Jared

 

 

 

 

It all started when I was young. Very young.

My parents died when I was still a toddler, too young to remember either of their faces. I was sent away to be raised by my only remaining family - an aunt who already had three children of her own, all of them girls. She and her husband thought that I could be the son they never had, the missing boy in the family, and despite not being their own, I was at least blood-related.

But I wasn't the boy they were hoping for.

I was a troubled kid, always angry, always testing limits, mine and theirs. They were highly religious people and thought that God could be the answer to my plagued nature, if only I was willing to listen to Him. When I didn't comply with their approach and my temper only worsened by the month, they were convinced there was something inherently wrong with me. My aunt swore that she saw the devil in my eyes, a curse left on me due to the early and tragic death of my parents.

In the end, it was nothing else but her excuse to give up on me. If the devil was involved, there was nothing she could do for the kid her sister left behind. Raising me was beyond her abilities. She couldn't give me what I needed. Yadda, yadda...

Thus began my journey from foster family to foster family. A new home every few years, sometimes every few weeks or months.

I wasn't a bad kid, I really wasn't. I never got into serious trouble, hardly ever got into fights, never sank to drugs or theft or any other kind of crime.

But I wasn’t exactly a good kid, either. I was a challenge, always questioning everything, struggling with authority, and defying rules that everybody else just took for granted. I wasn't the kind of kid you could just tell that things had to be done a certain way because that is just the way they had to be done. I always needed to know why they couldn't be done a different way, and I hated to go along with rules that I couldn't understand or agree with, something that was mistaken as disobedience.

I never wanted trouble. I wanted truth.

But my aunt wasn't the only one who swore she saw the devil in my eyes. She was the first to say it, but not the last who swore it was true.

I'm not going to lie: it was tough. Growing up was tough for me, but it wasn't all bad. In between, I had foster families who genuinely cared for me, who taught me well, who didn't grow tired of my thirst for knowledge and truth and my constant questioning. With them, the hardest part was being taken away and shoved into a new home.

I was sent to my last foster family at sixteen, and that is where I met her.

Elsa.

She was part of the family I lived with, not my designated foster mother, but her younger sister. So, in a way, she was like another aunt to me. She was just a few years older than me, in her mid-twenties when I first met her. There was an instant attraction between us, an attraction that shouldn't exist between a foster boy and a woman who was supposed to take care of him. She also saw something in my eyes, but it wasn't the devil. Not until later.

She was an attractive woman with a lush body that she regularly flaunted in front of my horny teenage eyes. It was great and tormenting at the same time. I laid awake all night, thinking about all the things I wanted to do to that incredible body of hers, agonizing over my strong yearning while she made it worse every single day. She seduced me, using all the little tactics available to a woman in her situation, leaving her blouse unbuttoned, using the summer months to run around wearing as little as possible while getting as close to me as she could, randomly touching me when no one would see.

Of course, I never acted on it. Like I said, I wasn't a bad kid. I thought I knew what was good and what was bad.

Until I turned eighteen. I was getting ready to move out for college, and it's probably a good thing that most of my bags were already packed by the time our affair was discovered. It only went on for a few weeks, and it started one fateful afternoon when we were alone in the house and she showed up in my room wearing nothing but a tiny bikini that barely hid her assets. I was sitting at my desk, working on an app that would later become my first step to success and wealth. She asked me to join her at the pool, seductively leaning against my desk and pushing her round tits into my face.

That's when I snapped. I jumped up from my seat and I took her. I fucked her like a wild animal, exploding like a savage and devouring her lush body as if there was no tomorrow. But I did more than that. I soon realized that simply fucking her wasn't enough, for neither of us. She needed the pain, I needed the dominance, the power, to leave the marks on her body. I needed her cries and her tears, and I reveled in the knowledge that she could no longer run around in her naughty nothings because it would reveal the marks my brute hands left on her.

It was all good. It was fun. It was the release I needed, an awakening that had been long in the making.

But it wasn't more than that, not for her, at least. I was young and naive enough to lose my heart to her. As my time to move out for college neared, I began to dread the day that forced me to move away from her. I was obsessed with her, and I was dumb enough to think this was love.

When my foster family found out about us, I didn't think much of it. I was in love, I was ready to ask her to come with me. That's what I told them, my heart bursting with excitement and hope.

And she stood there and laughed. She denied everything, said that I was the one who initiated it, that I raped her, that I beat her up... She even showed them her bruises, claiming that I gave them to her when I assaulted her.

Needless to say, I was thrown out of the house immediately. After all, she was blood, I was just a dependent they took in for a few years, not family. I moved on to college and buried myself in work, trying to forget about her. It would have worked if Elsa hadn't been the witch she was. About a year later, when things were finally looking up for me, she showed back up in my life. At that point, I was still hung up on her, but I was in a much better place overall. The app I had been working on was bought by a bigger company. It was completely undersold, but I didn't know that back then. For me, the amount I had received was gigantic. I was rich. And when she found out about it, she wanted a part of it.

I was young, I was dumb, and I was still in love with her, desperate to have her back in my life. She made me believe that she was filled with remorse over what she'd done to me, that she missed me and couldn't stop thinking about me.

I fell for it. I didn't see it coming at all. We fucked, we played, I was back in my element. I did things to her that measured up to nothing I'd ever done with anyone else before. In fact, I had only touched two other girls in the meantime, two drunken one-night stands that left no impact on me.

But with her, everything was different. It was more of everything. More intensity, more passion, more pain, more power.

I'd used my money to start my own company in the meantime, vowing to myself that I wouldn't just sell my next idea, but make it grow myself. I was still in college, but I was growing into someone. I made important friends, valuable connections, deals.

All of that was ruined when she began blackmailing me. She'd just waited for the right moment to do it. She threatened to spread rumors about me hitting her again. She took pictures of herself every time after we played, staging her bruises and tears as if they were involuntary leftovers from my brutal attacks on her.

I didn't believe her. I didn't think she'd go through with it because I still thought she must feel something for me. Still, I gave her money, hoping that she would let it go. But she asked for more. And more. And more.

And when I finally refused to give in to her demands, she went ahead and destroyed my reputation. It killed my first attempt at growing my own business, it cost me a lot of money, a lot of friends, a lot of opportunities. Because even when there's no clear evidence, even when there was valid doubt about her story, something always stuck.

It was years ago, and it taught me a valuable lesson. I recovered from it, but I also learned from it.

That's why I am who I am today.