Monday, February 16, 2015

Our First Domestic Part 5



A couple of hours later, the buzz had turned to sleepiness, and Boy’s face was starting to swell, badly. The sound of Mom shutting the front door sent a spike of fear through my gut. The bleeding had only stopped for only a few minutes at a time and now some clear snot was starting to come out with the blood, slow and viscous. To his credit, Boy held his tongue, but his face couldn’t lie. “What’s this? What’s going on here?” Boy peeked out through squinted eyes. “What happened to you?”


He played dumb. I played dumb. Mom started winding up like she always does, her voice growing shriller. Her first call was to the school, which, of course, was closed. That’s when she went to the internet, finding Mrs. Lamley’s home number. “She wasn’t at class today, actually. I was going to call you tomorrow. If she misses two more sessions, she will fail out of this semester completely and have to repeat eleventh grade.”


From there to the hospital it was all Annabelle this, Annabelle that, irresponsible, lying, cheating, this and that. Abuse. Total verbal abuse. She ought to be in jail, the kind of mother she was. A miniature tyrant. Well, not that minature, really, just insignificant. To be honest, I was a little scared when we got to the hospital. She was mad. Really, really mad, like I had hardly ever seen. She was talking to me like she did the time she hit me in the parking lot. Utter tyrant. A grown woman hitting a child!


Everyone in the waiting room heard her angry snarling and some of them even looked over. The nurse at the counter said, “We have many women already waiting to be seen. This isn’t life threatening, so it’s going to be some time.” She fumed in her jacket, rubbing her hands, looking around, avoiding my gaze until she turned her full attention to me.


“Come on.” She dragged me out into the night. It smelled cold, like the snow that was threatening to fall. We stood just beyond the lighted rectangles projected by the waiting room lights which twisted and danced as people came and went through the double doors. “What in the world were you thinking?”


“God, Mom, you need to relax. You’re going to burst a blood vessel.”


“Answer me. Right now.”


“I just didn’t want to go today, okay? I’m sick of how they treat me. You know that Mrs. Lamley is a pervert? She asks us all about sex ‘cause she gets off on our stories.”


“Annabelle Marie! You stop lying this instant. I’m sick of hearing your excuses and stories about how everyone else is responsible except for you. Tell me what happened.”


Was she drunk? Her breath smelled awful. I said, “It was just a stupid accident. I didn’t want to tell you… I mean, I know that you’ll just get mad and yell at me.”


“Damn right I’m going to yell at you, young lady. What did you do to my boy?”


“Well that’s not helping, Mom.”


Her lips pursed into an angry, wrinkled, pink coin, and her cheeks puffed out. She looked like a trumpet player without a horn. Her arms shot up suddenly, but came back down with a loud, exasperated slap of jacket on jacket, and she took a few steps in a tight circle. She looked like a frustrated penguin. “Hannie, just tell me what happened.”


“Okay, okay,” I relented. “I wanted to drink, so I asked him to open a bottle of wine for me, and he hit himself in the face with it. Okay? I’m sorry, I just wanted to see what it was like.”


Her eyes pierced mine. For a long time she let me wither under her stare, but I was already in too deep. I stood my ground. “Hannie, that makes no god-damn sense. He hit himself in the face?”


Uh-huh.


“With a cork. Hard enough to break his nose.”


Well the bottle opener, but...


“HANNIE!”


It was enough to turn most of the heads in the waiting room. How embarrassing. Right in public, in front of everyone.


“You think I was born goddamned yesterday? Do you? You’ve already earned yourself such a grounding, do you really want to make this worse for yourself? Were you thinking about going to college sometime soon? How are you paying for that?”


I didn’t want to. In fact, knowing mom, telling her the truth would be the worst thing to do. All those other girls with her boy. “Mrs. Lamley.”


“Oh don’t start that shit again.” She stomped. Like an angry child, she stomped, but if I’m honest, I flinched. She was a large woman, much bigger than me. It was just like the day in the parking lot, her arms flapping around like a stupid, flightless bird.


“Stop it, Mom. Calm down. I was just having a little fun. I got a little carried away.”


She was still again, breathing hard. “What kind of fun.”


