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Message-ID: <48565asstr$1090537802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Just Like a Little Girl  (Mf MM inc nc rape reluc viol oral anal)
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Date: Thu, 22 Jul 2004 19:10:02 -0400
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JUST LIKE A LITTLE GIRL
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 2060
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov.
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



This was a horrible nightmare, and he was sure he'd wake up in his own
bed, in his own bedroom, with Kendra softly snoring beside him, and . . .

"COUNT!" The guard was rattling his truncheon along the bars as he
stomped down the long cellblock hallway.

It was time for morning count, and every inmate had to be on his feet,
to stand up and be counted. There was a chorus of curses and groans from
the nearby cells.

"On yer feet, Johnnie girl, the screw need t' see ya. Make sure y'
ain't flown the coop."

He shrank away from the hand grabbing at his ass. His cellmate leered
at him, then turned and spat on the cement floor.

John had been in administrative segregation for his first week at the
State Pen, and he'd just been released to the general population. He
wasn't sure how long he could survive here. The convicts in this joint
didn't much care for his sort.

It hadn't been so bad at first. He'd had a cell all to himself in admin
seg, visits from his lawyer, and even the food was almost passable. It was
all a terrible mistake, and surely his lawyer could get him out on bail
while the case was appealed. My gosh, it wasn't as if he'd done anything
really *bad*, such as embezzling his bank for instance. Just because he
liked little girls and then he'd been caught that one time . . .

The shower. On his third day here, he'd had to parade down to the communal
shower room with the other inmates in admin seg. There was a serenade
of catcalls and whistles from the old cons watching them through the
bars of their locked cells.

"Whooee! Look at them new fish. Nice ass on that one there. Like to get
into that one, surely would."

"Yeah, dat guy. I reconnize 'im from the TV news. He Johnny Bridewell,
da chile raper. He been doin' little girls, and now we gets our shot at
doin' *him*. After we maybe do a little plastic surg'ry on dat face o'
his, huh? Gonna do a little rapin' on his ass, yeah."

Rape? No! He hadn't actually used *force* on them. He'd just . . .


John demanded to see the warden.

"Sir, I've been threatened with violence and I need special protection.
I have a *right* to that. A constitutional right. And I *insist*."

"Why, sure, Mr. Millionaire Bank President. We'll be assigning you
your very own personal armed guard. Just as soon as the budget for it
is approved by the the state legislature, that is. Meanwhile, you'll
just have to watch your ass all by your lonely self. And you'd better
watch it very carefully. You pervs just aren't very popular in this here
establishment, you know."


They raped him in the shower. There was supposed to be a guard watching
the inmates there, but he disappeared after a few minutes. "He gotta
bottle, dat screw," one of the naked cons said. "Ain't gonna be back
for a good while, don' look like. Heya, fellas, showtime."

Two of the cons grabbed John. He tried to scream. (Ten-year-old Jennifer
had opened her mouth in a silent scream.) Someone stuffed a chunk of soap
into his mouth and a powerful hand clamped over his lips. (He had held
his hand over Jennifer's mouth and told her that this was their little
secret, and no one would believe her anyway.) He choked and gagged and
struggled to breathe through his nose as he felt himself being forced
to his knees and bent over forward and . . . and then there was a sharp
stab of pain down there, and it felt like someone was trying to shove
a bar of iron up into him, up into his guts.

"Naw, man. Ya gotta soap up yer cock real good and slick so it can slide
right in. Here, lemme show ya."

The pain wasn't as bad this time, but, but . . .

John sat on his bunk, sobbing, with his head in his hands. He was sore
and aching down there, but the worst part of it was knowing what had been
done to him. There was sticky white stuff seeping out of him in that
place and he felt torn open. His body had been violated, defiled. His
*manhood* had been taken from him. He was John Bridewell, a respected
banker, a man who'd lived in an expensive house in the suburbs, a man
with a wife and a daughter, a man who'd *loved* his daughter (maybe
loved her in the wrong way), a man who . . .

This was the first time in his life he had seriously considered killing
himself. He had taken off his prison-issue shirt and was trying to
fashion the sleeves into a semblance of a noose when hairy forearms
wrapped themselves around him from behind.

"You don't even want to *think* about that, shithead." It was Bart, the
guy who slept on the lower bunk. "I'd snuff ya myself for doin' all that
dirty stuff to them little girls, but lookee here, could be yer still
good for somepin. I got this hardon ya gonna suck off, and later on,
maybe I stick it in in yer round brown, what say?"

It appeared that John still had a destiny to fulfil on this earth of
ours -- and that was to be a receptacle for the lust of thugs and common
criminals. Could it be, could it be that this was somehow related to what
he himself had been doing to the girls, the neighbor girl down the street,
the daughter of his head clerk at the bank, and . . . had he somehow
*defiled* them with his own filthy lust? No! He must never think that
or he'd sink into a morass of despair and self-loathing. No! He didn't
*deserve* to be here, to suffer this . . . brutality and degradation.

