LOLITA DREAMS

Feature Writer: Silvio Stoker

Feature Title:  Lolita Dreams


Story Codes: M/g, M/f, MMM/gg; Pedo, Caution


Copyright: (C) 2000, Silvio Stoker. ALL Rights Reserved
Link: http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Sergdriver/www/index.htm

Synopsis: Terrible brutal life of Russian children among perverts – This story is a work of fiction / Gerhard Ratstropf’s perverted young bride wants to visit Russia to see firsthand how sexy the little girls they’ve glimpsed at a sleazy website are in real life. “His hand crept between her legs, feeling her flower through the pantyhose, and she moaned, softly. His touch was very different from her uncle’s, and even though she couldn’t like him, her cunny did – it made her feel like a woman. Then he told her that she wanted him to put his penis in her mouth, and that he needed to do that, too. She knew girls did that and she wanted to see what it looked like. He kept caressing her and whispering how much she wanted it. Her crotch was damp and he slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she kissed him back, her mouth watering. Then he lowered her to the floor and undid his pants. She knelt between his thighs.

Author’s Notes: Marty Clemm also appears in my “Tails,” and Brunnhilde Him’s father, Joachim Him, lurks behind the early story “Him.” Below are vignettes rather than a full-blooded tale – if you like these subjects, see “Laika,” another story taking virtual reality as a diving board, and my novel – Lives of the Great Waifs / This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Lolita Dreams

My father made me go with other men when I was four. He hurt me when I was a baby – my hole – with a spoon, the handle of a wooden spoon. When I was three, he raped me with a stick and started to fuck my rectum.

He would get drunk – or he could get angry, when there was nothing to drink, or he could be both angry and drunk – and he would hold me down and stick the neck of a bottle with oil in it in me. Then he hurt me with his thing and fucked me. He made me love him – I loved him – with my mouth, and he fed me and hurt me.

I hurt, and my father made it hurt less, fucking me until I couldn’t feel anything anymore. He fed me feces. He went in my face and hit me with his fist. I put it in my hole when I was four. He oiled it and held his thing. He held my hip and his thing and went in me.

When I was thirsty, I drank my pee. He gave me to other men. I didn’t know where I was. A man fed me food and cleaned me in the snow. He fucked me – my rectum – and let me drink his pee. He kept me in a shed that was warm from a cow and gave me milk. I hurt my hole with a wooden thing and the man put a knitting needle in my pee hole. Then he took me back to father.

I missed the milk. Other men licked my face and hit me between the legs. Then I was in the shed again, and the man who did nothing to me came and hurt the man with the cow and they – I don’t know who they were – put me in the hospital, and then I was put in the orphanage.

I was very happy there. No one hurt me except the other children, and I was given food and paints and paper. When I was six, a man who spoke no Russian came and took pictures of me. He wanted me to go with other men – but he gave me good food and fancy dresses. I was afraid that he would hurt me like my father had, but he was with another man who said what he said in Russian, and the man who took pictures of me told me that he would not hurt me.

He said that my father had been a bad man. Fathers must love their daughters and not hurt them. He told me that I was pretty and showed me pictures of pretty girls lifting their fancy dresses to show how pretty they were. I showed him my hole – and he licked it! This made me want his thing in me. I asked him to put it in, and the Russian man told him to fuck me. I was crying because my body was crazy. They put jelly in my hole and the man who spoke no Russian held my hands and put his penis in.

It felt nice. He squirted in there, and then the Russian man took me to another room. He tied my hands behind my back and put me on my knees. He put jelly in my rectum and raped me.

His name was Styopa. He would come to the orphanage and take the prettiest girls to an apartment high above the city. He always took me because I am beautiful. I cried sometimes, but I loved him. I wanted him like a woman, but that hole was too small for him. He did it in my bottom.

It stopped hurting so much when I was seven. The other children at the orphanage were afraid of him and left me alone. Only the prettiest girls went with him. He gave us fancy dresses and the orphanage gave us more food, but when I started getting fat Styopa made me stop eating.

A year after he first raped me, the man who had spoken no Russian came to see us again. I was seven and a half. He spoke some Russian then. His name was Marty. He remembered me. He said that I was the most beautiful young woman he had ever been with. I spent a month in the apartment high above the city. He was small enough to use my hole. He put jelly in it and made love to me. He put it in my mouth and rectum, too.

