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It Reminds Me of You

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On the whole, Mr Walsh and I agree, and things go on very well with us.
But there is something that troubled me, Sir.
It is one of the reasons I have written you this long letter.

It is this:

"Tell me again.

Tell me again about the lunatic asylum.

Tell me again how you were ill-treated."

...

"Often the doctor would visit.

He would put his hand up my leg.

He said it was to check my progress."

...

He likes to picture the sufferings I have endured.

He listens to all of it, like a child, listening to a fairy tale.

I must confess that it reminds me of you Doctor Jordan.

You were as eager to hear about my sufferings in life. Your cheeks would flush.
And if you had ears like a dog they would have been pricked forward, with your eyes shining and your tongue hanging out. As if you'd found a grouse in the bush.

 

Or was it my bush that you wanted your tongue on? Is that what it was about, Sir?

Did my torment make you crave me? Did you want to hear how I was made to feel so small, so worthless in this unjust world?

Is that what you wanted to hear, Doctor?

The terror I felt in the lunatic asylum?
Never knowing when the demons that roamed the halls, masquerading as Doctors, as good men with learning or such, would descend upon my isolated quietitude.
Did you want to hear about how they would lift my petticoat and bury their noses beneath?
How they would strap me to a table and spread my thighs as if I were a mare to be inspected? Before they ruined my gentle hearted manner with their menhood?

Or would you prefer to hear how I would try to run only to find their arms wrapping around my waist, throwing me against a wall where they would pin me and push themselves inside of me?

Or perhaps you'd like me to tell you how I felt a blush creeping from the strange sensations pulsing within me? How I moaned to be filled? To have my innocence taken from me and awaken a demon within myself still.

Or maybe Doctor, you'd like to have been there? Outraged and fighting like a mad beast. A warrior of God, protector of the innocent and those unable to defend themselves?
Oh how your gut would twist as your eyes landed on such a scene. Those of your gender holding me to the wall. Tears on my cheeks and blood at my hairline as my hands scrabbled against the mortar behind me. My fingernails bleeding as I searched desperately for purchase within an act of insanity, not mine, but that madness which belonged to the very men who were deigned to diagnose and treat such a thing...

Oh how you'd fight them. Knock the one defiling me unconscious before sending the others fleeing from such monstrous rage. And you'd turn to me. Watch while I remained in place, grateful for your saving me but empty of their sin.
My channel stretched and needing to be filled again. By you?

Would you want me to be polite? Kind and innocent? Silent and coy as you approached me, utterances for my well-being leaving your lips while I continued to shake before your warm hands gently brought me back from the traumas in my mind?

Or would you want me to be filthy with the sin? Willing and wanting? A demon of my own, one created from such a hideous and abused life such as mine? A whore. A succubus. Twisted by too many years of suffering these tortures? Would you want me to be a she devil? More conniving than Eve herself, turning towards you with a scarlett letter so professionally embroidered upon my chest. A lust in my eye, glinting out of time from the flickering of the chamber sconces? Would you want me to push my head back into the wall and lift my chin with a breathy whine, your name escaping breathlessly while I held your gaze and turned my legs outwards, lifting my skirts? Welcoming you in? Wanting you? Lusting for you? Needing you to fill me with your purity after such defamity... My pretty cunt weeping for you? Begging you to cleanse me.

Or would you simply want to take from me as they did? Hold me down while I screamed like a pig for slaughter? The thrill that would run through you upon feeling my fear? Would you want to dominate me? An act of the feigning masculine? Tear down everything that made me so strong, so virtuous in your eyes? By rutting into me like an animal?

Is that what you wanted to hear Doctor?

Does it stir things inside of you that wish to be released? Unshackled and free? Like the whims of the men that broke into me as they pleased? Do they make you jealous? Do you want for a life of that risk? Of fear and reward? Of hardship and power?

Is that what it does for you? It ignites something in you that you are afraid of? Like the child listening avidly to a fairy tale? Eyes sparkling, ears turned forwards? Does the story of my suffering hold an adventure too brave and big for the young boy tucked up in bed?

And it is this that I am left to wonder on after all these years... is it this that all we are to be defined as when it comes down to a question of life:

Those that live and those that listen to stories of those that have lived?