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Who? (Part 2)

“Again,” your dad said.


“God bless us, everyone!”


Your mom smiled down at the Ipad screen.


“Where’d you learn that?”


You looked at your dad beyond his phone.


“Where’d you learn that line?” he asked again.


You shrugged.


Your mom giggled down at you.


“Whose birthday is it today?”


You stared.




“God’s?” you said.


“God’s,” he repeated. “That’s right, champ.”


Your mom’s head gave way beneath the strength of her arm. Her chest was warm, swelling as if to make way for even more warmth.


“Mommy’s sad without us. What do we say to mommy to cheer her up?”


You shuffled in place.


Your dad whispered to you over the top of his phone: “We need you back home, mommy. We need an angel for our tree.”


Your mom giggled.


“We need…” you faltered, shifting in place.


“We need you back home, mommy,” your dad repeated.


You followed along, matching him word for word.


“We need an angel for our tree.”


“We need an angel for our…”






Your mom watched, her eyes watering, looking down at you. Your cuteness infinite, its purity untarnished, not by anything, no matter how horrible. Your father, the man she created you with, loving before you, guiding you toward something amazing, still able to, without interruption. She felt her bottom lip quiver, terrified. She shifted in her seat, her cheek twitch, the sensation of wetness rising to her eyes.


And then she felt it. A black shadow, looming over her shoulder.


And the smell which came with it. The smell of cinammon.


“Is that your ipad?”


Your mom looked up to see him smiling there.


“No,” she shot out, her palms rushing toward it, covering it, as if to save her own skin.


But at realizing that she wasn’t doing anything wrong, not anything that anyone would care about, and that Brad knew this, she began to feel annoyed, both with Brad and with herself.


“What are you doing here anyway?”


“You hear that sweety? Either as an angel for the tree, or a gift underneath it. We need you back. Right, champ?”


Your mom shut off the ipad.


“He’s cute,” Brad said.


“Makes me almost wish I had kids of my own.”


“Does it?” your mom said dryly.


“Almost…” he said.


She adjusted herself in her seat. “What are you doing here?” She looked up at him, annoyed.


He smiled down at her. “I could be asking you the same question.”


“I had a family emergency to worry about.”


“Oh,” he said, looking at the bare space on the table where the ipad screen used to be. “I guess cuteness is an emergency now.”


“It is,” she said briskly.


He nodded his head for a moment. “I guess that’s my excuse for being here.”


“Conceited much?”


The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. “I was talking about you.”


She looked up at him.


He stared down at her, his smile firm.


She looked down, brushing her hair, then she put her hands on the table, pushing herself to get up.


She avoided eye contact, hoping to pass him without it, almost there when he spoke again: “Carol wants to come home with me.”


She stopped.


“And I want her to.”


Your mom stood in place, looking down past his hip at the carpet behind him. “Why don’t you…?”


He spoke, more softly now: “I figured that I could stop myself if I had an excuse. But… it would have to be a good one.”


Your mom stared at the carpet.


“I figured even just standing here, talking to you one-on-one, is more than good enough.” He took in breath. “For me at least it is.”


She looked up at him.


“So…” he said. “Do I have an excuse? Can we talk?”


She stood there for a moment.


He tilted his head toward her.


Slowly, she nodded her own. “Sure,” she said. “We can talk.”


He smiled. It was a warm smile. “Okay…” he said, going for his phone. “Just give me a second to break the poor girl’s heart.”


Your mom stood there, unsure of what to say, looking down at the carpet, the hairs on her arms tingling.


Behind Brad, as his thumbs tapped the face of his phone, the open door stood, with sounds from the party outside, the world even beyond that.


“And….” Brad said, hitting his last key. “…. Done!”


Your mom looked back down at the carpet.


He put his phone into his back pocket.


There was a silence between them, with your mom gazing at the floor and him gazing down at her. “So,” he said, softly, surprisingly vulnerable, his hands on his hips. “What should we talk about?”


She didn’t answer, but she looked up at him, her gaze spurring him on.


“I guess I could talk about myself. I know how much you love that…” he said.


“No,” she said, simply, smiling.


“Okay then. Why don’t we talk about you?”


She suddenly felt a nervousness, sharp, intense, as if the ground had just fallen out from beneath her. “Me?” she said. “What is there to talk about? I have no secrets, I’m an open book.”



“Okay then. So should I ask the questions?”


“Sure,” your mom said, as if passing off a hot potato. “You start.”


