Dog
Star's 
Abigail
The first time I saw the girl she walked past my house in obvious pain. It wasn’t quite a limp; more like she had a stick up her ass. She wore what my mother (may God rest her soul) used to call a shift, its colors long ago faded and the cotton fabric worn out to the point it was almost gauze. Her hair was so light in the noonday sun it looked white rather than blond. My first thought was she was an albino. Regardless of its color, her long hair was a snarled mess.
I called out, “Are you hurt or something?”
She turned to face me and rather than an answer, I received a frightened look before she ran—no, that wasn’t right, she didn’t run so much as scurry—down the road. I watched her go, figuring she lived with that bunch in the trailer old man Bailey let squat on his land at the dead end. That’s what those people looked like to me: a dead end. I’m not a nosy busybody, but I have seen two men and a woman go in and out of that trailer on occasion. They had that scraggly, malnourished look of drug addicts, and I figured that’s what they were. Maybe making the stuff in that trailer, I thought, often times wondering if I should call the Sheriff. Either way, I felt sorry for that girl.
My name is Mary. Simple enough. I live alone. Never been married. Never saw any use for a man. I work odd jobs in the area, mostly cleaning and such for widows like Mrs. Harris. I get by. I’m not magazine pretty but I still turn some heads though the attention doesn’t mean much to me anymore.
I was looking out for the girl and saw her coming down the road two days later. I’d just made some lemonade and I asked her in passing if she’d like a glass. The fear was still in her eyes, but I saw right away that she was thirsty and was really thinking about my lemonade offer.
“No thank you, Ma’am. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Who said anything about talking,” I said with a smile as I held out a tumbler-full while stepping from my porch. “No talking, just drinking the best lemonade in the county, if I do say so myself,” raising my glass to my lips.
She took a tentative step toward me though the fear was still there. “My name’s Mary. What’s yours?” I said, still holding out the other glass to her.
“Like I said, Ma’am, I cain’t talk to strangers, though my mom never said anything about not having some lemonade.” Her smile transformed her as she tentatively approached me on the porch steps. “I’m Abigail,” she said.
I sat on the bottom step and patted the spot next to me. “It’s too damned hot to be wandering around. Sit a while, drink the lemonade, but of course you don’t want to talk to me.”
She looked at me and then realizing I was kidding, sat next to me and gulped down some lemonade. “I guess it’s okay to talk ’cause we’re not strangers anymore. You told me your name.” I noticed how when she sat it wasn’t without a little discomfort.
“I guess you could look at it that way, Abigail. Do your folks call you Abby?”
“It’s only my mom now. My daddy ran off with a tulip.” I figured she meant trollop, or maybe tramp, but I let it go. She continued, “Now it’s Uncle Pete and the other man, Rick, who stay with us and help my mom. They call me Abs.”
Now that she was closer I got a better look. She wasn’t albino but she was so pale I wondered how often she actually was allowed out of that trailer. She was so damned skinny too. Did they feed her? Although her teeth looked to be in better shape than I would’ve guessed, she was a bit ripe so I wondered if she ever bathed. I felt terribly sorry for her. “You know, I was about ready to fix myself a sandwich for lunch. How about I make you one too?”
“Do you have baloney?” she asked, hungry eyes agog.
“I don’t think I do, but I’ve got some sliced ham that would make a slice of baloney hide in shame.” She giggled and said she wouldn’t mind a sandwich like that.
We went inside, all her fear seemingly evaporated away on an empty stomach. I poured her more lemonade before getting the sandwich fixings together. “Mayonnaise or mustard?” I asked.
“What’re those? Like kinds of bread?” I didn’t know how old she was—maybe nine or ten—and she never had mayo or mustard? How could that be? I explained what they were and put a little of both on spoons for her to taste. “I like the yellow one!” she declared wide-eyed. She wolfed down the ham and mustard sandwich like she hadn’t eaten in days, and perhaps she hadn’t. We were sitting on stools at my breakfast nook. As she ate she squirmed a little and I saw that look of pain again.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Abs? You look like you’re hurting.”