“You know… that kind of fun.”


“With his face?”


Uh-huh.


“Hannie, you stupid, insolent, immature, conniving…” her open palms came down like rain in a storm, here, there, all over my head and shoulders, several to my face. She didn’t stop until the paramedics pulled her away. I told the police that I didn’t want to press charges, but I could use a ride home. They told me to take a taxi, which exhausted almost half of my summer fun fund. I paid the driver, pulled on my winter boots, and trudged to Alex’s house, partly because it was near, and partly because she felt safe. Her Mom didn’t ask too many questions. She mostly seemed happy that Alex had a “girlfriend,” as she liked to put it.


I laid with Alex in bed. Plain, old Alex. Curious, pervy Alex. She asked me all about my afternoon and, when I had finished griping about Mom, listened with rapture as I explained the party. She didn’t seem to mind or notice that it was an attempt to get back in with my friends, away from her kind of social stigma. She wanted all the details, colors, feelings, smells. It wasn’t until then that I realized, I was the only one who missed out on a cunt lapping. I couldn’t believe it. I even told her about the little bath at the end. “Just like in a porno.” We each kept our hands to ourselves, playing like clam-cracking otters in the sun.





It was now that I made my third and worst, as the judge put it, “lapse of judgement.” I politely disagreed. Isn’t it just like adults to fill your head with stories, stories about brave people standing up for what’s right in the world. But when you do it yourself, when you threaten their preconceived notions, their narrow worldview, suddenly being right isn’t good enough. Be brave they say but what they mean is stand up for me. Don’t stand up for yourself. It’s really a testament to their ineptitude that I’m so cynical at such a young age.


I tried to sit through class. It was easy enough to lie and say I forgot my backpack or I lost my books or whatever, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Boy at home with that monster. How cruel she was to him. How mean. She probably took her anger out on him. Fix the nose so I can beat him black and blue, she probably said. And what was I going to do tonight? Stay at school? Stay with Alex? Her mom was bound to start asking questions eventually. And what would happen to Boy? I thought about Mom’s smug face, the arrogant sneer she wore as she raped poor Boy’s ass almost every night.


By lunch I had made up my mind. I bribed Annie to drive me by buying her lunch. I tried to just buy her and sandwich but she said that if she was missing a period of class she would need to be reimbursed for it. Another week of fun gone from the summer fun fund. Boy would have to start paying me back.


We sat outside of the house for a good half hour, parked down the street like in a TV show about cops. No movement. Nothing. But then, that’s how it always looked. Mom was all about fitting in, not calling attention to ourselves. “We need to get back to class eventually,” insisted Annie. Fine, fine. I hopped the fence and used to spare key to open up the back door. From there I crept to the obnoxiously loud garage door. Her car was gone. Perfect. But Boy was gone too. He wasn’t in his kennel, in the kitchen, Mom’s room, my room, the basement, nowhere.


“Boy!” I called fruitlessly. “Boy! Where did she take you? What did she do to you?” There was a noise, a bang on the wall. Was that the garage door? I hid behind the basement door and listened. Nothing. No clacking of hard shoes on hardwood floor. My heart was beating so fast, I couldn’t be sure if I heard the second thump. My breathing seemed to fill my ears, like the loudest sound in the world. She would kill me. She might legitimately kill me if I stole her Boy from her. But then I heard it again, and I knew it was coming from the wall below me, in the basement.


The basement was unfinished. It had dirty red poles all over sticking into hard, cold concrete, supporting the house above. With all the dust and spiders, I almost never came down here. Maybe a few times to use Mom’s stationary bike. It was boring: no walls, no furnishings, just white, insulated walls. The north wall was cold to the touch from the stairs to the back wall, but the back wall was not. “Boy?” I shouted, and the wall thumped back. “Hold on!” I cried. I felt my way up and down the wall all the way to the other corner and back. Finally I found a crack between a stud and the insulation. I peeled it back to reveal a small door.


