Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Mf, MMMf, Mg, MFg, etc.; pedo, yng pedo, teen; inc; caution The Night Ferry by Silvio Stoker Intro: The dissolute sexually excited young girls and adult perverts. "The man who stared at them in the motel's grocery liked little girls like Heather. He had fucked one, once, a twelve-year-old. But Bobby had never considered a very young child until he saw Mia. The six-year-old didn't know what it was, but she knew it had something to do with her and that it was bad. She had wondered about her father peeing in Zoe's cunny, and now she had a foggy idea of how that might be done. The man looked at her like he wanted to do something like that to her. He rubbed the thing in his pants, staring at her skinny body..." (This story from archive ' 2 my collections of this writer. Access to archives from page [0SilvioStoker.htm] in the same directory ...\favoritecollection\Silvio_Stroker) ===This story is a work of fiction.======== T H E N I G H T F E R R Y Written by Silvio Stoker My name is Mia Dorn. I am fifteen years old, and I'm beautiful. I'm on the ferry from Helsinki, the capital of Finland, to Stockholm in the Kingdom of Sweden. I like ships and I like kingdoms. It's the turn of the century, and in a couple of weeks, on Candlemas, I will turn sixteen, which will make me legal in most of Europe. But I like criminals. I'm in love with the illicit. I took the cheapest cabin 'cause I haven't been fucking for money too much. It was a stuffy room in the bowels of the ship that I shared with three strangers (two Peace Corps volunteers and a taciturn Swede, a man placed in the female cabin by accident), but I spent the night sleeping around. Come is oozing from my cunt and my asshole hurts because two drunken Finns put both their cocks in it at once and later they stuck a beer bottle in there. I stink of urine and vomit because I let them piss in my mouth and they did it at the same time and I couldn't swallow it of course and then I puked. I'm sitting in the bar at the end of this snazzy ship, the Silya Serenade, with my laptop. I couldn't wash because my - shipmates? Are they called that, or are they only cabin mates? - the Peace Corps girls, were taking showers, and the taciturn Swede became voluble. He kept asking me if I was okay like I'm a little girl, and I changed in front of him - he looked away - and I came here where it is empty and there are broken glasses everywhere. It's dawn, but that comes late in this part of the world, at this time of year. I could have showered in the Finns' cabin but they started getting really rough and I got scared. I still get scared. I like it when men get nasty - I love getting gang-banged, and I'm into fisting and scat and stuff - but they started hitting me and I got scared. Yeah, I still get scared. They weren't even turned on anymore, just evil and drunk out of their minds. So I changed unwashed into a sort of somber but sexy dress and came here to write. I like the bars on the ferries in the morning - I like abandoned things: the narrow streets of old New Orleans after Mardi Gras, derelict houses, Petra although I haven't been there, Pompeii where I have been. It's difficult to see oneself anyhow, any way, in any time or person. But it's especially hard to remember who you _were_... who I was. Maybe I should write this in the third person: who she was. I write a lot. I began writing when I was nine, but my diaries from before '94 are lost. Her diaries. The girl who wrote them is now definitely a her and not me. Times and persons are so confusing. It's all pretend somehow, isn't it? I didn't know who I was then, so how can I know it - her - now? I don't know who I am now, either. That's part of why I write. The first and last sentences of André Breton's _Nadja_ form a kind of credo for me: "Qui suis-je?" - Who am I? And my mantra: "Beauty will be convulsive or will not be." Mia Dorn... Me-adorn, the self, then. Even above, the times are confused, aren't they? I'm sitting in this empty bar writing on my laptop and stinking of piss and puke and thinking about what they did to me and then I become the girl they did it to. Young woman. There's not very much about me that's girlish. I'll be very sad if my adventures ever go so far that I can't write about them. Sometimes I feel like I'm more of a character than a person. I've always been bookish, I guess. I have problems. One is I get drunk every night and I do a lot of drugs. I still have a good memory, though, because I'm so young, I guess, but I'm not too capable of analysis, of dry thinking, not anymore. I get wet, and I'm too obsessed with myself and sex to see myself clearly... if that's even possible. If it is, I don't really care. Deep down, I wonder if I care about anything, really. 