written by MissBNasty https://twitter.com/MissBNasty
Time for me to #SpeakUp and tell my story:
I was six when I learned about sex. Not the concept. But how to “feel good.” I was only six, when I had my first sexual encounter. I was only six, almost seven. SIX years old. I didn’t even know long division yet, but I knew about sex.
My uncle taught my what a “dick” was before I was seven. He taught me during a “game” that was “our little secret.” He would grab my filthy, tom-boy hands, tuck them in his pants and stroke his dick, explaining to me that this is how you make a man feel good. His face was full of ecstasy a feeling NO seven year old would ever understand, but he seemed happy, so I just went with it. He would try to make my tiny hands grip as much of the shaft of his penis, as he could, and he would smile. That smile has haunted me, a smile a lion gives his unsuspecting prey…and smile that my Uncle gave me when he would cum into my hands or on the carpet or in a towel. A smile that use to haunt me. By this time I was well groomed for his sick, sadistic, perverted sexual fantasies, and I was just a child. It started out innocent, special attention, an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner, permission to stay up to play the Nintendo64, longer hugs than everyone else got, “good job” pats on my ass instead of my shoulder. Next, it was the sneak peeks of me during bath time, just to check on me though. Smug little glances of my young body. My underdeveloped body. My non-existent boobs, that were merely tiny little chocolate nipples, hairless vagina, boyish figure. My body was his play ground. Excitement would flicker across his eyes as he watched me, excitement even, he wanted me, it was only a matter of time before he had me.It wasn’t long before the touching began. He would innocently place his hand on my thigh, sensing my confusion, he would slowly move it up my thigh, searching my eyes for confirmation that I wasn’t going to yell or scream, and he would let his finger rest on the outskirts of my princess panties, just waiting. Waiting for the right time, the right time to go all the way with me. I would just sit there, pretending that all my friends did this with their uncle, that I was normal. I didn’t know any better. So, I would sit there, and bask in my uncle’s twisted affection. Now, when I was eight years old, and I began to anticipate his arrival into my cousin’s room. He would slip into the darkness, as I would lie there fantasizing about how I would only let him do this if he would promise build me a super cool tree house. As soon as I would work up the courage to talk to him about the construction of this dream tree house, he would already be on his knees, putting his mouth to my privates, stretching my arms to reach for his penis, stroking it, asking me if I like it, licking me and sucking me, I would just fall back into the routine, letting him make-shift fuck me. Humping me and panting. He told me when the “stuff” came out, it meant he was happy and that I was suppose to make him happy. Soon, I wanted nothing more than to make him happy. I wanted to be a good niece. But deep down, my worst fear and my biggest wish was for someone to open that door and save me. I wasn’t sure if our relationship was right or wrong, but the annoyance was growing inside of me. His late night visits would frustrate me. I would lie there, pretending to be taken away by a deep slumber, but he never hesitated, he never got frustrated enough to stop, he would just handle his business, tangling himself into my newly, acquired pubes, mopping up my young wetness with his tongue. He wasn’t even concerned with my consciousness or not. He never took it all the way, he would tell me I wasn’t ready yet, that I couldn’t handle him, he was too much man for me. I would just nod as his happiness exploded onto my bony thighs. I'll be honest, at one point, I felt superior to his own, biological kids, thinking that his obsession with me, made me better than them. It was almost like his desire to fuck me empowered me! It was “our little secret” and they were merely peasants, outsiders, useless. They probably knew what was happening, but were content that it was me and no longer them! I would lie and tell myself he loved me more than them! Maybe he loved me more than he loved my aunt, his own wife! I bet he didn’t touch her like he touched me, I bet he didn’t tell her that she was the best he had. I bet she didn’t make him explode with happiness like me. I would strut real proud like, flaunting my childish pride, but deep down, there was a conflicting battle between my conscious and that pride. My conscious was telling me this was wrong, and I was fucked up in the head for enjoying my Uncle’s “love” but my pride was always forcing my conscious to bow down, and succumb to our relationship. This empowerment, at a young age, went straight to my head. On days that he would leave me covered in his slobber, or as he would catch his breath after humping me, I would make use of those spare seconds, as he dressed himself, to