Too Cute

I always had these urges, before I could remember. It was definitely disturbing, but they didn’t even do a study on it, until I was older.

Carol was a girl at school, and she was always cute. “Too cute” is one of things you hear like “I could just eat you right up!” A lot of girls hated her for being the cutest, if it came down to a contest, she won. As little girls, that’s something we practically had shoved down our throats.

Like pink. You know Barbie is blonde, with blue eyes, but everything is either pink, fuchsia, or pink, and fuchsia. Hot pink, sometimes a little teal, but the problem is those colors clash. Carol didn’t have that problem, because she had strawberry blonde curly hair, bright green eyes, a button nose, tiny lips, and the body of a toddler.

In kindergarten, we were little more than toddlers, and her mom dressed her in pink. Also bright green, but they compliment each other. They complimented her complexion, when Barbie just clashed. All the colors clashed, the play mats, and tables, playground, and pretty much everything was in this toddler world of saturated primary colors.

That clash. Look at a playground now, the blue and green clash. Red, and blue clash, and that’s on the flag with white. I know I’m going on, and on about the color wheel, but that’s in an attempt to give you the background. You can’t really see it, because you’re probably raised in the same toddler land. I think they actually do that to make it easier to tell the colors apart, like the lines around the colors in a cartoon, or a coloring book. It’s important because of Contrast.

Carol matched, perfectly. She was such the perfect little girl that she made the normal little girls self conscious, even in Kindergarten. Jealous in kindergarten, to the point that my 4 year old mind even realized that was a “Normal” way to treat her. We had little cartoon animals, with toddler bodies, big round eyes close together, button noses, tiny mouths, like Teddy Bears. Adults make cute cuddly stuffed animals to put in their baby’s cribs, because they look like babies. Teddy Bears look like cartoony cubs. It would be kind of dangerous to tuck your baby in with a real, full grown bear, she could get mauled.

So, I thought I hated her, at first. As long as I remembered, I had these intrusive thoughts, and urges. I bit my teddy bear on the nose. Mom told me later but she had to stop nursing me early, because I tried to bite her before I even started teething. Bite her breast, looking up at her face, when I was so young that I couldn’t focus on anything else, and fortunately, I didn’t have any teeth. So, whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I was born with it.

It’s hard wired into our instincts. Normally, “cute” is an evolutionary thing, that triggers the Maternal instinct. If you’re wandering around in the woods, and find an abandoned baby, you go “Awe,” pick it up, take it home, and nurture it. Same thing with an abandoned puppy, or abandoned kitten, even though they’re the wrong species. There’s a theory that’s why we domesticated those animals in the first place, and we give kittens saucers of milk, even though it’s not really good for them.

We’re mammals, and those are normal instincts. I’m not normal, so I started getting predatory urges, that scared me. I didn’t want to be The Big Bad Wolf, but I was going to school with little pink riding hood. Carol, I liked her, I felt sorry for the way the other girls treated her, but she was literally Too Cute, and she didn’t even know it yet.

As little girls, we weren’t mean to her. We’re polite, when she wanted to come play with us, we said “Okay,” and played around her. I don’t think they actually played With her, just in the same general area, like the play mat, or the playground. Then, they tried to make fun of her behind her back, but we’re talking about Kindergarten girls. Barely even insulting, things like “Baby, she’s just a big baby.” Then “Crybaby” when they teased her enough to make her cry. Years later, we found boys to call us “Baby. Hey baby.” With a wink, and a charming grin, when they started talking to girls.

So, she was lonely, socially neglected, and actually very shy. Her mom encouraged her to be more outgoing, try to make friends, invited us over for playdates, and we made excuses. She was shunned, nobody wanted to play with her, but she had dolls, and an imagination. So, she was all right, for a while…

;

Then, summer came, and I went to daycare. Carol wasn’t in the same daycare, so I forgot about her, and just went through a few months as a normal little girl. I don’t remember any of that, just the fairly typical color scheme of Kiddyland. (I remember that, it was called Kiddyland daycare, but that’s about it.) I probably played normally with the other kids there, that their mommies had to find someone to watch, while we’re out of school. To keep us out of trouble, while they went to work, or stayed at home to do mom stuff.

I do remember that babydolls were hard plastic, and I tried to chew on balls. Of course, I couldn’t fit a playground ball in my mouth, and they told me to “Stop, that. It’s filthy” but I still scraped my teeth on the ball, just trying to bite it. If it wasn’t fully inflated, then I could actually pinch it between my teeth, and hold it like that.

