by Alex Grayson
Once I’m finished with the cloth napkin, I look around, not sure what to do with it. Tegan grabs it from me and stuffs it into his pocket, along with the one carrying the condom. I snicker at him, because I’m sure cleaning cum-filled napkins isn’t in the waiter’s job description.
“Oh, God,” I groan, and drop my forehead on his bicep. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
Tegan laughs lightly and throws his arm back around the top of the booth. “If you don’t believe it, then I didn’t do a good enough job. Maybe you should climb back on my lap and we’ll try again. I guarantee you’ll believe it this time.”
I poke him in the rib with a finger and bite his arm, then look up at him.
“Do you think anyone noticed?” I’ve avoided looking around the room, just in case someone did see and they’re still looking. I would be mortified.
“I know someone noticed.” He takes my chin and turns my head around. My eyes land on a man and woman several tables over. The man’s staring at us, his lips quirked up, while the woman’s face is bright red, her eyes sliding our way, then moving away. It’s nice to see I’m not the only one embarrassed.
The waiter comes by with our food and we both devour it. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re starving from our exertions or because we both want to hurry and get home where we can go again. We don’t talk much, because our mouths are full, but I do manage to ask him about his friends. I was shocked to find out that he, Nathan, and their friend Abby met during a group session for people with hypersexual disorders. I’ve heard of the term, but never knew anyone who had the disorder. I wouldn’t have thought that Tegan liking to be exposed would be something that warranted such therapy, but then he went onto explain that he used to be into more intense exhibitionism, so bad that he’d gotten arrested before for lewd acts. Over the years, he’s settled down and learned to control the urges to perform in public. Obviously, he still likes public display, he just does it more discreetly now. Clearly, he can have sex without an audience, he just prefers one. He says it makes him feel powerful, knowing he’s causing other people’s pleasure.
He also explained that his friend Abby, who he said I’ll meet soon, deals with sexual addiction. Like true addiction. She’s gotten better since she met her fiancé, Colt, but it used to be so bad that she would undergo unbearable pain if she didn’t have sex every day. He likened it to being addicted to drugs and going through withdrawals. I can’t imagine being in her shoes. I love sex, even though I recently went through a dry spell, but I can’t picture depending on the act to keep my sanity.
Nathan’s addiction doesn’t surprise me. It’s obvious from the other night that he likes to watch. His sexual preference is so similar to Tegan’s, except he’s on the outside looking in. Tegan told me that he and Nathan have shared several different partners and sexual experiences.
Ava is the one I’m most curious about though. Her vice is role play. He informed me that Ava never has sex without some type of theme. I’m all for experimenting and playing around, but it’s got to get old at times, never being yourself.
I want to ask Tegan more about his addiction, but I’m scared I’ll be overstepping boundaries. We know almost nothing about each other. We’re pretty much still strangers. I’ve got no right to know something so deep about him, but it doesn’t keep me from being curious. I wonder if his wanting to show off during sex is caused by something profound.
He tells me more about his woodwork, and I tell him bits and pieces about my life in Texas. The story about my dad dying brings tears to my eyes. I loved my mom and I mourn her loss greatly, but when my dad died, I not only lost him, I lost my brother as well. When he asked me again why I moved to Atlanta, I just tell him my mom recently passed and I had no one else in Austin keeping me there, and that I wanted to move closer to Minnie, Logan, and Luna. I don’t tell him about my brother. Actually, I don’t bring his name up at all.
After we finish our meal, Tegan pays and we leave. The ride back to his place is quiet and uneventful. He doesn’t ask me to pull my skirt up, and he keeps his hands on his side of the truck. Even so, the tension in the truck is nearly overwhelming. We both know what’s coming.
And as soon as we walk in the door, we tear our clothes off and fuck each other into oblivion.
Chapter Nine
Tegan
“I want Daddy,” I tell Momma, tears streaking down my cheeks.