Marty taught me to be sexy and took lots of pictures of me. I wore a school uniform and carried textbooks. He pretended to be my teacher and I had to make him want me. I was supposed to act shy and ashamed of my body, but I peeled a banana and fondled the bedpost. He scared me to make me cry. He made me tell him what my father had done and said he would do those things to me, but then he said he had only wanted me to look frightened.

Under the uniform I had on white stockings and a garter, filmy panties and a bra I didn’t need. I took a stocking off and stared into the camera, cradling my naked foot. He told me to pretend it was a penis and took many pictures of me fondling my foot. I sucked my big toe, staring into the lens. He took close-ups of my dirty green eyes, and then he gave me a green banana. I untied my red kerchief and made it into a bandanna. I unbuttoned my lacy blouse and begged him to lick my nipples. I felt like a filthy animal. He said that everyone would see how pretty I was.

When I started crying, he told me to get dressed again and brought in Sveta. She was from the orphanage, but I didn’t know her. She was much older than I was, eleven, and lived in another room. Sveta had never been there before.

She cried until they gave her some pills. She was very pretty like me, but she stank. I’m a blonde, and Sveta was a brown-eyed brunette with skin the color of tuna fish flesh. She was a virgin, but boys had kissed her and gone in her mouth. They took off her shoes and put her in the bed. Sveta had on the clothes she wore att the orphanage, second-hand jeans and a striped T-shirt. Her socks were dirty and had holes in them.

She struggled, and Styopa had to hit her in the face. They gave her more pills and wiped away her tears, then told me that she was my sister and made me get into bed with her. I didn’t want to be that kind of girl, but maybe she was. They gave me pills that made me feel happy, and then they told us to kiss. She tasted bad, but I liked kissing her. It got Styopa and Marty excited. Then they started taking pictures, and we were ashamed.

Marty made me take her socks off and suck her stinky toes. They were salty and she had dirt under her toenails, but I wanted Marty to love me and I like having things in my mouth. Sveta liked it, too. They gave us more pills and we took our clothes off, kissing. Sveta was cold and clammy, and her cunny was pissy. She had sores on her chest and tiny breasts. She suckled me, and then they took close-ups of her to show that she was a virgin.

They gave her a lot of pills, but Sveta still struggled and they had to rape her in the rectum. She was tame after that, like a rag doll. Sveta had a skinny butt and the hole was beautiful, hurt. Marty made love to me while Styopa took her to the toilet. He gave her an enema and we spent the next hour taking pictures of her ass. I licked it and played with her cunny. She liked that.
We took a break, and then Styopa introduced us to Seryozha. He was a professional photographer, too. Sveta and I were dressed again and undressed, sucking our toes some more, and then Marty and Styopa took her virginity and sandwiched her. They whipped her until she acted sexy – and I fell in love with her.

She was docile, passive, but soon she wanted to be pretty. They gave her a shot in the arm. She knew that everyone would see her like that. By the end of the evening, Sveta liked it in her rectum. She was like a zombie, so beautiful. Other men came and her body began to seek cock, moaning when there was nothing in her mouth, needing them. They didn’t sandwich me, but I sucked a lot of men and got butt fucked again and again. I was bleeding, but I needed it in my butt like Sveta did.

The pain floated to the surface, and I needed daddy inside. I went limp and stopped bawling, lying there until someone took me and fucked my bowels. They gave me a shot, too, and everything seemed so swift, like a fierce wind. I licked Sveta’s hand while she stuffed it in and out of her cunny, and Styopa gave me the green banana again. I knew where it went, in and out of my ass.

They took it away and sodomized me until morning, until my body was inside-out. I had hit bottom, and my brains were addled, my soul like scrambled eggs, rectal, where nothing hurt anymore except my beauty, Sveta sticking the banana in her mouth and moaning.

xxxxx

Gerhard Ratstropf wasn’t big. He wasn’t big in any way. He was a kleiner Mann who owned an Imbiss or two, selling mediocre Currywurst and an especially foul spiced wine in the Fussgängerzone of dreary Wilmersdorf and in the middle of nowhere, in even drearier Wedding, and so he picked on people who were smaller than him – on girls, specifically – young women – and he called it love. He was a Wessi, of course, but his wife was an Ossi. Brunnhilde Him – yup, that was her name – had led a fairly decent existence before the fall of the Wall, and decency was her main concern.