“Okay…” he said, drawing in breath with anticipation. “Let’s start with something easy. Ummm. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”


“It’s embarrassing to say. But… it’s bubblegum. It’s bubblegum.”


“Why is that embarrassing?”


“Because I’m not six years old anymore.”


“But you were once.”


“You were in diapers once. You still wear those?”


He tilted his head back smiling. “Huh...” he said thinking, his fang against his lower lip. “How about this? You were smarter than a lot of the other girls in your class, weren’t you?”


Your mom looked away. “No,” she said. “I don’t think…”


“Okay, so you definitely were then.” He turned and looked at the door, hearing the music waft in from outside. Then swinging back: “what’s your favorite christmas song?”


“It’s… uh… what’s that one from Meet Me in St. Louis?”


“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”


“You’ve seen it? Yes, that’s my favorite.”


“Everyone’s seen it,” he said. “We watched it in like third grade. But… I guess you liked it more than most… That’s funny…”


“What is?”


“Remember the Trolley Song?”


“Everybody does.”


“You remind me of it.”


Your mom narrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”


“I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “Something about your manner. Maybe…” he nodded, smiling to himself. “Maybe it’s the way you look at me sometimes. Remember at the end, where she looks away. She’s shy because the guy she was just singing about gets on the trolley. And then, because she’s shy, she gets annoyed.”


Your mom’s eyes went wide, she shifted her head. “Jesus, it never stops with you, does it?”


“Aren’t you afraid?”


“Afraid of what?” she said.


“That if you take his name in vain like that, he’s going to strike you down with lightning?”


“Who? Jesus? No.”


“So you don’t believe then?”


“He doesn’t strike people down with lightning, first of all.”


His head was tilted back as he looked at her, quizically, his eyes narrowed. “But that’s not your only reason for not caring, is it?”


She stared at him.


“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to ask you something, I want you to answer it straight, no metaphors or innuendos.”


“Shoot,” she said, dryly.


“Is God real?”


She was silent.


He lifted his shoulders, expectantly.


“Well, I obviously don’t know,” she said.


“But what do you think?”


“I don’t know.”


“But what do you think,” he reiterated, his emphasis leaning down hard on think.


“I think God is a metaphor,” she said after a second of silence.


He didn’t say anything, only standing there, his head still tilted backwards. A smile began forming.


“Why would that make you happy?” she asked, disturbed by his smile.


“It’s just… I didn’t expect such a nuanced take.”


“Thinks I’m smart but he didn’t expect nuance…”


“Like I’ve said before. You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”


She looked up at him, her cheeks flush, her eyes dissapproving.


“So, what gods do you believe in?” he asked.


“I don’t believe in any,” she said. “They’re all metaphors.”


“Okay then,” he grabbed her by her arm.


She froze.



“What metaphors do you believe in? Show me?”


“Show you…?” she asked sheepishly, the wind being sucked from her sails all at once.


“Yeah,” he said, staring into her eyes confidently. “Show me.”


“How do I…”


“That was your family on the Ipad? Wasn’t it?”


“I mean, stupid question,” he continued. “Your son had your eyes. It’s just.. let’s say.. in the metaphor of Jesus Christ… you tell me that’s what he is… in that worldview, a husband is supposed to be faithful to his wife. Right?”


She stared at him, wordless for a moment. Then she nodded her head. “Right.”


“And a wife? She’s supposed to be faithful to her husband.”


“Right,” she said, her cheeks turning red.


“So if it’s all a metaphor, and we both agree that it is, are there any other metaphors – any other gods – which, let’s say, lead to more exciting conclusions?”


She didn’t speak.


“You have to at least admit that that’s possible in theory. Right?”


“I admit it,” she said, not wanting to.


“And if you saw things through that worldview, that metaphor, your point of view regarding something like… cheating… would be a little bit different, wouldn’t it?”


“Of course,” she said, her voice jittery, barely noticable, only at its edges.


“Okay then. So since we live in a world without gods, or at least without gods as something real, something tangible, we only exist with them as metaphors,” He continued even through her affirmation. “So what we allow for ourselves is ultimately our choice. It’s a reflection of what we choose to believe in.”


“I suppose so,” she said, with exaggerated, mocking cheer.



“Okay then. So, I ask again. What gods do you believe in?”


She felt him against her body. “I don’t know,” she said, softly.


“Don’t tell me,” he whispered, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. “Show me.”


“You’re really slick,” she said, pulling away slightly.