Inside was like the end of a horror movie. It had the same freezing concrete floor, but the walls were finished and covered in various equipment: shelves of whips and dildos, restraints built straight into the wall, racks of ropes and paddles, and even a small bathroom in the corner. Ropes and chains hung from the ceiling and protruded from the floor. In one corner, boy sat upright in a large, wooden chair, bound hand and foot, in nothing but his cage with a gag and hood on. He had been banging on the wall with his head and had left a clear red imprint. On the other side of the room was a cage with a thin man secured within. A pipe led from the ceiling into his mouth, and another led out of him into the wall. The room smelled like the school bathroom an hour after lunchtime.




“Boy! Are you okay?” I asked, running to his side, pulling off his mask. He coughed a little as I removed the rubber ball from his mouth.


“I’m okay,” he assured me. His eyes were sad. “Grab the key. In that box on the shelf.”


I undid the bindings around his feet and ankles. One of his feet had gone purple all over. He asked me, “Are there any other keys in there?”


“Just one,” I replied, unlocking the cage on the other side of the room.

“Oh.”


“What were you expecting?” I asked.


“I just thought there might be, you know, my key,” he explained, looking down.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”


I reached into the cage and undid the bindings on the other boy. He looked old enough to technically be a man. As soon as his hand was free, it shot up to the harness on his head which he unlatched, freeing the tube from his mouth. A splash of water hit the ground followed by the poor creature’s hacking coughs. When he removed the harness from his head I could see his whole face. Though flushed and haggard, he looked familiar. He sat against the back of his cage and stared at me with huge eyes.


Boy had gotten up from his chair and started rubbing the many welts and strap marks on his skin. “That woman is crazy,” he opined, “like seriously crazy. Dangerous.”


The man in the cage squeaked, “Please have mercy. I’m happy where I am. Please don’t hurt me.”


I crouched down to his level to see him face-to-face. He looked so familiar but I couldn’t remember ever meeting him. How long had he been down here? He looked so haggard and pale. Just… unwell, really. Pathetic, actually, cowering and pleading the way he was. “Hush, hush,” I said, “stop that. Who are you?”


“She calls me Boy. Nothing special. Please don’t hurt me. Don’t kill me. I’ll stay right where I am. Just lock the door now.” He shifted uncomfortably and pulled at the tube sticking into his ass, but did not remove it. “I never did anyone any harm, I promise.”


What had Mom done to this one? He was genuinely, legitimately scared of me. “Stop that. Please calm down. Please. Take a breath. How long have you been down here?”


He shook his head, “A long time. I stopped trying to keep count. I just do what Jenine tells me. She told me she would keep me safe. Where is she? Is she okay?”


“She’s just at work,” I explained, “everything is fine. You don’t have to be afraid of her anymore.”


“Afraid?” he mouthed. “No, Jenine keeps me safe. She keeps me safe from the world.”


I didn’t understand. “What are you so afraid of?”


The man in the cage shared my confusion. “The bands… the warrior bands. Who cut off your dick and make you choke on it until you bleed out. Or are you one of them? Please, I don’t want any freedom. I just want to stay safe here with Jenine.”


His sniveling was actually getting pretty annoying. “I said cut it out!” I demanded. “Stop pleading and all that shit. Please! Just tell me who you are and what you’re doing down here.”


“You—you’re not here to kill me?”


No!


“Jenine told me that the world had… changed since I’d been down here. That men weren’t allowed in public anymore. That we were hunted on the streets, hounded and persecuted unless we had an owner. She told me she was keeping me safe down here, away from the mad world. Are—are men safe now?”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think Mom was lying to you.”


“Mom?” he repeated. “Jenine is your mom?”


I nodded. “For the last sixteen years anyway.”


The man continued rubbing his jaw. “Sixteen years. Could that really be?”


Now I was in the dark, and I hated being in the dark. “What are you getting at?”


“It’s just,” he said, “before I was locked down here, she made me cum one last time. It was strange, she kept it all, in a cup instead of making me eat it. I guess that could have been sixteen years ago…”


He looked so familiar. Just like me. My stomach turned. “Oh my god.” Then a gush of water came pouring out of the hose descending from the ceiling. Boy stood by the toilet in the corner of the room, his hand still on the flusher. I was going to be sick. “Did that come from there?”


