NSFW

“Bad Parents” – Chuck Wendig’s Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge. TRIGGER WARNING

Just in under the deadline, here is my story for Chuck Wendig’s challenge from this past week. A story about “Bad Parents”, 1000 words or less.

This is not the story I originally intended to tell. That one I wrote, rewrote, rewrote again, and then finally deleted. I’m not ready to tell that one yet.

This one is dark, very dark. I give you fair warning now that it is about child abuse, murder, and such like things. If this is the kind of thing that upsets you, skip this one.

No one ever tells you about the smell. The movies, the shows, they make it look almost…glamorous, when you shoot someone. A bang, a puff of smoke, a bright light, a splatter of pretty crimson that paints the wall like that abstract painter guy…Jackson-something. Mom always liked his stuff. I didn’t get it. The smell is terrible. Like copper and shit and sewage. Maybe it’s different if you shoot them somewhere other than the balls and lower stomach?

Christ. I can hear him still. I wish he’d die but I don’t have the stomach or the will to shoot him again. And maybe…maybe I kind of want him to suffer, even if each groan that escapes his lips makes me feel like vomiting. Even through the door, I can hear him dragging himself across the floor croaking a strange, strangled, gurgling noise like some sort of sick frog. Disgusting. Bleeding and shitting all over the floor, no doubt. Mom is going to be so pissed off.

After all, he is…was…her husband.

I look down at the gun in my hand and I wonder how many bullets I have left. I never really learned about them. I mean, I knew the basics, but I didn’t even know how to load or reload or whatever you are supposed to do with them. I do know you point the dangerous end and you flip the safety thing and you pull the trigger. And not the button that makes the bullet-thingy fall out. I guess TV is good for something after all, huh? There’s always that ditzy girl who points the gun and presses the wrong button. Or gets reminded the safety is on. Dumb!

I wonder if I should shoot her too. Mom, I mean. Part of me screams at the idea, revolts. Another…not so much.

She let it happen, after all. She had to have known. No…she did know. I can’t make excuses for her. She knew. I told her. I told her what he was doing, how he was touching me…there. I feel sick again, just thinking about it. Have to force myself to stop. She knew, but she didn’t do anything about it. He was husband number three, after all, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She said that all the time.

So she put up with the shit. The laziness. The yelling. The name calling. The slaps, the punches, the bruises. The way he looked at me, her daughter. She listened when he lied and when he locked himself in my room she bought that the door must have “accidently” locked itself. When I would find any excuse I could to be with her, she said I was just too clingy. Seperation Anxiety? Really Mom?

I didn’t tell her at first. I was scared. Scared that he’d hurt me worse, hurt her worse. He threatened that he would. Said that if I told he would beat the shit out of her, break her, make sure no other man would ever want to be with her again. Did I want that? Huh, sweetie? You want your mom to have to earn her living lying on her back for ten dollars a pop, cause she sure as hell wouldn’t make more than that when he got finished with her.

But then one day she found me. Crying. Rocking. She took me in her arms and she rocked with me and she asked me.

“Cass, sweety? Is there something wrong?”
And I felt warm. Safe. I told her.

I still feel the sting of her hand. The bruises have faded but I still feel each punch. My hair still hurts when it remembers her dragging me through the hall, screaming and calling me a liar, a whore, a filthy little tempter. It was my fault, see. I shouldn’t dress like such a slut. She burned my makeup and my music and most of my heart that day.

“Casssss.”

What’s left of my heart plummets. He moans out again.

“Casssssss…c…c…call…..9…”

He stops, coughing. I hear something thick and wet splatter against the wood floor, and something in me snaps.

I open the door.

He’s right there. The smell is even worse now. The floor doesn’t look like a pretty painting. It looks horrible. Dark. Brownish. I gag. He looks up at me. Kind of looks like one of those monsters, zombies. I don’t know…I don’t like those shows. Too gory. He reaches out his hand.