“And handsome too,” he added.


“Exactly the kind of guy I successfully avoided in high school. And not the first one.”


“By marrying your husband. I know. I understand.” There was a silence. She felt his breath crawling up her shoulder. “And you regret it a little bit.”


She pulled away from him suddenly, her brows furrowed.


“No, no,” he said. “Not your husband. Definitely not your son. You don’t regret them. You regret guys like me. You regret letting the guys-like-me phase pass you by. Back when you had an excuse for it, I mean.”


Your mom stood there, biting the skin of her finger. “You’re an idiot,” she said through her gritting front teeth.


He continued as if she had said nothing: “You were proud at the time. Proud you got through us. Proud you did the responsible thing. Got married to someone who loves you. A good guy. Had a kid early. Got back into the job market early. Now that you have everything you wanted, you feel the walls closing in. Especially since… and we’ve all noticed, but… something has changed in your life. Something fundamental. You smile wider. You walk different. You’ve had an experience recently. I don’t know what it is, and I’m not going to ask. But I’m sure it was personal to you. But it did someth-”


“Assuming what you say is correct,” she interrupted, rushing to do so.



“What makes you think out of all the types I’ve never slept with, you’re the type I regret?”


“I already know,” he whispered. “You’ve shown me.”


Your mom caught herself, rising within the moment, struggling to tug herself down as if catching the string to her own balloon. “This is ridiculous.”



“If it’s ridiculous, then stop me.”



“Because lord knows, I’m not stopping myself.”


Your mom looked away, feeling his breath against her ear. She stared at the office door, it still hanging open, the world outside, existing beyond this cramped moment, still existing for her to escape to, not just into the rest of the party, but into the world wrapped around that.


“I’m not going to be vulgar,” he continued in a deliberate whisper. “But there’s a part of me right now that’s reacting to having you so close to me. It’s reacting in a very dramatic way. And you know that it is. And right now you’re thinking about it. You’re thinking about what it looks like when I think about you. Size… shape… color…” His voice got lower with every word, until it was just a clicking whisper.


“You’re talking about your penis,” she said, trying to cut his little game short. “And you can show it if you’re so dead-set on it.”



“But I’m not touching anybody’s except my husband’s.”



“Oh,” he said. “I guess admiring mine is something a fine, upstanding Christian would do. It’s not adultery in that case.”


“It wouldn’t be the first one I’ve been subjected to. When was the last one…”


“…halloween,” she suddenly remembered. Her brows narrowed. “It belonged to a teenage boy. He flashed it, of course. Without me asking for it.”


“Oh,” he said, his voice low and husky. “And what did you do? Scream?”


“No,” she said, her gaze distant, a small smile in her mouth. “I shamed him and he ran away.”


“Ah,” he said, nodding, his forehead brushing against her strands of hair. “Are you going to shame me?”


“I don’t think you feel shame.”



“I’m going to start taking off you clothes,” he said, ignoring her. “…piece by piece. Will you stop me from doing that?”


“Stop yourself,” she whispered back. “You’re an adult.”


“But you know I’m not going to.”


“I know that you should.”


“Is-ought,” he whispered.


She was silent. She understood.


He leaned forward.


She didn’t pull away.



After their lips parted, he spoke: “Your gods,” he said. “Show me them.”



“Why show, when I can tell?” she said.



“Then tell me.”



“Well,” she said, her voice hoarse with nerves, watching his finger undo her blouse right before her very eyes and above the hands she could have used to stop him. “There’s the God of Light, you have to have that so we can see. Otherwise we’d be…” his fingers ran past her bra. “…blind.”


“What else?” billowed from between his lips like winds whistling through a cave.


“Another god?”


“Another god.”



“There’s the god of Wind, and Storms, and the Weather.”


“Three gods or one?”


“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “They’re metaphors.”


She felt his head nodding behind her. “They are.” His breath creeped through her hair like a promise.



“And what else?”


She looked around, seeing the pens, the papers, the staplers, the mail cart rolled off into the corner. “The god of… Labor.”


He nodded again, tickling her shoulder with his chin.


“…so that we can… work to… bring good into the world.”


She felt herself being pulled downward, and though she knew it was only a foot or so, she felt as if she had been falling for nine days, and that to scale back upward would be an impossiblity, the office light up above growing in immense distances. Then she felt herself land, and she felt something hard and stiff pressing up against her from below.


She gazed up, marvelling in great excitement and fear.


