Precocious, Part 1

by Galatea

It began, as most such things do, innocently. Innocence is not a defense against persecution however, and it is of course impossible to explain oneself to those who wish to save you from yourself when you have no words for what one feels and thinks.

To be intelligent is not generally a blessing when one is young. To possess perfect recall and have a critical and perceptive mind at the age of five is considered quite impressive by many adults. The curse of it I have already explained of course; and it is that curse which prevented me from remaining with my birth parents. In the long run this was difficult for me, but I have adapted, and in the end it has become a source of strength for me.

My first experiences were at the hands of a loving and gentle mother, and these experiences became formative; to be honest, it is always our mothers whom bring us the first pleasures of our lives, so is this so very unusual? It is, unfortunately, a matter of degree in which my first pleasures were shown to me that created this difficulty. I recall vividly that age of five, when my mother first laid hands upon me and gave me a taste of pleasure so very frowned upon by many.

My mother I remember as being very tall and dark; not because her skin was dark, because it was not, but because she dressed in dark clothing and had black hair that reached far below her waist. My first recollections are of that dark silk caressing me as she moved over me and I do not believe I will ever not enjoy the feel of such silk against my skin. To be sure, I do not recall well her face, for even at that early age my eyesight was going; her eyes were blue, but little else can I recall. I know she must have been fine-featured because she was a tall and slender being, though perhaps they are all tall when we are but five.

One of my mother's pleasures was to bathe me after I had taken a nap; she did not do this in the bath, but rather stood me up upon the large, marble basined sink, filling it with lukewarm water and taking a cloth to me as I stood before the bathroom mirror. I enjoyed these baths for three reasons, though I could not adequately explain two of them at the time.

First, my mother was a very gentle person, and her hands were fine boned and long fingered. She was indeed a pianist and a very well taught one at that. Her touch was gentle without being ticklish – and even at that age I did so hate to be tickled – and yet not so firm she would cause my skin to be reddened by her roughness. She always smelled of jasmine, and not the acrid stench of perfume, but the subtle and sweeter aroma of essences or oils. To be tenderly caressed with the warm cloth and by her large hands was soothing to me.

The second reason, which would have been much harder to explain at that tender age despite my intelligence, was that it permitted me to be without clothing before another person. My mother had always called me a beautiful baby, and lacking the ability to see beauty myself I believed her wholeheartedly. I took pride in showing her my beauty because it pleased her so. I could rarely see her smile, save when she brought her face very close to mine, so her voice provided me with the reassurance that I had made my mother happy. My father tended to be less pleased by my nudity, and he would gruffly inform me I must put some clothing on any time I was skyclad in his presence.

The third reason, and perhaps the most difficult to explain but the most intense reason of the three, was that my mother enjoyed my body. While this might seem an evil to those who are close minded and do not care to hear such truths as I present, there was in fact good reason for the gentle touches she applied to my tender body, as yet unformed to those particulars of beauty a grown woman would have. I was a plump little child, I recall vividly, and this did not displease my mother. To this day I see no wrong in an excess of flesh compared to the figures I have been told are preferable to most others; my mother believed me beautiful, so therefore I must have been.

The way my baths began was thus:

I would waken from my nap, yawning and somewhat witless, as my mother entered the nursery. The servants would generally not be present; though, the door was left open and there was invariably someone nearby to watch over me should I waken suddenly. The tall darkness that was my mother would come into the bright room, and pick me up – often complaining in a sweet voice that I was becoming too heavy. I would press my face to her neck and inhale the sweet fragrance of her, and kiss her cheek with my arms wrapped about her neck. She would laugh and call me sweet, as she carried me to the bathing room.

The bathing room was white, as so many places in our house were. There were bright spots of varied colors along the edge of the tub – which I have since learned were flowers – that allowed me to know its location compared to the walls (a necessity in a place so bright and white for one who can only see blurs otherwise). My mother would stand me on the marble platform where the sink basin was, which was wide and smudged with darkness in places. There she would look at me and ask me of my dreams, and what story my nurse Bijou had told me before my nap as she turned on the water for the basin. I would tell her, if I remembered them, and tell her that as well, which I always remembered; she would laugh softly and begin undressing me for my bath.

