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Sascha
by Timberwolf (ptotrcw@gmail.com)

***

This is a story of a man's twisted religious 
upbringing, a hell of a marriage, and the joy of 
finding love in the most least-likely of places. 
You'll have to make your mind up about this story, but 
I hope you'll like it anyway. (MF, reluc, inc, mast)

***

Note: The name Sascha is pronounced, Sarsh-ka.

***

Chapter One: Some Background And Insights

My name is Andrew. Yes, like the Apostle. I was born 
into a Fundamentalist Evangelical Christian family, 
where from an early age, we went to church every 
Sunday, took Holy Communion, and went to tent meetings 
when they came to town, and had Wednesday night Bible 
study. All I ever wanted was to be a preacher and 
spread the Gospel, saving souls from fire and 
damnation, just like my Dad, who was the Pastor of our 
church.

My dad wanted twelve sons, and he wanted to name them 
all after the Apostles. But my Mom's body gave out 
after two, and then due to complications, had to have 
a hysterectomy after Simon's birth. My dad called her 
names as she lay weak and weary on the hospital bed 
after her operation, and called her a Jezebel, the 
product of a line of fallen women. He held me by the 
neck as he berated my Mom, trying to get me to hate 
her for ruining his plans. But I stubbornly refused to 
budge, and Mom looked at me gratefully, before passing 
out from the medication.

Some things, I guess, are not to be. I'd get up in 
front of the congregation to read the Scriptures for 
the days' teaching, and I'd feel the weight of all 
those eyes staring at me. My tongue would choke me, 
and I'd blabber like a fool. It soon became obvious to 
my Dad that I was such a disappointment to him, and 
after a while, he stopped getting me to do that, and 
instead got my younger brother Simon to do it.

Then, when I'd turned thirteen, I discovered girls. I 
suddenly noticed them all around me, and my Johnson 
would grow without me wanting it to. I embarrassed 
myself, and a few of the girls, by this happening. I 
remember one Sunday after church, I was standing next 
to my father as the folks were leaving the church and 
as they were complimenting him on a fine sermon about 
the sins of the flesh, Janice Bookmeyer came and stood 
in front of me.

I was wearing a pair of baggy-style trousers that 
seemed to be the in-thing for boys at the time, and I 
had always worn shorts, so when Janice Bookmeyer stood 
there with the sun behind her, all Hell broke loose. I 
could see the outline of her thirteen year old body as 
clear as day. Her dress was almost transparent, and 
then it happened. I cracked a boner. It must have been 
a beauty! It stuck out in front of me like a gun on a 
battleship, and just as solid. I didn't even realise 
it had happened, till one of the ladies cried, "Oh my 
God! Pastor, look at that sinful boy!"

Janice and her Mom looked down, and Janice blushed 
furiously, turning away and screaming. Several of the 
ladies in the congregation and their young daughters 
took to screaming as well, as soon as they caught 
sight of it. My Dad almost had a fit. Well, to be 
honest, he DID have a fit! I was hauled into his study 
and beaten so bad on the ass with his belt, I couldn't 
sit without a cushion for two whole weeks!

Dad had made plans for me to marry Janice when we were 
old enough, because her father had owned a large 
sawmill up the valley a-ways. Now his plans were 
dashed, and he looked like a thundercloud waiting to 
explode on me whenever he looked my way. That man 
could hold onto a grudge till it died of old age. 
Janice was interested in the idea of someday marrying 
a preacher's son, as that would give her and her 
family status in our community, but after that, she 
didn't want to even know the changeling son-of-the-
devil, as I came to be called.

My father couldn't outright disown me, so he made sure 
I wasn't seen, much less heard, till I was about 
seventeen, and then I was packed off to college quick 
smart. My God, how Simon lapped those years up! He was 
the favourite son now, and I was his evil big brother, 
and he threw that in my face every chance he got. He'd 
pick a fight with me, I'd beat on him, Dad would beat 
on me, and Mom would wring her hands and cry.

At college, my hormones seemed to settle down, and I 
immersed myself into my studies. I took Literature and 
Religious studies, with computer classes in between. 
Because I sometimes felt lonely, and didn't mix well 
with the party-goers, I joined a local Pentecostal 
church not far from my dorm.

I still had the dream of doing God's Will, and tried 
very hard at erasing my past sins. God seemed to 
favour me, and so he blessed me with a girlfriend, 
named Sandra Owens. Sandy, as she liked to be known 
as, was a bright, cheerful girl, the same age as me, 
and seemed to like the same things I did. When I had 
told her I was the son of a preacher who had his own 
church, she decided then and there she was going to 
marry me, and together we would serve the Lord, doing 
His Will, and letting God be the centre of our lives.

Oh, if only I'd known then... But, I don't want to 
ruin this story for you.

When I turned twenty-one, Sandy and I married in our 
church. It was a beautiful day, Sandy looked heavenly, 
and all our friends in the college and the 
congregation attended. When the Pastor of our church 
said the words, "I now pronounce you man and wife," 
Sandy purely glowed with happiness, and I almost burst 
with joy.

Sandy wanted to have children right away, as, she told 
me, all good Christian wives should do, "to build up 
the congregation of the Lord," but I held off, saying 
we should at least get jobs and save some money first. 
She didn't like that idea, but as a "good Christian 
wife," she complied. After that, it seemed our sex 
life would revolve around her periods, just at the 
times when she was the most fertile.

I had found a job working in a bookstore, but Sandy 
wouldn't go in there, because, as she put it, "it was 
filled up with Godless works of the Devil!" She told 
me that if I wanted to work in a bookstore, I should 
find a decent Christian store to work in. And, God 
knows, I tried to find one, just to please her. But 
that too, proved that the spirit may be willing, but 
the flesh was weak.