The man in the cage nodded. “Every toilet in the house. I’ve been processing Jenine’s waste for all of these years. And yours, I guess. She feeds me occasionally too, and there’s the injections, but I only drink toilet water.”


Every time. For sixteen years. My stomach turned properly this time, all over the floor. How disgusting. I took Boy but I left the other wretched creature in his cage, in the little room. I couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.


Annie was still in the car, although she claimed that she almost left. We went back to school. Where else was there to go? Mom would be home eventually, and when that happened, I needed to be around adults. Amy’s mom would be helpless in the face of Mom’s fury. I turned to the last woman I would otherwise trust: Mrs. Lamley. She had us wait in her office until class was over. I kept playing it through in my head: Mom getting home, going down to her sick dungeon, finding Boy gone, only that older, wretched Boy. She would know where we went. She always did. But this was more than her usual insane rage: this was bigger, a rupture of normal. Even the most supremacist judge using the full powers of the Sexual Freedoms Act couldn’t defend her. There would be no going back.


When Lamley finally arrived, she had the school resource officer with her. “Mom has been mistreating him from the first day we got him. Verbal abuse. Physical violence. Even sexual abuse.”


“Okay, okay, Mrs. Flores,” she told me. “Slow down and explain yourself.”


I told her about the spankings, the totally over-the-top punishments for even the slightest infractions. “She beat him for eating food, if you can believe that!”


The officer, a stern-looking young woman with pale skin and brown, straight hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, reminded me, “If he didn’t have permission to eat, he was stealing, and it’s perfectly legal to punish boys for theft.”


“Well is it legal to fuck them? Because that was her favorite punishment!”


“Like, in the… rear? With a blunt instrument?”


Boy nodded.


“I see.”


“And that’s not all. Just today I discovered that she’s been keeping another Boy in the basement, along with a whole bunch of pain implements. There’s no doubt that she has been torturing boys down there.”


“Is this true?” the office asked Mrs. Lamely. Lamley shrugged.


“Of course it’s true. Go to the house and see for yourself!”


“Hold on. Hold on,” said the officer, “We are going to have to go down to the station and take this report properly.” We rode in the back of her patrol car like criminals. And maybe we were. I had stolen Boy from my mother, stolen him for his own safety. Technically I was a criminal, and he stolen property. I tried to remember not to incriminate myself.


But when we got down there, we were swarmed by police, separated, and questioned in different rooms. They had so many questions, coming so quickly. I tried to just be honest and help them however I could, but I made a mistake. I told them everything, including the time I took Boy over to Becky’s house after school. I named names: Becky, Mattie, Stacey, Carlie, Annie, Chloe, and even the new girl, Mandy. I didn’t even realize it until later that night, laying on a cold bunk in a cell across from Boy, in protective custody. “I think I made a mistake,” I told him.


“You saved me,” he said. “How can that be a mistake?”


When they sent a task force to the house the next morning, Mom was long gone. Most of the furniture was missing, the house was in disarray, and the basement was empty. No dungeon, no whips, no chains, no physical evidence, and no sign of my possible father. In the absence of a defendant, absence of evidence and absence of ownership, Boy should have been released back into the custody of the Mangenic Corporation, but there was one wrinkle: thanks to my testimony, there were seven new defendants. The state had no choice but to press charges.


They started with Mandy, the disgusting tramp. I could have written the trial, it was so predictable. It was basically the same trial that you see on the news night after night. I took the stand and told the truth, that I had delivered an unwitting boy into the clutches of my friends, and they played out their gang rape of their own design. Boy, of course, couldn’t testify on his own behalf, but the judge let him submit a letter in private. When Mandy took the stage, she said exactly what she needed to. “He was crazy,” she testified, “totally crazy. You could see the mad lust in his eyes when he approached you. Hannie brought him over already unlocked. They must have been in cahoots. She said we were just going to have a fun party, a quick get-together after school, but it all went sour. We just wanted to have a little fun, but she insisted that Boy be—ahem—sexually free. There was nothing any of us could have done. He overpowered me first, and then one by one raped us all. The other girls tried to get away but Hannie threatened us. Everyone knows that her Mom is dangerous. Murderous. Hannie locked the doors and let the boy prey on us one by one. It was horrible, staring down the bobbing shaft of his… his penis. Please don’t make me say any more.”


