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No Satisfaction

By: Balaak



Life can be such a load of shit. I should have had it all, you know? Hollywood provides this bullshit nonsense that lives are perfect or not, depending on how manly you are. Porn constantly preaches that "bigger is better" without any regard to reality. The erotic stories my wife and I read usually followed a predictable pattern - wife has sex with another man, who invariably has a bigger cock than the writer, wife likes it, and one of two situations develops.

Situation one: the writer is a wimp and likes it too, and watches his wife's couplings with eagerness. He sometimes eats the creampie later.

Situation two: the writer treats his once loved wife like a possession, beating her and showing what a manly man he is with abusive treatment that she has "earned."

What a total load of bullshit.

Maybe those two situations really do happen from time to time, but it bears no resemblance to how life usually works - at least not mine. My wife screwed another man; here is how it developed, and what happened after.

First, I am no wimp. I played football all through my high school and college years. At five foot nine, I weigh in at a very muscular two hundred pounds. My career path has me slinging rebar most of the day. Do you chair-jockeys know what rebar is? The shit is heavy. All through school, I was a fighter. I may have been kicked around bloody, but I've never lost a fight. When I've had a little beer in me, I get a little mean, you know? I love to fight. I love to end fights, and I don't care how many people you throw at me. I've been to a counselor; I know what caused it all in my childhood, but we don't need to go into that. I also have the dream of every boy that grows into a man - I have a big dick. Not massive like some freak, but big. It's eight inches long and thick. I used to show it off in the locker rooms and laugh at the tiny guys. I was the envy of every school buddy I had. That's me and my name is Roy.

Second, my wife is nothing like the typical women you read about in here. She ain't tall, leggy, blonde, beautiful, or sporting ridiculously huge tits for her size. How come every woman in here sounds like Barbie with Dolly Parton tits? I mean, come on. Big tits and skinny women don't go together, unless they're built. I hate fake tits. Ever felt them? They suck. They're all lumpy and disgusting looking. Donna is bone thin and has almost no tits. She's a brunette with thin, silky hair. It hangs to her hips and she has bangs. Her eyes are brown. She's very pretty, but you would never see her in a porn mag. No, not her type of woman - ever. 

So, knowing what we are like, Donna and me, let me tell you a bit about us, together. Donna was a good girl. She was a virgin when we married. Yep, she saved herself. That, by itself caused a lot of argument. Know why? Because I hadn't and I was worried. You guys that have eight inches or more will know exactly what I'm talking about. All of the women I had sex with (except maybe one or two) complained that I was too big. Donna just didn't know any better. I tried to tell her that we should try sex before getting married in case she didn't like me. She told me I was being weird and sick. She was under that fantasy assumption that many people seem to be under: that any pussy can take any cock and get "used to it."

I tried to tell her.

Women's pussies aren't all alike. They come in all kinds of shapes and sizes. But the one thing that can be said of all women's pussies is that they don't "mold" to a shape. They aren't like play-doh. They're elastic and filled with nerves and tender spots. Until I learned better, I used my great teenage "wisdom" to try to violently force my girlfriends pussies to accommodate me. I figured they would like a big one, hard and fast. I figured if they were small, I could "stretch them out." I figured that I could ram my cock into them so hard that they would eventually like it because I could stretch them to my size. I figured wrong. After many episodes of painful and tearful sex from the girlfriends, I finally got it. I was just too damn big for most women and the small ones were never going to be able to accommodate me.

That bullshit about some girlfriend or wife being "ruined" by a big cock is exactly that: pure bullshit. Women don't become looser during a single night of ramming by a big cock. Neither do they become looser by a year of ramming. Sure, there's some reduction in pain over time, but the pain never goes fully away, and the soreness is always there. Always.

So, like I said, I tried to tell my wife long before we were married.

Donna has suffered sex with me, painfully, for three years now. We had a daughter. Donna loosened slightly from the birth, but not enough. Whereas she would frequently bleed during sex from ripped skin, after the birth she rarely ever ripped, unless I was rough. Of course, birth or not, I can't fit all eight inches in. Never have, never will, with Donna. I hit her cervix and she screams. I read a lot of stories in here and laugh when they say the woman just gushes pleasure when her cervix is hit and then proceeds to have three hundred orgasms. What another load of shit. Every single cervix I have ever hit has brought screams or tears or both.

Despite all the pain, sex with Donna is fantastic. Her pussy is so incredibly soft. Not tight, like some teenager's dream, but soft and gripping. No two pussies are the same, and none of the ones I had before Donna were as good. However, as good as it was for me on our wedding night, it was a nightmare for Donna. She was a real sport and our love for each other led us to keep trying, even though I knew it was in vain. Donna just took longer to come to the reality that sex with me was going to be forever painful.

From a sexually active three times a week, we quickly dropped to once a week, and eventually twice a month. Donna was just too sore to have frequent sex with me. What we did work out was sexual release. We would pleasure each other with oral sex. Donna got really good at it. I love the feel of her mouth. It just ain't the same, though. I don't know how some guys get off on it in favor of vaginal - I prefer vaginal.

I noticed her withdraw more and more as the months passed, especially after the birth. I tried talking to her and showing her my love, but she seemed disappointed. She loved me, too, and became a fantastic cocksucker for my benefit, but we were headed for trouble. That brings us to about four months ago (Thanksgiving, 2004). I'll pick up with the conversation we had the day after.

"I didn't expect you had any nice looking friends," Donna told me over left-over turkey. She was used to my drinking buddies and co-workers.

"You thought Greg was nice-looking?" Greg was an old high school friend who had moved away, gotten married, divorced and had just moved back into town. He was about my height, but thinner. Softer, I would say. His slicked black hair was nothing like my manly auburn hair and sun-dried freckles. Even the hair on his arms didn't stand out much. I'd seen him in the locker room at high school; he was smaller than me.

"I don't know. He has a polished look about him." Donna shrugged, but I knew she was curious.

So I told her about him. I wasn't jealous about her curiosity. I was ten times more a man than Greg was.

"He seemed very nice," she said after. "He's the only friend of yours I've been around and don't feel overwhelmed at the same time."

"Overwhelmed?"

"Your other friends are all burly and leer at me all the time. I feel like I'm some snack or morsel and I don't like it." She was insistent. "I don't like their looks. I'm not some piece of meat for them to gawk at."

I had seen their gawking, but it made me proud, not angry. Not like I wanted to show off her tits or anything, but that I had a very pretty wife and she was mine. I liked having her on my arm to show off like having a cool motorcycle or awesome truck that you wanted all your friends to see. I wanted to brag. Their envy was my pleasure. I don't go as far as some guys who like to see their wife get groped. The last guy that did that got shoved up against the wall. When he considered my fist aimed at his face, he issued an apology. That was the only smart thing the stupid prick did, and it saved his nose from being a broken, bloody mess.

That conversation played on my mind over the next couple days and it remained there until we had just finished another attempt at vaginal sex. She was in silent tears and it broke my heart.

"I'm such a failure!" She finally burst out. The sobs were loud. She was really bothered when she went from silent to audible sobs. "What's wrong with me?!"

"Aww, come on, hon," I hugged her and tried to tell her the things I've told her for the three years of our marriage. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"Then why is sex so awful? If everyone loves it, why don't I? What's wrong with my body that makes it so painful?" The tears came harder.

I rehashed all my old assurances. I told her it wasn't her, that it was me. I told her that I would have a reduction, if it was possible. I told her I would do my best and be gentle. All the same old stuff. But with repetition comes familiarity. She knew all that. She'd heard it all before.

I was at wits end here. Understand that. The manly man was just too manly for Donna. 

I wanted to please her. She was my wife. As her husband, I wanted to be the provider. I wanted to make sure she got everything she needed from me. But I knew we were headed for trouble. I knew that unless something changed, Donna would eventually have an affair. A dissatisfied partner is a lost partner. Divorce to "let her go" wasn't an option. She was my wife and that means everything to me. I had no occasion to want to cheat on her. Sure, I had ogled many women while we were married, that's what guys do. Even the guys that abuse their wives for cheating think it's okay for them to cheat around on the wife. Maybe I looked, but I didn't cheat. The thought of her cheating on me was unbearable.

But if our sex life was so bad that she suffered as she did, and would probably become so distraught that she had an affair, what could I do? Nothing? What kind of answer would that be? Just write her off before anything happened? Maybe get in a little pre-emptive abuse? Maybe I should smack her around just for good measure? That might work in some Lifetime movie, but I was smarter than that.

To say that I was frustrated would be like saying it's a long walk to the moon. As fierce as I was to my adversaries, as strong as I was and as fearless as I was, I couldn't satisfy my wife, sexually, and it was getting worse. The short answer to my very long deliberation was to show her that sex could be good. If it was going to continue to get worse, then doing nothing was something only a stupid man would do. But there was no answer that made me feel good about it. The only answer was to allow her to experience sex with a smaller man.