“Cass…sw…sweetie…”

There is a pop, a shockingly loud pop and a ringing in my ears before I even realize I’ve shot him. There is a strange, gurgling rattle, and then he’s quiet. The only sound is the ringing in my ears.

I close the door. I cry. I can’t help it. God, what am I going to do? I sit there, at the door. I sit there for a long time.

And then I hear it. Keys in the lock. Mom is home. I look down. How many bullets are left?

I don’t know.

Maybe just one.

My hands tremble. I am so fucked. So, so fucked. The door begins to open. For a moment, it really is just like the movies. Everything is slow, deliberate. I look at the gun and I think, yes, maybe there’s just one more bullet left.

I raise my arm. The gun is so, so heavy. Heavier than I thought it would be. The door swings wider. I sit straighter. Proper. Ladylike. She walks in all fake smiles and empty cheer and an arm full of crap. She looks at me.

“Cass, sweetie? Is there something wrong?”

I smile. I press the gun beneath my chin, and I wonder.

Will she believe me now?

The Axle Grease Tastes Fine

So, I put in another late night at work last night. Late enough that I didn’t even have to come to work today in order to make up the hours that I’ve already put in. But here I am, working another full day, though I swear I am not going to stay over today. Much.

*sighs*

The problem is, I work in a cutthroat industry. What’s that I say? Defense contractors are backstabbing assholes? That *NEVER* happens! I know, right? Yet here I am, treading soft through the viper’s den. Yesterday, a contractor who has fallen behind in their promised production schedule attempted to blame it all on me. It’s convenient for them, because I work for a totally different contractor and no one, save for myself and a very small handful of people in the country, know how difficult and time consuming my job is.

But here’s the kicker. With a few small exceptions, I haven’t missed a single publication date. I have had my portion done, headaches notwithstanding, and pushed out my product before it was due. The fact that they came to me late already is something I have no control over. And more, the fact that the only reason I have to do this part of the job, instead of doing the actual job I was hired for, is that the assholes sending it to me didn’t do their jobs properly in the first place!

So I spent two hours yesterday being grilled by great big government types and trying to justify my job. Which I did, professionally and expertly. With documentation. But it still sucks.

And now, I’ve been trying to ensure that my queue is completely clear, which means long hours. And that makes me a touch grumpy. Thank Og I have this place to stem the boredom of watching a compiler run…

And my, but the underside of this bus is pleasant. The axle grease is so tasty…

 

On the plus side, Camp NaNoWriMo starts today. And I’ve a “Supernatural Sexy” novel brewing in my skull…

Lust tapers? Not! (NSFW, AC, Sexual content, be warned)

You must forgive my needs, my dearest love,
For how can I not want you all the time?
Of all the things this poet can think of
To set to meter, fancy up with rhyme,
There is not one that even can compare
To you, my love, my dearest lady fair.

I know, at times, it seems that all I do
Is lust for you, like some demented fiend,
And when I cannot have you, it is true
I tend to get quite grumpy, dour, and mean.
How can I not? For you are like the drug,
And I the fiending, desperate, needing thug.

I long for you with every single ounce
Of passion that I can within me find,
I see you, and I feel that I must pounce
Upon you, feel our bodies intertwined,
But since we can’t, oh, torturous the fire
That burns within me, fueled by this desire!

And soon I find that every waking thought
Is filled with dreams of you in wicked ways,
Till nothing else could penetrate the knot
Of fantasies, and nothing else could faze
My sheer desire, my throbbing, aching need
For you, that you alone could quench, could feed.

I want to feel you, soft, beneath my hands,
I want to squeeze your breasts, to hear your sighs,
I want you to give in to my demands
With giggling lust, and willful spreading thighs,
I want you to want me how I want you,
As evidenced by wet and wanting dew.

Ah, to feel that wetness as I spread
It all across your wanting, waiting flower
With playful teasing from my other head
Till both of us are drunk upon the power
That mutual lust inspires in the heart,
And makes it hurt to ever be apart.

