[Officelover]

That wasn't the last time I used the Child. I started using the Child more and more often, until, when I was fifteen, it wasn't rare for me to see the Child twice a week, at times even more than that. My mother and father thought it was healthy and my teachers at school commended me on my community service hours.
I knew what sex was, and I forced it out of the Child. Sex was not a taboo in Omelas, it was a part of life. Sex and shame didn't mix. But still, I didn't even consider using The Child for sex to be... sexual. I lumped it together with the other tortures I would love to inflict on him. The librarian provided me with a small vial every time I asked her for it, containing a powerful medicine called Viala, which I would force him to swallow. It made his penis uncontrollably hard for hours on end, yet he was never able to reach an orgasm. Sex used to be rough between us; he was weak, and I was always pretty athletic. I had no trouble climbing on top of him, holding him down and riding his smallish cock. Sometimes, if he fought back and a couple of kicks to the balls couldn't calm him down, I would tie him to a table and gently ride him, at my own pace.
I never told anyone about having sex with him though, not except my best friends sometimes. As I said, I didn't consider it to be “intercourse”. He wasn't penetrating me as much as I was using him. It was almost exactly like masturbation, and masturbation isn't something to discuss. Not because it's shameful or taboo... because it's so mundane, and kind of private. I don't feel the need to tell everyone every time I shave, why should I make an announcement I masturbated with the Child's dick?
I used to love torturing that Child though.
I must admit, I loved kicking it in the balls. I don't know why. The reaction was just so sudden, so hilarious. Every time I did it, he doubled over and cried a little. It is an enormous advantage to have a male Child for that sole reason—it has such obvious targets for cruelty. I used to love seeing the Child grimace with pain when I would clap my hands with them in between, or when I would slap them twenty times in a row.
But gradually, I think it got used to its testicles being tortured, and I needed to come up with new, easy ways to punish it. I loved taking blood out of him. I would scratch his skin with a knife my dad gave me, drawing pretty designs in his arms or legs... seeing a little blood. I would take a long rose stem and whip it against his skin, watching starry-eyed as the thorns would stick in his skin. I would also use objects I found laying around to beat him, if I needed to.
Around the time I stopped hating him and just loved torturing him, I fell in love with humiliating him. I would always insult him before, while I was hurting him—calling him an idiot and a devil. But now, all I wanted to do was remind him that he was filth. I would take him out to the trash heaps and make him wallow around in the mud and the garbage, and I'd love to lay him down, clutch his balls in one hand and sit with my ass in his face. He'd lick it and I'd shit directly onto him. When I'd finished, I'd jump up and rub it all over his stupid face and laugh. Then I'd take a huge chunk of it and force it down his throat. If he vomited, I'd push his face in it.
I could list you a thousand ways I crushed him. I wasn't the only person I knew who used him like I did; I told my best friend, Lana, about how I used him, and she said her brother used to fuck the Child in the ass all the time. She suggested we go sometime, and torture him together. We made a great team. I would hold him down so Lana could ride him, and vice versa. The two of us made many memories with the Child in between us.
I didn't see anything wrong with it at the time, hurting it. Him.
Sometimes, after a long session, I would see him look down. He wouldn't stare at me, or glare, or show fear or hatred or pain. He would just stare at the floor, as if the floor wouldn't hurt him. It was only during moments of stillness like that that I felt... not remorse or guilt, but almost a longing to stop, to elevate him.
I don't know why I wanted to torture him. I don't think it was him, specifically. I think... because people don't hurt each other above, we have to sink below every so often to keep sane, you know? I wasn't even angry at anything... I just needed something to hit, something disgusting and terrible to remind me how wonderful my life was. The Child was that thing.