Some kids sucked their thumbs, or fingers. I was a biter, but I can’t remember ever biting my thumbs, or fingers. We’re mammals, some kids ate paste or glue, because it’s white, and those instincts haven’t worn off yet, but I was a biter. I can only assume that’s why nobody noticed something was wrong, because I hadn’t bitten any of the other kids yet.

They weren’t cute enough to trigger me. Just like baby dolls were too hard, and plastic to really sink my teeth into. Balls were rubbery, but I guess skin looks rubberier than it really is. I think my first fantasy was a story I made up, about a little lost piglet that got taken in by wolves. A variation on a lot of stories, instead of The Big Bad Wolf, or Mowgli, the 3 little pigs, it was just 1 piglet, and a family of wolves.

A momma wolf, and a little of baby wolf cubs. A piglet alone in the wolves, but she was so cute that when the momma wolf saw her, she picked her up gently, and took her home. Raised her with her cubs, and the piglet played with the puppies. Childish stories little kids tell themselves. Trying to understand the world, mixed with the kinds of stories their mommies tell them at bed-time. The dreams they have once they fall asleep, after a few minutes in the dark. Imagining monsters under the bed, and wake up to rub half remembered dreams out of their eyes.

I probably don’t have to tell you how it ends. The puppies started growing up, into Wolves. The piglet started growing up into a fat little sow, so her adopted brothers and sisters started playing rough. You know puppy play, that got rougher, and rougher, as their teeth got sharper, and their jaws got stronger. Until they drew blood, and that made them all hungry until they devoured her, and tore her apart fighting over the scraps.

Then, mommy wolf got home, and asked “Where’s piglet?” So, they lied, and said, probably a lot of things. She ran away, or her mommy came back to take her home, but they kicked the dirt over the blood stains, and went to bed full that night. Their fat little tummies full of pork.

Luckily, when we started 1st grade again, Carol wasn’t in my class, with the same teacher. So, I only saw her on the playground. On recess, before and after school. We had lunch in our classrooms, at our desks, but then we got to run around for recess, before nap time. I didn’t know what these predatory thoughts ment, but I sat at my desk. Eating chicken nuggets, or fish sticks. Trading my carrots, or ants on a log for more fish sticks, or chicken nuggets.

I wanted to be a predator, when I grew up. Maybe not the Big Bad Wolf, but I’d seen enough real life nature shows to know what a Carnivore was. A herbivore, and even learned what animals were omnivores. Including Bears, and Pigs. At some point, if I was good mommy would make me Pork Chops for my birthday, because that was my favorite. She made me eat my veggies, but that was a normal behavior for a little kid, so she never thought anything of it.

Slowly, my fantasy changed from wolves to a bear. Goldilocks was a little pig, and I was a little bear. So, what does a bear do, when she finds a little pig asleep in her bed? I chewed on my pillow, and woke up with it pinched between my teeth. I bit the nose off my teddy bear, so mom had to throw it out. I got a rubber ball, then chewed a hole in it. So I could take it to bed, and dream about a little pig sleeping in my bed. (With strawberry blonde curls, but I never called her Carol, the little pig.)

Of course, I wasn’t a sexual predator in 1st grade. I had no concept of sex, sexual assaults, or rape, because even when the grownups tried to warn us. They spared us the details of what would happen if we ever talked to strangers, or got in their cars. Just avoid the whole situation, by not getting in their cars, but they told us stories. Without the punchline, but the bad man might ask you for directions. For help looking for their lost puppy, or lie and tell you that mommy sent them to pick you up from school. Just don’t be fooled, and nothing bad will happen, but I read Hansel and Gretel.

So, I knew that he would probably take you home, stick an apple in your mouth, and roast you whole like a little pig. That’s what I would do, if I was a Big Bad Wolf, a man with a car, or a witch with a gingerbread house to fatten up little kids for my oven. With no concept of child molesters, I resorted to Cannibalism, but not real cannibalism, of course. I thought about it, but I could barely get my hand in the slot of my Easy Bake Oven, and not far enough to burn myself, for safety.

