It was five minutes after school. My classroom was pretty much empty. I was still there, sitting behind the desk, but that's because I was the teacher, and it was my classroom, and I had work to do. Pretty typical, if you ask me. Oh, yes, and I forgot to mention: one of my students was there, too. Her name was Katie Kurkwitz. Blond hair, blue eyes… She was rather cute. She was standing next to me as I dug through my file cabinet containing all of my student's papers. The door to the room was locked, and the lights were on: I needed to talk to her about something, and I wanted privacy. Yes, yes, was about her spelling test. It wasn't a bad grade she got—no, actually, it was pretty good. An A. But then again, this is Katie we are talking about. She always gets As.
"What do you think your grade is?" I asked her teasingly, purposely taking the longest time possible looking for the thing just to make her more and more curious. I watched as her eyes looked up to the ceiling: why students think that blasted thing would ever give them any answers is beyond me. She considered something for a split second.
"An A," she told me.
"An A? You think you got an A? How about an F?" Then I looked at her more closely. "Why do you think I pulled you after school?" I asked her. "I wouldn't do something like that if you got a good grade. You must've failed." Of course I was just joking. The only reason why I had really told her to stay behind is because I greatly enjoyed her company. I mean greatly enjoyed. But then again, she didn't need to know that. If she had known what I was going to do, she would've have ran, I suppose. No, I'm pretty sure she would've.
She was frowning now, the way one her age does when they refuse to accept something. To me, she looked even better when she was upset. "Did I really do bad?" she asked, voice turning into a slow whine.
I shrugged and turned to her. "I don't know. Do you think you really got an F?"
She looked unsure. Her eyes were big and kind of watery. I almost wished that she'll cry, but then again, I wasn't really the one to spoil a happy mood. "Mommy will be really mad at me if I do bad."
"I'm pretty sure she will be," I replied, searching through the file cabinet. I then grabbed the test and handed it over to her before she could start crying in my classroom and bring me into the ultimate state of lust. "That is. I'm pretty sure she will be…if you had really gotten such a grade." I handed her the test, and her face brightened. I loved her face. It was so bright, and her smile was wide. Too cute. Absolutely too cute. I felt her wrap her arms around my waist and hug me and that's when I left to go sit behind my desk. I chose that location because it was far from the window (even if the blinds were shut) and the door, where no one would've seen me. Katie watched me all the while.
"Katie, come here," I said to her upon sitting down in my chair. "I want to talk to you." She followed obediently, and then upon coming, wondered where to sit. With my arms I then swept her into my lap. I greatly liked the feel of her rubbing against me, trying to adjust, and it took everything in my power now to attack her right then. Instead, I focused on her blond curls. They were silky and smell of flowers. Must've had just gotten her hair washed. That's what I liked about girls. They are always so…clean.
"You know you're my most favorite student in the class," I said to her. She giggled. She knew. I've been pampering her with gifts and such talk for a while now. Since early May, I believe. Still playing and stroking her hair, I continued, "You can tell by the way I give you candy and such al the time. Did you know that?"
"Yes, Mr. Hawthorne," she replied, giggling. I knew she liked it when I played with her. She came from a very strict family, and just fooling around was something that she liked to do, since she didn't get to at home. I smiled at her.
"Could you do something for me?" I asked. She looked at me, smiling back and nodding up and down. Taking my hand to her skirt, I pulled at the end a little. "Can you take this off for me?"
"Why?" she wondered.
"Are you second-guessing my intentions?" I replied, purposely using big words I knew she didn't understand. "I'm your teacher, not a stranger. I want to see more of my perfect little student."
She still looked reluctant.
"I do you favors all the time," I continued. "Can you just do this one little thing for me?"
She gave me no reply. It took time and patience to talk her out of removing her skirt, and luckily, time and patience was something I had. Finally she jumped off my lap and took off the wretched thing, and nothing got me more excited than just watching her do so. The skirt dropped to the floor, and there she was in front of me, her little legs exposed, privates hidden by pink panties. She looked kind of scared too. Delicious.
