“Baby,” she said, her head peeking in. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, breathing heavily.
“You were screaming.”
You lay with your blanket pulled to your chin. Its lower portion pulled tightly against your feet. The air was cool against your damp temples and forehead.
She loomed in at you with her big pool-like eyes, their luminescence glimmering in the dark, her skepticism apparent by the shape of her mouth, by the shape of her poise beyond the doorway.
“Was it a nightmare?” she asked softly.
You nodded your head. She could barely see it in the darkness, but she could hear your chin brush against the sheet.
“Just remember,” she said, smiling warmly. “They’re never real. Your nightmares can’t hurt you.”
You swallowed, your blanket still tight against your chin.
“Okay, sweety?” Her voice was warmer than any blanket.
You nodded again.
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we have a whole bag of candy to dive into.”
She disappeared behind the door.
You were alone again in the darkness.
You looked up at the roof, at the darkness the roof sat enshrouded in, and your mind filled with the images, now fading, which had assailed it in sleep just a minute earlier. Furry arms, moving both wolf-like and spider-like, through a dark corridor. Some shadow in the window and a cry to “keep the bucket steady!” from a screaming female voice. “If it spills, he won’t let us have fun anymore!”
These were the thoughts which crowded the broth of your sleeping consciousness, only to be washed away by the clear water of waking awareness. Even still, the shadows which loomed through that broth were taunting you, their forms, elongated and dissipating, mocking as they were dragged off into the oblivion behind all thought. Trick-or-treating was the culprit, having left imprints, shadowy and garish, in the soft mud of your unconsciousness. The burning expressions, exaggerated and abstract, on jack-o-lanterns and masks, sheets with red dye moving through your suburban microcosm of a world without want or real terror. All of it, and the breeze with it, chilling you, especially the tall man behind you, walking, a human silhouette in the darkness. You had turned to see if he was still there, your face at your mom’s hip, and you heard him: “kittikittikittikitti” followed by a sound, low in volume, high in pitch, like the meowing of a cat. You turned back around, and kept walking, your hand in your mother’s, gripping tightly. She didn’t seem to notice him. By the time you found the courage to look again, he was gone.
You took a deep breath and tried to turn over. Every small movement took an act of extreme courage. In the darkness, startling you, was your plush rabbit, his face obscured, but his little foot. Its round, flat end, faced you through the chink of moonlight.
You could hear your mom getting resettled in her bedroom, and you wanted to be back there with her.
You thought about holding her warm body closely. You thought about holding her the way your father did, the way your father couldn’t now that he was on his trip. “Your daddy’s a teapot now.” You remember hearing that somewhere. It was your dream. You had dreamt it. “If he tips over, he dies.”
You pulled your blanket over your head, catching a chill at the sentence, at the little girl’s voice, soft but mocking, which spoke it. You looked at Mr. Biggles, your rabbit, and felt comfort, only to feel a sudden shock, a terror felt all at once, at the impression that he was somehow the one responsible, the puppet master who manned horrible marionettes in your dreams. Rather than see him sit there inertly, your mind, aided by the darkness, imagined him moving, then, while stationary, changing. Something less soft and fluffy, something more like flesh, dark flesh which grunted rather than mumbled to itself cartoonishly, harmlessly. Something which growled, not like an animal, but like a clearing or obstructed throat. Something almost automatic in its biology, like lungs or the beating of a heart. Something made of flesh, but something that wasn’t human, something that was barely animal.
You shook the thought quickly, and as you did, the sense of motion in the darkness stopped. Mr. Biggles sat there, his body, like his exposed foot, stationary.
You drew in a deep breath. The blanket loosened from your ear without a thought. You then lay in the darkness, only hearing the sound of air through your stuffed nose. It was the only sound you heard, and it provided you comfort.