It always began thus, with a slow unbuttoning of my nightshirt from my neck; and this is how I recalled the color of my mother's eyes, for they would be wide and look upon me as she worked the small buttons with both hands. Being a good girl, I would hold still for her, and often fall silent. She never moved quickly when we performed this ritual, and I know now it was not merely because of my precarious perch upon the edge of the wash basin. Being an innocent I did not know this and merely assumed it was for being careful, which was also true of course. Once naked she would always ask me if I was cold, and I would reply "No, mama." Then she would smile and caress my small, rounded shoulder and begin the task of washing me.

She would sometimes sing as she bathed me, slowly washing my soft skin with a soft towel dampened in the lukewarm water of the sink. It was deliciously cooling, and in the hot summers the water would be cool, while in the winters it would be warmer. First it would be my belly and my chest, which I liked despite the slight tickle of the cloth dragging along my nipples; then my legs, left and then right. I would always be attentive to her face, for sometimes her cheeks would turn pink, something quite obvious to one who was as dependant upon color as I was. Then she would wash my arms, which I would offer to her one at a time.

Then she would wash my back, and for this she would often move closer, close enough I could see her face a little more clearly; clearly enough to see her smile and very bright eyes. I liked it best when she would put her hand upon my chest, and wash my back firmly. Her fingers would brush the tips of my tiny nipples, and I remember a warmth, and electric tingling that would start from these tiny caresses. I would often giggle when she washed of my bum; she did not wash completely between, not during these little baths, but sometimes she would use a finger and slide the soft, damp cloth along the crease between my legs. I did squirm and the electrical tingle would often be stronger after that.

When she had finished washing me with the damp cloth, my mother would then dry me with the soft, warm towel. She would rub me both front and back, and I would giggle a little, because she would be careful not to tickle me overmuch. But I recall how it felt, to be jiggled between her strong, strong hands, with their fine fingers caressing me through the warmth of the cotton. I would be very happy, I recall, and the tingle would be stronger, because of the last part of the ritual, and my favorite part of it.

First she would set aside the cloths she has bathed and dried me with, and her voice would become soft, and quite serious. First she would touch my neck, with one warm fingertip, and ask me, "You are not sore here?" And being the honest and good little girl that I was, I would answer, "No, mama." Then both hands would descend along my chest, with its swells of baby's fat that feel so much like a young girl's chest. She would caress both of my nipples at once, a sensation that brought to the fore a much stronger tingling to my senses. It seemed to reach down deep inside, all the way to the soles of my feet, and yet it gathered most strongly in my belly. "And these are not bitten or sore?" she would ask, and I would reply in a slightly quavering voice, "No, mama." I did not know why she asked me these strange questions, but I know that I did enjoy my mother's hands moving where they would.

By now my cheeks would be hot as I expected the two caresses that would come next. I distinctly recall that warmth, and that intense, strange tingle. It was a wondrous feeling, and I could not help but believe that there should be more to it, a greater sensation to it. My mother would speak very softly, in a voice at once breathless and concerned. She would take a single finger and place it between my legs, whereupon I would be overcome by warmth inside. Being a good girl I would of course try to hold still for my mother, and she would gently rub my undeveloped and sensitive sex quite thoroughly, even a little deeply, feeling the tender barrier within. "And there is no pain or soreness here?" Of course I would answer "No, mama," for there was none; but the sensations I did feel were not pain or soreness in the slightest!

There were occasions when my mother would excite me so that I wet myself slightly; often this was when the tingle from her touches to the tiny nubs upon my chest was stronger than usual. She would laugh a little, and I would become quite hot in the face and ears. She would tell me with gentle humor that it was no great matter, and lick her fingers clean. This did not distress me of course; I had been taught to be clean, and I saw no wrong in my mother's manners through the clouds of my unfocused eyes and their innocence.

After this caress, she would move close, so that I would press my hands against her bosom, soft and yet firm with her youth and vitality, occasionally feeling the hard pebbles of her own nipples under my tiny hands. I had a great curiosity about her soft gasps when my hands would find them beneath her dark silk shirt; now of course I know what those gasps meant, but then I only was curious, for I wanted to not disturb my mother with questions that would distract her from my own pleasures. I was a selfish little thing in some ways; but we all are as children, where pleasure and games are concerned. I would often move my legs apart a little more for her, and she would lay one firm, warm hand along my back while the other would move between my soft, smooth buttocks, gently feeling for the dark little hole concealed between them. She would rub it lightly with her fingertip, exploring its crinkled edges with great care; I often became a little wet then if I had not before, but never enough for her to notice. "And this is not sore or painful?" I would murmur against her breasts, "No, mama."