After Mandy they called Mattie, then Stacey, Carlie, Annie, Chloe and finally Becky. They all told the same story. They all lied through their teeth. Boy sat silently, his face down, his eyes full of tears. The judge had stern words for us. That I was to be punished particularly hard for playing the victim and for encouraging delinquency among boys. My “reputation” from school had been considered, along with my penchant for lying. Not only had I led a horse to water, I had encouraged him to drink. Lies, all of it. I was sentenced to full-time rehabilitation for no less than a year.


Boy got the worst of it though. Poor boy. He got the only sentence for rape: castration. I never saw him again after the trial. I’ll never forget his face when they pulled him away from me, crying, pleading, begging. It was startling from a boy who had always been so stoic.

I tried a few times to find him, when I grew older and had established a good life for myself. It’s hard though, for a woman with a checkered past to find a boy. The court records said he was sent to Stoneyham Rehabilitation Center, but they had no record of receiving him. I never heard from my mom again either. Maybe she fled the country. Who knows. But some days, after a long day of work, when I go home to my lonely apartment, I think about them, the only family I ever had. The one I couldn’t avoid and the one I couldn’t keep. Despite growing into a proper, straight lady, I never found love, never settled down. A woman could never satisfy me, because my heart belongs to a boy. Do me a favor, though. Please don’t tell a soul.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Our First Domestic Part 4

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3


Alex was persistent, to say the least, but she wasn’t calling me cock-tease or rape inspiration, so she was alright. She also liked slushies, although I had to buy them for her. Not everyone was as lucky as the Lucky Seven—those fair-weather bitches. They were probably trolling around in Annie’s car, cruising the sluts on 17th or something. Of course Mom would shell out for a mint-condition domestic, but when it comes time for my sweet 16, there’s no money for a car. It was typical. Typical of her, of my life.


Alex slurped noisily, her soft pink lips quickly stained by the artificial blue. We actually had a lot in common, more than I would have thought. Similar music, shows, she even liked the specific Takainese animation that I liked, a detective serial called Toshimo. But every conversation seemed to lead inevitably back to the same place: boys. Of course, most of our ideas came from TV and movies, but we had certain insights. Like how they smell. How they smile, when they smile for you. Their weird chastity enforcers. A particular favorite of mine was imitating the noises, from the soft coos to the panicked screeches, to the docile sighs. Alex liked my impressions.


We went to her house, a long walk from the school, but not as long as the walk to mine. We watched Toshimo on the sofa, rooting for our favorite characters, even though we knew the ending, discussing the relative merit of the various romances, sometimes cuddling on the couch, joking, laughing, tickling, touching, giggling. We listened over breathless excitement to the unwitting walking of her parents in the kitchen above us as we let our imaginations run wild, seeing in each other both savior and temptation.


It was never enough. “Touch me,” I’d beg, “force me down. Take me.”


“Come on, Hannie. I want to be the boy for once.”


Never enough.





Mrs. Lamley found out. Alex must have told her. Who else could it be? Who could have seen us—but what did Alex have to gain? Who can say? Attention? Maybe she was vindictive. Anyway, that was the end of that. Backstabbing, homo bitch.


“I hope you two realize that the purpose of this class is rehabilitation, not ‘hooking up.’ I’m not running a dating service here.”


“Of course not,” I said.


“And what exactly did you two do? How far did it go?”


The old cow was probably going to bate about this later. Pervy old lady. “It was nothing,” I said.


Alex disagreed. “We touched. Stimulated... digitally. That’s hands, right?”


Mrs. Lamley nodded.


“Really, it was nothing.” The whole thing was embarrassing, talking about it, sitting in the shitty metal gym chairs in the middle of the day with this freak I wouldn’t have been seen dead with weeks ago. My face from cheeks to ears burned. “Girls being girls.”


Mrs. Lamley repeated slowly, as if savoring the words, “Girls being girls.”


Boy in the dorms, using his academy-issued toy, flashed through my mind—the whole dorm writhing in horny angst. Hormones. Always hormones.


