Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (57 page)

Maintaining the
fake smile I’ve plastered across my face, I shake my head. “Yes we do.”

“The best way out is always
through.”

— Robert Frost

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“You discussed
everything that happened with your father, with André, right?” Renata asks. “He
knows what happened?”

My jaw flexes.
“Yes.”

“Do you want to
talk about it with me as well?”

I don’t, but I
give her an ambivalent shrug. I have no idea how to get around this shit. It’s
best to leave the tough decisions on this subject to a professional. She knows
what she’s doing.

“Do you trust
me?”

I raise my head,
our eyes lock. “Yes, I trust you.”

“OK, good,” she
says. “Body, mind, and spirit—it’s that triangle again. I think we should work
through the body for this. Receiving a blow job has negative associations for
you. It’s obvious to me your father went down on you—that’s what predators do.
I assume he made it into a game he trained you to play. After he taught you
what to do, he had you go down on him. Is that about right?”

My heart kicks
up, the sound of it heavily pounding seems unnatural in my ears. I remain
perfectly still.

Adrenaline,
it’s only adrenaline,
I reassure myself.

In a way, it’s
soothing to have her speak about this subject in such a regular, conversational
tone. It certainly beats pity or revulsion. I don’t understand how she knows precisely
what happened.

My eyes narrow
with sudden suspicion.
Did André betray me, telling Renata things I shared
with him in confidence?
In my heart I know he wouldn’t, but I have to ask.
I have to be sure.

I clear the
thickness in my throat. “Did André discuss this with you?”

“Nope, never—I
simply understand how sexual predators groom children. There are differences in
each case, of course, yet many commonalities. In general, pedophiles make
Machiavelli look like a kindergartener when it comes to manipulation. They
twist everything around and leave their victims so confused that the poor
things don’t know if they’re coming or going. André would’ve discussed this
with you.”

“Yeah, he did.”
I raise my eyebrows. “At length.”

“Sounds like
André,” Renata says with a wry smirk. “He’s very thorough. He would’ve
mentioned pedophiles gain a child’s trust and often associate their secret
‘games’
with ‘
love’
and affection. They make sure the children they
prey upon feel pleasure so the victim feels responsible for their abuse,
because
‘they
wanted it.’
It’s all part of an extremely
calculated plan.”

I nod because
what she says is spot-on. Also, my mouth is so dry I don’t know if I
can
speak. How many times did
I
initiate our sick games? Thirty? A hundred?
More?

“OK,” she says.
“What we’re going to do is change the associations. I know you’re the king of
control in the bedroom, but do you mind if I take charge for a little bit?”

I envision her
in high heels and a red bustier, holding a riding crop. The desire to laugh and
a need to fuck her war within my thoughts. My lips tug into an instant smile.
“Knock yourself out.”

Her grin blinds
me. “This could be fun! To start, you really need to lose the clothes.” She
shakes her head. “Why are you still dressed? What’s that about? How can you get
me off three times, but never even take off your pants?”

I stand up and
unzip my fly. “It helps me restrain myself when I keep my pants on,” I say,
lowering my slacks and underwear at the same time. My cock is at half-mast and
my testicles ache like nothing else. I’ve had an erection for almost an hour,
with no release. I hope I come before my balls turn blue.

“And
self-restraint is important to you?”

I pause, then
clarify, “Control is important to me.”

“Okey-dokey.”
Renata stands up and takes me by my hands, bringing both of my palms to her
lips and kissing them. Grinning, she spins me around and backs me to the bed
until I sit down on the edge. Grabbing a pillow for her knees, she spreads my
legs apart and settles herself down between them.

“Before we
begin, I want to clear up a couple of things,” she says.

“All right.”

“I’ll get the
ball rolling, so to speak.” She smirks at the play on words. “Whenever you’re
ready, you go ahead and take over,” she says. “We both know you like that.”
Renata snorts and rolls her eyes mischievously. “Once you’re running the show,
you’ll feel more at ease. Hopefully, by then your naturally bossy self will
take over.”

I grin. “My
bossy self, huh?”

“Absolutely,”
she nods. “You’re a pushy tyrant in bed. Are you OK with that?”

“Sure.”

“So,” she asks,
“when it comes to blow jobs, have you any idea what you’re afraid of?”

Don’t tell
her.

My reaction to
her question is instant and unconscious.

A sharp pang of
anxiety stabs me like an icepick direct to the heart. My pulse stutters and my
chest expands with a sharp breath. A fresh rush of adrenaline has me on edge.