This caress would signify the end of bathing, and I would often feel that there should be more to this game, that I was not responding as well as I could or should have. My mother's cheeks would be quite red and I would feel her heart beat very quickly when she wrapped me in a towel, and carried me to my room to get dressed once more. Often she would leave me in the care of my nurse or a tutor and excuse herself for some time after. These gentle baths were very enjoyable for me, and it was usually some time before the tingling in my belly or the warmth deep inside would fade. But eventually it would, and my life would go on as normal.

Innocence is not always a good thing; many times have I thought back on how my life might have been if I had spoken to my mother of one incident when I was enjoying my after nap bath. Mother had just begun on my backside, and I saw the tall, dark blue that I associated with my father. He dressed conservatively, I learned; the maids, my nurse, and the cook all wore portions of white with their dark clothing, so they were very clear to me even with my maligned sight. My father was a tall, thin man, with a penchant for brown and grey. He spoke in a gruff voice, and I had noticed a certain tendency for my nurse and my mother not to leave me alone with him for too long when there were no others about. He had a beard, and he on occasion liked to tickle me with it when I was younger, until I would be squalling quite loudly. So grew my unfortunate desire not to be tickled at all.

As mother pressed her hand to my chest, and touched my nipples in such an exciting way I could not help but move against her, I saw my father standing at the doorway. I was of course unsure of his expression, and since he did not speak I did not know the tone of his voice, which was a surer measure of people's emotions to me than any expression could be. I can imagine, however, that his hands must have been clenched, and his anger would have made his face ugly to the touch. But these are things known to a person older than five, and to me, then, it was not a concern to have my father watch my mother at bathing me. Perhaps if I had said something to my mother at that moment, things might have gone differently. As it was, the shadow in the hallway that was my father vanished to one side, and left my blurred vision.

As before, my mother ended my bath with those exciting, gentle touches, those caresses which inflamed feelings for which I hade few words. It was not shame, I knew this; my mother had asked me if I was ashamed of myself after I had done something to embarrass my family or myself so I was fully cognizant of 'shame'. Love I knew, for I loved my mother, and my father, and my nurse, and one of the darling maids that my mother seemed to have special preference to. It was not anger or sadness, for these I knew also. I had no name for this particular feeling that my mother could instill in my child's body; I knew it as delightful to experience, and that she loved me. So, at that time I needed to know nothing more of it.

The changes began late that evening. My mother and her delicate little maid with the very high, breathy voice came to my room as I slept, waking me with their movements in my room despite the stealth at which they did so. As a necessity I had become accustomed to listening for things around me more than looking; my clouded vision could not be relied upon to alert me to the presence of others. So I woke, sitting up; they were not daunted by this and closed my door, leaving only the light of my little round-about nightlight to illuminate their work. As the maid – dressed in beige pants and a thick shirt of dark red-brown rather than her usual outfit, forcing me to name her by voice rather than appearance – quickly began ransacking my small wardrobe and chest of drawers, my mother came to me and pulled me from the blankets, setting me on her lap in little more than my thin nightshirt.

"Antoinette, my dear, sweet little one….you must go with Elle, and do as she says." My mother's voice was very concerned, and I could hear in her voice that she had been crying. I reached up, to be certain of this, and my tiny hand came away from her cheek wet. "I love you so much, my little one, but I am afraid you will not see me for some time." Her words caught in her throat, and I felt an equal upwelling of choking sadness.

"I do not want to leave you, mama…." I said in a small voice. My mother held me close, and pressed our cheeks together so that I felt we would not be parting. But she pulled away finally and slipped my nightshirt from me to dress me in a soft dress that was much warmer. I started to cry, but she quickly hushed me, with soft kisses and delicate touches upon my face and hair.

"You mustn't cry, my love. You must be very quiet, and do as Elle says for you to do. You will be good, won't you?" Because it was my mother asking this of me, and because I wished to make her proud I said yes, I would be good. But there was a part of me which said that I would say this because if I said it she would not make me go with Elle, whom I did love, but whom was not my mother. My mother reached around her neck, and removed a delicate chain from her throat, a chain that sometimes she would let me hold so as to play with the brightly sparking pendant of rubies and diamonds it ended in. This she placed around my neck with a small sob.

