Modern Horror (standard:horror, 2500 words)
Author: Spotlight	Added: Nov 12 2001	Views/Reads: 4733/2707	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A beautiful wife, A good job, A happy Christian family. Undescript, average, he walks by us unnoticed every day. (very graphic psychological horror, read at your own risk, not for weak stomachs)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

darting in conspicious directions, her throat swallowing. 

"I know, it's humid as hell out there.  Hey, if you don't mind, we were
gonna pop out for an early lunch?"  Slicing choice pieces from his pale 
cheeks, cooking them and force-feeding his bound lover, my lover, her 
face masked.  Her eyes are wide now, blatantly aware of the lump in my 
crotch, rolling her lustfilled pupils. 

"Oh, sure, yea...  got the report Lola?" 

She brings the folder from her side, unnecessarily accentuating her
movements.  "Mmmhmm."  She grunts, allowing the erotic undertones to 
caress my ears, tickling my earlobes with her teeth.  A soft voice, an 
innocent helpless virgin, revealing her desires for the first time, her 
deepest secrets within her pleading eyes, asking, needing, wanting only 
me, her boss, her superior, her protecter. 

"All in order?" 

"Paginated in reverse for your reading enjoyment."  She laughs,
flirting, pulling back a strand of frazzled hair leaking from her 
pony-tail prison. 

"Take it easy."  His tongue boils like leather, dull eyes placed in a
jar, his bleeding carcass abused, slashed with cuts.  I have his 
testicles unraveled, stretched like shoelaces across the bastard's 
caved-in chest. 

"Have fun you guys." 

-- 

I always feel apprehensive, sitting here at the dinner table.  To the
right, James, my supple nine year old son, smelling of childhood sweat, 
less pungent, dirty, but sweet like honeysuckles, grass across the 
knees, and tone runner's body.  To the left, Emily, playing with hot 
wax of the candle, dripping white globs across fingers, my daughter of 
seven, budding breasts, piercing nipples through cotton fabric, a 
"princess" shirt, innocent, trendy, pink and soft.  Angela staring at 
my every move, my saving grace, my wife, sensuous and familiar with 
curves to match her breasts and ass, an eye-catching woman.  My palms 
sweat, slick against the fork, slowly chomping macaroni and cheese, 
rice chicken in gravy, and slurping Coke from a square glass. 

"How was your day, dad?"  Angela scrapes her fork against the porcelain
dinner plate between bites, the fork stabbing pasta between the cleft 
of her breasts, teasingly visible in the modest v-neck. 

Regaining my composure, "Oh...  th-the usual.  Had Arby's for lunch,
Market Fresh stuff.  Was good.  Oh, and I saw Nadine on the way home at 
the gas station."  She raises her eyebrows, chewing, then swallowing, 
shaking her head impatiently, her neck muscles powerful, making me 
shiver.  The kids fill their mouths, gripping their forks and spoons 
with small, curling hands, the boy so tan, so golden, the girl so 
white, so ghostly in color, painted rosy cheeks. 

"Really?  How's she doing?" 

"Bad, actually.  You hear about Henry?" 

"Mom?"  my daughter stretches the "O" with her mouth.  "Who's Nadine?" 

"Mom and Dad's college friend, hun.  I heard he's a lil' sick, I
didn't..."  She stops short, my expression relatively enthusiastic. 

"I didn't know either.  He's been in the hospital for weeks now." 

"Oh...  w-well is it serious?  Heart-attack?" 

"No...  well it's hard to...  well it's not a heart attack, but it is
high-blood pressure, high cholesterol.  She said it isn't angina 
either; she really couldn't give the name.  Slipped her mind." 

"Is it treatable?" 

I laugh, "Depends on if he keeps killin' himself with chicken-fried
steak and gravy for breakfast.  She says he's over 300 now.  I mean, he 
was tippin' the scales back in the college days." 

She's giggling, her body shaking, her breasts jiggling, her hair
skimming her shoulders, blond, tinged with strands of gray towards the 
roots.  Foursome!  I plead to god, to the devil, let the conversation 
degrade to sex!  Slice up the fatman, feed him until his heart bursts 
from his chest, clear the table, sodomy, oral, slippery small hands, 
goosebumps, let the conversation turn over!  Let the conversation turn 
to sex! 

"But, two months ago, you remember.  He didn't look...  well at least,
he didn't look any bigger?" 

Bigger, ha!  "Its strange.  Well, tonight during family prayer, we'll
have to remember him kids."  They nod their sweet little brown-haired 
heads, a cuteness which flushes my cheeks, blood rushing from the 
brain.  I can feel it.  Inexperience in their sweet little heads, 
sexual desire, sexual urgency growing within them, their mouths 
trembling, warm fingers easing along metal, speeding through the food, 
hungry for knowledge, hungry for guidance.  They must realize their 
insatiable habit of teasing me, glancing at me from the corner of their 
eye's.  Maybe they are ashamed of their minds, holding back the urges, 
blocking the dam of subconscious lust.  God, let them succumb! 

"My friend's dad has AIDS and he eats chicken-fried steak every morning
too."  My son blurts before our rationality engages to stop him 
mid-sentence. 

"James!"  Angela shouts. 

"What?  He does, and he eats cheesecake for lunch, and sometimes he goes
to Paris, and Greece.  I wish I had AIDS."  James' moist lips 
articulate words, simple, energetic talk. 

