POLLY LEARNS THE ROPES

BY WINSTON

Note: Obviously, this never really happened.

It was another of those days when Daddy was away at some seminar
or another, and Uncle Ricky was visiting Mommy. Of course, he
wasn't my real uncle, just a friend of Mommy's who worked with
her. It seemed that Uncle Ricky spent a lot of time at our house
when Daddy was away. Mommy had a pair of black leather pants that
she liked to wear when Uncle Ricky was over. What was weird was
that Mommy never wore them when Daddy was home. I don't know if
he even knew she owned them. But when Daddy was away and Uncle
Ricky was at the house, Mommy always wore them – them, and her
black leather jacket, even though we were inside the house.
They'd laugh and chat for awhile, sitting next to each other on
the couch, then Mommy would tell us, "Polly and Tim, go find
something to do!" And off we'd go, usually to our rooms, out to
the garage, or even away from the house. I'm only eleven, but I
could figure out that something was sure up. I wasn't entirely
sure what, but I had my guesses.

Anyway, this was one of those days. Daddy was away, Uncle Ricky
was over, and Mommy had her leather things on. We all sat around
in the living room and talked and laughed, until as expected
Mommy asked Tim and me to go play somewhere else for awhile.
Uncle Ricky had his new camera with him, and was talking about
taking some pictures. I wondered if that meant he and Mommy
wanted to go somewhere else. We live in a pretty neighborhood,
and I could imagine Uncle Ricky wanting to take some pictures in
the hills behind our house, maybe. I didn't know what ropes and
tape might have to do with that, though, although Uncle Ricky
mentioned those, too. Mommy giggled – a funny kind of giggle,
deep in her throat. She had her hand on Uncle Ricky's thigh, high
up near his hip. I thought it looked like Uncle Ricky's hand was
under Mommy's butt, but I'm pretty sure that I couldn't be right
about that. I mean, Uncle Ricky sometimes used to put his hand
under my butt, when I used to sit in his lap (though I'm too old
to do that now, of course), but that was just for support. Mommy
wasn't in his lap, so why would she need support?

Tim and I went out into the garage to play. I'm a majorette in
school, and Tim says I look like a superheroine when I'm wearing
my twirler costume – red spandex leotard covered in small red
spangles, with gold spangles in the shape of a diamond over my
chest, along with shiny red and gold gloves, and white stovepipe
boots – so we often play superheroes and I wear my twirler
costume. I'm Ultragirl; Tim pretends to be the evil supervillain
and ties me up, then I try to get free. Usually Tim doesn't tie
me up all that well – he's still only nine, and I guess sometimes
he can't pull the ropes very tight. So I usually get free pretty
easily. Still, Tim has been getting better, so I have to keep on
my toes these days.

This time, Tim went out to the garage while I went upstairs to
change. I threw off my clothes, then slipped into my twirler
costume, pulling on the long gloves and zipping up the boots.
Heading back down the stairs, I noticed that Uncle Ricky's eyes
followed me all the way out to the garage. Weird.

Out in the garage, Tim had turned off the lights. I stepped into
the gloom. The door slammed shut behind me, and something hard
poked into my lower back. I froze, in mock terror. Behind me, in
a voice trying to be deep and menacing but that would have
frightened nobody, Tim laughed and threatened me with mortal
peril, pressing the hard something more sharply into me and
ordering me up against the wall. Slowly I turned, backing towards
the wall with my hands raised. Tim poked me again, this time in
my tummy, with what turned out to be Daddy's power drill – Tim
was pretending it was a ray gun or something. He backed me up
against the wall, then ordered me to tie my own ankles to one of
the beams along the wall of the garage. He tossed me one of my
old jump ropes, then stepped back. I bent over from the waist and
tied the rope around my white booted feet, binding them tightly
against the base of the wall post. Tim held the "gun" on me all
the while.

"Now the knees," he ordered, handing me another jump rope. I
complied. This was actually pretty clever of Tim, I thought; by
making me do the tying, the bindings would be better than if Tim
did them himself. As if reading my mind, Tim put down the "gun"
and checked the bindings, making sure they were tight enough.
Satisfied, he dragged over a chair and stood on it.