Wrong move, you say? Really? Things were getting worse, not better. I can't make myself smaller, and the oral sex wasn't doing it. This was a mental issue with her where she thought she was at fault. I had to show her she was wrong. Still, I had no illusions that suddenly things would be wonderful afterwards, if I could convince her to attempt it. But I had to do something, and doing nothing just to let everything fall apart was not an option. I am a man of action.

"Have you ever thought of trying sex with another man?" I asked a few days later.

Her response was several days of shock, argument, self-dissatisfaction, worry and doubt.

When she calmed enough to really talk about it, we spent a week talking about our pasts, my past screws, sizes, shapes, feelings, marriage vows, you name it. We had never had this frank a discussion before. No, she wasn't turned on by the prospect. She didn't get all wet and then engage in hot, wild sex with me. But she also knew we were headed towards problems, even though she assured me, somewhat hesitantly that she would never break her vows.

Was I the better man to force her to suffer? But I was realistic, too. I knew we were headed for "the end" if I did nothing. But we were headed for the end no matter what I did, I think. So what was to lose by trying anything?

"Donna, I love you, and I want to see you happy." I had to try something, anything.

"I love you too," she said and smiled at me. But there was a shadow to her eyes. I could see it welling up from her soul.

"I want you to experience sex the way it is supposed to be. The way I can't give you." We were both quiet a long time. "Maybe if you see you're not the problem things might be better."

"Better, how?" Tears welled up in her eyes.

"It's not good with me, but I'm your husband. Let me provide for you, even if we ultimately fail."

"What, so you get someone to rape me and then what? Everything is wonderful?" She was shaking her head.

"Come on, Donna. Don't get sarcastic about it. I love you too much to just do nothing and watch it all go poof."

She was silent. No contradiction, no approval or disapproval.

"You think it's easy for me to talk about this?"

She shook her head no and dropped her gaze.

"Look, if nothing changes, we're doomed anyway. Why not let me try something for you?"

Silence.

"I can find someone and we can try this..."

"You want me to fuck some bar dude? No way! No stranger is going to get between my legs!"

"Okay! I'm sorry. Someone you know and we agree on, then."

"I don't want to talk about this any more." She got up and walked out of the room.

For two more days, I mulled all this over in my mind. The end was coming by doing nothing. I could tell. Love wasn't enough. Oh, love was strong; it kept us together for three years, but it's grip was fading, even though the love was just as strong. Water erodes even rock, and her self-doubt and sexual dissatisfaction was the water on the rock of our marriage.

"If I have to do this thing for you, then let's get it over with," she said as I put away my dinner plate.

I didn't fall for the bait. "Want to discuss who to choose?"

"No. I don't want any of your friends pawing all over me. They're disgusting. You can ask Greg. I think he's the only one I can stand the thought of doing this with."

Greg? Well, she couldn't have picked a better friend of mine, that's for sure. He was barely masculine. He was handsome in a sort of pretty way, but not rugged like me.

Hell, it might work after all, I thought. Now, just to approach Greg about it.

Somehow, it was harder to get the nerve to approach Greg about it than it was to talk to Donna. I had to down several drinks before I had the guts to just come out and ask.

"Hey, um, Donna and I were wondering if you'd like to sleep with her?" I'm sure my face was flushed, and I felt heat radiate from me in a sudden rush.

Greg's eyebrows rose up to his hairline and he blinked several times. "Uh..."

"I'm too big for her and I want her to know how nice regular sex can be. She wants someone we know, so we chose you." I said it all in a rush.

Greg turned redder than me. "Well, uh... what do you say to that?"

We both laughed nervously, but in the end, he agreed. He was flattered that we had chosen him and not some stranger.

I was excited like a kid getting to go to Disneyland. Nervous, I guess. I told him that she wanted me there. I told him the rest of the conditions. We were both to have her, but he should go first. I wanted him to feel how good she felt before I got to her. This was going to happen once, and he was to wear a condom. He thought I meant diseases, and he assured me he was clean, but I told him for contraceptive purposes. I told him that I would be there but might or might not be in the room, depending on if I could handle what was going on or not.

So, he came over that next evening. The little one was out with the babysitter and we were all alone in the house.

We drank a little, to loosen up, and talked, but Donna was shaking with nerves. Greg looked concerned and offered to give her a massage to get a little closer and help her relax.

"A massage? You know, that actually sounds like a good idea," Donna smiled, still nervous.

I watched like a possessive mother hen as Greg worked her over on the bed. He spent a good twenty minutes relaxing her, smoothing away her tense muscles, and undressing her in the process. It was exactly the thing she needed. When he started to sexually massage her, she hummed dreamily in response. Watching another man run his hands over my wife's little tits made me angry at myself. Those were my tits. But it was my fault this was happening.

Greg shed his clothes as Donna watched. She flushed in embarrassment, but didn't otherwise move. Good. I got out of my clothes, too. I was supposed to participate after Greg. 

When he leaned over her and kissed her, I about pulled him off. Jealousy took over and I came up out of my chair. I stopped, though. A kiss was intimate, but so was a screw. I saw Donna respond to his kiss and bring her arm up around his neck. Greg was naked, kneeling on the bed next to her, and my anger and jealousy were attacking me. But in the middle of my own battle, my cock was getting hard.

What the fuck?

I had heard about and read about this in the stories of other people, but I thought that it was all the same bullshit. But here was my cock getting hard at the sight of a naked man kneeling next to my wife. I would have to ask my counselor about it the next time I saw him. I knew that men liked to show off their wives as a matter of childish pride, so maybe this had something to do with that. 

When Greg's fingers fluttered over my wife's clit, Donna responded by spreading her thin legs. My breathing grew audible as the anger and jealousy receded a little.

Donna's hips moved slowly up and down against his hand and she gasped when he inserted a finger into her pussy. I felt like a little kid with his first Playboy magazine. My heart pounded as I watched something I wasn't supposed to be seeing. Greg's smaller cock hardened as he continued kissing and fingering her. Donna reached out and touched his cock.

Anger welled back up in me and I wanted them to do the thing and get it over with. But I knew that it would have to proceed at it's own pace or it would all be in vain. As she began stroking his cock, though, I began feeling happiness, as well. I was happy that she was involved enough to participate. I was happy that Greg got to experience my wife as a full partner, and not just an uninterested screw. Just three seconds of her stroking him made me almost fully erect.

When Greg crawled over her and she spread her legs for him, I almost thought I was coming. But I wasn't. A tickle-like tingle ran up my shaft as it hardened the closer he got to my wife's pussy. When he aimed it at her opening, a drizzle of pre-cum started oozing out of my cock. A long rope of it came out and I didn't know what to do with it except wipe it off the tip. Then I remembered Greg.

"Condom," I reminded him.

He had almost touched her without one. He got back up quickly and tore open the package I gave him. He rolled the condom onto six inches of thin cock. He wasn't tiny, but he certainly didn't have anything to brag about. For some strange reason, him being smaller made me feel better about them having sex. Don't ask; I don't know why.

With his sheathed cock, he moved back to my wife and rubbed it all over her opening. Donna's hips bucked up to him and she squirmed. Not to get him in, but in trepidation. I felt with a sinking feeling that she expected this to hurt, as well. If she didn't enjoy it, then I will have totally failed her.

Fortunately, Greg was taking it slow and working up her lust. I could see it in her, warring with the fear. When Greg used his hand to guide his cock at her entrance and pushed, I strode forward. I don't know what it was, but seeing his cock slide into my wife's pussy acted like a tow rope on my own cock. As it slid into her, my cock pointed at her and drew me forward. The moan that sounded in the room came from me, not her. More pre-cum oozed from my cock. I almost felt like I was pissing.


No Satisfaction



Notes -- PLEASE READ

This is a violent story, with graphic depictions of non-consensual sex and incest. Some readers will find it disturbing. Actually, I hope you find it at least a little disturbing, because if you don't, you may need to seek professional help.

Rape is an insane act of utter cruelty. But the perpetrators often started out as victims of childhood abuse, so to some extent, deserve our sympathy, if not our forgiveness.

This story depicts two damaged people, a brother and sister, who survived a childhood you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, and have carried those mental scars into adulthood. They aren't good people. But they're doing the best they can with the cards they were dealt.

All the characters in this story are over 18. 

*

I was sitting naked in Becky's kitchenette. Cock in hand. Gun in mouth. Shaking. Sweating. Sobbing. Snot running down my face. A blubbering, pathetic pussy.

I was working up the courage to pull the trigger. Working up the courage to put an end to a wasted life. But I was a coward. A fucking coward. And a fucking pervert too. I was jerking off as I blubbered, unable to stop myself. I could still see the pretty little brunette as clear as day. I could still see the fear in her eyes. I could still feel my unwanted cock spreading her pussy lips wide and my fingers digging deep into her throat. I could still hear her gasping, choking screams and the mocking voices of evil men egging me on. "Do it boy! Do it! Do it! Yeah! Yeah! Yeaaaahhhhh!!"

