Gender: Male Age: Secret Location: After nine days I let the horse run free
|Introduction: A very dark story|
NOTE: This is a dark story. If you are looking for something light-hearted, this is NOT it. And, if you are going to judge this story and vote on it, or comment on it, please keep in mind the quality of the writing, not whether or not you liked this character or that character. You aren't going to like a number of the characters in this, just sayin'.
As she tore off the next to the last sheet of the calendar, Grace felt that familiar pit in her stomach, the one that had formed this time of year, every year, for many of them.
At 34, she had what appeared to most to be a happy life; a loving, hard-working and handsome husband, two pleasant children, and a nice house in the suburbs. She attended church each week with her family, was active in the local PTA, and when a non-profit needed some help with baking goodies, Grace could always be counted upon. She was the glue that kept her family bound together.
Deep within her, however, was a black pit of Tartarus, one that she kept well-contained during most of the year, but not during the December holidays.
"Honey, have you seen my blue tie with the silver diamond on it? I need it for a meeting this afternoon," asked her husband George, coming into the kitchen and startling Grace, causing her to jump slightly. "Are you okay?" he continued, noticing her jump.
"Yes," said Grace, recovering quickly, "of course, you just surprised me, dear. You got a spot on that tie so I dropped it off at the dry cleaners. I'll pick it up this morning and bring it by the office."
George looked over at his wife and smiled. She was most everything he could want in a wife. Gorgeous and with a great figure even after having their two children, she was a lady in the street, and a saint in church.
"You're too good for me, darling," he said, leaning in and kissing her quickly on the lips. "Oh, and don't forget we have the cocktail party this evening at Wilshire's. Wear that green dress, you know which one I mean," continued George, even as he was exiting the room in search of a new, temporary tie.
Yes, I know which one, she thought, the one where you get to show off my breasts to your buddies.
"Bye Mom," said Barbara, bounding through the kitchen with the clunky gait that only a 14-year-old can manage.
"Hold it right there," said Grace, as she watched her daughter make for the back door.
"Mom, I'm gonna' be late for school," the young girl whined, edging still toward the door, not making eye contact.
The single word froze the teenager in her tracks. Busted, she thought.
"Mom, all the girls in my class are wearing make-up and I only used a little bit and some of the girls use lots of it but I just put on a little bit and I don't want to me made fun of--" Barbara's torrent of words were interrupted by her Mom, hand raised in the universal sign of requesting silence.
"Ok. But we will--" Grace saw her daughter's eyes light up with glee, "we WILL talk about this tonight, young lady!"
"Okay Mom. Love you!" and with that, the gangly youth was just about out the door.
"Barbara...WAIT!" her Mom called out to her, picking up a slip of paper and walking it over to her impatiently waiting daughter.
"Oh! My permission slip to go to the White House!" said the young girl, rapidly opening her bookbag and letting her Mom slip the sheet inside. "I hope we get to meet President Kennedy!" Then she bounded out the door.
A few seconds later she heard the clump-clump, clump-clump of her other progeny tromping down the stairs.
George, Jr. was a spitting image of his father, tall and handsome, and at 16, had already made his mark on the high school football team.
"Hi Mom," said George, "Tina's in the driveway so I gotta' go. I'm working after school today, so I won't be home until 5:30. Bye!"
As she watched her son exit, she wistfully remembered just a few years ago when he would hug and kiss her goodbye before leaving for school. He's probably saving all that for his rich little cheerleader girlfriend. Then she frowned a bit, thinking that she was just being a bit too cranky this morning.
George, Sr. was back again, putting down his black leather briefcase to put on his suit jacket, then picking up the briefcase once more while taking hold of his mug of coffee started earlier in the morning. Tepid at best, he made a slight face and then saw his wife standing with the coffe pot in hand, smiling, ready to freshen it up for him.
After getting his refill, he patted her ass and kissed her cheek.
"Thanks honey, I have to run. See you later with the tie?" as he made for the side door leading out to the garage.
"Yes, dear," smiled Grace, prepping for another exciting day of running errands and baking cookies. Another exciting day.
She shivered at the thought of the nightmares that had returned once again this time of year. Of when she was just a girl. Of her father. Of why she did each year what she did. Of...time for a drink, she thought.
