Chapter 1

I’m not even sure exactly what happened that evening, the evening it all started. I was on my way up the stairs to my second-floor apartment after another long, hard, stressful day at work. The elevator was out of service again. That isn’t unusual. It’s out of order more than its operating so I wasn’t surprised.

I had only climbed four or five steps when I felt something on my butt. I didn’t even think about it. I reacted instinctively. I turned around and seeing one of my neighbors behind me I did something I’ve never done before in my entire life. I drew back and slapped his face as hard as I could.

I saw the look of surprise on his face as he fell over backward like a sack of flour, falling down the stairs and landing at the feet of his wife who had stopped to check the mail. She screamed. That scream was the last thing which happened that evening that wasn’t a part of the big haze. That’s how I think of the muddled events of that evening and the following morning. It’s all just a big, indistinct haze of confusing events during which I totally lost control of my life.

Someone called 911. My neighbor was taken away in an ambulance. I was taken away in handcuffs in the back of one police car and my terrified, nearly hysterical daughter who just turned thirteen was taken away in another.

I tried to explain that I didn’t intend for Mr. Devon to go flying down the stairs. He put his hand on my ass and I reacted by slapping his face. I acted in self-defense but I never intended to shove him down the stairs.

Mr. Devon, of course, denied touching or grabbing me. People seemed to be leaning toward believing him, probably because his wife was only ten feet behind him at the time. Never mind that I’m a responsible young single mother who has never assaulted anyone in my life and that I work in an assisted living home caring for the elderly. I’m not, and I have never been, a violent person. In fact, I have never before struck anyone in anger in my life.

Mr. Devon, fortunately, was not seriously injured. He was treated for various bumps and bruises and released.

I was kept in a crowded cell overnight and then released late the next day. My daughter was not returned to me until the following day. They first made certain I haven’t been abusing her.

From my daughter’s description of what took place during their brief investigation it sounded very much like they were trying to convince her she’s being abused or at least talk her into saying she is.

Looking back on what happened once the dust had settled I realized I didn’t just slap Mr. Devon out of the blue. I freely admit that at the time of the incident I was already in a very bad mood. One of the things leading up to my violent reaction to having him grab my butt was the frustration I felt after another in a long string of very bad days at work.

One of my responsibilities at the nursing home is to assist Mr. Packard with his shower. I don’t bathe him. But I help him into his shower and I help him dry off and dress. Mr. Packard is almost ninety years old. He isn’t an invalid. He is, in fact, surprisingly spry for a man of his age. But he needs help getting around and the people in charge at the home worry about him slipping and falling when he bathes. That’s always a concern with the elderly.

The problem is he’s an octopus. He can’t keep his hands off me so I started to wonder if in my subconscious mind that night I was slapping Mr. Packard. Because there have been so many times I wanted to do just that.

Things continued to escalate from there. All evidence to the contrary, the DA decided I’m a dangerous criminal. I was tried for assault and battery. I was unable to convince a jury I reacted in defense of my person and my honor in reaction to a sexual assault. I think, in fact, that I’d been unable to convince my own attorney, and it showed. But then, he was a public defender and he didn’t care one way or another if I was guilty. That showed, too.

I was quickly convicted and the judge sentenced me to five years of a very restrictive parole. I’m to be constantly monitored for the duration of my parole, including frequent unannounced visits to my home to assure that I’m not abusing my daughter.

I had a very difficult time convincing my employer my trial was a terrible miscarriage of justice. It was all just a huge misunderstanding. I wasn’t permitted to work while my trial was pending. But I spoke with my supervisor on several occasions and assured her I’m not and have never been a violent person and should not be let go. I pleaded with her not to fire me. Fortunately for me there aren’t a lot of people with my experience who were lined up begging for my job. They need me nearly as much as I need my job.

My job is hanging by a thread now, though. I have a stressful job which pays only slightly more than minimum wage. But I need that job desperately.