All the Christian bookstores around that area paid 
much less than the one I was at, and they seemed to 
give me the impression that if I wanted to do God's 
work, I should be volunteering my time to do it. But, 
as we all know, volunteer work didn't pay the bills, 
and didn't put food on your table.

Sandy and I became more like room-mates than man and 
wife. I'd go to work, come home, have dinner, watch 
some TV, or do some surfing on the net, then go to 
bed. When Sandy wasn't ovulating, she'd lie there, 
slap my hands away when I felt the need for sex, or 
even just to hold her, and roll over and go to sleep.

It was a routine we got stuck into for the next four 
years, and it didn't seem that there was any way out 
of it, unless we had a child. I used to lay awake in 
bed at night, Sandy tucked up on her side of the bed, 
and pray and pour my heart out to the Lord for help 
and guidance. He must have been on an extended 
vacation at that time. My sins were being revisited on 
me, and sometimes, I must admit it, I would cry myself 
to sleep over it.

As far as anyone in our church knew, we were a happy, 
loving couple. Sandy could play that part to 
perfection, and we had everybody fooled. When I bought 
up the idea of seeking counselling, Sandy, one of the 
few times she did it, screamed and hurled abuse at me 
for hours, finally breaking down and crying, saying 
that I didn't love her, and if I did, I would give her 
a child. There was no way in Hell, she said, that I 
was going to embarrass her in front of the 
congregation by taking her to counselling. If I tried 
that, she said, our marriage was over.

When we were first married, Sandy and I had a great 
sex life. Any time of the day or night was good 
enough, and we made the most of it. We would shower 
together, and that usually led to mind-blowing sex, 
and doing it standing up was a thrill for both of us. 
I would begin by washing her back, slowly massaging 
her shoulders, then moving down her back until I was 
soaping up the globes of her ass.

Then I would slip my hand under her, and rub her pussy 
from behind. She would go up on her toes, and with her 
weight resting on her hands, would open her legs to 
give me better access. Then I would enter her from 
behind, reach around and massage her breasts and play 
with her nipples, and we would hump for ages, till we 
both came.

But, there were always conditions to our lovemaking. 
First, no ass play. She made that very clear one day 
when I was rubbing her almost to orgasm. My fingers 
were in her, and I ran my thumb across her rosebud, 
and then it popped in, and I was buried up to my hand. 
She squealed, and dashed out of the shower, glaring at 
me. She kicked me out of the shower, and told me to 
wait there until she was finished.

I dried myself off in a huff, fully erect and 
desperate with need for release. But she didn't want 
me to touch her for the rest of the night, and for 
almost a week after that.

The other thing was no oral sex. I had driven her to a 
frenzy one night. I began by kissing and sucking her 
nipples, and started to kiss her chest slowly, making 
my way down her body. She had her legs wide open, and 
she was slick with her juices. I was manipulating her 
with my fingers, and she was gyrating around, her hips 
bouncing off the bed, when I licked her pussy. I 
dragged my tongue up her slit, and I was about to 
stimulate her clitoris, when she screamed, and pushed 
me off, drawing her legs under her, berating me for 
doing disgusting things to her that only a whore would 
enjoy. That meant she wouldn't do for me, either. She 
said it was dirty, and no decent woman would even 
think about it!

From then on, it was the old-fashioned missionary 
position for us. There were no longer any shared 
showers, and she became suspicious whenever my hands 
would caress her body. It finally degenerated to her 
pulling up her slip, taking off her underwear, and 
lying back down, with her legs open. Most times she 
was dry, and penetration nearly impossible, but she 
seemed to relent, and became wet enough for me to 
enter her body.

But she would never raise her legs. They would stay 
flat on the bed, and I had to make do as much as I 
could. When I asked her to open her legs a bit wider 
one night, she pushed me off, pulled her slip back 
down, and rolled over, snarling at me, telling me I 
was a lousy lay anyway. God alone knows where she 
learned that kind of expression!

I earned her displeasure mightily one time, when I was 
so desperate for release, I did something I hadn't 
done since I was about fourteen.

Simon, that pain-in-the-ass goody-two-shoes, had a 
men's magazine hidden under his bed, in a box marked, 
"Bible Studies". I have to hand it to him, it did have 
a bunch of Bible study literature in there, and his 
Penthouse magazine was buried under the stack. I only 
found it one day when I was looking for something he 
had stolen from me, and looking through the box, I 
found his secret stash.

I took his magazine, went out to the outhouse – yes, 
we still used an outhouse. Our house was old, and Dad, 
being parsimonious, wouldn't shell out for indoor 
plumbing. I took that Penthouse, and sat in the 
outhouse and went from cover to cover, ogling the 
naked women, and without realising it, I learned to 
masturbate that day. I was rubbing my cock, my hand 
around it sliding it up and down while trying to read 
the Forum columns, when I felt a wave of pure joy 
shoot out of my cockhead. I sat there gasping, 
wondering what the hell had happened, when Dad 
suddenly pounded on the door wanting to know who was 
in there, and what was taking so long. He scared the 
crap out of me. Literally!

I quickly shoved the magazine down the privy hole, 
wiped my ass as quick as I could, pulled up my pants, 
and in a strangled voice, told him it was me, and I 
was coming out. As I exited the outhouse Dad clipped 
me across the ear, and told me to make it quicker next 
time.

