Cutler 01 - Dawn

wrist and turned them until I was on my back on the wooden floor.
    "Philip!" I cried. "Stop before it's too late."
    In one swift motion he slipped himself between my legs.
    "Dawn . . . don't be so frightened. I can’t help wanting to be with you. I thought I could try, but you’re too pretty. It doesn't have to mean anything,' he said gasping his words.
    I clenched, my hands into small fists and tried to pummel his head, but it was like a small bird slapping its wings against the snoot of a fox. He didn’t even acknowledge it; instead, he moved himself comfortably against me, his lips catching the soft flesh of my breast between them and nibbling his way over my bosom.
    Suddenly I felt his hardness press itself firmly against me until he forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh, which tore and bled.
    I screamed, not caring anymore if we were discovered and if Jimmy were found. The shock of feeling him inside me drove away any concern for anything but my own violated being. My piercing screech was enough to cause his retreat.
    "All right," he pleaded. "Stop. I'll stop." He drew back and stood up, quickly pulling up his underwear and pants and buckling his belt. I turned over on my stomach and cried into my arms, my body shaking.
    "Wasn't it good for you?" he asked softly, kneeling beside me. I felt his palm on my lower back. "At least now you have an idea of what it will be like."
    "Go away. Leave me alone, Philip. Please!" I cried through my tears.
    "It's just the shock of it all," he said. "All girls have the same reaction." He stood up. "It's all right," he repeated, more to convince himself, it seemed, than to convince me.
    "Dawn," he whispered. "Don't hate me for wanting you."
    "Just leave me alone, Philip," I demanded in a much sterner tone. There was another long pause and then I heard him open the bathroom door and leave.
    I turned over to be sure he was gone. This time I made sure the door was locked. Then I gazed down at myself. There were red blotches over my breasts and stomach where he had nibbled and sucked on me. I shuddered. His violation of me, although short, left me feeling unclean. The only way I could stop myself from sobbing was to step into the shower and let the now hot water run over my body, practically scalding my flesh. I endured the heat, feeling it was cleansing me and washing away the memory of Phillip’s fingers and kisses. I scrubbed myself with such intensity, I brought new red blotches, making my skin scream with pain. All during my shower my tears mixed in with the water, seeming to fall as freely. What had once held the promise of romantic ecstasy and wonder had now turned sordid and depraved. I scrubbed and scrubbed.
    Finally exhausted from the effort to wash away what had just happened, I stepped out of the shower and dried myself. I returned to my bedroom and feeling more tired than I could ever remember, lay down. I couldn’t cry anymore. I closed my eyes and fell asleep, awakening when I heard a gentle rapping at my door.
    He’s returned, I thought, my heart racing again. I decided to remain still and see if he would believe I was already gone. The knocking got louder, and then I heard, “Dawn?”
    It was my father. Had Phillip upset about my rebuffing him gone to him and told him about Jimmy? I got up slowly, my arms and legs as sore as would be had I been working out in a farm field all day. I put on my robe and opened the door.
    “Hi,” he said. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
    “I’m . . .” I wanted to tell him all of it, wanted to shout it out as a way of getting rid of the memory. I wanted to scream about all my violations, this sexual one being the most recent. I wanted to demand retribution, demand love and concern, demand to be treated like human being at least, if not a member of the family. But I could only look down and shake my head.
    "I'm very tired," I said.
    "Oh. I’ll see about getting you a day off."
    "Thank you."
    "I have something for you," my father said and reached into his breast pocket to pull out an envelope. "What's that?"
    "The receipt of delivery from the prison. Ormand Longchamp has your letter," he said. "I did what I promised."
    I took the receipt slowly from his hand and gazed upon the official signature. Daddy had received my letter and most likely had already set his eyes upon my words. At least now I could look forward hopefully to receiving his