Shortly before dawn, she dreams of two photographs,
faded, blurred, sepia-toned,
disturbing images of a young girl,
her face too small and innocent for her naked torso,
her budding breasts beautifully shaped;
and the second, presumably the same subject,
kneeling on a table, her naked posterior open
yet shadowy in the aged print,
some strange Victorian machine,
half camera, half proctology scope,
poised right before her,
a man's hand resting on the controls.
She awakens just as the alarm sounds,
arises, showers, dresses, breakfasts,
but cannot erase the dream from her mind.
She takes up pen and paper,
and with several false starts,
tells the story as best she can.
Of the well-dressed proper Englishman
who hides his secret life as a child molester,
taking young girls from the street
too poor and homeless to be missed.
Tying their hands behind them,
he lays them down, washes and undresses them,
gives them drugged black tea,
and taking up his devices,
probes them until they are pliant and wet,
in his mind giving and receiving pleasure.
But as Aimee writes these words,
she knows that for her,
this tale can only have one ending;
the shy teen-aged victim must
become the seductive ageless victimizer.
As he tries to withdraw his hand
to insert his phallic power in its place,
he finds that he cannot,
and in fact is being pulled further in,
his whole arm and shoulder inside now.
his penis shriveling in terror,
then mercifully unconscious as his head passes inside
the now triumphant female,
until at the end,
as his slightly protruding calloused heels
disappear, she feels a final, quieter,
but most satisfying moment of sexual pleasure.
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