'Really.' I hate those divisions - all of them. I don't really see anything as separate. It ends up that way: my body and my mind, then and now, you and me. One of my boyfriends talked a lot about dualism. But then he had a dual nature, my friend and my lover. I think I can call him a lover. This duality of his was - his. He felt guilty about what he did to me. I felt guilty, too, but I didn't really see the difference between him as a nice, intelligent man and him is a pedophile. When I look back on it, I'm not sure where all of the guilt came from. I _felt_ his self-hatred, and I think he needed me to feel molested, polluted, corrupted. One of these mornings I'm gonna wake up sober. I'll write a play about my selves at different times, a cool play, at a distance from its subject, which is always me. ...................... I suppose that Mia Dorn was sort of strange. Strange in the sense of uncommon, then - she was as bright as afternoon sunlight on Lake Michigan in high summer on a cloudless day. Apollonian, Attic. Her mother, Sarah, died giving birth to her, and her father, Isaac, married for the third time when Mia was six years old. His first marriage had ended in divorce, and Mia's half-sister, Heather, was five years her senior. Isaac Dorn was strict, very. He raised the girls as if they were adults as soon as they could walk and talk. He didn't buy them toys, didn't let them watch television, hardly ever let them play and punished them severely for breaking any rules, spanking them, sometimes whipping them. Did he love them? I'm not sure. If he did, it was a cold love, and he regarded them as extensions of himself. He had an enormous self. He was very intelligent, well-read, emotional. He wanted children because he wanted to raise them as female versions of his bloated self, of his fantasies about what a woman must be - artsy, articulate, withdrawn, timid, sensual... submissive, whorish, dependent, useless except as beautiful and educated bodies for his, and by extension others', cocks. He was poor. He made a living by illuminating manuscripts, not exactly a growing field. He made diplomas, things like that. He used old techniques, mixing gold leaf with honey, producing his own inks. He was forty-seven when he married Zoe, and the wedding is Mia's first memory. Heather was eleven, in a dark blue dress, and six-year-old Mia wore a frilly white one. Zoe was barely eighteen, but looked younger, and Mia overheard some of the guests whispering about the age difference. A pale, frail, melancholy redhead, Zoe cried a lot at the wedding, and afterwards Heather and Mia accompanied them on their honeymoon, which was to a cheap motel in Biloxi, Mississippi. Zoe had family in Gulfport, and Isaac was so poor that they spent half of the week-long trip at Zoe's uncle's house. The sisters and their parents had separate rooms at the motel. The walls were thin. Heather and Mia heard Zoe crying, and Mia listened to the mysterious words: 'Please... don't... please... it hurts... aaaaaaauuuuuuugh... no...' 'God you're tight... you like it in there, huh?' 'Yes... aaauuugh... oh please... I can't... aaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuugh!' 'Fuck... you... whore... I'm gonna stick it in your mouth afterwards, you whore...' 'Yes... ow... put it... in... put it in my... owwww... put it in my mouth now... please...' Zoe screamed and howled. The bed creaked. Mia was scared. Heather was, too... but Heather knew what they were doing. Heather had heard it before, when Isaac did things to her first stepmother, Mia's mother, Sarah. Heather held her sister tightly. 'Now suck... that's it... suck... tastes good, huh? Tastes like your daddy, huh? Swallow it... swallow, yeah... swallow it, you slut...' Rasping, gasps, choking, then 'mfff' again and the bed creaking. 'I'm gonna come in... you... you whore... arrrrgh... ungh... oh... yeah...' Choking, then crying again. 'Did you like that, Zoe? Was that as good as your daddy?' Sobs. A slap. 'Y-yes...' 'Yes, you did. What else do you like, Zoe?' Sobs. 'I l-like..' Slaps. 'Please...' 'Please what?' 'Piss...' 'Mmmm... you want me to piss in your mouth, Zoe?' 'Y-yes...' 'It's our wedding night. I think I should piss in your cunt, don't you?' Crying. 'Don't you?' 'Yeh-hhh... yeh...' Screaming and slapping, the bed creaking. 'Aaaaah... yeah... good... girl...' Mia had never heard her father speak like that. Never. He was so refined, so different from whatever this was, from whomever was saying these things in these words. She didn't believe he was actually doing them - the things she could understand, piss and mouth and cunt - she understood 'cunt' because he called hers a 'cunny.' She didn't think he did these things; she thought it was like telling a scary story. It made her feel bad, queasy. Heather told her that she used to hear him say things like that a lot, before Mia's mother died. She didn't know why he did it. Sometimes her first stepmother had bruises after he said those things. They spent most of the next day at the beach, but without Zoe. They had only met their new stepmother a couple of times. She spoke little. Both Heather and Mia had delicate skin, and they got bad sunburns swimming and playing in the sand. The eleven-year-old wasn't dumb, but far less aware or mature than Mia was at her age. Heather never possessed the curiosity of her younger sister. Their father put Solarcaine on their backs and legs, later, back at the motel. ...................... I remember it as the Natural Born Killers Motel. It was so very different from what I had seen - or does it seem so only now, a decade later? I mean, what did I really notice, then? If I look back on my father's honeymoon, it's like splitting open a pomegranate, expecting the luscious dark blood color, the wetness, and instead exposing a nest of worms. I was six years old. But Mia now remembers Mia then, realizing that the seedy motel was not Skokie. Father was poor, yes, but we lived in a pretty middle class neighborhood and were, well, sheltered. I like poetry better than prose, for maybe the wrong reasons. Poetry can be obscure, occult. It doesn't have to make sense - or, more precisely, it makes sense differently than a story does or must. Stories