“I used my mouth,” offered Alex.


“Just shut up already.”


The confessions were just the beginning. Lamley called Alex’s mom first. She sounded tired, even bored. But, with her makeup and long hair and all the rest of the impractical bullshit, her mother had no doubt become numb to the humiliation.


The same could not be said for my mom. “She’s with a girl. What more do you want?” she asked, dismissive as always.


Mrs. Lamley cleared her throat. I savored the moments of her discomfort. “It’s not the action that concerns us so much as the context. We are trying to learn appropriate physical contact from inappropriate contact-”


“We?” asked Mom over speaker phone.


“They, Mrs. Fuentes. They are trying to learn and new relationships are not conducive to a reformatory environment. This is a textbook example of transference.”


“Transference? What’s that?”


“I believe that they are imagining each other to be the boys they desire. A way to act out impulses they can’t express. But Mrs. Fuentes, you have to understand, this is harmful to the process. In time I would counsel your daughter to find herself a nice woman, but not yet, and not here.”


“I see. Well I’m sure that Annette has apologized.”


Mrs. Lamley looked at me, lips pursed. “Not exactly,” she said.


There was a pause, a viciously long one. “Hannie?” asked Mom.


“Yuh,” I cleared my throat, “Yes?”


“Well?”


“I didn’t mean to,” I started begrudgingly. “It was just a fling. It’s over now. I promise.”


That took the air out of Alex.


Mrs. Lamley spoke up, “It’s not about being sorry, you see. It’s not that she’s in trouble so much as she’s not progressing through treatment. I mean, when we started it seemed like she had just made a mistake of curiosity, but as the sessions have gone on, she seems profoundly wayward. She simply won’t respect authority during class. She questions everything I say. She confuses the other girls with her challenging tone. I just—I really think we need something more.”


“Something more?”


“Something more… hands-on. Mrs. Fuentes, I think it’s time to bring Boy into the sessions.”


I later found out that she called the principle and then the superintendent, only to get the same response. It was decided. Boy would join treatment or I would leave the school, and with it all the credits I had accrued, since most private schools didn’t accept integrated credits.


“No one touches him but you, okay?” she made me promise as she sent us off to school. Although, like all public schools, my school was integrated, a boy in the building was so rare as to be a spectacle. Most of these bitches had never seen un-wrinkled, un-flabby man skin in person before. I could see the Lucky Seven, my old friends, looking from the popular table, pretending to ignore me as we got question after question, catcall after catcall. Fresh meat on the table. Mmm mmm.


“A relationship,” Mrs. Lamely said, “is a partnership. It’s an agreement between equals to create a bond together. What it is not, is an ownership. We do not own our partners, our wives, we love and support them, but they are now ours. Make sense?”


Sure.


“Males, however, are property. They are a very special and particular form of property, but they are property nonetheless. I think we should try a little role-playing to see how this works. Can I get a couple of volunteers to be a couple returning from a date?”


No.


“Sabrina and Hannie, why don’t you come up here?”


She had us enter the classroom arm in arm (insofar as my arm fit in that wide cunt’s arm slot) and take off our coats. Boy knew how to play this. He was a professional. He had been to academy. He took our coats, hung them up, and guided us to our seats in the circle of chairs where we had been sitting. “Can I get you drinks?”


“No.”


Sabrina said, “Of course!”


When he left the room to fill her water bottle, the room broke into uneasy tittering, everyone but me and Lamley. The class shared a laugh when Boy returned with the water bottle and Sabrina loudly asked, “Water?”





“Alright, alright,” said Lamley over the noise, “that’s more than enough. Boy, thank the girls for their orders. With a kiss.”

Without a word, Boy was on his knees, lips pressed firmly against the top of my shoes, then Sabrinas’, even though she fussed a bit and kicked him in the nose. But Boy is a motherfucking professional. Academy graduate. None this amateur hour, high school bullshit. In fact, he suffered so stoically that I didn’t notice his bruises until Mom stripped him down after dinner in her usual frenzy. “What happened to you?” she demanded as she felt the length of his ribs, Boy wincing, blue and purple and red with swelling.