I’ve tried so hard to be strong, but sometimes my little body and mind just can’t take it. Today is one of those days, because I know one of Momma’s friends, the one I hate the most, is coming today. I tried to tell her he hurts me when he comes, but she just cries and begs me to be a big boy.
“We’re not with Daddy anymore, baby. We had to move away from there.”
I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. We’ve been gone for a year. The reason I know it’s been a year is because my birthday was last week, and we left right before my last birthday. I miss my daddy so much. I know if he were here, he wouldn’t let the men touch me. I wish I had told him when we were still with him what was happening, but I was so scared.
“Please don’t let him hurt me, Momma,” I whisper, and look up at her. Her eyes look darker than they used to. They look like someone’s pushed on them and they’ve sunk in her head. And her face looks really skinny, just like her arms and the rest of her body. She always looks sick, and the happy times that would peek through every once in a while when we were with my daddy never come anymore. She’s always sad now.
“I promise this will be the last time, Tegan.” She gets down on her knees, so she can see me better, and puts her hands on my cheeks. “Please just be a good boy. I need you to be a good boy one more time. Can you do that?” Her voice sounds tired and scratchy, and there’s water in her eyes.
I nod and try to fight back the tears. I used to love being her big boy, the man of the house while Daddy was away, but I don’t like it anymore. I know what Momma says isn’t true. I know that this won’t be the last time. She’s promised me before and broke that promise a couple days later.
Things have been different since we moved away. When Momma started bringing the men back around, she did it a lot more than she used to. She doesn’t have to worry about Daddy being gone now. Now it’s just the two of us.
There’s a knock at the door, and Momma quickly gets up from her knees to go answer it. My stomach starts to hurt and my lip trembles. He’s here.
Instead of running out the back door like I really want to do, I sit in the kitchen chair and wait for them to come get me. A minute later, I hear footsteps and look up and see him standing there. Fear freezes my little body as I stare up at him. He’s dressed all in black and his salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back and looks wet. Even his eyes are black, as he looks at me like my old dog used to look at a steak. When we first moved, the only good thing about it was I didn’t have to see him anymore. Didn’t have to let him touch me. I was terrified when he showed up at our house the first time after we moved.
I keep my eyes on him as he steps to the side and Momma walks in after him. She walks over to me and grabs my hand. It’s shaking and her face looks scared again, just like it always does when he comes. “Come on, baby. Mr. Williams is here to see you.”
She pulls me from the chair and out of the room. When I pass by Mr. Williams my body starts to shake. It scares me to be near him. My hand squeezes my mom’s tight, wishing so hard she would change her mind and make him leave.
“Pants off, boy, and get on the bed,” Mr. Williams barks, once Momma closes the door to my room.
I look over and see several men sitting in chairs, just like always. It never bothers me that they are there. They don’t hurt me. I can close my eyes and forget about them. But the men on the bed, I can never forget about them, no matter how tight I close my eyes, no matter how much I try to think about other things.
I do as Mr. Williams says, pulling my pants and underwear down my legs and getting
on the bed. I don’t get far though, before he snags my hair and drags me down the end. It hurts when he grabs my hair, and I cry out.
“Shut up,” he snarls, his spit flying in my face. “Fucking suck it up and be a good little bitch.”
He shoves me down until my face smashes into the mattress. I try to sniff the snot running out of my nose, but he’s pushing so hard on my head that I can’t. I can barely breathe and the mattress in my face gets wet. I claw at the sheets and try to push up, but he’s too strong. He’s always too strong. I’m nothing but a weak boy. Momma says she wants me to be her strong boy. The man of the house.
But shouldn’t a strong boy be able to fight off the bad men?
I blink open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. The room is shrouded in darkness and quiet, but I swear I still hear the muffled cries of my younger self. I’ve learned to cope with my dreams. They don’t bother me as much as they used to, but I still hate having them. They bring back the pain I endured as a kid. A time I wish I could forget forever.