And then she felt the fingers of his right hand.



It was as if she didn’t believe he’d do it until he did.


“You know which god I believe in?” His voice was barely a whisper.


“Which?” Her voice was lower than that.


He lowered his head toward her chest.


She felt his lips, not as physical objects, but as electricity, running against her, tickling the entirety of her being through contact with only one inch of her. Her most sensitive inch.



He pulled his mouth away, looking back up into the side of her beauty, face to face with its fundamental matter. “I believe in the god of Pleasure.”


Her breathing stopped.


“All else is idol worship.”



When she felt his hands against her skirt, she, like he predicted, did nothing to stop it, not wanting to. She stood before the moment like someone standing before an approaching wave, ready to feel its cool embrace, its weightlessness, and its danger.


She longed to be watched beneath his eye. To be absorbed by it, recorded by it, without anywhere to run, not even in the security of the past. Not even sheltered by fidelity, or decency, or motherhood.



Not even behind the shelter of a closed office doorway.



His body, his face, radiated with a new but familiar energy. One which looked upon her now, devoid of need, but electric with want. Electric with its own pleasure, its own security with objectification.


She fell to that face and body, doing so with the security that it asked little of her. That it demanded no obligations, and offered none in return, not even the obligation of decency.



And as their lips met, and she fell entirely within his control without pause, she knew that she was folding into the whirlwind of office gossip and storytelling. She knew she would be objectified and scandalized within it, and that there was no going back from this, yet she couldn’t stop herself. All because she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. And she knew he was going all the way. He had intended to. He always had intended to.


She knew her body was thin, less exciting than Carol’s, whose shape itself drew eyes from a distance, but all comparison with others faded, washed away in the knowledge that men had a diversity of tastes, and that it was the man who had tasted all types who regretted the least what was missing in one.



And it shamed her to know it, but she couldn’t help but be aware, this felt so much better. He wasn’t any more handsome than your dad. In some ways, he was more flawed, a lot older with his signs of age apparent. Yet your dad had never made her feel like this. Love dulled some vital component, one she was just discovering now. Something purer than love, some sweet cherry of life that women wandered to shamelessly through unsure wilderness, until finding it, reaching for it, and satiating their hunger and thirst all at once with it.



Nudity felt so good to her.


She stood there, her body baring itself.


And she felt a vital addition, a notch on her tree of life being carved.


Woman, Blonde, Christian, Attractive Person, Wife, Mother, Rape Victim, and now… now when she had the most room to avoid it, Adulteress.



As she felt those hands against her cheeks, she stared at the wall, and in its plain surface, she saw your father’s face, with yours next to it smiling. And instead of running from that thought, she stared into it, feeling its warmth.


She knew that she was doing nothing to disgrace it, only adding to it, knowing that this would never be understood, but that it was true.


“Oh, this fucking ass.”



“You like it?” she asked, shyly.


“I love it. I fucking love it.”


She dropped down to her knees, depriving his palms and fingers from the flesh they desired so. She looked up into his eyes. “You’ve just been promoted,” she said, reaching for his tie, unfastening it. “You’re my boss now.”


She put his tie halfheartedly around her own neck. “Tell me what to do,” she said. “Command me.”


He said nothing, only staring into her eyes. Then he let one thigh move to the side. Then the other in the opposite direction. She took the hint.



“It feels big,” she said.


“You ready to see it?”


She nodded.


“What if I don’t let you?”


She shook her head, her eyes still confident and firm.


She lowered her chin.



She was thrilled to see the little bit of it which peeked out, and she licked at it as if that was the full size of it. She wanted to imagine it as something tiny, something which was growing into full form before her eyes. Something she had to fashion into shape with her own attention and care.


She had never felt more eager to put anything into her mouth before. She remembered being a little girl, sitting on a mountain of Christmas treats from family friends and relatives, excited to feel their tastes while leaning, as she was now, at the living room coffee table.


This tasted so much sweeter.



This cock, in all its uniqueness and novelty, strangely made the thought of your father’s cock more appetizing to her. When she looked up, seeing the pleasure in Brad’s face, she felt a thrill at thinking of your dad’s pleasure, as if some reset switch, one known to a mankind of the past, had been triggered within her.


“Cocksucker,” he said softly, warmly.



She smiled, silently adding that one to her list of growing titles.



“How many cocks have you sucked?”


She looked up at him, still massaging his penis head with her tongue. She didn’t know the answer, nor would she ever know. The real answer was five, with Brad’s being the sixth. But she imagined, and tried to believe, that he was only the second.