Three Weeks Later...
More snow was falling, and with the temperatures hovering just below freezing, the weathermen were predicting another two to three inches to add to the foot that was already on the ground. Christmas was only two days away, and there was a bustle of activity all around, from carolers in the suburbs to the clangity-clang of Salvation Army helper's bells outside the Sears and Roebuck store. Boy scouts were busily helping clear older couple's driveways of snow, and courteous men were helping ladies carry their groceries out of the market to their cars.
Grace had finished her second glass of scotch though the morning was not quite half over. Her son was out early, knocking on doors in the neighborhood to find work clearing driveways, and her daughter slept overnight at her best friend's house. Her husband, of course, had left for work that morning, all chipper and gay, partly due to their talk over morning coffee.
"You know," he began, moving from the news section of the daily paper to the sports pages, "today is the 23rd." He was trying to be nonchalant about it, but to Grace, he was more obvious than the Kennedys were rich.
"Yes," said Grace, "it is."
Her husband raised his eyes just slightly to peer over the paper, not wanting to appear too anxious she thought, but wondering if she understood his reference.
She opted not to play this out, and simply ran her tongue over her lips, saw his raised-eyebrow reaction, and then continued cleaning the counter of some imaginary dirt. She wanted to think of him as a pig, wanted to hate him for what he made her do, but somewhere, she still thought of him as her husband, the provider. Still...
It was later that evening, on the pretense of going to help feed some homeless people, that Grace began her yearly descent into Hell.
The drive into the city wasn't long, and getting into "that" part of town by now was easy for her, an annual trek. She drove slowly and then parked the big Buick carefully, not wanting to do anything to attract attention. She wore her dark coat and a large hat to obscure her face and features as she walked along the dirty sidewalk, the soot from the nearby industrial complex making living conditions in this side of town less than desirable.
Looking around surreptitiously, Grace paused before a particularly dingy, dark-grey building, then upon seeing no one of consequence paying attention to her, she moved quickly inside and trudged up the steps to the fourth floor, dread filling her like a sewer drain.
She found 404 at the end of the narrow hallway. Taking a breath, she wrinkled her nose at the acrid stench of urine and sweat. She detested this place, and detested herself even more for being here. But she had no choice. No choice at all.
Two knocks, followed by a single knock. She remembered it well. The only way to get an answer.
A scraping sound inside, two deadbolts being slid open, and then the door opened slightly. She could see an eye, a single eye. His eye. He looked at her face first, then, down her body, then back to her face. A slight nod. He was expecting her. The door closed, then the sound of the chain being undone. Finally, the door opened enough for her to step inside, which she did.
"I have money," she said quickly, her nervousness apparent. "I brought the $50," she continued, reaching into her purse and pulling out a white envelope which she started to hand to him. He was an unsightly man, several years older than her but looking far older than that with his disheveled appearance and unkempt hair. She could hear I Love Lucy in the background.
"The price is $60."
She was floored. It hadn't occurred to her that the price might have gone up.
"I...I..only have $50. Wait, let me look," and she frantically looked in her purse, coming up with a dollar and thirty-seven cents extra. Her mind was racing, wondering if there was any money in the car, but, she knew that there wasn't.
"Please," she implored, "please...this is all that I have."
"The price is $60. Blame Kennedy."
Grace thought of where she might get the other $10. She couldn't ask George. He'd tell her to just put the charge on the Sears card. And to drive back home and then back here, there wasn't time. No banks were open.
"Please..." she was desperate. She had no other money.
"You know what you need to do," was the reply. He knew she didn't have enough money, but she had...currency.
Tears formed in her eyes. And the pit grew. And she knew that this would make what was coming with George...better, that without it, she'd be far, far worse off.
Shoulders slumped, she took off her coat and lay it across the back of the metal kitchen chair. The jumper she was wearing came next, leaving her in just bra and panties. She saw that he had dropped his trousers and boxers and was stroking himself. He was already growing erect.
She had not come prepared like she had in previous years. She expected to pay him and not have to do this again.
"Do you...have...?" she left the question unfinished, as she saw him nod in the direction of the bathroom. He was prepared.
It was small, dingy, like the rest of the place, but there was a small medicine cabinet, and she thankfully found what she was looking for on the second shelf. Without it there would be real trouble.
