As a child, I wanted only two things--to please, and to be held and cuddled. Which was hard, coming from an abusive home. My father would beat my mother and me for any infraction, real or imagined, at the drop of a hat. And any time he started in on me, my mother would do nothing, because if she did, he’d beat her bad, and then go back and finish on me. So, maybe because of her feelings of guilt, she was very distant from me, for as far back as I can remember.
My father had one real friend--Paul. Dad kept getting into fights—usually verbal--with most other men, but Paul worked with Dad, lived right around the block from us, and Paul was bigger, so those three reasons combined more often than not kept Dad in line when Paul was around. That didn’t mean that I didn’t still get slapped, hit, kicked, and yelled at, but it didn’t go on for hours if Paul was there. “Autumn!” Dad would yell when he and Paul would get home from work, “get your ass down here and bring us a beer!” I was the afternoon waitress in our living room since the age of five. Mom would be at work, or making dinner in the kitchen, and I would rush to the refrigerator to grab two cans of beer for them. The time I tripped while hurrying over to them, dropping and shaking up the beers, was the first time I remember Paul seeing me get hit. “Get your stupid ass up, and get over here!” Dad yelled. I scrambled to pick up the rolling cans and came over to him on the couch where he was sitting. He slapped me across the face, and I dropped the cans again and tried not to cry. “Do you think we can drink that now? Do you?” I shook my head no. Dad raised his hand as if to hit me again, “I can’t hear your empty head rattle! Speak!” “No sir,” I managed to squeak out, my eyes locked on the cans on the carpet. I was too embarrassed to even look at Paul; I figured he must be very angry with me for ruining his after-work time like Dad was, was all I could think, and I wanted Paul to be happy with me. Dad made me apologize and go get two more cans, and I was much more careful after that.
Most of the time, after he and Paul had had a few beers, they would get into a good mood. They would be laughing and joking, and sometimes even singing. Times like that were good, because most every time when I came out, Dad wouldn’t yell at me and, if I stood by Paul’s chair, Paul would stroke my hair or my back, absentmindedly. As young as I was, I wished I had a way to tell him how much that meant to me. Many evenings, Paul would have dinner with us, others he would I guess go home.
When Mom went back to work full time, I would sometimes have a sitter of sorts when I got home from school. I say “of sorts”, because it was Mrs. DeCarlo from next door, who would make sure I got home ok, turn the TV on, and then go back next door. Mom and Dad weren’t paying her—we couldn’t afford to hire a real sitter—and so she just did it as kind of a charity. She was nice enough, but she said I was too serious, and kept saying she wished her kids would have come straight home from school and started washing dishes, vacuuming, and cleaning the bathrooms. I know she thought I was strange, but if the house wasn’t in order, Mom would be mad, and Dad would be even madder. Mrs. DeCarlo would just go back to her house, shaking her head all the way. Some days, when I didn’t go to school, I didn’t even see her at all. Usually when I didn’t go to school, it was because I had bruises, or was being punished. I would be in the house alone all day until sometimes as late as nine at night if both Mom and Dad worked late, which Mom said worried her. I think Dad didn’t care, because when she said something, he’d tell her to shut up.
All of this changed when Paul got hurt at work, and was not allowed by the doctor to return for a few months. It was decided that he would be my sitter. The first day of this arrangement, I was told to walk over to his house to stay until he was given the ok to move around more, and could come over to our house. My Dad took me aside the night before and told me that if I broke anything at his friend’s house, he’d break my face. Mom told me that since I was making extra work for Paul, I had better go over and help him by washing the dishes, doing the laundry, and anything else that needed to be done, and not ask for a single thing. She said if I let my stupidity and selfishness wreck this setup that allowed them to both work overtime and everything, I was going to pay, bigtime.