And then, to thrust into you, to combine
Our bodies, to give in to utter bliss,
To see you flush, as red as any wine,
To taste the need upon your flowery lips,
To take you and to love you, hard and fast,
Such are the dreams that build, endure, and last.

And oh, when you are wet like that, I joy
In ways no simple words could dare describe,
For though my carnal nature may annoy
At times, I’d love if you could but imbibe,
And drink full well my lust for you, and take
All that I have to give, our lusts to slake.

I do not think I ever could relay
How powerful my need for you has grown
With every passing hour, every day
That you and I have one another known,
“Lust tapers” – no, least not for you, from I,
But burns like sun and stars within the sky.

 

“People F#cking Suck” – from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder… (NSFW, AC, TRIGGER WARNING)

It’s time once more for a prompt from 1,000 Awesome Writing Prompts by Ryan Andrew Kinder…

This week’s prompt is a darker one, indeed.

#814. Write from the perspective of a people trafficker.

 I’m giving myself 20 minutes to write this. Wish me luck.

**Done with 8 seconds to spare. Thank God. I feel more than a little slimy after writing this.**

***WARNING!!! TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE FOLLOWING FICTION!!! DARK SHIT AHEAD!!! THE AUTHOR WAS ATTEMPTING WRITING FROM A DISTASTEFUL PERSPECTIVE BUT DOES NOT ENDORSE THE BELIEFS FOUND HEREIN.***

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

“People F#cking Suck”

Most people would call me a monster. I don’t know, though. I’ve seen monsters. Real ones. Guys that do things that make even the most hardened badass in some Central American backwater prison have nightmares about. Heavy shit, man. Fucking crazy shit. Me? I just traffic people. Move em from point A to point B, pick up a little green (both the spending kind and the smoking kind) and that’s that.

Yeah, yeah, oh my god, don’t I realize they’re people? Yeah, of course the fuck I realize they’re people. That’s why the job pays so well, isn’t it? Thing is, you live long enough in this world, long enough in my world, and you begin to realize something. People fucking suck. They do. All of them. You, me, and the trembling little girls in the back of my van. We all suck.

I won’t lie, I used to have empathy for them. Most of them. But a lot of these girls? They come from places that would make you vomit just to walk a hundred yards from, let alone live in. These girls aren’t random kidnap victims, enslaved brutally like the movies would have you believe. Ok, well, most of them aren’t. Most of the girls I move were sold to us by their own families. Their own fucking families. You get that? Their own mothers or fathers or siblings or aunts or uncles or fucking grandparents brought them to my employer, who paid a ridiculously small amount of money, and then gave them to me. To move.

You know why they sold them? Two things, usually. One, simple greed. People fucking suck, remember? And greed runs the world, buddy. Greed runs the world. You wouldn’t believe it, but the highest call for these little packages are to some of the richest bastards in the wealthiest, most “civilized” countries. They fucking suck too. So much god damned money they sometimes literally wipe their ass with it. They get bored. They can have anything, so the get anything. Including fresh young girls to play with, till they get bored with them too, and then bam, back in the van, and off to the next dude who can’t quite afford first pick. Sick, sucky people.

Reason two? The place they came from was such a god awful hell hole that there literally was nothing better in the world for them than being sold into slavery for sex. Their families believed, no, fuck that, knew that the only chance they had for a better life was one spent on their back in some foreign city, carted around by some fuckwad like me and staying just a step ahead of the authorities. Sure, some girls get scared. Some find ways to get loose, escape, get to the cops wherever the fuck we are. They ruin things for the rest of em. We have to pack up quick then. Get em on the van and move before we all get fucking hung.