And then, through the darkness of the house, you heard your mom shift in bed. And while you imagined her body, soft and warm, moving from one side to its other, her hands moving to rest with one another against the opposite cheek, something, some vague thought, came to you first as an emotion, then, soon, it was accompanied by a visual, and your mom’s bed, latticed with outer-light through the window, sat warped and angular, with something just like your mom in aspect, but nothing like her in spirit, sitting there, above her covers, above sleep, and above anything resembling love, her smile, usually warm, sat crooked and vile, and her eyes took on an almost feline predation.
She turned her head, looking at her open doorway, the free range of her home and its darkness, the free range you were trapped within.
A sudden panic overtook you, the almost-real sensation of being exposed, naked, your pajama bottoms ripped from you as viciously as your sheets, and worse, yourself ripped from the surface of your bed, dragged through your bedroom doorway, out towards and within the black embrace of the house by something only all too eager to devour you, plunging you further into an even deeper darkness, one without the outer streetlights and reflective surfaces, one without the stars, a darkness without end.
What was your mother, coming through in flashes of window-bent moonlight, changed with every flash through said-light as she dragged you further, the strength and violence inhuman, and the intent unwholesome.
The last thing you saw, after she turned around, her face exposed and engulfed in the soft lunar rays, were rows and rows of wet teeth below those big, blue, feline eyes. Her teeth snapped open. She pulled your foot toward the gaping darkness between them.
That’s when you heard a crack, not imagined, but real, somewhere in the house. You heard a thrash in your mom’s sheets. Then a silence. “Hon-“ she started, as if calling, worry in her voice. And then another smash interrupted her, this one definitive, with glass falling and sliding against the floor, a chunk of it meeting the wall that bordered your bedroom with a thud.
You stared at that wall. Mr. Biggles sat before it, now becoming barely visible beyond his foot, your eyes focused and alert, as steady as your stalled breathing.
More cracks, now minor, now more deliberate-sounding, and the sliding of a glove against wood. And then the rattling of a doorknob.
You heard another set of sounds, like flesh against a sheet. Then bare feet against ground. All coming from the other end of the house. It was your mother. She was getting up.
Just when you heard her familiar bare feet scuttle out into the hallway, you heard the door swing open and smack against the wall.
There was a silence.
Then there were big heavy footsteps. “Thought I heard a mouse there,” said a deep voice. “Kitty-cat love him some mice.”
There was another silence, this one even deeper, as if the darkness itself were waiting for a noise.
Then you heard a click.
A bright unnatural light spilled in, faded and secondary, in a beam across the open crack in your door. Your numbness gave way now to a real and rising terror.
The light beam swung across the open space outside in a confident, uncompromising arc. Then it stopped, shuddered, and swung back twenty degrees. “There you are,” the voice said. “A mouse…”
There was more silence, which upon deeper listening, contained embedded within it, heavy breathing. Breathing which sounded like your mother’s usually would after startling moments of panic she had whenever she perceived you were in danger.
“And what a mouse,” the voice said.
“No!” it was your mom’s voice, sounding jerky, like she was at the start of some motion.
The sound of heavy boots across the floor, drowned out whatever sound your mother’s small form could produce. There was a heavy thud, like steel hitting the ground, and you saw a big imposing body flash, in and out, through the now-crawling beam of light which ran, lower to the ground now, across the crack in your doorway.
“No!” your mom shrieked, her voice strained, tight like she was being held or bent.
More sounds of heavy boots against the ground, decorated with distant percussion by soft feet which danced around them. The dance though didn’t seem to be consensual.
“No! Stop! Plea-“
“Shhhh!”
You heard feet being dragged across the floor. The light was stationary until a gust of wind from outside blew in, shaking it back and forth. You could imagine a flashlight laying on the ground, giving slightly to the push of the elements, sending its beam disproportionately across the scene, back and forth, back and forth, as the flashlight rolled and rolled back again on a shallow axis. You could imagine your mother, as surreal as it was, being dragged within that metronome light.