When I got over to Paul’s, he seemed happy to see me. I went to go look to see if he needed the dishes washed, and he asked if I wanted something to drink. I shook my head no, then remembered my manners, and said “No, sir.” Paul laughed, and took me to the sofa. He kneeled down, and stroked my hair, and told me it was ok to call him Paul, and that he knew my parents had told me to come over and work, but that’s not what I was going to be doing. He went and got sodas for both of us, and for the rest of the day, we cuddled on the sofa and watched TV. He played with my hair, rubbed my back, and hugged me for hours. I was in heaven.
The next day, we had less time because I’d had school, but we still had a few hours; we again cuddled on his sofa and watched TV. Paul sang theme songs in a funny voice, and he made me laugh, something I wasn’t used to doing a whole lot. Little by little, I began to relax more and more around him. I became accustomed to our routine; when I would get there, we would talk for a little bit, and have a soda, or some fruit, or something. Then we’d go over to his large sofa, and turn on the TV to watch a show, or a movie, and either start cuddling right away, or do something else I liked; sometimes Paul would let me rub his back, which I loved to do, or I would sit on the floor and he would sit on the couch, and he would brush and play with my hair for a long, long time. I wasn’t old enough to know what to do about it, but I would be very aroused this whole time, and I was developing a huge crush on Paul.
At home, things were the same—I was still getting beatings, getting yelled at, and never being touched, except when I was being hit. One morning, what I’d come to think of as “a no-school morning”, I got up and Dad was in a bad mood. I accidentally brushed against him in the kitchen, and he said I did it intentionally, and hit me. I fell into the refrigerator, and knocked some of the magnets off, and he really laid into me. He said I was clumsy and stupid. He took off his belt and stood over me as I picked the magnets up and put them back, one by one. As I picked up each one, he made me apologize, then he would hit me with the belt, and I had to put the magnet back where it belonged, then he would hit me with the belt again, and make me bend down to pick up the next magnet, and it would start all over. I was happy that I had only knocked off six or so magnets, because I thought it would be over then, but it wasn’t. He made me walk to my room, while he hit me with the belt. Then he made me “clean up” my room—really he was making me just move things from one place to another, because my room wasn’t messy—all the while he was screaming at me and hitting me while I performed his ritual of picking whatever it was up, apologizing, getting hit, putting it wherever he said it was supposed to go, and then getting hit again. Finally, he had to go to work, and since I couldn’t go to school until Mom made sure there weren’t any noticeable bruises, I was told to go to Paul’s.
When I got to Paul’s, could figure out more or less what had happened. We went to cuddle on the couch. I hurt in a lot of places, but I didn’t care as long as Paul was holding me. I was on the inside of the couch, and Paul was on the outside, almost on top of me, like he was protecting me. He held me and rocked me, told me I was a good girl, and as I was falling asleep, I told him that I loved him.
I woke up slowly, I’m not sure how much later. We were still in the same position, but Paul’s hand had moved; his hand was between my legs, outside of my panties, and he was stroking back and forth, lightly, over the crotch of the panties. I was scared, but the feeling was nice. I was afraid of what was going to happen next, and I was also afraid that he would stop. Paul could tell I’d woken up, and he started talking to me again, softly. He told me I was his good little girl, and that he wanted to make me feel very good. “Think of this as like a back massage, and I promise you that it will feel very very good, ok?” I said ok, and he kept rubbing in circles, over and over. I didn’t mean to, but my hips started following his circles, and started breathing faster. It almost felt like a dream. I closed my eyes and buried my face in his chest and rocked back and forth with his hand for what seemed like hours. Then Paul said he was going to move his hand; I said no, that I didn’t want him to stop, and he said he wasn’t going to stop, that he was going to make it even better. How it could possibly be any better I didn’t know, but I said ok. Paul pulled my panties down and with my help, got them off, and told me to put my leg over his, then he put his arm around me and reached under my ass and touched me again. I gasped at the direct touch, and Paul started talking to me as his fingers traced around the outside of my little pussy. I didn’t know what he was doing exactly, but there were some areas that, when he slid his fingers over them, sent electric shocks through me, and made me moan. I had my arms wrapped around his neck, and held on to him like a little rag doll as he tried to seek out those spots that were pleasing me so. He was slow about it, and in pleasure, I locked my mouth onto his neck in a cross between a suckle and a kiss as I moaned and whimpered. All the while, Paul told me I was a good girl, that I was his beautiful love, every endearment that I had never heard, but needed so badly all these years.
