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From: "Qickless" <qickless@fastmail.fm>
Reply-To: "Qickless" <qickless@fastmail.fm>
Subject: {ASSM} Norma Jeane (Mf, rape)
Date: Sat,  6 Jul 2002 18:10:03 -0400
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-- 
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<1st attachment, "norma_jeane.txt" begin>






If you are a minor in your country, or if you are  
offended by stories with sexual content, delete 
this immediately.

*
This story is not good jacking-off material. Go 
elsewhere.
*






Because of the severe nature of the events in 
this story, there is a change from my usual 
copyright requirements:

1) You are not to distribute this story.

2) You are not to archive this story in any 
   public archive.

3) Any archiving of this story, if made available 
   to the public, in any medium would be considered 
   unlawful unless I authorize such an archiving. 
   Please do not mail me about such requests 
   concerning this work. I will decide where to 
   archive this story. Thank you.

I consider child harassment to be the worst kind 
of sin. By writing this story, I hope that I'm 
not encouraging any child molesters. Rather, I 
hope to dissuade any fantastic notions you may 
have about child reciprocation, a theme often 
found at ASSTR. 

I can be reached at qickless@fastmail.fm









Norma Jeane (Mf, rape)
By Qickless [qickless@fastmail.fm]

Norma Jeane was nine. She was also frightened.

Not because her mother stacked her in foster 
homes when she was five. Or because those foster 
homes had been very cruel to her. It was not the 
daily hard work that earned her some nice bread. 
Or the frequent scolding.

It was Mr. Kimmel.

Mr. Kimmel was the Carpinson's star lodger. He 
was a sourly white man, a huge face with ugly 
pink smudges that looked up from between thick 
white collars. Norma had to strain to get a look 
at his eyes because of his bulging midsection, 
and even then his eyes were a dull gray.

Norma had blue eyes. Blue bright eyes that lit up 
her round thin face when she smiled, and eyes 
that were sheathed in small but long curly 
appealing lashes that seemed too big for her 
face. Her hair was a thick stack of a brunette; 
Norma was proud of her hair - her mother had told 
her that her hair was beautiful before she was 
taken away.

For a homeless, Norma was well fed. But she 
didn't look it. The bright white one-piece frock 
with red buttons all the way in the front that 
she was wearing now was bought when she was 
seven. And it still fit. Norma's nails were dirty 
because of too much running around in the mud, 
her hair could use a wash and her shoes were 
grimy. 

But she was pretty.

Say that you have a little young girl; she's 
nearing five months and you're sitting at a 
bus-stop holding her. While she's gurgling in 
your hands and you're trying your best to kiss 
her in the nose, a bus pulls up and lots of nine 
year-old girls get off. They're all pretty and 
cute and nice, and they're all smiling, laughing 
and giggling. You'll watch them and you'll smile 
with them. And then you'll stare at them trying 
to decide which one of them you would want your 
girl to grow up to be. You'd pick the nicest 
girl.

Norma Jeane was nicer. And prettier.

Which was why Mr. Kimmel was poking at her chest.

Norma had brought up tea, iced with little cubes 
that she had dug up from the freezer. Mrs. 
Carpinson gave Mr. Kimmel iced tea because he'd 
asked for it. Norma doubted very much if she 
would ever tell her to carry up the tea for the 
black person who lodged next door. Norma was 
always confused when she thought of this because 
the black lodger was always much nicer to her. 
But she had learnt to be silent. Silence, or a 
good whacking.

The tray had bitten into her arms because Mrs. 
Carpinson had wanted so much to impress Mr. 
Kimmel. And then, just in the middle of the 
staircase the heavy metal had slipped a bit and 
the china pot had almost gone wallowing down the 
steps. Norma had put her whole weight behind it, 
willing herself to stop wobbling.

That was hard.

Harder still was to yell now.

At first, Norma was confused. Confused because 
Mr. Kimmel had got up from his chair and took the 
tea from her, and then asked her to stay. Before, 
Norma had always run away. She had remained and 
glanced at the crooked walls and the ambling fan 
for a few minutes while she felt his eyes on her. 
She didn't like that.

She didn't like it either when he moved towards 
her. She looked for the tray, but there was no 
tray in his hands. 

And then he was poking her in the chest.

Rough huge hands held her in place as her frock 
was gone in a crash and then his hands were 
mauling her, crushing her frail body beneath the 
giving walls, biting into her mouth, piercing the 
soft skin in the nape of her neck, strangling her 
soul.

Norma Jean cried out once that morning, a quiet 
cry that barely carried to the next lodger. The 
nice black negro raised his head from the work, 
paused and listened briefly, and then shrugged 
and went back to work.

After a piercing pain between her legs, Norma 
felt nothing. She heard nothing, she closed her 
eyes until she felt it finish. She lay there for 
a long time, under the harsh bright sunlight, 
almost crying, trying hard to make the hurt stop, 
trying harder to somehow make it all go away. He 
helped her put the dress back on, and led her out 
of the door.

Norma bled all the way down to the kitchen. Mrs. 
Carpinson saw her, the white dress smattered with 
blood, a tiny hand clutching the torn red 
buttons, and gasped.

That day Norma received the best scrubbing of her 
life. As she came out of the bath, freshly 
showered and then combed and then made to wear a 
very pretty red dress, anybody would think that 
this was the prettiest that she'd ever been in 
her life.

But the face that we called pretty just moments 
before was now rugged, barren, even old. And the 
eyes shone a dim shoddy blue. And the hands 
shivered under the slightest touch. 

Afraid. Hurt. Badly confused.

The next day Mrs. Carpinson told the government 
that the responsibility of looking after Norma 
was becoming too much for her. Norma was shifted 
into another foster home.

The black negro came to know, but he was too 
late. And besides the law was too white in those 
days. Too white, and with a bulging midsection.

Mrs. Carpinson tried, very hard she tried, but 
she couldn't remove the small drops of blood that 
Norma left on the grey carpet.

Barely fifteen years later, a prospective tenant 
would stand right there and look over the room. 
What finally would make him decide would be a 
pin-up nude calendar of the hottest actress 
around at the time. As the tenant left the happy 
owner, the million-dollar face in the pin-up 
calendar would stare at the barely discernible 
drops of blood on the carpet - her blood.

Marilyn Monroe would smile, a cruel smile that 
nevertheless lit up her face and her bright blue 
eyes, and then slowly flutter away.

She would be loved by millions, but she would, 
could never love back.







Afterword


The incident in the story may have happened. 
Marilyn told reporters a brief framework of this 
plot just after the release of her first 
successful film. While it may have been good 
press, and Marilyn was no stranger to press 
manipulation,(the nude calendar was no accident) 
there is something that makes us all ask, what 
made her tick?

The 'seduction theory' as proposed by Sigmund 
Freud is still hotly debated by psychologists 
everywhere. It states in simple terms that almost 
all psychological problems faced by an adult has 
its roots in being molested when young. Freud 
himself is quoted as having said that many of the 
case-reports that he studied were the products of 
a delusional mind.

Marilyn Monroe was a woman who bedded the 
President of the United States, slept with his 
brother, and captured the imagination of the 
entire world. At a time when newspapers should 
have been reporting a hard-pressed cold-war 
scenario, headlines flashed of Monroe's death in 
the front pages.

Marilyn was beautiful. She was the sensuous sex 
icon of the 50s. But underneath it all, perhaps 
it was her zeal that we still relish, and love.

--


Comments to qickless@fastmail.fm
Definitive versions at 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/qickless/www

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