All the while, a horrifying phrase kept echoing in my mind.

I am my father's son.

I moaned and sobbed and my finger gently squeezed the trigger for a moment before easing back again. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I'll do it after I cum. I'll do it, and then all this fucking shit will be over."

*

Two days earlier, at around 9pm, I'd turned up at Becky's door unannounced. She didn't recognize me at first. Why would she? She hadn't seen me in four years. Not since I was fourteen and she was seventeen.

"Yeah?" she said, looking at me quizzically.

I recognized her, of course. There were family photos all over our parent's house. In some places they covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. That was one of our father's obsessions: capturing the illusion of love. Every Sunday after church he dragged us to photo studios all over the county, dressed in our Sunday finery. We'd smile for the photographers, pretending to be a happy, normal, loving family. Becky and I learned to smile beautifully. We practiced in the mirror. If Mom or Dad didn't like our smiles when the prints arrived in the mail, things could get bad. Real bad. So we learned to take very good pictures.

My favorite was the big one at the end of the hallway. That was the last one with all four of us together. Becky looked luminous in that photograph. Even more than usual. She wasn't just smiling with her mouth, but with her big brown eyes. The second I saw it, I knew. She was going to run away. I begged her to take me with her. She said I was imagining things. But three days later she disappeared. The only light in my life went out. Dad said she'd come crawling back, but she didn't.

I thought about running away too. But then Dad put a tracking bracelet around my ankle. I had nowhere to run. I was trapped. Abandoned. Left for dead.

Becky's was a little thinner now than in that old photograph. Her bright blonde hair was hanging long and wavy over her shoulders, instead of tied up in the two braids Mom had always made her wear. But I knew her face. She looked like Mom, only thinner. I stared at her, not sure what to say.

She impatiently said, "Can I help you?"

"I'm Wyatt. Your brother."

After a moment to process, her face lit up and she hugged me like a long lost soldier returned finally from the war. And I guess that's what I was. Except... she'd abandoned on the battlefield and we both knew it. It was a bitter homecoming, for me anyway.

"Oh, my God! Wyatt! Wyatt! I can't believe it! It's you! It's you! Oh, my God!"

My body went stiff as she hugged me. I felt nothing inside. I hadn't felt anything for years and years. But then... way down deep... I felt a little spark... a distant memory of us, hugging each other in the dark as doors were slammed and voices raged. "Don't worry Wyatt, I'll protect you," she'd said. Fuck. She could barely protect herself. But I loved her for it.

Becky invited me in to her tiny apartment and we sat in awkward silence while she made hot chocolate. I hadn't had hot chocolate in years. Not since she ran away. A lot of good things left with Becky.

She finally said, "So... did you get my card?"

"Card?"

"I sent you a birthday card. I've been sending them the last three years. And other letters too. I suppose you didn't get those either."

"What do you think?"

I didn't need to elaborate. She knew that any letter she sent to me would never reach my hands, but I guess she figured it was the thought that counts. Fuck the thought.

"So," I said, after a long pause, "I just got out of juvie."

Her brown eyes went big. "Juvie?"

"Yeah. Shuman Juvenile Detention Center. I was there for eight months."

She suddenly started crying. Unable to look at me, or say anything. I didn't feel like explaining how or why I was in jail. I just said, "I got nowhere to go. Can I stay with you till I get a place of my own?"

She smiled at me, her wet face glowing with happiness. But there was a pause. A definite pause. An infuriating pause... before she said, "Of course, Wyatt! As long as you want! It's just a studio, though. And the couch is too short to sleep in. It's just a love seat."

I looked around the tiny room. There was nothing but a small kitchenette, a teeny bathroom, a rickety twin sized bed next to an overflowing chest of drawers, and a dumpy couch and chair facing an out of date TV. The whole place reeked of roach powder. Still, it was a palace compared to what I was used to.

"I can sleep on the floor."

"No... I'm sure there's enough room in the bed for both of us. We used to sleep together, remember?" She smiled. But why did she bring that up? It wasn't a warm and fuzzy memory. I still had flashbacks of the two of us hugging and shivering in the cold. Naked. Terrified. Mom and Dad didn't think we deserved blankets or sheets. Or even a bed. I would usually spoon her from behind, but when I started going through puberty, we slept the other way, for obvious reasons. Not that I had the hots for my sister. But I was a boy, and my body did things that I simply couldn't control. And even though our life at the time was one nightmarish episode after another, something about those nights shivering on the carpet with Becky still made my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"I'll sleep on the floor. I don't mind. The bunks in juvie were hard as boards."

She nodded, then asked, "Why were you in Shuman?"

I didn't want to answer. She'd never let me live with her if she knew why they locked me up. My records were sealed now and I'd made up my mind never to tell anyone about my crime, least of all Becky. So I interrupted her with something I knew would take her mind off my incarceration.

"Mom and Dad are in county jail."

She stared at me, wild eyed. "What?"

"After I went to juvie, they fucked up. I guess they couldn't wait for me to get out. They... do you remember David Patterson? The kid next door?"

Becky's face went pale. I didn't need to go on. She knew David. She had a crush on him, but turned him down whenever he asked her out. But it was for his protection. She didn't want our parents to notice how cute and trusting he was. He never did give up on her, though. After she ran away, he started coming around asking for her. I wanted to scream, "Run away! Get out of this house of horrors!" But instead, I just told him to fuck off.

"After I went to juvie, I guess he came around looking for you a few times. Poor kid. When they were done with him, he ratted them out. So they're in jail. For now. No evidence though, and he's recanted his statements since then. I figure they'll worm their way out of it, like they always do."

Becky's knees got all wobbly. She sat in her crummy second hand kitchen chair and started to cry.

I continued, "The cops wanted me to testify against them. No fuckin way. I told them they should contact you. You were always saying how you'd get them someday. I guess that was a lot of big talk, huh?"

"Nobody c-c-called me," Becky croaked, barely able to speak.

"Nobody knows where you are. Or, at least they're not trying very hard to find you. But it wasn't that hard. Twenty minutes in the computer center was all I needed to track you down. You didn't even bother changing your name. Good thing for you Dad doesn't believe in technology, or he would have snatched you back by now."

Becky's arms were shaking. Sadness? Shame? Anger? Relief? All the above? I didn't know. I didn't care. Crocodile tears, as far as I was concerned.

"They sold the house and everything in it to pay their lawyers. Even my dirt bike. There's nothing left. So now I got nothing but a sister and a job."

Her whole body was shaking with sobs, almost like she was having a seizure. I watched her coldly for a while, then said, "If you want to testify, I have the prosecutor's phone number..." She buried her face in her hands and shook her head like crazy, making her wavy blonde hair whip about. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

That was pretty much all there was to say. I just stared at Becky as she wept bitter tears. I started to feel something at last. But it wasn't love. It was hatred. She'd abandoned me. Her baby brother. She knew what they'd do to me without her to share the pain. She knew, but she left anyway. And here she was crying like she was the one who needed comforting.

Fuck her.

I felt a black fury descending, so I lifted the wall up over my feelings again. I hadn't shed a tear since the day Becky ran away. I wasn't about to start now. I'd built that wall brick by brick as a kid. I could go weeks at a time without thinking or feeling anything. That skill came in handy in juvie. They always tried to break down the new kids, both the cons and the councilors, but all I did was stare at them, cold and distant, like I'd already seen hell. And it wasn't an act. I had seen hell. None of those tough kids had any idea what a bad childhood was. When they pushed me around, I didn't fight back. I took whatever was dished out, without crying or complaint. Eventually they left me alone. All of them.

Becky curled up on her little bed and cried softly for hours and hours. Damn... that was a weird night. But I was used to weird nights. For a while I sat on the couch and stared at the dark screen of her television. I considered turning it on, but I didn't have the energy. I noticed that there was a tiny, warped reflection of the room in it... a tiny little me, slumped open-legged on the shabby couch, a tiny little Becky curled into a ball on her bed, sobbing and snuffling. I pretended I was watching two other people... characters in a sad domestic drama, playing out the desperate details of their miserable little lives for my amusement. They were a pathetic pair.

I was numb inside, but I enjoyed the sound of Becky's sobs... they just sounded so damned female. They triggered the male in me. I was eighteen and full of testosterone. And I'd just spent eight months in an all-male environment. So yeah, I got a hard-on listening to my sister cry. It made me feel mean and dirty, but I couldn't help it. I am my father's son. I tried to ignore my boner, but soon it was painfully pressing against my tight denims. The harder it got, the madder I got. I felt like yelling at her to shut the fuck up, but I knew she'd kick me out if I did anything like that, and I didn't want to sleep on the street again. Two weeks of that was all I could take before I gave in and came begging for help. It was fucking cold outside.

