Well, there seem to be people out there as warped as I am (or at least in the same direction) who apparently enjoyed the first one of these, so I dug up another one. This is one of the first entries in the journal my psychotherapist told me to keep when I was having trouble talking to him about this stuff face-to-face. Naturally, edits have been made because I wasn’t a great writer when I was younger. I’ll do this in two parts because it’s pretty fucking long.
Tales of abuse lie within – if this isn’t your thing, please move along.
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17/06/2014
Alright, I apparently can’t look you in the eyes while I recount this story, so I’ll hide behind pen and paper. It’s not the pain that stops me, it’s not as if the story hurts too much to tell or anything like that. It’s embarrassment. It’s embarrassment that ~~it somehow~~ *~~doesn’t~~* ~~hurt to tell or think about~~ I *love* the pain He caused and continues to cause me. It’s humiliating that thinking about what He did to me gets me into a state of such frenzied arousal that I almost can’t avoid touching myself. I’m afraid you’ll notice my dilating pupils, hyperventilation, and pounding heart, and realize that something has possessed me – something that *loves* that I’ve basically been reduced to a sex toy. I know this is supposed to be ‘stoic self-observation’, I know the assumption is that the big challenge here is going to be getting me to confront these memories without being broken by all the hurt. But I think you’re going to see pretty quickly that I’m way past broken. I’ve been broken and rebuilt again, remade for the sole purpose of pleasing the eye, heart, and mind (and various other parts) of the God that made me. The problem isn’t that I can’t tell the story. It’s that I can’t *stop* telling it. I can’t stop indulging this trauma I’ve become so addicted to.
He was a pastor for some local church and a counselor for this youth mental health initiative that the church ran. “A Mecca for the broken and dispossessed,” He would call it. I’m pretty sure the only reason dad took me to the Sunday school sessions these guys ran was so he could get rid of me for a few hours to get boozed up without having to stop to hit me. The Pastor had always been unusually interested in me. He was compassionate, charismatic, and deeply devoted, was the only person able to *actually* comfort me when I showed up with new bruises. He had taken me home with Him before when dad went AWOL and left the house locked shut. Today was another one of those days: new bruises I couldn’t hide, waited in vain for two hours for my ride home to show up, and when it hadn’t by the time He finished with His church work, He drove me home. Locked. No one home (no one conscious, at least). Guess I’m staying the night at His house again.
He had never made any real advances on me before. I had noticed some mildly unsettling behaviour – caught Him staring hungrily at me, things like that – but ‘mildly unsettling’ was *far far* better than anything I dealt with at home. I even came to like it after a while; at home and at school, the only looks I got were either hatred or pity. This was neither. This was *desire.* I was too young to realize what that meant, but something in me told me it was some kind of love, told me that it was because He *wanted* me. *Someone* *wanted me around*. It was literally the first time I had ever experienced this*,* and it was so profound it gave me heart palpitations. Every second I spent as the object of His attention, my entire body *buzzed* with heat and energy.
I came to notice that He liked physical contact, so I began touching him a lot. Just innocent stuff; hugs, mussing his hair (when he sat down, at least – he was a big guy and there was no way I could reach the top of his head if he was standing), that kind of thing. I took cues from Him. I knew He liked it when I fell asleep with my head in His lap (it wasn’t until later that I realized what I felt against my head every time I did this was Him instantly getting rock hard), and when I did, He’d scratch my head and lightly run His fingers over my skin – on my back, my arms, my legs, but never anything that was obviously inappropriate, at least not to someone my age. Mostly I just interpreted it as similar to what people did with pets. It felt good, gave me goosebumps, and helped me fall asleep (I have a history of horrendous nightmares, and was often too terrified to fall asleep at home), so I started doing the same to Him. It was instantly obvious that this drove Him *crazy.* He *loved* it. It did a lot of the same things to Him as it did to me: hair up on end, goosebumps, slow heavy breathing, etc. I was too young to interpret any of this as the obvious sexual arousal that it was – I just thought I was returning the favour of Him being nice to me, and the observation that I could apparently make someone else feel good for once was electrifying.
I had always been in awe of the amazing work he did with the Church. He was this town’s saviour. This place is made of nothing but broken families, insanity, and pain. A small, isolated town with spectacular inequality. Half the population with no prospects or future after being left behind by an economy too modern for them; either that or descending from slaves who had never quite managed to recover from that historical trauma. The other half fantastically wealthy, mostly old rich descending from plantation families. So you’re either from a poor, dysfunctional family torn apart by drug abuse and nihilism, or an oppressive cult of ultra-rich hyperconservative zombies from a century ago. This town is a cultural wound on in the human soul, and He was its healer. He deserved to be loved back.
Today was different though. His behaviour was off. He was tense and short-fused, almost manic. This tense, aggressive energy *radiated* outward from Him like an emotional solar wind. He didn’t just look at me *hungrily,* He was *ravenous,* and completely incapable of keeping His hands to himself. He seemed preoccupied with my bruises (thanks, dad), caressing them and saying things like, “I can’t believe someone could disfigure something as beautiful as you. Your father is human debris, the worst kind of coward and trash. How can I keep letting you go home to him? Do you know how much I think about you when you’re out of my sight? I can’t stop imagining him hitting you, and it drives me mad. How can I just sit here watching when he picks you up from Church and screams at you for not being *right there at the pickup spot* when he’s an hour and a half late? It’s literally torture.”