They must have been kicking him when I wasn’t looking, Aimee and Alex. Or else it was other girls, earlier, during class. I never even saw a tear in his eye. I guess Mom’s pain training had made an impact.


It took four weeks and several more threat-filled phone calls to get Boy back at school. This time I resolved not to miss my chance. Mom agreed to let him return only if I picked him up at the end of school myself and kept him in my sight the entire time. I was supposed to walk, I guess, like some kind of pleb, since my mom couldn’t be bothered to arrange transportation. As I’ve said, I didn’t have a car, but Annie did. I didn’t even have to tip off the girls myself, Annie took the initiative herself. Becky was in the passenger seat when Annie picked me up after school. “I just wanted to get a better look at him,” she said totally unsubtly. As if she hadn’t been staring at him whenever she could.


Boy looked particularly boyish when we picked him up, teased hair, makeup, a tight cotton shirt with those pink booty shorts that accentuated his little plastic bulge. In short, he looked like he wanted it. “Cute shorts,” said Annie when he got in the car.


“Thanks.”


“Really. You look like a big booty bitch from a music video. Those shorts totally pop your ass.”


Boy shifted uncomfortably, touching his exposed thighs. “Thanks.”


Becky asked Annie, “Did you see that clip I sent you?”
“Abused boys, or…?”


“Yeah. With the two black boys… back to back?”


Annie giggled, “Yeah I watched it. Where did you find that?”


Becky lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I think it was from the Deep Net. Someone put it on a supremacy forum. Wasn’t it so hot?”


Annie giggled louder. “So hot. I can’t believe they got them to do that. Do you think it was real?”


Becky said, “The pleading certainly didn’t sound fake. What about you, Boy?” she raised her voice. “Do you have shame?”


He looked at me like I had the answer. “I—um, I have shame I guess.”


Annie wanted to know, “Would you eat a dog biscuit if we asked you to?”


Boy considered. “Like, in exchange for something?”


“No. Just if I asked you.”


Boy nodded. “I guess so. Like a normal biscuit?”


Annie savored his discomfort. “What about some nasty, sloppy dog food? What if Hannie didn’t feed you for a long time?”


“Um… I guess so. If I was really hungry.”


Becky chimed in, “Oh, you’ll be hungry. Really hungry.” We were all thinking about his locked enforcer. I bet he was hungry. Those hormones. All locked up…


Annie wouldn’t let up. “Would you drink a girl’s pee? If Hannie told you to?”


“Ew!” interjected Becky.


Annie defended herself—“Hey you’re the one who sent the clip.”


I watched as we drove straight past the school. It was one of those beautiful spring days when it’s just warm enough when school lets out to enjoy the outdoors for a few hours. We kept the windows down and enjoyed the crisp outside air. Spring is a season for rebirth, renewal, for creation.


When we pulled up at Becky’s house, the girls were already there, including a new girl, Mandy: a broad-faced brunette who wasn’t anywhere near as cute as me. They didn’t even try to find a new “ethnic” friend, they just grabbed another white chick. Typical. 




Chloe had stolen a small bottle of rum from her whacked-out mom, and she kept giving everyone shots, horrible, horrible shots, even sharing with Boy. They made him feel welcome, made him feel sexy, asking him to stand this way and that, to walk around the room. Everyone thought his reactions to the hard alcohol were all too cute, particularly when he hopped up and down from the burn, his tight behind threatening to peek out below the shorts. They got his shirt off in time, asking to see his muscles and chest, asking him about being a boy, living with the other boys at the academy. Eyes hungry, lips quivering, mouths salivating, they asked him to pose, demanded he stay still as one girl and then another licked around his nipples and ears, demanded he stay still when they playfully spanked his ass. “Be a good slut and drink,” implored Chloe as she plied him further. The shorts were off before long and Boy was on his knees, being pulled between legs, zippered crotches scraping his face.