are usually linear. Matthew Foster talked about that. But when you sit down and think about yourself (something I do a lot), you seldom feel like you're sitting at the end of the line. At least I don't, it's more of a labyrinth, and in some of the alcoves films are showing, and there are paintings to get lost in, books for escape, photographs, self-portraits, familiar faces, figures met in dream, revenants, rotten fruits from your hurt little womb recurring always and again in a revolving and evolving nightmare. The Natural Born Killers Motel was sleazy. The people who stayed there seemed to live there, and they didn't seem like nice people at all. I can't remember their faces clearly, but I can recall being frightened - not frightened, disturbed. But when I reflect upon this, I hear my stepmother's screams and whimpers and yesses and my father saying strange things in that weird tone of voice that wasn't his. The office of the motel was a kind of convenience store. There were always a bunch of men in there, men who seemed dangerous, sinister even. When we went in there with dad, one of them stared at me and my sister in a way that no one ever had before, or in a way that I connected with what I heard our father say through the wall. ...................... Mia and Heather Dorn, six and eleven. They were both very quiet, and they were with their father and sometimes with the awkward, scrawny teenager their father was screwing, a sort of slave-girl, with dark red hair and blue-black circles around her fearful green eyes and a lost expression and a weak body that was obviously abused and had been for a very long time. If she hadn't been with Isaac, a huge man with a weirdly intellectual but kind of cruel face, Zoe would have been with someone else or with everyone. It was impossible to imagine her alone - she was childlike, pathetic, ashamed of herself and her dirty little body. Her bruises were concealed with make-up that stood out against her chalky skin, and she always looked like she'd been crying. Isaac treated her like a child. He even dressed her like a schoolgirl, in white socks and lacy blouses, navy blue skirts and black patent leather shoes. She had the breasts of a twelve-year-old, and he was twice her size. Heather had auburn hair and amber eyes. Tall for her age, five feet exactly - taller than her stepmother. Lean, a dancer, budding titties. Her sunburn contrasting with the underside of her arms, the grayish white of cold grease. There was something not quite right about the way her father touched her, though she didn't seem to be aware of it. Perhaps it was merely the perversity of seeing Isaac and Zoe together that left that impression. The man who stared at them in the motel's grocery liked young girls like Heather. He had fucked one, once, a twelve-year-old. But Bobby had never considered a very young child until he saw Mia. The six-year-old had the same dirty white skin Heather did, tallow, where it hadn't been damaged by the sun. Her hair was a rich dark brown, short, wavy. Her impudent, blue-violet eyes were innocent but gave him the odd sense that she knew why he was looking at her. There was a strange sexuality to her, something she might even have been dimly aware of. The man got an erection... and Mia looked at the bulge in his jeans. She didn't take her eyes away even when he put his hand on it. He was so excited that he would have unzipped right then and there, in the store, if it hadn't been for her father and Zoe and Heather. Mia didn't know what it was, but she knew it had something to do with her and that it was bad. She had wondered about her father peeing in Zoe's cunny, and now she had a foggy idea of how that might be done. It was very bad. The man looked at her like he wanted to do something like that to her. He rubbed the thing in his pants, staring at her skinny body. She was horrified. Isaac paid for their drinks and they left. The next time they went there, the man was sitting on some milk crates behind the open door to what must have been the storeroom, smoking. He gave her that look again, and Mia followed her family to the counter. There was a line of vacationers buying soda and things. She looked back above the shelf with the canned soup and bread, chips and crackers. The man was gesturing to her. She was terrified, but she went. Mia walked towards him, behind the shelf. Her dad and the others were looking at the TV behind the counter, the news. Mia was dressed in her dark blue one-piece bathing suit - it was still wet - and thongs, carrying her street clothes. The man put his finger to his lips and backed into the storeroom, still gesturing for her to go to him. She didn't. She just stood there. The man undid his jeans and took out his cock. Mia saw it. It was big, dark like him, hard. She peed herself, staring at the stiff penis, at him stroking it. She couldn't move, urine trickling down her leg. The man beat off flamboyantly, showily, with both hands. Mia was fascinated. What he was doing was meant to hurt her, she thought, but didn't - he wasn't touching her, punishing her - like her father would when he discovered she had wet herself - and she could sense his... feelings, like when she had broken a kid's toy, once, because she didn't have any - did he want to break her because he couldn't have her? ...................... Did I really think all of that then? I know I thought it later. I thought about that man a lot, later. About the look on his face and the way he groaned when he came. I