Page 7 of Dark Side of the Cloth

His father stroked his cock for the room to see, and Dean realized that his father was sick on so many levels that he knew he couldn’t begin to comprehend yet.

“Hold still bitch!” Three more hard cracks sounded as his father’s hand came into contact with the woman’s ass. The woman buried her head into the desk, and Dean looked around for a weapon, any weapon, but other than what the guards had on their person, there was nothing. With a mighty grunt, his father forced himself into the woman.

“You see, this is how you treat a woman. They do as they are told, and they speak only when spoken to—do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” came his patented response.

“If you want to fuck one, they should ask how do you want it? Not struggle unless you like that, of course.” And smile curled up at the corner of his father’s mouth. “You are going to like this one, boys. She is tight.”

The man in the chair regained consciousness and struggled hard a couple of times, trying to get Dean to help the woman--his wife, most likely. Another sick form of torture his father would relish in. Beads of sweat formed on his father’s forehead as his hips worked, and the sound of slapping flesh and the banging of their bodies hitting the desk created a sick drum-like rhythm. Dean pictured anything other than what was in front of him, his mind using the sound to create a visual that took him away from this life.

It hadn’t been as bad when his mother was here, but ever since she disappeared, the abuse had become worse and more frequent. He had no idea what happened to his mother, but he suspected his father had everything to do with her disappearance. Dean had simply been too afraid to ask, to find out the truth.

His father groaned as he finished, then smiled at the guard holding her hands. “Your turn.”

The men swapped places, and Dean was forced to watch the show all over again. This time the sounds of pain coming from the woman were almost too much as the guard took the woman up the ass. Dean held still, making sure never to deviate his eyes from hers, but his mind was not in this room.

Once the third man had his fill, Dean’s father smiled wide at him. He looked ridiculous as he stood watch, his pants still undone and his semi-flaccid dick hanging out. Dean lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping that would end this misery, but he should’ve known better.

“Come, son. It’s your turn.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open the underwear forgotten fell to the floor. “Father, please don’t make me do this.”

The rage that contorted his father’s face into a vicious snarl was enough to terrify anyone. His father stuffed his dick back in his pants and marched toward him. Dean unwisely backed up quickly toward the door and stumbled over the decorative rug, and then banged into the small table that would hold a drink for guests.

Much like he’d done to the woman, his father grabbed him by the hair and yanked him over to the woman’s ass that was still naked and on display. She was dripping with sweat and semen, and Dean’s stomach turned as she stared at the gaping holes.

“You will fuck her. You will fuck her and become a man. I didn’t give birth to a pussy.”

Dean had the strongest urge to correct his father that he indeed did not give birth to him, but he was already in way over his head, so he kept his mouth shut.

His father held his head a few inches from the woman’s exposed ass and then kicked her ankles hard, making her whimper louder.

“Spread your legs wider, so my son can get a good look.” His father’s fist gripped his hair tighter and pushed until his nose was touching her soft folds. “Smell that. That is what a well-used pussy smells like, son—the aroma of the Gods.”

“Father, is this necessary? I already know what a pussy is?” He tried to sound bored, but his heart was galloping faster than the wild mustangs that roamed their property.

“Get your dick out now!”

* * *

Dean sat upright in bed. The thin sheet that had been covering his body was soaked with sweat.

“Fuck!” He jumped from the bed and leaned over the desk, his large fist making contact with the heavy wood over and over again until the polished surface was slick with his blood. Dean straightened and stared out the dark window—his father’s smiling, smug face reflecting back at him. He fucking hated his father before that night, but when he was forced to rape that woman and then kill her husband. There was no coming back from that. The relationship was done.

He remembered clearly what it felt like to kill that guard that forced him in that room that night, the look of horror on his face as he awoke, choking on his own blood. Dean had stood over him and made sure that he was good and dead.

“I told you I’d remember,” Dean had whispered in his ear.

Dean stood straight, his chest heaving, his hands still clenched in fists. One day he would get his revenge, one of these days, his father would pay for all the shit he did to him, and worse, made Dean do.

Yasmine stood in the steaming hot shower, allowing the warm water to run down her back. Her mind focused on Dean, imagining his lips trailing down her neck. She ran her hand up her body and moaned as it came into contact with a pert nipple. She closed her eyes, and her stomach flexed as her other hand began to explore. Yasmine. She could almost hear his deep voice with its hint of gravel. She wanted him to whisper her name in her ear—a shiver raced down her spine. A slick line of wetness that had nothing to do with the soapy water was sliding down between her thighs. Suddenly, her elbow hit the shampoo bottle, and she screamed and jumped when it crashed to the shower floor. Placing her hand on the tile, she gulped in a deep breath—even her shower was telling her she needed to stop the fantasizing.

“This is crazy. You can’t have him, no matter how sexy he is. He is off-limits! Get yourself together, girl,” she said to the empty bathroom. “And now I’m talking to myself.”

Frustrated, Yasmine quickly finished her shower, making sure she scrubbed at every part of her body until it was squeaky clean. Jumping out of the shower, she quickly toweled off. It took what seemed like forever to blow dry the mass of wavy hair on her head, but once she was done, she looked at her reflection and smiled. She looked pretty, and she couldn’t help but hope that Dean would be at Mabel’s today.

The drive to Mabel’s was a short one—in reality, everything in the town was a short drive. When the warmer weather returned, she would walk, but until then, she preferred to drive.