Thing is, that one girl, that one stupid selfish girl who had to run off? You know what she did for her “sisters”? She fucked em, royally. See, when we set up someplace new, when there’s no feds or government types sniffing up our asses, we have the time to vet some of the customers. Not all of them, mind you – go back to reason one if you want to know why – but a lot of em. Enough that the girls we set up don’t have it all that bad. Sure, they gotta spread their legs at someone else’s whim, but fuck, how’s that any different from marriage in the fucking warzone they came from? At least with us, they get cleaned up. They see docs. Gotta keep the good healthy, after all.

But when a girl gets loose, we gotta pull stakes. Yank the other girls from whatever situation they are in, some of them pretty cozy. We gotta hit the road, and more often than not, ditch the merchandise at the first chance we get. That can go one of two ways too. Either we sell them to some cheap fucking pimp who’s gonna use em, abuse em, and then ditch them when they are too broken, bruised, or diseased to be of use. Or we kill them. Simple as that. Take them out in a desert and just leave them in a locked van. It’s easier that way.

So that girl, the one that got away? She fucking sucks. The pimps? Fucking suck. The johns? Fucking suck. The families? Fucking suck?

But me? I’m just a guy who drives a van.

And yeah. I fucking suck.

My first…

Her name was Ellie, and she was my first real crush.

She was taller than the other girls her age, a little plump, with shoulder length natural red curls blooming from her head, eyes of pale blue-green, and a speckling of freckles that dashed from cheek to cheek and over her nose like a playful flick of tannish paint against her pale white skin.

She was a tomboy when we first met. She didn’t have a lot of friends because she had always been the rough and tumble type and other girls picked on her for her weight, and I didn’t have a lot of friends because I was new to town and not into typical boy things like football or soccer, and I was, perhaps, a little immature for my age – more concerned with playing games and imagining then sports and girls and wishing I was old enough to drive. At first, our friendship was totally innocent – playing tag, hide and seek, going on adventures through the woods near our houses, playing at being knights (she didn’t want to be princess), and things like that. She liked to hit me a lot, not violently, but often would punch or pinch or tackle me. Looking back now, as an adult, I realize that this was her way of flirting, much as young boys often do to young girls, but with the genders reversed. As the year went on, the teasing and chasing continued, with free periods involving her chasing me all over the school grounds, until I finally ran to and climbed a tree to “escape” her.  She’d climb up, we’d sit together on a branch, and talk.

She had a lot of daddy issues, that one. Her dad was in the military, like mine, and was often away.  When he was home, he was often drunk and belligerent, and so she spent more and more time with me, wandering the fields and woods when she wasn’t chasing me around the yard. Summers came and went, and then came again. One summer finally came, and for the first two months it was awesome – we saw each other every day, played constantly, and spent more and more time wandering the fields and forests. During one such excursion, I had made some joke or another to her, and as usual, took off running with her in pursuit, her fists clenched and ready to fight. I dodged bushes, ducked under branches, jumped over creeks, and she kept on me as doggedly as any person could. As we burst into a small clearing, she bounded forward in a dash and leapt for me, knocking me to the ground.  She quickly climbed on top of me as I rolled to my back, pinning my arms and legs with her own, both of us breathing heavily as she sat firmly on my pelvis.

And that, silly as it sounds, is when I first noticed she was not so much a girl any more, but a blossoming young woman. I don’t know how I had been so oblivious to the fact before – perhaps it was because I had just started blossoming as well. As she sat over me, her breathe heaving, her shirt hanging low, I caught a glimpse of the perfect half orbs that hung beneath that shirt, and for the first conscious time in my memory, my loins stirred to the calling. I know she felt it, because the instant I hardened, I heard her breath in sharply, but there was nothing I could do but blush.  She blushed as well, but did nothing…just sat there as I came to full hardness beneath the heat of her body, the press of her skin.  Our eyes found each other, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. The birds of the forest ceased their calling, the wind slowed and died, and it was just her, me, and the warmth of an early summer day. For the first time, I saw how incredibly beautiful she was, how soft her pale, perfect skin seemed, how dazzling the gems that she called eyes were. And I could see in them that, for the first time, she saw (and felt!) that I was a young man, and that she was as amazed as I was at the discovery.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward, her mouth parting, her eyes closing. I remember how she smelled faintly of artificial strawberries, one of those “kiddy” perfumes that girls would sometimes get and pretend they were grownups with. I remember how insanely, almost unbearably hot she was, like she had been set afire in fever, especially where her thighs parted and pressed against me.. I remember the delicate brush of her hair against my face as its curls fell about me, and the sweetness of her lips when they finally met my own…ah, strawberry lip gloss as well. We kissed, soft and sweet, timidly at first, then deeper, more passionate. Her tongue and mine touched, and I remember it felt as if my heart might explode. Her hips ground against me, harder and harder, and she pressed herself closer, the soft orbs of her breasts pressing tightly to my chest.  She rocked and moaned as her tongue darted into and out of my mouth, and I could feel my own passions growing to maddening levels…and then she began to shake, her body tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing.

