Friday at 4 PM

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Written by BJ Juneberry. For more Jewrotica writing by BJ, check out The Rabbi’s Wife and You’re Not Done Yet. [Editor’s Note: Trigger Warning: Please be advised that the following post is about sexual abuse in regard to authority figures and abuse of power. Resources and pertinent information from our certified sexuality educator follow the story.]

Author’s Note: Sex is never only a physical act. It’s always done in psychological, sociological and cultural contexts. A man may nurture a young lover in a relationship that’s beneficial to both. In Ancient Greece, it was a socially acceptable custom for an older man to take a young male lover, and help him develop sexually and emotionally till he matured enough for typical heterosexual relationships. In contrast, a modern pimp nurtures a young woman, only for exploitative purposes, which leads rapidly to her humiliation and degradation. However in certain circumstances the roles are reversed with the sexes, for example, take these lockthecock stories.

Humiliation and degradation, along with extensive permanent psychological damage, are also the results of abuse of young people by clerics and teachers who use their positions for personal sexual gratification. While most clerics and teachers perform their duties quietly and honorably, news reports too often describe others who don’t.

Friday at 4:00

rating_xxxWhy Friday? Why meet at all? I had only asked for an ordinary recommendation to university. I stared at the note for a long time. Friday at 4:00, when everyone else would be racing home for Shabbat, we would be alone in his office.

The weight of images fell on me till I could barely breath: his eyes locking on certain girls a bit too long when he asked them a question in Contemporary Jewish Morals; how they played along the skin revealed at their neck and wrists by the black uniforms when he thought no one would notice during exams or rested on the small buds in my bulky school sweater hinting at my tiny breasts. Rav Yosef wanted me; he meant to take me this Friday.

Each year he picked a different girl just after she had turned 18, someone with problems: a divorce, rare in our community; money problems, very common, or simply a girl like me who didn’t quite fit tightly into the “get an education so I could support a budding scholar and his eight children” mold. I had never said I wouldn’t. The social sanctions would have been too high, but I had applied for studies which were less than practical to Ivy League Universities. That was enough to generate critical looks and whispered comments by the girls who were mostly married, or at least engaged, by the time they were high school seniors. But university would be my ticket out, not out of Judaism, but out of this neighborhood that was suffocating me.

There were other things about me that were different. Things they didn’t know: the “illegal” iPad I had bought secretly a few years ago while visiting family in Tel Aviv so I could surf “non-kosher” websites, that I couldn’t get computer or STD viruses from an iSO operating system and that I had a clit that gave hours of pleasure while I tugged my pussy lips and twisted my nipples like the girls on the net.

I learned a new vocabulary: handjob, footjob, blowjob, facial, 69 and rusty trombone that I dream of trying one day with a husband; MILF, FemDom and BBW – that doesn’t interest me so much; bisexual, tranny, gay and LGBT – though I respect everyone, it didn’t seem like me; gangbang, facebang, orgy, and 3som -, how could anyone possibly keep track of what belongs to who; and fisting, BDSM Dp, Dp anal – just a one word description,: “ouch.” They were endless, as were my “practice sessions,” and my attempts to figure out how any of these might be part of me, the me that didn’t quite fit in.

…and sometimes, I thought about Rav Yosef instead of the eager multi colored men I watched stuffing huge cocks into helpless screaming young girls. I thought of his long blond beard teasing my pussy lips, his wavy side-locks wrapped around my tiny teen fingers and sometimes when my left hand was busy stuffing fingers into my tiny pussy and tight asshole, I took my right hand away from my clit long enough to snap cloth pins over my tiny pink nipples. The delicious pain. The orgasms lasted forever, and the pain in my bruised nipples for about a week. I giggled at the images: so lovely; so naughty.

The giggling quieted; gradually replaced by an uneasy feeling that quickly turned to nausea as I remembered how the other girls who Rav Yosef had “chosen” seemed to have changed during the year. How their light had dimmed; by graduation it seemed as if they were walking in the dark. I had a lot to figure out by Friday.

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