That night, Simon cornered me, and demanded to know 
where his magazine was. I knew what he was talking 
about, but I played dumb. I knew where it was, and if 
he wanted it, he'd have to go shit dipping. So, Simon, 
the vindictive bastard, told Dad at the dinner table 
the next night that he had seen me with some 
pornography, and that I'd hidden it somewhere in the 
house.

Dad blew up a storm, and demanded to know where it 
was. And no matter how many times I told him I didn't 
know what Simon was talking about, he just beat on me 
till I just curled up and waited for the storm to 
pass. He wasn't getting any younger, and he would soon 
run out of puff, I knew. Simon just stood near, egging 
my father on, telling Dad to beat me till I was dead, 
then he wouldn't have to have the devil-boy under his 
roof no more.

Mom finally made him see sense, telling him that if he 
killed me, he'd go to prison, and then where would we 
be? What would the people in the congregation think? 
That thought calmed him down enough for him to back 
off and Simon was very put out that he hadn't seen me 
beaten to death. Neither him nor Simon ever found that 
magazine, and things finally settled down. But I still 
hated that wretch of a brother. Cain had the right 
idea.

Like I said, I was fourteen, and Simon thirteen, at 
the time. He was a handsome young man, with blonde 
hair and blue eyes, and he learned early how to charm 
his way into the affections of the ladies. He would 
always spend an inordinate amount of time getting 
himself prettied up before church, just so he could 
make a good impression on everybody and have them coo 
and slobber all over him, especially the ladies, and 
their young daughters. Oh, he just loved those young 
girls! He was a natural con artist, and he knew it.

One Friday night, up in our room, Simon was taunting 
me about something, which was his way, and it had to 
do with the fact that I had fallen in love with Bessie 
Scrimshaw, from over in the next valley. We met at the 
Home Depot in town, and she was a pretty little thing, 
about twelve at the time, and I was smitten by her. 
Her chestnut hair and her knockout smile floored me! 
Just my luck, that Simon of all people saw us 
together, and he decided he had fresh fuel to hammer 
me with.

So, when we got home, and out of sight and hearing of 
any adults, he went for it, feet first. Bessie became 
Messie, and Scrimshaw became Buzzsaw, and from then 
on, it went "Ooh, Andrew's in love with Messie 
Buzzsaw! Hahahaha! I'm going to tell everybody this 
Sunday at church that Andrew is in love with Messie 
Buzzsaw!"

As I said, he was a vindictive little shit, and for 
the first time, I wanted to kill him. I really did. I 
came at him, but a thinking part of my brain pulled me 
up short, and at first he was genuinely scared, as all 
bullies are when confronted, then when I stopped, he 
started up again, sensing victory. So I drew back my 
fist, and planted one right on his nose. I had been 
lent out by my father to a labouring gang over the 
summer, on the proviso that he got my wages, just so 
Dad didn't have me underfoot, and I had a few extra 
muscles. And I gave him the benefit of them muscles.

Crack! Went his nose, and down he went, howling. I 
planted my boot fair between his legs for good measure 
as well. That earned me a real bad beating and I was 
shunted off to a cousin's place for a year. But my 
God, it felt good to muss up his pretty looks! His 
nose is still broken, and we still hate each other.

Well, anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Sandy's 
displeasure. I was lying next to her, and the 
seduction of the Ice Princess wasn't working, so I 
took off my shorts, and began to masturbate instead. 
Yep, right there on the bed next to her. I was hard, 
and in need of release and so I jacked off for all I 
was worth. Sandy turned her head, saw what I was 
doing, and hit the roof, taking the house and 
furniture along with her.

She screamed at me, "What the hell did I think I was 
doing? And, if I wanted sex, she was lying right next 
to me, for God's sake! What the hell was wrong with 
me? Was I a pervert?"

I calmly reminded her that I had tried to have sex 
with her, but she obviously wasn't interested. That 
made no bones as far as she was concerned, so I gave 
up, rolled over, and left her to it. She wouldn't talk 
to me for a week after that.

I didn't care.


Chapter Two: A Ray Of Sunshine

So, here we were, and I was small step away to calling 
it quits and just walking away. God knows, I should 
have, but I'm a dumb thick-headed mule of a man 
sometimes, and for all her faults, I really did love 
Sandy. Her strawberry blonde hair that hung to the 
middle of her back, her cute button nose, the almost 
invisible freckles, her really cute butt and her firm 
breasts all turned me on. Physically, she was angel. 
Mentally, she was a nightmare.

Finally after checking our bank balance, I caved in. I 
sat Sandy down one Friday night and told that if she 
wanted a baby, then so did I. She was suspicious, 
telling me I was only saying that to "fuck her". She 
shocked me with those words, but she didn't seem to 
notice she'd said them.

I held her hands, and with every ounce of sincerity I 
could muster, told her that I meant every word. I 
didn't feel complete as a man until she had provided 
me with a child. She argued back and forth for over 
two hours until she finally divined that I was telling 
her the truth. She sat on the edge of the couch, stiff 
and unyielding. Finally, she looked me in the eye and 
made her decision. She got up, came to me and for the 
first time in nearly five years, kissed me as a wife 
and a woman should, melting into my arms.

We made love that night, and she opened herself to me, 
giving herself, and I took her. I lavished attention 
on her nipples, devouring them, causing her to gasp 
and thrash under me. I lined myself up to her wet 
entrance and slid in slowly. She was so tight; it was 
like being on our wedding night again, when I took her 
for the first time.

She moved under me, rocking her hips, urging me on, 
until finally, I exploded into her. She lay under me, 
cooing and snuffling. I don't know if she came, but 
she was loving, and kept clutching at me, touching me 
with light feathery touches that excited me.

