I was prepared when she shook her head, her chin trembling. “No. It wouldn’t have.”
She curled her legs into her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. I ached to pull her into my arms instead, to wrap myself tightly around her, but I resisted the urge. That would only be sealing the cap on the poison. She needed to let it out before I could fill her with something new.
“When did it start?” I asked again, giving her a place to begin.
Her lips pursed. “Is this a session now?”
“Do you need it to be?”
She started to say no. I could feel her dismissal of the subject in the air, firm and resolute.
But before the word made it out of her mouth, she reconsidered, her eyes drooping with the honesty of her realization. “Yes, Edward. I think I do.”
“Have you told anyone before? Your parents? A counselor? A friend?”
The shake of her head was barely perceptible. “Just my father.”
“The time he spanked you. When he didn’t believe you.” It wasn’t a question because I already knew. It was only said to let her know that I did.
A nod. “After that it seemed like too much work to talk about it. And pointless. So I just…” She took a deep breath, her eyes searching the horizon as if that would give her the answer.
“You pushed it down inside you. Tried to forget it. Hoped it would disintegrate with neglect, but instead it rotted and splintered until it was jabbing into everything else in your life.”
“Yeah, that.” She almost smiled. “Maybe you should do this for me.”
Ah, little bird, I would that I could.
I reached down for the bottle at my side, feeling the need to guzzle the whole thing down. As much as I needed it, I knew she needed it more. I unscrewed the cap and offered it over without bringing it to my own lips.
Her face paled. “No. Thank you. My stomach can’t handle it.”
I regretted not having more for her out here—a plate of food, crackers. A bottle of water. The temptation to pick her up and carry her inside where I could properly care for her was hard to resist, but I feared the momentum would be lost, and we had so little already.
I recapped the bottle but kept it in my lap, simulating our usual sessions with the routine of a drink in my hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Her sigh was heavy as she brought her hand up to absentmindedly caress her throat, as though there were an invisible talisman strung around her neck. It was the very spot where my fingers had grazed only hours ago as I’d buried myself inside her. Could she still feel me there? Clinging to every part of her?
I hoped she did. I hoped it helped.
“My grandfather and I were close,” she began, and my pulse turned sluggish, realizing she’d tried to tell this story to me before. “I spent a month with him every summer at his country home from the time I was two until he died, which was when I was six. Ron inherited that home, and, I guess because my parents thought I was attached to the routine—or, more likely, because they liked the freedom without me around—they decided to keep up the annual trips when my uncle offered to continue them.
“So I guess it started when I was seven, though it didn’t necessarily feel like it started then. It was gradual, so gradual that it was impossible to pinpoint a beginning. I was a frog in a hot pot and, when I first got in, the water wasn’t even warm. I have no idea when it started boiling.”
Seven years old. Bile formed in the back of my throat. I could remember Genevieve at seven, still a small child. Practically a baby.
“Did he touch you?”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Yes, he touched me. There was always touching. But it didn’t feel nefarious, not back then. It felt like love is what it felt like. He adored me. He pampered me. He gave me pretty dresses and brought people in to do my hair and nails. I was a princess when I was with him. He made me feel special, and our relationship was special because of that. So, you know, it wasn’t really a big deal when he would bring out his camera. It was fun, honestly. I’d pretend I was a model, posing for him in all sorts of goofy ways. Pretending I was older than I was.
“Or he’d take me out to the garden. He’d put up a wooden swing on one of the trees—a great big wooden swing, big enough to seat an adult. Never mind that there was an entire playscape on the other side of the house that my grandfather had installed for me. Ron said the swing was our place. He’d let me on it when I was all dressed up—my mother would have made me change into play clothes, but Ron didn’t. And he’d push me so high, it felt like I was flying. And I’d laugh and laugh, and he’d laugh too, and it felt really good to make someone that happy. Because that was new to me. I’d never made anyone happy. Not like that.
“After he pushed me for a while, he would say it was his turn, and he’d sit down in my place, and I’d try to push him for all of two seconds, and he wouldn’t budge, of course, because he was so much bigger than me, so then he’d laugh and pull me into his lap with him, and he’d hold me while we rocked back and forth, back and forth. And, if he held me a little too tight and a little too long, and if his pants would get rigid underneath me—well, that was just part of it.”
I bit down so hard on my tongue that I tasted blood. Castration wouldn’t be enough. His punishment would have to be prolonged.
“You didn’t tell anyone?” I could barely keep the disgust out of my voice.
“It never occurred to me that I should. Not early on. My parents didn’t ask enough about my vacation for it to come up, and I was brought up in one of those children should be seen, not heard environments so it wasn’t like there was an opportunity for me to spout out the details. And, like I said, it had been fun, and Ron made me feel good, so there was no reason to protest when they sent me again the next summer.