Then you didn’t have to imagine any longer, she was dragged, dragged by her feet, her face appearing to you, sliding across the floor, in a moment of its own horror, framed by the open vertical bar that was your doorway. She looked in at you for a second, terror in her eye, but with enough wherewithal and calm to keep from alerting the thing that dragged her now to your presence. Then, just as suddenly, she was dragged out of sight by a single tug, and dragged, presumably, away from the beam of light, deeper into the darkness which bordered it on every side.
You lay there, frozen in vivid fear, unreality, terror, feeling as if you were still in your nightmare. You heard your mom struggling, heard her pleading, and heard, even felt, her struggling and pleading being eclipsed by the manhandling and demanding of the much larger shadow that held in her place.
“Be quiet, little mouse,” he said, somehow both softly and with aggressive command. “Play nice for this kitty-cat. Kitty-cat needs what he’s going to take from you.”
“No!,” she pleaded softly, acutely, terrified that if she were any louder, it would require from him violence, first against her, then against…
You could hear him gaining leverage over her, his boots sliding against the ground. You could hear tearing and scuffling, breathing, whispering, and high-pitched, deliberate-but-soft pleading.
“I love the way my mouse squeaks,” he celebrated with the night and the darkness. “Such a pretty mouse.” His voice floated as if it were lifted off the ground, as if he existed, at least mentally, in some higher, or at least some imagined, reality. It was as if his consciousness itself were in a state of dreaming, a dream he couldn’t wake up from, nor would want to if he could.
Your mom, her awareness very much grounded in the world he ignored, pleaded further. Never mentioning you in her pleading, terrified by what would happen if she did.
You then heard something snap.
“Don’t! Don’t!” Soft, low, and desperate.
“A bare, pink mouse,” he said. “So smooth.”
Something soft, almost weightless, smacked against the edge of your door, pushing it slightly further ajar. You stared, your eyes wide with a still panic. Sitting on the ground, before your very doorway, illuminated by light, was your mom’s discarded and bawled up pair of panties.
“Nooo…”
“Yesss!” he said, matching the muffled tone of her voice. “Wonderful. Beautiful mouse.”
You lay there, hearing noises, soft, intimate, almost squishy noises in the darkness.
“No!” It was less like a statement to him, and more like a pleading with herself now. A pleading with the night perhaps.
“Aww,” he exclaimed in a hushed urgency. “Haww, yesss! So good. So good. Kitty likes his milk.”
Mr. Biggles sat on the chair, his whole form now visible in the nightmarish light, with long, thin shadows, cast by the dowels of chair’s backrest, across his expressionless face.
“Ooohhhh.”
You don’t know how, maybe it was the unreality of the moment, maybe it was a will to protect, however stunted, which gave you the strength, or the stupidity, to get up out of bed. The sheets brushed against your pajamas, but they were nothing compared to the squishy, rubbing, whispering, and plapping noises from outside. The floor was cool against the soles of your feet, and the air cool against your chin.
You slowly moved toward your doorway, feeling that bright unnatural light getting more real as you approached it.
The ajar space was now just before you. Your lip trembled. You grabbed the edge of your door and, while pushing it to fit your head through, you felt and heard a thud against its other end.
The flashlight’s beam rolled away from your doorway, bathing you in darkness, sending its ray toward the near-opposite direction.
Somehow intuiting that this was to your advantage, you slowly, breathlessly, pushed further against the door, then, when you could fit your head through, peeked your trembling eye out beyond its giving edge.
You froze.
Your mom’s body, as you had never seen it, bare and bent into the almost-feline shape, appeared to you. Her nipples stared back at you with as much emotion as the button-eyes on Mr. Biggles. Her legs were splayed wide, and her arms were gripped behind her back with a tugging forcefulness, all used to keep them in place, and useless, rather than pull them further.
“Yess,” said the man, his face obscured in darkness. His thrusting into your mother, into an open space between her legs, was where the squishing noise came from. You were sure of that now.