I quit school in the tenth grade at the ripe old age of fourteen. I was pregnant with my daughter at the time. Pregnant schoolgirls may be more common now. But I lived in a very rural, very conservative, very small town. In that time and place pregnant teenagers were quickly removed from circulation. I suppose they didn’t want us to serve as a bad example for the other girls in school.

Since then, I’ve taken the GED test and passed it. Now I’m taking evening classes. My goal is to complete my education and eventually earn my nursing degree.

During my sentencing, as I stood there in shocked disbelief, the judge assured me that as long as I behave myself and there are no further problems during my five years on parole, my record will be expunged. There will be no conviction on my record to keep me from obtaining a nursing license.

I was given an appointment before I even left the court room to report to the Office of Pardon and Parole on the following Monday morning. I appeared early after a long, stressful weekend. I was kept waiting for a very long time before a rude and obnoxious woman came for me. She made it obvious what she thinks of women like me and then she led me to the office of Mr. Kent, the Parole Officer who holds my future in his hands for the next five years.

It was not an auspicious meeting. Mr. Kent is an overbearing, authoritative, and very arrogant man in his mid-forties. He’s a large man. He isn’t fat, at least not yet. He looks like he’s getting soft around the middle but you get the impression he was at one time a very muscular man who’s beginning to let himself go.

More than his stature, though, it’s his facial expression that’s so unnerving. Before either of us said a word he looked as though he was furious with me. His mere presence was threatening. Between his physical appearance and the expression on his face I was extremely intimidated.

He pointed to the uncomfortable wooden chair in front of his desk and I sat down. As the interview began it was instantly obvious he’s not the least bit sympathetic to my plight. He seems to believe I’m some sort of dangerous master criminal. It’s going to be a long five years.

Mr. Kent interviewed me in depth. He asked a ton of very personal and often embarrassing questions. As I responded to his questions he filled out a stack of forms, adding to the already thick file with my name on it on the desk in front of him.

As if this dehumanizing procedure wasn’t difficult enough, the entire time I spent in his office I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes roamed over my body. I’m not dressed to attract attention. I’m wearing a very modest dress. I’m not showing any cleavage and the hem of my skirt falls just above my knees which remain tightly pressed together as modesty dictates. He didn’t say anything inappropriate. But the way he looked at me as if he could see right through my clothing was disturbing. And he made no effort to disguise his appreciation of the way I look.

I considered reporting him to his supervisor when I left his office. I didn’t, though. I decided making him mad wasn’t the smartest thing for me to do and he’s obviously a man with a bad temper.

After he went over all of the many, many rules and regulations with which I’m now forced to comply he spent a few minutes making sure I know just how much of a force he is in my life now. He also went to great lengths to make certain I’m fully aware of the repercussions which will befall me if I cross him, starting with going to prison and losing custody of my daughter.

I finally left his office after a grueling session which lasted nearly two hours. I was shaking like a leaf. The visit with my parole officer had been more traumatic than the actual trial. And it lasted longer!

I sat in my car for a long time after he released me. I held my face in my hands and I cried my eyes out. The tears finally ran out and I struggled to get my emotions under control. I have never felt so helpless in my life. My life seems totally out of control. I think I felt the effects so much more intensely because I know I did nothing wrong. It’s all so very unfair. And I’ve worked so hard for so long to build a decent life for my daughter and me.

I slowly stopped shaking and I dried my eyes. When I thought I was able to safely operate my vehicle I drove to my place of employment to talk to my supervisor and try to smooth things over there. Miraculously, I hadn’t been fired, at least not yet. It’s a problem that I was convicted. I assured my supervisor that despite the verdict by a jury of my peers I didn’t do the things of which I was accused. I’m a victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice.

I think she believes me but she has a lot of people over her who don’t know me and whose primary concerns are the residents, their families and their attorneys. She must feel sorry for me. She didn’t fire me. But she has to cover her butt. She told me I’ll be on probation with her, too. I can continue to work there. But I’ll be working under a very dark cloud.