Of course, they made Easy Bake Ovens safe for little girls to play with, and if they weren’t careful, at some point one of us would stick our hand in there to feel how warm the light bulb is. Besides, even a toddler with fat little fingers doesn’t have a lot of meat on her hand. I told you it was disturbing, I’m disturbed. It was just Cannibalism until I had some concepts of sexuality. I was a predator, though. I stalked her around the playground, chewing on a ball, but she was never truly alone.

I thought about it, though. I fantasized about her walking off alone, getting lost in the woods, and even making up stories like “I’ll walk you home.” Her mommy, or daddy always picked her up after school, but they took turns. She always stayed inside the fences, and there were always people around. Teachers, and other kids, but it seems like every time I saw her fat round rubbery looking cheeks, I just wanted to bite them.

On her face, butts are gross. What if she farts? I just wanted to bite her face, to see if her cheeks were as warm, soft, and rubbery as they looked. If I didn’t have a ball, sometimes I bit my arm. Hard, and that pain actually helped. I didn’t want to hurt her, I definitely didn’t want to make her cry, let alone kill her. Cook her while, and eat her with an apple stuck in her mouth, I just wanted to bite her.

A big part of what makes these thoughts, feelings, and controllable urges so disturbing is they go against my natural instincts. I’m not a bear, and she’s not a piglet. Pooh, and Piglet are friends, and Pooh just eats hunny out of a big round jar. So, he has to hold it in both paws, and dump it in his mouth. So it runs down, and sticks to his fur like blood.

We’re little girls, and it’s not like I didn’t get the rest of the natural little girl instincts, along with my Cute Aggression. That’s what it’s called, now. I’m not sure if I like that term, I’m more Passive/aggressive but it’s definitely predatory. However, I’m not a Psychopath, I have normal feeling like Empathy, and a strong enough Morality to control my impulses. I just have these impulses, so they scared me.

;

Then, I got a boyfriend in 3rd grade. Humphrey, but sometimes he answered to “Mummy,” because he showed up for school with Bandaids all over his arm. The other kids teased him about that, because they thought they looked like mummy wrappings, but it made me curious enough to ask him where he got all those scratches on his arm.

He had a cat, and cuddles liked to be petted, until he didn’t. Like most cats, he took cat baths, and let you pet him, but like some cats, he lashed out to tell you he didn’t want to be petted any more. So, I went over to his house after school to meet Mr. Cuddles. He peeled off his Bandaids to show me the scratches, and put new ones on. He kept spares in his pocket to change them when they got dirty, or the sticky wore off. So they just hung loose, and eventually wore off.

He was a boy, so he played boy games with the other boys, but Cuddles didn’t like strangers. So, I didn’t even see him the first few times, and Mummy didn’t pet him until the last set of wounds healed up. So, we started playing doctor, I kissed the scratches to make them better, but I didn’t bite him. I definitely thought about it, but he was a boy, and it was just his arm.

I bit my own arm, because it was the easiest part to bite. It wasn’t round, and soft like Carol’s cheeks, but it hurt. I bit it hard enough to hurt, because that snapped me out of it. Not unlike pinching yourself to wake up if you’re dreaming, but that helped me stop daydreaming. About nightmare fuel like how she would look roasted on a platter with a apple stuck in her mouth. That was the only way I knew how to trigger my Sympathy, and Empathy for her.

For Carol, I didn’t want to hurt her, I just wanted to bite her face. So, I bit my arm instead to remind me that that would hurt her, make her cry, and snap me out of whatever Cannibal daydreams I got, just looking at her.

Cuddles was like a baby brother, and a teddy bear all rolled into one. Humphrey was a boy, so he didn’t get the girl lessons like me. He got balls, trucks, cowboy hats, and guns. He tied sticks together after we learned how to make God’s Eye in art class. That showed us girls how to lash 2 popsicle sticks together with colorful yarn, to hang up in the window, because they’re pretty.

Boys got to eat popsicles, and learned how to lash 2 sticks together to make swords. Whack those together making “Ching ching” noises, and fight over who got to be Peter Pan. They mostly stood back far enough that they only hit each other’s sticks, but sometimes they whacked each other’s arms, and sometimes they fought each other loudly enough that somebody got hurt.

They had sticks, wooden swords to play pirates, and sometimes boys got hurt. Sometimes it was an accident, other times it was a real fight, and they told the teacher “It was an accident.” When really, they hit each other on purpose to hurt him, and I could sympathize with this, as a girl. They got mad, they got loud, and said mean things, but they really ment it. Play fighting, they said things like “Take that!” But play fighting could turn into real fighting, because he’s a sore loser, or just a bully.