didn't know what it was. I knew it had something to do with my cunny. I thought it had to do with my pee. For a long time I thought that a girl goes pee to get the man to go pee like that, that he goes pee in her, that the white stuff was his pee. My dad paid for our things and called out to me, and then all I could think about was how he would spank me or whip me. I think I wondered whether my accident made him so mad because I had gone pee for somebody else. I do remember that the look on his face when he saw that I had wet myself was like the man's. Our father punished us a lot, and always in front of each other. This time it was in front of Zoe, too, and I was embarrassed when I took off my bathing suit and knelt on the floor by the bed like we had to, bending over. Usually I only thought about how much it would hurt, but this time I was embarrassed, and so I thought about other things, about peeing, about the man's cock. He took out his belt, and I started to cry. He always paused for a long time between strokes, watching us writhe. He did it until we went pee, but I had nothing to pee this time. He must have given me thirty lashes before he touched me. That was always very gentle, but hurt anyhow because I was so sore. He spread my legs a little like he always did, then flicked the belt lightly against my slit, several times. I didn't tell my sister about what the man had shown me. I don't know why - I guess because the punishment pretty much erased the memory that day, and because of the look on Zoe's face. Zoe stared at me like my father and the man. ...................... The stay with Zoe's uncle was for three nights. He was a big man like their dad, but Ollie hadn't the slightest glimmer of intelligence anywhere near him. Mia and her sister were confused - why had their father married a woman from a family like this? Isaac had always taught them to look down on these types of people. Ollie lived in a nasty part of Biloxi, in a little gray house full of junk. 'A drab little house full of detritus,' I think I wrote then. He was a drunk, maybe forty years old, with thin, graying hair and thin lips, crazy gray eyes and very hairy hands. After the couple and Isaac's daughters arrived, Isaac took his youngest daughter for a long walk. They went to a dismal part of the Back Bay, and in a trash-strewn street, found a low wall facing a vacant lot and an old wooden fence, no one around. The sun was setting, and Mia was happy to be alone with her father. Isaac took the six-year-old in his lap and kissed her. She was wearing loose cotton shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt. Her father pulled her to him, her little legs on either side of his trunk, slid his hands under her shirt, caressing her back, and tongue-kissed her. He had never done that before. His tongue filled her mouth, and he stroked her nipples with his thumbs. Mia was a little scared, but it felt wonderful. Kissing her, he slipped his hands into the legs of her shorts, cupped her buttocks, and moved her crotch against the bulge in his pants. Mia thought she would pee. She wanted to pee for him. She helped him rub it, squirming. He took his hands from her butt and held hers, and Mia moved against the thing she knew was in there, panting. He groaned, then hugged her. "Baby," he whispered. "I need to tell you some things." He lit a cigarette and had her sit next to him. It was getting dark. He talked to the six-year-old as if she was an adult, like he always did. She didn't understand much of what her father said. He told her that Zoe wouldn't be their mother, not really. That in a few years Mia would be more mature than she was, that Zoe was stupid, that he had married her for her body. Then he told her that Zoe's uncle Ollie would be 'doing things' to Heather, things like they had just done. Issac told Mia that she was different from her sister, different from anyone he had ever known. That she had to keep that in mind, always. That she was for him, and he would marry her when she got older. ...................... Mia wanted to marry her father. Whether she wanted to right then, I don't know. I know that all of the things that happened that year blended together, like what happened when she was eleven. When she thought about rubbing against her father's cock, she thought about the man in the store and betraying her father. When she thought about peeing, she thought about spanking, When she thought about Zoe, she thought about the belt flicking against her cunny. Her sister had been raped when they returned to Ollie's house. She was naked, delirious, bleeding. They stayed at the house for almost four days, and Heather was in the basement for most of that time, where Mia wasn't allowed to go. She was scared of Ollie, and even of her father. She read a lot and cowered in the messy guest room, under the dirty blankets. Her father hardly spoke to her, and Ollie never did. Then they took the Greyhound bus back to Skokie, but it wasn't like going home. It was like they could never go home. ...................... My sister was daddy's fuck toy after that. He didn't try to hurt her very much, like he did Zoe, but Heather didn't like it. I did. I liked it a lot. Zoe and Heather would cry the whole time. First he would hurt Zoe. Sometimes he would whip her. Not like he whipped us - he used a long thin leather whip, and he would do it until she shit herself, lashing her little titties and even her face. Then he would have her lick up her shit and stick things in her holes. 