All weekend long, we spent more time naked together in 
bed, than we had for the previous four years or so. 
Every time I had an erection, she was there to take 
care of it. By Monday, I was a happy, tired, wreck. 
All Monday at work, I kept daydreaming about the happy 
times we had had over the previous two days.

I had no longer paid any attention to her cycles, so 
it came as a surprise when, two weeks later, she came 
up to me, kissed me passionately and told me she was 
pregnant! I was so happy, for us both. I felt the 
weight of my fears and sadness at our lives melt away 
and I felt I could fly!

We made love together for another two weeks after 
that, "just to make sure," she giggled, and then the 
hammer came down. She was definitely pregnant, so 
there was no more need for us to have sex any more 
until after the baby was born.

My new world crashed around my feet, and I could hear 
the roar it as it shattered. I didn't know what to do 
or say, I just stood there, my hurt and anger crushing 
me from the inside.

I poured my energies into creating a nursery for our 
expected child. Sandy didn't want to know the sex of 
the child, wanting it to be a surprise, she said, and 
I humoured her, going along with it. We had two spare 
bedrooms, and so I fixed up the smaller of the two, 
which, coincidently, was next door to the master 
bedroom.

The other room, I fixed up as a den for myself, and 
Sandy seemed to be happy for me to spend a lot of time 
in there. It was like now she was pregnant, she didn't 
want, or need, me around.

Over the next months, Sandy got bigger and bigger. She 
would slap my hand away when I wanted to touch her 
belly, wanting to feel the baby as it kicked. I admit, 
though, I did cheat. When Sandy was dead to the world, 
I would quietly slip over to her as she slept on her 
back, put my face up against the side of her distended 
belly and whisper to my child, meaningless one-sided 
conversations, telling the baby about my day, what had 
happened, the funny customers I had to deal with, etc. 
I knew the child couldn't understand what I was 
whispering, or even hear me, but it always made me 
feel better afterward.

I told the child within my wife's womb that I loved 
it, and would for the rest of my life. It would never 
lack for anything, not if I could help it, and one 
night I watched in wonder as a small foot pressed 
outward, sliding against the inside of Sandy's belly. 
I reached over and tried to tickle it. Sandy grunted 
and moved, and the foot disappeared and I had the 
strangest feeling that the child giggled as I tickled 
it.

Then came the day when I received a call at work, and 
Sandy was in a tizz, telling me her waters had broken 
and I got leave from the understanding female manager 
to rush home to help her. I must have broken several 
driving laws that day getting to her. I did a braking 
slide as I turned into the driveway, and then we were 
packed and off.

***

Sandy gave birth to a healthy eight pound, ten ounce 
baby girl. She was beautiful! She had a shock of dark 
brown hair, and I could see tinges of my family's 
resemblance in her face. Sandy allowed me to pick her 
up, and I held my new child in my arms, my love for 
her pouring out of me into her. She gripped my finger 
in her tiny hand, and when she looked up into my eyes, 
I fell into deep never-ending love.

Sandy wanted to call the child Esther, after some 
female character in the Bible, but I held out for 
Sascha. My maternal grandmother, who came from Russian 
ancestry, was called Sascha, and I wanted to honour 
her with her name. I had loved that old woman, who 
treated me with kindness and love during my formative 
years. Dad always called her, "that Russian witch," 
but wouldn't elaborate and we hardly ever saw her, but 
I had got to know her better when I had been dumped on 
my cousins for that year.

I never found out why Dad hated her, and whenever I 
would mention her name, he'd slap me and go off into a 
tirade about the wiles and machinations of the Devil. 
Mom would suffer in silence, wringing her hands and 
cry. It broke my heart when she did so, seeing the 
tears run freely down her cheeks, and I'd go up to 
her, and hold her, just cuddling my Mom. I suffered 
for that, from Simon's snide comments, and Dad's 
displeasure for me doing so, him calling me mommy's-
boy, and a weakling.

Simon used those words plenty after that. He couldn't 
get enough of them. Strangely, Dad let him.

Sascha had died after I had gone to college and I 
wasn't informed about her death till much later. Mom 
passed not long after she did, probably from a broken 
heart and I wasn't informed about that either. Dad 
made sure of that.

So Sandy and I had a massive argument, but I 
stubbornly held on, until I had won out, wearing Sandy 
down until, still too tired from the birth to fight 
any more, she gave in.

"Fine!" she snapped, "call my daughter whatever you 
want! She'll always be Esther to me, and will be her 
middle name on the birth certificate!"

I conceded that point to her, which made her happy, so 
she turned back to the baby, and decided to kick me 
out of the room, as it was the baby's feeding time.

Whenever Sandy had the baby, it was Esther this, and 
Esther that. The baby would fuss and wriggle around, 
as though trying to get away. When I had the baby, I 
called her by her name, and Sascha would coo and 
giggle. She would lie still in my arms and when I 
bottle-fed her, she would hold the bottle in her tiny 
hands, and we would just gaze into each other's eyes 
for hours, till finally she drifted off and slept.

Sandy tried everything she could think of, trying to 
keep me away from my daughter, short of charging me 
with molestation. Sandy would hover over my shoulder 
when I insisted on changing her and was never far away 
when I would bath her. But she would refuse to help, 
or participate. It was like she had developed a bad 
case of jealousy against my child.

One night, I was relaxing with my feet up on the 
couch, something I knew annoyed Sandy, but I had 
ceased to care. I no longer went to church with her 
any more. I just couldn't be bothered. Sandy had 
refused to talk to me much, only speaking when she 
absolutely had to. I had often wondered if she might 
have been suffering from Post Natal Depression, that 
being quite common, I'd heard.

