Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (92 page)

“And those who were seen dancing, were thought to be crazy, by those
who could not hear the music.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“Rest
up against me,” I direct her, as I grip around her waist with both arms.

I
pull her up so she straightens, her back and shoulders pressed against my
chest. Kneeling on the bed, just as I am, her body leans back against mine. The
sensation stuns me.

Renata’s
ass seems even more completely jammed full of my cock.

“Oh,
God,” she gasps.

One
hand stimulating between her legs, she throws the other arm around me, her
fingers clawing my neck. Panting and writhing, she holds on for dear life.

Now,
we both face the mirror.

For
a moment we freeze, just staring at each other.

My
eyes rake over her soft, feminine shape and flushed breasts. Eyes dark and
wide, her features are ravaged with lust. Her lips are red and swollen from
kisses, yes, but mainly from use after I so thoroughly fucked her face.

And
she’s fully impaled… sitting on my thick cock.

Fuck.
This is too good.

This
penetration is at a completely different angle; it feels even deeper. Tighter. Panting
and savage with need, my arms lock around her waist. I withdraw and thrust upwards
so hard—the force lifts her knees off the bed. Renata’s breath catches in a
surprised moan.

I
grunt from effort and pure pleasure.

Never
in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this.

“Feel
that?” I rasp, pulling
out most of the way, and then
slamming back hard into her ass once more. “Feel how deep I’m buried inside of you?”

“Yes!”
Her features twist from extreme pleasure. She’s close to climax.

“So tight and
hot,” I growl. “Tell me you want me—tell me you’re mine.” The possessive demand
surprises me, but I need to hear the words. I need to know she’ll be mine
forever.

When
she doesn’t reply, I grip her tightly. Driving in and out, I pound into her
with punishing strokes. Again and again, I ram inside. Faster. Deeper.
Harder.

“Say
it,” I demand.

“I’m
yours!” she agrees with a gasp.

“Yes,”
I shout in triumph. I’m aroused past the point of madness. I’m a mindless animal,
seeking oblivion.

“I’m
going to come,” she cries breathlessly.

“Yes,
come,” I growl, one palm cupping her breast; thumb and finger pinching an
erect, sensitive nipple. I’m so deep inside of her that my balls and thighs press
against her slick, dripping sex. I’m desperate to shoot my load.

“Do
it. Do it, do it
now.
Come for me! Milk my cock while your ass is stuffed
full of dick!”

This
dirty talk sends her right over.

I
might think I’m prepared for her climax, but I’m not—not at all. My own orgasm
takes me completely by surprise. It’s brutal, intense and overwhelming.

"Oh,
oh, ah," Renata cries out.

Bucking
and jerking, the muscles of her anus grip my cock like a hot, pulsing fist as
pleasure rips through her. Her eyes squeeze shut, while her face contorts in
the throes of passion.

An
electric haze of indescribable white hot rapture makes everything stop.

I
throw back my head, shout her name and that’s the last I remember for a long
while. For a second—or a minute, my brain ceases to function.

Panting
like a racehorse, I suddenly find myself lying on top of her back. Momentarily
stunned, I withdraw from her. Rolling on to my side, I’m pleased to see cum
drip from the puckered ring of her anus.

Why
do I feel such ridiculous and primal satisfaction at the sight?

Somehow,
I can’t muster up the strength to chastise myself for enjoying something so
nasty. Who cares? I love what I love, but so does Renata—delicious, wanton slut
that she is!

We
always have great sex, but that was super intense.

It
fact, it was fucking amazing.

Renata’s
eyes are shut, she’s breathing fast, too. My body is utterly sated. I allow
myself just to relax back
and feel.

I
smile when I remember how hard she came. What we do together, as dirty or offensive
as it may seem, is always
lovemaking.
Love, love, love. It took thirty
years, but I can finally say, I know what love is.

But
what is this I feel right now?

I
feel different. Changed.

Freed.

I’ve
gone full circle.

Anal
sex. Sodomy. Butt fucking. The devil’s work. Homosexuality. Perversion.

As
a child while attending church regularly, and being warned against the sins of sodomy
and homosexuality, my father did this to me. He taught me to tolerate it and to
ultimately enjoy it.

It
was difficult to admit and disclose these details to André, but that’s the
truth.

Due
to biology, psychology, or simply a desire to please him, my penis became hard
with my father. I first climaxed without ejaculation at the tender age of six.

When
I was old enough, I climaxed and I ejaculated when he did this. I loved my
father, I honestly did. Yet, even with dubious childish ‘consent,’ what he did
to me wasn’t consensual sex—it was rape.

What
he felt for me wasn’t love, either.

Over
time, even an abusive relationship seems normal.

What
I shared just now with Renata? Somehow, it seemed to wash the sin of sodomy away.
That
was real. That was anal sex between two consenting adults, both
enjoying themselves and doing their best to please each other.

It
was
nothing
like what I did with my father.

“Hey,”
she says, shifting on to her side toward me. Her features are soft with concern
as she searches my face. “Are you all right?”

My
chest constricts because I know how much she cares.

This
is love.

Emotion
fills me so fully my heart feels as though it’s in my throat. I reach over and gently
brush a lock of hair from her cheek.

“I’ve
never been better.”

A
slow smile spreads across her face. Her eyes dance, bright with naughty
mischief and pleasure. “Me neither. That was out of this world, bell ringing,
mind blowing and off the charts sex.”

I
raise a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh,
yeah.” She inhales deeply. “The things you can do with your cock! Not to
mention your tongue.”

I
grin, utterly diverted. “Want to do it again?”

“Yes.
Again and again.”

I
laugh. “I was thinking of stuffing that vibrating dildo of yours in your pussy
the next time I fuck your ass. How do you think that would be?” I waggle my
eyebrows. “Too much? Would you be too damn full to enjoy it?”