"Raise your hands," he commanded, still in that pseudo-deep
voice. This was new. Usually Tim tied my hands behind my back,
which (to tell the truth) made it pretty easy to get free. But
now, as I raised my hands over my head, Tim revealed a handful of
plastic tie straps. Standing on tiptoe on the chair, he bound my
wrists to the wall beam, separately – another first, as he
usually tied them together – then snugging them tight. Too tight,
actually. I was stretched out rather uncomfortably, wondering
what Tim had in mind next – and also wondering if it was going to
be quite so easy to get free this time. I tried to twist my
hands, seeing if there was any play in the straps. No go. My
fingers started to tingle right away, I guess because my arms
were raised and because the plastic tie straps we pulled so
tight.

This wasn't going as planned, and I said so. "Those straps are
too tight, Tim," I complained. "My arms hurt."

"Who's Tim?" he asked in his supervillain voice, pretending to
look all around. "I don't see any Tim in here."

"I'm serious! My arms hurt!"

Another menacing chuckle. "Your day of pain is only just
beginning, Ultragirl!"

Obviously he thought I was still playing. Or maybe he was happy
that for once I wasn't acting like I was going to get free right
away. Or both. He took another jump rope and wrapped it around my
chest, winding it first above, then below my breasts (where I
hoped to have real boobs some day, but so far what Mommy calls
the Boob Fairy hasn't come visiting) and then tying it off behind
the wall post. One more rope bound my arms tightly at the elbows.
I was stretched out, completely unprotected, and slowly realizing
that I had no idea how to get free … and now Tim was coming back
with Daddy's power drill.

To my horror, he depressed the trigger, and the drill bit buzzed
to life. The little idiot had plugged it in!

"Tim, no!" I yelped. "Stop it right now!"

"I told you," he said, coming closer, "there's no one named Tim
here!"

He held the drill up to my face, depressed the trigger again. The
drill bit spun dangerously within a few inches from my face.

I'd had enough. "MOM!" I yelled. "MOM!!"

Tim immediately pulled the drill back. Far from being mollified,
he looked angry. "Oh, yeah, right, some Ultragirl you are!" he
grumbled. "I finally beat you, and you have to go crying to
Mommy. You're just a big baby!"

"I am not!" I said hotly. "Drills are dangerous! You're being a
moron!"

"Am not!"

"Are too! Moron!"

"FINE!" Tim dropped the drill; it bounced off the concrete floor.
He stormed away, fists balled up.

"Wait! Untie me!"

"No way!" He pulled the door open, then paused. The bin with
Daddy's used work rags was right there next to the door. Tim
looked at the rags, then looked back at me. A very mean smile
surfaced on his face.

"What?" I asked … but I already guessed. Sure enough, Tim grabbed
a handful of dirty rags, then came back over. "Open your mouth,"
he said.

"No way! MOM!" How could she not hear me? What were she and Uncle
Ricky doing?

Tim pressed a dirty rag to my lips, which stopped me from yelling
again. But I refused to open my mouth. The rag was old, faded red
and stained with black; it smelled like oil and grime. No way was
that going in my mouth!

After a few moments of shoving the rag into my face, Tim pulled
back – and then he punched me in the tummy! It shouldn't have
hurt so much, but Tim never hit me before and I didn't see it
coming. But he hit me really hard. Besides, I was all stretched
out. My breath whooshed out of me. I gasped to draw another
breath, and that's when Tim shoved the dirty rag into my open
mouth.

I couldn't breathe. I tried to get air in, but my mouth was full
of foul-tasting cloth that made me want to throw up, and my nose
didn't seem big enough to get any air. I jerked against my bonds,
violently wrenching my shoulders and feeling ropes and straps
biting into me. My head banged against the post. Black flashes
came and went in my vision.

Slowly I got ahold of myself. Air was reaching my lungs, although
they hurt. It seemed like every muscle in my body had just been
pulled, and I had an all-over Charley horse.

Tim wasn't finished with me. No sooner did I start to get my
breathing under control than he popped up in front of me with
Daddy's roll of duct tape. He tore off one strip, then another,
then a third, pressing them tightly over my mouth, sealing the
filthy rag inside. I tried to shove the rag back out with my
tongue, but couldn't. "Mmmmmph!" I said, glaring at Tim.

He glared right back. "Serves you right!" he hissed. "You were
gonna tell on me!"

I nodded emphatically. Darn right! I didn't mind being tied up,
usually, but no way was he supposed to play with Daddy's drill! I
mean, if his grip slipped even a little, or if his arms got
tired, he might really hurt me!

And, I realized, he still might. Tim was picking up the drill
again!