"Lovely," I said to her. "You really are a beautiful little girl, you know that right?" A smile returned to her face: she wasn't quite as scared now. I shifted a little in my chair. My pants felt really tight. "Okay, now can you turn around for me? Just act natural." She did as I asked, and that's when I unzipped my suit trousers and began masturbating. Simply imagining me with her was enough to power my fantasies.
"Hey, Katie, could you take your underwear off, too, please?" I asked her in between breaths. At this she especially looked reluctant, and it took more coaching. "I just want to see more of your beautiful body—without any clothes to impede my view." More big words, more cajolery: a never-ending cycle of pain and pleasure that was. Finally she broke under my power and still respecting my request to stay turned-around, she dropped her pants too. That caused me to speed up my stroking.
"Mr. Hawthorne, are you okay?" she asked me, probably wondering why I had been breathing and groaning so hard.
"You're just so beautiful," I replied. "I just can't breathe when I see you." Then taking a free hand, I knocked a pencil off my desk. On purpose. It rolled on to the floor and underneath one of the students' group tables. "Sorry about that. Could you get that, too?"
Obviously happy to be doing something other than standing around, modeling for me, she bent over and began searching for my little writing utensil. The view I got of her little rump was enough to make me moan loudly in pleasure and release my sexual gratification. I simply couldn't resist her any longer. After wiping up a bit using the box of tissues on my desk, I then sneaked up on her from behind. My hands clasped her little ones.
"Find that pencil yet?" I asked, pressing my body down on top of hers lightly as to not squash her entirely. I knew she was scared. I could feel her all over: all tense and frightened she was. She shook her head no quickly. She knew something is wrong, so I jumped into action, licking her face all over, tasting all parts of her: her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She was crying now as I did this, but I ignored her tears by tightening my grip.
"No," she screamed, and I slapped a hand over her mouth as she struggled underneath me. She was a writhing ball of desperation: she bit, kicked, and smacked, but it was futile. I was simply older and stronger than she was, and I overpowered her. She shrieked loudly as I entered her—luckily it was greatly muffled by my palm and deafening grunting; her hands tightly grip my suit sleeves as I thrust. I could feel her tears—hot and wet—as they rolled down her reddened cheeks and splashed against me. I looked into her eyes as I continued my raping: they were closed shut tightly, and she was still screaming bloodcurdlingly, clutching me hard. It hurts now, I remember thinking, but it'll be over soon, my little Katie.
Everything was hazy to me. The world was simply not there. There was only me and Katie. I truly loved everything about her. The way she hung on to me, her helpless screams for help, and the way she was so ripe and unused. What more could I ask for?
Then I heard the doorknob jiggle and the sound of a key being placed into the lock from the outside. I turned my head just in time to see one of our friendly school janitors come inside, broom in his hand, obviously ready to clean up after a long day. His eyes met mine, and then he saw Katie underneath me. That's when he shouted something at me. It was a profane word that he thinks fits me well: Asshole. And I knew right then and there that I was quite literally caught with my pants down.
He called to someone—I was not paying attention to who it was—and then before I knew it, his hands were grappling my shoulders. I made no attempt to fight him. Instead, I removed myself from Katie and simply allowed him to haul me to my feet. I zipped my pants and raised my hands in the typical criminal stance, doing nothing and waiting patiently. I could tell he wanted to beat me to a pulp, but that would be bad for the police reports later. Besides, I had nothing else to fight for.
After eleven years, I, Derrick H. Hawthorne, the child molester and rapist had finally been caught.
I look at you. You are nice and treat me like a person, and not like a disgusting thing, even though I am handcuffed and chained like one. I sit at the seat across from across your desk and watch you stare back at me. You with your red blouse, and blond hair… You remind me of an adult Katie.
"And this is what happened on the afternoon of June 12th?" you ask me. I nod.
"Exactly what happened," I reply.
"And how does your story make you feel?"
I pause for a second and grin. "If you really want to know, it makes me feel quite aroused."
"And you have no regrets?"
"Absolutely none," I say. "It was my fault for raping in a school. I should've known that something would've happened."
