Be Well, Perverts and/or Readers
This is the prologue to a series intending to span a wide range of topics as they would be categorized here. As a broad overview, I expect to be writing in the following categories:
Romance, Incest/Taboo, First Time, Mature, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, BDSM, Fetish, and Group Sex
Topics may/will/could include….just imagine whatever makes you upset the most. I make no statement or affirmation that you won’t find something that will make you upset or uncomfortable; that’s more or less out of my control. If you have an issue with logic, style, or anything constructive, please leave feedback so I can continue to improve.
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“I didn’t have to go away! YOU LEFT ME!”
A low, grating whine slipped out her throat as she slumped numbly to her knees, then fully fetal on her side. Her eyes gazed blankly at the far wall as harsh, hiccupping breaths became more labored and further apart. Her gasping brought me fully back to myself and I lurched towards her and onto my knees, gathering her up in my arms. Just like when we found her alone with Macy’s body. Not asthma, panic attack.
My hands went to the back of her head and wrapped around to block her field of view. I pulled her face into my chest and felt the rigid trembling in her muscles softening; she once said smell was the strongest memory, and the day we brought her out of that house I was wearing a simple sandalwood deodorant and a light application of Tom Ford Beau de Jour. I had put it on for our reunion to remind us both of that mutual sensation of love and safety we share through something as simple as warmth and scent. I’d hoped for a happier reunion than this, or at least, not quite so explosively destructive.
Gradually, slowly, her arms and legs unraveled, revealing her lifeless, shadowed eyes deep within izmir otele gelen escort the sheltering darkness of our embrace. I didn’t catch it in time. She disassociated. FUCK.
When I knew she wasn’t there to witness it anymore, when I had settled her onto her side with her head in my lap like when she was a child…then I felt scalding tears of frustration and misery fall freely onto the hardwood. Coughing sobs racked my body while I tried to remain as still and quiet as possible to not disturb Bailey. I’ve gone 84 hours without sleep before and still “functioned.” Exhaustion and despair dragged me into nothingness in under ten minutes.
—
I left my wife with cancer.
I left my kid with an attachment disorder and extreme separation anxiety and social anxiety.
I left my kid with that diagnosis with my wife with a terminal diagnosis. While I went away on a high risk private military contract to try to get enough money for a new treatment program. She had a good prognosis after the surgery. Biopsy came back clean. We opened a bottle of wine, just a nice clean moscato, and even let Bailey have a little bit. We had both leaned on her way more than we should have during the surgery and recovery. We all deserved a little laughter and relief after the death march.
Then the abnormality came back. More tests. More expense. I sold the construction business. We flew to Switzerland to consult a specialist in cervical cancer. He recommended a complete hysterectomy, and as soon as possible. Just like that, our hopes of ever having our own biological children were snuffed out. The first cancer had taken her dignity. The second took her hope.
She never really recovered after that. I’d ended up selling everything we didn’t need or couldn’t afford so we could keep paying izmir rus escort the endless wave of bills. In a moment of desperation and futility I reached out to an old buddy from MARSOC who’d passed me along to a private military contracting company once before; Angela had put her foot down and I missed the opportunity to ship out for 7 months and make $700,000 because we were trying for a kid.
Yes, that much. It’s ridiculous what the government will pay for a single skilled contractor they won’t retain as a servicemember. Want to know why? Contractors are expendable, servicemembers require more paperwork.
The US Military does not condone, train, nor endorse any form of enhanced interrogation, torture, or human rights violation. However, they have no problem paying people with the right pedigree to do those dirty little tasks for them off the books. Eleven trillion dollars “unaccounted” for; no, thank YOU, Uncle Sam.
People have the wrong idea about torture. Everyone has these images of fish hooks and knives and pliers and whatever other vicious little piece of pain they can imagine. That’s kiddie stuff. That’s amateur hour. If all you want is to hear someone scream, howl, and beg for mercy you can find a piggie anywhere you go. Torture isn’t about eliciting response, it’s about eliciting the correct response; like a keyed lock or organic enzyme, each individual can require any number of conditions to reveal the path to the goal. The opus. The truth.
—
Seven months. Enhanced interrogation at a black site. Security was on station, but we were expected to fight “as necessary.” Angela knows what I do and what I’ve done. She knows what the work does to me. But I could pay off all our debt, pay for treatment, and even put a little away toward Bailey’s college education. She’d be izmit escort halfway to nineteen by the time he’d get back and ready to start applying.
I cringed internally. Another birthday missed.
Her hand slapping down open-palmed on my chest snapped brought me back to the present.
“Oh I’m sorry, sir, am I boring you?” She smiled, framed by candle and moonlight.
She was an angel. A goddess. Hair pinned up, lithe and toned even with her body eating itself alive. Undulating and grinding herself onto my cock and pelvic bone. I felt her involuntarily tighten as her smile was torn apart by a round of hacking coughs. The doctors thought she may have picked up an infection at the hospital, but….this was our last night before I shipped out in the morning. There was no more time.
I skimmed the pads of my fingers over her body. My love. The same small frame nestled against me. The same comforting warmth against my chest and stomach. She looked up at me breathlessly, face red (and how I love that), but this time from her own illness rather than our sexual adventures.
“Baby I didn’t get you off…”
I saw tears well up in her eyes. And in mine, now, that I knew I couldn’t give her the only thing she wanted in the world. She wanted to send me off with a good memory; neither of us knew if we’d see each other again.
I rolled over on top of her, gently cradling her body and setting her down softly on the down comforter. I started a slow, smooth, deep stroke into her, keeping her face buried in my neck. I felt her heart, her spirit rising with me as we both reached for one last moment of mutual bliss. Years of joy and suffering flashed in front of my eyes and I felt her nails dig into the muscle of my back. One last time.
—
I left. I made the money. Black site, no communication. After I was debriefed an adjunct delivered a stack of sealed documents. I sat down on the bus to read them.
She was gone. Died two weeks after I left. She had given Bailey power of attorney and emancipated her in my absence. I was too late. I was always just a little too late.
Then my phone rang.