Fiction © 2000 by Meliora Volens
Evil seduces, and persists. Evil twists reality to extremes for the sadistic joy of it. Evil loves his power and his sexuality, and succeeds through a logical progression of piercing truth and sheer honesty. Evil is patient because he’s eternal.
And he’s Evil because he genuinely loves enslaving children.
Evil seduced my mother specifically to get near me.
He flirted with me at the little store, and bought me something whenever mom sent me to get her a pack of smokes and didn’t leave me enough change. I liked cherry suckers because they made my lips red and I thought I looked sexy like the girls in the magazines my dad forgot in the bathroom when he left.
He leaned against the back wall of the tavern next door, drinking beer, waiting for me to pass by, like that alley were more than just a place to wash bikes and kiss girls with holes in the butt of their jeans.
He introduced himself by showing me the tattoo of “Evil” in fancy letters under his red face with ornate black horns and a big “D” on top for “Dangerously,” he said.
It almost looked like he could make his tattooed-eye wink, but he was still practicing. It felt just as smooth as the rest of his arm and so colorful, but I liked the hair on his forearms too.
I thought Evil looked handsome in a real, flattering way and his scars seemed exciting like a cat prowling for his prey in some Wild Kingdom show. I felt completely charmed by him. His mention even found its way into my diary: as the man I wished would teach me to kiss.
I drew his lips on the palm of my hand and kissed it, pretending all kinds of scenarios for another reason for our lips to touch. I wanted to be prepared for any eventuality in case he kept his promise, although I doubted he would, knowing I daydreamed too much.
He met my mom when we were walking back home from the store and she broke the strap of her flip-flop sandal and he gave us a ride home the back way. Mom wore his black bowl helmet and rode in his lap and I rode wrapped around his back zipped up with him inside his big friend’s jacket. It was only a couple minutes but we seemed to go very fast.
With my crotch and face and arms pressed tightly against him in the close darkness, somehow I knew he would keep his word.
Out on the steps of our porch, he kissed my mom full on the mouth and she sighed and kinda dangled on him for a couple minutes like the “easy” girls from the alley did. He treated me like a princess and kissed my invisible ink marks on the palm of my hand instead. The electricity of it zinged up my arm and sighed past my cherry lips.
After that, I saw him lurking around my house, listening outside my bedroom on the way downstairs from “groovin’” with my mother half the night. I tried to visualize what they were doing, but never had the guts to crack the door and see for myself.
In 1971, my mom lost her job and went on welfare and we moved into a giant, mostly chipped/sorta blue, plant infested, incense cloudy, old house with her girlfriends. He helped us move in and just kinda stayed.
I wasn’t afraid of him; I was impressed with everything about him. He always had money, shiny leather clothes, and this huge, roaring beast of a bike he would park on the side of the living room.
He was quite powerful and everyone did what he said or “there was blood to pay.” And he always won the fight so no one bothered arguing unless it was important.
He had so many friends and “all” the girls loved him. It seemed like mostly every girl in the house was his girlfriend at least once, but only one or two were his “women.” He respected me. He looked directly in my eyes and always told me the truth.
I liked whispering things in his ear so I could smell his hair and be near him, but he teased me and taught me to feel pursued while others frightened me in their approaches and cruel attentions. I felt strengthened in my femininity and courageous in my sexuality for the first time and only Evil stirred this awakening in me, regardless of my innocent flirtations with other men.
Then, quite deliberately, with only intensity in the decision as forewarning, he kissed me.
He carefully turned to my whispering lips, waited for my full, calm attention and allowed our breath to draw us into our first intimacy. It was a correctly calculated, consensual kiss.
In my understanding of romance my feelings felt akin to “swooning” yet I merely existed in a new realm and never lost consciousness in any respect. I agreed to him completely, and welcomed my blossoming in all youthful eagerness. I learned to kiss him often and in a great variety of meanings.
I interacted in enlightenment and a new maturity with this sinister and compelling man and I felt satisfied and complete. However, he wanted more. He wanted so much more than I could imagine.
He said he would never bring any women to my bed, not even my mom. He promised I would become a woman in his arms, and as his special woman, I would never enjoy any other man in my bed either.
I admired Evil tremendously. As evilly masterful as he demonstrated himself, he shined bright, energetic and cheerfully charismatic like a young Army captain on leave.