His body, naked and rough, smacked against her soft, smooth vulnerabilities. The flashlight thudded softly against your door as the outer wind, still spilling through the open entrance, blew inward, blowing the occasional stray, crumpled and chafing leaf across the floorboards.
“Ughh,” your mom moaned, painfully.
“Yes, it feels good, little mouse. Very good. Yes!”
A leaf, sliding silently through the darkness, struck your bare foot without warning, but you remained still and quiet. Beyond that, you were invisible. The only thing which would expose you now was to make a noise, something that you were almost incapable of doing, your words stuck in your throat with all the push of the man’s large and throbbing penis pushing through your mother with a strange and foreign violence, a violence whose essence sat shaking beyond your ability to explain.
The sight itself, the sounds and the nature of it, was so without precedent, that even your nightmares failed to work as analogy, with those at least, even if broken and reassembled by chance, contained some familiar scope, some tidbit to rest your emotion or action upon.
This, what you were witnessing now, with your mom in a state that both thrilled and horrified you, a situation which elevated her to a new beauty, while submerging her in a thick impenetrable humiliation you didn’t even know could exist, especially for someone as primary in your world’s pantheon as she was.
Even the strange shreds and scrap plastic of this Halloween night, with all its garish shapes and glowing, its sinister need to offend some primal sacred inch in the soul of every participant; even it failed to prepare you, through whatever rite of passage it represented, for what you were seeing now.
You watched your mom crawl along the floor like a kitten. She seemed almost alone in the darkness, some Nebuchadnezzar possessed by her own madness or primordial mammal being, until a hand came down, meeting her fleshy ass cheek. Her flesh of her ass cheeks answered back with a satisfying smack.
“Nice bottom,” he said. “Kitty likes mousey’s nice bottom.”
Your mom panted, and sometimes groaned, with every slap. Her only consolation was that her crawling brought the man further from your doorway, further from your bedroom, further from you. She brought him away with her body, knowing its power, knowing its advantages, knowing what she had to sacrifice for your sake.
You heard a weight, one heavy and sinewy, plop down next to hers. Bare traces of it fell into the rocking light.
A large hand poked into the beam, harvesting your mom’s reddening butt cheeks for the slapping sounds it made when struck. Your mom’s ass appeared to you through the sleepy and surreal haze of nighttime, looking not much different than it did, bent over in front of your face in the shower, picking up the soap that she had dropped as she slid it between her naked ass-cheeks. She picked it up as you stared at her soapy mounds of flesh just inches from your face. Then she turned around, her smiling face replacing her dripping ass, close enough to kiss you, to bring the soap to your body.
Now that ass stood, bent over again, filling with sweat instead of suds, your mom’s daily nudity, being usually a private moment between you and her (and sometimes your father), now being brought, seemingly by force, into existence within your own punctured, invaded living room.
“Oooohhhh, little mousy. Oooh, my little mouse…” It was a voice, disembodied and whispering, as detached from consequence as if it were the darkness itself.
Your mom, fearing angering this invader, not for her own sake, but for yours, had no choice but to comply. His fingers plunged within her, and her cheeks jiggled, reverberating like a string being plucked. And like an instrument, she moaned at a tone and frequency in keeping with his hand motion and force.
You saw him getting deep inside her. The house echoed with the noises of his activities, activities done with the soft structure of her body. The darkness that the world had been plunged into surrounding the only thing left existing, with your mom now, and her humiliation, being the center of this new cosmology. Her body and face, and the limbs which held them in physical and emotional place, existing to you now as the new and only sun of an otherwise shrouded universe.
He brought her into a new position as deliberately, as inhumanly, as if he were manhandling rope or cable. Her legs were spread out, her thighs exposed in a position you could never otherwise imagine her in. It was as if she were transformed and still further transforming right before you.
His penis fell out of her, and it look no different than your fathers, except it was bigger. She seemed to take the slap as a warning, and she helped push it back into herself, feeling its every gaining inch as she did. “Yess! Kitty needs his warm mouse hole,” he said. “Kitty likes…”
The flashlight rolled, slightly from the wind, on its axis, now giving you a view of this body, the one foreign to your household, but which had still made itself home. You saw his naked hips, similar to your father’s, but different in its particularities, thrusting into your mother’s open space.