After about half an hour with a raging hard-on, I realized it wasn't going to go away, so I went to her tiny little bathroom and tried to rub one out. I noticed the bra and pink thong panties she had hung up to dry on the shower bar. I stared at them as I jerked my meat, filled with self-loathing. I could still hear her. Whimpering. So sexy. So female. So fucking hot. I stood with one hand on the dingy pedestal sink and jerked off like crazy. Half a minute later, I shot my wad into the toilet.

But my hard-on didn't go away. It was throbbing just as hard and painfully as ever, so I kept on jerking. That's how it is with me most the time. One orgasm never does it for me, but it's difficult to cum twice. It's almost impossible to find that one thing I want most in the world...

Satisfaction.

As I stood there, wanking away, I got more and more desperate to find relief. I wanted to sleep, but I knew I had to finish this or I'd toss and turn all night. My mind was casting about for images to help me finish. I thought about Jasmina, the dental assistant who saved my life, even though she didn't know it. I thought about my lady lawyer, Tamara, who'd let me touch her tits once in a moment of weakness. I even thought about that slinky little crack whore who stole my money.

But I gave up and started thinking about Becky. I took her thong off the shower bar, and pressed the little triangle of pink fabric against my nose and inhaled. She'd washed it out by hand, but I could still smell her musk, or at least I imagined I could.

I closed my eyes and pictured myself walking out of the bathroom naked. I see that she's naked too now, lying on her side, facing the wall. I crawl into bed behind her, and slip one hand around to her belly, and tuck my knees in behind hers, just as we'd done way back when. I hold her, breathing in the perfume from her hair, and her supple little body heaves against mine as she sobs. Then my cock grows hard and slips between her velvety thighs. She grows tense, but she tries to ignore it. But my cock presses in and upward, until the tip of it brushes against her tight, wet little pussy. Instead of pulling away in embarrassment, I grab her hips tight... my fingers digging into her soft flesh... and arch forward, sliding the tip of my cock into her pussy.

She screams, "Wyatt! What are you doing? Let me go!"

But I growl, "This is what you've always wanted, Becky. Stop bitching. I'm gonna fuck you, big sister."

She shouts, "Noooooo!!!", so I clamp my hand over her mouth and thrust myself deep inside her tight, hot cunt. I'm fucking her... I'm fucking my big sister as she struggles to push me away. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck... I'm raping her. I am my father's son. But it's what she deserves. Bitch. Cunt. Whore.

As I masturbated I mumbled under my breath, "Becky... Becky... take it, you fuckin' bitch... oh you fuckin' cunt... fuck you, fuck you, fuuuhhhh..." My hand was slapping my crotch with sharp, wet whaps. When I finally had that second, desperate orgasm, it was powerful. I shot it into the crotch of her thong, as I groaned and my knees buckled. I collapsed to the toilet, gasping, drained by the effort. My cock finally softened and the insane urge to do something terrible faded away. I didn't exactly feel satisfaction, but it was close enough for now.

I washed my cum out of her panties in the sink, then wrung out as much of the water as I could and hung it over the bar, burning with shame. I wanted to take a shower, but more of Becky's underthings were hanging inside, and I couldn't bring myself to touch them. They'd only turn me on again. So I stepped out of the bathroom quietly. She wasn't sobbing anymore. She was sleeping. So I turned out the light and lay down on the floor and listened to Becky breathe. The room was warm. I liked it at first, but after a while, I couldn't get comfortable in my jeans, so I took them off and slept in my boxers.

The next morning I woke to the smell of bacon. Becky was in the kitchenette cooking breakfast and humming. Mom used to do that too. Sometimes it meant we were gonna eat. Sometimes it meant we were gonna watch Mom and Dad eat while we stood there and salivated. I looked down and noticed I was sporting a major boner. Becky had to have seen it. Shit. I pulled on my jeans, and dug a big sweatshirt out of my duffle bag, so it's tails would cover my bulge.

"Morning." I said.

"Morning," she replied, not turning to look at me. I could feel the embarrassment in the air.

We ate in silence around her rickety little fold-up table. Becky turned on the TV and started watching some obnoxious morning news program. Neither of us wanted to dish about the 'good old days', but I thought about them anyway as I shoveled scrambled eggs in my mouth.

Becky had always taken care of me. Outside the home, anyway. When bullies harassed me at school, she chased them off. But she couldn't protect me from Mom and Dad any more than I could protect her from them. We were safe out in public, but once we were inside, behind closed doors, we were trapped with two insane perverts. We learned survival the same way wild animals do. The hard way. Eat or be et.

Life wasn't all bad. There were good times too... times when Mom and Dad were loving and wonderful. But then there were times when they got a little too loving. And times they got a LOT too loving. But that wasn't so bad... we had ways of coping with that. It was only when the love went away that the truly bad shit happened. Mom and Dad could flip on a dime, stroking you one second, slapping you the next, or punching... or biting... or... or... or...

Perhaps sensing the black cloud growing in my mind, Becky chirped, "Wyatt... last night... did you say you had a job?"

I nodded, "A counselor hooked me up with a paint contractor. I'm gonna be doing house painting, I guess. I don't know shit about painting, but I doubt it's that hard. And what else am I qualified for? I never did graduate high school. They had classes in juvie, but I hated that fucking teacher. He was so lame."

"I never finished school either. But... I guess you know that."

Boo fucking hoo, Becky. "Do you have a job?"

She smiled, happy to be finally having a normal conversation, "Yeah. I work part time at a club downtown. The Raven. Nothing much. I just help out, you know? They have some go-go girl cages there and I auditioned a few times to be a dancer... they make good money... but I don't have any rhythm. And I'm ugly to boot."

She was right on the first count. She was always a terrible dancer. Two left feet. But on the second count, she was by no means ugly. In fact, as I took my first good look at her in the brilliant morning light that was streaming though the kitchen window, I found her to be quite beautiful, in a shabby, shlumpy sort of way. Her face was just as pretty as ever, even with her deep brown eyes all red and puffy from weeping all night. And she had filled out nicely since the last time I'd seen her. She was wearing loose pajama bottoms, and a tight cotton tank top. I hadn't noticed the night before... but she wasn't wearing a bra. Not surprising... she hadn't been expecting visitors. But I could see the bumps of her nipples and areolas with shocking clarity. I felt an intense lustful stirring in my cock, as I stared at my sister's lovely tits.

Becky saw the look in my eyes. She blushed and turned to do the dishes. Now I was checking out her ass. Staring right at it. Watching her butt cheeks wiggling lasciviously with every move of her hands. I couldn't stop staring. She got more and more uncomfortable. She turned to collect my plate, so I looked away. But I looked again as soon as she turned back. Fuck... I hadn't seen an ass like that in the longest time. As long as I didn't see her face, I could imagine I was looking at some other girl's fucking hot as shit ass... not my sister's.




No Satisfaction



The tension in the little apartment was thick enough to slice. When she was done stacking the dishes, she turned and walked to the bathroom, hugging herself awkwardly, so as to hide her breasts from me.

I certainly didn't feel proud of having lustful thoughts about my own sister. They fucking freaked me out, to tell the truth. But I rationalized that it was only a physiological reaction and didn't mean anything. After all, eight months in lockup can make a guy as horny as hell. Particularly a teenager who'd never so much as kissed a girl. Back in high school, I was too concerned with personal survival to give much thought to girls. But my roommate in juvie talked about sex non-stop. He'd apparently been a bit of a lady's man. We'd lay in our bunks and he'd talk about all the pussy he'd had and all the pussy he was gonna have once he got out. I don't know if he was full or shit or not, but all those stories really did a number on me. When they released me on my eighteenth birthday, I had only one thing on my mind: pussy.

They gave me money to get started on a new life, but the first thing I did was take a bus to the worst area in Pittsburgh, looking for a hooker. The only one I could afford was a slinky little African American crack whore who disappeared with my money the moment I gave it to her. Damn. I'd really wanted to fuck her too. She was so cute, even without all her teeth. But the bitch left me broke and more frustrated than I'd ever been in my life. I spent two freezing weeks on the street, begging for dimes, and desperately flirting with homeless chicks and shop girls. But I knew shit about flirtation, and the desperate look in my eye made me come off like a pervy creep, which I guess I was. My prospects for pussy were bleak and I knew it.

I listened breathlessly as Becky took her shower. I couldn't get the image of her naked body out of my mind. The water running down her pale flesh. Her little hands spreading foamy soap all over her tits and between her legs. I toyed with the crazy idea of walking in there, saying, "Hey, we're on a budget. Let's conserve water by showering together." I grinned wickedly at the thought, then once again felt disgust with myself. I am my father's son.

When she was done, Becky said, "Shit!" Then a minute later she said, "Wyatt? Uh... I forgot to bring my clothes to change into. I guess I'm not used to visitors."

"Okay. I'll go outside."

"No, don't be silly. Just close your eyes. It'll only take a sec."

"'Kay."

