trigger warning for rape / child-on-child sexual assault. if you’re anything like me, you should stop reading now but are going to read it anyway.
I’m in a rather fragile mood right now, having had very little sleep in the last week due to an influx of work and an equally overpowering apathy. I’ll have to talk about what happened at some point or other, and maybe there’ll be some context then.this may not be the best way to share (a convoluted fragment of) my story, but here. have some poorly written, stilted prose.
she could feel his hot breath clinging damply to her cheek as he pinned her down.
she kicked wildly, bucked as hard as she could given the larger boy straddling her thighs, hands scrabbling uselessly at his chest. he laughed mirthlessly, almost ruefully, driving his weight through her shoulders until she tired of the struggle and lay panting under him. then, as an afterthought, he snatched the thick glasses off her face, tossing them aside so they clattered across the floor of the bus. she stared up at him, sightless eyes blank with terror.
he shifted, avoiding meeting that piercing gaze. turned his eyes to the body of the young girl. her hair cropped short, face pockmarked with inflamed pimples, she was ugly and she knew it. they had told her that enough times. but the half-grown breasts, covered in goosebumps - cold, or was it fear? - seemed too large for the fragile frame. they were too much woman for the awkward, insistently boyish child, for sure. he brought one knee up between her legs, parting them; she yielded mutely, only cringing slightly when he slid his sweaty hands down from her shoulders to grip those breasts as he felt he was supposed to.
she stared past the dingy ceiling of the bus while he unzipped his pants and fumbled with position for much too long. she refused to look at it, or at the handful of silent children watching them. without thinking about it, she had curled her hands, splayed out on either side of her head, into fists. he was ready.
and with a quiet grunt and sudden force he was inside her, the painful friction drawing a sharp cry from her lips. he clamped a nervous hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. and he held it there, half suffocating the asthmatic child, as he began to move jerkily, awkwardly flattening himself against her and groping blindly along the filthy floor for some support he could not find.
the hand pressed tight over that blemished face was soon damp with voiceless tears. he lasted five minutes before shrugging and pulling out, half-limp from start to finish, and declared it a success, leaving her exposed under the flickering lights of the bus as the sky darkened outside.