That was the other Predator we had on the playground. “Watch out for Jeremy, he’s a bully.” So, you avoided him until he finished 6th grade, and went on to middle school. Sometimes, he had trouble at home, sometimes his mother spanked him as punishment, but that just taught him the wrong lesson: The best way to get your way is violence. Pain compliance, and fear. Pick on the little kids to show off for his friends, who’re also bullies, and show them who’s boss.

Dominance, and Sadism. #NotAllMen are sexual predators, not all bullies are sexually sadistic, or Power Assertive Malignant Narcissists, but some are. If you go to public school, then the average class is hundreds of boys, and chances are, at least one is already mutilating animals. Kicking dogs, and chasing girls not to kiss them, but to make them cry. Snapping bra straps, if they’re old enough to wear bras.

Some boys pick on you, because they don’t know how to tell you that they like you, and some want to be serial killers when they grow up. Or spree shooters, date rapists, cops just for the badge, gun, and handcuffs so they can extort hookers for freebies, and twist their arms if they resist. Some of them grow up to be child molesters, and they’re not all men.

Humphrey couldn’t cut himself. Girls cut themselves, and boys pick fights to get beaten up, like a man. Humphrey had a cat, and after a while, Cuddles got used to me coming over. So, he’d come in his room, when I was there.

“Don’t pick him up,” he sat down on the floor. “Let him come to me.” Cross-legged, he patted his lap, and Cuddles came over. Mowing to get petted, and then he got in Humphrey’s lap. All the scabs had healed and fallen off, but Cuddles was purring loud enough to hear him. So, I sat down on the floor to watch, and cuddles slitted his eyes. I thought he was going to sleep, but Humphrey scratched in front of his ears, so they twitched. Then, under the chin, so he stuck his neck up, until Cuddles rolled over in his lap.

That’s a trap, honestly he hated to get his tummy touched, but that’s also where the fur is softest, and Humphrey did it on purpose. “MREAR!” Cuddles bit him, and scratched him to roll over, and run out the door. His tail puffed out like a bottle brush, but Humphrey just said “Thee?”

We’re 7, so he lost some teeth in the front, and sometimes he lisped, but then he smiled, and held up his arm. I nodded, but my heart stopped beating out of control, and then I got calm. Deadly calm, I don’t get mad, I calm down. Maybe it’s part of getting my wires crossed, and maybe it’s just a defense mechanism I used to hide my disturbing thoughts, but then I saw blood.

He licked it, and I got an idea. So I kissed it to make it better, and licked my lips. I tasted blood, and I was always so careful up to then. I didn’t even have scraped knees that I could remember, because I avoided the games that could get you hurt. I didn’t roller skate, or ride bikes. I didn’t have a bike, or roller blades, let alone elbow pads, knee pads, and I didn’t play rough with the other girls. Even when they played a little rough, because of course I was most afraid of myself.

In the dark, at night I didn’t have to worry about the monster in the closet, or under my bed. I was too busy thinking about a little pig, being adopted by a family of wolves. By the time I was 6, and starting 1st grade, I knew that Carol and I couldn’t be friends, because she was a piglet, and I was a bear. She was too cute, and if she let me in, I’d try to bite her face off.

“You know why they lick their wounds?” He showed me. “So they won’t get infected.”

“Oh,” I could barely form words, because now I felt the predator inside me, and the almost uncontrollable urge to bite him. “Let me try it.”

“It tastes tingly when it’s fresh. You ever licked a battery?”

“No, doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not really, it mostly tingles.” He ment a 9 volt battery, because that has both contacts on one end, where you can lick both at once. He showed me that too, but I didn’t like it.

I’m not a Masochist. I’m not a sadist, pedophile, dominant, submissive, gay, straight, or bisexual either. I’m not a vampire, but it didn’t take long for us to come up with a game we could play together, that we both enjoyed.

He had a toybox, or “Foot Locker,” that was painted faded dark green, with black letters stenciled on the side. Those were too old, and worn off to read. So, I don’t know what kinds of rifles it used to have in it, but his dad got it at the army surplus store, because it was cheap.

It was also long enough for him to lay down in, like a coffin, or sarcophagus. Of course we learned about King Tut in history class, every year. That’s probably why they started calling him “Mummy” at school, every time he showed up with a bandage on his arm. I just updated my favorite fantasy, because he didn’t want to put on a wig, and play Goldilocks.