“You’re a good girl,” he said, and he leaned down.



Two more titles came to her awareness. Good Girl. Slut.


As if reading her mind, Brad stood up.


She felt his hands grip the top of her head. He pushed his cock, now swinging, forward.



The loss of control, even with all the pleasure that came with it, brought fear to your mother.


He seemed to notice, as he pulled out of her mouth and leaned down toward her quivering lips.


He wanted to let her know that even though she was just another conquest, a fun way to spend the night, that there was no hard feelings or disrespect intended.



Your mom felt electric at the sensitivity of her nipples being ravaged by his lips and tongue. She knew that this was what you must have felt like when she blew raspberries into your belly button.



And maybe that was what made this all so exciting. Deep down she still felt like a child, with her husband, who was also still a child, both raising a child, and as she clung to Brad, to his dominance, and his experience, she clung to the mast of maturity. Of knowledge. Of security.


She thought of you now, surprised that she could, surprised she didn’t feel naked against shame as she did. And she thought of you seeing this. And she enjoyed that thought. It was strange, because she had felt the opposite at what you had witnessed when you hid in that closet on Halloween night. But, for some reason she couldn’t understand, she wanted you here to witness this. To witness Brad’s nudity and husky whispers, to enjoy them as much as she enjoyed them.


When she imagined you there, standing in the corner of the room, your face blank, watching. She noticed something. It was the way you were dressed. On your head you wore antlers. But below that…


She felt Brad’s arms grab her, thrusting her through space.



She laughed at the sensation, the sudden motion, but it wasn’t until she felt that wet sensation against her butthole, that most private of places, that the gravity of the act began to sink in.



He snarled like a dog enjoying scraps, reserving them for himself with his intensity, scaring the other dogs away. And her brows furrowed with the realization that she loved it. Your dad had never done anything of the kind for her, or even for himself, and she realized, in this way, in only this way, she was being uniquely claimed.



He’s doing good things to mommy, she thought, as if answering one of your questions.  


Does daddy do-




She shook her head, as if genuinely speaking.


She felt a tooth scrape her, tugging her from the daydream.



“Sorry,” he said. “I just want to eat you up.”


He grabbed her, in contradiction to his apology, and he flipped her over onto her back.


He then thrust down, his tongue jutting out. She, startled, pushed her palms toward the top of his head, trying to keep him away.


“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Don’t be an enemy to your own pleasure. Let me handle it.”


Her palms slowly gave.



She imagined you standing on the other side of the room, against the wall.




He’s making mommy feel real good, sweety.


You shuffled in place.


Just watch, she thought. Be here with mommy.



He lifted his face, it now hovering over her, looking down at her with perfect omniscience, his smile wide in security that he had her now.


He took a few slight steps toward her, letting his cock get closer to her unguarded pussy. She looked down, watching with anticipation.


It met the mouth of her pussy. He pushed it in.



Watch mommy, she told you. Watch mommy become more than daddy let me be.


You did as you were told, wordless, fascinated. Loving Brad’s penis as much as she did. Loving his perfect ass as much as she did. Loving his chest, his arms, his smile, his hair, and voice exactly as much as she did.


Mommy’s lucky, she said. And you’re lucky that you get to watch.



She knew that there was some hidden inch deep within her that may have been reached on that cool October day, but she pretended to believe Brad had gotten the deepest. It was likely to be true anyway, but she fooled herself into being secure of it.



She wasn’t just wetter than she had ever been, but her body was more comfortable in its nudity than ever, sitting there, in harsh office light, near the end of the day, but with all the openness which could have belonged to a weekday afternoon.



Her mouth still burned from Brad’s concoction. She felt as if she had swallowed brimstone.


You stood in the corner, holding a red solo cup.


Drink from it, sweety, she thought. Uncle Brad made it for you. Drink.


You did what you were told, trusting her more than anyone.



She needed you to trust Brad. Needed you to trust him with all your heart. She saw the way you walked, the way you talked, and the toys you looked at a second too long, even as your dad got you the G.I. Joe off the shelf. It was probably nothing, the impression she had of you, but she wanted it to be true. She wanted it to be truth so that one day, you could understand like she understood, just how delicious Brad was. She wanted you, the second you reached eighteen, to be taken by Brad too. She wanted Brad to have pictures of her naked mother. She wanted Brad to steal all her dad’s heirlooms and memorabilia. She wanted Brad to fuck all her friends. To fuck every woman in the world, including those who didn’t want it.



