“Hanz!”
He spun around, snapping at once: “Hey!” His eyes were wild. He stared at her for a moment with those wild eyes, the ones she had loved and feared for so long. He moved toward her, less like a man, more like an eagle swooping in towards its prey, stopping just an inch from her startled face. His finger shot up, now almost poking her in the cheek. “I told you,” he said, his voice low but intense, more alarming this way than it would have been if he were screaming. “Never use that name again. You hear me? Never!”
She stared at him.
The lines in his face, the accumulations of his age and stress, burying the young, idealistic man he once was, now, after finding rage’s apex, slowly lost their power, and slacked until he was looking at her with, unbelievably, a smile. “Okay?” he asked, warmly. It was as if nothing had happened, as if it were just any other day.
She stared for a moment. Then she nodded her head.
His eyes creased with joy. “That’s why I love you, fraulein.” He said it low, so nobody could hear, doing so with his Spanish, which had improved considerably over the last decade-and-a-half.
She again nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be home for dinner. Whatever you wanted to tell me can wait ‘til then.” He smiled again, turned around, and she watched as he left, still unable, no matter how much time had passed, to get over how strange he looked in shorts.
She went back inside, wiping her hands on her apron. “Understood, my Fuhrer,” she said quietly after closing the door, as if he were still there to hear.
Their son sat on the bed, looking at her. She had always felt like he was judging her with those eyes in the moments immediately following Hanz’ cock in her mouth. He wasn’t. There was nothing to judge. Watching her do her “wifely duties,” or “duties to the race” as Hanz poetically put it on some occasions, was as natural to the young boy as witnessing rain, having watched it happen a limitless number of times since his earliest days of consciousness. Hanz would sometimes smile and wink with him during, once even playing with his son’s trainset as she serviced his throbbing shaft with the flat of her trembling tongue.
Hearing him that one time, she removed the cock from her mouth, and began sucking his balls, doing so so she could look over. She saw the train Hanz moved with his deliberate hand, watching as it pulled into the station beneath their son’s face. “Eight-Hundred more from Poland,” he said. “A few more million vermin to go.”
She felt the flesh of his cock against her face when he said it, expanding with pleasure.
“Then we’ll be free.” He smiled at his son.
She stood there now, a few years in the future, her son staring at her from the bed, getting old enough to wonder. She looked at herself in the looking glass hanging from a thread above the stove. It twirled slowly in place, giving her the occasional glimpse at her reflection. If the mirror moved fast enough she could imagine herself as she once was, back in Munich, a unique beauty. Even in Poland, where they once sat drinking tea just a few minutes’ jeep ride from the camp.
The mirror slowly stopped rotating. There she stood within it, staring back at herself. Older, dryer, more overweight, and less hopeful, she could see it in her eyes. He could too.
She heard giggling. She looked out the window to see a few passing locals (they would always cut through the catwalk on the side of the house), their bronze skin luminous and healthy in the sun. Their thighs thick and succulent, their bodies accentuated by their clothing. She knew, despite what Hanz said about a superior race, one he held a profound and ancient duty to, that the wandering of his blue eyes, which always seemed to find these young, brown bodies, meant something more than disgust. His chest and abdomen would almost lift upward along his frame, slowly but surely, as his mouth hung open, silently drawing in air, as he watched these brown-brunette creatures pass him; only for all of it, whatever it was, to collapse once they left his sight. Then he’d turn to look at her, no lifted chest, no rising abdomen, no open mouth eager for breath, and without that sparkle in those piercing blue eyes.
“Rafeal!” the curly-haired man said, his eyes bright.
Hanz moved to him, a smile on his face. Grabbing the man’s hand in his own, squeezing it, they embraced. “Hello, boss.”
“Hello, my friend.” The curly-haired man pushed off from Hanz and looked at him admiringly.
Hanz, now Rafeal, had become accustomed to the aggressive warmth of this land, having done so within the first year here in 1946, not just adapting to it, but learning quickly to admire it. He stood there, a cigar in his mouth, examining the job site. He looked at the steel pillars, their angular shapes poking into the blue sky as busy men with hard harts moved about the lot. Hanz knew a thing or two about construction. Standing here, even in a world much hotter and more humid, he couldn’t help but feel like he was back in Poland, ordering around bricklayers, and later prisoners. The only thing that felt different now was that he was only second in command here, and even that was tenuous.
He took the cigar from his mouth and tapped it. Its ashes fell to the earth. “How’d your son’s bar mitzvah go?” he asked.
The curly-haired man, your father, nodded his head. “Very good. Nervous during his torrah reading, but he remembered the words.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. It was a good day.” He turned and looked at Hanz. “Wish you could have come.”
Hanz sucked from the cigar. Then he removed it and blew smoke which billowed through the air, fading within the wind.
Your mom lay at home, the television still audible, its tinny speech echoing throughout the house. She grimaced at the thought of you sitting down before it, watching it with wide, unjudging eyes. Your dad had told her it was the next big thing. She didn’t need to be convinced of that, but something in her, some reactionary seed, dreaded the idea that it would have some effect on the youth, one beyond all parental and societal control. You looked over at her, seeing her body sweating healthily in the sun.
Your Torah sat aside, open and incomprehensible on the table. It was filled with an ancient language and history, stuffy and mysterious, a wall of impenetrable characters, keeping behind itself the story of your people, from the inception of the earth, to your freedom, to your earliest covenant with the creator of everything.
Your mom, a piece of that creation, lay on the couch, her blonde locks falling over her shoulders, past her giant breasts. Her thighs, thick and bronzed, sat succulent within the dusty sunlight.
You wanted to get up, to go to your room to deal with your thoughts in the most private way you could, but you feared your pleasure would be seen through your shorts if you stood up. You instead sat at the table, your torah above it, resting directly above your throbbing cock. You touched your cock, your eyes slowly crawling up your mom’s heels, up her calves, then to her thighs, before stopping on the blue shorts which covered her crotch and round ass. You massaged your pubescent cock through your shorts.
As you looked at her, you admired her not just for the painfully arousing feelings she brought from you, but also for what she represented. You had grown up with a harsh eye on you at all times, though both of your parents shared the majority of their essence with those around them, it seemed that it was your family’s Jewishness (however little of it actually came from the twelve tribes of Israel) in the eyes of others which seemed to take precedence. You, being younger, meeker, and less professionally connected than your father, and less beautiful and bright than your mother, took the brunt of it. If anything, you were the only one of three who knew how bad antisemitism could get in Argentina. In the gym showers at school, the other students would point at you, jokingly noting how your penis wasn’t a snake, the way they had heard it would be, or that your feet weren’t hooved or ripe with claws at the end of each toe.
Your mom, laying before you, looking erotic without ever trying, single-handedly dismissed this ridiculousness with her miles of perfect flesh, her long legs and large bust, her stony goddess face and pouting lips. Even her every toe had perfect shape, the type that put other women in this already-attractive nation to shame. Nobody would ever level an ill word at her, just out of the sheer delusion that they could one day have her flesh-to-flesh with themselves in the privacy of their sweaty rooms.