We got into the first aid closet, it was just the hall closet, but that’s where his mom kept the bandaids, and he played with Mr. Cuddles enough for her to keep the bandages on the bottom. She had an ace bandage, which was long and stretchy enough to wrap around his arms, and lay down in the rifle crate, so I could close the lid.

Also, they had a stone sarcophagus at the History Museum that you could look at on field trips, every year. Not the wooden one, with the death mask, or the head of a jackal for Anubis, but just the plain old stone box, you put that in. We also had a picture book, with a page on King Tut, and the Pyramids. The mummy, death mask, inner sarcophagus, and outer stone casing stacked up like a Matryoshka doll to illustrate all the layers.

I opened up the lid, “Oh, somebody’s sleeping in my bed.” He just had his eyes closed, and his arms crossed over his chest. Bound in an ace bandage, but no Death Mask. He was a mummy that lost his tomb, and got out of the museum when nobody was looking, but he couldn’t find his way back to Egypt. So, he found a coffin that was empty, so he could lie down and take a nap.

You know who slept in that coffin? A vampire. That’s why I left it open for the night, so I could go out, and look for someone to bite. I couldn’t because everyone locked their doors, and shuttered their windows, with a mummy on the lose. So, I went to bed hungry, but I found him sleeping in my bed.

I slept over at his house all the time, so we could play Vampire, and Mummy after dark. With the lights off, and an ace bandage to hold his hands crossed over his chest. I hadn’t even heard of S&M yet, and even when I did, that was “Whips, and Chains.” When I got to middle school, and one of the metalheads brought Mr. Bungle for his CD player. (The Girls of Porn, if you want to listen to it. Basically, Faith No More only anonymous, so they didn’t have to sing “You want it all but you can’t have it. It’s in your face but you can’t grab it!” On MTV, with a fish flopping around limply at the end. They could just come right out, and sing songs about Masturbation without the subliminal messages. “Be Aggressive” is about giving head, in case you wondered.)

The point is that we found what we needed. He found someone to bite him, and I found someone who let me bite him. That kept me off of girls at school. (It wasn’t just Carol, she was just the worst.) He stopped petting Cuddles the Cat before he got bit, and scratched, because he didn’t need that any more, neither.

Don’t ask me, IDFK. He’s a masochist, and he can’t cut himself, because that doesn’t work. I’m not, so I never understood that urge. I don’t have to, once we figured out how to satisfy it. It wasn’t even sexual until our genitals started developing, so we could have sexualities. I had to wait for my teeth to fall out, then grow back again, but he was real popular with the boys.

He had a girlfriend, he could even pull back his collar to show them the hickeys, and prove it. I had a boyfriend, but I still kept it a secret. Tucked away with my deepest darkest secrets, but at least I didn’t have the urge to bite the other girls at school, or daydream about roasting them on a platter with an apple in their mouth, like a suckling pig.

So, that was good enough, for a couple more years…

;

My next clue was the song Jeremy, because I knew one well enough to avoid him, when he was in 6th grade. “Truly I remember, picking on the boy. Seemed a harmless little fuck. Ooh, but we unleashed a lion. Gnashed his teeth and bit the recess lady’s breast, how could I forget?”

For a while there, it was top 40. So they played that song on the radio all the time, along with The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ cover of Higher Ground. Of course, that never happened. We didn’t have a recess lady, and Jeremy wasn’t a biter. I was, but I somehow lucked out with finding ways to avoid it. Control the impulse without hurting other girls. I bit myself when I had to, but that was just to remind me that I don’t want to hurt her.

I hated that song, though. It was triggering, but even if they turned it off, or I ran away before that part, it was too late. Even the opening intro was enough to get it stuck in my head, even today when they don’t play it so much.

The problem was Puberty, but not mine. Also, the tooth fairy, so I couldn’t bite as well until my incisors came back. Then my canines, but finally I worked my way back to my molars. So, I could bite again.

Of course, the problem was Carol, again. She finally lost the baby fat, so I didn’t have to worry about her shirt riding up, and her tummy showing. Her little outie like a nipple, but all that baby fat went to her chest. She wore bras, and baggy tops, but she couldn’t really hide it. She wasn’t built like a toddler any more, and she was starting to take shape.