She did not kneel as that would remind her too much of the nightmare, but instead used her hand to apply liberal amounts of the Vaseline to his cock. She knew that she had to do it, that he wouldn't put it on himself. It was the one kindness he showed her, allowing her to grease him up, though she did wonder if it was for his benefit too, so that his skin wouldn't hurt from the friction.
She took her place near the edge of his old stuffed sofa, the same quilt covering it that had been doing so for over a decade that she had been coming here once a year.
Feeling him behind her, she leaned forward. She knew that she was giving him a lewd view, that her red-hair-fringed vagina could now be seen, as well as her nether opening, the one that he was very intent on penetrating.
As she felt him move up against her, she knew that he would only do it this way because of the time he spent in prison. He told her, in a guttural way, that anal sex was the only way that he could get pleasure from a woman. She never let her husband take her this way; he would never dream of asking her. No...he took her another way, one far, far worse than this.
Grace felt the glistening tip of his cock's helmet press against her back opening, and then his hands pulled open her cheeks, allowing him to see better, and making her blush with embarrassment.
Then he pushed forward and the struggle was afoot. Grace's sphincter muscle tightened in its effort to resist the combative intruder. It was a valiant effort, as always, but then Grace felt him lean forward, putting some weight behind the push. That ended the siege as he broke through her body's resistance and the thick, crowbar-hard shaft entered her rectum, sliding ever forward as she cried out with the initial pain of his greasy, debauched entry.
"Ohgawwwwwddddddddddd," she blasphemed, not caring at the moment about anything but trying to relax and endure the painful assault. She hoped that it would be over quickly, that her tightness would cause him to finish sooner versus later.
But that was not meant to be. He bottomed out inside of her creamy white ass, hearing her groaning in pain, her hands grasping the quilt wildly. She felt him withdraw, and then plunge back inside, all the way, as deep as he could go, her eyes squinting shut. His hand pushed down on her upper back, pressing her face into the quilt. As she breathed in she could smell him, for the comforter hadn't been washed in ages. She could smell all of him, his cigars, his sweat, his ass...it just added to the horrible feeling of being taken anally by this man.
"Talk," he said.
She dreaded this part. She hated him for making her do it. She hesitated.
"Talk, or I'll drag this out for an hour," he threatened.
She knew his threat to be real. One year she remembered that he had pleasured himself before she showed up, and it hadn taken forever for him to reach his climax. She was hardly able to sit and drive home that night.
"Do it, do it to me," she started out, weakly.
She felt the sting that accompanied the smack of his hand on her ass cheek and cried out.
"Talk right. Last warning," he said and continued to pump her.
Gracie gathered what little bit of temporary sanity remained within her.
"Fuck me, George. Fuck my ass hard! You like pounding my tight ass, don't you?"
She could feel him speed up the pace as her words rang out in the cold apartment air.
"That's it, George. Fuck your good little wife in her ass. Make her pay for all the bad things she does," she continued, feeling sick as she knew what was coming next. It was bad enough having to pretend that this was her husband defiling her. He made her call him George because he knew it bothered her, or so she thought. But she knew it was gonna' get worse.
When he took hold of her hips and lifted her body up a bit off the arm of the sofa, she cringed. She hoped he would forget, or, would get too excited to care. But no.
"Do it. Now."
She didn't bother to fight him. She just sunk lower, and yet lower into her depravity, reaching between her legs with her hand until it made contact with her dripping wet pussy. She knew exactly what he wanted. She went her fingers with her own secretions and then reached yet further back, wetting his balls as they moved forward and back with his thrusting. Then she reached back between her own legs and rubbed her clit. She knew it wouldn't be long for her to reach her climax. And that's what he wanted. He wanted her to orgasm while he pumped her ass.
The thrusting now was frenzied, almost angry as he grunted each time, withdrawing until just his mushroom-capped head was just inside and then thrusting balls deep, again and again.
Oh god, she thought, I'm such a sick person, and she climaxed, her ass muscles rhythmically squeezing and releasing around his deeply penetrating penis.
She heard him first, a brief outburst of sound and then felt him next, the warm liquid of his spend filling her backside as she continued to hump her hand, climaxing and crying at the same time. She could hear Ricky Ricardo talking on the television, "Lucy, you have some 'splainin' to do."