'My father saying strange things in that weird tone of voice that wasn't his...' But sometimes I think that having one's own voice is bogus. It's like intention. 'I meant to take care of you, because I love you.' But accidents will happen, Freudian slips, and the thing you want to do is never the thing you've done. But my father never hurt me. Because he loved me? But he loved Zoe, too, and Heather. I didn't understand anything. I couldn't ask him anything, I don't know why, and my sister and I drifted apart because she resented my immunity to daddy's incomprehensible lust an I looked down on her because she wasn't into the show. I knew that what he did to her hurt, but she was supposed to like it... like Zoe did. Zoe fascinated me. Yeah, she wept and whimpered and wailed when daddy whipped her and hurt her little fuckhole, but if he stopped she would beg him to do it more, until daddy put his penis in her butt or her cunny and Zoe squirmed and screamed and cried, begging him to go deeper until she shuddered and lay still. When I was seven, I began to experience feelings in my body, the kinds of feelings a little girl should not have. My father did not touch me - he even stopped punishing me - and I began to long for his touch. But I am not to sure about this, either. I cannot say 'I started getting turned on' or be certain that it was _his_ touch I longed for. I remember having dreams, or thoughts, of Zoe, too. And the man in the Natural Born Killers Motel loomed large in my fantasies or what must have been fantasies, what could be called fantasies or were like unto fantasies. By the time I was eight, I began to wonder why my father did not do to me what he did to Zoe and my sister, and wonder begat desire upon my body. Then, one day when I was getting closer and closer to getting closer and touching my father, Heather died. He was fucking her throat, and my sister suffocated. He didn't realize it at first, and kept fucking her. I stared at the bulge in her neck and her blue face and slowly he realized that she wasn't alive anymore. When he did, he realized it very clearly. He did not attempt to resuscitate her. My father was frightened. He panicked. He put her in a couple of garbage bags and carried her to the car. He drank a couple of shots of dark rum and went to dump her body. My father did not return. I found out later that he'd run a red light, been stopped by the police, failed the breathalyzer and said nothing when they discovered the body. I still don't understand how Zoe pulled the wool over their eyes when they came. The detectives and social service agencies trooped through our little bungalow for weeks. I was examined by doctors and psychiatrists. Zoe was interviewed again and again. And in the end they learned nothing and left us alone, sans father and sister, my stepmother and me. It didn't even cross my mind to tell the authorities about our nightly rituals, about what Zoe was and how I'd been present each evening when my father hurt her and raped Heather. I'd been raised to be conspiratorial, I guess, and what would telling the truth have gotten me? Therapy? Disappearance, perhaps adoption? I was in shock, I think. I clung to what I could, and that was Zoe. ...................... Like I said, Zoe couldn't live ten minutes without a man. It was an anatomical impossibility. As soon as the last psychiatrist pronounced her a fit mother and was out the door, she went out looking for cock. She would have gone back to her family, I think, seeking the familiar slavery, but they lived too far and she was far too desperate to get a dick inside her. So she went to the neighbor man. Jack Rice had been supportive after the tragedy, and as soon as the coast was clear she set about seducing him, hurriedly, frantically. Zoe was nothing without cock. Jack was a loner, nice enough but a little odd. He convinced himself that Zoe was in love with him, and tried to turn what was simply my stepmother's inability to live without male domination and his own loneliness, the ugliness of which he had rediscovered, into a romance. With daddy dead, I thought Zoe would turn into my mother. Instead, she acted as though I was her coeval, her sister or an intimate friend, despite the fact that I was only eight and she was nineteen by then. I suppose she was used to how my father had treated me, and I guess that his death and the sorrow I felt made me seem mature. Perhaps even matured me. ...................... And it's lost back there, the secret of my transformation. There isn't much to say about Jack. Or about me until I got titties and figured out what men wanted to do me. I didn't even masturbate in the interval. Jack was a puritan. Jack lost control of me when I started to get periods. The bar is open now and people are drifting in to get coffee. One of them, a middle-aged man, is looking at me. I only feel real when I'm looked at, like a character when it's read. We're still an hour from Stockholm. Maybe he'll finish me. Copyright (C) 2000, Silvio Stoker. ALL Rights Reserved ============================================== This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ********************************** Wish to read more texts of this writer? To load archives, pass to a file [0SilvioStoker.htm] in the same catalogue. Or on my homepage Sergdriver http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Sergdriver/www/index.htm There more many fascinating stories of other writers and mine too! *********************************