He thought about me when I wasn’t around? Another pang of adrenaline from the center of my chest. The way He talked about me…the way He apparently felt about me…especially now. I’d obviously heard the standard “I’m so sorry for what happens to you at home” blah blah, but no one had ever made me feel like they *really* cared. And fair enough, why should they? Why do I deserve their attention? It was mostly my fault anyway, and everyone has their problems to deal with. But then why was He so worked up over this? Are those *tears* in his eyes? Why are there tears in *my* eyes? How does He do this to people? How is it that He can invade my soul and control it like a puppet?
We were on the couch; Him in His work clothes – a clergy jacket and slacks so perfectly tailored they may as well have been part of Him; me in a cheap, ill-fitting baggy shirt I couldn’t keep from slipping off my shoulder, ripped denim shorts far too cold for the weather, and high socks I wore to compensate and keep my legs warm. He had just come back after hanging up his jacket, taking off his belt, and partly unbuttoning his shirt, and sat hunched forward, elbow on knee, forehead in hand, every toned muscle in His body tensed, like He was being crushed under some immense weight carried on His back. I was to His left, turned facing him with my legs curled underneath me. I stared at Him through poorly-restrained tears, fascinated, confused, and terrified by the violence and anger I saw in him. I couldn’t take it, I *needed* to help Him, He was hurting and it was my fault. I didn’t understand why thinking about me would upset Him so badly, and the thought that I had somehow caused this was the most horrible thing that had ever polluted my mind.
I crawled to Him, sat in His lap, and pushed his hair back so I could meet His frighteningly intense sapphire blue stare. “Please stop…why are you crying?” I asked desperately, wiping tears off His face. He was burning up – what was wrong with Him? How could I take this away from Him? “Remember what you always say to me? ‘You are a gift to the world from God. You were made to uplift every soul you touch. God speaks through your voice, works through your hands.’ If that’s true when you say it to me, it’s a hundred times more true about you. Here, I know how to make you feel better.”
His muscles had instantly relaxed and His demeanour had instantly softened when I had touched His face. I knew (though didn’t understand the real reason why) He loved it when He leaned back on the couch and I stood behind it scratching His head and rubbing His shoulders, so I thought I’d try that now. I got up and walked around the end of the couch, devoured by His stare until I was out of sight behind Him. I slowly ran my fingers through His hair, my nails caressing His scalp, each hand a mirror of the other, following a path down behind His ears, along the sides of His neck, and to His shoulders. He was *unbelievably* tense, muscles as hard as granite, but I could see Him beginning to let go of some of the mania that gripped Him. Was *I* doing that? As he relaxed, I did. My heart rate slowed, the vertigo began to wane, and the demon of fight or flight began to leave my body. How could I be doing this? I’ve never even been able to get people to *listen* to me before, and now I can do *this?* I continued to knead at His shoulders and caress his biceps like He had taught me, nervously ecstatic that I could affect someone like this, especially Him. Why was I covered in goosebumps? Why was I still so hot?
I was jerked out of this internal reverie when I suddenly noticed He was halfway through unbuttoning His pants. I took a sharp gasp of air and held my breath, fight or flight slamming back into my chest like a truck. My hands became less sure. I began shaking. My heart began hammering so hard it hurt. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. Maybe they were just tight and uncomfortable. He was at home after all. I didn’t want to react and embarrass Him. After He finished unbuttoning, I watched His right hand come up to meet mine at His shoulder. He took my hand in His and I froze. I couldn’t stand still enough to do justice to the cocktail of terror and excitement I had suddenly become so drunk on. The voluntary activity in my motor neurons must have been less than a quadriplegic’s, but the trembling I couldn’t control was like being electrocuted. I was still holding my breath. Vertigo made the room spin as He led my hand down His body and toward His waistline. I wanted to tell Him to stop, ask Him what He was doing, tell Him He was terrifying me. But all I managed to do was half gasp, half squeak as He pulled my hand into His pants.
I was terrified by the power He had seemed to have over me. His grip somehow felt gentle and compassionate but utterly irresistible, like He could somehow simultaneously *totally* prevent me from escaping and comfort me through the earth-shaking fear He himself was causing. It was like I was watching the whole thing happen from outside of myself, like it was happening to someone else who didn’t want to resist. Then I *touched* Him for the first time and my awareness slammed back into my body like it had fallen from orbit, complete with the re-entry burn. My cheeks flushed with searing heat, my breathing returned, but labored and heavy, tears began to roll down my face…why was I crying? Why couldn’t I stop? …why did my underwear feel slightly wet and why were my nipples hard and painful? What the *fuck* was happening to me? *Why couldn’t I stop?* I was assaulted by these questions as He wrapped my fingers around Him and began to move my hand up and down. He was *so hard* in my hand that only the familiar pulse of a heartbeat and texture of skin-to-skin contact told me I was gripping part of a human body. He felt gargantuan and hot in my grip as I gently ran my hand along the length of Him. Wait…as *I* ran my hand along?… How on earth had He removed His hand without me noticing? He had apparently done so to remove His pants. Why was I still going despite the stifling fear that screamed from every part of my mind? Who was making these decisions for me?
*Why couldn’t I stop???*
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Sorry for the length lol, I can get carried away. Good thing I’m slightly better at stopping writing than stopping…well, you know.
m0saica
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/c3ys2e/testament_of_his_first_disciple_a_mecca_for_the