I was holding Sascha, who was sleeping in my arms, 
when Sandy came storming into the room, and ripped the 
baby out of my arms, screaming that I was a devil-man, 
and to get away from her child.

I lay there stunned, my sins had returned full-force. 
Sascha was screaming, Sandy was screaming, and I was 
yelling at her, trying to get my child off her. Sandy 
held Sascha in her fist, up above her head, and her 
eyes glowed with madness.

I don't know how long we had been like that, but 
suddenly, the door burst open, and two police officers 
were in the room, with their guns out. By that time, I 
was on my knees pleading with Sandy to give me the 
baby and while the male police officer cuffed me, his 
partner, a female, put her hand out, trying to calm my 
now deranged wife. Sandy still stood rigid, my child 
clutched in her fist, words of fire and brimstone 
pouring from her mouth like a vicious ugly flood, her 
eyes wild and Sascha was now gurgling, and turning 
blue.

The male officer took me outside, and I tried to go 
back inside, pleading with him now to save my child. 
He looked shaken and told me to stay put by the 
cruiser. I nodded, so with a backward glance at me, he 
went into the house.

***

They finally managed to separate my deranged wife from 
the child by the simple expedient of taking her down 
physically, and then she was cuffed, and held in the 
bedroom until the ambulance turned up. The EMT's 
worked on Sacha first and after a while, pronounced 
she was fine, although a little traumatised by the 
excitement. The male officer had uncuffed me, 
apologising, but I had forgiven him, rubbing my 
wrists, worried only for Sascha.

As soon as they put her in my arms, she calmed 
miraculously, and starting cooing and giggling. 
Everyone was amazed and the female officer told me it 
always took hours for the child to recover from such 
an ordeal. "That's a special child you have there," 
she told me.

I thought I knew, but didn't know just how much.

The upshot of that episode was that Sandy was charged 
with child endangerment, bought on by undiagnosed post 
natal depression. She spent a year in a psychiatric 
hospital, and Sascha and I would visit her every 
weekend, whenever we could, as often as we could.

When we were there with her, Sandy was listless, and 
she would talk about nothing else except religious 
gibberish. She would sit by me, and put her hand on my 
arm, and tell me I needed to be saved, to have the 
demons driven from my body, and whenever she said the 
word, 'body', a crazed look would come into her eyes, 
and she would lick her lips, really creeping me out.

I would call a halt to our visit, and with Sandy 
screaming vindictive religious jargon at me, I would 
hold Sascha tight, and walk away, something that tore 
my heart open every time. Sascha would fuss while in 
her mother's presence, but would calm down as soon as 
we were on our way home, seemingly happy to out of 
there.

Finally Sandy calmed down enough for home day visits 
to be arranged, and then later on she was released, 
with conditions. I refused to have her move back into 
the house, so a religious organisation took her in and 
she started her new life. A year after that, she was 
deemed fit enough to have visitation rights, and 
another year after that, she had Sascha for weekends.

Sandy still went to her new church, a fire and 
brimstone evangelical organisation called "The Church 
of the Holy Sepulchre," or something like that. They 
made a few noises, were in the news a few times, but 
all-in-all, was just another crazy outfit that no-one 
really took seriously.

As Sascha grew up, she became a real little lady. She 
developed a fascination for things Russian and I had 
told her of her Cossack ancestry, so she was more than 
comfortable with her new interest and I found myself 
accepting of it.

We had fun times together. Every day, when she'd come 
home from school, she'd put her school bag on the 
kitchen table, so she could do her homework and with 
her mouth chewing a sandwich, would tell me about her 
day.

I sat with her at those times, my entire undivided 
attention on her. We would chat together for hours and 
I got to know her intimately. My beautiful daughter 
was a deep and fascinating person and could hold a 
very intelligent conversation for one so young.

When she seven, I was holding her in my arms, and we 
were just passing time watching a documentary on 
television, when I happened to glance down at her 
face. A memory pinged into my mind, now who did she 
look like, I wondered, because her face suddenly 
looked familiar. So I extricated myself, telling her 
I'd be back soon. She just nodded, and continued to 
watch the box, and didn't even take her eyes of it.

I went into my room, and after a few minutes 
searching, found what I was looking for. It was an old 
black-and-white photograph of my maternal grandmother, 
Sascha. She was about seven, same age as my Sascha, 
and she was laughing, holding onto the hand of my 
Great-grandfather, who stood sombrely next to her, 
looking uncomfortable. The resemblance was more than 
passing, and had nothing to do with family traits. My 
Sascha looked out at me from that photo.

I took the photo out to the living room, got back into 
my seat, and after we had got comfortable, I showed 
Sascha the photo. She squealed in happiness, and her 
eyes went wide. She grabbed me by the arm, and said, 
"Dad! That's me!"

"Actually, hon, I said, that's your maternal great-
grandmother, who had the same name as you, who you 
were named after."

She gave me a long look, and touched her hand on my 
cheek, and softly said, "No, my Mischa, that's me. I 
was so happy that day when Momma took the photograph. 
Dadda was really stuffy and he hated to smile, but he 
was so handsome when he did!" She giggled at a memory 
not hers, and I felt goosebumps rise on my body, and 
the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

I stared at her in shock, not believing my ears. My 
grandmother would touch my face just like my baby had 
just done to me just now, and would call me "My 
Mischa," just like my daughter did now.

"Grandmother?" I whispered.

Sascha giggled, and told me in her little girls' voice 
that she wasn't that old! She gently took the photo 
from my hands, though, and held it up against her 
chest. She cuddled back down into the warmth of my 
body and somewhere along the way, slipped into sleep, 
a smile on her lips.