I stared at the TV while she came out of the bathroom behind me. The image on the screen was relatively dark, so I could see a tiny little Becky reflected in it. She was wearing the bra and pink thong that I'd cum into the night before, but nothing else. She scampered over to her chest of drawers and rummaged through it as I checked out the distorted image of her pale ass. Then the image on the screen got too bright for me to see her, so I turned my head to sneak a peek. Shit... her bare butt cheeks looked so creamy and perfect. The smoldering embers of lust inside me suddenly burst into an inferno. I stared back at the TV, sweat popping out of every pore, and cock throbbing to full attention. What the fuck? She's my fucking sister!

She scampered back into the bathroom with her clothes. The instant she closed the door I whipped out my cock and started jerking it. Pre-cum was welling out of the tip like a temperamental volcano. I jacked off like crazy, listening to her brush her teeth. I knew she'd be coming out again any second, but I kept jacking until the last possible instant. Then I flipped the bottom of my sweatshirt down to hide my throbbing cock, and leaned toward the television to cover it as she came out of the bathroom. I was almost blind with lust. It was scary.

After bustling about for a while, she sat in the nearby chair. My cock was as hard as ever. I was wickedly tempted to lean back and let her see it. Fuck... that would really freak her out... to know what a sick pervert her little brother has become. But maybe she'd be happy to see it. Maybe she's lonely too. Maybe she needs cock as much as I need pussy. But who the fuck cares what that bitch needs? I should just fuck her. She owes me. She fucking owes me. Oh shit. Oh shit, what the fuck's wrong with me? I'm a fucking sicko!

I was afraid to look at her. I was worried that she'd dolled herself up to look all sexy and shit for her job at the club. With the way I felt right then, I was afraid that if she had any cleavage on display, I was gonna have no choice but to jump up and shove my cock right into her surprised mouth, shouting, "Eat it you fucking abandoning bitch!"

But when I looked, she was wearing a heavy sweater and a pair of frumpy bellbottom jeans. And her hair was up in two loose ponytails. She pulled her skinny legs up onto her chair and sat cross-legged, then looked at me and smiled. Shit, she was my sister. My big sister. I felt a teeny little bit of childish love come into my heart for the first time since she'd run away. A shadow of a memory of a reminder of how we used to be. My boner diminished and retreated back into my jeans. I took that opportunity to go to the bathroom and take a shower of my own. I ran it cold, until I was shivering like a wet puppy. By the time I emerged I felt like Becky's little brother again. I even felt a tiny bit of affection for her, a feeling I was certain I'd lost forever. It was a huge relief not to have those violent and incestuous thoughts rolling around inside my noggin.

We watched TV for hours, as each of us waited for the other to break the silence. I should have told her how betrayed I felt by her abandonment. She should have apologized. We should have shared our dark stories, and worked through the painful memories together. But neither of us said a thing. Our parents had instilled a conspiracy of silence that left us helpless and isolated in our own worlds, where I wallowed in bitterness, and she wallowed in regret.

Finally, it was getting near the time for me to report to work. "Well... I guess I better go catch the bus. I'm working the late shift. It goes from three pm to midnight."

She said, "Really? That's late! Where are you going? Do you know the way?"

I dug the directions out of my pocket and she looked them over.

She didn't look very happy. "That's... wow, that's a weird area. That's on the waterfront... the old steel mills. Those places have been abandoned for... I don't know... since the late sixties. Hey, you must be working on one of those renovation projects."

"I don't know. They didn't say."

"They're converting some of those old factories into high-end lofts. I read about it in the paper. There's a bit of a scandal, I think. The mob's involved in some way. Corruption... kickbacks... stuff like that. Anyway, the area is practically deserted at night. I doubt you'll be able to find a bus anywhere near there after midnight."

"I hadn't thought of that. No wonder the contractor said, 'provide your own transportation.'"

Becky looked thoughtful. "Well... if I didn't have to work until 3 am, I'd pick you up."

"No, you don't have to. If there aren't busses there, I'll just walk to where they're still running."

"Well, don't walk alone. There must be other guys working with you. Just follow them. There's gotta be all-night busses downtown. That's not too far from the waterfront. But I'll be happy to drop you off at work and show you how to get downtown if you need to."

"Well..."

"I insist." There was a look on her face... a weird happy look, and it pissed me off. As if dropping me off at work would make up for abandoning me and leaving me for dead. But I thanked her and accepted the offer. I was a lazy punk. I'd had my fill of walking around the city.

We piled into her rattletrap car, and she drove into one of the creepiest areas I've ever seen. It could have been the set for a post-apocalyptic movie. The whole district was nothing but miles and miles of closed factories and steel mills, separated by crumbling streets, and populated by nothing but junkies and rats. There were no businesses anywhere. Not even a hot dog stand.

She drove me up to this huge brick building, which was blackened with a century of soot. The address was prominently displayed over the giant, imposing doors. Huge letters read, Angelburne Steelworks, 1912.

I got out and said, "Well... bye."

She leaned forward. "Hey, I forgot. I don't have a spare key to the apartment. I'll leave it unlocked for you."

"No, I'll just wait outside till you get home."

She shook her head. "Don't be silly. I don't have anything in there worth stealing."

I shrugged. If she wanted to leave her door unlocked, who was I to complain?

After she pulled away, I walked up to the huge door and discovered it was locked. I banged on it, but was greeted with hollow silence. I peered through the dusty windows. There was a cavernous factory floor inside, strewn with junk and garbage. Homeless people must have slept in there from time to time, because there was a ratty mattress in the center of the dusty, wooden floor. There wasn't a soul in sight. Just massive machines looming off into the murky darkness. It was a great location for a horror movie.

"Shit. Fucking great."

I looked around. The street was totally empty, except for a single rat running along one of the wires stretched between buildings. Now what?

There were no other doors on the front of the building so I just waited around. After about ten minutes a city bus pulled to a stop down at the corner. Fifteen burly guys with lunch pails and hard hats got out. They didn't walk up to the main door where I was standing, but went down a narrow alleyway at the end of the building. I followed them, figuring to let the herd lead me to water.

The narrow alley twisted and turned between two huge brick buildings. The area stank of garbage and rot. The actual entrance to the jobsite was on the backside of the building, next to the train tracks. All the guys dispersed, obviously knowing where their jobs were. I could hear them working, but I had no idea where I was supposed to go. So I waited by the entrance, wondering what to do now. I should have asked one of the guys, but honestly, they were huge and scary... and covered with prison tattoos. Becky was probably right that this job was run by the mob.

Eventually a hulking guy with a hard hat came in and yelled at me for being late, as if I was supposed to somehow magically know that foreman's trailer was located on the far side of the train tracks. His name was Mr. Schmidt. He was a surly, fat bastard, and I hated him instantly. But I kept my tongue and gave him the fake 'contrite' expression that I'd learned under Mom's insane tutelage.

Then Schmidt growled, "Where's your fucking hard hat?"

"Nobody told me to bring one. I'm sorry."

"Stupid and useless! Why the fuck do I hire you worthless juvie punks. Don't know nothin about nothin."

I nodded and smiled stupidly. I knew how to shine folks on, so after a few more insults, he decided not to fire me and lent me an extra hard hat (which he had at least a dozen of). Then he called over a skinny black dude and told him to show me the ropes.

The guy was named Tojee, or something like that. I'm not sure how he spelled it, but that's what it sounded like. He was from some other country, and although his accent was so thick that I could barely understand a word he was saying, he was all smiles and laughs. He took me to the area where the paint equipment was stored and we collected a bunch of paint cans, brushes and rollers.

Then I followed Tojee through a crazy job site. It was noisy and chaotic. Huge, burly guys with hardhats were working everywhere... hammering, sawing, welding... you name it. Tojee came to a halt near the stairwell. He put his finger to his lips and quietly crept past this huge, bald guy who was knocking down a brick partition with a sledgehammer. He was seven feet tall, and swung that thing around as if it were as light as a feather. Tojee was obviously terrified of him, which wasn't surprising. The guy had a swastika tattooed on the back of his big, bald head. Tojee whispered "You stay way from dat man. Bad. Very bad." I nodded, but I'd already figured that much out.

We lugged our shit up four floors, but at least the top floor was relatively quiet. Tojee explained that the drywallers had just finished the previous day, and the two of us were expected to paint the whole floor by midnight. It was crazy. There must have been fifteen apartments, each a different size and shape, and super tall. But there was only me and Tojee, without a single ladder, only long sticks to tape our rollers to. Somehow I knew that Mr. Schmidt wasn't going to be happy with our progress by the end of the night.

Oh well, a job's a job. I figured, how hard could it be? Well... it was fucking hard. I hated it. Tojee worked like a madman and within minutes his nice personality faded away as he discovered his new partner was a slacker. I'd been sitting on my ass in a cell for eight months. I was weak and lazy. If I hadn't been so desperate, I probably would have quit.

After an hour or two, a handsome guy named Barry came to help us. He was my age, and though he had a healthy glow about him, he was every bit as much a slacker as me. Barry liked to talk instead of work, which really annoyed Tojee, but Tojee kept his mouth screwed shut. Actually, he seemed a bit intimidated by the guy.