Your dad was ugly, short, clever but awkward, shrewd with his money, good with his words (often in a bad way), and all the other things which were cast as aspersions over your people the same way a blanket could be cast with a wide birth over the dead. It was your mom, her statuesque beauty, which defied every stereotype, so much so, that even with you sitting there, aware of the things your classmates said, that Jews were “sick in the head;” it was only she who could make you feel okay, even if that was true, even if your obsession with her was prime evidence for that claim. Your prized the thought of being in your room right now, finding a moment to go, so you could sit on your bed, sweating with your legs spread out, your cock throbbing in the darkness (the sun rose on the other side of the house), playing with it, looking down at it then rolling your head back in pleasure, looking down at it some more as you tugged it to thoughts of your mom in awash in an indistinct chaos of sexuality, male pelvises and thighs, cocks and balls, existing without body, just there to rub against her, to slide their head or shaft or scrotum on her various parts, including that of her face, lips, and tongue, hips and butt-crack.
Those were always the best orgasms. The tip of your mom’s jewish tongue massaging gentile cockheads, thick and long shafts resting against her face as she sucked on balls. Licking hairy thighs, or the soles of giant feet, eating hairy gentile ass as the butt-cheeks in questioned pushed harder into her face, covering it in their pleasure, all of it happening in some barren desert landscape, a pillar of flame off in the horizon, it being followed by a long train of humanity, with a chest being carried at its front, containing the essence of morality itself, its every jot and tittle condemned, without wiggle room, to stone. You heard your mom’s wet mouth in action. The torah sat on the table, below your eyes and above your twitching cock. She didn’t even seem to notice you were there.
“Joy divisions,” a voice said from a tinny speaker.
Her face contorted, just slightly, at its very edges. Enough to make your heart sink. You looked over at the little tube screen, black and white flashes of documentary footage raising a most-primal dread in you.
Bodies, skinny beyond imagining, carried on gurney past by Soviet soldiers, liberators who came much too late.
Your mom got up. You were so transfixed by the horrors on screen that you didn’t even turn to look at her the way you normally would. She grabbed the knob of the television, changing it to the news. As she went back to the couch, the man on the television, speaking in Spanish, his eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, spoke: “A storm is coming. Experts are warning that it will be the most severe we’ve seen in years.”
“Scary,” the female host said. “When it’s so beautiful now…” She herself was a figure of beauty, though she was nowhere near the beauty your mother was. Few were.
He adjusted his notes on the table. “Indeed. It’s frightening how quickly things can change. Experts advise those at home to…”
Your mom heard a creak. She turned to look, and she saw you moving down the hallway, toward your bedroom, your yellow shorts hugging tight against your small, tight ass.
She looked over at the dining room table.
The Torah sat there, still open, still incomprehensible, even to her. But as she stared at it, a warmth and sure-headedness came over her. She knew nothing of what was written in that book, at least not in its original and ancient Hebrew. But this meant nothing to her. Because she knew that whatever would proceed in this world, it would proceed based on a will stronger and more just than her own. The pages, their Hebrew characters, seemed to shine with that glorious truth. She smiled, and she turned back to look at the screen. And that thought, with all its holy implications, took the edge off every image which flashed before her, even the most horrible of them.
You sat on your bed, your back against the wall, with your bare legs spread out and sweaty, just like you had imagined, tugging your cock with your eyelids half-shut. Your tiny shorts lay on the carpet.
Joy divisions, you thought. Visions of young jewish women, their bodies stripped bare of the little clothing they had left, locked within small bunks, as men, blonde and blue-eyed, approached said bunks, the smiles on their square faces wide and sickening.
You imagined those shivering, nude, jewish bodies, each one as curvy as your mother’s. And that’s when you realized. You had been imagining her amongst them, her body huddled with theirs, shivering with them as one, as the gigantic German, his cock throbbing in his pants, got closer.
The jewish women, the beautiful ones, and therefore the only ones kept consistently nourished in the camp, their faces growing grave and horrible, tightening up into one unbroken, smooth-skinned mass. All the flesh that wasn’t exposed to daylight instead chafed against other flesh.
The guard undoes his trousers. “It’s time to pay us back for all the pain you’ve caused,” he says, without irony. “Don’t be too shocked. I know it’s the first good thing you’ve done for a German in your entire life.” His trousers come down, his cock falls free and hard. “I figured since you’re parasites anyway, that you’ll already be skilled at sucking.” The cock pokes toward them closer. They look on horrified, their shapely bodies shivering, your mom’s the most beautiful in its horror.
Your eyes began to roll back beneath your sweating bangs, hyper aware of your own presence, of what you looked like, and of what it implied, wanting this man, this figment of your imagination, the genetic memory left in your people of the eternal persecutor, to see what you were now, to feel his biases regarding the ‘wrongness’ of your people satiated with confirmation, however remote, even if it were on the other side of the world, where the sun sets rather than rises. You thought of the speed at which your mom shot to her feet in the living room, at her eagerness to change the channel, to block it out, to make-believe none of it had ever happened. Because she knew, the same way every jew did, that what happened to those woman in those camp brothels, had also, in a sense, happened to her (even if she never lived in Europe to experience it). That no jew could suffer without every other jew feeling that suffering in turn. That’s what love was. It was suffering.
“Yes!” you said, quietly but intensely. “It happened mom. It did.” You were on the cusp of forming the next thought, your forehead and inner-thighs dripping, the pleasure rising, rising up to its coming crest. “It’s going to happen…” you felt it, one unbroken wave, and with that came wordlessness, and, after that moment of eternity, stopping the track of that thought further, was the will, now expelled, within the tissues you held in your trembling fingers.
You stared at it for a moment, unsure of how to feel. All of that thrill, all of that magic, all of its electricity: gone, leaving you alone in this moment, staring at that wet tissue. You stared at it so long that it went dry in your hand, and sat there like a flower, a white carnation, mangled and stiff.
You threw the disheveled wad to the floor, it landed next to your shorts, then you turned around, placing your face against your pillow. You grabbed each end, and you tugged them around your ears. You don’t know how – it must have been the heat – but you fell asleep.
Your mom stood, completely nude within the shower. She looked up at the silent showerhead. It stared back down at her innocuously. She stared at it, her mouth still, her eyes focused on its various pores where liquid would eventually spill out. She leaned forward slowly, grabbing the handle. She turned it.
When she felt water fall to her chest, she could finally breathe.
It would never be anything except for water. She knew that.
But she could never take a breath, not until she felt it there.
She, nice and deeply, inhaled.
“She’s here.”
Hanz’ head perked up.
“Oh my god,” another worker said with a thick Portuguese accent. “Boss is really a lucky man. Not only he has us for workers. But he has that for wife.”
Hanz looked at the back of her bronzed neck, her blonde hair done up in a beautiful hive. She stood there, her dress hugging her beautifully-shaped form.
Hanz’ blue eyes, like everyone else’s brown eyes, slowly fell, focusing his gaze on the beautiful shape of her ass.
“I don’t know,” she told your father. “It just stopped spraying. Then I hit it a few times-“
“You hit it!?”