He lay facedown on the bunk, whimpering like an animal in pain. He hadn't
wanted to go shower this morning, and had pleaded to be allowed to stay
behind. The guard had laughed.

The water was spurting from the showerheads and clouds of steam were
rising from the floor. A circle of menacing naked men surrounded John and
was slowly closing in on him. Now one of them had him in a headlock with a
shiv pressed against his throat, hoarsely whispering in his ear that he'd
get to like it, yeah, sure he'd get to like it by the hundredth time it
was done to him, or maybe the thousandth. And he felt that burning pain
down below. Six cons fucked him in the ass before the lookout called
out a warning that the guard was returning.

It hadn't hurt as much this time. Maybe he was becoming numb to the pain
or maybe he really *was* getting to like it. He didn't know. He didn't
want to think about it. But maybe he deserved it.  Maybe . . .


"I'm gonna do ya just like you was a little girl," Bart had growled at
him last night. Just like a little girl. A little girl. John remembered
a blonde little girl. She had been so sweet and innocent. He had just
wanted to show her his love, and what could be wrong with that? He had
been twenty at the time and had never had a woman. He had been afraid
of grown women. Then he got this idea. . . .


"Sorry," the lawyer said. "There's just not enough money left for an
appeal. And, in fact, I'm not sure how much longer our law firm can
continue to represent you, considering your present financial state. I
could put you in touch with Legal Aid, if you'd like."

"But my house! I netted a million and a half when I sold it. Free and
clear. There wasn't any mortgage on it. And the bonds and securities. At
least another couple of million. And the summer cottage, and the boat,
and . . . Hey, I was well off before . . . Where could all the money
have gone?"

"You know how expensive a criminal defense is, especially for a
major case. It was a four week trial and we had to pay all those
psychiatrists and expert witnesses to testify. And then we had to settle
the civil suits with the families of your . . . ah, victims, and there
really wasn't all that much left after that. And your wife, after she
divorced you, you know, she was awarded pretty much everything still
remaining. Sorry, guy. Your net worth right at this moment is maybe a
couple of thousand. And there are still those outstanding bills you owe
my office. Not to mention taxes and the like. It's not too soon, in fact,
to start giving thought to filing for bankruptcy."

"So, I'm effectively flat broke, not to mention stuck in prison for the
foreseeable future."

"John, you were sentenced to twenty to life. Theoretically, that means
you're eligible for parole twenty years from now, but . . ."

"But what?"

"With this local parole board . . . I don't know. Child molestation
is always a tough one. It's worse than murder in most people's eyes.
I don't think you should be getting your hopes up even for twenty years."

"But what, what if I say I'm sorry? What if I wrote letters of apology
to the . . . the girls and their parents, the victims . . .? What if I
wrote letters to the newspapers telling how I'm repenting for what I did,
and how children should be protected from depraved people like me, and
that pedophilia is sick, a pathological aberration, that child molesters
are monsters, and . . . ?"

"Well, John, it's a little late to come to that realization. No,
I don't think it would have any significant effect toward securing
your freedom. But it could be very important in freeing you in another
sense. I'm talking about your personal salvation. It might make it
possible for you to live with yourself for these 20 or 30 or 40 years
you'll be spending in this place. And you know, it could make the world
a little safer for children to grow up in."


Forever. He'd be in jail until he died. Or maybe they'd let him out
fifty years from now, when all memory of what he'd done had faded. When
he was an old man confined to a wheelchair, fit for release only to a
nursing home.

Well, at least life had improved for him here. He wasn't being gang
raped in the shower any more. Bart had become his protector.

"Lissen, sweet cheeks. Youse belong to me now, y'hear? You're *property*,
get it? I own you. But look at it this way, I take care of what's
mine. Good care. Won't let the scumbags hereabouts mess wit' tcha."

Bart was a horny fellow. He stuck it into John's ass two, sometimes
three times a night. But then there were those nights when he left John
alone. Merciful, blessed peace.

It really wasn't so bad any more. Not even when Bart rented him
out to one of the other cons. Bart charged a carton of Marlboros for
John to give a blowjob. Three cartons for taking it in the ass ("Worth
it. Better'n fuckin' a pussy."). Once a guy had asked what it would cost
to fist John. Bart had laughed. "I gotta think hard on that. Maybe ten
cartons. You could tear his gut open doin' that sort of thing. Hell,
I surely don' want my cash cow ruint. Gotta think on it."

Sure, it wasn't really all that bad. Life could have been worse. You know,
it didn't even much hurt any more when he took it in the ass. Bart lubed
himself up with hair oil before putting it into him, and he'd learned
to relax his asshole as the cock went in. No, it really wasn't that bad
at all. Kind of comforting, actually. He could get to really like it,
given enough time. And he had all the time in the world.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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