Untitled

How does one title an entry like this? I don't think it is possible. What follows is raw and unedited. It is pieced together from fragmented memories, sifted and extracted from the falsified history that was laid down. It's not a cry for help, it's not a statement or testimony. It's not an accusation. It is what I have pieced together about my truth, the real truth, and my history. It's not for pity, it's for my own healing. 

Before anyone continues, this serves as your official trigger warning. 

I remember the fear. I wasn't nervous, but I was afraid. I never wanted to upset or anger him. I think that is the root of my fear of letting men down. 

There are times that room is just a black hole in my mind, but other times certain details are as clear and crisp as a high def picture. 

What they did to me, their voices, the words. I remember associating curse words with them and somewhere in my 13 or 14 year old brain being afraid of anyone who cursed because they cursed. 

In the darkness of the night, the pitch black, I am hit with the heavy smell of urine and my stomach lurched, and I am sitting up in bed with my wonderful husband next to me, that 15 year old forced to sleep in a puddle of her own urine is gone. 

There is very little I remember about the actual acts when you take into account how long this went on for. In some ways I am thankful for that, but in other ways I am not. 

Any time I have a flash of true memory, I am overwhelmed by the crippling sense of fear. The putrid stench of death fills the sensory memories. I do not know the true number of times I was close to death, just to be brought back. Oh, how often I prayed for that sweet kiss of death, to end the life I saw no way out of. 

I lost count of the hundred dollar bills that were thrown into the puddles on the floor, told to gather them with my mouth and drop them at his feet, gathering them to pay for my dinner, paying with the money that was thrown to buy a pound of flesh, my flesh. The odor and taste of stale urine mixed with blood is enough to make my stomach retch. 

I can still, in these memories, feel the slimey, cold coating of numerous days worth of the ejaculate of several men. 

I remember several times I was strapped to a whipping post outside behind a privacy fence, Novocain injected into my gums so I couldn't scream, a gag stuffed in for good measure, and having a firehose turned on full blast. Scrub brushes vigorously working my skin raw and bloody, being berated for causing the need to be scrubbed. Looking through swollen and bruised eyes and catching a glimpse of several large men attacking me with scrub brushes, one with a bottle brush, scrubbing me inside. 

I'm outside somewhere again, a secluded forest or something, restrained, I'm always restrained. The Novocain and gag are back. I remember crying, I was told in the moment what was happening, how I had been a whore and allowed someone to make a deposit inside me instead of on me, made to believe it was all my fault what they were doing. I'm not sure how old I was at this point, but this is one of those nights that played over and over in my nightmares, even if I didn't know why or if I forgot the dream as soon as I was awake. With each insult, each accusation, a blow landed to my midsection. I was a bloody mess, hanging lifelessly from the bonds when it dropped from my body. I was never fully told what happened, but I was shuttled in a can back to that place, and hosed down in the back yard, the bottle brush internally. When the jaw numbing drug wore off and gag removed I was forced to tell him why that had to be done, that I was a whore who opened her legs for anyone with a penis and let one make an internal deposit. He got of on me admitting that, no matter how false it was. That very night he raped me vaginally until I was burnt from the friction and orally until I vomited from the force, my own blood, and his seaman. 

There are things like that where I can remember vivid details, but other times I remember next to nothing. 

I remember one day, standing on a chair, arms bound behind me, a noose around my neck, and as a hood was put over my head, I heard him tell the others the first one to make my knees buckle got a free hour with a faceless whore. 

They played games a lot. They would take bets on how long I could stand with my legs spread, being force fed water every 10 minutes, before I lost bladder control. How long my 15 year old body could stand a whipping before I hung from my bindings. How long I could be choked by one of them before blacking out or vomiting. 

I had bones broken, muscles torn, vomited, cried, choked, lost control of the muscles to control bathroom use, and was beaten for each one. I was fisted without additional lube, my cervix punched and bruised for every birthday. 

I was raped by a baseball bat while an ice cube shaped like a 20 ounce soda bottle was inserted anally. I have had ice blocks like that, anywhere from 20 ounce to 3 liter bottles, anally, vaginally and orally at the same time. 

A sack of oranges was hung from a chain connecting nipple clamps, another orange tossed in if I allowed a drop of ejaculate to hit the floor, I had to catch it all without fail. 

I was always afraid of not pleasing them. I was terrified of what they did to me. I was ashamed in that space over what I became. 

They controlled everything. And I usually paid for things with my body, but not willingly. If I had to eat, I was fed gruel from a bowl on the floor, chained on my hands and knees, weights hanging from nipple clamps, being told I was nothing but a little piggy-whore who couldn't stop putting out long enough to eat, as I was raped vaginally with a pig tail shaped butt plug in. 

I am at the point in my healing now that I think, as crazy as it sounds, if I think about Master doing some of the things done to me then, I might enjoy them, because they would not be done to hurt or destroy.