You held me down.

You forced my body into submission.

You grasped my hips, effortlessly guiding, gliding, my small figure across the examination table, paper crinkling angrily underneath as you slid me towards you.

You dictated how close we sat, pressed flush against each other, authorizing yourself permission to caress my bottom with your arm stretched behind my slender midsection.

You constrained the position I sat in. Placed at your convenience, I was incapable of moving as you curtailed any movement, whether subtle or obvious, away from your outstretched hands, which connected to a cruel and unforgiving skeleton of a man.

You governed the arrangement of my legs. You tugged my body across your bench, positioning yourself in between my legs. You hauled my legs over your own shoulders, granting yourself access to my ******.

You arrested my body, firmly planting your unbearably hot hands upon my waist, allowing yourself to connect our sides, flesh against flesh.

You controlled what I wore when I was with you, demanding articles be shed with a flick of your wrist.

You limited my motion. You loved to establish your claim over my young body, resting the palm of your hands in between the warmth of my thighs, squeezing in warning at any action that could potentially change your stake.

You restricted my hands from getting in the way of the roaming of your own. You liked to cup my ****** while I squirmed in discomfort and embarrassment, shrinking backwards into the material stretched the length of your table, wishing I could vanish, melting and becoming one with the plastic texture that lay beneath my slight figure.

You repressed my cries of anguish, shaking your head and shushing me, repeatedly promising the pain of the treatment would be worth the relief following. Now I understand that relief was sexually driven, and was not for the purpose of my pleasure, but for yours.  

You prevented my torso from lifting, arching off your board as you slid your finger inside of me. Your large hands firmly pressed down on my sensitive hip bones, ensuring I stay stagnant, giving you the opportunity to toy with my anatomy.  

You subdued any chance of my mother recognizing the signs of abuse. You skillfully hid my frame, placing your dominating figure at the perfect angle to disallow her view of the horrible actions you performed on me.

You structured the schedule of the appointments. You decided the duration of each visit. You kept me locked in your cage, in your presence, for hours and hours. You hid the key, confining my body and mind to your enclosure.

You killed any confusion I had when you referred to me as “sweetheart.” Your words put me at ease, knowing you doted upon me, and strived to do your best to provide care. Even at an inexperienced age, I recognized the discomfort you left me with, both emotionally and physically, tainting my view of men for years to come, yet your kind reassurements and long bearhugs kept me silent.

You restrained me.