“We want to see a show,” demanded Becky. “I have a toy.” She returned from upstairs with a bright pink dildo, soft plastic bouncing as she bounded down the stairs. A lesser boy would have quailed at the sight, but not Boy, not after what Mom put his through. They gave him some lard for lube, disgusting, white cooking lard, but Boy was still unphased. He started working the toy inside of himself, pressing it flat to the floor and squatting over it. Boys. So cute. So magical. His face contorted into something like a grimace. “Do it faster. Faster, slut!” Becky commanded. Boy looked at me, concerned, maybe even scared, but I couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. “Let’s see it, slut.” Boy groaned as the rest of the toy slid inside. They cheered. “He took the whole thing.”


Annie shouted, “Our own live show! This is way better than porn.” But Boy didn’t exactly have a porn-star smile, or the speed. “Faster! Faster!” they shouted as he squirmed up and down. “Faster!” He flopped on his front and started working the dildo furiously with his hand. “Yeah, you like that, slut. You like it.” It was a command, not a question.


He was exhausted, but they were just getting started. Chloe, by now plenty tipsy (not that I wasn’t), pulled her shorts and panties to one side. “Let me try that mouth,” she commanded. Boy was confused. Mom and I never used him that way. I’m not sure that the academy taught him either. He approached gingerly, pushing his face up into her brown-fuzzed mound tentatively, looking piteously up at her. “Let’s feel that tongue.” He tried to pull back, but her hand was behind his head. “Get in there. Keep looking at me.” She sighed, and again, deeper. Then she hopped up on the kitchen counter and pulled her clothing further to the side. “Good. Get in there.” Annie and Carlie were a little taken aback, giggling nervously at Chloe’s brashness, but the others just stared in rapt attention. It really was better than a porno. Our own personal actor.


Becky was next. “Come on,” she urged, “hurry up,” and as soon as she could, muscled Chloe out of the way. “I want some too.” Boy shot me a panicked, pleading glance but I only smiled and nodded. Yes her too. And her. And her. Mattie, Stacey, Carlie, Annie, one after another, sometimes taking up a position at his other end, manually fucking that ass till he cried out in pain. “Does that taste good? Do I taste better than Becky?” asked Carlie, but he could only make non-committal grunts. By the time they had finished, Boy was flushed and soaked, his hair matted crazily. Finally, the new girl, Mandy, approached, looking at me cautiously.


“Go ahead,” I agreed. It’s your last chance, I thought, live it up. Soon their best friend Hannie will be back and you will be crying on whatever curb they found you.


Mandy wore an almost boyishly tight skirt that she hiked up from her thighs to above her hips, and, like the others, slid her underwear to the side. In air already thick with the scent of sex, Mandy’s smell was particularly noticeable. Sharp and acrid like bleach. Boy screwed up his nose and turned away, but Becky put a foot between his shoulderblades. Something must have been wrong with the girl because he pulled back from his first lick with a viscous string of white grossness still connecting his tongue to her lips. “Ew,” rose a shared consensus. Mandy looked around, embarrassed, but turned back to Boy. “You don’t like that taste? How about this one?” She let fly a stream of piss, spraying out all over like a hose partly covered by a thumb.


“On the floor?” cried Becky. “Come on! I have to clean that shit up!”


Mandy, undeterred, emptied her whole bladder down Boy’s tear-soaked, makeup-lined face.


“For fuck’s sake, Mandy,” moaned Becky. “My mom gets home in like two hours. You better help me clean this up.”


“Can I go next?” asked cautious Carlie.


“No!”


So it was decided—we all went upstairs to the tub and pissed on Boy in the tub, one and two at a time. “How you like that slut? You like it up the ass; you like being a piss whore too? You a piss whore? Like all boys are?” It was true: the boys in porn usually like getting a nice stream in the eye at the end of some good oral service.

The only problem was that right at the end, when Annie was straddling the tub, her foot slipped and landed right on Boy’s face. We washed him clean, but the bleeding didn’t stop. “Here,” I said, toweling him down, “pinch it up at the bridge, like this.” He shrieked when I grabbed his face. A real, honest shriek of pain. “Woah, sorry.” I said. Blood was getting on the towel. Besides that, his clothes were ripped. “Shit, Boy, look at this. You’d better not get me in trouble.” It was around this point that I realized I may have taken things a little too far.

Part 5