When my dad finally found me with my mom, he took me away, and my mom went to jail. During her trial, it was discovered she wasn’t mentally stable, and instead of going to prison, she went to a psychiatric hospital. My dad once told me when I was older that she had a mental breakdown during the trial. It’s where she’s been ever since. Personally, I think she got off easy. The bitch should have rotted in a jail cell.
I throw off the blanket. I’m sweaty and sticky from my dream, and I need to wash off the residual remnants of the horrific scenes in my head. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, letting a soft orangey light into the room. I stand in the shower for several minutes, washing away my memories, like I always do.
But it won’t last long. Not today anyway. It’s Monday, and I leave in a couple hours to go see the bitch. It’s been a week, and I know she’s not dead yet, because no one’s called to tell me so. I’m not sure which I want more; to watch her die and know she’s finally gone from the world, or to let her die alone, like she deserves.
I wonder if it’s natural for me to long for that day. Most people would be sad that their mother was dying, even if she put them through hell. Those people didn’t feel what I felt when I was a kid. They didn’t feel the innocence ripped away from them each time a man came over to the house. They didn’t feel the pain of what happened, or pray every night that their mother would love them like a normal mother would. Or the hatred for the one person that was supposed to protect them.
I get dressed and finish up on an armoire a customer is waiting for. I admire my work and am satisfied with the finished product. I can already imagine the smile on the old woman’s face.
The drive to the psychiatric facility is long, but the time passes before I know it. I both look forward to and dread these visits. I get a sick sense of satisfaction seeing my mother helpless in her bed. She now knows what it feels like, except in her case she’s not being subjected to sick bastards who like to sexually abuse children. Even so, she lies there, unable to move, unable to help herself, just like I did as a boy.
I stand at her bedside and listen to the beep of the machine keeping her alive. The line on the heart monitor goes up and down with her heartbeat. I don’t wish to lean over and flip the switch that will stop the machines breathing for her. Nope, I hope wherever she is in her comatose state, she’s regretting every fucking sick thing she let those bastards do to me.
I often wonder is she did regret anything. My dad never visited her once she was committed, and he never asked me if I wanted to. I would have said no even if he had. I didn’t start coming until the cancer took over her brain and she was noncommunicative. Before then, I was eleven the last time I saw her. The last words I spoke to her were “Goodbye, Momma” when the officer stuffed her crying in the back of his cruiser. I was happy she was going away. I looked up at my dad, who was holding my hand, and fucking smiled and said, “Thank you.”
I never, not once, regretted not coming here to see her before the cancer. She was no longer my mom. I had no mom. My mom died when I was five years old, when she changed.
I watch her chest rise and fall with her false breathing. There’s a tube stuck down her throat and another smaller one running underneath her nose. Both of her thin frail hands have IVs sticking out of them. She’s pale and her frame is so small, the twin bed appears to swallow her whole.
I can’t manage to muster even an ounce of pity or love for the woman before me. I’m dead inside when it comes to her. Just as dead as she’s soon to be.
There’s a noise behind me, and I turn to see a nurse walk in the room. She’s a short elderly lady with a chart tucked underneath her arm. Over the past couple months, I’ve come to learn most of the staff’s names. Nancy is one of the ones that’s been my mom’s nurse the longest.
“Hey, Nancy,” I say when she comes to stand on the other side of the bed, dropping the chart beside my mom’s hip.
“Hey, honey. How have you been?”
She pulls a needle from the pocket of her pink coat, uncaps it, then sticks the tip into one of the IVs.
“I’ve been good.”
I watch as she pushed the plunger, then writes something down on the chart. After a moment, she puts the chart back down and looks at my mom. She runs her fingers through her gray hair, like someone would do for a person they care about. It only pisses me off.
“Poor Jenna,” Nancy says quietly.