Gerhard was an indecent man, and she had had enough of him. She married him because she met him at the Kasperle in the Moabit after she’d already had a gallon of Korn, and on that particular night Gerhard hadn’t even been horny, or he was anyway too drunk to get it up.

His horniness confined to a sort of in-your-face give-yourself-to-me-because-I’m-here, in your face, sort of approach, for thou art nothing and nothing you shall become, and so Brunnhilde, who had had a bad hair day, accompanied Herr Ratstropf to Zum Humpen and then to a nameless hole where men drank until they fell down and were woken up in the morning and given a shot of some Kräuterliqueur and a coffee, or Schultheiss if they so desired, and ushered out the door for another day of work, which they spent in a miraculous daze which makes you wonder how a country which takes such dissolute individuals in stride could ever have suffered a Wirtschaftswunder or created the comforting and maybe even divine sound of a door slamming snugly upon a Mercedes.

Anyway, Brunnhilde was out of sorts, but unlike many a person watered at that shady trough, she stayed awake even as her companion collapsed after having diced for drinks with immoderate success, resulting in a liberal flow of liquor on the decrepit house. Brunnhilde remained standing, and when six o’clock came and the bartender, a buxom Bavarian woman, woke the creatures who were sleeping on the floor and supplied them with a fresh dose of their favorite poison, Brunnhilde was still there – much to the surprise of Gerhard Ratstropf, who hadn’t really been able to look at her.

Alcohol had no effect on the woman, or her tolerance was as high as the silver ball of the TV tower visible from the Turmstrasse, which used to be in forbidden territory or anyway territory that required effort and got you peered at by cruel men in spiffy uniforms. Brunnhilde was fucking
beautiful, Gerhard realized, clearing his lupine eyes with Campari of all things, surprised that they had it on hand, mixed with Gerolsteiner Sprudel and served by Elke, the Bavarian lush, who was eager to see everyone off and collapse herself.

So Brunnhilde Him and Gerhard Ratstropf returned to Zum Humpen, where a less degenerate crowd was downing the hair of the dog and drinking coffee or beer. The weird thing about Germany is that some perfectly respectable people sit around sipping hard liquor at seven o’clock in the morning. Zum Humpen is not exactly a respectable place, but in the mornings it is something of an oasis, and an oasis is what it is because its customers come from everywhere within walking distance – or by motorized camel, if you will. Not that Brunnhilde or Gerhard were in any way respectable.

Brunnhilde was only sixteen, for one, and she was the daughter of the notorious Joachim Him, who also happened to own a couple of seedy hot dog stands but was a professor, too, a questionable professor maybe, but a professor, one who dabbled in darkness. Like I (your humble narrator) said, Brunnhilde was interested in decency.

I did not say that she meant to abide by it. It was to her a dubious thing, what with the Stasi having been the height of decency for a time, except to a few scattered romantics and the like – political people. The East was a lie, but a comfortable lie – not a luxurious lie by any means, but Wohlstand can get a bit boring to a girl like her. It was not a curious lie. She was as incurious about the East as she would be about an onion – only it was a fallen onion, and inedible.

Its peelings would long be found in Kinder and kitchen and crumbling church, because everybody with anywhere to go had long ago left the East and only the rot remained, Rot, and she had other latifundia. Her father was in the skin trade, her mother a commissar. Brunnhilde was bored. The Gymnasium bored her, and soon Gerhard Ratstropf bored her – but that was after she had become Frau Ratstropf. Brunnhilde Him married him because he liked young girls, and once she discovered that he was chickenshit she abandoned him. She had a chip on her lovely shoulder.

And Ratstropf – he fell apart. For she was exquisite! How many such flawless mannequins do you have in your acquaintance, who go to such watering holes and stay till you awaken, and are young enough to look like they could slip from such a place into some sinister convent, unnoticed?