“It escalated from there. The touching grew more intimate. The lap sitting happened more often, and not just on the swing. Squirming, I discovered early on, made it last longer. He liked it too much. So I learned to sit very still. The whole time he’d say lots of nice things in my ear. He’d tell me how pretty I was, how beautiful my body was. How good I was. How special I was. He’d tell me he loved me. In detail. Then he’d urge me to tell him I loved him, and after I did, he’d make me promise not to tell anyone about our love because it was so special, it had to be a secret. No one would understand our ‘special love.’ And it was weird, but it was all right.”
“He was grooming you.” In general, I tried not to interrupt her monologues with commentary, but I wasn’t sure how much she understood of the situation. She’d been a child when it all occurred, and if she hadn’t looked back at it very often, she might not have had a chance to apply adult wisdom to the memories.
My suspicion was confirmed when her head jerked toward me, her expression startled. “That’s right. He was.”
Quietly, she chewed on her lip, her eyes dazed as she likely put pieces together, looked at past memories with this new light. There would be a lot to unpack from this, and I’d do it with her, when she was ready. Right now, though, she had to just get to the end, to the moment that finally pushed her to tell her father. To the place where the water was boiling.
I searched for the right question to ask, the right bait to draw more of the poison from her. Before I could find one I was happy with, she spoke on her own.
“He was very clever about it. About how he trained me. How he groomed me.” She over enunciated the word, tying it firmly to the situation that had played out with her uncle. “It was subtle and very focused on me. On my pleasure.”
It was hard to note the color of her cheeks in the weak light of the fire, but I could tell she was embarrassed, and my chest tightened.
“He, uh, he’d put some sort of stimulants in my baths. They made my body feel...relaxed. And fuzzy. Then he’d turn on the jets and show me how to sit so they’d, uh, hit me in the right place. And I’d sit there like that, feeling good while he read me erotic stories. Twisted fairy tales wher
e Red Riding Hood got devoured by the wolf in a carnal way and where Sleeping Beauty was woken up with kisses in obscene places.
“His touch wandered too. Beneath my dresses, into my panties. Never going all the way inside me, but stimulating all the areas around it. He trained my body to his touch. Before I’d even had a period, he taught me how to respond. I thought I was made for him.”
“Celia…” You were made for me. The words caught in my mouth, not wanting my devotion confused with her repugnant uncle, but feeling the need to say something. Anything.
She waved me away with her hand, knowing better than I did that it wasn’t the right time. “He didn’t make me call him sir until I was ten,” she said. “From then on, it was always, ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘What should I do for you, sir?’ That was when I first remember being really unhappy about our relationship. It took that long. Isn’t that stupid?”
“No,” I said harshly, even though I knew the question wasn’t for me.
She ignored me. “It started to feel like a chore then. The special princess feeling was still there, but it took more and more effort to get his love. And that was my fault, or so I believed. He’d done all these nice things for me and spent all this time with me, and I couldn’t understand why I was so resentful about it all. Why I didn’t appreciate it. I figured I was spoiled and ungrateful, just like my mother liked to say when I was acting out.”
I brought a fist up to my mouth, a reminder to keep it shut. There were so many things I wanted to say to her, and none of them were important. She barely even acknowledged my presence anymore. She was in it, regurgitating the memories without any need of prompting.
“Then the parties started when I was eleven. And that’s when I began to hate him. The first one was innocent enough—a bunch of men drinking and smoking cigars while my uncle paraded me around in a fancy dress. Several fancy dresses.” She let out a disgusted chuckle. “He told me to pretend it was a fashion show, and then afterward, I was to mingle with ‘my fans.’ Nothing salacious really, but it felt creepy all the same. How they’d reach out and pet me like I was a dog or a doll. Passing me around to sit on their laps. Twirling their fingers through my hair.
“The next year was…” She shook her head slowly, her eyes closed, and I could only imagine the horrors that she relived behind her lids. When she opened them again, she let out a long breath before speaking. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell my parents that year. I knew it was wrong, and I didn’t want to go back, but I felt trapped. I felt like I’d agreed to it all, somehow, sometime, and of all the things he taught me, he’d never taught me how to back out.
“So, when I was thirteen, I returned. And I was nervous about it already, especially after...after the last time.”
She’d tell me about that too, eventually. She needed to expel it more than I needed to hear it, but I needed to hear it too. I needed to hear every evil thing that had been done to her so that I could properly make up for it.
Later, though. When she was ready.
“I’d already decided that if he had another party, I was going to find some way out of it. I’d pretend I was sick. I’d make myself sick, if I had to. I’d even brought a bottle of Ipecac syrup I’d stolen from the medicine cabinet back home, planning to use that to prove my illness, but the fucker didn’t warn me this time. He’d sent me to bed for the night early, and I’d thought that got me off the hook.
“It must have been after midnight when he came and woke me. He gave me a sheer nightie to put on—it was a rule that I slept naked when I was at his house, then he took me down to the conservatory, the room where he entertained. There were fifteen men there. Maybe a few more. The room had a level change, a couple steps up to a stage-like area, you know, for, like, a band. He led me up there and then he…” She swallowed then cleared her throat. “He untied the straps of the gown and let them fall so I was naked. I tried to put my arms around me, to cover up, but he batted my hands down, and made me stand there like that. Everything on display. I mean, really on display. He showed me off like I was merchandise. ‘Look at how pert her nipples are.’ Then he’d turn me around and spread my cheeks apart. ‘Look at her virgin ass.’ ‘See how pretty her virgin pussy is.’
