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We were not to move. Not to speak, to twitch, to make a sound. Our little bodies lay sprawled out on that huge bean-bag. It was white--the fuzzy exterior probably used to be soft as a puppy's coat, but as things age, they change. The once-fuzz was now scraggily threads balled together. However, it was still comfy. "J-----, don't move." Her tiny voice echoed to me as she layed there in her submissive state, panic hinting at the corners of her eyes. You could hear it in her voice. I don't know where he was at that moment, but I know he wasn't close enough to here hear words. Her caution. If he had been, she would have been dragged into the bathroom. And then, I sneezed. I knew what was coming, and as that prediction became present, I found myself standing in that familiar bathroom. Kingergarten panties were down around my ankles. I remember looking down and noticing the way my jeans and panties looked hugged above my bare feet. He was laying on his side, his head tilted in a curious manner, studying and searching, looking as if he were discovering something important. I suppose he was.  I looked at the closed door, my breath getting faster. Thoughts now are like those cliche flashbacks we see like deja vu in movies. Cold fingers, a wet tongue. His fingers managed to find their way deeper inside every time, and his mouth turned more persistent on each visit to that bathroom.  Even at the age of six, I understood what was going on. I knew exactly what he was doing to me, and I knew it was wrong. I said, "Please stop." When I think back now, my baby body being devoured by this man's wandering fingers and that persistent tongue, I know when I was pulled to that bathroom the first few times, I meant it when I said, "Please stop." But eventually, my "Please stop" was no longer sincere. Moving and speaking, twitching, became on purpose. I'm a sex-fiend now-- and I suppose it started then.