She seemed to be in some kind of pain, and if not pain, then in the throes of some sadness.
Your terror, as the extent of your invisibility became obvious to you, slowly receded, giving way to fascination. Your mother’s body, private and your own, gave up all its familial intricacies to someone, or something, outside you family. His intricacies, foreign and strange, forced themselves on her own, and you, wordlessly, enjoyed the nature of that violence, his forward thrust, the beads of your mom’s sweat, and the strange, wild expressions of her face, which fed its obscure and novel beauty so bounteously to the illimitable darkness within your home.
“Let’s try the other mousehole,” he hissed.
“Nooo…”
“Yesss!” He slapped her again in her mouth.
She grit her teeth as he plunged within her, feeling her asshole open up, feeling every inch of it as it occurred.
“Oooh! These holes are too tight for kitty-cat. Kitty-cat fit so nice.”
“Please…”
“The hole begs and goes tighter. Kitty-cat will be stuck.” His fingers found her clitoris and began massaging it. “Kitty loves his tuna. It smells so nice.”
You heard a sniffing in the darkness.
He pulled out of her asshole, and pre-cum dripped from the head of his penis, falling to the hardwood, comingling with his sweat, hers, and the moisture which spilled from between her own legs, the shameful product of her even-more-shameful abuse.
“Little mouse needs her drink,” he said. “My mouse is thirsty. She needs her milk and water.”
He plunged her face toward the floor.
“Drink,” he said, first as an offer. Then “drink!” This time it was a demand.
You watched your mother as she hummed with a weird, abstract sort of pain, licking the same floors you, she, and your father walked over with socks, shoes, and bare soles for years.
You saw the liquid, clear and frothy, lap up into her mouth. You saw it drip from her tongue, and you saw her peck forward to lick it up again, trying to get all of it, bearing the taste, if even just to convince him to allow her to stop.
“Lick up all the milk, little mousey. Yesss!” You heard spanking sounds from the darkness behind her. They sounded no different than the noises you heard behind the locked door of your parents’ bedroom. “Little mousey drink up all the milk.”
“Mousey have it all over her face. Mousey love kitty’s milk.”
The man’s foot pushed your mother’s head, sliding it across the ground. The strange sourness that filled you intuitively struck you as one that would only be felt that much sour for your father. You could still sort of sense, however primitively, the rough hierarchy of protectors and protected which existed in your house, and seemed to exist in most others. And you knew that whatever urge your mother felt to keep you safe, to keep you tucked away silent and unnoticed within your room, also existed in your father for her, and it was backed up with a different form of primal intensity, one coming from a place much lower in the body.
And this sensation, both within you, and the one you imagined for your father, only multiplied with what was done to her face next.
“Ooogghhh! Kitty like!” He half-squeaked, half-growled. “Kitty- mmmeooewww... Mmmeeeooooww…”
His testicles, beautiful and ugly all at once, just like your father’s, rested on your mother’s eye.
“Tongue out, mouse! Tongue out!” His demands were intense, and you could see by the structure of your mom’s face that there was no excess of tongue left in her mouth, all of it protruding outward and forward into his most sensitive and pleasurable place, poking against it, poking within to stall his anger.
“Ooogghhhh, kitty loves his mouse!”
He rubbed his ass a few times against her face for good measure, smearing what was left of her dignity against her lips, nose, and cheek, before thrusting his cock back into her mouth.
“The good mouse gets her cheese… She does… oghh… she does…”
Your mom couldn’t tell whether she was better off now or before, with her mouth being violated, while less direct and painful, the tastes and smells it filled her palette and nostrils with added an extra level horror, their imprinting on these two senses, on top of her violated sense of sight, touch, and sound, only made her predicament, increasingly vivid, that much less of a dream, and, in turn, that much more of a nightmare.