You shift in your chair. It squeaks and groans. I can see that this conversation makes you uncomfortable. Your hand jitters a little while you write in your tablet. You use a blue pen that writes in red. I think that is quite weird. "What about this little girl…?" you ask.
"Katie. Do you have any regrets towards her?"
"She was five years old, and you were thirty-four. How do you feel about that?"
"I'm a pedophile," I tell you, voice not the least bit angry. "A stereotypical pedophile, from the Greek word, pedo, meaning 'child' and French-Latin-Greek derivative, phile meaning 'love': a child-lover. Of course I don't really mind. If it wasn't me, then it was going to be someone else. She should be happy."
"Happy?" you ask.
"Happy, yes. I knew everything about Katie. She came from a harsh family. She felt unloved by her strict parents, and I gave her all the loving she needed. How could I not. She was so trusting and innocent. How could I not?"
"But you raped her. Was that love or lust you were feeling?"
"That June day? That was definitely lust." And then I sit back in my chair and smile at you. "She was the first one who I truly so-called raped," I say. "And can we use another word? 'Rape' is so ugly."
"What word would you like to use, Derrick?"
"How about copulated?"
"Okay, so Katie was the first person you…copulated with? Without consent?"
I nod my head. "Yes. I didn't ask her to do it with me, as you know. I simply threw her down and forced her to. I've never even told her anything about sex, which explains why I wanted her to face a different direction while I masturbated. I didn't want her to get suspicious." I look at your face. Even though you are writing once more in that tablet, it glows with a little something. Perhaps disgust. "I knew from the moment I targeted her that she would be different. I simply had no time to groom her—"
You ask, "Groom?"
"Yes, groom. You know, shower them with gifts and affection, take them on special trips and such, and develop strong relationships with them." I lift a hand to scratch my hair. My arms feel heavy; I hate the way the handcuffs feel around my wrists. They are cold, like the heart of the criminal they bind. Am I criminal? I snap back to attention. "I had no time to groom her, as I was saying. The school year was just about over, and besides, I didn't want her. I just wanted her body. Something about her just threw me off the deep-end."
I look at you. I know you already think I am off the deep-end.
"I think it was her hair," I say. "Your hair reminds me of it. Blond and curly."
"Derrick?" you ask.
"I groomed her enough for her to gain my trust," I say. "Enough so she wouldn't doubt my intentions. Then that day I pulled her after school. That was all I needed. I had her."
"Derrick?" you ask again.
"What drives rapists to get their victims? What causes fools to stalk one another? It is lust. A sudden lust that arises up out of nowhere. You just want someone and you'll stop at nothing to get them, even if it means doing things against their consent. Everyone lusts after someone. Some people are just able to contain it better than others, separating me from you."
"But you understand how that makes you a—excuse the ugly word—rapist, right?" you ask me. I nod again. I truly understood. I simply was not able to contain my lust and that made me what I was.
"Tell me the other six children you've copulated with," you tell me, breaking the silence. In your hands you now hold several papers, all being held together by a single paperclip. "All girls, correct?"
I reply, "Indeed you are. Six girls over the span of eleven years. Natalie was my only six-year old. Bridget, Rachel, Caroline, Lizzy, and Zoë were all five."
"And they were all in your past first grade classes?" I nod again.
"Do you understand why what you've done is considered rape?" you ask, and this time I shake my head as a no. "Because you were twenty-three to thirty-four years old having sex with five and six-year olds," you cry. "Don't you see anything wrong with that? Look at the disparity between your ages and theirs."
"It doesn't matter," I say.
"You've hurt them," you reply. "Do you think that a five or six-year old having sex is good for them? Don't you think that they are too young?"
"If it's done with love and care, then I truly believe sex was not harmful between us. We were honest with one another. We consented. They said yes and I said yes. I don't see how that is considered rape."
You sigh and shake your head. Frustration is apparent in your eyes, and by the way your body moves. You cap your pen and set down your tablet. I can see by the newly-wrinkled pages that you've written a lot. We both look at the clock on the bookshelf at the same time.
An hour had already passed. It's time to go.