ask for things I could not acquire from my own parents. Gladly, he would fulfill these requests, in exchange for my devoted secrecy. I was a pimp and a baby prostitute, all in one. When I was 9, he decided I was ready to go all the way. He told me that if I really wanted to make him happy, I would let him put his happiness inside of me. He said nothing would make him happier than to have that. I didn’t yet comprehend the concept of sex. Hell, for all I knew, what we were already doing was sex. Being so naive, I agreed. How bad could it be? He explained to me that this was going to be something I would learn to love and enjoy. But that was the biggest lie and greatest con he ever told me. As I got older and the hairs on my vagina got thicker, puberty betrayed me! Turning me more and more into a woman, and he touched me less, he looked at me less. I thought, for a moment, that something was wrong with me. HOW DISGUSTING IS THAT?! That there was some one else, someone else who could keep his attention better than I! I was frustrated with the changes my body was making against my will. I would pace the bathroom, in heated discussion with myself, trying to dissect the situation. A part of me was severely jealous, wondering if he had replaced with me with someone from the neighborhood, if he climbed on top of her and pumped. If he licked and searched her young vagina in hunger and desperation to feed off of her young ripeness. It would anger me and I would feel the need to throw myself at him, desperate to feel him “love” me, in need to feel like I was the one he desired again. Other times, I would enjoy the freedom to be a normal child! Soon, I discovered, he indeed found someone else...someone else close to me, close to home. And then I became enraged. How dare he look at her wish list in his eyes. SHE WAS A BABY. It was then, until the time my mother walked in on him, catching him in the act, that I sacrificed myself. I offered him me, free of all that almighty and arrogant behavior. I would do ANYTHING - give my life even, to keep him from touching my baby sister. But the ONE time I left her vulnerable, he just had to have her. I will NEVER forget the sound of my mother's blood curdling scream as she walked in on him hunched over my 2 year old sister. I was 10. Charges were filed. We had to endure humiliating rape kits. And at 25 - I JUST stopped having nightmares and fighting my man in my sleep.
I regret not speaking up sooner, not protecting her (and his other victims) better, but time heals all and now I'm here to #SpeakUp.
Time for me to #SpeakUp and tell my story:
I was six when I learned about sex. Not the concept. But how to “feel good.” I was only six, when I had my first sexual encounter. I was only six, almost seven. SIX years old. I didn’t even know long division yet, but I knew about sex.
My uncle taught my what a “dick” was before I was seven. He taught me during a “game” that was “our little secret.” He would grab my filthy, tom-boy hands, tuck them in his pants and stroke his dick, explaining to me that this is how you make a man feel good. His face was full of ecstasy a feeling NO seven year old would ever understand, but he seemed happy, so I just went with it. He would try to make my tiny hands grip as much of the shaft of his penis, as he could, and he would smile. That smile has haunted me, a smile a lion gives his unsuspecting prey…and smile that my Uncle gave me when he would cum into my hands or on the carpet or in a towel. A smile that use to haunt me. By this time I was well groomed for his sick, sadistic, perverted sexual fantasies, and I was just a child. It started out innocent, special attention, an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner, permission to stay up to play the Nintendo64, longer hugs than everyone else got, “good job” pats on my ass instead of my shoulder. Next, it was the sneak peeks of me during bath time, just to check on me though. Smug little glances of my young body. My underdeveloped body. My non-existent boobs, that were merely tiny little chocolate nipples, hairless vagina, boyish figure. My body was his play ground. Excitement would flicker across his eyes as he watched me, excitement even, he wanted me, it was only a matter of time before he had me.It wasn’t long before the touching began. He would innocently place his hand on my thigh, sensing my confusion, he would slowly move it up my thigh, searching my eyes for confirmation that I wasn’t going to yell or scream, and he would let his finger rest on the outskirts of my princess panties, just waiting. Waiting for the right time, the right time to go all the way with me. I would just sit there, pretending that all my friends did this with their uncle, that I was normal. I didn’t know any better. So, I would sit there, and bask in my uncle’s twisted affection. Now, when I was eight years old, and I began to anticipate his arrival into my cousin’s room. He would slip into the darkness, as I would lie there fantasizing about how I would only let him do this if he would promise build me