Regardless of what she preferred, the cards weren’t in her hands any longer.
You watched him pluck his cock from her mouth, it spraying spit as it popped upward. He grabbed her, pulling her out of the light with her grunts and protests, and manhandling her invisibly, her limbs falling into sight every few moments, the vagaries adding to your worst suspicions, that of her destruction or transformation.
It wasn’t until he had her settled as he liked, purring all the while, that he fell back with her, holding her like his own little object, into the light.
You watched your mother, splayed out, as if in parody of the power and dignity she once effortlessly maintained, before you. The length of her body, including the soles of her very feet, open and exposed without any hope of hiding themselves. His body below, like a creature half-formed, thrusting inside her open and unguarded hole with a faceless hunger. He thrust within her, and behind her, his face hidden, he meowed without irony. It was the night, cradling this moment, which held and perpetuated the irony that he was too unsound of mind and moral compass to grasp himself.
Your mom panted, groaned, pleaded, not with him any longer, but with life. Pleaded with a figure, all-powerful, watching from the darkness. She sensed this figure, it becoming real to her in her panic, and she called to it with her formless cries, believing desperately that it would come in, emerge from the darkness, or obliterate the darkness, itself an all-consuming light, not only stopping the moment’s indignity, but tallying against it so thoroughly, it would be as if the moment had never happened in the first place.
He meowed, and it pierced her consciousness, shattering her delusion with the mockery that befitted it.
He grabbed her hips, then threw her off himself as if she were nuisance.
“Mousey needs her salt-lick,” he said. He leaned back, his cock falling back against his belly then throbbing upward again. He grabbed her hips, then positioned her ass over his face. He grabbed her by the back of her head and pushing downward with both hands, guided her quivering mouth toward his throbbing cock-head. “It’s so satisfying,” he said, muffled, his face being covered entirely by the soft weight of your mom’s ass-cheeks. “Delicious salt, isn’t it, my mouse? See, kitty-cat cares for his little mousey.”
As she sucked away at it, stroking its shaft, you could hear kloking sounds, his tongue lapping away at the flesh between her ass cheeks.
“Kitty eats his mouse,” he said, muffled by flesh, followed by a few more licks and kisses. “Mouse is kitty’s favorite meal. It always tastes so good.” He pulled his face from between her cheeks, his grin illuminated, his eyes obscured within the darkness. “Mousey deserves her salt.” He grabbed her by her hair with both hands and began forcing her face downward.
Her crying and pleadings were crowded toward her cheeks and choked within her own throat now.
“Eat up, mousey. Good mousey gets its treat.”
He began to vocalize a new pleasure, one which came out halfway between a masculine groan and a feminine meowing. He gripped your mom’s hair, plucking her off his cock. She sucked back for air.
“Open your mouth, mousey,” he said with great gravity. “Kitty is going to give you his milk.”
Without even touching himself, his cock twitched, and a thick rope of what you, in the moment, could only assume was milk, shot into her squinting face.
“Open up,” he said. “Have your fill, my mouse.” His voice was shaking with every syllable, his face obscured.
She did as was requested, taking the rope which shot from his twitching appendage. After he was finished, he plunged her face downward, making her lick up what she had missed from his pubic region and hips. “Drink, my little mouse. It’s all for you.” He sounded satiated, settled in a comfortable joy.
Your mom licked along his body, his hips, pubes, and nut-sack, moving downward, licking from his inner-thighs.
Suddenly, her whole body twitched violently. She looked back.
“Mousey want kitty to make her feel good?”
Your mom didn’t say anything, she only stared. You heard a wet, mouth-like noise, like a cat whisking at the milk in a saucer with its tongue.
She stared a moment longer, then turned around, bringing her face low toward his thighs. Her body started to shake, her mouth fell open, and her eyes, both closed, began to twitch.
Her body seemed restless, until the twitching stopped, and her mouth fell shut. Suddenly, she dropped to the ground. You could hear him moving through the darkness, first towards you, then toward the front door.