She wanted Brad’s bare foot placed directly against your father’s face, pinning it to the ground. She wanted your father defeated and afraid. She wanted you standing next to Brad, looking down at your dad, his heavy breathing and wide eyes, then up at Brad, his mouth still, his expression calm.


“Fuck my mom,” she said.


He didn’t seem to hear her. Either that, or he didn’t believe what he heard. His thrusting continued, even after she said it again. “What?”


“I want you to fuck my mom. Fuck my grandma too.”


He chuckled to himself, not breaking his rhythm.



He wasn’t entirely surprised by her outburst, both because of his previous successes driving women wild, and because of your mom’s uniqueness, her eccentricity, her natural poetry, which had to find an outlet through novelty.


Your mom was just a sex toy to him. But what a sex toy. He saw her as a joke, a safe to be unlocked, like all women were, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect her. Her respected all souls he could corrupt, that he could pull toward his morning sun to watch them bloom into strange, exotic beauties, the kind society denied.



“Rape my mom,” she said. “Beat her and fuck her.”


“Yeah, what else?” he grunted.


“My dad. Kill my dad. Kill my… huh… kill my husband.”



“How about your son?” he asked, staring her in her eyes with as much steadiness as he could afford with the rest of his body in motion.


When she opened her mouth, he expected one thing to come out, with the slight chance that it would be something else, but when the words came out, he was almost speechless. “Fuck him in his ass.”


She had outdone herself.



“Yeah?” he said, blocking the thought from his mind, not being able to stomach the visual. “You want me to rape him?”


“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, yes. Rape him. Suck his cock. Make him suck yours.”


He looked in her eyes, smiling with his own, though disturbed by what was just said, fearing a line was being crossed, not liking the thoughts, but enjoying, beyond all expectation, seeing what she was being turned into.


By most measures, especially those of her Christian god, she had proven herself a monster. But by the morality which existed here, festering in this room, she was a saint. He needed to reward her.



Your dad had never eaten your mom out, not even once. The eagerness at which Brad did it not only titillated her, flattering her, but it made her feel wanted.


She imagined the sight of your father, tugging her against the bed, toward his throbbing cock, expecting her to give the world for it. And then the closet door rocketed open. You stood there, your hands formed into claws, as if there to eat away the awkwardness of the moment.


You stood now, on the other end of that room, watching her being serviced, your hands up in the air, both of them formed into claws.



“You’re so easy to move,” he said.


“That’s my selling point.”


“You’re so convenient.” He leaned in for a kiss. “Lightweight… compact…”



She imagined you there, through the bare notches between her eyelids, standing at the end of that table, next to Brad, unsure of what to do, the soles of her feet occasionally pressing against your face. Grabbing onto your face for leverage with them, her toes tapping against your jaw and ear.



She imagined herself, eyes-shut, as if her ass was much larger. Her hair was dark. She was a lot younger, enjoying Brad inside her. She wore cat ears on her head, whiskers painted on. Her body shifting against alley pavement with each thrust.


“Yes,” she said. “Rape me.”



“Rape you?” he asked warmly.


“Yes, no mercy. No mercy. Rape me like the stupid big butt whore I am.”



“Are you my little victim?”


“Yes. Yes. Yes,” she said. “I’m your little whore victim. Rape me. I’m asking for it.”



“Rape you in front of your family?” he asked, almost slowly, with a smile.


“Yes,” she said, almost insisting it. “In front of my family. Both sides. Even my in-laws. Tie me up. Rape me in front of my son. Threaten to kill me. Kill my husband in front of him. Fuck me while you do it. Make my daddy watch.”


“I’ll stomp your husband’s fucking head in.”



Your mom felt a heavenly warmth come over her.


It ran through her mercilessly, like paradise was a sensation, every inch of her its bed.


As she stewed in it, feeling her whole body reeling, glandlike, she felt it begin to get overwhelming.



The warmth began to burn, slowly feeling like fire. Her toes licked by flames. Her skin unbearable.



She shrieked.


“Shhh,” he said. “They’re going to come in and see you like this.”


She imagined them, not just her co-workers, but her friends and family, standing there, staring at her, all robed in white, their eyes disapproving, their mouths solemn.



“What about Jesus?” he said.


She heard it, a faint noise over her own moans.


“Do I kill him? Or…”


She couldn’t speak.


“…do I….”