Whose anus appears to be virgin but opens upon a thirsty abyss? That was what she was to him. So, after the divorce, he fell apart, and, being a good soul, Brunnhilde would agree to meet him – he arranged these meetings at Zum Humpen, as if it had been the site of some Arabian romance, a romance which had never really occurred except in the ecstasy of alcohol and its sister memory, the specifics forgotten (not in their essence forgotten, but the circumstances long gone to Lethe for Brunnhilde – and for Gerhard, too.

For the both of them had a sick tendency to seek secrets, and their sole reasons for speaking with anyone were to crack a nut, to dig around and find a way to make a man or woman vomit the thing or things that kept them from life, as they themselves were not in life – they had hope, and hope is the opposite of life). So they met again, differently, after the divorce, for they hoped for nothing in each other.

Brunnhilde Ratstropf – she had not restored her former name, for her father was anathema to her – knew very well that her ex-husband was into kids. They had been married for three whole years, one of them legally, and it only takes a knowing glance or a study of the bedroom timbres.

Brown study, blue funk, she saw that the man who had uplifted her was geisteskrank. He looked at little girls like he wanted to eat them. He didn’t eat them only because it would land him in prison, which seemed to her a very bad reason, for he had already imprisoned himself in fear, and he looked like a worn two-headed coin. He took trips to Thailand, later Cambodia, but that was not what he wanted. He wanted to rape someone with an extensive vocabulary in his mother tongue.

Someone whose eyes invited him in and who had the same gods he did – only he had lost his gods.

The tails of his coin were abscondite. Woe is me. Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi. Gerhard Ratstropf was a shifty-eyed shit who thought he had fallen in love with this Brunnhilde because she had left him. Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi. She was never there. That a body writhes beneath you does not make it yours, and Gerhard was a little boy who wanted everything to be his. Brunnhilde was not a thing, and he suffered for it. But, like I said, she was a good soul, and so she let him cry on her shoulder and enjoyed many a soliloquy in various disreputable bars off the Turmstrasse.

By that time all of the travel agencies had little signs saying nein to the less savory trips to Thailand – savory to whom – and men like Gerhard were anyway always sad. Forsooth, he was not seeking a child, and would have done himself a favor by a sticking a gun in his mouth and firing it, for what he sought was probably unavailable long before he was screwed up enough to seek it – it was a part of himself, and the world is so composed that men like Gerhard Ratstropf cannot find themselves until they blow their heads off. Of this, Brunnhilde was certain.

But it was she who suggested the journey. Thailand was out – another nice thing about Germany is that its agents crawl around the Rif writing down license plate numbers and do a lot of digging in Bangkok, making certain that the Staatsbürger do not spend the fruits of prosperity on forbidden fruit, importing kif or lazing about in Siamese bagnios with spoiled toddlers.

Thailand and Morocco have governments, Brunnhilde reasoned – but Russia does not. It may yet get one: Vovochka looks promising, what with the old Soviet anthem coming back and the KGBeshniks nosing around in the newspaper offices – but, as it stood, Anno Domini nineteen hundred and ninety-nine, men like Gehrard Ratstropf and his erstwhile wife could crawl around the Kuzbass with impunity if they so dared, impregnating pubescents and wreaking havoc in pretty little heads as long as they could pay for it – and such kids were cheap. Dirt cheap.

xxxxx

Yelena Ivanovna was eleven when men began to touch her. She’d been kissed by boys – she’d even let an older boy unbutton her blouse, once, and it felt nice, even though she was nervous and embarrassed by her lack of breasts – but she liked them, or at least she liked how they made her feel.

That wasn’t true with her uncle. Yelena had been spanked before, too, by her father, and sometimes whipped, but he hadn’t been cruel to her. It wasn’t sexual, either, and it hadn’t happened often. He had punished her for doing badly in school, and later for stealing, and after her mother had left him, he did it when he was drunk and angry.

She loved him, though, and she was very sad when he died, and having to go live with her uncle afterwards made Yelena even sadder. She’d never liked her mother’s brother – if she’d been older, she might not even have loved her mother – and after Ivan Sergeevich died (he drank something that was supposed to be vodka, and almost everyone he was with then died, too), Yelena had to go live with Maksim.

