I remember him shoving me into that closet. It was small as closets go, bi-fold doors with only 2 panels, not 4. After all it was a kids closet, and didn't need to be too large. It was not dark, thanks to the horizontal slats that made up the doors, light streamed through. Me being shoved into that closet was a regular occurrence, sometimes he would blackmail me or promise to help clean my room. Mostly it was blackmail though. It smelled like sour socks and baseball gloves. Full of the normal boy clutter: sports equipment, toys, shoes, and clothes. I would have to kick things around to stand on the floor to keep from tripping.
I remember the day I figured out that placing my hands flat on the wall with my arms extended made the whole process easier and faster. It allowed for more resistance and helped me keep my balance. Soon after I figured out that pushing like I was going to take a shit made it less painful. I remember hating him for what he was doing. I avoided that room. Thinking that if I didn't go into the room, than he couldn't get me into the closet. But like a child, I would soon put those thoughts aside, and trust that all was safe as children do, I was only 8 after all. Only to end up in the closet again, with my pants, or shorts around my ankles being sodomized by my brother.
I don't remember when or how I came to realize that I had the power to stop him. I guess I was about 12 years old, I just remember one day I decided I didn't want to ever go into that closet again. I built up my courage, came up with a story that was just enough information and told my mom the biggest lie I have ever told. I told her after church one morning that "Brother, tried to touch me where a brother shouldn't." I don't remember all the details but I know I told her about the closet and him pulling my shorts off. I made it sound like he had attempted to hurt me, not that it had been going on for years. I am thankful that she believed me. She cried, she told my dad, and next thing I knew, I was being dropped off at my aunts house for the day while my parents and brother went to see Father Ron. I know he had to spend time with Father Ron every Sunday for almost a year. I do not know what happened in the meeting or between my brother and Father Ron every Sunday, I never asked, I never even brought the subject up. I just remember feeling guilty for tattling on him and avoided the subject at all cost. I had gotten him in big time trouble and that is something sisters just don't do. That was the end of my time in the closet, that was actually the end of a lot of things.
I look back and think how strange that being molested didn't keep me from hanging out and playing with him. However, my guilt at getting him in trouble did. Even as a child I was a little submissive, and felt I had let him down. My guilt caused me to spend more time alone in my room and less time with my best friend.
We both eventually grew out of the awkwardness, but never the friendship. He has been one of my rocks and on more occasions than I can count or remember, filled the stereotypical role of big brother hero.
I know that many women in the lifestyle have been through similar situations. Most of the time, we keep it to ourselves, or bury the memory deep inside. It is not something freely discussed, and often women make the mistake of not telling their Dom/Sir/Master about their past. It is not something to be ashamed of. It happened, and you can not change the past, only learn from it. Accept it and come to terms with it. Or take the easy road and let it eat you alive.
I am lucky in many ways, I have been able to forgive, and often forget, the details of my time in that little closet.