She shrugged with a smile in the corner of her mouth. “Lightly, I hit it,” she said. “Calm down, please.”
“Okay, okay, I’m calm.”
“And after I – I hit it – it started shooting out in little spurts.”
“Okay,” your dad said, his smile coming back. “So it works then.”
Your mom stared at him, unamused. “Listen, just because we’re jewish, it doesn’t mean we have to live up to the stereotype. Let’s get a plumber.”
Your dad raised his eyebrow. “Where am I supposed to find a plumber. I only work with a half-dozen of them?” He motioned to his crew.
You sat in the car, boiling alive, looking out at your mom standing there, and the legion of men, sweating and dirty on the site, all of them, without exception, craning their necks, shielding their eyes, to get a look of her there. When she asked if you wanted to come, you had said yes, in hopes to see exactly this. Also, just because you loved the smell your mom left in the car on a hot day. You sat there now, surrounded by her tangy-candy scent, staring at the body that left that scent, it covered from kneecap to shoulder, but its shape as good as silhouette with how tightly her dress fit.
As your mom nodded to your father, managing to kick him into gear (unsurprisingly, she always got her way with him), she began to turn around. Just then, your father wound his arm back, and with his workers’ eyes widening keenly, he let it fall hard against the giant target of your mom’s ass, causing it to jiggle.
Your mom turned to look at him, appalled. She only stared, saying nothing. Then she snorted, shook her head and turned around. She continued toward you, still shaking her head. Your dad looked to his workers with a smile, happy to show off in front of them. Very few of them were looking back at him, almost all of them with their eyes on your mother, including the blue-eyed one that always drew your attention. His gaze was the most intense of all. You looked back at your mom, seeing her body jiggle impossibly, even from the front and even only from motion. Then you looked back at the man, who appeared to be suffering from some form of extreme fever. His square features were stuck to her, and his bottom lip was slightly ajar.
You let your gaze crawl up to his eyes, and then you stopped. They startled you for a moment, but not just with their piercing blue this time. You looked into them, seeing the lust, as you expected, it being the same lust they all had, the same lust your dad had, the same lust you saw in your own eyes in the bathroom mirror when thinking about her. No, this look was different.
You stared at them, and for a moment, you imagined them captured in staticky black and white, projecting toward you as he stood there in black-brown military fatigues. He turned his head. He was looking at you now. Looking at you with those eyes.
You heard the driver door open behind you.
You turned to see your mom coming back into the driver seat. She sat quickly, but winced when her bruising butt-cheek met the seat. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself about it.
“So?” you asked.
She turned the ignition. “He’ll get one of his guys on it,” she said.
“Oh.” Your face bright. “It’ll be cheap then.”
She looked over at you. “Oh, not you too,” she said.
She put the car into drive.
You let your gaze fall over her body, its curves almost bursting through the fabric of her dress, the one your father had bought for her recently under the condition that she wear it often.
The car lurched forward. You then, suddenly, overcome by an unarticulated thought, turned around. You saw your dad, his hand flat over his brows to block the sun, moving across the yard. He was talking to someone, one of his workers. “… my place… it’s busted appare-“… “my wife and it didn’t…”
You turned to look to see who he was talking to, who he was recruiting for some overtime work at your place. But you couldn’t see. The sun glimmered behind them all an impossible white.
The car turned around the bend. They all disappeared from sight, the sun with them, and the last image you saw, but saw in your mind alone, as you and your mother vibrated toward the supermarket your dad and his crew helped build, was a pair of a piercing blue eyes.
Your mom set her paper bags down on the kitchen table, doing so carefully so the milk bottle wouldn’t fall through its widening tear. “Yes, yes,” she said, speaking impatiently at the ringing phone. “One second. I’m not sweeping up glass again.”
The bag settled. She stood there, her finger splayed open, her palms toward the bag as if she could settle it with her mind. You came in behind her, two bags held against your ribs.
She picked the phone, becoming sickened with its rings. “Yes,” she said, hiding her annoyance just fine.
You set the bags down, their surfaces pristine, next to your mom’s tattered bag.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, good. When are you guys going to be here?”
She stood there for a moment, looking at the counter. Then she looked up.
“I thought you said…”
She was silent again.
Then she gave a look, one less confused and more worried.
“Oh, honey. I can’t…” She exhaled exasperated. “I know, I know, they’re good people. That’s not what I… It’s just… I don’t know how to talk to people like that. Like… like people… yes…” She began to smile. “…like people who work with their hands. Yes… yes… I suppose that’s true. I’m not a snob… I just don’t… I know they don’t bite. You said that already. I agree with you.”
You listened to her.
“Sure… I said I would, yes. You don’t have to chastise me. I said I would.” She looked up and out the window, the phone clutched to her ear with both hands. You grabbed the milk from the wearing bag and you placed it in the fridge, enjoying the cool air within against your face. You turned back around and looked over at her as you moved back to the table.
“Rafael?” she said. She was staring outside at the daytime glimmer on the aluminum sheet leaning against the neighbor’s shed.
Your ears perked up, and you searched in your mind for a face to match that name.
“Which one is that? Oh,” she said. “Him. Yes, yes, I remember. Okay then. Five?” She looked over at the clock. She clutched the phone harder to her ear. “And what time will you be- what? Why?“
You brought the box of cereal to the cupboard, still looking over at her, seeing her soft body tighten up.
“If there’s another woman, I’m going to be upset.”
You heard your father laughing hard on the other end. She smiled.
You heard him laughing again. You poured the salt into the shaker.
“Okay sweetheart,” your mom said. “I’ll see you then. Hopefully your guy’s good. Then you can come home to a nice warm night-shower.”
Your dad said something, rather forcefully, on the other end.
Your mom blushed. She looked over at you, then away. “Yes, we’ll talk about it when there’s no little birds to listen in on us.”
You turned away, blushing yourself.
The thought of your dad’s hand coming down, that grin on his face all the while, on that giant ass, hitting that cheek like he had earlier, but this time, the cheek being naked, wet, and warm flashed into your mind. You buried it as immediately as it came, mindful that you only had shorts on, and that they fit too tightly already.
Your mom hung up the phone. She stood there for a second, holding it, deep in thought. Then it occurred to her. “Oh.” She put it back on the receiver, and she continued helping you to put the groceries away.
As she did, not saying a word next to you, you inhaled, taking in her summer scent. The whole kitchen was rich with it.
You heard the tapping on the front door from your bedroom. The wad of tissues sat by the edge of the bed, yet you still lay there, your cock throbbing hard. You let go of it, not wanting to ejaculate too quickly this time. You heard your mom’s bare footsteps moving toward the door.
You heard the door creak open. “Are you…”
You held your breath.
“Yes,” said a masculine voice. You tilted your head, staring at your bedroom door. “That’s me.”
“Oh, come in then!”
You listened, your neck craned to hear as best you could. An accent, you thought. Portuguese?
“Beautiful home,” he said, moving through the living room. “I’m not surprised.”
No, you thought, still struggling to place it, heeding every bend and wobble in every syllable.
“This is what he spends it on.”