I understand their position. They can’t have violent criminals working with the elderly people in their care. The residents have to be their first concern.

I had a long talk with her. I didn’t hold anything back. I even told her about the problems I’ve been having with Mr. Packard. I suggested that although I still think that my reaction to being groped on the stairs that day was defensible, I might have been more restrained were it not for the frustration of dealing with Mr. Packard every day.

My supervisor, Mrs. Thomas, stressed that she’s going out on a limb for me. She’s keeping me on even though the people above her are inclined to let me go. She told me she believes my version of the events which took place on the apartment stairs that evening. She’s keeping me on because I’ve been a good, reliable worker for as long as I’ve worked for her and she thinks I deserve a chance.

She added that at the first sign of a problem at work, or if there’s even a hint of a problem from my parole officer, she’ll be forced to let me go.

She took a huge load off my shoulders when she said she’ll try to have someone else take care of Mr. Packard. From now on she’ll try to see to it that a male nurse is responsible for his care.

I thanked her effusively. I don’t know what I would have done if she had let me go. It wouldn’t even matter that I no longer have any money in reserve. I’d be violating the terms of my parole if I lost my job. They’d lock me up and put my daughter in foster care before the sun went down. Mr. Kent would no doubt see to it. I really appreciate what Mrs. Thomas is doing for me.

Finally, I went home and tried to relax. Home is a small, two-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. No one lives in that part of town unless they have no other choice. The apartment building is old and in need of a lot of repairs. Well, no, it’s in need of being torn down and replaced. It’s a dump. But as awful as my apartment is I was lucky to get it. With my limited income it’s difficult to find any place to live. A decent place is out of the question.

I’m living paycheck to paycheck, just managing to keep my car running and my rent and utilities paid, pay my tuition and put food on the table. There are no luxuries in my life. There aren’t always necessities.

The only bright spot in my life right now is my daughter, Heather. I got pregnant at the age of fourteen. I had, in fact, just turned fourteen. I attended a party at a girlfriend’s house. There weren’t supposed to be boys there, but there were. There wasn’t supposed to be alcohol there, but there was. The short story is, I had a few drinks and lost my virginity.

I had sex one time in my life, thirteen years ago. I’m twenty-seven now. That one time I had sex I became pregnant. Everything which has happened in my life since that day, good and bad, is a result of that one sexual act, and it wasn’t even very pleasant. In fact, I don’t even remember it.

I got home just before my daughter got home from school. I told her about my day, omitting a description of how scary my parole officer is. I tried to sound confident and upbeat. I did my best to let her know everything is alright now and that our life can get back to normal.

Heather is a remarkable young girl and I’m very proud of her. She’s beautiful. But more importantly she’s very intelligent. She’s strong and responsible and she’s unquestionably a far greater source of strength to me than I am to her.

My trial took place on Friday morning, and not very much of Friday morning at that. On Monday I went to the Pardon and Parole Office. I was bullied and thoroughly intimidated by my parole officer, Mr. Kent. I spoke with my supervisor on the way home to make sure I still have a job.

Now the formalities have been dispensed with and I can attempt to get on with my life. By the time the day was over and Heather and I had eaten our evening meal, such as it was, and cleaned up the kitchen, I almost felt like life was back to normal. Heather sat down at the kitchen table to finish her homework while I did a load of laundry downstairs in the small laundry room, the only amenity provided by management.

When Heather’s homework was done I sent her to her room to get ready for bed and then we went into our tiny living room and watched a little television. I would have preferred that she go outside and play for a little while. But until we can afford to move to a nicer area I’m afraid to let her outside. I don’t even dare let her play outside if I’m there to watch her. It just isn’t safe for a girl, not even a mother and her daughter, alone around here.

There was a knock at the door just before nine. I looked through the peephole and was surprised to see Mr. Kent. Just seeing his face through the peephole brought the disturbing memories of everything that has happened flooding back over me, just when I started to feel like life can be almost normal again.