I act as though
everything’s normal. Maybe if I pretend I’m fine, I will be. Fake it till you
make it. That’s how I’ve managed difficult situations previously.

“I’m pretty sure
once we get started, I’ll be OK,” I say, giving her a tight smile. I avoid
answering her question, while desperately denying the sense of dread that’s
inching up my spine.

Ensuring she
doesn’t return to the topic I desperately want to evade, I change the subject
to throw her off track. “I’ve fantasized about you taking my dick in your mouth
so many times.”

“Really?”
she asks, absolutely delighted.

“Really.”

As nervous as I
am, I can’t help but smile. Renata does that to me. We’re discussing a subject
that’s disturbed me for years. She makes everything easier.

I swallow, but
manage to continue, “Oral sex, both giving and receiving, is normal as hell—so
I’d like to feel comfortable with it. The idea of it inhibits me, so I’m not
sure I
can
climax. But mainly, I’m worried if I come, I’ll freak out.”

“What happens if
you freak out?”

“Then I’ll have
to leave—fast,” I tell her.

I don’t explain
the terrible sense of panic, fear, self-loathing and confusion that rips
through my guts like a dull, rusty knife. Not to mention my long-term
conviction that I’m disgusting and inhuman.

Monster!
Pervert!

“That doesn’t
sound so bad,” she says, her brow furrowing while considering the possibility
of me taking off. “Anyway, so what if you run? It’s no big deal. You’ll come
home again eventually, right?”

Forcing a smile,
I nod. She has a point. The only problem is, I might feel like shit when I
return. There no way of knowing how long my self-loathing will last. In the
past, I’ve sometimes been in a funk for weeks.

“If you end up
running away, I promise it won’t make me think less of you,” Renata assures me.
“Hell, if you want, you can get your car keys and clothes ready now, in case
you really need to go. If you leave, when you get back we’ll explore exactly
what happened. That can be difficult, but in the end it’s a good thing—you
know, getting to the bottom of a trigger. If you stay and we end up cuddling,
that would be fantastic. If not, no big. Let’s just see what happens.”

“Fine.”

“Any last words
before we begin?”

Any last
words.
What a question. I already feel like I’m climbing a scaffold about
to be executed.
Fuck.
Shifting restlessly, I wish I could back out of
this. My hands are trembling. I wipe my damp palms on the sheets and shake my
head, ‘no.’

“Good, then here
goes
something
.” Her sassy smile is infectious. “Feel free to jump in
and boss me around anytime you’re ready.”

“Count on it,” I
growl at her, feeling a momentary flash of confidence—or is it anger? Wait. This
feels like fear, fear
masked
by anger. Christ, I’m losing my mind.
I
can do this.
Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

Why am I so
frightened? I love her mouth. It's so damn sexy, like the rest of her.

She places one
warm palm on each of my thighs, edging closer, causing my dick to twitch.
Lifting her chin, she grins at me with lighthearted amusement twinkling in her
eyes. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this.”

Still pretending
to be calm, I arch an eyebrow. “You mentioned that once before.”

“Did I? Hmm, and
to think, I have the immense privilege of being the first woman to have your
precious cock in my mouth,” she gushes in a mock Southern accent, intentionally
over-the-top in her enthusiasm. She places her hand on her chest. “I'd like to
thank the Academy and, of course, Grant Wilkinson for this
huge
honor!”
Her eyes flare at the word 'huge,' punching the innuendo. She imitates giving a
thank you speech after winning an Oscar. Then, poking lighthearted fun at the
famous speech by Sally Field, she adds, "I guess this means
you like
me,
you
really
like me."

I laugh loudly
at her absurd display as she giggles at her own antics. Her carefree humor is
infectious. Renata's trying to set me at ease. As foreplay, it’s unimpressive,
but as for lightening my anxiety, her humorous teasing is outstanding. I’m
apprehensive, aroused and terrified, all in equal measure.

I can do
this.

I'm giving
myself an internal pep talk like the
'Little Engine that Could.'
Man,
I'm so fucked up. All of this for a friggin’ blow job from the gorgeous woman I
trust and love. If anyone found out, staff from the mental hospital would lock
me away.

Renata’s thick,
golden hair is tucked behind her ears, so I can see her face. Her perfect lips
are right there, between my thighs.

Fuck.
My
heart pounds loudly, thudding so hard I’m afraid I’ll break a rib.
I focus
on my breathing and automatically reach inside myself for the numb objectivity
I know so well.

This immediately
creates a familiar out-of-body-experience feeling, but it isn’t a good one.