“Spends what on?”
“Our bonuses.”
Your mom laughed.
“I’m kidding of course.”
“Of course, of course. The bathroom’s this way.”
You listened for more, wanting to place the accent, but it was only your mom speaking nervously. You thought of her body as it moved down that dark hallway. You wondered what he was thinking as he followed it, likely closely, near to its every jiggle. He could follow her closely now without it being weird at all. Social custom determined it. The bathroom door squeaked open.
“I told him to put oil on that thing,” she said, sounding embarrassed.
“They say squeaky wheel gets the grease.” You leaned in further, trying to hear as much as you could. “But apparently not.”
Your mom laughed, and you lay there, your cock still in your hand, dumbstruck. Chilean? Colombian? No. You had never heard anyone who spoke like that. At least not in Spanish. Yet there was something about the style of speech which still sounded so familiar.
“Okay then,” you could imagine your mother, her beautiful body, backing up behind him, leaving him to the bathroom, giving him free reign with it. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.” You could imagine her smile. The subtle tilt of her head.
“Yes,” he said. You could, without knowing his face, imagine him smiling back, a subtle tinge of loss in his eyes at feeling her escape from him. “I’ll be in, out, lickity split.”
“Lickity split,” she repeated, her voice echoing from further down the hallway.
You heard her steps as she disappeared.
“Lickity split,” he repeated, softly.
You leaned up, resting your elbows on your kneecaps, looking down at your sheets, then up at the door again. You heard him working, but working wordlessly.
You reflected on all the various faces, and the few names, associated with your father. You remembered the grease stains, the matted hair, the hard looks, cheeks red with alcoholism or gaunt with nameless addictions, all of them before barren lots, decorated with the skeleton of future buildings, permanent pieces of the city and of life. All of these faces flashed before you like some monster, a hydra, and you imagined them all, as if they all inhabited the same man, standing in your bathroom now, examining the showerhead, a slave to it. Your mom’s body, its obstructing demand for attention (a demand she never asked of it) being crowded out by the nature of the mechanical task at hand.
You heard something being unscrewed. You heard his grumbling with a slight echo. You realized it was a foreign language. But you still couldn’t place it? French? Italian?
You heard the face of the shower head rolling loose. Then you heard it bing bang boom within the tub.
“Sheissa!”
You leaned forward, jolted by the sudden rush of your question being answered.
And you imagined him there, kneeling in that tub. Grabbing the cap of the showerhead in his rough fingers, looking up at his work for the evening. Looking at it with those bright blue eyes.
He placed the rusted face of the showerhead to the side. “Piece of shit,” he whispered in German. It was old. It should have been replaced. He didn’t feel surprised. Replacing things costed money. He knew how they were. He knew it back then, as he ordered them to move single file every day in the yard, and he knew it now being ordered around by one in much the same way today. The shoe is on the other foot, he thought in German. His thoughts were only ever in German. He was incapable of thinking any other way.
As he kneeled there, his knees squeaking against the porcelain, he was cognizant of the fact that your mom stood in this very spot, nude from the top of her golden head down to her bare toes, her Jewish-Argentian body being washed clean of its inherent sin by the falling fingers of water. Being washed of them by waters from rivers and lakes which weren’t her own. Always someone else’s. That’s how these people were. They traveled the world, moving in all directions without a home, only to arbitrarily set up shop, and to suck the land of all it had to offer, leaving below them a dry and desolate husk. And then they’d continue, fat like tics, as those whose blood breathed air with the soil were left to pick up the pieces behind them.
“Vermin,” he murmured in the mother tongue, imagining the little mouse in question, her every curve and valley, the soft hues of her body as beautiful as the golden wheat back home – his real home – as it glimmered beyond his family’s farmhouse, just before the mouth of the Black Forest, and the white peaks beyond. Such beauty, he thought, reaching into his pocket. Given to every people. He pulled something out, a little capsule, a few of them, taped together as one body. The good and the bad. He placed it within the showerhead, taping it along its inner rim. The masters and the slaves. Then he grabbed the cap, and put it back on, his fingers barely up to the task, every part of them except their calloused tips vibrated with electricity.
The cap was on, tight and clean now, good as new. He turned around. And when he did, looking for his bag, a bedroom door, one which loomed into the bathroom slightly ajar, closed shut softly.
You sat on the opposite side of that door, your back to it, staring at your bed with your eyes wide.
You wondered at whether or not you had seen what you thought you had seen. And then when you accepted that you had, you wondered at what it meant.
You saw the back of that blonde head, itself still, speaking for its face, which you couldn’t see, showing determination. You had looked up, seeing his busy fingers, busy but deliberate and still in their purpose. And though you couldn’t see his eyes in reality, you could see them in your mind. And when you wondered at what those busy fingers held, you skimmed over the correct thought many times. But you never settled on it, searching for other thoughts, some of them even innocuous. But none of them made sense. And once you accepted what it was (or accepted it as possible), you then had to search for the reason why he would do it, and then learn to entertain that. Strangely, this was the easier step, as the thought of your mom’s body, the most valuable treasure in the house, the most valuable one your father owned (and he was a rich man), came to you all at once.
You imagined her, standing nude beneath that steaming jet of water. You imagined her shutting her eyes, her beautiful hair collapsing into a straight and slick curtain at the water’s touch, its dripping volume hanging over her back, and the various rapids and waterfalls it would make over her numerous curves, each one a testament to her shape. The shower, her body, his secretive activities within this nook of the house, a nook he assumed he was alone in, acting unobserved. Himself being the only cognizant awareness of his dirty little secret, and that dirty little secret, now hidden in shadow, screwed into its darkness again by that twisting shower cap, until it was locked into place, a predator in the grass waiting to strike.
You thought you saw something move, and you almost jumped. You looked down.
Your cock stared back up at you, straining in the moment of an extended throb. The wave past, and then your cock fell again, still erect but less rooster-like in its pride. Your shorts hugged tightly against its shape, even cradling your balls.
Your mouth was open in disbelief. Your heart beating. That’s when you heard it. Footsteps. And then your mom’s voice from down the hall. “Any progress?” she called.
“Yes,” he said, his elbow resting on his kneecap as he kneeled within the tub. “All done.” He knelt there, staring at the empty doorway, and then, like a dream, your mom emerged, filling its rectangular shape with the hourglass of her own.
He looked at her. “I can’t believe he’s paying me overtime for this?” He looked up at the showerhead. “It was an easy fix.”
She smiled. “I guess we just won’t tell him that, then.”
He smiled back.
She walked in, and he stood up and stepped out of the tub, stabilizing himself very close next to her, their bodies almost touching.
He looked into her eyes, close enough to see her pores and blemishes, and to smell the scent on her cheeks and throat. The moment held uncomfortably long, and she was the first to look away. Not missing a beat, he turned and leaned toward the shower’s knob. “Look.”
He craned his body toward the wall, turned the knob, and the water fell past him in an unbroken stream. He stood back up. “Good as it was?”
As she confirmed it, he looked up at the showerhead, seeing its pores beginning to emit the faintest hues of blue, so subtle you could only see it if you were looking for it.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “It’s too hot these days to have a broken shower.”