That made the other girls even more jealous, and made me avoid her more consciously? I didn’t even realize it, what with having a boyfriend to make out with on lunch. We started necking at school, and the other kids were like “Ew!” but also my Name, and Mummy, sitting in a tree. N. E. C. K. I. N. G…

Of course, that’s just how the song goes, only there wasn’t a tree. (BTW, I’m leaving my name out of this, to protect the guilty.) The other girls called her “fat,” and fat girl names, especially “Chubby Carol,” since that started with a C. Also, “Mrs. Piggy,” which I regretted.

I don’t remember when I first called her that, but all the girls laughed, and made fun of her “stuck up” nose. The older boys started paying attention to her, in 5th and 6th grade. From a distance, they never said anything to her, but they told dirty jokes, and laughed out loud. Looking at her, and pulling their shirts out. Pinching both hands, right about the nipples to make breasts, which just made her blush, and run off to cry.

I could sympathize, not because I’d been sexually harassed, but I’d been bullied too, and I knew damned well how cruel kids can be. I was one of them, so I couldn’t follow her. Find out where she ran off to cry alone, vulnerable, so her red cheeks are wet, and seasoned with salty tears, so I hugged Mummy tighter, and bit his neck.

“Uh!” He rubbed the back of my head. He couldn’t say “Harder,” right out there in our corner of the school yard, but as far as anyone knew, I was just kissing his neck, and giving him hickeys. (To cover up the bite marks.)

That just made the problem much worse, because I could feel what’s missing. Hugging him, so his flat chest pressed hard against my flat chest. A couple of things. A couple of soft round things, with nipples, so I started grabbing his ass. Squeezing it, then biting it later when we got a chance to be alone.

At 9, he started getting boners. At first, it was the bondage, and the anticipation. In the dark, locked up in a coffin, with his hands folded together, under the ace bandage. Knowing that any minute, I would open the lid, and lean down to bite his neck. Hard enough to draw blood until we figured out that it wasn’t about the blood for me. I liked it, the way it tingled fresh from the wound, but I’m not really turned on by Hemophagia. It was just part of the game, Vampire, and Mummy, and he was kinda into the Hemophagia.

Of course, licking his wounds after he petted Mr. Cuddles until he scratched, and bit him. Ran off to let him lick his wounds, but with the Bondage, and Sadomasochism. He couldn’t touch it until I helped him out, and unwrapped him so he could go to bed.

I never slept in the “Coffin.” It was just where his mom kept his bedding, mostly. The summer sheets in winter, and the winter blankets in summer, but I guess it was a Gimp Box for him. He didn’t gave a Gimp Suit, a dog collar, and a leash. We hadn’t seen Pulp Fiction yet. (Of course, rated R for language, violence, sex, and violent sex, like interracial rape, and murder in the basement of the pawn shop.)

It wasn’t my thing, I wasn’t a vampire. So we pulled the bedding, and extra cushions out, so I could sleep on the floor. I could hear him in bed, though. The blankets rustling, his heavy breathing until he held his breath. The satisfied sigh when he finally let it out, then his quiet snoring when he finally passed out. I thought I was a lesbian for a while.

It wasn’t his penis, I had a problem with. I mean, it’s not because he was a boy, and I had a problem with the idea of a penis. It’s just that I got what I wanted, and drifted off to dream about chasing piglets through the woods. Satisfied, but I was just starting to realize that it was sexual.

The problem is that a penis isn’t the right shape. Also, maybe subconsciously, I was afraid that I’d bite it, hurt him, and he wouldn’t want to be my friend any more. My boyfriend, when I didn’t want a girlfriend. I never wanted a girlfriend, but a part of me always wanted a Victim. I’m not preferential to little girls, I’m just triggered by cute, and little girls tend to be the cutest. Hopefully not Too Cute for me to resist, but it’s not their fault. Honestly, it’s stressors, but I didn’t know my own stressors, let alone how to manage them yet.

The rest of me was horrified by that part of me, and kept it under control. Sometimes, the bear roared loud enough to drown me out. I didn’t give her a name, I never wanted to, and maybe I was even afraid that if I did, she would turn into an Alternate personality. Most of all I was afraid to find out what actually was wrong with me, until I was old enough to start doing research. An elementary school library doesn’t really stock the books I would have needed, and the Internet was still in it’s infancy, so I never even heard of it.