Paul moved my mouth to his nipple, and seemed to really enjoy my sucking him there. He guided one of my hands to his other nipple, and through the fog of lust, I realized what he wanted me to do. I started teasing him with my fingers and mouth—as much as I knew how to then—and he brought his fingers to my little clit and concentrated on it as he rubbed faster and faster. My breath caught in my chest, and I felt both numb and electrified, all at once. I couldn’t think anymore as he kept rubbing faster, I only knew he was happy too because he kept saying “yes…yes”. And then, for one brief second, I thought I was going to die of this pleasure, and then I felt an explosion that spread from my clit through my whole body, making me shake out of control. I think I screamed. All I knew at that moment was that there was only Paul and me in the whole world, and I fell against him, whimpering. He held me close. I knew he would.
I don’t know if I slept, or if my head just slowly cleared, but when I came to, his hand was still between my legs. “Didn’t that feel good?” Paul asked. I said yes. He told me to look at him, because I had been avoiding his eyes. When I looked into his eyes, I saw so much love, it made me want to cry. “I love you,” he said, “I’ve loved you for a very long time, and I’m going to keep loving you for a very long time. You didn’t do anything wrong, and you didn’t do anything to be ashamed of. Thank you for letting me show you how much I love you.” And then he kissed me. I tried to follow what I was supposed to do, and I think I did it mostly right, because he kept kissing me. While he was kissing me, he started slowly rubbing me again, only this time, he would glide over my clit enough to give me a jolt, and then go back to my inner lips, which he was very, very slowly spreading apart. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, “but I would like to know if this is something you can enjoy, too.” I told him I liked it, and he laughed; he said he hadn’t done it yet, but if I didn’t like it, that was ok, we could wait a few years and try it again later. “I’ll do anything you want me to,” I said, and I meant it with all my heart, “Anything at all, I swear.” He kissed me again, and told me to relax and just enjoy it, and he started rubbing around my inner lips in circles that slowly seemed to get smaller and smaller, until just one of his fingers was over just one spot, going around and around in tiny circles. I was holding him, leaning into him, and breathing slowly—it was just a very relaxing massage that started to slowly get deeper. I almost didn’t notice until his finger started to spread my little pussy open as he tried to gently work his fingertip inside. “If you do like it,” he said, “we’ve got a lot of different ways to play, and if you don’t like it, I still have a lot of things we can do.” His fingertip was slowly starting to fuck its way in and out of the opening of my pussy. It was scary a little, but I liked it. I brought my mouth back to his nipple, and he told me no. I thought he might be mad at me, and I asked if he was; he said no, that he’d show me why he said no in a little bit, but it was ok. I felt as if my pussy was being stretched wide by his finger as he gently tried to fuck it deeper inside, and slowly, he was getting in. I loved the pushing feeling, it was almost as good as when he had rubbed me fast before. Paul asked if I wanted him to stop. I told him no, but asked if he would also rub me like he had before. He said he had a better idea, and no not be afraid or embarrassed—he made me promise, and I did—and then, keeping his fingertip in me, he moved down and put his mouth on me, like he was kissing where he had been rubbing before. I didn’t know then what he was doing but god, it felt good. So good that I hardly noticed his finger anymore, even though he was still pushing it in. My hips again started raising to meet his lips and tongue, and my body’s straining so for that reward made it so that his finger went deeper perhaps than he had meant for it to go all at once; the stiff, thick intrusion made me gasp—it hurt—and Paul stopped moving his finger, and went back to licking and sucking my tiny clit, flicking it faster and faster, until I forgot again about his finger, I forgot about the pain. As he licked, he slowly pulled his finger out, and kept licking, leaving his thumb resting where his finger had been, almost giving me that beautiful “pushing” feeling as he licked faster and faster, and I felt that feeling come back again and take over my whole body.
Continuable? You decide.