a super cool tree house. As soon as I would work up the courage to talk to him about the construction of this dream tree house, he would already be on his knees, putting his mouth to my privates, stretching my arms to reach for his penis, stroking it, asking me if I like it, licking me and sucking me, I would just fall back into the routine, letting him make-shift fuck me. Humping me and panting. He told me when the “stuff” came out, it meant he was happy and that I was suppose to make him happy. Soon, I wanted nothing more than to make him happy. I wanted to be a good niece. But deep down, my worst fear and my biggest wish was for someone to open that door and save me. I wasn’t sure if our relationship was right or wrong, but the annoyance was growing inside of me. His late night visits would frustrate me. I would lie there, pretending to be taken away by a deep slumber, but he never hesitated, he never got frustrated enough to stop, he would just handle his business, tangling himself into my newly, acquired pubes, mopping up my young wetness with his tongue. He wasn’t even concerned with my consciousness or not. He never took it all the way, he would tell me I wasn’t ready yet, that I couldn’t handle him, he was too much man for me. I would just nod as his happiness exploded onto my bony thighs. I'll be honest, at one point, I felt superior to his own, biological kids, thinking that his obsession with me, made me better than them. It was almost like his desire to fuck me empowered me! It was “our little secret” and they were merely peasants, outsiders, useless. They probably knew what was happening, but were content that it was me and no longer them! I would lie and tell myself he loved me more than them! Maybe he loved me more than he loved my aunt, his own wife! I bet he didn’t touch her like he touched me, I bet he didn’t tell her that she was the best he had. I bet she didn’t make him explode with happiness like me. I would strut real proud like, flaunting my childish pride, but deep down, there was a conflicting battle between my conscious and that pride. My conscious was telling me this was wrong, and I was fucked up in the head for enjoying my Uncle’s “love” but my pride was always forcing my conscious to bow down, and succumb to our relationship. This empowerment, at a young age, went straight to my head. On days that he would leave me covered in his slobber, or as he would catch his breath after humping me, I would make use of those spare seconds, as he dressed himself, to ask for things I could not acquire from my own parents. Gladly, he would fulfill these requests, in exchange for my devoted secrecy. I was a pimp and a baby prostitute, all in one. When I was 9, he decided I was ready to go all the way. He told me that if I really wanted to make him happy, I would let him put his happiness inside of me. He said nothing would make him happier than to have that. I didn’t yet comprehend the concept of sex. Hell, for all I knew, what we were already doing was sex. Being so naive, I agreed. How bad could it be? He explained to me that this was going to be something I would learn to love and enjoy. But that was the biggest lie and greatest con he ever told me. As I got older and the hairs on my vagina got thicker, puberty betrayed me! Turning me more and more into a woman, and he touched me less, he looked at me less. I thought, for a moment, that something was wrong with me. HOW DISGUSTING IS THAT?! That there was some one else, someone else who could keep his attention better than I! I was frustrated with the changes my body was making against my will. I would pace the bathroom, in heated discussion with myself, trying to dissect the situation. A part of me was severely jealous, wondering if he had replaced with me with someone from the neighborhood, if he climbed on top of her and pumped. If he licked and searched her young vagina in hunger and desperation to feed off of her young ripeness. It would anger me and I would feel the need to throw myself at him, desperate to feel him “love” me, in need to feel like I was the one he desired again. Other times, I would enjoy the freedom to be a normal child! Soon, I discovered, he indeed found someone else...someone else close to me, close to home. And then I became enraged. How dare he look at her wish list in his eyes. SHE WAS A BABY. It was then, until the time my mother walked in on him, catching him in the act, that I sacrificed myself. I offered him me, free of all that almighty and arrogant behavior. I would do ANYTHING - give my life even, to keep him from touching my baby sister. But the ONE time I left her vulnerable, he just had to have her. I will NEVER forget the sound of my mother's blood curdling scream as she walked in on him hunched over my 2 year old sister. I was 10. Charges were filed. We had to endure humiliating rape kits. And at 25 - I JUST stopped having nightmares and fighting my man in my sleep.
I regret not speaking up sooner, not protecting her (and his other victims) better, but time heals all and now I'm here to #SpeakUp.