When Sascha turned nine, her body began developing, 
her body began to get graceful curves and the bumps on 
her chest became more pronounced, as her breasts 
started to develop. She became more grown up, more 
mature, and suddenly, I no longer had a child as such 
in my house, but a miniature Child-Woman.

I had got her a cellphone for her birthday, and she 
would spend hours on it, texting her friends, but she 
was responsible with it, only using it when her chores 
and homework were done. I was so proud of her.

Whenever it came time to go and spend the weekend at 
her mother's place, Sascha would gripe and fuss, 
telling me she hated the thought of being there, 
because her mother was always after her trying to save 
her soul, and nagging at her to give her heart to 
Jesus and she told me that the men of the church her 
mother went to really creeped her out. I sympathised 
with her, but she knew she didn't really have any 
choice, as the court had granted her mother weekend 
visits, and I couldn't do anything yet to change that.

So, she, like the trouper she was, packed her weekend 
bag, and got into the car waiting for me to take her 
for her "weekend duty," as she called it. When she 
came back this time, though, Sascha had a strange 
terrified look in her eyes. She didn't say anything as 
we drove home, but when we got into the house, she 
dropped her bag on the floor and threw her arms around 
me, and burst out crying.

I held her, and asked her what was wrong, what had 
happened. Sniffling, she told me that the Pastor of 
her Momma's church had told her that she was chosen by 
God to be a Bride of Christ and that she was expected 
to marry a man of his choosing.

"You won't let that happen to me, will you daddy?" she 
begged, tears running freely from her eyes.

I had blown up into a cold rage at hearing that, and 
immediately got onto the phone and called up her Child 
Services officer and informed her of what Sascha told 
me. She wanted to talk to my girl and I passed her the 
phone. Tearfully Sascha repeated what she had told me, 
with some extra details given, like the fact that she 
was to be taken to their mountain retreat, where they 
expected the ceremony to take place.

She told her Child Services officer that they had set 
the date for the ceremony to coincide with her next 
visit to her Mom. She told the lady that she was 
scared, and didn't want to go to her mom's place 
anymore, and that she'd run away before that happened. 
That was so out of character, that I knew it was very 
serious.

She told the lady on the phone that yes, her Mom was 
in complete agreement with the wedding, and was trying 
to get her, Sascha, prepared for it. She said that the 
pastor had told her that she wasn't going to be 
released until she'd been properly trained, and then 
she was never going to want to leave the church, 
because her will would now be the Will of God.

A formal investigation was initiated, the police were 
involved, but everyone, men, women, and children 
vehemently denied any such practices. The government 
agencies wanted to do physical tests on the young 
girls to prove child sex allegations, but were 
rebuffed by accusations of Human Rights, freedom of 
speech, and religious freedom violations.

It was very messy, and dragged on for months. The 
media got involved, and scenting a juicy story, began 
to harass me and Sascha, waylaying her at school, 
after school, and ringing non-stop for details. The 
Church of the Holy Sepulchre turned things around, 
making allegations of libel and other spurious 
charges, against Sascha and myself, plus token charges 
against the government agencies, but not really 
serious ones. It was me and my daughter they targeted.

All visits to Sascha's Mom were cancelled 
indefinitely, and gradually, the furore died down, and 
at last, it seemed to be forgotten. We got on with our 
lives, and tried to forget the trauma of the last 
months.

Things stayed that way for quite a while, and then the 
news came that Sandy had been re-granted her 
visitation rights. Sascha and I looked at each other 
in trepidation. Neither of us trusted her mother, or 
the 'church' she went to.


Chapter Three: A Visitation, and a Terrible Trial

Although nothing happened for a long time, every time 
when Sascha went to her mother's place, we both were 
constantly on edge whenever my girl had to visit 
there. Part of the agreement with Sandy was that there 
was to be no contact with any members of the church 
while Sascha was in the house, and for a few months, 
the visits were supervised. But Sandy convinced the 
Welfare services that nothing was going to happen, and 
so the supervised visits dropped off.

Things remained like that, and then came Sascha's 
eleventh birthday. She had her birthday at home, and 
didn't want her mother anywhere near her, although 
Sandy did send her a gold ring, but because it looked 
suspiciously like a wedding band, it was returned to 
her Mom, and a warning given to her.

Sandy pleaded ignorance that it was a wedding band, 
and seemed to take the 'mistake' with grace. That 
night we were both still on a birthday high, and so 
stayed up past Sascha's bedtime and just spent our 
time cuddled up under a blanket watching television, 
until her breathing told me she was asleep. I nudged 
her, and when she didn't wake, I picked her up and 
took her to her bedroom, the one that used to be her 
nursery. I had offered to swap my den and let her have 
a bigger room, but Sascha turned me down, saying she 
wanted to be close to her favourite man, and when I 
asked who that was, giving her a mock blank look, she 
giggled, and just swatted me with her small hand.

I slipped her top off, and slid her jeans down her 
legs, leaving her in the white bra and panties that 
had tiny embroidered flowers and butterflies on it 
that I had bought her for her birthday, marvelling at 
her exquisitely formed body lying before me. She was 
my daughter, and I loved her, so I kissed her on the 
forehead, then I pulled the blankets up around her, 
turned off the light, and went to bed.

I was woken by the sound of a woman's voice that 
seemed to come from Sascha's room, and for a moment, I 
thought her mother had snuck into the house to kidnap 
her. I was on the verge of panic at that point. But 
there was a quality about the voice that rang a bell 
in my memory, then I realised that there were two 
women in there with my daughter!

