The Hanjub Syndrome



The doctor had warned Beverly not to press for details, as that would only increase the denial, and could precipitate something called Dual Identity Disorder, in which the victim develops alternate personalities. Beverly, however, was so overwrought that she could not let the mystery alone. At every opportunity she tried to extract more details about the attractive Indian nobleman now so much a part of her daughter’s life. She hoped she could learn something that would reveal the identity of the abuser, if there was one, and she could put a stop to the whole thing before her daughter was permanently affected.

CarolLee had been asking about getting some bangles, so Beverly took her shopping and used the opportunity to inquire further on the way to the mall. “He sleeps with you every night, is that right?”

“Uh huh,” the girl responded casually.

“And he doesn’t wear any clothes?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s very unusual, not wearing pajamas, don’t you think?”

“Daddy doesn’t wear pajamas to bed,” she said.

“How do you know that?” Beverly asked, barely masking the surprise.

“Hanjub told me.”

Beverly gritted her teeth trying to hold back the anger she felt toward her daughter for knowing something she shouldn’t know, without admitting how she knew it. She forced herself to stay composed, and continue. “Your bed is quite narrow. Isn’t it hard to get comfortable sleeping with such a large man?”

“No,” she replied, her tone implying some uncertainty.

“You must bump into each other a lot,” Beverly surmised.

“Um… once in a while.”

“Well, does he ever touch you… on purpose?”

The girl paused, then asked, “You mean to cuddle?”

“Well, I suppose so, yes,” Beverly asked. “Does he like to cuddle you?”

“Oh, yes. He cuddles me a lot. He smells good when I put my head on his chest.

“What does he smell like?”

“Kind of sweet,” she said.

“Must be all the chutney,” Beverly muttered, exasperated. “Why do you like him?”

“Because he makes me feel good,” CarolLee said.

“Feel good? How does he make you feel good?”

“Um… he tells me I’m fun to play with,” the girl said, “and that I”m a good friend.”

“What do you do to be a good friend?”

“Good friends have to keep each other’s secrets,” she said.

“Well, are we good friends?” Beverly asked. When her daughter responded with a curt, “No,” she asked, “Why not?”

CarolLee looked at her and said, “You haven’t told me your secret.”

Beverly wanted to scream. She alternated between thinking her daughter knew everything and was tormenting her, and thinking she had somehow stumbled upon a few stray facts and had no idea of the implications of her knowledge. Could CarolLee know about Beverly’s affair with Rusty, and if so, how? Beverly only called him on her cell phone in the bedroom with the door closed, and only when David was gone, and the kids were in their rooms upstairs.

His voice sent a chill through Beverly each time he answered her call. His was a strong, measured tone, but animated, as though he was delivering a sermon. It gave the impression that everything he said was a great truth. So when he told her he loved her, she believed with a religious conviction. And how could she not respond to such a great outpouring of love? How could she not talk with him, be with him, do everything that he asked of her.

There was great guilt, of course. She loved David, as much as any woman loved a man after seventeen years of marriage and two children, she supposed. But she had been seeing Rusty off and on for just as many years and he was the one who made her pussy drip like a carelessly closed faucet. She certainly didn’t want to hurt David, or leave him, or break up the family. She just wanted to– feel, something, anything. She wanted to know that she was still alive, and nothing made her feel more alive than when Rusty was demanding she do something depraved.

It was the turmoil of her not knowing what her daughter knew, of fearing if her daughter told what she knew the family would implode that drove her to call Rusty as soon as they returned home. The anxiety was too overwhelming to hold off, and their was only one relief. Beverly knew the relief would be followed by shame, but it was a glorious relief none the less.

Doctor Winklebaum accepted CarolLee’s descriptions of her interactions with the Indian as always positive. It was common for abuse victims to portray their abusers in a positive light due to the extensive grooming by the perpetrator. The sexual activities are presented as a natural part of their affection for the child, which can remain unchallenged for years. This is especially true if the child experiences orgasms during the abuse. The natural physiological response to sexual stimulation is twisted by the abuser until the victim believes they want the inappropriate contact, and they like the abuser. When they do discover how unnatural it is, the shame they experience is profound, and they may try to withdraw or consider telling someone. The abuser will then impress upon the child the importance of keeping the secret so as not to break up the family. Saundra learned that she herself had masked the experience of being abused well into adulthood because she did not want to destroy her family, no matter how dysfucntional.

The doctor decided to use the girl’s drawings as a means of uncovering the repressed abuse. As it was Hanjub who taught her to draw, and the one who suggested she concentrate on the human form, especially the hands, Dr. Winklebaum developed a strategy. She asked CarolLee to draw various parts of the human anatomy, which the girl did with considerable deft. When she asked her to draw a penis, CarolLee quickly sketched a flaccid penis and testicles, disconnected from a body as though suspended in the air. The drawing was artistic, rather than obscene, conveying none of the sexual tension the doctor suspected was lurking beneath the surface. She believed this was evidence the girl was still too afraid to reveal her actual experience.

Saundra complimented her on her excellent drawing of a penis, and said it looked very much like penises she had seen. Then she asked her if this was Hanjub’s penis and CarolLee acknowledged that it was, and stated she thought it was a very nice one, and the doctor agreed. Then she asked her young patient to try and imagine a different kind of penis, a penis with a different shape, perhaps, any kind of penis at all, and to draw that.

CarolLee thought for a moment, then used a pencil to quickly sketch an erect penis being grasped by a hand along the shaft, and another hand clutching a set of hairy testicles. The genitals were not disconnected, but attached to the mid section of a body. There was a dynamic quality to the image, as though the hand was moving quickly, and drops of liquid filled the air at the end of the penis. There was also what appeared to be a hairbrush nearby.

