Midge's Story Ch. 03-04

Chapter 3

I.

For the third time that day, I came home and had to clean myself up. I successfully avoided my father -- explaining blood -- other people's blood -- on my knuckles and clothes would be difficult. Explaining what was in the dark unlabeled bag was not something I wanted to think about.

I darted up to my room, dropped my keys, and went into the bathroom to wash up. This is the third time today I'm washing up and it's the third time today I can't believe what I just did. Running eight miles in 35 minutes and lifting a tree was one thing. Raping a man -- a boy -- was another. Beating the living shit out of two grown men who seemed quite accustomed to violence -- that was something else altogether.

I finished washing my hands and toweled them off -- not a mark on them. I had been in a fight on the lacrosse field my sophomore year. I was pretty proud of myself to not "fighting like a girl", I decked the attacker from St Mary's (who had, coincidently, also called me a "cunt") with a punch to the face. I came home that night an put my hand in a bucket of ice it hurt so bad. Not today, though.

I grabbed the black bag and went to Millie's room.

"MillieBear, big sister has returned with an answer to your bedpost problem, now you need to watch..." I paused. She wasn't there. Maybe I missed her in the bathroom as I came through the hall. No. Not there either. I looked out the back window and saw something move in the treehouse. Dad built it for me after Mom died -- she'd never let me have one even though Dad and I agreed that our backyard tree was perfect for one. Grieving widower and doting father of a little girl who'd lost her mother that he was, he went all-out on the thing. It had two rooms, a walkway around it, trap doors, skylights, crow's nest -- everything. I caught the movement again.

It was Millie.

She was with someone. I caught the other kid's short blond hair.as it passed the window.

"Oh, shit," I said and ran out of the room and down the stairs.

I'd just come out through the back door when I heard the first yell, "Millie -- stop it. I don't want to hurt you. Let me go!" from the tree house. I was across the yard in a flash and up the rope ladder and through the trap door. It was cramped -- I used to fit in there better.

I crossed to the other room and saw the boy. I recognized him -- Josh -- Josh Freeman couple of years older than her from a few doors up. He was blonde headed -- almost white hair, blue eyed, pale skinned. He was an athletic boy of all of 14 years old. Probably had a good 50lbs on Mille. She had him pinned to the floor. She had one hand on his throat and one down his pants. He had both hands on her choking arm. He was straining against it without noticeable effect.

"Millicent!" I yelled.

She was stunned. She turned and let go off the boy's throat in her shock. He took the moment to make a dash for it. He didn't get far. He'd gotten two steps and Millie was on him. She moved incredibly fast. She grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt and flung him backwards against the wall of the treehouse. He fell to the floor in a heap.

He got up and grabbed a metal baseball bat -- it was mine from Little League, but it was dented all up from hitting rocks with it. He brandished it. "You are some kind of freak," he said to Millie -- she was tearing up. He went on, "Now I'm getting out of here and telling everyone." Millie started crying. He waved the bat at me.

"Sit down, Josh," I ordered. He threatened me with the bat again, "Josh, if you swing that bat at me, I'm going to take it from you and shove it so far up your ass, the next time you burp, it will sound like you were laying down a bunt." He hesitated. Faster than he could see I stepped toward him and snatched the bat. I held it out in my hands - one hand on each end and bent the bat in half. I glared at the boy and said, "Now sit down and shut up or you're next." He sat down -- not quite believing what he just saw.

I looked at Millie and asked, "What happened?"

Millie was getting herself together, but still crying a little. "I was bored, so I went outside. I saw Josh and," she got a little tearier. "I had to..." She struggled to get it out. "I had to have it -- had to have him."

"She tricked me," Josh said.

Millie looked at me, "I knew he wouldn't come up here just for me. I mean, he's an eighth grader." I got that. It was a middle school thing. I mean a seventh grader with big jugs might break that plain, but not a sixth grader. Certainly not a sixth grader built like a ten-year-old boy as Millie was. "So I told him how, from the treehouse, you could see right into our bedroom windows," she said.

"Okay," I said.

"And I told him you'd be coming home soon," she continued.

"And?" I asked.

"I told him the first thing you do when you get home is usually get undressed." She was crying.