When we took a break, Barry looked me up and down and said, "You look a bit young to be an ex-con."

"Well... I just got out of juvie."

"Oh. I didn't know Uncle Paul hired delinquents too."

"Uncle Paul?"

He laughed, "Yeah. Mr. Schmidt's my uncle. Step-uncle actually. One of these days I'm gonna be the boss, but for now I'm just learning how the construction business works until I get my business degree. I'm in my second year over at Pitt. I spent all last week with the demolition crew. Goddamn, that's some hard work. I'm glad to take a break from real work." He said this as he lazily painted the same two by two section of wall again and again. His novelty of doing this 'easy work' wore off quickly though. After half an hour he said, "I don't know how you guys can stand to do this sissy job. I'm bored outa my gourd."

I saw Tojee stiffen with the insult, but he kept his tongue. Must be nice to be the boss's nephew. Something about Barry's entitled attitude spurred me to prove I was better than him, so I buckled down and within the hour I was working almost as hard as Tojee, though with much less skill. Still, I could tell that Tojee was impressed. Barry just kept yammering away, bragging about college, and how he was going to buy a convertible as soon as he had enough money saved up. By this time, he'd stopped doing any work at all, and just sat on the paint cans and watched us hustling about.

Finally Tojee worked up the gumption to say to Barry, "I tink you learn all you need to learn from me, boy. Why don you go ask you uncle to give you anudda job."

A cold look crossed Barry's face. Then he smiled and said, "Sure. Whatever you say, boss."

After he was gone, Tojee said, "He love to talk, dat one." I laughed. Then he said to me, "You doin good." He was a man of few words, but I felt a flush of pride. I realized quite suddenly that I loved this job. We worked on, wordlessly figuring out the most efficient way to work together. I'd slop the paint on the walls and he'd do all the lining. I simply didn't have the control to do it without putting down masking tape. But Tojee wielded that lining brush like a surgeon with a scalpel. Still, in spite of our efforts, we only managed to paint two apartments by dinner break. I'd forgotten to bring any food, so Tojee let me have a few bites of a nasty stew his wife had made for him. Afterward Mr. Schmidt came around and saw how little progress we'd made and yelled at Tojee, who then yelled at me. After he left, Tojee smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I shook my head. It was just so confusing.

After dinner break, Mr. Schmidt came back around and said Tojee needed to go work on another project for the rest of the evening, so I was on my own. Tojee told me to paint the walls, but to leave the lining for him to finish the next day. After he left I fished my MP3 player out of my pocket and listened to acid rock as I worked.

Maybe it was the driving beat in my ears, or the paint fumes, I don't know, but I started to detach. I mean... my body was working harder and faster, but my mind was growing quieter and farther away. I wasn't thinking about anything... not Becky or Dad or Jasmina or Mom... I wasn't hearing screams and slamming doors... I wasn't choking down cocks... or feeling high heels piercing my anus... I was just silent inside.

It was almost as if I was dead. It was wonderful. But I totally lost track of time.

If the battery on my player hadn't run low, I might have worked until sunup. But a song suddenly stopped right in the middle of a roaring guitar riff and I snapped out of my reverie. I looked around in amazement. I'd painted five entire rooms all on autopilot. Then I noticed the silence.

The distant sound of hammers and saws was gone. What time is it? I looked at my watch. It was 1:30 A.M. "Fuck!" My voice echoed through the building. I walked out to the stairwell. Everything appeared dark below my floor. I went down a ways but couldn't figure out how to turn any of the lights on down there. Luckily there was a skylight at the top of the stairs, and a full moon above, so I had just enough light to make my way down with my rollers and brushes. As I cleaned the brushes out in the sink in near total darkness, I felt myself getting angrier and angrier. Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me it was quitting time? Why didn't they come check on me? Shitheads! Assholes!

But after a while, I calmed down. So I get home late. Big deal. It's not like Mom's waiting there to punish me.

When I was finished with the long chore of washing out the rollers and brushes, I went over to the door I'd entered through earlier in the day. It was locked. Chained shut from the outside.

"Fuck me!!!"

I tried every door I could find. They were all chained shut. I suddenly felt like a trapped rat. I started toying with the idea of breaking open one of the heavy windows. But they were criss-crossed with wire, so I doubt I could have broken them. Then I remembered that the great big door on the front of the building didn't have a chain on it, so it was probably locked from the inside. If I could find it, maybe I get out that way.

Only... it was dark. There must have been a main electrical panel somewhere, but fuck if I could find it. So I started to make my way into the main part of the building. The workers were right in the midst of renovations, so walls and hallways were being erected all over the place. Drywall hadn't been put up yet, so all I saw was a maze of metal stud walls that went off into the impenetrable blackness. It would have been bad enough to navigate if the place had been clean, but there were piles of trash and construction supplies everywhere... booby traps for the blind.

I bonked my head and bashed my knees and twisted my ankles a dozen times as I made my may through the maze of walls and hallways in pitch darkness. If not for the hard hat I would probably have knocked myself out once or twice. The only light I had was the feeble glow of my watch, but it was only bright enough to show me that the time was now a quarter after two. At this rate Becky would probably make it home before me.

I almost fell down into a pit, catching myself on an electrical wire just in time. "Shit, fuck!"





No Satisfaction



Finally, I saw a dim light coming around a door in the distance. It was bright enough to allow me to see the floor, so I was able to navigate my way around the piles of junk. I opened the door and saw what must have been the main factory floor. The renovators hadn't gotten to it yet. It was still mostly open, except for the titanic pieces of machinery that used to roll hot steel into I-beams. It was dimly lit by numerous skylights in the ceiling. I could see the front door of the factory way off in the distance, just beyond that ratty mattress I'd seen earlier in the day.

With a huge sense of relief, I started walking toward the door.

Then I heard a scream.

It was muffled, but unmistakable. A woman's scream... followed by whimpering and a hard slap.

A man's voice said, "Shut the fuck up, bitch."

I felt a shiver run up my spine. Every hair on my head crawled erect, and my heart began to pound in my chest.

She screamed again, and I saw Jasmina in my mind. Jasmina. The dental assistant who saved my life. Jasmina was leaning over me, putting cotton in my cheeks, smiling as she said, "Don't worry, Wyatt. Everything's gonna be alright." She was wrong. Everything wasn't going to be alright. Dad was sitting in a nearby chair, reading a magazine quietly. Innocently. Nobody would ever have believed how he broke my tooth, and I would never tell. He'd gotten carried away, but he wouldn't make that mistake again. The next time he'd be more careful. Or maybe he'd be less careful. Hell... next time I might be lying on a slab instead of a dentist's chair.

Jasmina patted my arm comfortingly and smiled. "Dr. Gibbs will save that tooth. Don't you worry." She was pretty. Not super extra pretty, just ordinary pretty. She looked like she was Middle Eastern or something, with dark black hair and olive colored skin. She had a lilting accent, and an easy, optimistic air. She looked like someone who'd never seen the things I'd seen.

The dentist examined my tooth and said, sadly, that he wouldn't be able to save the tooth. I could see the fury in Dad's eyes. This was gonna cost him a bundle, and he was going to take it out on me as soon as we got home. Dr. Gibbs explained the options, each of which more expensive than the last. An implant, or a bridge. "What about nothing?" asked Dad. "Can't you just sew it up?" Dr. Gibbs' smiled indulgently, but I saw Jasmina's eyes flashed with fury. She hated my father for being such a cheap bastard. I loved her for that.

Dr. Gibbs explained patiently that it was my front center tooth. Did he really want me to go through life with a missing tooth for all the world to see? Father reluctantly agreed to pay for an implant, supposedly to spare me the embarrassment. But I knew what he was really thinking. The photographs. My beautiful smile, ruined. He needed my smile for his own sick, impenetrable purposes.

The dentist took Dad to see the office manager so he could arrange for payment. As he left he flashed me a look of pure hatred. Maybe the next time instead of breaking my tooth, he'd just go ahead and suffocate me to death. I was more terrified than you can imagine. In that moment, I was utterly certain that I had to escape, somehow. Then I realized that I was alone in the room with Jasmina, and a desperate thought occurred to me. A dark and disturbing thought, but one that, at the time, seemed freakishly logical. I looked at her as she worked, setting up Dr. Gibbs' instruments. She smiled at me. Dad could come back at any moment. I had to act now, or die later.

I hopped to my feet. Jasmina said, "Oh, no, don't get up. The doctor isn't finished with you yet." I brushed past her and slammed the door, locked it, and turned.

Jasmina saw the crazy look in my face, and stared open-mouthed at me as I closed the tiny gap between us, her eyes growing wide with disbelief. I grabbed her blue hospital smock with both hands and ripped it wide open. She stumbled backward, shrieking, and I grabbed the center of her bra with one hand and I yanked it toward me. It didn't break, but the straps cut into her shoulders, drawing blood. She crashed into the stand on the dental chair, sending the instruments flying, and moments later I span her around and pinned her on her back on the dental chair. She bellowed bloody murder as I ripped her thin blue pants off. Once her brown legs were bare, I fumbled at her underwear as she kicked me desperately screaming for help. I didn't try very hard to pull them off. It was all an act, but she didn't know that.