Uncle Maksim’s wife was long gone, and Yelena’s new guardian lived alone in a squalid wooden house at a slight distance from the village, which consisted mostly of such houses and brick apartment blocks from the Khruschev era, reminiscent of American housing projects; a grocery store that often had nothing to sell but dubious vodka and cheap unfiltered cigarettes; a bathhouse; a disco decorated with murals in the social realist style, showing triumphant peasants led to prosperity and liberty by a keen Lenin; a cafeteria which served kasha and gristle; a store that sold what hardware was available, cheap clothes and shoes that fit no one; an ugly memorial to the victims of fascism and a picturesque old cemetery near a dilapidated mansion once occupied by the noble exploiters of the working class and the peasantry alike.

There was a school built during the _stagnatsiya_ under Brezhnev, when everything was as stagnant as the pond near the mansion, and there was nothing else. The surrounding forests were deep and delightful, the men were drunk, their wives hunted them down when they hid in various gutted dwellings and drank, and Yelena knew the village like the back of her beautiful hand.

It bored her. Even the woods bored her, and even springtime had begun to bore her, the fabulous Russian springtime one hears in Stravinsky. She was like a lonely flower, lovely and lonely and rare – so lonely. She had friends, and she wasn’t the prettiest girl in the village, which was not in any way an uncommon village. There are villages like hers everywhere where Soviet power extended and sputtered out at last, dying with a whimper and buried with an onslaught of trash from the West, little of which trickled into places like hers. What did came in the cruel hands of evil men in leather jackets, and girls like Yelena looked up to them even as their fathers or guardians grumbled about the old days.

Yelena was self-centered and precocious, and even that wasn’t rare – Russians have a tendency to spoil their daughters, especially if they’re pretty, and she was pretty enough to be very aware of her own beauty early on. What set her apart was the intensity of this awareness. She didn’t live in the village. She lived in the looking glass, in the certainty that some prince would pluck her. The trouble is that wildflowers are available to all, and their was no guarantee that a prince would happen by. It was even unlikely, even if her prince could possibly be a bad man with a crew cut and cellphone and cruel eyes that would melt when he looked at her.

She had grown up in one of the more modern if shabby apartment blocks, and didn’t look forward to that aspect of life with Maksim Sergeevich, either, because she liked to take baths. Her uncle had only a well, which meant she would have to go to the bathhouse – Fridays were for men and Saturdays for women – and she was self-conscious. Since she’d let the boy unbutton her blouse, Yelena had budded, her hips widening slightly and bumps appearing where her breasts would be. She had no hair yet, but she loved to stare at her slender body and dream of the man who would possess.

Her father had beaten her silly when he’d found out about the boy – they’d been seen – and it had taught her a lesson. She understood now that she couldn’t trust herself with boys. If the babushka hadn’t run and told her father, who knows what Ivan Borisovich would have done. He was fourteen, and she’d been only nine, and yet she would have let him go further – she was excited, and couldn’t stop him – and Yelena knew that she had to preserve her virginity for the prince. She still flirted, and it excited her to be stared at, but she mustn’t lose her head, or she might lose her maidenhead.

Her uncle started touching her on the night of her father’s funeral. He was falling-down drunk, and Yelena was grieving, and Maksim Sergeevich took her in his lap to comfort her. Then he slid his callused hand under her frilly black skirt and started kissing her, stroking her skinny thigh. She didn’t struggle. She felt nauseous, and let him paw her, and he let her go and passed out. She cried herself to sleep, and he didn’t touch her again until the following week. He was drinking with his friend Vanya and made her sit in his lap.

It was much worse with another man there, and Yelena wept, and her uncle said that she was a slut to think that he would do anything to her. Then he spanked her. Her father had never pulled down her panties to spank her, but her uncle did, in front of his friend.

She screamed and tried to escape but he held her firmly, spanking her until she went pee, then petting his little bed-wetter’s buttocks and making her drop her leg to see if she was a woman yet. She almost died when he fingered her delicate flower, stroking the petals and teasing her anus. Vanya could see everything, she knew, and she heard his breathing despite her sobs, and felt her uncle’s cock stiffen in his filthy pants, under her, and her slit grew damp, and her uncle moistened his finger and slid it into her rectum.