It’s all the more disturbing because he’s visiting my apartment at such an inappropriate hour. But I opened the door and invited him in. There’s really no other option available to me.

He entered, his overbearing presence filling the small room. I introduced him to my daughter and then, at his insistence, I showed him around our small apartment while he made notes in a folder he’s carrying.

He asked me a couple questions about my living situation and whether or not I’m dating.

I’m not and I told him I’m not when he interviewed me in his office.

He didn’t leave after his tour of my small apartment. He took a seat at the kitchen table and asked me for a cup of coffee. I put on half a pot.

I sent Heather to bed at nine o’clock while I was answering more of Mr. Kent’s probing questions and waiting for the coffee to brew. I saw the way he watched her as she left the room and it made me nervous. He looked her over in the same openly leering, inappropriate manner in which his eyes explore my body whenever he looks at me.

This is a very scary man. He’s all the more scary because he’s looking at my little girl the way men aren’t supposed to look at little girls. And he doesn’t care if I know it.

It was ten minutes before the coffee was ready. In those ten minutes we sat at the kitchen table in almost total silence. I was subjected to ten minutes of his prying eyes moving over my body. He wasn’t discreet when he ogled me, either. He didn’t hide it at all. In fact, he seemed to be daring me to object.

I waited nervously for the coffee and served him when it was ready. He sat and sipped his coffee, all the while smiling at me as if he has a secret. He finally said, “There’s no sense putting this off any longer. I guess I might as well lay this all out for you. You already know your position. You stepped into a pile of shit and you’re in it up to your ears. You pretty much don’t have any rights at all now. Thanks to your conviction you’ve been totally discredited. Your word has no value. Nothing you say will carry any weight with any person in authority at any level. Do you agree?”

He already intimidated the hell out of me at his office. I don’t know what the point of this further pressure could possibly be. I want to let him know how much his objectionable language offends me. But I’m terrified. I can only nod. I know he’s right. No one, not the police, not the judge, certainly not the jury believed me. My own attorney didn’t even believe me!

“I’m glad you see things my way. The reason it’s important is that you’re such a pretty little thing. One of the few perks of my lousy job is sweet little things like you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

My mouth gaped open but nothing came out. I realized instantly what he was saying, or I thought I did. I would very soon come to learn I had yet to fully grasp the depths of this man’s depravity.

He let me have a minute for what he said to sink in while he grinned at me and sipped his coffee. He must have seen the despair written clearly on my face. But more than that, he must have seen what he was looking for, surrender. He already knew the answer when he asked, “Am I going to have a problem with you?”

I thought back to this morning in his office. I was struck again with the realization of how much power this man holds over me. I was thoroughly intimidated by the influence, the absolute power he has over my life. He can have me fired with just a word. With only his signature on some government form he can have me fired and he can send me to jail and he can have my daughter taken away from me.

I understood the implications of what he was saying. But as horrible as this situation is, I have no choice but to surrender. If I try to fight him I’ll lose my daughter. Nothing in my life is more important than Heather.

I felt what little backbone I possess quickly dissolve. I visibly slumped at the table and with tears running down my cheeks I nodded my head admitting defeat.

He reached up and slowly traced the path of tears down one cheek. He smiled, an evil, gloating smile and in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice he said, “I like it that you’re crying. It’s giving me a hard-on.”

I could feel the fear like a hot poker in my stomach. I’m so scared I’m having trouble catching my breath. But I said nothing. I know instinctively that if I were to try to reason with this man, or if I beg him not to do this to me, I’ll only increase his pleasure. It will only amuse him and at the same time serve to demonstrate that I’m acknowledging he has that power over me.

He enjoyed the terror that must have been obvious on my face for a long moment. Then, just as calmly as if he were discussing the weather he said, “You’re very pretty. But you look like a prissy little bitch. I don’t suppose you’re any good at sucking cock?”

He might as well have slapped me! I took a deep breath and after several false starts I was finally able to tell him my entire sexual history in one short sentence.