By this time they were banging at the door. But it was too heavy to break down, and they were too confused to find the keys. I needed this to look good, so I hit her in the face, trying to make a bruise. I unzipped my pants too, thinking that would be nice and incriminating. To my own disgust, I realized that I had an erection. I am my father's son.

She began to beg and whimper, so I slapped her again. "Shut up bitch! I'm gonna rape you , and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" I repeated it, yelling at the top of my lungs, so everyone could hear me. I even choked her a little, trying to give them time to intervene. But after a while I looked up at the door, thinking, Where the fuck are they? Then I felt something searing hot on the top of my head. I screamed and stumbled back, surrounded by the stench of burning hair and flesh. She'd gotten her hands of the dental light and had pulled it down into the top of my head. Good girl, I thought, as I stumbled to the floor, pretending to lose my balance. That gave her enough time to dash to the door and make her escape.

After that I just lay there, zipper open, looking impassively at the ceiling. I ignored Dad's anguished questions, and whispered threats. He tried to talk the dental staff into letting me go home with him, but of course, that was impossible. Jasmina was freaking out so badly they had no choice but to detain me until the cops arrived. Dad realized he was beaten. So he took the tracking device off my ankle when nobody was looking, ands hissed, "Keep your mouth shut!" He didn't need to add, "Or I'll kill you." I already knew that much.

I told the detectives that I'd been obsessed with Jasmina for years, and that I'd try it again if they didn't stop me. I was actually hoping to be tried as an adult so I could spend as many years as possible in prison, but they decided to try me as a juvenile. Dad bailed me out, but on his way to pick me up, I assaulted one of the guards, so they locked me back up again. That was a close call. Dad spent a bundle on the lawyer, desperate to get me back in his clutches. For a while there I was afraid he was going to prevail, but Jasmina came through for me. She cried at the trial, and pointed me out as her would-be rapist. She said I needed to be locked up, or she'd never be able to sleep again. I could have kissed her. She was my angel. She saved my fucking life, and she didn't even know it.

And now as I heard that unknown woman screaming, I knew I had to help her, if only for Jasmina. To atone. I ran toward the sound, filled with overblown righteous anger, determined to stop this, whatever it was, from happening... to save her... whoever she was. It's not that I wanted to be a hero. I just wanted to do something good for once in my worthless life.

But then, I saw something that took the fight clean out of me.

A big, bald muscle-man was manhandling a small brunette in a pool of moonlight, in the gap between two huge machines. I recognized him instantly as the sledgehammer-wielding white supremacist that Tojee was so afraid of. He was a monster of a man, probably around seven feet tall, and three times as broad as me, with an evil face and a long pointy goatee. A cigar was jammed in his huge, smiling mouth. He was shirtless, so I could see that his ripped chest was covered with prison tattoos. He was a fucking monster.

The second I saw that bald fucker, I nearly shit myself. I knew instantly that the girl was screwed, and if I tried to intervene, he'd probably murder me and bury my body under a pile of fresh cement. So I quietly backed up, and hid in the shadow of the mechanism. Straight ahead of me, I saw the big door leading outside, but in order to get to it, I'd have to cross through a pool of bright moonlight. I decided to wait until he took her wherever he was going. Then I was going to make a run for it, and summon the cops.

I had time to examine the poor girl. She had short, straight black hair, with long bangs, and was dressed in a glittery green cocktail dress and white fishnet stockings. At first I thought she was a hooker, but then I saw the glittering jewels in her ears, and I realized she was just some unlucky girl who'd probably gone out clubbing and had somehow made a wrong turn down the wrong dark alley. She was probably under five feet tall, so she looked tiny in his hands.

The bald shithead was toying with her like a cat with a mouse. He had one hand clapped over her mouth, but otherwise, he let her flail about. She tried stomping his feet with her high heels, but he just danced out of the way. From time to time he'd let her try to get away, but then he'd yank her back like a rag doll, just to prove to her that she wasn't in charge of her own life any longer. She belonged to him. End of story. All the while he roughly squeezed her tits and groped her ass, ripping the back of her tight, short dress in the process. To my own shock and disgust, my cock grew hard. I told myself it was a fight-or-flight reaction, but I knew it was a lie. I am my father's son.

As they struggled, he eventually turned his back to me. I thought it might be my only chance, so I ran through the pool of moonlight and headed toward the door. Then, just before reaching it, I saw the padlock on the big sliding bolt. Shit! I looked around for another door. I saw an office nearby, so I ran toward it, but just before I got there, I saw a pair of shadows through the rippled glass on the door.

A young guy's voice said, "Roy's got her through here. Dumb bitch."

An older guy's gravelly voice replied, "Yeah? Who is she?"

"How the fuck do I know?"

I screeched to a halt, but there was nowhere to hide. The nearest cover was fifteen feet away. The door swung open and they saw me. There was a moment of shock and recognition in their eyes, and no doubt in mine too, because I knew these two assholes. Mr. Schmidt, and his step-nephew Barry. There was a pregnant pause while I did quick mental calculations on what my best move was. It was obvious these guys were complicit in the girl's abduction, and since Mr. Schmidt was probably mobbed up, I was in serious danger of imminent demise. My only play was to try to bullshit my way out of everything, just like I did back in juvie.

I smiled and said, "Where you guys been? Roy's about to bust waiting for you guys."

Mr. Schmidt looked at me with the craziest expression. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Roy told me to stick around. Said we're gonna have a little fun tonight. I can't fuckin' wait to get my hands on that bitch." Of course, the only reason I knew the bald asshole's name was Roy was that I'd heard Barry saying it just moments before. I discovered in juvie that if you say something with enough conviction, people usually assume you're telling the truth.

I could tell from the grin on Barry's face that he bought my lie, but Mr. Schmidt was confused. "Wait. What? When did Roy tell you...?"

But then I handed him the borrowed hardhat I was still wearing. "Thanks for the brain can, Mr. Schmidt. What a life saver. I musta bonked my head on a dozen things today." That took him off guard enough to forget what he was in the middle of asking me. Moments later Barry threw his muscled arm around my shoulder and strutted with me toward the sound of shrieks, as if he and I were old buddies.

"Fuck, dude! Welcome to the party! You sampled her yet?"

"No, we were waiting for you. Where did you find her?"

"I usually go hunting at Club 747 which is in the old skunk works three blocks over. But this time Roy and I spotted this bitch sitting out front in her car. Lost or looking for someone. I don't know. They usually put up a fight, but this one barely made a peep when I pulled her out of her car. Sounds like she's found her voice now, though."

We walked around the corner and sure enough, she was screaming at the top of her lungs, but it was muffled by Roy's big ugly hand. Roy did a double-take when he saw me, but when he saw Barry's arm around my shoulder, he assumed I'd been invited by the boss's nephew. But to stop anyone from asking the inevitable "Who the hell invited this guy?" I clapped loudly and said to Mr. Schmidt, "There she is, boss. Just look at her. Tasty bitch." I was trying to make it sound to all these guys that I was somehow already involved. I guess it worked, because their attention went right to the girl, although for the rest of the night, Mr. Schmidt kept looking at me with a vaguely suspicious expression. I was so terrified, I could barely think straight.

The men gathered around the girl, roughly feeling her up and making comments about what a fine piece of ass she was. Roy picked her up off the floor, with his hand clamped her mouth, and his other hand roughly squeezing her breasts. He hissed into her ear, "Cooperate, you fucking slut, or we'll torture you to death." She stopped screaming and started whimpering. Her hair was obscuring her face, but I could see her tears pouring down Roy's massive hand. Then he put his other hand between her legs and pawed at her panty-clad pussy, pushing the fabric deep into the crevice of her pussy lips. He roughly rubbed her as he laughed, "Just stop fighting and enjoy it. We're all gonna fuck you senseless, either way, so you might as well try to have a little fun."

Barry waved me over, a bit annoyed to see me hanging back. I walked toward the girl in a daze. As I got near, I saw Mr. Schmidt pull a box cutter out of his pocket and snapped the razor-sharp blade to full extension. The girl saw it glittering in the moonlight, and started struggling for life itself, her breath hissing sickly through Roy's huge hand. She started kicking as Mr. Schmidt walked up to her. For a horrible moment, I thought they were going to mutilate her right there in front of me, but I felt as powerless as a child, and merely watched, as if seeing everything from a great distance.

But Mr. Schmidt didn't mutilate her. He used the box cutter to shred open the crotch of her fishnet stockings, which were covering her panties. She tried to keep her legs closed, but he said, "Stop struggling or you'll get cut, you stupid bitch." She was so terrified that she let him continue without fighting. He pulled the crotch of her panties toward him, and sliced them open, exposing her pussy. Before she could snap her legs shut, he knelt down and buried his fat, slobbering face between her legs and began to slurp. She let out a terrified moan of distress and tried to kick him away, but she just ended up with her legs over his shoulders, as Roy held her up. I'm ashamed to admit that my cock was throbbing erect, and when I tried to reposition it in my tight pants, I felt a thrill of pleasure suffuse my body.