Yelena went limp, and he masturbated her like that, whispering to her about how he knew about the boy she’d been with and how her father had worried that she’d turn out to be a whore, and how if she told anyone she’d be taken away and sent to the orphanage in the city, where men would make her a whore whether she wanted to be one or not. The eleven-year-old wanted to die, and yet his finger made Yelena whimper in a way that made her even more ashamed, and then she came. He let her go, and the girl ran to her room and threw herself into her bed and sobbed until she couldn’t anymore.

She thought about running away, but she knew what happened to little girls who ran away. The older girls at school whispered about the pimps who caught them before they left the train stations in Moscow and St. Petersburg and made them give themselves to men for money, and how if they ran away again the girls who were already whores would stick bottles in their vaginas and make it so that no one would ever want them.

Yelena wanted to be wanted, but wondered whether to wait for the prince. She wanted to wash, but she lay in bed not daring to go back through the room where Vanya and her uncle were still drinking, trying desperately to think of someone who would help her. If she was a little older, maybe she could find a boyfriend.

A fourteen-year-old village girl had been seduced by one of the men who brought Marlboros to the grocery store. Many things were appearing in the village, like Marlboros, things from far away, things only the men with leather jackets and cellphones could afford, and there were so few of these men – they only passed through.

She thought about seducing one, but knew it was impossible. She was only eleven years old, and anyone could see that. She was a child. But Yelena knew that what had happened with her uncle would happen again and again, and it would get worse – and where he put his finger had given her a horrible revelation.

Even if he didn’t pluck her flower, he would ruin her. She suddenly wanted to stay virgin, not only in her vagina but in her soul. What men did was monstrous. Some of the girls captured in the train stations were sent to where the fancy things came from, to Germany and America and even Japan. If she thought she would be, she would have tried to run.

She might also get there through the orphanage. She’d heard that, too. But Yelena thought that the men who would want her – to adopt her, as it were – would want her to be pure. She wasn’t even any longer sure she was pretty enough. She knew the sort of girls such men wanted – blondes, mostly, and Yelena had light brown hair and brown eyes. She had a nice face, a very nice face, and she thought her body was beautiful, too, slender but muscular – but what would happen to it if men turned her into a whore?

There were a few whores in the village, and only one of them was pretty. Women wilted when they were plucked.

Yelena played with her flower for the first time. It was like a desperate prayer, watering her flower. She fantasized about the boy who had unbuttoned her blouse, at first, about how she’d felt then – and then she remembered what her uncle had said about becoming a whore. The whole village knew about the boy. He hadn’t even liked her. He only did it because she let him, because he knew that she was that kind of girl.

Yelena was ashamed. Her uncle had made her come, too, and in that awful way, and it wasn’t normal. She knew what an orgasm was. She’d never had one before, but she knew. Her anus was sore, and the tender folds of her flower hurt from her urine. He’d called her a bed-wetter, which she wasn’t – she’d always been clean. She hadn’t even touched her vagina before – it was dirty. Yelena sniffed her fingers, sniffling, then put them in her mouth.

She was incredibly aroused, and thought about Sveta, the fourteen-year-old who’d run off with the man, and then about the man, imagining him seeing her like this, so obscene. Would he want her then?

Vanya had wanted her. She’d heard his heavy breathing while her uncle raped her with his finger. Yelena took her panties off and lifted her skirt, drooled onto her slender fingers and lifted her skirt, writhing.

Did all men like to do what her uncle had done? He wanted to put his penis in there! She’d felt how big it was, and knew it must hurt, and the idea was so disgusting. She drew her legs up and fingered the dirty opening, her head back, fondling her throat, and wormed a wet finger into the filthy hole.

Gasping, Yelena slid the finger out and rubbed her slit, farting, rocking her hips, stroking her throat and rubbing her crotch until it came, shuddering, impossible pleasure shooting through her belly and pelvis like oil pressed from a sunflower, sudden, her fingers closing around her throat and a warm wind kicking up between her outstretched thighs, bringing rain.

The next morning was the first of September, when school begins and school girls in Russia are dolled up and paraded through the streets. It’s a strange event, a true celebration. Yelena went to the well and fetched water, her uncle snoring loudly in his bedroom and Vanya crashed out on the couch.