“Haven’t you heard?” He began backing his things back into his bag. “Pretty soon, the water’s going to be falling from the sky.”
She stared at him.
He grabbed onto the bathroom door, pulling it as he slowly backed out into the hallway. “I’ll be heading out now. You can enjoy your shower in peace.”
Before he could close the door shut, locking her within, pinning her beneath the fate of that looming showerhead, he felt resistance on the door’s other end. He shut his eyes. No, was his only thought. As always, in German.
She pulled the door back open. “I’m going to love showering later tonight. Thanks again.”
He opened his eyes, looking down at her beautiful smile. “Not now?”
“No,” she said.
He stared at her. Again, it was for an uncomfortably long moment. She looked away. He stared at her longer, standing there, himself a broad-shouldered obstruction before the doorway. She looked up at him, ready the bathroom back into her own house. He stared down at her, still as stone. His smile was still there in form, but only in form. As she looked up and into his face, feeling a strange sensation, she noticed something in his eyes. Those piercing blue eyes. They, like his smile, were the same, yet they looked at her with an emotion different than what she had seen from them before. Not with nervousness, not embarrassment. Not sadness. Not even anger or lust. What he looked at her with now was disgust. An intense uncontrollable disgust, which seemed to take him over all at once. A disgust unlike any your mom had ever witnessed, and it was all aimed, if appearances were to be believed, at herself, its every second transforming his face horribly before her, its angry furrowing driving out his warmth, his personability, his humanity.
She looked up at him, the panic rising to her eyes. “I…”
Suddenly, his hand shot out, throttling her by her throat, choking her thought within it.
He thrust her forward, and her hand, shooting out at her side, knocked a hair dryer and straightener from the counter. Other than the sound of their scuffling feet against the floor, the shower itself was the only thing audible to you in your room.
Your breathing stopped. You didn’t know why, only knowing that the rustling sounds you heard, and the sudden cutting short of your mom’s sentence before it started, was unnatural.
You turned around, took a deep breath, and you slowly grabbed your doorknob. You turned it just as slowly. And as the door creaked open, just as you saw it there, your mom’s ass, its dress fitting tightly against it, bent over the rim of the tub, the man’s body near behind it, his hand clasped against her neck, his cheeks red with effort; you then heard her scream.
You sucked in breath. It was only the loud sound of the water and of her struggling hands and feet against tile and porcelain which kept them from hearing you.
Your mom felt the water touch her cheek. Though it was only lukewarm, her terror, and the violence and masculine will of the pushing force, made it feel like it was scalding hot. She screamed, almost in a way which implied begging. She pulled herself away.
And then, that’s when she noticed it. Beyond the water, and beyond the steam, there was something else in that tub. Something foreign to it. Something that even among the current circumstance, its surreal nature, seemed too otherworldly.
It was like a smoke, a gas. Your mom’s eyes shot wide with absolute terror. The gas fell past her face. She tried to hold her mouth shut, but his thrusts against the back of her neck caused her mouth to open wide in an attempt at screaming. She sucked in the smoke, feeling its tang against her tongue, dreading it with absolute terror, assuming, thoughtlessly, that inhaling its curling form meant death.
Some of it came through her nostrils, and as it rose past her line of sight, she couldn’t believe how vivid its shade of blue was. And as she felt the world becoming strange around her, its consistency no different than the jet of water which assaulted her senses, she imagined that rising column of blue, this time looking directly at her, directly through her and her soul, directly into her future, itself the controller of her fate; as if it were two blue piercing eyes, made stark beneath a head of blonde hair.
It was at that moment of high panic that she lost all awareness.
You stared at her bent over ass. Its jiggling had stopped. It looked bigger when it was still. Her arms hung within the tub. He reached over her shapely body with his own, his hips pressing in against her ass, and he shut off the tap. You looked down, seeing her bare legs, still and soft and relaxed. Her feet against the floor, her one bare soul staring back at you.
He stood there on his knees, breathing hard with the red in his cheeks fading slowly to pink. Then he looked down at her. He looked at her spilling blonde hair, her peaceful face, untouched by the previous terror. He let his gaze fall down the length of her body, all the way to the same round ass you were staring at. You both stared at it.
The hand which clenched her neck unclenched itself, and he pulled it up into the air, where it hovered, his fingers open, floating above her. Then, slowly, it hovered over her body, down along her shoulders, the small of her back, before stopping above her beautiful, large ass cheeks, which were held as tightly together as her dress could manage.
Then his hand lowered, and you watched as that full ounce of flesh filled his palm, and as soon as he felt it there, he squeezed.
You saw the fat of her ass, black with the fabric that covered it, spilling through his clutch like jelly.
He exhaled slowly, his breath seeping from him like gas.
You could tell, looking at him, that whatever it was which had affected your mom so fully, had also gotten him at his fringes, at least enough to cause his eyes to glimmer unnaturally as he stared down at her.
He ungripped her cheek, his fingers sliding down it, taking forever, as there was so much flesh to cover, and then they found the end of her dress. He clutched it, feeling that fabric. He shut his eyes, taking in another deep breath, and then, in one fell swoop, he pulled upward.
Your mom’s ass, gigantic and bare, jiggled into sight, the line of her ass crack wobbling and then settling, from your angled perspective, into an impossibly pronounced arc. Her left cheek was visible in full to you, the right cheek half obscured by it, but with a deeper peek within her butt-crack.
He looked down at it, directly, without angle, and he remembered sitting cross-legged on a barrel as a camp guard, one recently serving on the front, detailed to him how he and his company had stormed a French chateau during the Blitzkrieg, and had found a giant chest sitting in its corner, innocuous but for its size. At surrounding it, faces giddy like children, and cracking it open, it gave way to nothing but dust. Their faces fell, their disappointment accumulating the dust that floated toward them.
He kneeled there now, looking down at what he had just unearthed, what he had just opened. It was anything but dust.
Your mom’s ass stared back at up at him, fleshy and real, more valuable than gold or the original painting of an old and long-dead master. The same ass stared at you within your bedroom, making you just as aware as he was that it was there, open, and unprotected.
He grabbed her cheek, feeling its soft naked flesh within his rough hand, and he pulled it open. Her butthole sat exposed to the both of you. He groaned. You did too, but with even more secrecy than he.
He stared at it. Then his lips pursed. A waddle of spit formed at its end, and then slowly fell, a dangling rope, falling perfectly onto her butthole.
“Fire in the hole,” he said in English, it being something he always wanted to repeat after hearing that Americans would say it on the western front. He pulled your mom’s ass cheek aside with his fingers, and then with his stray thumb, he penetrated her butthole, going knuckle deep. Once inside, he wiggled about. The image of young men in uniform, during the storming of the Krakow ghetto, hopping into a recently discovered crawl space beneath, came to him. He remembered calling to them, if anyone was within. Rather than a voice answering back, he saw a bright light and heard machine gun fire. The two young men came back out, the barrels of their guns smoking. Indeed, many had crawled within that space. None but the two of them, both grinning with pride, would crawl back out.