Realizing that my mother needed me to be strong for her this once, I bravely stopped crying aloud, but I felt my cheeks become more wet with tears. "I am so sorry, my child, my dearest, sweet child. I will pray that we can see one another again soon." I nodded solemnly, and she hugged me tight; I threw my arms around her neck and clung, not wishing to let go of the woman who had given me so much. I sobbed a little more as she said I love you to me, and I returned her love with my own. Then Elle was gently picking me up, and my mother rose.

She kissed me, and then kissed Elle; I saw quite clearly, from the inches away that we were, that this kiss was longer and much more involved than my mother's kisses with me had been. But the thought was gone as my mother kissed me again and I spoke to her, "I will miss you, mama….I love you." She said nothing more but hugged both Elle and myself, before quietly opening the door for us. Elle, carrying both myself and a small tote, quickly made her way to the kitchen entrance, while my mother followed us much of the way. My father was speaking quite loudly to someone upon the phone, about some matter I did not at the time recognize. If I had, I would not have been quite so innocent, and perhaps things would again have been much different.

As it was, my mother kissed me one last time, and urged Elle to go quickly, and quietly. I clung to Elle, and let her carry me away from my home to places unknown. Because I did not know then what I know now, to me it seemed an exile; my mother had abandoned me to caprice and to this young woman whom she seemed to love as much as myself. It was difficult, that night, for Elle was forced to walk clear to the front gate while avoiding the main lights. There were several times when she nearly fell; the grass was slippery and she was hurrying much to fast for my own taste.

Still, she arrived at the front gate, and the young man who was there let us out, saying that he was sorry; I did not know why he would be sorry, and I recall an anger that made my cheeks hot at his presumption. He had no right to say he was sorry was my thought, and I do not recall why his words angered me so, save that they echoed my mother's words and I did not wish to hear those words from another's tongue. Still, he let us free of my home, and Elle settled me into a car seat. I did not fight her, and she kissed my forehead as she was on occasion willing to do when I had been especially good. I cried a little more, and this time she let me, as she slid into her side of the car.

Elle caressed my hair, and kissed me again, saying she would do her best to help my mother; then we were moving, and I cried myself to sleep.

The next weeks were not at all pleasant. Not because of Elle, who treated me with such tenderness and care that I was left befuddled with her gentleness and kindness. No other nurse or maid had ever given me such treatment. Then there were the colors! A veritable riot of colors existed in her tiny flat that left me quite dazed; it took me even longer to learn my way around the flat than it had my house, because the colors distracted and confused me at first. Still, Elle was very patient, not scolding me when I failed to reach the bathroom in time to prevent an accident; she did have me help her clean, which reinforced my desire to perform better for her.

On those many occasions when she would leave to work at my mother's home, she would leave me in the care of the other young woman who lived in her flat: a long limbed, tousle haired blonde whom went by the name Daphne. Daphne was an artist, and while she was watching me she would read, or play games. I still cried on occasion, for I missed my mother terribly, and she would ask me if I wished to be held. This gentle, concerned young woman always received a "yes, please," because she asked me. I am sure if she had not I would have bawled all the harder for her attempts to help.

I would be woken some nights by the sounds the two young women made as they slept in their bed, believing me asleep in the cot Elle had brought for me. I did not disillusion them, for it was a strangely fascinating thing to see their shadows caress and move against one another. Often Elle would tell her lovely friend to be more quiet, and there would be soft laughter. Sometimes they would even do so while I was awake in the living room, playing with my toys or the paints Daphne had given to me to practice with. Their blurred shadow bodies, one in dark clothing and the other in bright pastels, so often became intertwined that I began to think of them as a single person, rather than two people.

It was not too long before another woman came, dressed in dark colors and speaking in a deeper, more mature voice. She explained I could not stay with Elle any longer, and that she would be taking custody of me. Elle admitted she understood, but that I might not like that. I spoke up, at that time, interrupting though I knew it was quite rude.

"Will you be taking me to my mama?" I asked, not trusting this dark blue stranger.

"No, I am afraid not, miss. You will have to come with me and stay with other children in an institution for a while." I was not alarmed as yet; it was not an orphanage, as I had heard many wicked tales of. I knew it would not be pleasant but I could accept that for now. It was not the first time a hospital had been mentioned in my presence. "Your mother and father will not be with you for a little while still."

I thought for a long while then, looking towards the slender darkness that was Elle. "Will it be okay, Elle?" Heard the soft catch in her voice that showed how sad she was.