Quietly, the child closed the kitchen door and heated water on the propane stove, mixing it with more cold water to obtain a cool bath, standing in the plastic washtub and cleaning herself, dreading the possibility that her uncle or his friend might wake and look for more vodka. They didn’t, and Yelena was so relieved that she almost forgot the horror of the previous evening.

She put on white pantyhose and a black velvet dress with a white lace collar, and she looked lovely, studying herself in the mirror. When she had finished, Vanya was getting up. He stared at her and smiled sheepishly – and it crossed her mind that if she had to suffer, she would prefer to suffer with him, and not her uncle.

Certainly he had once been good-looking, and he hadn’t done anything to her, and his son was nice, too – a friend of the boy she’d been with.

It was early, and Yelena was glad that her uncle was not awake. She found a clean glass, filled it with vodka, and brought it to Vanya. He thanked her – and he was really grateful, and he looked at her, too, appreciatively, and Yelena loved to be appreciated.

Vanya said her uncle was no good, and Yelena felt the man’s hazy eyes undress her, and then he asked her to sit in his lap. Yelena obeyed, nervous, and Vanya whispered nice things to her, then kissed her. She couldn’t stop him because she
didn’t want to wake her uncle.

He tasted like black tobacco and alcohol. She didn’t kiss back, at first, but she started to get warm, and then he told her that he’d never seen such a beautiful rump. His hand crept between her legs, feeling her flower through the pantyhose, and Yelena moaned softly – his touch was very different from her uncle’s, and even though she couldn’t like him, her cunny did – it made her feel like a woman. Then he said that she wanted him to put his penis in her mouth, and that he needed to, too.

She didn’t want to, but that wasn’t as scary as what her uncle wanted to do or what she’d thought Vanya would want. She knew girls did that and she wanted to see what it looked like. He kept caressing her and whispering how much she wanted it. Her crotch was damp and he slipped his tongue into her mouth, and Yelena kissed him back, her mouth watering. Then he lowered her to the floor and undid his pants.

Yelena knelt between his thighs. Part of her wanted it, and part of her felt like the whole world had crouched low on her little chest. She stared at it – and it stank. He told her to kiss it, and suddenly she heard her uncle stirring in his bedroom. Vanya grabbed her when she tried to get away.

It tasted bad, but it made her feel better, like she wasn’t there. Puling, she let him fuck her face, and then her uncle was there, jeering – and he did it, too. They came in her mouth, first her uncle, then his friend, and she choked on their semen, and then they gave her vodka and took off her clothes. She felt dead. Beautiful, but dead.

Maksim Sergeevich put her on her hands and knees and poured sunflower oil into her crack, and then they fucked her in the rectum. Yelena howled, yet it made her feel good, too, as if they were peeling her reflection from her flesh, and they gave her more vodka, fucking her butt and making her suck them.

She missed the first day of school, and by mid-afternoon she didn’t want to run away anymore, or couldn’t. That part of her was theirs, and it was like a broken doll, and Yelena Ivanovna didn’t care about anything except being left alone, and they left her alone, and then she was lonely, lamenting life in the village and existence itself.

She missed a week of school, and when they sent her back to the dismal building which once had made her so happy, it didn’t make her happy anymore. Everyone knew what she had done. The next day she didn’t go, going to the dilapidated mansion instead, where some of the other waifs would gather, and by that evening Yelena has truly become a whore. One of the tractor drivers from the collective farm had gone in her mouth, and a man who lazed about in front of the grocery store had given her vodka in exchange for a blow job.

No one called the ‘militsiya’ because there were other girls like her, and they knew about the boy who’d taken off her blouse, and what could be proven about her uncle if he had a niece like that. She would only be sent to the orphanage, where the same things would happen only worse, and Yelena Ivanovna was lost. Her uncle made her buy vodka with her body and she began to drink, too, and all she had left was her hymen, which didn’t matter to her anymore. She no longer had orgasms, either. She never washed and dragged herself between her uncle’s hovel and Vanya’s and the abandoned mansion, and people pitied her or were revolted by her. But then, in the nick of time, in early November, which was weirdly warm that year, Yelena was rescued.