“I’m okay Ma’am, I mean Mary. I really am.” Her smile was forced.
I made her another sandwich and she gobbled that one up just as fast as the first. I said, “Don’t you go getting a belly ache now. You do and your mom won’t let you visit anymore. And I like to have visits, especially from polite girls like you.” Maybe next time I’d get her into the shower, I thought as the ripe smell of her lingered in my kitchen after she was gone.
The following day, a sweltering miasma of barely breathable summer air day, I sat on my porch with something a bit stronger than my lemonade when Abigail came by to see me. “Hi, Mary. Can I have some lemonade like you got?”
“Well, Abs, this here isn’t lemonade but I’d be glad to get you one. Let’s get you out of the sun,” I said, noticing that unlike me, the girl wasn’t sweating and looked unusually flushed. I feared she was one step away from heat stroke as I ushered her inside.
“That’s whiskey, right?” she asked, staring at my glass.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mom and Uncle Pete let me drink whiskey all the time,” she declared. When she hopped up onto one of my kitchen stools I saw her grimace and knew something was physically wrong with her. I thought the worst.
“They may do that but I think lemonade would be better on a day like this.” I poured her a glass and she gulped it down as I expected she would. I watched her, knowing that something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it, yet her eyes looked funny and she exhibited occasional shivers that shook the faded sundress she wore. “Are you sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”
“M…maybe I’m…a little…hot…”
She suddenly looked like she would faint, so I went to her and held her up. She felt like she was all bones as I held her. She also stank to high heaven. “Maybe a nice cool shower would make you feel better, hon,” I said as I felt the heat radiate from her.
“Shower?” she muttered.
“When’s the last time you had one?” I asked.
“We don’t…have one,” she answered.
“Why don’t you use mine? You’ll feel better afterwards.” And smell better, I thought.
Her strange docility suggested either liquor or drugs, the latter being my guess. I led her to my bathroom, started the shower spray and adjusted the temperature. When I went to help her out of her sundress, she reached over to the vanity where I set down my glass, picked it up and took a swig. Okay, I thought, maybe that wouldn’t hurt. She said, as her dress went up and over her head, “Are you gonna come in there with me? When I have a bath, Rick comes into the tub with me.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to see she wore no panties.
I stared at her scrawny body and noticed scarring at her vulva. “Does he do things…to you in the bathtub?”
“Yeah, I like it when he touches me, but he like makes me sit on his thing and it’s kinda big and hurts sometimes. It feels much better when Uncle Pete puts it in me.” No wonder she walks funny and has trouble sitting down.
“You really want me to shower with you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Can I have more?” indicating my drink. I nodded and she drained the glass. She studied me as I undressed, and in some perverse way I wondered if I looked better than her mother did. “You have really nice titties,” she said but her attention had already swung to my crotch. “Your hair looks funny.”
“Let’s get into the shower and I’ll tell you about it.” As I went to work shampooing the mess that was her hair, I said, “It might look funny because I trim it down to a small strip for comfort. I take it your mom doesn’t shave?”
“Naw, she is all bushy down there, and it makes me wish I never grew any. Besides, Uncle Pete says that the prettiest coochies are the bald ones, like mine.”
“It’s not right for your uncle or this guy Rick to put it in you, but at least about bald ‘coochies’ I think it’s correct. Bald ones are prettier.”
As I washed her hair a second time she cooed and told me how good it felt to have our bodies touching. As old feelings stirred, I felt the same way. When was the last time I had sex? I couldn’t remember how long it had been though I vividly remembered how Julie looked and tasted that day on her bed so long ago. After two washings and an application of conditioner, I scrunched down and went to work on her with a bar of soap. The tepid water cooled me off and I believed it helped her too. As I ran the soap over her nipples, their puffiness the only clue to the growth to come, they stiffened noticeably and she sighed.
