“If my Master is lost, I’ll find him. I’ll lead him back to himself, because to serve doesn’t always mean to follow.”― Joey W. Hill,
Yesterday it’s Master had a rough day. It’s not often it sees it’s Master in such a way. He opened up to it only slightly, but in a way it will not soon forget. So, in return, it will give it’s Master something it has never given anyone. The genesis of it.
Due to the nature of it’s rawness, it must violate Rule No. 11 and hope that it’s Master will understand the space in which it must be in order to tell this story.
I was 13.
It started on the counter in the kitchen. His name was Martín, he was 46 and he only spoke to me in Spanish. It was my sister’s birthday and Martín had his three children there with him to celebrate. He was our handyman. We had a housekeeper and a handyman. I guess that gives a look into the way I grew up. Privileged.
He brought mango and was telling me in Spanish where they had come from and how he would cut them up into little cubes for his children. I was leaning with my butt against the counter and he was standing next to me. I had known him most of my life so I never felt uncomfortable around him. I had on a baggy t-shirt and shorts that were a little short for the 90’s, but the baggy shirt was tucked in the front and meant to balance it out. Right? That was the style then anyway.
Once he cubed the mango he turned to me and smiled warmly in his familiar way. Without warning he popped a cube of mango into my mouth, letting his fingers linger there. I am not sure there are words to describe that sensation. The moment when you first become afraid. The moment when you first realize something isn’t quite right.
He pushed himself against me and whispered into my ear in English for the very fist time, “come on, come on.” He tried to kiss me. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to shake my head. No words found my lips. He put his hands on my narrow hips and hoisted me onto the counter. I remember feeling helpless.
There, when I wouldn’t kiss him back, he tried to pull off my shorts. It was a sensation that made me plunge back into reality. I struggled against him, still unable to shout out for any one of my 4 sisters that were at home. He picked me up, kicking and screaming, and took me one of the bathrooms. He turned the shower on without letting me go. I guess it was to drown out the noise. I was terrified. He pushed me up against the counter and bent me over, slamming my head against the counter top. He held his hand there. I couldn’t do anything but sob and ask for him to stop. I couldn’t really ask for anything to be honest, I was crying too hard. He started saying things to be in Spanish, but at the time I didn’t understand what he was saying. No one had ever said those words to me before.
He pulled my shorts and underwear off with his free hand and immediately felt for my crotch. I wasn’t wet. When he touched me there I tried really hard to get away, I begged, I pleaded, but he was in another universe. I remember how much the counter top was hurting my face and how the tears and snot were starting to pool next to and under my face. I kicked my legs as much as I could, but my feet didn’t even touch the floor the way he had me.
He licked his hand and rubbed it over my cunt, then he unbuttoned himself and pulled himself out (I am guessing that’s what happened, I could only hear, not see). I was still small then, hadn’t hit my growth spurt, thin. I kicked more, but he put his knees against my legs and spread them. She started with just the tip and I screamed. He moved his hand from the side of my face to my cheek and mouth, so that his hand was covering my mouth. I just continued to sob at that point. I felt so… helpless.
He entered me then, fast and hard, he tore me. I physically felt the skin of my hole being ripped. It hurt there and it hurt on the inside. It was such intense pain. He wouldn’t stop. He entered me over and over for what seemed like hours. In all honesty I think it was about ten minutes. The pain started to fade from the inside and I don’t know if it was blood or otherwise, but he slid in and out of me easier and easier. It still hurt. He took his free hand and reached around and grabbed the mound of my pussy where my clit was. He just grabbed and squeezed like he was going to rip my clit off. That’s when I came. The pain was still there, but then warmths of radiating pleasure wracked my body. I was shaking. I couldn’t stop. Every time he thrust into me, my body felt this warped sense of pain and pleasure. I cried even harder then. I didn’t know what was happening to my body. It was all completely foreign to me. That was my first and last orgasm with another person.
When I didn’t think it could possibly get any worse, he pulled out of me. He pulled me by my hair down onto my knees and held my nose until I opened my mouth. That’s where he came.
He gathered himself up, took off the rest of my clothes and put me in the cold shower. I sat there trembling until my parents came home. I couldn’t move.
My father fired him. The police were never called. My father was livid.
“Why did you have to dress like such a slut? That was one of my best workers.”
That was the last time it was every discussed. This is the first time since that I have thought about it.
A token of it’s affection. This is a story so many of us have. It is not unique. This story is one of many it has. Also, not unique.