Volodya, who stood above all of the other strange angels with crew cuts and cellphones who visited the village, his leather jacket more supple and the fear he inspired as palpable as spirits, grain neutral spirits, came into the mansion one morning, looking for girls. He found Yelena huddled with two other young girls and a bevy of boys who tried to look tough until they saw him. They ran away, but the girls stared at him, waiting. He was like a messenger from another world. He gave the trio a Marlboro each and complimented their appearance. There was a photographer interested in girls like them, Volodya said. Did they want to be models?

Oksana, at thirteen the eldest damsel in the troika, knew what he meant; Yelena suspected; and the third maiden, Masha, who was only ten, had no idea of what he was talking about. She was a virgin to boot, blond and blue-eyed like the girls Yelena imagined were sent into a mystical slavery.

Yelena had started to ponder flight once again. Anything would be better than her life then. Oksana and Yelena agreed to pose, so Masha did, too. Volodya gave them each a few rubles and told them to be at the mansion the next day.

xxxxx

Marty Clemm had been enjoying Russia and its former satellites and slave states for many years. He was a zero, basically, the sort of person who pushes his throat towards you when he talks, makes you want to pick his Adam’s apple, swaying while his eyes look down at you inebriated with a sense of self-importance, scum, he was scum, he was the sort of scum you meet at last call.

He had failed in everything and had a reason for everything, he rationalized the human condition, he was an asshole who thrust only his throat at you because he was scared shitless of anyone who approached him, because he harbored unspeakable desires and hadn’t the means to obtain them, he needed kids, he needed kids ’cause he was a kid, a Peter Pan, he’d had bad toilet training and had never become a man and our society does not demand manhood, Marty Clemm could survive as well any other virus, he charmed you, you made last call, he drank a double on you, what he spoke of was even enticing because he never spoke of it, he hid his desires like a girl, he loved girls, young girls, girls too young to have titties or who had only a semblance of such, of such suchness, succulent.

He could worm his way into any girl wild enough to stray near him, but few did, and those who did were too wild and were bored, dead bored, because Marty had long ago lost whatever it was that made people want him, they didn’t want him.

It was between the lines and under the words, under even the whispers when the double entendre doubled back and he slid his hand down your back or slapped it, he slapped it if you were a guy, are you a guy. And you looked at him and it was like looking at somebody you didn’t have to look at, no matter what you were, and Marty knew it, it made him cocky ’cause he was too pathetic even to kill, even girls didn’t wanna listen to him, he promised nothing, only himself.

A hundred and seventy or eighty pounds of sedentary skin and bones and dubious sinew, sallow, his eyes could spring a trap because he wanted you so much, needed you, down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel, pathos, oh and even bathos, he was a charmer was Marty, the bartender did last call but stayed and let you stay, she looked into everyone’s faces to make certain that they weren’t fuzz, the bar stayed open and you bought Marty another drink because you were feeling worse than he was, the light lit, low.

You were feeling worse than he was but you could never be like him, I hope, he was the kind of guy you wanna smash his face in, you were feeling low and the lights were turned down low and gorgeous over there was pouring drinks on the house, and gorgeous she was gorgeous but not for you, you like girls, not women, and though you appreciated her pours and the way she reacted to the guys slavering at her tits you don’t like tits, and the more you drank, it was after two, the more you wished Marty Clemm would go away or turn into a girl, but he didn’t, and he got shots on the house, too, ’cause he was with you, and you left to do whatever it is you do, and I’ll tell you what Marty did.

He went home and waded through his darkroom. He got sick of what he saw. He had thousands of pictures of girls like Yelena, intact and partially intact, ravished and ravaged, slightly damaged or badly broken, or put back together if they could be. Several Svetas and numberless Natashas, images that could be construed as legal.

The girls taken out into the woods or lolling by a livid sea, their little hands hiding their entrances suggestively, their sores concealed with cosmetics or airbrushed out, the gamma shifted to shadow their bruises. These were the photographs that brought filthy lucre – the others, the ones where the girls appeared in all their sordid glory, went to a select few or were for his eyes only, dark eyes.

There were a few women among his victims – young women, even ten or eleven years old. By women I mean children who were aware of another world, a world not necessarily formed in love but one not formed in fear, or skirting fear, skirts lifted, weird and winged, escaping even him despite the camera. Even him.

THE END