She tried to crawl away, feeling the need to find safety. From what, she didn’t know, but the sensation was overwhelming now.


She then felt a hand clutch the back of her neck, pressing her face down toward the desk.


She lay there, not moving, hearing nothing but silence. Even the sound of Christmas music gone.


Then she felt it, running against the crack of her ass.



She felt herself working with it, needing to, by running against it. Its sensation not only soothed her, but thrilled her. And she needed that thrill to crowd out her mounting terror.


And that’s when she felt those arms again, clutching her at her elbows. She was thrust upward with just one pull as if she were cloth, affixed to his body as if it were wood.



She looked up into the air, seeing the light above as if it were the hot desert sun, feeling her body suspended against an object of still and deliberate torture. All while a crowd stood before her, jeering, mocking.


Abandoned… she thought. Why? Why have you…


Her eyes shot open. Father…



“When I said I chose you,” he said. “What did you think I meant?”


She didn’t speak, only taking the bliss of the desk, it being the only thing supported her other than his deliberate hands and his thrusting cock.


“Remember I promised you the world and everything in it?”


She couldn’t speak, she breathed heavily, leaning toward the desk, wanting it to be the ground beneath her, not enjoying the immeasurable height she had been thrust to.


“I don’t blame you for forgetting,” he said. “It was a long time ago.” He smiled. “A long, long time ago.”


She felt her knee find the desk.


“Has your answer changed?”


Her feet found the ground. She was filled with relief, so much of it that it came through as ecstasy.


His lips moved toward hers, and before they could meet, he asked: “Who do you worship?”



She didn’t speak, instead speaking with her body, the way he had asked her to, finally giving him his answer.


It was always you, she thought.



“I’m so happy you’re back,” he said into her ass. She felt his words, thankful, longing, vibrating between her cheeks.


He thrust out his tongue, its whole length, inside her.


It reached her every wanting inch, the way it did with its lies and its promises and its purpose. Its snaky mischievousness, the kind which could convince a woman to pluck that fruit from that tree on that fateful day.


“When you told me to kill your dad, you weren’t kidding.”


She looked down at his face, which loomed up at her over the modest hill of her ass. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Not his nose. Not his cheeks. Not his handsome red eyes.


He noticed.


“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he said.


She laughed, remembering now, shocked at herself, at how she had given in. She had had so much resolve once. She needed to. The fate of everyone relied on it.


He removed his tongue from her body, and the gently moved her aside. He turned and he hopped his bare ass onto the desk. Then he leaned back, his cock swaying as he stared at her, grinning.


“So,” he said. “What’s your next move?” His cocked throbbed, waving about, nearly doing figure eights before her. “If all the kingdoms of the world weren’t your bag, how do you feel about trading it all for one… big… fat… cock.” His cock throbbed with every pausing word.


She stared down at it, not even able to put on a façade.


“Choose wisely,” he said, still smiling. “Birthday girl.”


Her face shot forward.



“Ohhh,” he groaned. “Suck me. Suck me!”


As she did, she did so knowing that she was adding another notch to her list of titles, though this one wasn’t new. It belonged to her long before she was ever a Woman, Attractive, a Wife, a Mother, a Rape Victim, or even a Human Being.


“Messiah,” she said, itself muffled with his cock.


“No,” he said, reading her mind. “You’re more than that. You’re-“


“God!” Bailey said.


“Shhhh!” Joel said, holding up his phone as he pushed her aside. “Be quiet!”


Your mom didn’t care. Not that she was seen by Bailey, or that she was being filmed by Joel, and likely had been for a while. She didn’t care that the whole office outside was standing there, all of them silent, sitting with the awareness of what was happening within that office at the end of the hall.



Your mom sucked away, knowing, and enjoying that they didn’t know, that she was dooming them with the every bob of her head. His cock itself tasting like smoke.


She had always been fascinated by the phrase “the Devil’s Candy,” but she had no idea why, not until now, standing there, taking the Devil’s Candy itself within her mouth, not realizing how blind she had been earlier, to not question just why, or how, it had tasted so good up until now. Like… cinnamon..


“That’s how I get them,” he said, again reading her mind. “They were all just practice for you. Why take individual souls when I can take the whole lot with just one fell swoop? Right, Jesu-” He stopped, looking away, even as she continued sucking. “What do you go by now? Jessie? Jean?”


His cock plocked out of her mouth. “How about Just a Whore,” she said.