(Just real quick: DARPA.net, the AP, and Universities had Usenet. That’s what the U in Unix was for originally, and one of the things it was for was Research. Porn, there was always porn, because the Internet was created by nerds that knew more about electronics than how to talk to women. I just didn’t have that resource yet. I didn’t even have a beeper, let alone the streets flooded with free AOL CDs to clog up the gutters. They did have Usegroups like Alt.Sex.Stories.net. That’s where ASSTR got started.)

That couldn’t last. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before I had to face my fears, and handle it as a rational person. Who’s normal feelings, and mind is capable of controlling the 1 thing that was almost, but not quite uncontrollable.

I went to the bathroom, on lunch. There was a line out the door by the lunch room, because it’s a girl’s room, and girls go in there for a lot more than to use the toilets. Even after they wipe, flush, and come out to wash their hands. They clog up around the sinks, checking their hair, and talking to each other, but that’s not why I avoided it, of course.

Too many girls, all in 1 place. So, I ran upstairs, and down the hall before I had an accident, but somebody was already in there. “YEARGH!” Throwing up, coughing, and gagging before she threw up again. A lot, wet noises of chunks hitting the water, but I really had to go. #1, and #2, so I just ran to the closest stall, dropped my underwear as quickly as I could, and leaned over to latch the door, once the pee started coming out. Stayed to grunt, and then I heard the toilet flush.

Saw the shoes that were almost sticking out from under the stall door, bent over on her knees, so she ran water in the sink. Slurped water out of her hands, and spit. I wiped, front, and back, but she stayed to catch her breath, and even pulled a hairbrush out of her purse.

“Are you,” Her long strawberry blonde curls. “Oh.” Carol, “Kay?”

She looked back and smiled. Nodded, and she didn’t even blush. “Fine, but thanks for asking.” She rubbed her tummy, with her back turned, “I feel much better now.”

“Oh,” I could see it on her face. She had been crying, but she wiped it off. Her eyes were still red, but then she found a place. Alone, and did what she had to do to feel better about herself.

On lunch. “You’re bulimic.”

;

We didn’t become friends, let alone lesbian lovers, because we just couldn’t be friends. I just blurted that out, but then it became uncomfortable, so she left. I washed my hands, then my face, then I looked up at myself, in the mirror.

“Huh!” The predator didn’t look back. If anything, I looked scared, and vulnerable, but it wasn’t until I looked myself in the eyes that I realized what didn’t happen. Maybe it helped that she had her back turned, so I didn’t feel the urge to grab her, and bite her bra, but I was too worried about her.

When I heard her throwing up, I was more worried about her being sick, and I had to use the bathroom too badly to leave. Then, she came out, and washed her hands, so I got up to talk to her. She was just another girl, until I saw who it was, and realized that she was sick. Just not the way I thought at first, until I saw the satisfied smile on her face.

She felt better, I know exactly what that feels like. I can’t really sympathize with Bulimia, but I don’t have to, to empathize with the feelings. I don’t Binge, but I definitely Purged the pent up feelings when I got so full of fear, and misplaced hunger that I just had to bite something. Someone once I got a boyfriend, who was into the pain enough to enjoy it with me.

So, we had something in common, but we’re still not compatible, because she’s not my nemesis. She’s my perfect victim, and I don’t want to be the Big Bad Wolf. I don’t want to live in a gingerbead house, and keep the oven warm for when the neighborhood kids get fat enough to cook. She’s just too cute, and she never lost those fucking cheeks. Even as an adult, so I can’t look her in the eyes, because they’re right above those fat fucking cheeks.

I had something else to feel guilty about. It wasn’t just me, and I never said anything about her, at all after that. I’m just the one that gave her the name Mrs. Piggy, and the other girls handled the rest. (They called her “Annie” or “Shirely Temple” before that.) Calling her fat, chubby Carol, and making her hate herself. The way she looks, and her fat cheeks, because she can’t look herself in the mirror without stuffing herself until she’s about to burst, then gagging herself to throw up, and feel skinny again.

I know what that’s like. Maybe not exactly what that’s like, but close efucking nough to sympathize. I finally felt a little proud of myself, because I talked to her. Found something we had in common, and humanized her. She’s not a little pig, she’s a little girl, with a self image, and insecurities. She even has a dark secret, the only thing that makes her feel good about herself again. It’s sick, and disgusting. It would horrify anyone if they ever found out, unless they had a horrible secret too.

