floor and hid under the table.

  “Arms in the air! You’re under arrest!” A deep male voice yelled from a room nearby.

  “Jesus,” Miss Buttercup said in a whisper.

  “What?” Susie asked, wondering if she should crawl under the table too.

  “People are here, they’re coming… for us,” she said in a shaky, frightened voice.

  Susie thought Miss Buttercup sounded as though she’d run a long distance. Her breathing was shallow and fast. Did she eat something that made her tummy hurt? Just now, Miss Buttercup looked really sick.

  To Susie’s shock and amazement, her favorite supervisor had tears running down her face!

  Bang! Crash!

  The door to the dining room suddenly flew open and eight big grownups rushed in, waving big guns. They were dressed in black uniforms and wore helmets on their heads. The helmets roved back and forth as they scanned the room.

  It was terrifying!

  “You four stay here,” one man said. Then he and three others ran off, leaving the dining area.

  One man approached Susie while another tackled Miss Buttercup, throwing her face down on the floor. He pulled her hands behind her back and began to put handcuffs on her.

  That was when Susie began to scream and scream and scream.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK, we’re here to protect you,” a man said, raising his hands palm up in an attempt to put her at ease. “You’re safe now.”

  He came closer, taking off his helmet and kneeling down before her. He had short blond hair and anxious, yet kind, gray eyes.

  Susie stopped screaming. Fueled by adrenaline, she jumped to her feet, suddenly madder than she could ever remember being in her life. Unreasonably bold, she flew at the other man who was handcuffing her friend.