Your saw your mom in that beam of light, still kneeling down, her arm ,underneath herself, still in furious motion. Her eyes were shut.
You then looked back at the front door. His strange form emerged as a sillhoette in its faint light. He looked outside, almost wistfully. Then back within at your mom. “Kitty-cat enjoyed his meal. Little mouse is very delicious.”
Your mom was still on the floor, writhing with herself, her eyes shut. A thick rope of cum fallling from her nose. Her arm still twitching beneath her.
“And you.” You looked back at the door, to see him standing there, still a two-dimensional shadow, but you knew he was looking directly at you. “Little bunny rabbit, watching from his hole. Remember what happened to mousey. And tell the world.” You could have sworn you seen him smile. “Because she won’t.”
He turned and was gone, the empty space of the doorway loud with his absense. A dried leaf slid across the floor and met your foot. You didn’t even flinch. You turned to see your mom, still on the floor. The rope of cum, after growing long, broke, a large stringy drop falling the floor.
You approached. She saw you emerge in the light.
“Just a second, sweety,” she said. She pressed her face against the ground, shutting out the world, then her ass began to jiggle, her muscles tensing. For a moment she was frozen stiff against the ground, her trembling ass cheeks being the only thing moving in the house. Then she slowly looked up. She carried both trauma and peace in her expression. She leaned up. She looked, squinting at the flashlight. “Go get it,” she said. “And bring it here.”
You did as you were told.
You handed it to her. She took it in her smooth fingers and shut it off. The two of you were bathed in darkness.
You felt her grab your hand, and she pulled you toward the floor. She held you tightly against her body. “Don’t tell daddy what you saw,” she said.
You said nothing, only feeling her breathe ambiguously in the darkness. You woke up again twice that night. First to the sound of her sobbing. Then later, while the early morning light began to dawn purple on the horizon, with her near the window, her ass up in the air, and her pussy, like the mouth of some monster, continually devouring the neck of that flashlight.
After her ass began to tremble, and her body became still again, she went loose and collapsed there, her ass jiggling with every sob. She sobbed until she felt your arms around her, then she swallowed her pain. She looked over at you with moist eyes, and she smiled. “A few more hours,” she said softly. “And it’s candy time.”
Your bedroom sat in the gaining light, its door still hanging open, parallel to the open and smashed front door. Mr. Biggles sat on his chair, his button eyes now visible. He stared out your bedroom window at the last remaining remnants of night, which, despite their dominion, retreated over the distant horizon, frantically, as if in terrifying escape from the light that nipped at its hind.
“So.” A book fell before you. It had your name on its cover, an image of some indistinct monstrosity inhabiting a black doorway, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Cat People it read. You looked up to see a pretty woman, eyes green, staring down at you. “Where do you get your ideas from?”
“Your name?” you asked. She told you and you began to autograph the cover of the book, right below the shadowy figure. “My ideas,” you repeated, finishing off the final touches of your signature. “Maybe you can find out if you come to dinner with me.” You looked up at her, handing her her back her book.
She grabbed it, holding it beneath her large tits, and stared at you.
That night, you sat on a motel bed, your legs spread out wide, while a beam of orange streelight spilled in in a rough circle, illuminated the head of blonde hair which shook up and down over your crotch. You felt your cock being submerged whole, then freed, then submerged, and you rested on a tower of pillows behind yourself.
The book, your autograph on its front, sat on the nightstand. The luminous feline eyes on its cover reflecting the light from the outer street lamp.
You grabbed the top of her head, and pushed it harder and faster. Enjoy your salt, little mouse, you thought. Bunny rabbit loves his little mouse.
You looked up to see her ass shaking in faint edges of the light.
You reached over the length of her body and gave it a smack.
As the World Turns
This story will be available in the next two weeks. But it's also currently available for my subscribestar supporters: https://subscribestar.adult/bluvelvet99