And then it ended.  The world came back to life, her lips parted from my own. She pulled away, and I saw that she was crying. One of her sweet, salty tears fell into my mouth, wetting my tongue. She got up then, suddenly, and took off running, leaving me there, hard and hurting from a buildup with no release, confused and exhilarated and yes, a little bit scared.  I finally found my wits, rose with a bit of a struggle (thanks to still being quite, um, intrigued down below), and went chasing to find her…but she had run somewhere I couldn’t find. I didn’t see her for a good week after that. I worried to death that I had done something wrong or bad, that I had scared my friend away. But even with that guilt, I thought about her constantly, the feel of her grinding against me, and as I closed my eyes I remembered her taste.

Then, the next weekend, she came over again, and it was as if nothing had happened. I tried at first to talk to her about it, but she never wanted to, and instead tried to chase me and punch me as we always had.  So I resumed the game, though I will admit, I made it a bit easier for her to catch me. For the rest of the summer, we repeated that first moment over and over again.  We never actually had sex, but the kissing, the grinding, the eventual groping (when she finally relented to giving me the use of my hands) lasted the rest of the summer.

Alas, she moved away that summer, when her mother finally left her father for good. There was no warning…I went over to see her, and she was gone, and her father was cussing and yelling at me for reminding him of the fact. Eventually, I moved on.

Mostly.

Flashback – A poem I wrote a while back – “The Hummingbird and the Rose”

I envy the hummingbird and his rose in bloom;
Her morning petals, damp with early dew,
Spreading, swollen with the heat of the morn
As droplets run o’er her stem and thorns
His greatest hunger, her curves imbue
And beckon him, “Come, partake, consume,
Let your tongue linger in nectar’s bliss,
And let me savor your greedy kiss.”

From such temptation, what bird can resist?
Her full round shape, her blush of crimson red,
And such sweet nectar, in petals robed…
Tis no surprise, then, when they are probed
By delicate licks, till they lay widespread
Beneath the subtle but needy twists
Of his tasting mouth, his questing tongue,
Ah, such lust of which songs are sung.

Oh lucky bird, who licks and licks again
Till all her nectar is teased from out her source;
His heart is pounding, his movements are a blur
As he drinks her essence, all that is her,
Over and over, with gentlest force,
Till both their hungers have been obtained:
His for her nectar and dew complete,
And hers for his kisses, soft and sweet.

Chuck Wendig’s Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge…”We’re all human, even when we’re not.”

This week’s Flash Fiction challenge, from the incomparable Chuck Wendig at http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/05/02/flash-fiction-challenge-behold-your-theme/

The challenge? A story with a theme of “We’re all human, even when we’re not.”

One week. One thousand words. I can do this.

Here goes…warning, definitely NSFW…

 

 

I still remember when she picked me up at that party. I had a pretty good buzz going, just grooving to my own beat, and then, there she was, all smiles and giggles and that hint of blush at her cheeks that spoke of either intoxication or embarrassment. Maybe both. It didn’t matter, though. There was a definite spark between us, a vibe that neither of us could have imagined before. I remember the way she gasped that first time she touched me, and the way I felt shivers all over. Man, it was intense.