He could not have been happier. I saw his eyes light up when I explained I had been unconscious during my one and only sexual experience. It’s going to be a long, hard five years.

He ordered me to pour him another cup of coffee. I obeyed instantly. But when I returned to the table he pulled me into his lap. He smiled at me again. Well, it’s a little misleading to call his expression a smile. It’s more like the look of anticipation that you might expect to see on the face of a lion about to pounce on a gazelle.

Then, while he watched my face, enjoying my agony so much I could feel his penis twitching under my butt, he reached up and placed one of his large hands around my throat.

He squeezed just hard enough to make me uncomfortable; just enough to scare me even more. He watched the fear as it nearly crippled me. He felt my body trembling before he finally said, “Your life is in my hands. Your life and your daughter’s life for the next five years. I own both of you. I have more power over you than god. I’m not a nice man. But you’re a smart girl; you’ve probably already figured that out, haven’t you?”

I assumed that was a rhetorical question. I sat shivering in fear as he took his hand from around my throat. His large hand slid down over my upper chest until he was able to grasp my breast as if he has every right to do so, as if he owns me. But then, I guess he does now.

I shivered. I haven’t been touched by anyone in thirteen years. Not since that night at the party when some anonymous rapist put something in my drink and when I was unconscious he uncovered just enough of my body to impregnate me. I’m assuming it was only one boy. I don’t really know that for certain. All I know is that I was having fun at a party, talking and dancing with friends one moment. The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor beside a bed with my lower body uncovered and a nasty mess between my legs.

My parents never completely believed me when I insisted I didn’t remember much about that night. I didn’t remember being undressed or being touched or having sex. And they never trusted me again. I never forgave them for having so little faith in me. I didn’t deserve that. I was always the perfect child, never a rebellious teenager. The rift between us widened until I eventually left home and I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them since.

Despite what happened to me that night I’m not down on men. And I’m not asexual. I often lie in bed at night and imagine what it would be like to find a nice man and fall in love; to go to bed with him and make love. I want nothing more than to have a nice man who has feelings for me kiss me and touch me and make love to me.

That certainly isn’t what this is. The only things I’m feeling now as this horrible man mauls my breast are fear and loathing and dread. Dread at what I know is about to happen. I’m about to experience sex for second time. I’m going to be raped again. There’s also the fear my daughter might hear something, come out to see what’s happening and find me being molested by this creature.

He removed his hand from my breast. But he isn’t finished tormenting me. He’s just getting started. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of my blouse and slipped his hand inside. He cupped my breast again. It’s still fully covered by my conservative bra. Although he obviously enjoys tormenting me I can see he’s becoming anxious to unwrap his new toy.

He pushed me to my feet and said, “I think it’s time you got out of those clothes. Don’t you? Go ahead and undress. Take your time. I have all night.”

I stood in front of him, almost too scared to move. My mind is spinning almost as fast as my heart is pounding. I’m about to undress in front of a man for the first time. That he’s a man I fear and hate makes it so much harder. But I have no choice and I’ve already accepted that horrible reality. I’ve already surrendered to him.

I reached for one of the remaining buttons on my blouse. Before I unbuttoned it I whispered, “Can we please go to my bedroom? I don’t want my daughter to see me like this.”

He looked like he was considering it. But I knew when I looked into his eyes he wasn’t. He wants this to be as unpleasant for me as possible. He’d probably enjoy it more if my daughter were in the room to witness my humiliation.

He finally answered, “No. Not this time. Maybe I’ll fuck you in your bedroom next time.”

It’s obvious he’s lying.

I had a terrible time removing my blouse. My fingers are numb and shaking so badly I can hardly manipulate the buttons. I didn’t look at Mr. Kent while I undressed. I couldn’t meet his predatory gaze. I feel so helpless ... so hopeless.

I finally pulled my blouse off and placed it on the kitchen table. I paused for a second and took a deep breath before I removed my skirt with just as much difficulty. I unbuttoned it and pulled the zipper down. I slid it down over my hips. I let it drop to the floor at my feet. I stepped out of it, picked it up and put it on the table with my blouse. The skin all over my body is prickling with embarrassment.

