I was nine.
How old were you, sixty, seventy eighty?
You were old, a pensioner. Your tongue was thick and meaty. It filled my mouth and made me gag. You were fat and heavy on top of me. Your breath in my face was fetid and repugnant. Your semi-flaccid, old-man cock was smelly and dirty, it tore my anus and the pillow was damp in the winter and choked me while you pressed my face into it. Your huge elephant balls slapped against me, sweaty and sticky. I was nine and I wanted to die.
How many tablets of soap did you break into little pieces?
It probably wasn’t that many, you lived on a pension. And it wasn’t as though it happened every day, or even every week, but often enough you’d sit in your armchair with your blankets over your knees like a sweet old man. You’d have a tray in your lap and you’d break up Pears soap into little squares while Hughie Green presented Opportunity Knocks on the black and white television set. I knew what was coming when the show was over. You told me it was a cure for tummy ache, even if I didn’t have one. You’d bend me over your knee, or over the sink, or over the edge of the bath and you’d take down my panties. Your breath would be rancid and gasping as you inserted every piece of soap into my bum. Then I would get tummy ache and you’d watch me sitting on the toilet with poo splattering out of me like water. At first you’d have a bulge in your pants and then when you heard the noises, smelled the smell and saw me crying from the pain and humiliation you’d take your cock out and wank in front of me before ramming it into my mouth while I was still voiding noisily into the toilet pan. That was your thing.
How many times a year did you leave me on my own at night, sixty, seventy, eighty?
I was scared of the dark, scared of ghosts and mostly scared of you coming home.
How many weeks did you send me to school dirty?
How times was I bullied and called horrible names by the happy children?
How many times did I go to bed without supper… or dinner, or breakfast?
How many times did I wish you were dead like my mother sixty, seventy, eighty?
But, you know what? I’m like a magic mat. I’m stain-repellent. The dirt and grime and degradation just rise to the surface in filthy spots of torment and then they just wipe away as if they were never there. And you’ll never break the woman in me, you only hurt the child.