Autumn II

“I want you to stop being so difficult,” my mom screamed at me as she held my face so fiercely in her hand that I could feel my teeth cutting into the sides of my mouth, “YOU are the problem here! YOU make it so that every moment that could even possibly be pleasant ends up in nothing but shouting, because you are lazy, stupid, and ungrateful! I want you to stop trying to tear this family apart! Stop antagonizing your father! Just do as you’re told! You’re making him this way! You’re trying to make him fall apart!” With that, my mom pushed my head back into the wall; I couldn’t tell what hurt worse, the crack of my head against the bricks, or the amount of hate she seemed to feel toward me. She glared at me like she wished I would die, and walked off into her room and closed the door. I could hear her turn the TV on as tears filled my eyes. I had to get the bathroom floors cleaned, and we were out of Lysol to clean the floors with—that was what I had asked my mom for help with. I had to get them cleaned fast by the time Dad got home, or he was going to take me down in the basement again. He had started doing that more and more over the past few months, and each time was worse than the time before. I wet a towel and got down on my hands and knees to wet-mop the kitchen. I could hardly see through my tears.

Mom was right in a way, though. Over the past year or so, Dad had been getting worse, I thought as I worked. He had developed a hair-trigger temper, and his punishments had gotten worse. He was also drinking more, so it was hard to tell which was causing which. Paul had been my safe haven for a little while, but once he returned to work, I could only manage to sneak away occasionally to be with him. On one level, I knew some of the things we did were wrong, but I loved the physical and emotional attention. And as things got worse, I needed it more and more. The only time my mother talked to me anymore was to yell at me, it seemed, and the only time my father ever touched me was to beat me. It helped to be able to escape away in my mind as I did my chores, to think back over the times I had been alone with Paul for most all of the day. I treasured those times, and did my best to make them keep happening.

Just that past weekend, both Mom and Dad had taken overtime—as long as I had the house straightened and dinner cooked when they got home, I would be as fine as possible. Paul knew my father’s schedule of course, so last weekend, on both days, Paul came over and helped me clean up, and then we went over to his house. On Saturday, he had given me a bubble bath, the second one I’d ever had. He started off by getting me to lie back in the bath, and he gave me a massage. He started by rubbing my neck and shoulders, and gradually included my arms and hands, and did my back as best he could. He finally wasn’t satisfied with how well he could get to me, so he decided to get in with me. He stood up and took off his clothes while I watched. I’d seen him naked before, but more often than not, I didn’t get the chance to really, really look at him. Even as young as I was, he took my breath away, and I felt an incredible rush of excitement at the thought of getting to be so close to him. I loved to look at his cock, and wanted to play with it more than I got to, but Paul said it was too much of a tease to let me do that. I didn’t understand what he meant then; I would apologize for teasing him.

But last Saturday, after he undressed, he climbed into the bathtub behind me, and wanted me to sit between his legs. Instead, I turned around to get a closer look at his cock. It was already hard, and before Paul could object, I wrapped both my hands around it, and started to stroke him like he taught me to. Paul groaned and laughed, and tried to push me away, telling me “Not yet…not yet…” but I looked at him with my best pouty eyes and said “please?” Paul finally relented and let me continue, and I stroked him while he sat back and closed his eyes. What I wanted to do was what we’d talked about—what Paul said was a few years off. I wanted to slowly sit down on that big cock, to have him slide slowly inside me, to get him as close as possible to me. I wanted to please him by sliding up and down on him like the women in the magazines I knew he had in his closet. I wanted him to hold me close and fuck me all night. I wanted to run away with him forever and marry him, but Paul had told me more than once that that would have to wait, too. He had explained to me that, unless I was eighteen, our marriage wouldn’t be legal, and if my parents found out where I was, the authorities would come and take me away from Paul, and give me back to my parents, and it would then be years before he would be able to see me again. That I understood too well. That meant there would be no one to hold me, no one to talk to, no one…and it was too horrible to think about. And Paul wouldn’t fuck me for a while yet, either. That we had discussed, also. Again, he had explained, it was not legal until I was eighteen. He had promised when I had started to protest that he wouldn’t make me wait that long, that he couldn’t wait that long, but that I needed to be a little bit older first. Which brought us to the second facet—Paul’s cock was huge. He explained that many of the women he had slept with had difficulty with taking his cock in, because he was a little bit longer than most men, but he was much thicker than most.