I looked at the boy in the chair. He was leering at me -- not at me -- at my chest. I rolled my eyes. That was pretty sneaky. "Millie," I said, I know what you're feeling -- I REALLY know what you're feeling, but you can't just trick boys into this sort of thing, and you can't just take what you want from them." As the words left my mouth, I wondered if Hell would open up and swallow me whole for my abject inequity. Fortunately, it did not.

Millie was crying, "I just need it so bad, Midge."

I hugged her. "I know MillieBear, we're going to get through this, I promise." We went back to the other room.

"I'm still telling everyone you're both freaks," said the blonde-haired boy having recovered his courage if not his sense. "I'm -- " I glared at him, and he shut up.

I knew what I had to do.

"Mille, go inside, I'll be along shortly," I said, "I need a minute to talk with young Joshie, here."

Millie started to protest, "But he's going to --"

I held up a finger to get her silence and pointed to the house. I walked her over to the trapdoor. "I will take care of this," I told her as she climbed down. I stood up, pulled my jeans tight around my butt, took off my leather jacket, and undid the top two buttons on my tank top. Then I went to have my "talk" with Josh.

I don't think I've seen a boy run as fast as Josh did away from the treehouse a few minutes later.

He wouldn't be telling anyone about Millie.

II.

I found Millie in her room. I thought I would explain the toys I brought her and where to find videos to learn how to use them, but that proved unnecessary. I heard the buzz of the vibrator and her moaning just before I knocked on the door. "Well, I said to no one, "That's one problem solved for today."

I got to my room and there was another thing vibrating -- my phone. I picked it up. It was Milton. I declined the call. I had no idea what to say to him "Sorry I raped you," didn't seem like it would suffice. I would have to think of something.

My phone rang again. It was Brad. His one I answered, "Hi, Brad."

"Hey, babe, how you doin'?" Every time with "Joey". Every. Time.

I thought about answering honestly, but we really didn't have that kind of relationship yet. I had hope that we would, but it never came together. At that time, though, we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and, back then, I still tried to play the part. "I'm just great, baby, how are you?" God -- I really sounded like that.

"I'm lonely, baby. Did I tell you my folks aren't home?" He told me for the nine thousandth time. "You should come over and study. Or maybe some Netflix," he added.

He was so transparent it was almost funny. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text message: "I NEED to TALK to you. If you don't call me back, I'm coming over there -- M". It was from Milton. I know we needed to talk, but I needed some more time to figure this out. I put the phone back to my ear, "Baby, I will be right over." Brad started to say something, but I hung up.

Of course, I wouldn't be right over. I wanted to look good. I went with the maroon ribbed sweater minidress with the quarter zipper in the front. It hugged my body. I put on a black choker, some makeup and some very dramatic lipstick to match the wine color of the dress. I picked out a great set of three-inch black heels. They made my ass and legs look amazing. For the walk out though, I needed something else.

My black Converse and my lacrosse team stadium jacket would get me out of the house. I loved my dad, and he trusted me - but no father was going to let his girl out of the house looking like I did in that dress on a school night. I threw the heels in my backpack, grabbed the keys to the Blue Bitch, and headed downstairs. Dad was reading a book. Time to make my move. I skipped by, behind him, and into the front hall. I opened the door before I spoke, "Meeting Jenny at Barnes & Noble -- Calc test tomorrow -- love ya." And I was gone.

I needed to think about what I was going to do about Milton. I still can't believe what I did to him. Felt so overwhelming a need -- that I got. But did I do that to him just because I could?

And then how I roughed up those guys downtown. I mean, given what I was able to do to them, I could have just as easily gotten away. No, something in me -- something new in me -- had driven me to hurt them. And I hurt them both pretty badly. And sad little Josh. I'm not really an aggressive person. I mean, sure, that bitch from the St. Mary's lacrosse team aside, I've never been one to lay hands on people. Whatever had happened to my body was somehow affecting my mind. And it wasn't just me. That I went all "Single White Female" on Milton was horrible, but Millie? Mill was going to rape that kid because she needed sex so badly.