Perfect. Now I
feel like a spectator. At least it’s better than running screaming from the
room simply because a beautiful woman who I care about, wants to pleasure me
with her lips and tongue.

Hands on my
thighs, Renata bends forward, kisses and licks the tip. She takes me into her
mouth—all the way in. My breath catches. Wet and warm, her mouth feels so good.

I’m barely semi-erect,
so sucking me in isn’t difficult. Biology is presently overwhelming psychology,
because of it my cock rapidly stiffens. Very shortly, I suspect holding me all
the way inside of her mouth will be impossible.

My body is
willing, but I’m freaking out.

I can do this.
I can do this.

If I think it
hard enough and often enough, maybe it’ll be true.

Shadows of my
father penetrate my thoughts, but I can deal with it in this dissociative
state. I’m numb. As a child, when he first introduced me to this ‘game’ it was
our secret. It was kind of weird—OK, seriously strange—but it felt good. As
usual when we played, my father praised me, making me feel special and loved.

Tough, engaging
and respected by everyone—he was
my father.
I admired and looked up to
him. I loved him so much.

The crack in the
dam is becoming a hole. Fear is seeping in. Suddenly I can’t breathe! Will my building
panic break?

In my nightmares
something or someone is often trying to kill me. Trains chase me, guns shoot at
me, lions and bears tear me apart and complete strangers stab or strangle me.

Chilling images
of these dreams flash through my consciousness. My mouth is open, my breath
rapid and ragged.

I can’t be
detached anymore.

I suddenly
recall what Renata asked me, the question that terrified me—the one I didn’t
want to answer,
Have you any idea what you’re afraid of?”

I grind my
teeth, my jaw flexes painfully. An unexpected memory shatters my awareness—it’s
something I’ve blocked out for years. The sudden jolt of clarity makes me gasp.
I feel as if the air has been punched right out of my lungs.

How could I
forget? How could I not know?

This dark and
terrible knowledge must’ve been hidden in the depths of my unconscious.

It shocks the
hell out of me.

“The darkest
fears and most hidden truths can be discovered at the beginning. This is the foundation,
the basis for all of the evil that follows.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I feel
lightheaded. Am I going to pass out? I’m probably white as marble from all of the
blood that’s drained from my face.

Renata pulls
back, releasing my now flaccid dick. She meets my gaze with an expression on
her face I can’t read. Her eyes soften with concern. She notices something’s
changed—something is wrong.

“Grant, tell me
what’s happening,” she asks calmly.

“I wanted it to
be different,” I blurt out. I’m confused. Frightened.
Lost
. I hear the
urgency in my own voice and realize what I said makes no sense at all. How can
I explain?

I can’t.

Calmly raising
herself to her feet, she takes my hand and sits next to me. Her gentle touch
recalls me to my senses.

We’re both stark
naked, but in the face of this fresh memory, this means nothing to me. Tears
sting my eyes, I blink them away. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much heart-wrenching
pain in my life.

I stare at her palm,
surprised at how burning hot it feels curled into mine. After a few beats, I
realize her hand isn’t hot.
My
hand is freezing.

Shock,
I
think to myself.
I’m in shock.

“Mmm?” she
murmurs, prompting me to continue.

In the back of
my mind I recognize she’s flicked into counselor mode. She’ll have to wait,
because I don’t think I can speak right now. Echoes of my past rip through me. I
struggle to regain my composure.

My brows draw
down while I seek out the exact memory, going over the details.

How? How
could I forget this
? And the obvious answer comes to me.
I didn’t want
to remember.

It’s so odd.
It’s like knowing the middle and end of the story, but not the beginning. The
beginning is dark and murky, filled with vague impressions, fear and confusion.
I’m seeing through the eyes of a child.

Is this real?
Am I imagining this?
Jesus H. Christ, I’m a mess.

Renata stands
up, gets a thick blanket, wraps it around me. “I’ll be right back,” she says.
“You’ll stay right here?”

I nod vaguely,
without looking at her. Time passes. While she’s gone the tears come. Sobs wrack
my body, shaking me to the core. I bend over, my hands cover my face.

Why am I crying?
I hardly know. I fight to control my breathing, struggling through a dense emotional
fog. How can I face these memories?

I’m back in my
father’s man cave, back to that first time. I want to please him but dread
claws at me. He’s angry. Red-faced, he scowls.

I panic. I don’t
want to play.

I’m trapped. Help
me! Someone help!

I tremble, I
sweat, my breath is ragged. I’m a ‘good boy,’ I’m his ‘special boy.’ I want to
be brave like my father. I’m not a coward, yet fear grips me.