Ten minutes later, after she had used the bathroom to clean up and dress, she emerged, shaken and embarrassed, once again feeling used and dirty. She still had to face him, though, to get her coke.
"So you are still doing it." It wasn't a question, really, more of a statement.
"May I have my package?" Her eyes were averted, her hands clutching her purse nervously.
"Why don't you just tell him?" He was persistent.
He seemed almost to care, which was so odd to her, this, this monstrosity of a man who would take her so barbarically, then act liked he cared. Who the hell was he to preach to her!
"What do you care? You got what you wanted from me!" she exploded.
"Whoa. Temper, temper. You need to be a little nicer to me." There was a touch of malice in his voice now.
Grace backed down. She didn't want, couldn't have, anything disrupt this transaction. Not at all. She needed what he had.
"I...I could never tell him. He wouldn't understand. He...he'd think I was a freak. I just--" she tried to explain.
"Your dad molests you, makes you suck his c--" he said, voice still a bit agitated.
"STOP!! Please stop!" she interrupted, crying now.
She saw him looking at her with great pity, and that made it worse. This...this terrible man who lived in a one-bedroom drab apartment in a seedy section of the city was looking down upon her. God, she thought, I'm just a depraved whore.
As she wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to pull herself together, she saw him go into his bedroom and then return a minute later. In his hand was a small package covered with holiday wrapping paper. He handed it to her.
Without a word, she turned and left, vowing never to return again to this God-forsaken place.
As he watched her leave, he shook his head sadly. He tried to break her of the habit each year by forcing her deeper into depravity, forcing her to confront her demons, but nothing seemed to work. Until he came up with a solution, one that wouldn't require him to move.
As he picked up the phone to call his mother, he knew that he would not see Gracie again.
"Hey Mom, doesn't today start the 12 Days of Christmas?" asked George, Jr.
The sound of glass shattering as the half-full bottle of milk exploded onto the floor of the kitchen startled everyone in the household.
"Mom!" said Barbara, looking at her mother with wide eyes.
"Sorry everyone, it slipped," said Grace, her mind surging with emotion at the casual mention of that phrase by her son. She carefully moved around the broken shards of glass to the closet for her mop and bucket.
"Do you need help, Mom?" asked George, Jr., walking toward the kitchen.
"No, stop, don't come closer, George," she said, already in clean-up mode, "I'll take care of it. You go play."
"Okay, Mom," said the lad, and he scooped up his brand new basketball and winter coat and headed outside to shoot some hoops.
Barbara went back to typing on her new Smith Corona typewriter.
God, thought Grace to herself, I need to get a grip on things. For tonight. For...George.
It was just past eleven. The children, their bedtimes extended thirty minutes on a non-school night, were now in their rooms. George, Sr. was sitting in the living room, reading the new bestseller, To Kill a Mockingbird. Grace had just settled her two children, and walked downstairs.
"Well," said George upon seeing her, closing his book and removing the Meerschaum pipe from his mouth, "I think I will head upstairs and take a shower." He paused for a moment. "Are you coming?" he continued, silently enjoying the double meaning of his words, words that he had thought about earlier in the day and waited patiently to use.
"Not yet, dear," said Grace, giving George his secret thrill, "but soon." She smiled, and watched as he rose and climbed the stairs, hearing him whistle as he loosened the holiday tie from around his neck.
Wish he would choke himself, thought Gracie to herself, moving into the downstairs bathroom. She closed and locked the door, leaning up against it, her eyes shut tightly, silently counting to ten. When she heard the water from the shower above, she moved to the vanity and knelt down. Inside, in the far corner, was a box of sanitary napkins. She pulled the box out, and dug deep down inside, knowing it was the one safe place in the house where no one, no one, would violate the sanctity of her hiding space.
Unraveling the aluminum foil, she saw the white powder come into view, the single razor blade, small piece of glass, and part of a straw. She set it down onto the counter, her heart beating faster than normal. She looked at it. More than enough for twelve uses. She felt her anus clench at the thought of what it took to get the stash, and then quickly cleared that thought out of her mind.