She leaned in, searching the eternity between them for his kiss, disgracing her father as she did so, wanting to.



“Your dad is going to be so mad,” he said.


“Don’t you know,” she responded, softly, sultry.  She lifted her leg over him. “I am my dad.”



“You know,” he said, feeling her body run up and down every inch of his shaft. “I like you a lot more in this body.”



She felt every inch of him crawling through her. “I like me a lot more in this body too.”

“Conceited much?” he said and he began laughing.



There was nothing left of her except for pleasure. That was the way it ended this time. Not with the excruciating whip, sun, or thorn like last time. She sat there, gyrating over a cock, the electric light above buzzing while her coworkers watched on, sheepishly, barely getting a glimpse, instead of proud and arrogant. All of it, on the other side of the world, with snow outside and cars driving by between banks of snow, playing music to celebrate her. They were always playing music to celebrate her. Her entire life. How did she not notice?



“Forgive me son,” she said. “For I know not what I do.”



After they were finished, their bodies, as if they were meant for each other, separated, and your mom was lowered, by his sure hands, to her knees.


He tugged himself above her, his face in the darkness, the fringes of his head illuminated by a halo from the office light above him.


“Aughh,” he said, feeling it coming on.


She waited patiently.


“Auugghhll,” he growled, its depth fierce, unbroken, as if echoing from some ancient prison, deep down in some pit, one whose hollow corridors were about to become a lot more crowded.



He gushed all over her, its every drop tasting like cinnamon, sweeter than manna, sweeter than wine.


Joel stood there, frozen in ecstasy, filming, until his nose scrunched up. He thought it would pass. But again he smelled it. It was that overpowering sweet taste. He lifted his shirt to his nose, keeping his phone up, chronicling even through the sickness. Somebody had to.



She looked up at him, her morning star, taking his last few drops. And when she was finished, seeing in his contentment that he was dry and empty, finally, she pulled her head back. She looked up at him, the only one who could get the joke. “It is finished,” she said, and then she dropped down to her back, a smile on her face.


He looked down at her, smiling with her, as her arms fell over her stomach. She laughed, and, unable to stop, kept laughing.


He only stood there, grinning at her. After a while, her laughter finally dying down, she looked up at him, childlike. “When does it….”


“Three days,” he said.


“Oh…” she looked up at the light. “I guess that would make sense.”


“They both began laughing.”



Joel stood there, a smile on his face initially, but it began to fade. The phone though still stood there, filming the moment he contributed to, the one he couldn’t understand the weight of. The one that determined it all. He had been told by bigoted family members, in moments of great intensity, that he was a sinner. If they only knew that his sexuality was the least of his sins, if it were a sin at all. They were about to understand the full weight of his actions… in three days…




You woke up, in the middle of the night, to the overpowering scent of cinnamon.


You heard it, shuffling at your doorway, tugging tightly against your sheets, fearing it would be some beast, primordial, shapeless. Your bedsprings squeaked behind you, the mattress giving to some foreign weight, your body jerking with it. You held your breath.


Suddenly, a hand fell against your shoulder.


It was a woman’s hand.


She breathed against your ear.


You turned your head.


“Go to sleep, sweety,” your mom said, snuggling in close.


She pressed her chin against you, her eyes shut. She breathed and then exhaled, it smelling, and tasting, like sweet fire.


You felt your body being pulled close against hers.


“I love you,” she said.


Beyond the smell of sweet fire, you smelled something else, something familiar. Something you had only smelled, and smelled on her, on that Halloween night. It made you happy to smell it. It made you happy to see her smelling like it and also happy.


She kissed you on the back of the ear, your body getting warm against hers. “Three more days,” she said, and the warmth only grew.


Three more days until Christmas, you thought. You heard your dad snoring in his bedroom peacefully. Three more days.


And with that, your mom’s body against your own, you shut your eyes, feeling safe again, even with the darkness which surrounded you on all sides, and the snow which fell continuously, never letting up, outside your window.


Your mom pulled you tighter.

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Jonny Man
Jonny Man
Jan 07

"His mum pulled him tighter". I presume he must have fucked her.

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I personally didn't mean that specifically. I meant just that she pulled him tighter against herself. I wanted it to feel a bit ominous and open to interpretation. So if you see it that way, that's fine by me.


superlative writing as always. And amazingly.. the victim remained conscious throughout. But you nevertheless managed to sidestep the victim's experience. Despite remaining conscious, the experience itself was both reduced (in terms of realism) and elevated