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I wish I could start at the beginning. I've tried time and again to tell my story, to document the first time I was manipulated and violated by my 3rd grade teacher. Someone I thought I could trust. I can begin, but never finish.

This wasn't the first time Mrs. S had used my body for her sick desires. I had learned to disassociate through it, to become a robot following orders, going through the motions.

This time, though...

Mrs. S was an expert rapist.

She knew precisely how much time she had to rape my little body; she knew the risks she could take; she knew what to say to keep my silence.

Rape was her medium, and she was a master.

It always began the same: she would dismiss class (lunch, recess, or something else. I cannot remember), but call my name to stay behind. I knew what was coming. I didn't want it.

It didn't matter what I wanted.

She would turn out the lights and lock the door; call me to the back of the room, where we wouldn't be seen by passerby. Where she could make HER perversions MY secrets.

She called my name, but I wasn't really a person to her. She didn't see me as a small eight-year-old child; I was just a male. Not a boy...a male. I was nothing more than a penis to use and control and dominate.

Mrs. S treated rape as a seduction, telling me things a grown man might find sexy, but meant nothing to a boy of eight. She would undress me slowly, and linger whenever she got to my underwear. Even today, 35 years later, I can remember how it felt, the elastic sliding down my legs, leaving me completely naked and exposed.


I can't remember if she took off her panties, or if she just didn't wear them, but she NEVER removed her dress. She would hike up her skirt and force me do things to her.

This time, like so many others, she began by fondling me. She touched the most intimate, most private parts of my body, using her hands until I - an eight-year-old child - was erect.

Then raped me with her mouth.

I watched as my body reacted to being violated - watched as it betrayed me. She seemed to take a sick pride in forcing me to orgasm, as though I should be grateful for being raped. But there was no pleasure in it for me.

But that wasn't good enough for Mrs. S. I had to be made an active participant in my own violation. She sat back in a chair, and pulled her dress above her waist.

As much as I wish I could, I can never forget how dark and how thick her hair was.

She spread her legs, and had me come close enough so she could show me what to do with my fingers. I remember how small my hand seemed in hers as she demonstrated how I should pleasure her. And then guided my fingers inside her.

She was aroused - wet.

Wet for an eight-year-old boy.

It was too much for me. I tried to comply - a child fingering a grown woman - but it was just too overwhelming for me, and I broke down crying. When she asked what was wrong, I simply said I didn't want to do it anymore.

The rage on her face was terrifying, and there would be retribution for questioning her absolute power over me.

For having the gall to weep after being raped, she grabbed my scrotum...and crushed my testicles in her hand.

I remember feeling each one crushed into the other, caught in her grip.

The pain brought me to my knees. It cut right through me: from the most sensitive, private parts of my body and down to my fucking soul.

It wasn't just the pain that was terrifying; it was having no way to escape it.

If you touch a hot stove, you jerk your hand away from the source of pain.

There was no escape from this pain. The pain was me.

It was torture, an agony I had never before experienced, could never even imagine.

She didn't release me until she felt I was sufficiently humiliated. My penitence for denying her absolute power over a child.

Truthfully, I really don't believe she would have cared had she destroyed my - a child's - testicles.

Her torture had the desired outcome, though. I never again did anything that could possibly anger her. I was a slave to her sickest perversions, even the inclusion of another boy later.

The next time she molested me, she made sure to ask if I was going to be a good boy, and finish what I started.

I was...and I did.

I looked Mrs. S. up on Facebook recently. She's a good Christian woman, posting pictures of her grandchildren, memes about forgiveness, and how Jesus has blessed her.

A real pillar of the community.

But I'm the one left to pick up the pieces.
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