Speaking of needing sex, I was feeling more than a small itch myself. Normally, I was about as randy as the next hormonal adolescent girl. It wasn't very fashionable then for a girl to be the one who wanted sex. The paradigm was set long before I came along -- boys wanted sex all the time, but girls were supposed to be chaste pillars of virtue with no such animal drive. I can tell you for a fact, there is as much animal drive in the girl's locker room as there is in the boy's locker room.

The paradigm never fit biological reality I thought. I mean, a million years of human evolution made women fertile in their early teens -- and put them in their reproductive prime at my age then. A drive to make babies that matches the best biological time to have them is an evolutionary winner, I thought. Evolution, I thought, doesn't give a shit about college or career. It certainly doesn't care what some old guy in Rome thinks. Evolution, I realized, only cares about matching the best plan with the best biology.

Jesus, I thought. I just made a case for my raping Milton being okay. Not a legal case -- which is not something I'd thought about for a few hours -- but a scientific case. Evolution wants babies -- and it doesn't give a shit that Milton's gay or that that Josh wanted to see my tits, not procreate with a sixth grader. What was wrong with my brain? I needed to get control of my damned hormones and my newly found mean streak.

Chapter 4

I.

I was wrapping up my deep thoughts as I pulled into Brad's driveway. Sure enough, his dad's car was gone. There was another car here besides Brad's. I parked the car and got out. I traded the stadium jacket and sneakers for my leather jacker and those three-inch heels. I bent to check my lipstick and makeup in the side view mirror and headed for the door. Brad met me there. "Hey, baby," he said as he put his arms around me and kissed me. He was and "okay" kisser.

The fact of the matter was this was a relationship of convenience for me. Brad was tall -- 6'3", generally good looking, athletic build, short blond hair and nice blue eyes. and I looked good on his arm. We were together mostly because it seemed like we should be. I know he wanted more from me physically, but I just wasn't that into him. He'd gotten a few drinks into me when I finally relented to giving him a blow job two weeks ago. [for what it's worth, I'd given a total of two blow jobs ever at that point. I know I couldn't have been that great at it. Still, Brad busted his nut all over the carpet of the guest room at my friend's house in less than three minutes.] He had pressed me really hard for it then, and I think he knew he wasn't getting more from me.

Of course, given how I'd become, there was no telling what I might be up for tonight.

We went to the living room. "HI, Midge!" said a male voice. It was Jim, as friend of Brad's. Jim was a lot of things Brad wasn't. He was shorter than me, but not "short" -- maybe 5'9", he was skinny -- like I think he did a lot of drugs skinny. He had short curly black hair and brown eyes. He looked like an emaciated extra from Jersey Shore. I always had a bad vibe from that guy. He sold drugs around school. Mostly just weed and molly, and sometimes speed. I think evert school probably has a "Jim" that supplies the rich kids with the lubricants of life. "I poured us some shots!" There were three shot glasses -- double shot glasses -- on a sideboard with a clear liquid in them. There was no bottle, but I assumed vodka -- we always drank vodka or beer back then. One was just slightly fuller. It was odd to me that I noticed. Jim handed a shot to Brad and handed me the slightly fuller one. "Cheers!" Jim said raising his glass.

We all drank. It was vodka.

We sat down and Brad started looking for a movie or something to watch. We found some dumb guy comedy. We were about ten minutes in, and Jim went to the kitchen. He brought back more shots. I felt nothing from the first one, and really needed to relax, so I drank it. Another twenty minutes went by, and I still felt nothing. The boys both went to the kitchen. I slid to the other side of the couch. They were in there for a few minutes and then came back with three more shots and the bottle this time.

Brad sat down next to me and handed me another shot. It was weird. He's, awkwardly, handed me the shot from his hand on the other side of his body from the one I was sitting on. It was just an odd movement. We drank again. Jim poured another round and suggested some drinking game. We each had a character in the movie and when they said a certain common thing, we drank. That was also odd I thought -- these sorts of games usually involved everyone drinking at the same time. Something was up.

I put my hand on Brad's cheek -- his skin wasn't flushed at all from three shots -- oddly neither was mine. I felt almost nothing from the alcohol. I brought my lips up and kissed him to test a theory. I was right. I tasted no alcohol on him at all. I suppose it could be missed from my own consumption, but I was pretty sure not.