That made me get a lot rougher with my boyfriend after school. I hate feeling like a predator, unless I’m in the mood, and then I revel in it, but I made him play Bad Boy.

“No!” he played along. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Hard to get, and ran to the closest place we knew that we could play, without getting caught. Also, so I could chase him, catch him, grab his arms, and hold them on his chest. From behind, “Tell me what you did.”

“No!” I let go, so I could slap his butt cheek, and grab it.

“Don’t lie to me, TELL! ME! WHAT! YOU’VE! DONE!”

“Uhn!” He bent over on his hands and knees. Held his head, and I went to town on his ass. Slapping it, rubbing it in, groping him, until he finally said “Stop.”

So, he could stand up, on his knees, and pull his pants down. Then, he just bent over, and held his head in his hands, so I could spank, rub, and grope his butt cheeks through his underpants. To please him, and tease me, but I couldn’t hold back. I yanked his underwear down, for the first time, and sank my teeth into his red hot flesh.

“OH!” He shook his hips, so I had to shake my head, and my teeth snapped together when it slipped out, so I could turn, and bite the other one hard! “OH! Yeah! Huh, Huhuhuh!”

I had to shake it, imagine taking a bite out of it, and check it for blood. I didn’t taste blood, but I could see the old bruises, for the first time. He always kept his pants on, and beat off after I was finished with him, but this time, he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t hold his head to keep his arms up, and I didn’t have anything to tie them with. So when I looked to see what he was doing, it wasn’t really a surprise.

He was beating his meat, between his legs, and bent over like that. I saw something, that I didn’t want to look at. I believe that subconsciously I avoided it, until I was triggered, and I couldn’t resist the urge to pull down his underpants any more. I knew they were there, but once I saw them.

His balls, bouncing on his pinky, when he stroked up. His scrotum shriveled so tight it wrinkled, and he even has a little white line right up the middle to his taint, where it disappeared in his butt crack.

It’s not anal, it’s not about the butthole, and honestly, it’s displacement from Carol’s cute little perky breasts, but these don’t have nipples. Neither did his scrotum, but it was so cute, and tiny, and he’s lucky I couldn’t get my mouth down there to bite them so they popped in my mouth like a couple grapes.

I mean, yeah. He’s a masochist, but he’s a 9 year old masochist. He wasn’t even going to start making sperm in his vessicles for a couple more years, let alone getting hair on it. I know that there’s men out there that like CBT, ball busting, and even watch videos of them piercing them piqueristically, but we weren’t up to that level of sadomasochism yet. I’d gone too far more than enough times to know that he could go from turned on to crying just like that.

“Huh!” So, I just sat back. Put my hands down, and then sat on them to watch. “I knew it, you dirty little boy. I knew you’re beating your meat when nobody’s looking. You sick little pervert.”

“Uh!” He just fell over. His legs shot out, and he had to turn his head. “HUH!” Dust blew out, and he tried to drill a hole in the dirt with his dick, but it was a dry orgasm.

“Huh!” I never saw someone have an orgasm before. I even crawled around to look at his face.

“Oh!” He looked up, and smiled, satisfied. I was satisfied too, it was such a rush, and I went off in a rage. I wasn’t punishing him, and I couldn’t punish myself. Biting my arm didn’t work any more, and I couldn’t bite my ass. I didn’t have any tits, and there was no way that I could reach my nipples with my teeth, because I tried.

He had to wipe mud off his cheek, but he had flat cheeks. Small cheekbones I couldn’t see, and his jaw hadn’t even started getting that corner below the ear, when his mastoid process became more pronounced.

He was still just a little boy, but he was mine, and I could do almost anything I wanted to. I knew that if I bit his balls until they popped, it would ruin everything, and I’d never see him again. Deep down, I knew that if I lost him, I’d find a real victim, and hurt her against her will.

Of course, I knew exactly who she would be, ever since kindergarten. Before I even knew what I wanted to do, let alone why. Now, I knew that it was sexual, and soon I found out that it wasn’t sex.

It was rape.

;

Author

That’s as good a place as any to stop, and think about what I’m going to do for Part II…

I know it’s frustrating, but that’s a driving force here. This kind of sexual frustration is what leads kids to growing up to be sexual predators, but she’s still a child. And she’s not a victim, so I can’t even throw in a sexual predator to molest her.

I can recommend a video, though: https://youtu.be/StZm51XtxNQ

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