“I like that feeling,” she said. “Do you like to have yours rubbed?”
“I think every girl and woman likes that.”
“Can I wash yours?”
I handed her the soap and let her make her discoveries. She was as captivated by my stiffened nipples as I’d been with hers. She kept the soap and thus her hand on my breasts for a while but eventually moved the soap lower to my navel and then my vulva. When an involuntary moan escaped my lips, she looked up at me and smiled. “You like it like I do,” she said with a certain amount of satisfaction.
I asked for the soap back. I lathered her crotch and slowly washed the area from pubis to anus. It was her turn to moan. When I put the soap bar’s corner between her labia, to my amazement she began to hump the soap. Well before I suggested a shower, had I construed somehow that the prepubescent young girl was a nymphet? It was my turn to feel the itch; one I had suppressed for such a long time. After we toweled dry, I sat her down and brushed her hair for several minutes. It now looked golden, and nothing like the stringy mess it’d been earlier.
“Do you feel better now?” I asked. Her answer was to ask for more whiskey. Remembering the sensations of the shower, my itch was like a hot flash. I poured her a finger or two of whiskey and then led her to the sofa. With both of us still naked, she sat on my lap and nestled into my aching breasts. As she sipped, I put my arms around her; one high tweaking a nipple, and one low, fingering her at the top of her slit. She squirmed and moaned as I worked my finger around and over her immature clit. When she climaxed she spilled what little remained of the liquor all over herself and the sofa.
“I need to lick that up,” I murmured. I sat her down in my place, spread her stick legs, and buried my tongue in her freshly washed and now freshly lubricated pussy.
She moaned and said, “That feels gooooooooooooooooood!” It didn’t take long for her to cum, clamping those skinny legs around my head, shaking like a leaf and squealing like a mouse.
She looked at my wet mouth and dripping chin and asked me if it tasted good. I said, “Why don’t you try it?” With a bit of training, she was a natural. It helped that I hadn’t cum in ages. My pent up arousal exploded as soon as she located and sucked on my clit, and in response I soaked her cute little face.
“This kind of sex is way better than when men poke me with their things,” she said. I told her I was in full agreement.
In hindsight I wished I’d washed her sundress, which still reeked of body odor and other chemical smells. Those other smells, and the fact she seemed drugged when she arrived, solidified my belief that the trailer she lived in was doubling as a meth lab. They were bound to kill the kid, yet what could I do about it?
“Do you still have some of that mustard?” she asked as she put her dress on.
I threw on a robe and said, “Mustard alone isn’t anything, but I can make you another ham sandwich. You want one?” She nodded enthusiastically. While making it, I pondered what she’d said about men poking her. The way she said “men” made me think it was more than Rick and Uncle Pete who were doing the poking. “Abs, honey, are more men than Rick and your uncle…having sex with you?”
“Yeah, every once in a while my mother says she can’t pay for something and they ‘take it out in trade,’ which is how she says it. Sometimes they have sex with my mom but some of them put it in me too. I don’t like those times; they don’t really care about me like Uncle Pete does. I can tell.”
Were the perverts any different from me? I watched her eat with the gusto of the starved, wondering where the line was between love (“…care about me like Uncle Pete does”) and abuse, and which side of that line I was presently residing. I wasn’t a lawyer. I didn’t equate abuse with age. In my mind, abuse was defined by the word victim. When I was a girl only a bit older than Abigail, I discovered the joys of masturbation and would jill-off three or four times a day. Naturally, I was a willing participant when a girl who babysat me took me beyond masturbation. I loved it, and I never felt like a victim at all.
When Abigail left, she declared she wouldn’t tell about the food, the shower or the whiskey. I laughed inwardly, thinking that sex was fourth in her hierarchy of things to keep secret. She already had a story about a swimming hole ready in case anyone even noticed her clean hair and body. I told her that food and a shower would always be available to her. I saw no need to remind her of the other satisfier. Our parting kiss held all the promise of future passion.