This was real progress as far as Dr. Winklebaum was concerned, and the first direct indication the girl had been abused. She simply could not have drawn the ejaculation scene in such detail if she had not been a participant. Interestingly, the girl did not attribute the penis to Hanjub, but said Hanjub described the scene to her. This was evidence to the doctor that the girl’s actual experience was so traumatizing that she could not admit to having seen it directly.

Saundra praised the life-like quality of drawing and how complete it was, and then she studied the hairbrush. As she stared at it, something about the shape and style of the brush evoked an image the doctor had not thought of for a long time. “What’s the hairbrush for?” Dr. Winklebaum asked.

“It’s to stick in your butt,” CarolLee said.

The doctor took a deep breath to steady herself. “Why would you stick a hairbrush in your butt?”

“’Cause it feels good, I guess,” the girl said.

Dr. Winklebaum felt her vision blur, and the room seemed to dim. An image from long ago sprang forth and she closed her eyes to block it out. The image was so upsetting she had to end the session early, making an excuse to the girl’s mother and she sent them away. As she locked the door and leaned back in her chair with her pants on the floor and both feet propped on the desk she thought about a particular recovered memory she had worked many years with several therapists to retrieve. Most doubted the validity of the memory, principally because it seemed more theatrical than practical, but she finally found a therapist with enough perseverance that she was able to assemble the truth of her participation in a Satanic cult at the age of twelve.

In the single event she remembered, she was being held aloft by many hands as though she was crowd surfing at a concert. She felt as light as a cloud as she floated above them and she enjoyed the sensation of so many hands touching and moving her around and around as they chanted slowly in sonorous tones.

Soon, the hands began to squeeze harder, the movements became jerky, and they pulled the scant clothes she was wearing from her body. She cried out for them to stop, but she was helpless in their grasp. They continued until she was naked and they lowered her to waist level where she could see seven naked men wearing vicious looking animal masks. The men groped and fingered her roughly as they chanted ominously.

Still suspended by their hands she watched as the seven pricks grew hard and pointed directly at her. She knew what they were going to do to her and she screamed and begged for them to stop, but her pleas were drowned out by the chanting now grown thunderous. They pulled her legs wide and she watched as the first massive prick came toward her. She shrieked as he ripped into her, then began a slow fucking while the others groped her and chanted, “Blood of the virgin and the devil’s seed, of the coming birth, mankind take heed.” Other pricks were pushed into her hands and mouth while they swung her body back and forth, on and off the invading prick to continue the fucking action.

The only smell was that of dick sweat, and the only sound was that of the chanting, and the only sight that of dimly lit animals with rapacious cocks. She was terrified at first and she hated what they were doing to her, but the driving friction of his prick in her now sloppy cunt felt so good that she became confused about what was happening to her.

The man kept thrusting into her in sync with the chants, and his mask was so disturbing, and his fucking of her felt so satisfying, and it was so frightening to be held so tightly by the men, yet so oddly comforting because she couldn’t get away from the fucking that felt so good. After a few minutes of driving into her they all began chanting loudly, “Cum, cum, cum,” until she could feel him splashing inside her, and she shuddered with her own ecstasy and screamed her pleasure as he filled her with his satanic seed.

The chanting softened again, and the seven rotated one position counter-clockwise around her body, and she watched as the next big prick entered her. She sucked ravenously as another cock entered her mouth. The one in her cunt thrust in sync with the deep voices of the seven, and she climaxed again to the crescendo of chants as he filled her with his seed. Seven times she was fucked, and seven times filled with their disgusting spunk, and seven times she came. When the last had filled her they dipped her head down and pushed her feet in the air to keep the seed in, they said. She watched as they inserted a large cross with a crucified Jesus into her ass as they chanted and paraded her around the room.

As always when the memory was triggered the doctor attempted to replicate the experience in it’s entirety. She visualized the angry animal masks, chanted “Cum, cum, cum,” under her breath, and stabbed at her cunt with various objects from her purse and her desk as though they were the blood red pricks of the Satanists. After the seventh penetration she slid off the chair to the floor keeping her feet in the air, shoved the handle of her hairbrush in her ass, and screamed her orgasm out into silent office like a hosanna for the devil.

After, she pulled herself together and had a long cry. The joy of her release was always followed by the shame of her enjoyment of her abuse. Intellectually, she knew that victims of ritual sexual abuse masturbate ritually, and she tried to not judge herself too harshly. She contemplated her life-long malaise a while longer and kept reminding herself that there is no end to the healing journey.

It was at this point Saundra decided CarolLee would be the subject of her paper at the next International Symposium on Therapeutic Interventions With Sexually Abused Children. She would explain that the child had been so traumatized by sexual abuse that she had removed the experience from reality, and created instead, an imaginary perpetrator, one she could name and describe without fear of reprisal from the real perpetrator. The fact that the abuser embodied a number of admirable qualities was merely an attempt to manage her extreme fear of the perpetrator, and rationalize her continued, albeit forced, participation.

The doctor knew to suspect family members first, it was almost always someone close to the child, and she had a suspicion about who was behind the Hanjub mask. She prided herself on her professional objectivity, however, and resolved to assemble the clues presented by her young patient with an open mind until the true identity of the perpetrator was revealed. It was just a matter of time before the girl trusted her enough that her repressed memories of abuse would surface, and the two of them would begin putting the broken pieces of her psyche back together.

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