I’m proud of my body. There’s not an ounce of excess fat on me anywhere. I have smooth skin. There are no stretch marks, no sign I’ve experienced the potentially ravaging aftereffects of giving birth. My breasts are B cups. They’re firm and might aptly be described as perky. They’re tipped with small, pink nipples pointing slightly upwards.

I’m proud of my body, but I’m also very shy. I’m very uncomfortable with the idea of undressing in front of anyone. Anyone at all! Even my daughter has never seen me naked.

Undressing in the kitchen for the amusement of this virtual stranger is nearly impossible for me. I can feel the flush prickling my skin from my hairline to the upper slopes of my breasts. My heart is beating at an incredible rate and the sound of my blood rushing through my veins is nearly deafening.

I stepped out of my slippers. I’m not wearing my pantyhose. I always remove them as soon as I get home. I stood before this ogre now in only my bra and panties. I know I’m just prolonging the agony and increasing his enjoyment. But Christ this is hard!

I reached behind my back and with great difficulty I was finally able to release the catch on my bra. I hesitated, holding onto the ends of the straps while I tried to find the strength to let go and bare my breasts to the man who is about to rape me.

The tension built for several long seconds before I finally let the ends of my bra strap fall free and the cups released their firm grip on my breasts. I dropped my arms and shrugged my shoulders, letting the shoulder straps fall to my elbows.

When I lost my virginity the one other time I had sex, my rapist didn’t undress me. I was unconscious so I’m not sure what actually happened. I just know I was laughing and joking with my friends one minute and when I next became aware of my surroundings I was lying on the floor beside the bed in one of the spare bedrooms with my shorts and my panties down around one ankle. Other than that, I was fully dressed.

There was ample evidence someone had recently had sex with me. My pubic hair was matted and sticky and my thighs were frosted with a light coat of dried semen. There was a small trail of pink tinged moisture oozing out of me and when I moved I felt a slight pain at the entrance to my vagina. I remember looking down in disbelief as the reality of what had happened sank in.

Along with everyone else I consumed a couple of drinks, for the first and last time in my life. And yes, I was slightly under the influence of the alcohol. I was laughing too hard and I felt a little giddy. I was drinking mild drinks, though, and I was drinking them very slowly. I couldn’t have passed out from the alcohol. I’ve always assumed I was drugged. It’s the only possible explanation for what happened to me.

I don’t remember anything that happened that evening, at least not until I regained consciousness with a near fatal headache. A couple of my friends asked me where I’d gone off to and I realized that they didn’t know what happened to me either.

Now I find myself thinking it’s tragic that the first man to see my breasts is going to be Mr. Kent. I let the bra slide down and off and I dropped it on the table with the rest of my clothing. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, my last little bit of covering, and slowly slid them down and off.

I straightened up and dropped them on the table as well. I stood before Mr. Kent, waiting while he took stock of his new possession.

I’ve never been so humiliated or felt so degraded in my life. It could have been worse, though. It will be worse. I still don’t realize that this is only the tip of the iceberg. I still have no idea of the depths of wanton degeneracy to which Mr. Kent intends to subject me or the degrading acts he’ll force me to perform in the days to come. I don’t have a clue how naïve I still am. I know nothing about the warped minds of cruel, perverted men like him.

He stared at me for a long time. No. That isn’t exactly right. To say he stared at me implies I’m a person to him. I’ve become his property and that’s how he sees me. I’m a thing he owns and can use as he wishes. He stared at my naked body in anticipation of the pleasure he will shortly take from it.

Each second I stood in front of him naked and vulnerable it seemed to get more difficult instead of easier. He ordered me to turn around slowly. As I turned he said, “We’re going to have to get you some sexier underwear. It was fun watching you take those off. You look so sweet and innocent. But I think you’d look really nice in something from this century.”