Forced
2007-07-30
Topic: The Lucid Side of Things I was fourteen when things started changing. It seemed that with my first period came an onslaught of changes. My hips widened, and I lost a lot of body fat, and those two mosquito bites on my chest became round and firm. And I started to notice boys. At first it was an easy thing, the way the boy in front of me would brush my hand whilst handing back the class work. The difference in the sizes of our hands, his clean, round fingernails, the paleness of his skin against my tan, it all fascinated me. And then there were men. Like my teacher. Again there was that difference in size, whilst a boys hand might be big enough to slip yours into, and feel safe, I was sure if my teacher were to grab me he could crush me, and that both frightened me, and caused a warm sensation to trickle down my body, and pool in my stomach.
My parents are catholic. They’d been born into Muslim homes, but both converted. Unfortunately that gave them very strong beliefs when it came to some things… most things… everything… I had been forbidden to date until I finished university, a fact which, coupled with the point that I was in high school, frustrated me, to say the least. The girls in class were always talking about kissing, and going on dates, and while there were a few boys daring enough to try to ask me out, my parent’s constant vigilance, their participation in everyday school life, caused a barrier of sorts to be drawn around me. Perhaps that’s why my fascination with boys did not last very long… perhaps that’s why, suddenly I became attracted to the idea of men. At the age of fourteen, things started changing, at the age of fourteen, I lost my innocence. I did not, however, lose my virginity.
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When I was fifteen, I got a job. My father’s work mate, and close family friend, Uncle Jason, lived two streets away from us. He was newly married, and he and his wife, Aunt Annalisa, had just brought the newborn home. In an effort both to be helpful as a friend, and keep business ties together, my father and mother put me to work as a babysitter for them. I suppose it was convenient, they called whenever they needed me, and if it was late, they would either drive me home, or let me sleep in the guest room… I always felt like Anne of Green Gables when I slept in the guest room…
It was a hot evening three summers after I had began working, that I decided to shed my dress and wear my chemise around the house. I had seen Aunt Annalisa do it often when the air was humid, and so thought nothing of it, especially as there was no one home. The baby was curled in its cot, a light sheet bunched in the corner by its feet. After ascertaining that he wouldn’t wake, I made my way out to the living room and propped myself up on the leather couch. Even now I hate to sit on leather when it’s hot, sweat pools around your thighs, and sometimes you can get ‘stuck’ to the seat. In an effort to forestall this phenomenon, I slipped out of the chemise. Before I flicked on the television, I watched my reflection in the blackened screen. I was wearing my first matching set of underwear. I slid my hand over the bra, it was a demi-cup, and made me feel perversely sexy, coupled with the low riding white underwear that matched it. I gave my breasts a playful squeeze, and then let my hands drop. I regarded my reflection one more time before picking up the remote and switching on the television.
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I don’t know when I fell asleep. I think it was halfway between Hanna Montana and The Worst Witch. When I awoke, it was to see Uncle Jason sitting in his recliner, watching the news. I snatched my chemise up from the side of the couch, and slid it over my head. He did not turn from what he was watching, and so I left the room to check on the baby.
When I arrived at my Uncle’s house on Thursday evening, I put my bag at the door as usual.
The house was quiet, and there was a note from Aunt Annalisa saying that she had taken the baby to a toddler gym class and would be home soon, and to please check the dishwasher. I guess all mothers are the same “check the dishwasher” usually means empty it, or pack it, quite the same way “check the clothes” means fold them and put them away, or turn on the drier. It was whilst I was bending to reach for a plate I noticed a pair of brown loafers behind me. I froze as a large calloused hand slid up the back of my thigh, and over the left cheek of my buttocks. I could see the other hand play with the hem of my school skirt.
“Uncle Jason?” I blurted, my thoughts were flying around my head as if they were birds trying to escape a cage. I did not move as his fingers began to trace the band of my panties. But when the band was raised and then snapped back down, I bolted up right and spun around to face him. He had always been an attractive man, and now, near the end of his twenties, he was beginning to look more debonair than charming.
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His brown curls hung in dark eyes, and he regarded me regarding him, from his height of six foot two.
“You shouldn’t bend over like you do in that skirt. ” His voice was warm and admonishing, as though what had happened had not, as though he was merely chiding me for being unknowingly brazen. Although he was the one at fault, I colored, the skin of my face burning hot in the humid air. He chuckled and settled his hands on my waist, I had a moment to consider how large his hands must be because his fingers touched, before he perched me on the kitchen counter.