"Mmmmph! MMMMMPH!" I squealed into my horrible gag, but no real
words came out. Tim held the drill up to my face again, and
pulled the trigger. The bit whirred into action, about an inch
from my face. I could even feel a little breeze from the whirling
bit.

"Whatcha gonna do now, Ultragirl?" he whispered.

Slowly he moved the buzzing drill down toward my throat, then
back toward my left ear. The noise was incredible. The drill
trailed lower, down my chest and towards my belly button. I
realized I was crying now, helplessly.

I looked at Tim. He looked at me. His expression was very strange
– part anger, part … excitement? Somehow I could tell that he
really wanted to push the drill in closer, maybe even brushing
the deadly tip against my belly. Or maybe even deeper! But … he
couldn't really want to hurt me, could he? Could he?

The spinning bit hovered there, buzzing over my tummy, while Tim
considered what to do next. One hand left the drill and stole to
the growing bulge in the front of his jeans; as a result, his
hold on the drill got wobbly. I sucked my tummy in as far as I
could.

And then Tim lowered the drill even further, towards my crotch.

I couldn't help it; I peed myself. I was so scared! My crotch got
all hot and sticky as me leotard soaked through with my urine. A
sour smell filled the air.

"Yuck!" Tim cried, disgusted. He took his finger off the trigger
and turned away. "That's really gross, Polly!" He waved his free
hand in front of his face.

I couldn't answer through my sobs, or through my gag. I ached all
over, I stank of my own pee, and I was still tied to this
horrible post.

Tim set the drill down, picked up the duct tape and another rag.
"Serves you right, you big baby," he grumped, using the oily rag
to wipe away my tears. He also wiped off the snot I could feel
running out of my nose.

Then he tore off another strip of duct tape and pressed it down
tightly over my eyes. I was blind!

"MMMMMPH!!" I protested, but it was too late. I heard him peel
off another strip, then another, pressing each over my eyes in a
criss-cross pattern. I couldn't see a thing. No light got
through. I was blind and dumb, and tied to a post to boot. I
didn't feel like Ultragirl any more; I felt very small and very
afraid.

Through my hitching breaths, through my frightened moans, I
listened for Tim. What was he going to do next? Threaten me with
the drill again? Do more than threaten? I waited for the sound of
the drill, terrified.

Instead, I heard Tim walk softly away. The door snicked open,
clicked closed. I was alone in the garage, bound and gagged and
utterly, completely helpless.

***

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I knew Tim wouldn't
leave me here forever; and if he tried, it wouldn't work because
Mommy or Daddy would find me. Eventually. But I stank, and my
whole body hurt, and I didn't want to play this game anymore.
Ever.

I tried to get myself free. There seemed to be a bit of play in
rope around my ankles; I could move my feet a little bit inside
my boots. A little bit. But because my legs were also tied at the
knees, I couldn't move my ankles very much at all – certainly not
enough to pull free. Meanwhile, my arms and hands were now
completely numb.

Time passed, slowly and very painfully.

After what seemed like ages, I heard the door open again, softly.
Almost stealthily, it seemed. Tim had come back to … do what?
Gloat? Use the drill again? Set me free? Apologize? I had no
idea. I tensed up, wondering what was next.

After several moments, I relaxed a tiny fraction. No sound at
all. Had Tim come back? Or had he just peeked in through the
door? Was anybody in here with me?

I listened as hard as I could. And then I noticed, not a sound,
but a smell. A new smell. Over the stink of my own pee, I could
smell aftershave. It smelled like the aftershave Uncle Ricky
liked to wear.

"Mmmph?" I queried through the gag.

In response, a pair of large, rough hands were placed against me.
The thumbs were over my nipples; the fingers reached around me,
under my upstretched arms and over my shoulder blades. Big hands!
Not Tim. Slowly the hands moved down my body, then back up. The
big thumbs found my nipples again and started circling them,
pressing down.

Now there was a new sound. I could hear someone breathing, close,
deep and heavy. A big hot body suddenly pressed full against me,
rubbing up and down against me. The heavy breathing sharpened. I
felt a something hard, like a belt buckle, grinding into my
tummy; below that, a hotter bulge of something pressed hard into
my crotch; it reminded me somehow of the bulge I felt in Uncle
Ricky's lap when I used to sit there, the bulge that pressed into
my bottom. I remembered Uncle Ricky gasping sometimes when I
shifted against that bulge; it sounded a lot like the gasping I
heard now.

