This story contains mature or graphic content.
I didn’t realize how much I wanted all my stories to reflect how much I feel like a toy, not just to most of the men I’ve known, but to life, the establishment, fate, the universe as a whole. And after writing my first foray into brutal honesty, another reality reared its ugly head: what if someone wanted to know everything there was to be gleaned about my sexual peccadilloes, my years of bondage and naked servitude to masterful males, but not of my father’s perverse life lessons, his philosophy of familial love, paternal physicality, how real love between a parent and child is shown behind closed doors? So I came upon a warning system for those brave enough to continue on with me: In all stories dealing with molestation, my childhood and my abuses there will be an “M” in the title, e.g. “Pull Toys (M).” Everything after this will be about an incident of molestation that I remember. Now that you know, dear reader, you can stop reading and return to more pleasant pursuits, and having been informed about the “warning” system, you can now avoid any and all stories like this in the future. Onward!
Mommy wasn’t coming home. I was five or six and something terrible had happened, she was in the hospital, hurt real bad, and she wasn’t coming home. There had been an automobile accident and she was indeed injured very badly. This was in the early ’70s, and they kept her in the Kaiser hospital for a week at least, as they tried to put her back together as best they could. Luckily for her, she was in her early twenties, so her outlook for a full recovery was very good, but her pain was nearly unbearable; they sent her home regardless. After all, in the early ’70s, what young, recently married couple would have medical insurance? Surprisingly, they did have some through Dad’s work, but it was a pittance, and the rest was out of pocket. My mother’s mother whisked her home to her house, not home with us. After all, that would be cruel, to be in so much pain, stuck home with two small children and a young (partying) husband, and it was simply too far for Grandma to drive every day to take care of her. Everything was happening so fast, and was so confusing that I didn’t have time to be angry or sad, I was just shuffled from home to my other grandparent’s house and back again. The only thing I could think was I hoped that Mommy would get better soon. Daddy was nice, and sometimes even fun, but he acted silly with his friends. And there were the times when he touched me, or had me take off my clothes, and I didn’t want to. But he told me he loved me.
When Mommy finally came home we had a big party, just us four! She was always tired; and had to use a cane, her arm and her leg were both in casts, and she had these funny little wires that came out of her toes. When she wasn’t tired she was angry and she used to get really mad when my brother and I would “play” her toes, the corks on the ends looked so neat. But she slept on the couch in the living room because she couldn’t lie flat, and she couldn’t stand to be touched, not even by Daddy, it just hurt too much—cuddling up to him in bed at night was out of the question. But having her on the couch was OK with me, because it meant I couldn’t watch TV alone with Dad anymore. He’d go to tuck me in though, and stay in a little long, and Mom would call out his name from the living room, “Billlllllllll, come ’ere, I need my pill, what’s taking so long?”
But then one Sunday my reprieve ran out. On Sundays we used to pile into my parents’ bed as a family, give Dad the paper, wrestle around, and then read the funnies together. It was a wonderful tradition and I loved it, even after this happened. I had woken up early that Sunday because of an urgent need to “guild the lily,” and unfortunately my father had heard me. “Holli, come here.” He loudly whispered from their bed as I scrambled back to my room. Clutching at my narrow little chest I walked into their room. He patted the void beside him on the bed, “Get up here with me,” as he pulled back the blanket. I moved as slowly as I thought I could possibly get away with, and then lay down an arm’s length away from him. He looked down at me and said, “Not so far away” and pulled me closer, cradling me in his arms. “Holli, you know there are some things your mom just can’t do for me right now …”
“Daddy?” I didn’t like where this was going, having him this close to me, his scent in my nose, I knew what was coming and I couldn’t run. He took my small hand in his and placed it on his chest, forcing mine to stroke his chest hair in small circles. “I miss her touching me; can you do it for her?” I don’t remember replying, just looking down at our hands, praying that there wouldn’t be more, that maybe this time he would leave me alone. He drug my hand further down, still making circular motions, until we were at his belly button. All this time I remember him kissing my head and ears, whispering softly to me about how much he missed my mother’s love, how mean she was when she was in pain, how sweet I was. Finally my little hand reached the base of his penis, and at the touch of both our hands a shudder ran through his body, almost as if he had been struck with a bolt of lightning. A hoarse sigh of pure pleasure escaped from him and all movement stopped as he used our hands to squeeze himself tightly, hurting my hand in the process. I only know this now that I’m older and more sexually experienced; to stop himself from prematurely ejaculating.
He then began to masturbate himself, quietly at first, still with my hand under his. Once he had gained (I think now) a sense of control over himself, he began to instruct me in how to touch him. As I became more compliant to his instructions, “As you go down loosen your fingers up, when you go up, tighten your grip towards the top, Holli!” his grip on my hand loosened until it finally fell away completely. He threw the blanket completely over my head to hide me, should my little brother wander into the room and accidently catch us. This was to be his modus operandi for the next fourteen to fifteen years. “Holli, if you love me, you’d kiss it.” Just the tip, a little quick kiss.” And I did, but it tasted awful, gritty and bitter, but it made him shudder again, just like before. “Again, Holli, kiss it again!” His voice sounded like he was going to get angry, I thought if I didn’t do it he might stop loving me, but it made me feel sick, I had to do something. So I licked the fingers of my right hand. While I used my left hand for my first “job,” I simulated kisses with my right hand. I can only imagine that my father was so thoroughly blinded by the situation and his own perverse lust that he couldn’t tell. Within moments my hand was covered in biological evidence and my father was momentarily a twitching, grateful yet a guilt-stricken child molester. And I couldn’t wash my hands fast enough.
It took decades for the smell of semen to not sicken me—or Comet (in fact, there are many cleaning products that smell exactly like human male semen). I have a few better memories from that time period, but I honestly can’t recall them as vividly. I wish I could though, I’m sure it would be better than this one.