Arin Before Bed

Arin’s bedtime routine was, for the most part, no different than any other eight year old girl. First she would put her blond hair in a ponytail and wash her face. Then she carefully brushed her teeth, followed by flossing fastidiously with cinnamon flavored floss, her favorite. Finally, she would use the toilet one last time before undressing and putting on a nightgown.

If her mother were still awake, Arin would kiss her goodnight. Usually though, her mom would already be curled up in bed, fast asleep with the TV on mute. Tonight, this appeared to be the case so Arin carefully crept past the master bedroom. Her mother worked an early morning shift at 3 a.m. so it was not uncommon for Arin to go to bed on her own. Even though her mother was a deep sleeper like she was, the little girl was careful anyway about making too much noise to wake her mom.

Before getting into bed, however, Arin would tiptoe into the kitchen and look at the wall calendar that was heavily marked with red ink. This was her father’s work schedule. Depending on how his supervisor made up the schedule the week before, her father would work either the second shift from 4 pm to 1 am or he would do a double shift until late the next morning. Tonight, he was scheduled for only a second shift, meaning he would be home around 1:30 in the morning.

Arin turned out the lights in the kitchen and living room. Before going upstairs, she also made sure both the front and back door to the house were locked. They were. She moved soundlessly up the stairs but instead of going to her bedroom, she returned to the bathroom again.

Arin closed the door for privacy even though her mother was sound asleep. She reached into the medicine cabinet and produced a plastic bottle of mineral oil. From one of the sink drawers, she pulled out a turkey baster. Her lips pursed in a tight line, the little girl wiggled out of her underpants and kicked them aside.

For some time now, Arin had been receiving night visits from her father. He would come home from work and sneak into her bedroom. Arin had lost count of the number of times she would wake in the middle of the night with her father sitting on her bed, illuminated by her dim night light. Sometimes he would smell heavily of alcohol, sometimes not. Sometimes she would awaken to the touch of him rubbing her knees. Sometimes it was a different part of her body being rubbed.

Arin didn’t like being touched there. Intrinsically, she knew this touching was much different than shaking someone’s hand or having her feet tickled. She knew it wasn’t right. When it first started happening, the eight year old girl wondered if she weren’t dreaming.

She began waking up in the morning to find she wasn’t wearing underwear. Then she knew it wasn’t a dream. What started out as gentle touching while she was half-asleep soon escalated to something much more intense. One night, Arin was dozing lightly when she felt something warm and wet between her legs. Reaching down, the eight year old girl was shocked to feel her father’s unmistakable curly hair. His face was buried in a shocking place.

Unable to fathom why he would want to do such a thing, Arin lay awake as his tongue explored her. She felt strange and light-headed. On subsequent nights, the odd feeling would keep Arin fully conscious as he silently crouched between her legs.

Then it got much worse. Arin could still remember the searing pain the night she woke up on her stomach, her father pinning her down as he moved against her backside. His hands clasped tight around her wrists so Arin knew it wasn’t his finger that was painfully thrusting into her bottom. When she awoke the next morning, several stains of blood decorated her sheets and nightgown.

Alone in the locked bathroom, Arin dipped the turkey baster into the bottle of mineral oil. The device obediently lapped up a small quantity of the liquid as she squeezed and released the bulb. Hiking up her nightgown, Arin gently inserted the turkey baster into her anal rosette and deposited a small amount of the slippery mineral oil inside her bottom. Withdrawing the baster, she probed with a finger, testing to see if her puckered hole would accept her digit. It did. Easily.

With an air of practiced efficiency, Arin washed her hands and the turkey baster before putting everything away. Retrieving her underwear from the floor, Arin exited the bathroom, pausing briefly to listen to her mom’s snoring behind the semi-closed door to the master bedroom. Moving to her own room, Arin dropped the underpants in the hamper before pulling the covers back on her bed. The little girl had initially felt funny about sleeping without underwear but this way she wouldn’t have to dig around in her sheets the next morning to find where her father had left her underwear.

Arin settled herself in bed and turned off her lamp. Now the room was only lit by the dim glow of her nightlight. Sighing she tried to relax as she tossed and turned to find a comfortable position. Arin wondered if he would even come tonight. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning only to find her preparation was all for naught. Maybe he would do a double shift despite the schedule posted in the kitchen. Or maybe he would just come home and go to bed.

Absent-mindedly, Arin’s hand wandered downward, her finger probing her bottom in an act of obsessive compulsiveness. The mineral oil was still inside her and its presence allowed her rosette to easily admit her finger. The little girl hoped it would do the same for her father. It was alarming to wake to him pinning her down and it was certainly discomfiting to feel him inside her. But at least the mineral oil’s lubricating properties would reduce the burning pain and keep her from bleeding too heavily.

Partially comforted by the fact that she was ready, Arin fell asleep, wondering when her father would come home.