I snap my eyes to hers. “She doesn’t deserve your pity,” I say through clenched teeth. The woman doesn’t deserve any type of emotion beside hatred and contempt.
My tone doesn’t faze Nancy. She just looks up at me with sad eyes. I don’t know if the medical staff here knows what she put her son though as a kid, but I get the sense they don’t. There’s no way they would look at her with sad eyes if they did.
Nancy doesn’t say anything else, just gathers the used needle and chart and makes her way to the door. I’m sure the staff here thinks I’m an insensitive asshole, because when I come here, I’m always in a bad mood. They’ve only ever seen me with a pissed-off attitude, so for all they know, that’s the type of person I am. Always bitter. Their mouths would probably drop if they knew the real me.
Right before Nancy walks through the door, she stops and turns back around.
“Do you know who Bruce is?” she asks.
I furrow my brow, trying to recognize the name. My mind comes up blank.
“No. Why?”
“Because your mom used to scream the name at night sometimes. She’d wake up hysterical and the orderly would have to sedate her to calm her down.”
With one last sad look, she turns around and walks away, leaving me confused.
Who in the hell was this Bruce, and what did he have to do with my mom?
I look back at her comatose form. Whoever he is doesn’t matter. It’s not worth thinking over. Once she passes away, there is nothing I want to know about her. Both of her parents died when she was still young and her adopted parents are no longer in the picture. She had no siblings or aunts and uncles.
Once she’s gone, I can forget she ever existed.
I pull up to Minnie and Logan’s house and get out of my truck. I walk quickly up to the door and knock. A minute later, Willow pulls open the door, and a minute after that, I have her inside with her back slammed against it.
“Are Minnie and Logan here?” I growl the question against her lips.
“No,” she responds with a moan.
“Are you watching Luna?”
“No,” she says again. “They’re out with some of Logan’s bandmates.”
Her words are music to my ears.
I scoop her up and blindly take the stairs two at a time. My lips are sealed to hers, so I can’t exactly see where I’m going, but I manage to make it to the landing without tumbling us to the floor.
“Which room?” I grunt, impatient to get inside her body.
“To the left, then second door on the
right.”
I head in that direction and kick her door open with my foot, then kick it closed behind us. Had we not been in her friend’s house with the chance of them walking in with Luna, I would have just taken her right inside the front door, but I’m sure Willow would freak out if they came home.
Her back slams against the wall and my lips attack the skin of her neck. Her head thumps against the wall, giving me better access. I grind my dick into the valley between her legs.
“I need to fuck you now,” I growl. “I can’t wait.”
“Yes, Tegan!” she cries, scraping her nails down my back.
Thank fucking goodness she’s wearing another skirt. I love skirts. They make things so much easier.
I pull back just far enough to yank open my jeans and slip her panties to the side. The tip of my dick meets her warm pussy, and I hiss out a breath. I pull her to me at the same time I thrust my hips forward, impaling her with my dick as far as it will go.
She cries out and her legs tighten around me. Her hands dig into my scalp, knocking my sunglasses to the floor.
“Sorry,” I mutter against her throat. I’m sorry if I hurt her, but I’m not sorry it feels so fucking good to have her surrounding me.
I pump my hips and lift her up and down on my shaft. Her back slides up and down the wall. I’m rough with my fucking, but I can’t help it. I’m desperate to make the feelings of seeing my mom again go away.
I growl and groan and mutter curses, because she feels so unbelievably tight. She’s perfect. More perfect than all the women I’ve ever had before.
My hips pound furiously against her, taking more than I should from her. I know I’m taking her too hard; she’ll probably have bruises on the insides of her thighs later. My fingers dig into her ass cheeks when I feel the explosion starting. She lets out a strangled cry of pleasure, her eyes going wide. It plummets me into my own release. My legs lock into place and the cords in my neck tense as I growl deep in my throat. Cum rushes out the tip of my dick and fills her ravenous pussy.