I didn’t see Abigail for over a week, which got me to worry about her. When she eventually showed up at my door, she looked terrible. “Can I come in,” she said feebly, “I’m sick.”
She smelled, had the shakes, and her eyes were bloodshot. I ushered her into my kitchen, sat her down, and quickly got her a lemonade. “What’s wrong, Abs? Where does it hurt?”
“All over,” she said. “I just throwed up.”
“Are they making drugs in the trailer?” I had to know.
“They’re always mixing all this stuff and cooking it. It smells awful in there. Is that what’s making me sick?”
“I think so, sweetheart. How come you didn’t come to see me earlier, especially if it was making you sick?”
She looked down, avoiding eye contact, when she said “My mom didn’t let me. She knew I was lying about the swimming hole and told me I couldn’t go out. I didn’t tell her about you. Then her and Rick had a party with some other guys and they all used the stuff they cooked, and then they all…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but I could.
“They all had sex with you.”
“Y…yeah, like, all at the same time.” Still no eye contact. “They put ’em in my mouth so I choked, while one man put it in my bum, and that hurt so bad I cried…but they didn’t care, and then another guy put it in my coochie at the same time as the other one had it in my butt and I thought I was dying. It hurt so much to pee and poop after that. I hate my mother for letting them do that to me. Can I live with you from now on?”
“I wish you could, Abs, sweetheart. But I don’t think the county would allow it.”
“Can you, like, make them say yes?”
I knew of one way, but was I willing to take that drastic step? Of course, for her safety I knew I could do it. “I’ll try, but wouldn’t you miss your mom?”
“Her name is Wendy, and all the men call her Windy because they say her brain is fried and the only thing between her ears is the wind blowing through. She stopped caring about me a long time ago. I’m just a ‘trade’ now, something to pay her debts with.” I held her tightly as she wept. No child should ever have to live like that. When she stopped crying, she looked at me solemnly and said, “Can we, like take our clothes off and hug some more. I like that.”
“Shower first, okay?”
She still exhibited some of the chemically induced shakes when we entered the shower stall. I fought back tears as I washed her hair and then frail body and saw all the scabs and bruises. Her anus was still inflamed and raw. When we were out of the shower I took her to my bed where we lay together; no sex, just hugging tenderly. She fell asleep, and I watched her shallow breathing, every once in a while interrupted by a small spasm. I had to get her out of that trailer.
I fell asleep too, and was awakened to spun-silk hair over my chest and a pair of small lips at my nipple. Probably from my stirring, her eyes fluttered and she awoke too. Looking up at me, she smiled radiantly and told me she had a dream that I was her fairy godmother “like in the storybooks.” I doubted she had ever seen a Disney movie, and vowed to borrow some DVDs from the library. I gave her a kiss, yet my simple attempt turned into a tongue touching marathon worthy of any romantic lesbian porn film.
When our lips separated, I whispered, “Are you sure? You’re not too sore?”
She begged me for it. I licked and kissed her poor, swollen vulva all over, settling on her clit until she cried out in orgasmic delight. I didn’t let her relax. I kept at it until I was rewarded with one, two, three more powerful orgasms I didn’t think a young girl had in her. I didn’t ask anything from her in return. My pleasure was in pleasuring her.
Later, she once again asked me if she could live with me. I explained one way it could happen, but that it was fraught with uncertainty. “I could call the Sheriff and report what your mom and the men are doing. I mean the drugs, not the sex. Would you want to see your mother and Uncle Pete go to jail?”
She said, “I guess that would be sad, but my mother doesn’t love me anymore so why should I care about what happens to her? Besides, Rick says she’s probably gonna die soon anyway because of smelling all the chemicals and using so much of the stuff.”
One more time a wave of sorrow washed over me. A little girl should never feel that way about her mother. “The big problem with calling the Sheriff is there’s no saying they’ll let you live with me. They’d more likely put you into a county home or foster care.”