I got quietly up, and as I neared the door of my room, 
I could clearly hear my grandmother's voice, and she 
was talking to my mother! But how could that be? My 
grandmother and mother were passed away, and there was 
a quality, a timbre to their voices that was stronger, 
more vibrant than when they were alive.

My mother was saying, "But you have to admit, you 
almost ruined things by recognising you father in that 
picture, Mother."

"Yes, dear," my Grandmother said, "but he had to have 
new possibilities opened to him. He still has residual 
beliefs he needs to discard before this girl comes of 
age."

"Is the Trial still going to happen, Mother?" my Mom 
sighed sadly.

"Yes, dear," Sascha, my grandmother replied. "This 
Trial will strengthen the Bond, or destroy it. He 
needs to make a decision, and this has to happen to 
force him to do it."

"So, there is no other way?"

My grandmother laughed. "You sound just like someone 
else I knew, and He didn't want to face it either!"

Both women chuckled, and my Mom said, "Yes, I 
remember. Horrible times, those."

"Just as horrible still, my lovely child, just 
different faces."

"But," she said, "he's awake, and can hear us. Time 
for another chat later, but I have to stay, as she 
needs my strength. I'll see you soon."

My mom sighed wistfully, and told her Mother she loved 
her, and hoped the time is very soon.

My grandmother said, "Don't wish for something you 
can't have, didn't I teach you anything?"

My mother laughed a bit sheepishly, and I heard the 
sound of a kiss, Then Mom said, "Very well, I'll see 
soon, then."

There was quiet for a few minutes, and then my 
curiosity got the best of me, and I got up, and went 
into Sascha's room. The door was open, I remembered 
she liked it have it that way, so that she can hear me 
breathing, she said.

I crept out of my room, and stood in the doorway to my 
daughter's bedroom. She lay peacefully sleeping, on 
her back, one arm was positioned over her head, with 
the other one lying across her middle. The blankets 
were down around her hips, and as she lay there, I 
watched her breathe, marvelling at how her breasts 
moved inside her bra as she inhaled and exhaled. I 
smiled and returned to my room, and slept soundly.

A couple of weeks later, and it was time to take my 
girl to her Mom's. There was something bugging me, but 
as hard as I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling, or 
put my finger on it. Whenever I tried to concentrate, 
it slipped away, hiding in the recesses of my psyche.

All I knew was that the thought of dropping Sascha off 
to her Mom gave me a cold chill up my spine.

There was an oppressive feel to the air when I dropped 
my daughter off at Sandy's house. I could have sworn 
I'd heard male voices, but it was a residential area, 
so of course there would be. I sat in the car, 
watching her walk up the drive to the front door, then 
it opened, and Sandy stood there, dressed just in a 
bathrobe. I thought that was out of character, as it 
was nearly noon, and Sandy was always dressed at that 
hour.

Sandy's expression was deadpan, and as I started to 
drive away, there was an almost feral snarl on her 
face, mixed with a touch of victory. Something twisted 
in my gut, and it was as if something was in my car, 
and it was beside itself with glee, and I went cold 
all over.

I tried to tell myself that I was imagining things, 
but the sense of wrongness screamed at me to go back. 
With my hands shaking, I pulled down a street, and did 
a loop back to Sandy's house. There were now cars all 
over her driveway and lawn, and men I didn't know were 
going into the house. By this time, I had broken out 
into a cold sweat, and I just knew without a doubt 
that my little girl was in serious trouble.

I tried to move, to get out of the car, but my body 
wouldn't move. I willed myself to get going, and 
slowly, my limbs began obeying orders from my brain. I 
realised with a sense of dread that I was deathly 
afraid. Afraid of what I might see, afraid that Sascha 
and I would be killed, and just feeling a general 
overwhelming sense of terror.

When I had finally made it to the front door, it was 
slightly ajar, and I could hear male voices crying 
"Hallelujah!" and "Praise the Lord!" but there was a 
lustful dark quality to it. They sounded like a pack 
of hyenas circling in for the kill. I had the 
irrational vision of these faceless men feeding on my 
flesh, and I wanted to throw up.

I took a deep breath, and pushed through the door, and 
Sandy's front room was filled men I didn't recognise. 
They were staring fixedly at the spectacle happening 
on the floor before them. Sandy was on her hands and 
knees, naked, and a naked older thickset man was 
pounding into her from behind, his groin slapping 
against her pubic area, praising God and preaching a 
sermon.

Sandy was orally serving another man, slobbering on 
his engorged cock in an obscene display, and then 
stopping to tell someone I didn't see that as soon as 
she had been married, it was her turn to service all 
the males there. She'd done it, and there was nothing 
wrong with it at all.

Then I shifted position, but no-one paid any attention 
to me. I looked around, and I saw Sascha'a clothes on 
the floor. They had been ripped from her body, and 
were just scraps of cloth. Her bra and panties she had 
put on that morning were barely recognisable. I moved 
again, and what I saw next filled me with horror, and 
rage.

Sascha was being held down spread-eagled by four men, 
one on each limb. And a naked obese man was standing 
over her, slowly stroking his erect member. His eyes 
were hooded, and there was a flash of cruelty in them 
I shuddered to see. Sascha's naked body twisted this 
way and that, trying to break free, to escape, but she 
was held too securely, by the leering, baying men.

The thickset man pounding into my wife, the woman I 
should say rather, who used to be my wife, gave a 
roar, and unloaded his cum into the body of the mother 
of my child. He held still, his hips giving a couple 
of twitches, and then stood up, and said, "Brothers, 
now that the benediction has been given to our dutiful 
sister, it is time for Bride of Christ to receive her 
husband. Brother, if you so kindly would?"