The heads of all
the animals on the walls of his den seem so scary and huge. My father killed
them all. The dead animals stare down at me—glare down at me—with empty,
lifeless eyes.

I can’t say
no.

I’m dragged out
of these filthy, frightening memories by the comforting smell of toast and chocolate.
Renata’s returned, it’s such a relief. She brings me a mug of hot chocolate
with tiny pink and white marshmallows, also cheese melted on toast.

Pussy!
Coward!

I’m sick, I’m
ashamed. I’m a grown man and I’ve been crying. I can’t look her in the face. I
can’t.

Now in her
bathrobe, she cups my chin, tenderly brushing her thumb over my cheek. With
loving sympathy, she wipes the trails of moisture left from my tears. Her face
is grave, but there’s no censure in her expression.

Not one word is
uttered.

I suck in a deep
breath as the iron bars wrapped around my chest loosen. With her in the room, I
can breathe once more. She doesn’t need to speak—I know what she feels. Her
presence alone is worth more than a torrent of words or heartfelt embraces. She’s
there for
me.

Sitting by my
side, Renata’s soothing manner sets me at ease while we have a late evening
snack. I’m not hungry, but I’ve been in this empty place before. I know the
drill. André taught me, just as he must have taught her—feed the body, comfort
the soul.

Lord knows I
need it. Body, mind, heart and soul, every facet of
me
feels absolutely
shredded.

There’s no
conversation. Neither of us say a thing while we eat. Eventually, I begin to
feel more like myself. I’m even able to meet her gaze from time to time.

Once more, I appreciate
she’s a restful, patient woman. Renata’s dying to know what happened, but she’s
not pushing. She understands I need time to get my shit together.

I have to figure
out how to explain myself. I need her to appreciate what happened.

I finally begin,
“Can you imagine hearing a story where the narrator has left out the beginning?
Maybe you started reading a book from the middle, when the first ninety pages
are missing?” I ask her.

“I haven’t done
that, but I get the idea.”

“For example the
tale of ‘Snow White’ wouldn’t make any sense if you started the story with Snow
White simply hanging out in the forest with seven dwarves. You need to
understand the evil Queen’s part, right from the start of the fairytale.”

“OK,” she says,
her eyes soft and warm, her features receptive.

“With my father,
I so clearly recall the middle and the end of the story. It’s the beginning—the
start of his abuse I couldn’t remember. I never gave it a moment’s thought. I
blocked it out because it was too painful. Mentally, physically, even
spiritually—it
hurt.
I never saw the beginning, because I didn’t want to
know. Does that make sense?”

“Sure,” she
says. “Sounds like classic denial to me.”

“Yes,” I agree.
“I ‘forgot’ because I couldn’t bear to remember. And I lied to
myself
first.
Maybe I just wasn’t up to handling it before now.”

Renata purses
her lips, her eyes narrow. “Forgetting and denial are key coping mechanisms, often
vital to an individual’s mental health. With many traumas, the truth is far too
painful to face, so the mind protects itself by closing off details, entire
events or even years. The only problem is, eventually the past surfaces.”

I slowly nod,
rolling this over in my mind. Secrets and lies. We tell ourselves the stories
we
want
to believe. My father’s actions did a real mind fuck on me.

Subsequently, because
I couldn’t deal, I mind fucked myself.

Aware I’m deep
in thought, she waits for me to speak.

I finally say,
“When you attempt to deny or ignore evil—the more you lie about it or try to
keep it secret—the more control it has over you. That kind of darkness should
not remain hidden, it
must
be brought out into the light. That’s the
only way to make it lose its power.”

“Exactly,” Renata
gapes at me in stark admiration, as though I’ve said something profound.

Unexpectedly
self-conscious, I glance away from those approving blue eyes. So stupid, my
monstrous lack of courage. I don’t feel as though I deserve such praise.

I’ve done
this to myself.

“I worked with a
woman who couldn’t remember her childhood at all,” she says with barely a pause.
“She told me quite sincerely she had ‘a wonderful upbringing’ and she was
daddy’s ‘Little Princess’ even though from her behavior she exhibited clear
signs of abuse. Eventually, with support, time and counseling, she grew
stronger. Once she was ready, she remembered the painful truth about her past.”

This makes
perfect sense. Remembering. That’s exactly what happened to me. I take a deep
breath. I can no longer put off telling her what I’ve realized… what I’ve
finally remembered.

“I was afraid of
him,” I say quietly, still stunned by this crushing insight.

“I see.”