His thumb moved freely, robustly through her ass.
He then plucked it out. He looked at it, then he leaned forward, forcing the tip of his thumb against her lips, pushing them open, and then forcing it into her mouth, the print of his thumb-tip pressing firmly against the flat of her tongue. Your mom, her eyes just opening barely, before shutting, lay there with her mouth ajar, that thumb inside it. You couldn’t see this from where you watched, gobsmacked. You could only see her bent over ass, her cheeks still splayed open from their own weight, making her butthole nearly visible between them without pressure being applied.
“Have your rations, rat,” he said. “Need you nice and nourished for the boys.” He looked down at her glorious ass, longingly. He spoke in a low, satisfied growl. “Very nourished…”
He was getting lightheaded. He hadn’t realized it, not being able to distinguish between arousal, excitement, or inebriation. He had become his own collateral damage, but not enough to ruin what was coming. If anything, he had only made it more vivid by breathing in low amounts of that steam. Soldiers on the front, along with their regular doses of amphetamine, also powdered their broth with this stuff for that very reason, that it increased mental acuity in low doses, even with its unfortunate psychedelic effects.
Leaning there now, feeling his fluids course through him with a warm fuzzing, he imagined the bright bathroom light above, which shone down on him and his date, as if it were the sun. The green tile below him became like grass, the blue walls like the sky on the horizon. All of this impulsive and intuitive, fading without even a second of thought, but thought was mostly unnecessary.
You watched as he lifted her full body into the tub, then he stumbled to get up, going for his belt buckle as he did. He pulled it open, his giant cock flopping out freely within your bathroom. You felt that strange sickness, the one you knew so well in a tamer form, come over you, and it comingled with that strange rush, again one you only knew before with less intensity. You sat there, clutching the door, your mouth open, buckling under the waves of this strange and horrible ecstasy.
Your cock throbbed within your shorts, itself thankful to you for your silence, while your stomach dropped a thousand depths, in a terrible freefall, wondering when it would find bottom, why you wouldn’t provide it with just a word or an attempt to defend her.
Instead, you just watched, letting the sensation in your stomach add to the pleasure of your cock, balls, and heart.
Your mom’s dress came off entirely. Not long after, a cock, big and German, was thrust before her face.
His cock, nice and big, lifted and fell into its erect stance at the push of your mom’s tongue tip.
He moaned in pleasure, it echoing against the porcelain, and toward you, your wide eye viewing it from within the crack of your door. The steam from within, billowing out to you slow and invisibly suddenly made the sight bizarre.
You inhaled.
You watched your mom sucking his cock, doing so in the outdoors, but, strangely, doing it in a landscape you didn’t recognize. Doing it under a sun that shined differently than you were used to seeing it, with a slight breeze which hit the skin just the same, but which whistled in a different tune. It were as if your hallucination were a memory, one which didn’t belong to you, but which was conjured from the pits of a collective memory you were, by birth, tapped into.
You reached for your shorts. You pulled them down, feeling the freshly-accumulated sweat along your pelvis and thighs bristle cool with the air.
His head fell to the side, and he leaned his shoulder against the porcelain wall of the bath, groaning with ecstasy. He looked down at her. First doing so with appreciation. Her beauty severe to him, so impossible it was almost maddening in its intensity and the volume it occupied within his lusts.
But as the seconds gained, her tongue running softly over the every inch of his appreciative shaft, he began to feel something rising. It was a familiar sensation, one that was overpowering while also being very comfortable to him. One which bristled his soul. His eyes shot wide as he stared down at her, her face somehow still rat-like in its beauty, and growing more so by the second. He thrust his arm out, gripping a palmful of her blonde locks, its blondness a mockery to him. He spun her around.
As he did, he fell to his knees, his cock slapping the cradle between her cheeks so firmly it echoed off the porcelain toward you in your room.
He must have loved the slapping noise, because he worked hard to recreate it, utilizing the music of her butt cheeks, the same way prisoners in his camp would make due with blocks of wood and trashcan lids. He’d hear them in the night, performing their decadent folk songs, and he’d grin knowing those songs would soon be silenced, extinguished forever. These last few performances he allowed, wanting those notes to be preserved in nothing but his memory. All the while, a shapely Jewish-Polack teenager, her ass in the air, being gripped by his Aryan palm, dripped tear and saliva both over his welcoming lap. Her head of brunette hair covering over the attractive semitic features which repulsed and thrilled him so viciously.
Your mom, her hair golden, spiced by European blood and South American Native both, mixing with ancient middle eastern degeneracies and hidden customs, a freak beyond description, sat there, much the same way as those he picked out from their line-ups nude sixteen years prior. Your mom’s ass was even better than any of theirs were though. Her beauty more exotic, and capable for use, even her flesh softer, despite her age. If we had only made it this far, he thought, his cock rubbing up against the blemish-rich cradle of her buttcrack. If the Fuhrer had played his cards better…
His anger rose, then it subsided, realizing, with her ass so near, large, and fragrant, that it was over now. He had her. He had nothing to worry about. Forty-one from Germany and Austria, thirteen from France, and two-hundred and eleven from Eastern Europe. He had counted every one. Now, on this day, many years past his moment of prestige and glory, he could add another to the heap.
One from Argentina.
He was so close. He just needed to thrust it in.
He poked out his hips.
His cock, electric with sensation, slid within the wet, warm embrace of your mother.
You watched as your dad’s employee raped your mom, and you felt (and maybe it was that blue haze helping) as if you were going to collapse within your own ecstasy like dust stacked atop dust. Your mom had looked up into his mountainous blue eyes, seeing that expression, and returning it with confusion. You though had both the luxury and displeasure of knowing the look those two looming blue eyes gave, having seen it yourself for as long as you had memories to recall. It was the look of a malice quite unlike any other, but one which you had experienced often in life, being its subject, scurrying about with the primary prerogative of avoiding it.
His expression - which scowled down upon her glorious soft ass, it occasionally breaking up for the sight of pure lust and pleasure - was that of the world’s most ancient and visceral hatreds.
That hatred was anti-semitism, and it was the one that would unfortunately never die.
When his thrusts picked up their pace, doing so with his rising anger and disgust, your pleasure only grew proportionately upward with them. You were salivating mess looming through the crack of your door as if in hiding, as if an insect below the floorboards or behind a screen.
“Untermensch!” he growled, his pelvis finding her ass with every thrust, and thanking the black sun that it did. “Ekelhafte ratte! Geldverleiher!”
The language, the likes of which you had only heard on your television, sang to you in its unique imperceptible poetry, no different in its mystery to you than the Hebrew you studied, line by line, at the end of your fingertip.
“Lugender Teufel!” he shrieked. “Betrügerin! Radikale!” He wound back his hips for an especially profound thrust. “Bolshevik!” pap And her ass jiggled in wild proportion to it.