“Then he auctioned me off.”
She stopped, and I was relieved, unable to take another second of her story, but also desperate to hear every last word. I warred between the choice of telling her it was enough and pushing her on.
Because it was about her, because she was so close to the finish line, I prodded her on. “He sold you?” When I’d asked how she’d lost her virginity, she’d wanted to know what I’d meant exactly. She hadn’t had her cunt penetrated, but there were a lot of other ways she could have been violated. I could picture the scene in my head and still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
“Yeah. Basically. He was decent enough to stipulate that no one could actually fuck me. No dicks could come in contact with any part of me, but that was the only rule. They could touch me anywhere without penetration, and no one was to touch my ass—still a virgin there, thank God. They were allowed to come on me. They could use a vibrator for stimulation. They just had to pay for it.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, under my breath. I gripped the bottle in my lap, wanting to throw it. Wanting to destroy something as badly as this monster had destroyed Celia. It took everything in me just to bring it to my lips instead, letting the burn temper my rage. How dare a man do this to a child? To his own flesh and blood?
“Five of them offered the right price. They took turns, right there, in front of everyone else. Two of them helped Ron lift the chaise up to the stage so they could prop me how they wanted me. They touched me everywhere they were allowed. All five of them came on me. On my back, on my belly. On my tits. Two of them on my face. It was in my hair. I accidentally tasted some that was on my lips. The worst were the vibrators, though. Ron had several for them to choose from and they used them all at least once. They loved making me come. Over and over. That was the most humiliating and confusing part, because it made me feel like I must be enjoying it, while I was dying inside. Dying.”
I cringed, thinking of how I’d used her orgasms as a punishment, justifying it at the same time because I hadn’t used a vibrator. And then wishing I had so that that memory might replace this terrible one.
“You know, I don’t even know what any of them paid because the offers were whispered into Ron’s ear. He’d either nod or give a thumbs up to indicate he wanted more. Sometimes I imagine they paid very little because that would serve him right. Other times I imagine they paid a fuck-ton because those fucking bastards deserved to pay up.
“It was after that, I told my father. He didn’t believe me, and eventually I shut up about it, and the next summer, I was prepared to convince my best friend to invite me to her churchy camp so that I wouldn’t have to go stay with Ron, but I didn’t have to. My parents took me to Europe with them instead. And then they never mentioned going to Ron’s again, and I don’t know if it’s because my father secretly believed me or if he just decided that he didn’t want to deal with my protests, but it was over, and I was so relieved.
“But I was also only ordinary after that. And maybe that was the most horrible part of all of it. As glad as I was to never go back there, I’ve spent my life since wondering if anyone will ever give me the time and attention and adoration that Ron did. Sick, huh? No wonder I fell for my captor.” Immediately, she brought her hands up to her forehead, shielding her eyes, as if she regretted saying the last part.
What was sick was how my entire being lit up at the admission, even in the midst of her horrible tale. She’d fallen for me, and I didn’t deserve it, and I wasn’t noble enough to try to convince her of that truth.
I couldn’t be away from her a second longer, whether she had more to say or not. I was breaking for her and dying to hold her. I needed her touch as much as I was sure she needed mine.
I moved to kneel in front of her a
nd grasped her wrists, peeling her hands away from her face so I could look her in the eyes. “None of this is your fault, bird. None of your reactions are wrong. Your uncle is a fucked-up psychopath and deserves to face severe repercussions for what he did, and none of this is your fault.”
She shook her head vehemently, and so I said it again. Slower. “None of this is your fault, and you don’t have to be brave about it anymore.”
Her expression faltered, and I thought she was going to go there, was going to release herself to the pain, but the moment passed and her face turned hard.
“What, Edward? You think you understand me now?” She tried to yank away from me, but I held my grip.
“I know I do,” I said solemnly, never moving my eyes from hers.
“You don’t understand anything.”
“I do. I understood you before too. This just gives clarity.”
She was quiet for a beat, and I let go of her so I could move up beside her, intending to pull her into my lap.
But as soon as I was sitting on the sectional, she jumped to her feet. “It confirms my worth, doesn’t it?” She began rapidly unbuttoning her shirt—my shirt. “I told you I knew what I was good for. Now you know too.”
When she had the shirt loose, she dropped it to the ground and climbed onto me, straddling my lap.
This was all wrong. She was hiding behind this seduction routine. Building walls, trying to distract herself from the emotions she still hadn’t let herself really feel. “Celia...what are you doing, bird?”
She began gyrating against me. “What I’ve been trained to do. What I’m best at.”
“Don’t.” I sat back, bracing my arms on the back of the sectional so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch her. It was harder to convince my cock not to react, but somehow I did.
“Am I too damaged for you now? Too used?”
My chest pinched. “Never.”
“Then fuck me. I need to feel good. Make me feel good.”