Fingers joined the thumbs at my nipples, pinching me hard. I
whimpered into my gag, but that just made the pinching even
harder. Worse, the fingers started pulling and stretching my
nipples under the nylon fabric. The rubbing of the heavy hot body
against me grew tighter; I was being crushed against the wall
post. I yelled into my gag in protest, but hardly any sound came
out.

Suddenly the body pulled away. The gasping receded. For several
moments all was still. The gasping leveled out, became more
normal breathing, quieted. Then I felt a fumbling at the ropes
around my knees. Someone was untying me! I couldn't believe my
luck. The rope around my knees loosened, was whisked away. Next I
felt the rope around my ankles being loosened, as well.

I wished whoever this was – Uncle Ricky? – would untie my arms
before he finished my ankles, because they were so numb and cold.
But I was just happy that I was being untied. In the back of my
mind, I started imagining telling Mommy about this – Tim would be
in SO much trouble!

As the rope pulled free from my ankles, I immediately stretched
one leg, easing out the kinks. Suddenly rough hands grabbed the
leg and pulled it tightly to one side, angled upward, pressing
the booted ankle against the next wall beam over. To my horror, I
felt the rope being re-tied around my ankle! And this tying was
much tighter, much more painful – it bit tightly into the boot
leather and pressed it deep into my skin, cutting off the feeling
in my foot. The unseen hands then grabbed my other leg; I tried
kicking out, but couldn't see my assailant and so couldn't really
do anything but flail. That leg, too, was pulled sharply sideways
and upwards, then bound tightly to the adjacent wall post.

My numb arms now came screaming back to life; with my legs pulled
up and out to either side, my feet couldn't support me any more,
and the tie straps around my wrists were now bearing almost my
whole weight. I started crying again, realizing that my ordeal
was far from over.

Through my sobs, I heard the quiet electric whine of a digital
camera being turned on. It sounded just like the chime Uncle
Ricky's camera made. Someone was taking pictures of me! The
electronic shutter sound kept clicking and clicking. Sometimes it
was close to my face, as if whoever it was wanted close-ups of my
teared, gagged, tape-blinded face. Other times the sound came
from down near my crotch, as if they wanted close-ups of between
my legs.

The heavy breathing was back, now, too, ragged and rough.

Eventually my captor tired of taking pictures; the shutter sounds
stopped. But then the hands were back. Now the fingers slipped
under my leotard, grabbing my nipples directly and pinching them,
pulling them. The pain was excruciating. I'd heard some of the
girls at school talk about how nipples were supposed to be
something boys (or maybe even some girls) touched to make you
feel good – I'd even played with my own nipples, a few times, in
my room by myself, and enjoyed the tingling sensation – but there
was none of that here. The fingers were rough, digging cruelly
into me as they pinched, and the fingernails bit into my tender
flesh. I shook my head no, over and over and over, screaming into
my gag all the while, but it made no difference. I was still
helpless, and my captor could do with me what he wanted.

Suddenly the big hot body was back, pressed against me again,
grinding into me. My right nipple was released, but then there
were rough fingers fumbling at the damp crotch of my leotard.
There was a sound of cloth tearing, and I felt cool air against
my privates. The fingers started playing with my lips, sliding in
and out of my little slit. I gasped as the fingers brushed my
clitoris, then flicked it, then pinched it. Waves of mingled pain
and pleasure shot through my vitals. My hips started twitching
and bucking, beyond my control. I was hoarse with screaming into
my gag.

The hands left me – both the one at my nipple and the one at my
pussy. I heard a belt buckle being loosened, jeans being
unbuttoned. I knew what came next, and there was nothing I could
do to stop it. I was about to be raped, and I was helpless –
bound, gagged, with my legs stretched painfully apart and my poor
vulnerable pussy exposed. I was wracked with futile sobs.

But I was wrong. There was a whooshing sound, then a sharp crack
– and pain exploded against my exposed left thigh. The bastard
was whipping me with his belt! Another whoosh, another crack, and
my right thigh was in agony. Again, and this time my exposed left
armpit was the target – I hadn't expected that. The pain was
immense, unbearable. My gagged shrieks found a new level of
hoarse futility. Blow after blow rained down on me – my thighs,
my arms, my leotard-clad belly. I waited in horror, knowing that
my exposed pussy would prove too rich a target to be left alone
for long. But he was patient, stroking me relentlessly with lash
after lash from his belt, until it seemed my whole body must be
raised in welts, glowing redly.