Your mom laughed, her level of delusion, if your own lesser hallucinations were anything to go by, beyond anything you could understand. Your father had been cut out of the picture entirely, done so with cunning, and malice, and furious hateful activity. It amused you, spots of it bobbing up within the waters of your overwhelming arousal, just how much of the anti-semitic perspective was projection. Always. Your father, with all his lovable haggling, planning, conniving, and shrewdness, could never have come up with the current masterstroke you were witnessing, nor would he have the malice or perversion necessary to do it.
The man who did have all these things, kneeled there, thrusting into your mother (the sounds of it echoing off porcelain like machinegun fire), did so with the disgust in his heart, born from the mistaken belief that she, her husband, and people like them would have fucked him (figuratively speaking) if he didn’t do it to them first (and do it literally).
He lived in a delusion all his own, and he rolled in it like a pig through slop. You, with perfect clarity, rolled in the delicious irony, its shape and jiggle that of your mom’s ass while being pummelled, and therefore perfect.
Your mom’s tits, their shape and nipple color a mystery to everyone, including yourself, now shook freely like fruits from a branch. “All breasts are different,” you heard one of your father’s workers saying once. “I’ve had them all around the world. They’re all different.”
“Even eskimo?”
“Especially eskimo.”
The blonde one, the one with the brooding blue eyes (then squinting in the sun), just stood off to the side, looking on with a vague displeasure on his face.
His face now loomed above her, his displeasure maximized and simultaneously turned to its opposite in bliss.
The every inch of your mom’s body was a gift, an unbelievable boon, that which those on the front line could barely understand, the booty of war being worth less than the booty of capture and restraint. The booty scraped off the edge of an extermination. The booty which symbolized the success and domination of his race, what with its giving to every thrust, forming back into shape for more, its insides fully explored and returning their gifts of pleasure. Only those in his camp, who had tasted his bountiful house of “joy divisions” knew this pleasure now. He had a reputation amongst camp commandants, one which passed into rumor, its fumes rising to the heights, some say, of the Fuhrer himself, who in turn never spoke of them, knowing that to do so would pull the lid off his whole façade.
After all, what kind of master race would do such a thing?
He grabbed her, the way he would his prisoner to manhandled, and he flipped her over himself, the two of them rolling in tub, their bodies making echoey squeaks with the porcelain.
She then ended up on top of him.
“Du lautstarke Ratte,” he said, mistaking the porcelain squeaks for her own. “Wann wirst du endlich schweigen?”
Your mom moaned, doing so in a form, though she wouldn’t know this, of cosmic defiance.
Her ass clapped against him, defying the silence he demanded. Her inebriated moans gushed from her throat, never to be silenced, even as the years and decades passed, centuries too, and she faded from this world, that moan would continue to persist in the throats of others, having done so since captivity in Egypt, throughout all the various wars and displacements, exiles in strange golden and green lands, exiles across the earth, always to come back, always to rally around one flag, one people, one God, their resolve infatigable, their right to exist, and to exist splendidly, eternal.
You watched on, intuiting all of this, but doing so without full awareness, instead only knowing the strange pride which rose within your gut, your mom’s ass, its beauty, adding to it.
His cock, big and Aryan, tore through her, and you watched it, its mass near the weight and form of a hanging luger once, you were sure of it. His testicles beautiful. All of him was, his body perfect for your mom’s and vice versa, the mixing of races, that blurring of lines, implicitly delightful to you. Your mom’s ass itself a testament to it, with its swirling mix of Hebrew, Native South American, Italian, and Spanish, its mass accumulating cultures so far-reaching, and even ancient, you didn’t even have names for them. It all existed within those two cheeks, no division except for the crack of her ass itself.
Your people, conquerors and conquered both, all existing, not as one pure untarnished whole, but as a whole made thoroughly unbreakable through its every racial ingredient.
He moaned below, his purity with its own beauty, one which he betrayed through his need to couple with her, and other “Untermenschen” like her.
The beauty of it was too much for you. Your mind too awash with the Jewish gift for recognizing these ironies, and the beauties that came with them. Your arousal was unalloyed by gentile notions like purity and place. Your people were more than their soil. More than their flag. Their language. Even, in some ways, more than their history. As you kneeled there, massaging your cock furiously to what you saw, you reflected on how your mom being fucked like this was the living, breathing, sweating, grunting, moaning personification of your people, who they were, and who they’d continue to be.
His people had tried, and they failed miserably, only highlighting the indestructibility of your people. All of them, the Germans, the Spanish, the Romans, the Greeks, The Babylonians, the Assyrians – even the Philistines – not one of them could do it. Not one of them could yoke the Jewish resolve or extinguish its flame.
Your mom, smiling through her own rape, brought great frustration on all their ghosts, her jewish body still electric with life, even as theirs only floated now with dust.
Her jewish ass giving dutifully to the thrusts of the world, pummelled repeatedly but never destroyed. Her ass was the soul of your people, and it was even more beautiful in struggle than it was in peace and contentment.
He guided the action out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. You watched, loving the intimacy in how she sucked his cock, his balls and inner-thighs free in your household, all while your dad was out with business.
Your mom, heroically, tamed the wild teutonic beast. The unwritten annals of history were full of moments like these. Camp guards who had fallen in love with the dark-haired, dark-eyed girls of the joy division, and had become soft-hearted, unable to do their job, unable to alert the others when they saw a jew sneaking through the fence or smuggling food.
Jewish women who grew to love their captors, doing it for survival, truly feeling love in earnest, an instinct worth its weight in gold – an instinct worth life. Sucking and fucking just to save one more of their nation. To save two.
Your mom did it herself, sucking off this giant of a man in a way she never did your father, with a passion dredged up from memory. Loving his smell, his broad thighs, and his belly button in a way that made your fathers’ invisible. His cock and balls existed out there, but for the purpose of this moment, its cloistered pocket of wild, humid intimacy, he was dust in her shattered mind.
Her nudity itself a gift. Her sexual contact itself a gift. But her willing participation a blessing, manna from heaven, a burning bush, and a pillar of crawling flame through wilderness.
Her ass sat there, bent over and impossibly large, and you examined it, seeing it for what it was, the handiwork of a loving god. The same god who watched many asses just like it (though few) as they wandered through the deserts, scrambling forty years for a homeland, finding it, and only finding conflict within it. God watched all the while. Watched, and loved
And you knew that he watched now, down on this moment, and down on you, the same way your mom watched and tended to that giant Aryan cock, servicing it even after all its crimes, the extent unspeakable, and the scars irreversible and grotesque. God smiled on it, blessing it, you knew, with the sunshine overhead.
Her butthole loomed back up at god, winking to him, proud of itself for completing its sacred duty. For him and the world.
There were no high places now. Germany had been destroyed, and was now in the process of being rebuilt for a brighter future. The American system, the accumulating racisms of its storied history, beginning to change. Even in Argentina, steps were being taken right this moment to lessen the discriminations felt by your people. What you were watching now was the dying moments of a horrid beast.
And boy did it die beautifully.
Your mom’s jewish face took the warming fingers of his German seed.
“Scheisse,” he hissed, sweating. “Scheisse. Schön… Du dreckige Ratte… Subversieren… Hündin…”
He had expelled all of it, all of it along her face, and she stood there, her face against his still stiff, but softening, cock.