He gestured to the naked child on the floor. Sandy 
just kept sucking the cock in front of her, the vacant 
position between her legs filled by another man, who 
didn't heed the slime dripping from her loins. Then I 
realised that the reason the terrified child hadn't 
made a sound, was that Sandy had her hand over her 
mouth, and was trying to pinch her nostrils closed at 
the same time. My God, I thought, has she done this 
before?

My child was struggling to breathe, and making sounds 
of terrified distress. The urge to run from that scene 
was overpowering, and I kept wanting to pass out from 
shock. For the first time in years, I prayed for 
strength, silently calling out to God, to anyone, to 
help me help my darling daughter. Then suddenly, I 
went dead calm. It was as if a curtain had been ripped 
from my mind. My fears and anguish vanished. I began 
to think clearly, and then anger and rage flooded 
through me.

A female voice in my ear said, "Finally! Now go get 
your daughter!"

I pushed through the ring of men surrounding my wife 
and daughter, scattering them, and swung a kick at the 
obese man who was now kneeling between my daughter's 
thighs. My boot caught him on the jaw, and he flew 
backwards, his eyes rolling in his head. I did the 
same to the nearest man holding down my little girl, 
and then was satisfied to hear a crunch as his jaw 
broke. He screamed, holding his face, and rolled away. 
The other three let go of Sascha, and suddenly there 
was a rush of bodies for the door, which was now wide 
open.

I just kept swinging punches left and right. Every 
time a face came into range, I hit it. There was 
yelling and screaming, and then I noticed Sandy was 
doing most of it. She was still on her knees, her 
breasts swaying. I stood over the naked body of the 
girl on the floor, and several men came at me, but I 
didn't budge. We just stood toe-to-toe, slugging it 
out. When there was a sudden break in the confusion, I 
scooped the now unconscious body of my daughter up, 
and ran for my car. Someone grabbed me from behind, 
but a sudden backwards elbow jab to the face made him 
see the error of his ways, and he flew off me.

I managed to get Sascha into the back seat of the car, 
being grateful that this time, I had forgotten to lock 
the car, and miraculously, the keys were in it. I 
started it up, and the tyres squealed and smoked when 
I sped away from there.

***

I didn't even think about going to a hospital, or a 
police station. My girl was out cold in the back seat 
of my car, and she was naked. I just wanted to get her 
home, where I knew she'd be safe. A part of my brain 
warned me that it was likely she'd want to shower as 
soon as she regained consciousness, but I couldn't let 
her do that. If any of the men had put their DNA on 
her, the cops would want it.

When we finally got home, I found we'd picked up a 
tail. It was a police cruiser, and I was amazed and 
relieved when it turned out to be the same two 
officers who'd responded to my home earlier. I ran 
over to their car, and tripped over myself trying to 
tell them what had happened.

Everything was a blur after that. There was an 
ambulance, several more police cars, a CSI unit, and 
too many people wandering in and out to name. I gave 
my statement over and over again, fresh details 
emerging under questioning, and Sascha was taken away 
to hospital when the CSI's had done their work.

It turned out that my clever daughter had gathered up 
her shredded clothes before passing out, and held onto 
them. I hadn't even noticed that, so they were going 
to be tested for DNA evidence.

It turned out that they did find DNA evidence, quite a 
lot, actually. The men who'd held her down had drooled 
on her, and seminal fluid was found on her shredded 
panties, put there by someone who'd used them to 
masturbate with. Sandy's living room floor was awash 
with semen stains, and they had quite a few suspects 
to match the samples up with.

When the police and State troopers went out to the 
compound where the Pastor and his flock had holed up, 
a warrant got them onto the property, and eight men 
were arrested with contusions on their faces from the 
melee in Sandy's home. The man with the broken jaw was 
found hiding in a storage shed, covered up with a 
plastic tarp.

Many arrests were made that day, but either through 
fear, or loyalty to their menfolk, none of the women, 
or young girls, made a statement to the law 
enforcement officers that flooded the place.

When the police did a search of the property, they 
found much video evidence of child sex practices that 
were going on there, and at the 'church'. An officer 
found a video camera in a trash bin, that had footage 
of Sascha's ordeal, and that became a prime piece of 
evidence.

The thing that saddened me the most, I think, about 
the whole sorry ordeal was that Sandy had tipped over 
the line into full insanity. She spent the rest of her 
days in a padded room, with a straightjacket on, 
screaming abuse and trying to get anyone within range 
to have sex with her.

***

A year later, and Sascha's nightmares finally came to 
an end. I had heard her crying in her room, and it was 
around three in the morning. I got out of bed, and I 
went in to her bedroom, and found she was sitting up 
holding her knees. I asked her if she had had another 
nightmare, and she told me no, she was crying for her 
Mom. When I asked her why, she said, "Because Mom's 
dead, Daddy. She came to say goodbye, and Grandmother 
Sascha was with her. They're going to help her and try 
to fix her up. She's very sad, and she told me to tell 
you that I'm not going to be having bad dreams 
anymore, and that Momma is very sorry for what she did 
to you."

My darling took a deep breath. "She was raped as a 
child, did you know that? Her daddy was very mean to 
her. He was a minister of a church, and he used to 
beat her and rape her almost every day."

She hung her head, and cried for her Mom, deep 
wracking sobs, and I sat there and held her, my 
sadness for my poor wife breaking my heart.

END

This is the end of another story. Thank you for 
reading it, and if you want to send me feedback about 
it, please do, at ptotrcw@gmail.com

Your friend, Timberwolf.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 75