There was a pause. I tensed. A whoosh, a crack! Pain like nothing
I could have ever imagined detonated in my vagina as the belt bit
into it. I was lost in searing waves of agony. Again the belt
landed, and again, and yet again, finding the same tender target
each time. I was dying, I knew it – no human could endure such
pain. My body fought against its bondage with no conscious input
from me. I was an animal, nothing more, grunting and spasming
mindlessly against my bonds, against the pain…

I must have passed out. I came to slowly, still bound. I didn't
know how long I had been out. My body was still on fire; my
smooth little pussy felt like it had to be dripping with gore.
But there was another feeling down there, too – breath. Someone's
breathing was sighing hotly against my tortured labia. I felt
something wet – a tongue – brush against me, licking my slit,
playing briefly against my swollen clitoris. Involuntarily, I
moaned in response.

That was all it took. I heard him stand. His hands fell upon me
again – on my shoulders, this time. With a grunt, my assailant
hoisted his entire weight onto me. I was fully awake again,
miserable and afraid. My arms, already in agony, discovered a
whole new level of pain. But then I forgot about my screaming
arms as something huge and hot and hard shoved its way inside me,
tearing through my hymen and slamming deep, deep into my belly.
My cries became hoarse, guttural grunts into my gag as my
captor's huge cock ravaged me. I'd learned about sex with men
from Mommy and in school, but they said it was supposed to be
enjoyable. There was nothing enjoyable here – just wave after
wave of tearing, burning pain.

But my body responded, and to my horror I found that my hips were
bucking and spasming in response to my assailant's thrusts. This
spurred him to greater effort, and his huge member pushed deeper
and harder and faster into me. I couldn't scream any more; I had
no breath. Instead, I just gasped and moaned into my gag. This,
too, seemed to motivate my captor.

One hand on my shoulder crept inward, towards my throat, and
wrapped tightly around it. As it squeezed, my air was cut off and
I stopped breathing completely. Now my whole body was spasming
uncontrollably as it fought for air, all the while being plowed
mercilessly by my assailant's engorged cock. Dimly I heard
hoarse, rasping breathing in my ear, a male voice grunting my
name, over and over and over. Black spots flashed in my darkened
vision.

And then came the climax. My assailant stiffened abruptly, his
whole body going rigid and slamming into me, shuddering against
me as he cried out. I felt my own corresponding orgasm, my first,
brought on by pain and force. Dimly, I wondered if I would feel
his cum pumping into me, but I couldn't. Then even that thought
receded. I was fading … fading …

Suddenly the clamped hand left my throat. I sucked air in as fast
and hard as I could, though my nostrils again didn't seem nearly
big enough. My awareness started to return. I could feel again my
agonized arms, my tortured pussy, the huge hot thing still buried
deep inside me. My distended vagina felt all sticky – blood,
probably, mingled with his cum. My throat was raw, both from my
own screams and from my near strangulation. I wondered if there
would be bruises on my neck, or down there below, to go along
with the whip weals.

We stayed like that for some time, him still hanging off of me,
his cock still rigid inside me, and me trying to get my breath
back through my tiny nostrils and my hitching sobs.

Abruptly he pulled himself out of me, climbed down off of me. At
last. My body started to relax, ever so slightly, and I dimly
started to wonder – to hope – if my ordeal might be reaching its
denouement.

I heard him fumble with his trousers. Heard him buckle his belt –
that hateful belt – back on.

Then silence.

Minutes passed. Was he still in the room? I hadn't heard the door
open or close, but I was in so much pain I might have missed it.
I listened intently, concentrating.

Millimeters from my ear, the power drill exploded to life. The
high screaming whine spiked into my ear, into my brain. I
screamed.

The drill died.

Silence.

Then a voice, whispering into me ear: "Tell anyone, you little
fucking slut, tell anyone ever … and next time I'll rape you with
this fucking drill."

Silence again. Snick as the garage door opened; click as it
closed. I was alone.

***

Some time later I heard the door open again. A gasp, then running
footsteps. The tape was peeled back from my mouth, from my eyes
(losing some eyelashes and eyebrow hair in the process). It was
Tim, his eyes huge with concern and fear.

"Are you okay?" he asked, frantic.