Even that first night, when most lovers are a little too clumsy or fumbly or drunk to do things right, we clicked. A fucking puzzle of, well, fucking. God, it was amazing. She climaxed at least a half dozen times, and afterwards, we lay there together, basking in that delightful glow of really good sex. She laughed a bit, commented on how she had never known anyone who could last as long as me, but hey man, I’m like the Energizer bunny. I keep going and going, and she fucking loved it.

I knew, of course, that we’d never be exclusive. She made that clear from the start. She was not the kind of girl content with monogamous sex, and while yes, maybe that’s more my thing, she was way too into me and I WAY too into her to care. I can’t lie, we had a hell of a lot of fun together. And even when she did have other lovers, she always came back to me later. I was the best, she said. No one could get her off like I could, and yeah, I was damned proud. Hell, there were even a couple of times when we shared a lover together. Kinky, I know, but damned man…it was crazy. Fun. Sexy. Hot, hot, hot. Let’s be honest, there was no way I could say no. But life, man…life has a funny way of getting in the way of sexy times. We rolled on pretty good for a good year or so, just fun times and lots and lots of play. She even showed me off to some of her friends which was, you know, AWKWARD, but that’s the kind of cat she is, and hey, I got nothing to hide. And then…well, then, the inevitable happened.

She got pregnant.

Funny how something so small can have such a huge impact in your life. It wasn’t on purpose, and I’ll be honest here, I’m pretty confident it wasn’t mine, but we weren’t exclusive, and as close as we’d become, there was no way I was going to ditch her over it. She cried, a lot. She hardly ever touched me, when she first found out…I don’t know if that was guilt or shame or what have you. And when she did, it was always something quick, urgent. Need, not want. Afterwards, she’d cry some more. I’d try to comfort her, but there’s only so much I could do. She decided, at last, to keep the baby. I supported her regardless, knew we could make it work. And for a while, things did get better. I’ll tell you now, some women, when they’re pregnant, they can’t get enough sex…and that was my girl to a tee. We were going at it constantly – she said it helped with her back. I wasn’t going to argue. I thought she looked radiant, stunning. Beautiful. Every time I touched her, every time I made her cry out, I loved it. I loved her. God, she’s amazing.

When the baby was born, things slowed down again, but hey, I knew they would. It’s tough to get intimate time when you have a little one, crying and fussing and eating and shitting. And damned, man, that shit is non-stop. All hours of the night, every day of the week. I knew my girl was exhausted and since she chose to take on all the childcare stuff, the best thing I could do was be supportive and not complain. So I didn’t. I kept quiet, my needs under lock and key. I stayed content with the time we did get, those rare intervals when the baby was napping and we just had to fill that need as quick as possible. I was still her go to guy – the others couldn’t be bothered with baby drama, and lets be real, they couldn’t do the job as good as I could anyway.

Sometimes, I wish things could go back to that time, crazy as they were. Yeah, sexy times were rare, but they were good. Passionate. Intense. For a moment, when she was on the edge of climax, I could see in her that smile, that blush, that giggle from that first night. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. But things change, man. Babies are hard. And eventually, baby daddy wanted in on the picture. She was reluctant at first, I mean, the fucker hadn’t been there when she needed him most, had he? But now he wanted to be. Now he had changed. And she cried. She wanted what was best for the baby, and what was best was knowing his daddy. I get that.

Dude hated me, though. Felt threatened by me, I guess. He didn’t like when I was around, and got belligerent when she talked about me. He wanted me gone, out of her life. And again…she wanted what was best for the baby. She didn’t even ask my opinion. So here I am. Kicked to the curb like a piece of common trash. Used, abused, and discarded. Wrapped up in some cheap rags and tossed out the door. Now it’s raining, and I am out in the cold.

And fuck me. I think my batteries are leaking.