It is an odd
wound, this buried fear life has dealt me. The invisible spear inside my chest
is still bleeding. It’s an injury that has never been allowed to heal. How
could it? Like the naked emperor rejoicing in his new clothes, I’ve spent a lifetime
denying that life draining spear.

Minutes pass
while I gather my scattered thoughts.

Renata remains
patient and motionless. I bet she’s prepared to wait all day if necessary. My
heart warms from her kindness, her care and understanding.

Finally, I
explain, “The first time my father and I
‘played’
together, I think I
was maybe six years old. It felt unnatural. It was too weird and gave me a sick
feeling, probably anxiety. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to do it. When I
resisted, he became angry.”

“Ah,” she says,
the light of understanding in her eyes.

“He didn’t hit
me, but his face turned red. His whole body was shaking he was so enraged. I
was afraid of him and put off by the strangeness of what he wanted to do. He
recognized my fear, so he cruelly taunted me, telling me not to be a baby and a
coward. It shamed me. He made me feel stupid and childish.”

Her chin jerks
up. “At six years old you
were
a baby!” Renata says, letting anger on my
behalf slip through into her placid, counseling persona. “That’s such typical
bullying behavior from a true asshole!”

“Yes,” I agree.
“I’d forgotten about that. It’s extraordinary to realize this after all this
time. My father was so big—huge compared to me. When he became enraged, even
though he’d never hit me before, I was genuinely afraid he’d hurt me. Does that
make sense?”

“Of course. Even
a perfect parent can frighten small children when they become angry. Size is
definitely a factor.”

I nod and
continue, my mind still focused on the past. “My father was a ‘man’s man,’
powerful, strong and brave. He liked to shoot and kill wild animals. I wanted
to be just like him.”

She studies me
for a long, quiet moment. “Most little boys look up to their fathers and want
to be like them.”

I shake my head.
“Not like this. Everywhere we went, he was well-known and respected, treated as
a VIP—almost to the degree of celebrity. He was popular and well-loved, a born
leader with natural charisma and charm. He was comparable to the 'Big Man on
Campus' except this was his life.”

Her smile is cynical
and bemused. “So I’ve heard. You told me after he died, they named a local park
and recreation center after him.”

“That’s right,”
I say. “At home he had his man cave, a locked den. It was a place my mother
never
ever
went into. It was decorated with a huge bear rug, with its
head and claws intact. On the walls he displayed the heads of a big buck, a moose
and even a lion. Before he had children, he apparently went to Africa on
safari. These were all animals he’d killed. Trophies. Visual evidence of his
power over life and death.”

Renata lowers
and raises her head slightly, briefly. She’s captivated, intently following my
story.

I’m glad. I
don’t think I can tell this more than once.

My muscles tighten
as I remember and re-experience the bleakness, isolation and terror of that
time. “It was in the den my father played his perverted games with me… and Alex.”

“Oh,” she says.
“I see.” Empathy and compassion shine from her. Few people would understand. I
can tell she does… completely. I gaze into her beautiful blue eyes. They give
me courage.

It’s as though
I can see myself reflected in her soul.

Time passes
while she waits patiently for me to gather the strength to finish my story.

Eventually, I
exhale a somewhat melancholy sigh. “There’s nothing like the sight of death, no
matter how subtle, for clarifying one’s mind. As a scared little kid in that
room, my father might as well have been holding a loaded gun to my head.”

“Yes,” she murmurs
quietly.

“Isn’t it
amazing?” I say. “I remember admiring my father. I looked up to him and loved
him, but I totally blocked out how much he scared the bejesus out of me. I
don’t recall
exactly
what he said, other than shaming me for being a coward,
but the intent was clear. If I didn’t please him, then maybe he’d
kill me
—just
like all the animals with their heads mounted on the walls of his den.”

Her gaze locks
on mine, her features soften.

This one eternal
moment is intimate, powerful and profound.

“I understand
perfectly,” she says. “Whether an individual is conscious of it or not, fear is
always
a common denominator—it’s the groundwork for abuse.”

I nod my
agreement because I can see that now.

It’s after 10 p.m.
With the windows shut, I can’t hear a sound, not even our breathing. It feels
as though we’re the only ones on Earth. The silence surrounds us comfortingly,
like a thick warm blanket in a cold room. In this complete quiet, after
everything I’ve said, our bond feels deep, unbreakable… intense.

I’ve bared my
soul and she ‘gets’ it. She gets
me.

Fear of death
can drive an individual to incredible lengths. Renata knows this kind of terror
intimately—too intimately. She appreciates this fully.

Like me, she’s
been there.