“Do you want the guys in class to think you’re a whore Jinette?” I cringed. He was right, of course he was right, I should have had a longer hem on my school skirt, I shouldn’t make a practice of bending over in short skirts.
“No” it came out softer than I had intended, and when he lifted a brown eyebrow, I repeated it louder, “No I don’t want them to think that, Uncle Jason. ” I almost leapt off of the counter when his fingers traced the hem of the skirt across my thighs.
“I beg to differ. ” His statement made me shudder and as I looked him in the eyes, I saw something there change. This was not my Uncle Jason, not the charming man who picked me up from school and dropped me off to help his wife take care of his son. This was someone altogether different. A shock ran through me as I felt that warm tug in my stomach. His fingers stilled on my thighs and his eyes were on mine as he reached for my wrists.
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I realized, as he grasped one in each of his hands, that a flick of his wrists would surely shatter mine. And so I stayed still as he leant in, closer, bringing my arms back, and behind me, stayed still as I heard a soft ‘click’, and as he let my hands go, the cuffs settled heavily. It was enough to break my thrall, and I began to try to remove my hands from the restraints.
“Uncle?” it was a question, and an accusation, one which he did not answer as pulled my knees apart and stood between them.
He plucked the hem of my skirt between two fingers, and slowly pulled it up to my waist. He settled it there and then stepped back to regard me. I know that, in that situation, if I had been another girl, besides myself, I would have been screaming, kicking, biting, clawing, anything to get away. Instead I found a type of indifference. A calm cool spread through me. I closed my thighs.
“Will you let me go now?” again I got no answer as he slid his hands onto my thighs again. He caressed the flesh there, making my hairs stand on edge, and slowly he parted my thighs again. He leaned over, his face near my neck, soft brown hair brushing the side of my face, lips at my ear.
“Do that again and I will punish you, make no mistake. ” His lips brushed my ear as he said this, and then his tongue trailed down the shell of my ear, and he sunk his teeth into the lobe.
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I gasped, the twinge of pain made me stiffen my arms against the cuffs, and I could feel the soft skin of my wrists chafing. I could feel him smirk against the side of my face, as he pulled back, fingers sliding up my inner thighs to the sides of my panties. This time he did not trace them, but grasped the sides, and pulled them down. He then used one hand to lift me, as the other pushed them down my thighs to my calves, and they fell off. He settled me on the counter again, and I bit my lip at the cold of the marble on my bottom. My legs were already spread in an attempt to avoid ‘punishment,’ whatever that might have been.
“You have no pubic hair. Were you planning on showing anyone your pussy Jinette? Were you planning on letting some schoolboy have his haphazard way with you?” Uncle Jason sneered, his calloused hand coming out to cup my mound.
“Do you like to play with yourself Jinette?” his eyes bored into mine. I tilted my head forward, in an attempt to hide behind a curtain of my long black hair. My head suddenly snapped back, the fist he had in my hair tightening, leaving my neck exposed, and my eyes trained on the ceiling. His lips slid across my neck, and I gasped when his tongue touched a pulse point, and then he skimmed it with his teeth. And then, suddenly, the calm fractured; I was fighting his hold, feeling hair rip from the roots as a thick finger scratched between my pussy lips, hitting my pearl. He grinned against my neck, biting hard as he pulled my hair back, and waited for me to still before he rubbed my clit again. I bit my lip hard, increasing the pressure as his finger drew a lazy circle around the nub.
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“Do you like that, little Jinette? My fingers on your little clit. Do you rub it a lot? Please yourself while you think of someone?” I tasted blood in my mouth, sharp and sweet as he applied more pressure to my clit, making me want to gasp out loud. I balled my hands into fists, my nails biting into my palms just as he was biting into my neck. From somewhere far away I could hear someone moaning.
“That’s right my little doll, moan for me, cum on my fingers like a good little whore. ” I moaned louder, my hips rolling as he rubbed my clit.
“That’s it Jinette, cum, cum for Uncle Jason. ” And as he whispered words of encouragement in my ear, my body tensed, muscles bunching tightly, and then abruptly there was release. I felt warm fluid dripping down my thighs, over his fingers and onto the cold kitchen counter beneath me. I was breathing hard when he reached behind me and I heard a familiar soft ‘click. ’ Leaning over to the tap he turned it on warm, dampened a cloth and wrung it out. I started, from examining my wrists, when I felt it between my legs, but the gentle pressure of one hand on my shoulder kept me from bolting as he first cleaned me, and then the counter.
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