“But I don’t want that. I want to live with you. I love you, Mary.” I couldn’t hold back the tears, and she joined me.
I fed her, washed her dress, let her have a small nip of whiskey, and then sent her on her way home.
She visited me often, so much so I knew that no one in the trailer cared enough to worry about where she went. We had our routine: something to drink then off came the clothes (hers into the washer), into the shower where we lathered each other up before we lathered up in a different way, so to speak. We’d go to my bed where she nestled her little body between my thighs and gave me the sweetest orgasms, and then I’d devour her until her tiny nipples were puckered solid and every ounce of cum juice was squeezed from her. Even though it still hurt, I understood how she put up with the men raping her: she was insatiable, only wanting to cum and cum again. I didn’t hurt her like they did; and therefore multiple orgasms were the norm in my bed.
“Oh Mary! Again! Do that again,” she’d beg me, and I obliged.
Naked, I’d set her on my lap and brush her freshly washed hair until it shined like the silk it was. Then, like I always did when she sat on my lap, I reached around and used one hand on her little bump of a breast while the other gently stroked between her sweet, wet, pudgy labia, the only part of her that could ever be described with that word. She’d purr like a kitten then suddenly buck her hips and squeal.
The subject of her living with me didn’t come up again although she was evidently still being abused by the men, sometimes with vaginal tears so bad I debated taking her to a doctor. I was the substitute doctor, administering to her pain as well as I could before administering to her other needs. She cried a lot; and me right along with her.
One hot day before we entered the shower a tremendous explosion rocked the neighborhood. We hastily put our clothes back on and went outside to look. Thick, black smoke filled the air, and I knew where it was coming from. Along with several other neighbors, we ran down the lane to the dead end. No trailer was there, only a fiery, smoking cauldron where it used to be. We didn’t say anything. I held her while she cried; both of us knowing no one could have survived that explosion. Firemen came but it was way too late.
Eventually they found five bodies in the charred remains, a woman and four men. No one in the area knew who they were, though old man Bailey told the Sheriff that the dead woman was named Wendy and that she seemed friendly enough when he first said the trailer could stay “for a while” on his property. He didn’t know who the men were but also said he thought the lady had a kid, though since none of the bodies found were children the Sheriff disregarded that notion.
Abigail didn’t cry for long, soon declaring that now she could live with me. “I suppose you’re right, though someday they may figure things out and take you away. Even if they don’t, soon you’ll have to make up the schooling you’ve missed, and that means we’ll have to figure out things like a birth certificate and such.”
She seemed to be taking it well, but no matter how her mother failed her, I knew there would be psychological scars. I needed to give her all the love she needed, and that didn’t just mean the sex she craved.
Arson investigators from the county seat soon enough figured out what happened. “Drug lab for sure,” one of them told me as we stood on the edge of Bailey’s field. “If it didn’t blow up, the chemicals would’ve killed ’em anyway,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “Funny thing, though. We found one of the propane lines inside that looked broken, like someone yanked on it. Peculiar, but then again maybe the explosion did it.”
I walked home pondering the imponderable. Could Abigail have done that? Killed them all, including her own mother? I blotted the idea from my mind. When I got home, Abs was there waiting for me in one of the pretty new sundresses I bought for her, watching the conclusion of a “Snow White” DVD I got from the library. “I hope you’re not going to think of me as the evil stepmother, are you?”
She giggled and said, “No, but I will think of you as the wolf that will eat me all up.”
I went to her, picked her up and spun her little toothpick body upside down. As her dress fell away (no need to worry about panties) I did just that, burying my tongue in her sweet little pussy and eating her all up. Rewarded with a shiver, a squeal and a dollop of pussy nectar, an image of a broken propane line popped into my head. Best not think of that ever again.
Righting her, I said to my young ‘daughter’ and lover, “Okay, now it’s my turn for a good licking.”
The golden haired waif smiled and said, “Yes, Mary, yes!”
Yes, it’s best not to think of anything but sex—and about Abigail’s continued happiness.
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