"James Matthews, you know that is not proper dinner table conversation! 
That is a horrible, horrible disease, and I never want to hear you 
speak so lightly of it.  Do I make myself clear?"  Such force in her 
voice, such powerful, deep primal instincts, not yelling but straining 
with teeth clenched like an animal.  I want her on top, the driving 
natural coercing of a needing lover, grabbing fist fulls of my flesh, 
painful tearing in my shoulders, the skin chunked underneath her 
fingernails, screaming.  Tie me down, fingers plunging into my nether 
regions, the throat muscles massaging, tongues lashing, teeth clenched, 
cursing me between head movements. 

"Yes." 

"Alright, then.  Remember, rinse your plate off before you leave." 

-- 

8:45 on the living room clock as I push James up the stairs, his
protests heard, but ignored, his feet trudging to the top, then turning 
for the bathroom.  I watch him undress, turning the water on myself, 
warm enough for him, for his specific tastes.  His shirt lifts over his 
shoulders, his hair tossles lifelessly, his arms a deeper shade of 
brown than his soft back muscles, flexing and quivering with each 
movement. 

Angela forces me to stare, to make sure our dirty son doesn't fake his
bathtime, filling and draining the plastic tub without stepping inside. 
 His bluejeans, the pleasing aroma of fresh-cut grass shavings, 
crinkling into the air, his slender legs taut in wiggling motions, his 
ass cheeks flexing and clenching underneath the underwear.  And as they 
fall, I dizzy.   His creamy skin, stares me down, begging me to caress 
each muscle, to kiss every inch of his tingling body, falling into a 
state of forbidden ecstacy, as he undulates to my ministrations. 

He is in the water now, rippling the surface with his movements, his
crotch withered, visible in refracted light.  I run my hands through my 
hair, struggling, leaning to the wall, looking away, never being able 
to avoid admiring the clandestine sight before me.  A dallop of shampoo 
hits his open palm, frantically rubbed and lathered into his fine hair. 
 He likes to shampoo and rinse first, his butt cheeks in the air, 
kneeling forward erotically, dousing his hair with the running faucet.  
This move breaks my concentration.  So innocent, so absolutely 
delicious, devilish.  My teeth hit my bottom lip, hard enough to draw 
blood, trepidation wracking my body, indecision groping my brain.  How 
many years of jail is worth this satisfaction, the touch, the 
outstretched fingers squeezing, kneeding that relaxed part of the boy's 
anatomy.  My hand lifts from my side, his face immersed in a stream of 
water, bubbles to either cheek.  I am taking this first step.  He is 
asking me to.  He is begging me subconsciously, boiling these thoughts, 
reasoning with my brain, this child, my child.  My fingertips unfurl, 
my knees bend slightly, his boyish backside two feet, now a foot, now 
inches from my nails.  But, I pause.  I need that last explosion, the 
blast of total sin, that last millileter of sensuous rain water to 
watch the droplet break away and fall to final resolution.  My 
heartbeat is in my temples.  My hand is shaking, my fingers trying to 
move, my capillaries drawing blood to the tips, my nerves awaiting the 
orgasmic release of a single touch.  Hovering centimeters above silky 
skin, vibrations, heat and electricity from his body sparking the 
microscopic ridges of skin, charging it. 

And then, he turns off the water, and I jerk back to standing.  My
forehead is dripping sweat, my mind battling feelings of loss and 
relief, as he flops over, splashing a thin drop of water onto my 
pantleg.  The sensations take a few anxious moments to release into the 
air with labored breathing, my hands rubbing my face, my body leaning 
against the blue stenciled wall. 

"Dad?  Why was mom so crazy about the AIDS guy.  He really does eat
chicken-fried steak." 

I drop my arms to my sides, but stare into the mirror at myself.  "Well,
it's just that AIDS is such a bad disease.  You know that." 

"But, it was real cool.  I've never been to Greece." 

"There are other ways bud, to be happy.  It may be hard sometimes, but
you don't need AIDS to have fun... or to get to Greece."  He is 
splashing.  "Come on, hurry your little self up, bedtime soon." 

-- 

We sit there squirming shoulder to shoulder, the waterbed crinkling,
bubbling underneath, sharing a chapter in the Bible together.  Her arms 
are warm and soft, our fingers lightly entangled behind the book, 
shaking my frame with anticipation.  She is eyeing me, her head 
turning, eyes half closed.  I toss the Bible onto the nightstand with a 
flourish, swiveling again to receive nibbles on my neck, excited 
beneath the covers and pressing myself against her stomach.  I want her 
on top, controlling, and she complies, holding my face, locking our 
lips together, tongues twirling.  Breaking away, I whisper, "Special?" 
into her ear, while she raises her eyebrows seductively in mock 
amazement.  Without a word, she smiles, licking her fingers and 
preparing herself, then sliding into position above, shivering, eyes 
closed.  We begin slowly, her eyes open wide at first with painful, 
experimental, sensations, slowly becoming slits again, her nails 
scraping my chest. 

We collapse together after a few minutes, satisfaction glowing in our
fuzzy heads.  Her naked chest adds friction to the tender nail 
scratched areas, tingling with sting, her head nuzzling my neck. 

I think of James.  I think of Emily.  I think of Henry's deteriorating
self image and giving in to chicken-fried steak, letting myself go like 
there is no tomorrow, no consequences.  My mind reels with times spent 
in the bathroom of Arby's, lunch breaks wasted satisfying some aching 
frustration.  I think of my whole life tainted, lies I am forced to 
live.  But mostly, I remember that in ten minutes, the true horror will 
be back again, invading my dreams, sickening my stomach even now.  I 
don't know how long I can last, my lifelong strength of will slowly 
fading. 

I think of the day when I'll crack, and then... 

I don't know what to think. 

--Spotlight-- November 2001 

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