Message-ID: <37194asstr$1025993403@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <qickless@fastmail.fm> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit From: "Qickless" <qickless@fastmail.fm> Reply-To: "Qickless" <qickless@fastmail.fm> X-Epoch: 1025980160 X-Sasl-enc: HffFrg9WDgdEowrFGpcWxQ X-Original-Message-ID: <20020706182920.5F3056D9C7@www.fastmail.fm> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 6 Jul 2002 18:29:20 +0000 Subject: {ASSM} Norma Jeane (Mf, rape) Date: Sat, 6 Jul 2002 18:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2002/37194> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw -- Catch my work on http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/qickless/www Feedback to qickless@fastmail.fm -- http://fastmail.fm: send your email first class <1st attachment, "norma_jeane.txt" begin> If you are a minor in your country, or if you are offended by stories with sexual content, delete this immediately. * This story is not good jacking-off material. Go elsewhere. * Because of the severe nature of the events in this story, there is a change from my usual copyright requirements: 1) You are not to distribute this story. 2) You are not to archive this story in any public archive. 3) Any archiving of this story, if made available to the public, in any medium would be considered unlawful unless I authorize such an archiving. Please do not mail me about such requests concerning this work. I will decide where to archive this story. Thank you. I consider child harassment to be the worst kind of sin. By writing this story, I hope that I'm not encouraging any child molesters. Rather, I hope to dissuade any fantastic notions you may have about child reciprocation, a theme often found at ASSTR. I can be reached at qickless@fastmail.fm Norma Jeane (Mf, rape) By Qickless [qickless@fastmail.fm] Norma Jeane was nine. She was also frightened. Not because her mother stacked her in foster homes when she was five. Or because those foster homes had been very cruel to her. It was not the daily hard work that earned her some nice bread. Or the frequent scolding. It was Mr. Kimmel. Mr. Kimmel was the Carpinson's star lodger. He was a sourly white man, a huge face with ugly pink smudges that looked up from between thick white collars. Norma had to strain to get a look at his eyes because of his bulging midsection, and even then his eyes were a dull gray. Norma had blue eyes. Blue bright eyes that lit up her round thin face when she smiled, and eyes that were sheathed in small but long curly appealing lashes that seemed too big for her face. Her hair was a thick stack of a brunette; Norma was proud of her hair - her mother had told her that her hair was beautiful before she was taken away. For a homeless, Norma was well fed. But she didn't look it. The bright white one-piece frock with red buttons all the way in the front that she was wearing now was bought when she was seven. And it still fit. Norma's nails were dirty because of too much running around in the mud, her hair could use a wash and her shoes were grimy. But she was pretty. Say that you have a little young girl; she's nearing five months and you're sitting at a bus-stop holding her. While she's gurgling in your hands and you're trying your best to kiss her in the nose, a bus pulls up and lots of nine year-old girls get off. They're all pretty and cute and nice, and they're all smiling, laughing and giggling. You'll watch them and you'll smile with them. And then you'll stare at them trying to decide which one of them you would want your girl to grow up to be. You'd pick the nicest girl. Norma Jeane was nicer. And prettier. Which was why Mr. Kimmel was poking at her chest. Norma had brought up tea, iced with little cubes that she had dug up from the freezer. Mrs. Carpinson gave Mr. Kimmel iced tea because he'd asked for it. Norma doubted very much if she would ever tell her to carry up the tea for the black person who lodged next door. Norma was always confused when she thought of this because the black lodger was always much nicer to her. But she had learnt to be silent. Silence, or a good whacking. The tray had bitten into her arms because Mrs. Carpinson had wanted so much to impress Mr. Kimmel. And then, just in the middle of the staircase the heavy metal had slipped a bit and the china pot had almost gone wallowing down the steps. Norma had put her whole weight behind it, willing herself to stop wobbling. That was hard. Harder still was to yell now. At first, Norma was confused. Confused because Mr. Kimmel had got up from his chair and took the tea from her, and then asked her to stay. Before, Norma had always run away. She had remained and glanced at the crooked walls and the ambling fan for a few minutes while she felt his eyes on her. She didn't like that. She didn't like it either when he moved towards her. She looked for the tray, but there was no tray in his hands. And then he was poking her in the chest. Rough huge hands held her in place as her frock was gone in a crash and then his hands were mauling her, crushing her frail body beneath the giving walls, biting into her mouth, piercing the soft skin in the nape of her neck, strangling her soul. Norma Jean cried out once that morning, a quiet cry that barely carried to the next lodger. The nice black negro raised his head from the work, paused and listened briefly, and then shrugged and went back to work. After a piercing pain between her legs, Norma felt nothing. She heard nothing, she closed her eyes until she felt it finish. She lay there for a long time, under the harsh bright sunlight, almost crying, trying hard to make the hurt stop, trying harder to somehow make it all go away. He helped her put the dress back on, and led her out of the door. Norma bled all the way down to the kitchen. Mrs. Carpinson saw her, the white dress smattered with blood, a tiny hand clutching the torn red buttons, and gasped. That day Norma received the best scrubbing of her life. As she came out of the bath, freshly showered and then combed and then made to wear a very pretty red dress, anybody would think that this was the prettiest that she'd ever been in her life. But the face that we called pretty just moments before was now rugged, barren, even old. And the eyes shone a dim shoddy blue. And the hands shivered under the slightest touch. Afraid. Hurt. Badly confused. The next day Mrs. Carpinson told the government that the responsibility of looking after Norma was becoming too much for her. Norma was shifted into another foster home. The black negro came to know, but he was too late. And besides the law was too white in those days. Too white, and with a bulging midsection. Mrs. Carpinson tried, very hard she tried, but she couldn't remove the small drops of blood that Norma left on the grey carpet. Barely fifteen years later, a prospective tenant would stand right there and look over the room. What finally would make him decide would be a pin-up nude calendar of the hottest actress around at the time. As the tenant left the happy owner, the million-dollar face in the pin-up calendar would stare at the barely discernible drops of blood on the carpet - her blood. Marilyn Monroe would smile, a cruel smile that nevertheless lit up her face and her bright blue eyes, and then slowly flutter away. She would be loved by millions, but she would, could never love back. Afterword The incident in the story may have happened. Marilyn told reporters a brief framework of this plot just after the release of her first successful film. While it may have been good press, and Marilyn was no stranger to press manipulation,(the nude calendar was no accident) there is something that makes us all ask, what made her tick? The 'seduction theory' as proposed by Sigmund Freud is still hotly debated by psychologists everywhere. It states in simple terms that almost all psychological problems faced by an adult has its roots in being molested when young. Freud himself is quoted as having said that many of the case-reports that he studied were the products of a delusional mind. Marilyn Monroe was a woman who bedded the President of the United States, slept with his brother, and captured the imagination of the entire world. At a time when newspapers should have been reporting a hard-pressed cold-war scenario, headlines flashed of Monroe's death in the front pages. Marilyn was beautiful. She was the sensuous sex icon of the 50s. But underneath it all, perhaps it was her zeal that we still relish, and love. -- Comments to qickless@fastmail.fm Definitive versions at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/qickless/www <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+