Barry whooped and started taking off his shirt while he kicked off his shoes. "How's she taste, uncle Paul?

Mr. Schmidt pulled back, his face glistening. "Fucking great. This is one juicy bitch. Come have a taste."

Barry was busy undoing his pants, so he said to me, "You go, buddy. Warm her up for me."

If I held back, they'd be onto me, so stepped forward, almost like I was in a dream. Back when I was in juvie I had sworn to myself that I'd never follow the orders of an evil man ever again. But I gave up that hollow oath in a heartbeat now that a real situation had presented itself. Fear and a lifetime of abuse had unmanned me. That and the conspiracy of silence. As I stumbled to my knees, the girl went absolutely apeshit. I'd seen her struggling before, but this time she put everything into it. But what could she do but flail about in Roy's huge arms?

I heard Roy grunt, "Stop biting bitch, or I'll stick my cigar in your eye." She may have stopped biting him, but she kept kicking at me with those high heels of hers, as Roy laughed at my clumsy attempts to control her. They were like lethal weapons. I was about to give up, but Barry and Mr. Schmidt took hold of one leg each and pulled her wide open. I could now see her beautiful cunt glistening in the moonlight. The smell of it almost made me swoon with desire. She'd put perfume on herself before going out, I guess. Yet I rebelled at the thought of harming this poor girl.

But even as I thought, I can't do this, I leaned forward and sunk my tongue deep into her pussy. She went tense all over, and roared a long, gargling scream. I barely noticed. I was focused on her pussy now, almost as if it weren't connected to an actual human, but was just a lovely, perfect object that belonged to me and my buddies. She had a light little puff of pale pubic hair, which tickled the top of my nose as I ate her out. Mr. Schmidt was right. She was juicy. Very juicy. Sweet nectar oozed out of her in copious amounts. But not for a moment did I assume she was somehow enjoying this rape. According to my juvie roommate, some girls are just naturally juicy. They can't help it. But whether she enjoyed it or not, I certainly did, much to my eternal shame.

She was shrieking and moaning behind Roy's hand, desperately trying to say something, but unable to do anything but make muffled sounds and suck in sharp, painful breaths through her nostrils. I felt pity for her, but I absolved myself of responsibility. This wasn't my choice. I was in pure survival mode. That's what I told myself, anyway. But the fact is, I enjoyed eating that girl's sweet cunt. It was my first. Mom, as disturbed as she was, never made me do that to her. So I enjoyed the flavor of this poor brunette's juices, feeling them trickle down the back of my throat. I reveled in the sensation of her slick pussy flesh on my tongue and lips. I breathed deeply her heady musk. And I rubbed my boner like I was trying to start a fire with it.

Then I began to lick her hard little clit, the way my roommate said drove girls wild, lifting the hood with my tongue and slurping the hard little lump of flesh. I felt the poor brunette's thighs quivering, and her pussy clenching with each stroke of my tongue. I was giving her body unwanted pleasure. She raged and roared and struggled to be free, but I kept doing it, driven by some sick need I barely understood.

After a few minutes, Barry, now totally naked, tapped my shoulder so we exchanged places, me holding her leg, while he ate her out with greedy gusto. She stopped struggling right about then, but she never stopped sobbing. I thought, these men are monsters. How can they listen to her cry like that, and smile and laugh? But then I realized that I felt nothing either. I was a monster too. I am my father's son.

Almost without conscious thought, I ran my hand up her leg and squeezed her silken butt cheek. I would have reached farther, but my hand bumped into Roy's cock, which was still in his jeans but was pressed between her buttocks. He felt huge and hard. Frighteningly so. He didn't notice me feeling him. He was too busy whispering evil threats into her ear, as he chomped that foul smelling cigar of his. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but it was frightening her. She whimpered and cried, snot and tears dripping from Roy's hand onto her creamy white cleavage.

Mr. Schmidt took out his box cutter again and sliced open the front of her glittery green cocktail dress. She wasn't wearing a bra. Damn she had beautiful breasts. I'm not sure if they were B or C cups, but they looked big on her narrow ribcage, particularly now that they were swinging free, and bouncing with each sob. Mr. Schmidt leaned forward and slurped one of her perfect brown nipples into his drooling fat mouth. I thought, how horrible, but then I felt myself leaning forward to suck the other one. How could I resist? She began to struggle again. I figured maybe Mr. Schmidt was biting her other nipple, or sucking it too hard, but I gently stroked her nipple and areola with my tongue, feeling each little detail on my taste buds. I started to rub my hard-on against her thigh, sending erotic thrills of pleasure up my spine.




No Satisfaction



Greg stroked for a few minutes. The squeaky sound of the condom mixed with the wet sounds from her juices. From her looks, there was no pain, but she didn't seem too into it.

"Ohhh..." Donna moaned. Both of them froze.

"Oh, wow," Greg gasped. I could see him quivering as he held still. Then he gave a couple of slow pumps.

Donna moaned louder and pulled at him.

Greg froze again and then quickly pulled out. I moved a little and saw that the condom had torn.

Whoa. Greg had been in there, cock deep inside my wife with no condom.

"Uh, I'll get another," I said as I turned.

"Yeah," Greg sounded out of breath.

"No, I think it's okay," Donna said.

I turned.

"We should be okay." She nodded at me to reassure me about her fertility time frame.

"Oh," I muttered. "Okay.

Greg smiled at Donna and got back between her legs. Once again, as he touched his cock to my wife's pussy, my cock twitched and oozed sperm all over the place. Donna was looking up at Greg and smiling. She appeared to like it. Her wide-open legs were an invitation.

This time, when Greg pushed his cock slowly into my wife, all three of us moaned. I watched him push all the way in and then tilt his hips forward so that his balls pressed against Donna's scrawny little ass. He was all the way in!

Do you know how much I envied him at that moment?

Donna gasped several times and finally let her passion escape. "Ohhhhhh..."

Greg slowly slid out and then back in with a smooth stroke. "Wow, you feel incredible!"

Donna couldn't answer. She quivered and her eyes were as big as I've ever seen them. She was whispering something.

I got close to hear. The look on her face was shock.

As Greg fucked my wife, as his cock slipped easily and smoothly in and out of her pussy, she whispered and gasped. "Ohmygosh... unnhh... it's... so wonderful... it's wonderful.... I can't... believe this... ohhhh..... it's perfect...."

My cock twitched and I wiped more ooze from it. But it felt so good that I kept handling it. I smeared it around and stroked myself as my wife got fucked in front of me. I was so proud of her and felt so happy that it was going so well. If only I could make her feel this good.

"I can't believe how good this feels..." Greg said in wonder.

Greg's pumping changed pace and angle. Within a few minutes, Donna was arching her back in orgasm. I had to stop touching myself. Seeing her lose it like this was exhilarating. She looked so sexy underneath him.

"Oh, yes! Oh my gosh, yes! Ohhh yes!" Tears ran down her cheeks.

Greg's cock became a blur after that as he plowed into my wife. He was doing something I couldn't do - he was ramming her. Tip to root, not hard, but forceful. Donna loved it. For once, I saw her love getting fucked. My own cock twitched in warning and I wasn't even touching it. When Greg buried his cock to his balls and started jerking as he squirted his sperm into Donna's pussy, my cock gave one tremendous twitch and spewed a long rope of sperm.

Donna's mouth was open and her eyes closed, her body moving to Greg's pumps. She saw neither of us. She had let go and allowed her body to take over. The tears were slowing and she quivered with each squirt of sperm Greg jerked into her.

When he finally pulled out, I could see his sperm oozing out of my wife's pussy. I moved up and took his place. For a moment, Donna looked like she would shake her head no, but she just closed her eyes again. I placed my hard cock at her entrance and pushed slowly. Greg's sperm was a fantastic lubricant. With only a small grimace from Donna, I slid my length most of the way into her. His hot sperm and her juices mingled to make sex with her almost pain-free. Far better than any over-the-counter lube.

I lasted all of a few seconds. Pumping my cock into my freshly fucked wife with his sperm still running out of her sent me over the edge. I gently sank my cock in as far as I could and let the sperm rip out of me to mix with Greg's inside of her.

The aftermath of the first time was a mixture of exclamations of wonder and nervous laughter that it had all gone so well. I had thought I would have different emotions like fear, but in the afterglow, I was feeling no pain.

Donna didn't say anything immediately after. No, it was me that talked about how great it had been. I think Donna didn't want to admit to it being so good for fear of hurting me. I could see her thinking, though, and I knew that I'd want her to continue being happy. So, my next plan was to see if Greg would want to repeat and where that all might head.

That is in Chapter 2.