Renata
throws her arms around me, strangling my neck—but I don’t mind in the least.

“Hell,
no,” She says, her giggle light and carefree. “
Now we can enjoy each
other without guilt. From here on we’ll both spend our time thinking up tons of
naughty things to do to each other, without worrying about it.
I
told you once
we acted out your fantasies, you’d get past your hang ups.”

I press my face
into her throat and breathe her in. “Yes, you did. As usual, you were right.”

“A reliable
way to make people believe in falsehoods is frequent repetition, because
familiarity is not easily distinguished from truth. Authoritarian institutions
and marketers have always known this fact.”

―
Daniel Kahneman

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“People believe
what they are
told
to believe,
mon ami
,” André warned me. Which
is how he convinced me to hire an expensive PR firm.

As expected,
when the
Dallas Morning Herald
began its series of articles on incest
and child abuse resulting from Betty Jo’s ‘tell all’ story, the shit really hit
the fan. Thank God Renata and I managed to have some quality time to ourselves
during her birthday trip to Paris before it all went down.

Thanks to André,
I was prepared for the shit storm. The truth about my sexual abuse was going to
come out. For the sake of my family, I decided to go ahead and take the fall.

Rather than try
to ignore, deny, or avoid reporter harassment, my PR firm recommended I embrace
it.

“When there’s no
information available, people make stuff up,” the head honcho of my public
relations firm advised me. “That’s why you need to fill that vacuum with
your
message.”

What is my
message?

That was a very good
question.

We ended up
pushing four things, over and over again: First, I’m a decorated war hero,
injured while serving my country. Second, my father was a pedophile who
sexually abused me. Third, I’ve had extensive counseling to aid my recovery,
which is why I began my foundation to help others like myself. Fourth, the
United States needs to change its laws concerning the Statute of Limitations
for such offences.

I’ve even been
on a couple of talk shows. With so many people staring at me and seeing my
scars, I’m no longer on edge when I show my face in public. Many times I even
forget I have them.

My ‘Sexual Abuse
Therapy Foundation’ is what I most discuss. Due to this exposure, people are
beginning to make contributions toward it. I run it for now, but the way it’s
going, I’m going to have to hire staff.

I would never
have recovered without excellent, face to face counseling, so the benefits of
seeking therapy is what I hope to forward. It’s what I want my foundation to
support.

Our foundation’s
mottos are: ‘No one should be ashamed to have been the victim of sexual abuse,’
and, ‘No one should be embarrassed to admit they need counseling.’

The other point I
advocate is to change the law on Federal level.

It’s a little
known fact that the statute of limitations
prevents
prosecution of child
molesters. This is why despite the thousands of reported cases of child abuse, each
proved in court with confidential financial settlements, one almost never finds
a priest in jail.

Most states have
a ten year or less window to take legal action. Alabama’s limit is two years.
Louisiana provides only
one!
In the District of Columbia, a child must
report
before they reach the age of 21.

What kind of
statement does that make when D.C., the home of the United States Capital, limits
the prosecution of child molesters? Clearly powerful people, including child abusing
politicians, are covering their own butts.

What abused individual
can get it together enough to even talk about their abuse, much less sue the
perpetrator in so short a time?

Police have a
tendency to view child molestation as an isolated incident. They focus on the victim
and investigate accordingly. The public’s usual reaction is one of utter
disbelief. Nobody can imagine such terrible crimes, particularly if the
perpetrator ‘
Seemed like such a nice man!
’

The reality is
most pedophiles fly under the radar, while abusing children for decades. Over
the course of a lifetime, if they are not stopped, a pedophile can molest
hundreds—even thousands of children.

It’s up to all
of us to find a way to stop them.

I know a case
where an innocent child was groomed and seduced at age ten. The girl became
pregnant at the age of thirteen by her abuser—a forty year old married man, a
‘friend’ of her family. She kept the identity of her baby’s father a secret for
ten years.

This is a common
occurrence. Pedophiles are extremely manipulative and the ultimate
brainwashers. They constantly admonish their victims ‘not to tell,’ to the
point where speaking about one’s abuse becomes almost impossible.

The girl, of
course—although she’d only been intimate with her abuser, was considered by one
and all to be a ‘slut.’

When, as a young
woman, she finally had enough counseling to find her voice and be able to speak
openly of her abuse, she sought justice. However, her case was not allowed! The
statute of limitations for her state was ten years. She was twenty-four by
then—
one year
too late to prosecute.

Despite irrefutable
DNA evidence, her abuser never even had to go to court—smug bastard. He, of
course, was an upstanding member of the community who said the girl was
"no
virgin"
and she
"came on to him."
Playing the role of
the wrongly accused victim, he walked away unpunished.

How many other
children was he free to abuse? What does that say about a society that blames
the victim and protects the abuser?

The messages my
PR firm are pushing are designed to create dialogue on these issues. In Texas,
the statute of limitations for a child to report abuse is age twenty-three,
which is clearly not enough time. However, not all crimes are governed by
statutes of limitation. Murder, for example, has none.

Like murder, I
feel there should be no limitation for reporting child abuse. That’s what I’m
hoping for.

After all, in
the case of sexual abuse for those under the age of consent, the individual’s
childhood
has been taken away, lost and destroyed—
killed
by a sexual
predator.

All in all, a hell
of a lot of good is coming out of this huge family crisis. If nothing else,
countless other victims have learned they are not alone. People are calling my
foundation and seeking support. That’s significant progress to my eyes.

I’m just
beginning to get comfortable with being a local celebrity and the focus of front
page news, when the
real
news breaks.

It’s a shock.

A game changer.

It’s something
that takes
everyone
by surprise.

Yet, the way
American people react to these events makes me proud to be an American.