There was no way to legitimately answer that. "Untie me," I
asked, plaintively, and Tim rushed to respond. Once I was untied
I pushed past Tim, staggering up to my room and closing the door.
Slowly I peeled off my stinking twirler costume, then looked at
myself in the mirror, trying not to cry still more at what I saw.
Then I started cleaning myself up, moving slowly and painfully.

***

All that was weeks ago. Since then I've worn high-collared,
long-sleeved blouses or shirts, with long pants. None of the
damage was permanent, and the bruises and welts have mostly
faded. Ultragirl survives.

I told Tim that he couldn't tell anyone about finding me like
that, although I didn't – I couldn't – explain why. He didn't
understand; but then, since he was the one who tied me up to
begin with, he was pretty happy to agree. Mommy doesn't seem to
suspect anything, but then, she seemed awfully hazy when she
finally came out of her bedroom that day. Maybe she had too much
to drink, or … something. But she didn't notice how much it hurt
me to walk, and how careful I was as I moved painfully about. By
the time she was herself again, I was walking more normally. And
I'd sewn up the crotch of my twirler costume, and wiped the dried
blood off the tops of the white boots, so she didn't notice
those, either. Honestly, I didn't ever want to wear or even see
that outfit again – the associations were too awful. Ultragirl
might have survived, but I didn't think she'd be making an
appearance anytime soon. But I couldn't just leave things as they
were; if Mommy or Daddy had seen the torn crotch, or the blood on
my boots, they'd have too many questions I didn't want to answer.

I have unasked questions of my own, too. A part of me wants to
ask Mommy about the red marks I saw around her wrists, marks like
those around my own wrists and ankles. I want to ask, but then I
remember Uncle Ricky wanting to take pictures of Mommy, and
talking about ropes and tape. I remember Mommy giggling in
response. I wonder if maybe Uncle Ricky tied Mommy up, after
she'd had a few drinks (too many drinks?), then he left her alone
in her room to come down to the garage to rape and torture me.
That would at least explain why she didn't come to help me when I
cried out for her. I wonder if Uncle Ricky maybe tied up and
fucked us both that day.

I wonder, but I won't ask. I can't. To ask I'd have to tell. And
if I tell, Uncle Ricky (I'm pretty sure it was him) will shove
that cold steel drill bit inside me and … No, I can't ever tell.

I guess I'm lucky that Uncle Ricky didn't make me pregnant. Quite
the opposite – within a couple weeks, I had my first-ever period.
Mommy thought it was early – I'm eleven, and I guess that could
be a little early – but said, "My little girl is becoming a
woman!" If she only knew. I think back on that horrible
afternoon, about the way my skinny hips bucked in time to Uncle
Ricky's thrusts, the way my body shook as I had my first-ever
orgasm, and I wonder if being a woman is all that great. Could my
body – not me, but my body – have somehow … liked … being raped?

As for Uncle Ricky, he looks at me differently now when he comes
over. It's an adult look, like he wants me – like he thinks maybe
he owns me. And like he and I have a secret. Well, maybe we do.
Mommy notices that look, I think, and she's not happy about it.
But I can't say anything to her. That drill … As for me and Tim,
Mommy doesn't need to tell us to scram when Uncle Ricky is over
these days. Not any more. Daddy leaves, Mommy puts on her
leathers, Uncle Ricky shows up, and we're out of there. No
questions and no delays. But now I stay in my room, by myself. I
remember Tim threatening me with the drill, rubbing the bulge in
the front of his jeans. Little Timmy's growing up, I guess, and I
suppose it'll be any day now that he starts looking at me the way
Uncle Ricky does. I don't want him to get any more bright ideas
about me.

I have to think that things aren't finished yet between me and
Uncle Ricky, regardless of how I try to avoid him. I think we're
going to have at least one more encounter, someday – maybe
someday soon. If so, I hope I survive the experience. But I think
it may be inevitable. I know he likes women – he's with Mommy all
the time, after all – and I'm a woman now. But he also likes
little girls, apparently, so I'm stuck either way.

Why do I think these things? Well, as I said, there's those looks
he gives me. And I can feel his eyes following me, whenever I'm
in a room with him – even if Mommy or Daddy are there. But it's
more than that, too.

Last week was my birthday. Uncle Ricky was over, and he got me a
present. A very expensive present. Daddy was surprised; Mommy was
not only surprised, she was – I think – a bit suspicious. Maybe
even a little jealous. Uncle Ricky just smiled … and looked at me
that way he does now. Like we have a secret.

Uncle Ricky got me a black leather jacket. Just like Mommy's.