"Yes, Anti, you can go with the lady. She will take you to a safe place. I will visit every day." Daphne too said she would visit, and I was not surprised to hear sadness in her voice as well. I told the woman I would need a short while to get my clothing and toys together. She said she would wait, and she did so, though Elle and I lingered over my clothes and toys and spoke in soft voices of what was to become of me.

I was intelligent enough to realize that something quite bad had happened, and though I did not know what it was I knew it would not be simple or quick to fix. As we finished putting my meager belongings away Elle hugged me tightly, and kissed me on the lips much as my mother had done. I recall her tasting sweet, like apples, and that her hazel eyes were wet with tears. Our tears mingled on our cheeks as we said out goodbyes. Daphne kissed my cheek and told me to be brave and good. I thanked her for the paints, and said I would practice every day, not knowing that one day I would be unable to see the colors that she had given to me.

Though I would not know this for many years, my father had accused my mother of molestation of me; but this did not work in his favor, as he himself had actually been convicted of this very thing. Eventually it came to me to prove my mother's guilt or innocence, and my own innocence and trust proved to be the undoing of my family. So it was almost two weeks after being confined to an institution for the blind that I was taken before the judge and the court to testify. I knew my mother and father were there, by their voices, and I was allowed to hug my mother once under the watchful eye of the bailiff and the stern lady in blue. I told her it would be all right, because Elle had said so. She had laughed in the midst of her crying, and called me sweet.

Of the many things I heard that day I learned much more, later. As it was, I did not know what the terms 'lesbian', 'pedophile', 'divorce', or 'custodial rights' meant. I did know that my mother had been accused of two of those things, while my father was accused of one and laid claim to two others; I myself was befuddled and since I could only see blurs and hear voices, I contented myself for waiting my turn to be addressed. It was some time before I was called to take the stand, and they gave me a tall seat to sit in so the jury and the people could see me. The sharp voiced man who had no hair and wore black asked me questions, and I answered them; many people made strange noises at the answers I gave.

"Did your mother ever touch you in places she should not?" was his first question, and it seemed like a very strange thing to ask. I knew what places strangers should not touch, of course. But my mother and father were different than strangers, so naturally I said no to his question.

"Did your mother ever touch you between the legs?" he asked, moving back and forth in front of me like some kind of strange shark.

Of course, being the honest child that I was, I responded with, "Yes, sir." He asked me if these touches had been longer than a few seconds, and naturally I answered positively. I did not know why he needed the details of my baths, and his manners and loud voice distressed me.

"When did she do these things? At night, in your bed?" At this the woman next to my mother claimed 'objection' and spoke loudly about 'leading the witness'. Since I was sitting I said that he was not leading me anywhere, and this caused many people to laugh, and a surprised, soft sobbing laugh from my mother, while I heard an angry mutter from my father. The kind-voiced old man in the highest seat, hidden behind a great deal of brown tower, said I should answer the questions.

"No, sir; during my bath." At this there was a great deal of muttering among the people until the kindly sounding man rapped the wooded tower he was sitting behind sharply with something hard.

"Did she say anything during these times?" He sounded very intent upon my answer, and I was confused, but answered him as best I could.

"Yes sir. She asked it I had been bitten or if I hurt when she touched me." The man wandered around some more as the court was quieted.

"And did it hurt when she touched you in those places?" Naturally I said not, and was not surprised when he asked me to tell him how it felt to be touched there.

"It felt very good, sir." The resulting outcry was enough to make me jump, and the noise was so frenetic I started to cry.

As the lady in blue came to take me back to the institution, I heard my mother speak quite loudly and clearly, "I love you, Antoinette!" I of course cried for her, screamed, to be honest; but as all small children, my screams meant nothing to those whom believed they knew best for me. This was how I learned that the truth could be a weapon in the hands of my enemies, a lesson I have never forgotten to this day.

As one can guess, in the end my mother was not allowed to have me, but nor was my father. It was decided that though my mother had been acting in my best interests, she could not be allowed to keep a daughter when she was evidently a practicing lesbian (with none other than the delicate and breathy-voiced Elle, of course); and the court would remand me to the government's care for the time being. I cried a great deal at first, but true to her word, Elle visited me every day, and sometimes the painter Daphne with her. I was given letters by them from my mother, and I read these carefully written letters avidly, knowing in my heart my mother would always love me.

So began my journey through life; I remained at the institution for seven years, where I learned many things. But, I am tired now, and will speak of these lessons learned later.