The movie went on. I soon noticed my assigned character said the chosen phrase at least four times. The others only once. And hour had gone by, I was seven shots in and still felt completely fine. There was something wrong with Brad and Jim though. They kept making eye contact and sending each other nonverbal signals of anxiety. They were up to something. I put my head on Brad's chest. His heart was racing. "I need to use the ladies' room," I said, standing up, "If you gentlemen will excuse me?"

I straightened my dress and walked off towards the kitchen to use the bathroom on the other side. I stopped once I got into the kitchen and out of sight of them. I listened.

"That stuff you got is shit," Brad said anxiously.

"I don't know man, it was right from the box," Jim countered, adding "It fucking worked on Cheryl last week."

"Did you fucking give her enough?" It was Brad again.

I couldn't make out the first part of Jim's answer but heard the second part ,"Shit Cheryl only had one and we had her all night."

I'd heard enough. "Cheryl" must have been Cheryl Robinson -- another senior. I was out of town last weekend on a college visit. There was a party -- there was a party somewhere every weekend. Cheryl hadn't been in school all week. Those motherfuckers, I thought. They'd drugged and raped her. They were trying to drug and rape me. I caught the trash can out of the corner of my eye.

I rifled through the trash and found the box. Most of the text was in Spanish. Oddly, I found I could read most of it. I had two years of Spanish four years ago. Somehow the vocabulary and grammar were all coming to me in that moment. There was one word that I didn't need any Spanish to recognize. "Rohypnol" -- Roofies -- it was a really common date rape drug a few years ago when it went out of use in the US. Jim had his "connections", I guess. The box said there had been six one-milligram capsules. If they'd used one on Cheryl, then that means they'd given me five.

I got scared for a second. That could kick in at any minute, I thought. Then I realized -- they've done this before. Probably to more than just Cheryl. Those motherfuckers. As bad as that was, in this case, it worked to my advantage. If they had experience with doing this, then they knew when the drugs should hit. They were panicking because they drugs hadn't taken effect. I couldn't feel the alcohol either. That much alcohol in that short of time should have put me on my ass even if it hadn't been tainted. I realized what had gone wrong with their plan.

It was me.

Whatever was going on with my body had obviously manifested itself in my metabolism. That was why I needed to eat so much this morning. It was why I didn't get tired on my run. It was probably why I was so horny. And, now, it was keeping the alcohol and drugs from having an effect. Those two assholes had no idea about the changes my body had gone through and that's why they're freaking out.

I used the bathroom as I said I was going to do. I washed my hands. I still felt like I really needed sex. I probably would have bedded Brad willingly I was so antsy. Asshole, I thought. I realized for a second the hypocrisy of my anger in the context of my forcing myself on Milton. I wanted this to be different -- I literally couldn't stop myself. This was a choice for those two dickheads. I wasn't convinced.

I couldn't do anything about that right now, I thought.

But I could do something to make sure these guys don't do this again.

II.

I finished washing my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. I rubbed my hands on my face to try to make myself look more flush from the vodka. I mussed up my hair and dress. And I smeared my lipstick a little. I took off my heels and carried them as if I'd found I couldn't walk in them. I doubt, under usual circumstances, that I could have convinced someone that I was drugged and drunk. Fortunately, these two assholes wanted to believe that I was, so they readily overlooked any inconsistencies.

I got to the kitchen door, took a breath and swung it open. I fake stumbled my way to the couch. And flopped next Brad. I caught a look a Jim. They were buying it. "I'm..." I said, "I'm so sleepy all of a sudden." I made some mumbling sounds and nuzzled against Brad and feigned unconsciousness.

Brad was a moron. He picked up my arm and let it flop. Then he squeezed my boob. Finally, he ran his hand under my skirt. The I heard him whisper, "She's out." He scooted out from under me.

Now what? I thought. Then I felt his hands go under my shoulders. Another set went under my knee -- Jim I realized. They were carrying me somewhere. From the incline, I figured out it was upstairs. A bedroom, I thought, they're taking me to a bedroom. That thought was confirmed when felt the bedlinens and cushion under me as they laid me down.

A set of hands when under my skirt. Whichever one it was took the waistband of my panties and pulled them down my legs and then off. I heard Jim say, "Me first."