He looked at her for a moment, breathing in the haze post release.
She looked back up dryly, maybe not even aware that he was there.
As he examined her, he was overtaken by that same old strangeness, the one he was used to back then. He looked at her, his lust gone. This wasn’t unusual, it was typical for all men. But, on top of it, something else had left too. He had forgotten about this, having done it last so long ago. Because as he sat there, staring at her face, all of that tightening in his chest and throat, that crowding of his mind and that thumping of his heart, was gone with it.
She sat there, neutrally within his awareness. Not bad, not good. Not an enemy, not a friend.
She was none of those things now.
Instead, she sat there, being exactly what she always was: a human being.
He stood over her, removing the face of the showerhead, and removing the pills that were inside, their leftovers a goopy mass of blue powder and grey tape glue. Some of it dripped down below him, landing on her ass. He threw it toward the drain. He rescrewed the cap and then turned on the water. You watched as he washed her. You were sobering up much more quickly than he, just as he sobered up much more quickly than your mother.
He grabbed her by the back of her head, his fist full of her blonde hair, and he shoved her face below the showerhead, his teeth gritting as he did.
The stream came down, causing her to flinch, but washing away the white and dripping history of his crimes, and doing so thoroughly, no different than a change of nation and a change of name.
You watched as he soaped up her ass, washing it too. As he did, arousal grew, so he fucked her upright in the shower, using her rising competency to keep her standing. After he was finished, the small remnants of anger rising up again, were finished with him. For some reason, this was the secret ingredient to curing all hatred within him: sexual release.
He took her before the mirror, opened her mouth, and began examining her teeth, doing so clinically but in a way which carried an intense eroticism, one he was perhaps unaware of. He then put paste on a toothbrush, not caring which member of the family it belonged to (it belonged to you), and he began to brush her teeth, doing so the same way a jockey would do his horse.
As he did, his cock, flaccid, twitched against the enormity of her backside.
He reclothed her, then guided her out of the bathroom. You hid behind the door. He checked the room opposite yours (your dad’s study). You held your breath, hearing the silence as he stared within its empty volume. Then he turned, taking her with him, and your body froze stiff as the hinge of your bedroom door creaked next to your very ear. You sat, your eyes shut, behind the door, its face being pushed against your shoulder. He felt you as an obstruction there, but thought nothing of it. He looked in your room, seeing that it clearly belonged to a teenager. Your torrah sat on your desk with a lamp sitting over it. He examined the scene for one second longer, then he pulled your mom back out into the hallway with him and shut the door.
When you heard his footsteps continue down the hall, your mom’s toes dragging along the carpet with them, you sucked in the breath you had been holding, doing so with as much relief as one would after avoiding death. You listened as he put clothing over your mom’s shapely body, and he placed her delicate weight into her bed.
After that, he gathered his clothes, got dressed in front of your parent’s full body mirror (as your mom lay inert and facedown on her bed behind him), and left.
You knelt there, next to your door, still stroking, somehow afraid to leave your room, even after hearing the front door fall shut.
You eventually found courage. You opened your door. You saw your parents’ bedroom was slightly ajar. You went slowly, found the door, and opened it.
Your mom lay there, breathing slowly, peacefully. Somehow you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath. You took this moment of peace to inhale.
That anxious tugging in your soul had left, and you turned to leave, but just as you held the door, you heard your mom gasping.
You turned suddenly to see her lying there, her mouth open. You took another breath. She was only yawning. Her mouth closed, and she lay there, shifting in bed. Her body lay over her sheets, and she turned, fully clothed now. As she did, the light outside, possibly clearing a cloud, shone in within the room, illuminating her with one solitary and powerful ray. You stood there, startled. You then turned to the window, seeing that ray shine through it, its color sweet and golden. You looked down at your mom.
Your mind wandered, back to those Hebrew words, the ones you read in synagogue, while the community watched you, proud while you trembled. You were a man now. At least according to Moses. As that light passed, it again being obscured by cloud, one white and fluffy, you reflected on your manhood.
You held onto the door. You turned around, ready to shut it, ready to close the moment within its appointed chest. The door squeaked, the way everything did in this house.
It fell shut. You turned. Your mom lay on the bed, breathing, waiting. Behind you, the shut door. Your mom furrowed her brow, a murmur of barely-recalled stress escaping from her throat. You smiled. You let go of the doorknob. You began toward her.
You had already become a man, as per the laws of Moses and your people. Now you were about to become a man as per the laws of everyone else.
“The storm has passed us,” the man said. “I’m excited to say. It’s missed us.”
The beautiful woman, her face, body, and clothing without color, looked back. “Oh, and I was excited to finally get to cool down.”
“Well then, I have good news for you. Because though we missed the rain and the thunder, what we’re getting is a bit of a cool front, all of that leftover.” He signalled on his board, waving his hand around the flanks of the cartoonish thunder cloud cutouts. “You see, over here, we get all of that. All that cool air, just wafting from that rain in our direction. Don’t be scared now, all you out there. It’ll only be a slight breeze. It’ll feel nice if anything.”
“Well,” the beautiful woman replied. “At least it’s something.”
She sat there, staring at the beautiful woman on TV, still slow to getting all the Spanish. Fifteen years wasn’t enough for her. Her son spoke better in this country than she did, having been born here. He sat, hungry, waiting for his dad to get home so that he could finally dig into the meal sitting on the counter. His dad was late. Very late.
Her two hands played with their opposite, nervously. They had been doing that for a while. They stopped only when she heard a click at the front door. She looked over.
Hanz stood there.
He looked in at her.
She looked back at him, silently, almost apprehensively, yet her face showed no sign of it.
Suddenly, his flat and vague expression gave way to something alert. He began sniffing. He looked toward the counter.
She did too, seeing her pot at the end of his sight.
She looked back at him. “Hungry….” She stopped herself, the H-name on the tip of her bottom lip before catching it. “…Rafael?”
He looked back at her, his expression, neutral, unreadable, slowly giving way to a gaining smile.
As she stood at the counter, putting the food onto three chipped and scuffed plates, she was surprised to feel his arms wrap around her body, the way that they always used to. He came in close, his stubble catching her cheek. He kissed her on her temple.
“You know,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She felt him there, big and strong. His hips against hers. And below them, his penis, big but flaccid, sat in his jeans.
She turned. He helped her, taking one of the plates and the wine, and they placed it all on the table. Their son, his jaw coming in strong, his forehead widening, looked at it through his round spectacle rims, knife and fork in hand, excited to finally fill himself.
As they sat there eating, Hanz, chewing on his sausage, suddenly remembered something. He looked up at his wife.
She looked up, seeing the head motion, and then seeing him there, staring at her with those piercing blue eyes. She waited, bracing apprehensively for what would come through his lips this time.
He opened his mouth: “What was it you wanted to tell me this morning?” He asked it calmly, perhaps even warmly.
She looked back at him, feeling as if she could love no one else this much. It just wasn’t possible. She smiled. “Nothing,” she said.
He smiled back. He turned down toward his plate, lifted another piece to his mouth, took it within, nice and thick, and chewed.
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