The demons had been visiting her more frequently of late, causing her to wake in the middle of the night. It was always the same, terrible images. Images of her father, drunk, stumbling into her room, always with a gift, always telling her that it was...candy...always making her...lick it...always...after Christmas...
She pushed the demons back, and set to work, knowing she had but a few minutes. Carefully she cut the white powder into a line, then opted for a second line, the wait of over 11 months too much to restrain. She quickly snorted both lines, folded up everything and put it away, then went into the kitchen to get one glass of white wine for George. She then went upstairs to the bedroom.
As Grace entered the room and began removing her clothes as per the ritual, she heard the shower stop running. Her senses were off kilter and she felt a bit surreal, and she wondered if she should have taken that extra line. Too late now, she mused.
She was standing naked near the bed when George exited the bathroom. He stopped in his tracks. Seeing her like that never ceased to cause that same reaction.
Near perfect breasts, white flesh sprinkled with freckles so common to red-haired women, her breasts were capped with mauve-colored nipples, the aeroleas the size of silver dollars. Her taut abdomen lead to a small, natural triangle of reddish-brown hair, hiding the true treasure.
George's erection was no less pronounced than the desire in his eyes as he crossed the room and sat down on the bed. Grace turned and knelt down before him, and handed him the requisite glass of wine. Her head was filling with odd images, her breathing a bit shallow.
"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a blow job and a glass of Chablis," sang George, quietly, as he drank from the glass.
George guided his wife's mouth to his penis, and watched as it entered, enjoying the exquisite sensation. She would never do this for him any other time of the year, but, during the 12 Days of Christmas, she would give him a blow job each evening for twelve straight nights. Then not again for an entire year. It was something that he asked for their first Christmas together, oral sex, and she was so in love with him that she was willing to do anything. And then the nightmares of her father's abuse kicked in, and she almost killed herself that first year. Instead, she found solace in the white powder that she had heard about from the bad girls when in school, and, got by, barely.
Grace was spiraling downward now, her body felt like it was ablaze yet she was having enormous difficulty concentrating. Even breathing was a challenge. She felt something pushing in and out of her mouth and part of her brain realized that it was George's member, but only part, a fading part.
George thought that Grace was drunk because she was not doing a very good job. He was a little irritated because he had waited so long, so so long for this pleasure. He decided that she needed more help so he took her by the ears and began pulling her head towards him, feeding her his cock, pushing perhaps deeper than she would have normally done so. He rationalized in his mind that it was okay to do so, because she shouldn't have gotten drunk, not tonight of all nights for God's sake.
Deeper and deeper he thrust, feeling her lips up against his pubic hair as he forced all of his cock inside her mouth and now throat. He felt her choke a bit but he pulled back quickly and then thrust in deep again, then back out. He knew he was close now.
"Get ready, darling, because here comes Georgie! Now singggggggg!"
With that, he pulled himself free of her mouth and begin rapidly stroking his cock. Aiming right at her face, he began singing.
And his wife, almost in a stupor, stumbled over the words but managed to hit the two key ones.
"...Wh-hite Chris-mass..." just as the end of his cock spewed forth his semen, landing on her cheek, mouth and nose, and mixing with the slight residue of powder that didn't quite get snorted. And with that, she slowly crumpled to the floor, cum dripping from her onto the carpet, her eyes open and now glassy.
In the city
He read about her in the paper. It was somewhat of a scandal, married woman, taking her own life through a heroin overdose. He, of course, saw it somewhat differently. He understood demons all too well. And that's why he supplied her with near pure heroin, to magically take her away from her demons.
He turned on his television. His favorite show was coming on, Leave It To Beaver. Before that, though, he called his mother. Partway through the conversation, his mother asked him if he had been a good boy.
"Yes, mother. Why, just a few days ago I performed a miracle."
He listened patiently.
"No Mom, a miracle. This poor lady was having terrible troubles and no one could help her, but I did Mom, I helped her. And now she is closer to God." He listened again.
"Yes Mom, a miracle. Me and Pope John. I gotta' go now, the Beave is coming on. Goodbye Mom. I love you."
# # #
Again, if you are going to vote, I ask that you please consider the quality of the writing to determine your vote, not whether you liked some of the characters. You should find distaste for some of the characters. If so, then I have done my job as a writer, and thus as for your positive vote or comment. Thanks in advance for your consideration.
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