He liked to “hump in the kitchen” and enjoyed tying two or three of his girlfriends over the backs of the kitchen chairs and forming a kind of humping conga line with the men. He would start them off by kissing them at the breakfast table and checking pussy temperatures.
“Are you hot, bitch?” I heard him whisper in her dangling hair and open mouth, each by each. Sometimes he would bite her lip if she tried to kiss him without his word. I watched him lazily surprise them through the day with pussy checks and maybe a passing “dry fuck” in a door jam for a couple minutes.
Sometimes he had to chase them around the house and drag them screeching and giggling into the kitchen for binding. I wanted a spanking like that, and couldn’t wait until I grew up enough. I always felt a deep itchy tingle in my guts when I heard his large hands slapping bare flesh and the slurpy sounds of fucking.
My panties would get sweaty when I figured out what object he used by its crack and her cries and his growls. Sometimes I would spank myself and rub against the corner of the mattress when I masturbated and think of becoming his “sweet baby woman.”
He taught me to smoke cigarettes. He liked to watch me smoke and play with myself while he stretched his dick and made it hard. It fascinated me to watch it stiffen and shine and his balls roll around like Barbie heads in the toe of mom’s sock. Although it was his hand, I thought it was my pussy making him hard and I liked to match our hands and breathing. We had to be really quiet, but it always made my nipples tingle when he growled about how he was going to fuck me when I’m his special woman.
He protected me and no one could go into my room except him, even mom, cuz she only bitched at me to get off my ass and clean something anyway. He told my mom something about “girls needing their own space” and locked her in his bedroom for three days for back talking him in front of the men.
Nevertheless, we all wished we could be locked in his bedroom, and I masturbated when he fucked her or spanked her (or whipped her with his belt) and imagined my turn approaching.
It took no time at all (due to his vigilant daily instruction), until I learned to connect my pussy feelings with my breathing – while ordered to look into his eyes – and had my first commanded orgasm.
After that I would orgasm without touching myself, if he breathed in my ear or said some sexy comment. He got a kick out of making me cum just by rubbing his dick and looking at me like he does when he cums.
Soon after that, I couldn’t touch myself much when I was with him. He would smoke a cigarette with me like always, but after he would tie me up in different positions so he could whack off and touch my pussy himself.
If he spanked me (usually doggy style with my hands tied behind my back), he would rub his dick against my pussy as I did on the mattress. I would just float there and wonder how much more wonderful it would become when I became his woman too.
Evil loved his weapons almost as much as he loved fucking and would clean and sharpen and load each across the coffee table while I shined his pretty boots.
When my mom and the other girls would “smoke out” in the kitchen and play cards and drink and stuff, and all his friends were all fucking their girls or sleeping in the corners of the house, I would masturbate on his shoes on the floor across from him.
“It makes the leather softer and my feet warmer,” he always said.
He liked to watch me orgasm, and could make me cum the hardest by talking about sliding his gun inside my wet pussy, fucking me with it, and firing it when I came.
Sometimes he would whisper, “Bang” other times he’d click the gun near my pussy, but it would always blow my mind that he knew when to do it. He knew everything.
He’d say something like, “Ah Baby, you’re such a good mind fuck. Come here and fuck me,” and I could climb on his lap and “ride” his hard dick against my panties (until I lost all my panties — probably at the laundry mat). Unzipping him often reminded me of watching an inflatable raft pop open and I could almost hear a raging river nearby.
He would get his bong out and breathe his magic smoke into my angel kiss as I pressured my little clit against his prickly balls and his hardness leaking into my bellybutton. I always came hard when I fucked him like this and I clutched his shirt into wads and grunted into his throat.
He would grab my head back and kiss me roughly when he ejaculated up my chest. I thrilled again echoing in the intensity of his pleasure. I felt he empowered me. I could come from mere anticipation and still orgasm at his will anytime and as often as he wished.
He always walked around naked upstairs, and liked to take baths with a girl so she could scrub his back. By the sounds of it, through the weepy plaster to my room, I knew she liked it too.
Sometimes he’d take a bath in the middle of the night and come into my bed. I could hear him lathering and squeaking in the huge tub and the creak of the floor and soft click of the lock.
It felt so peaceful, nothing but the snoring of family and dogs around the place, and I’d rest waiting for Evil and almost sleep hearing his soap bubbles suck and grumble down the drain.
He smelled so good and he would massage my nipples and pussy so softly. He snuggled me into his arms as I rubbed his dick against my pussy between my thighs. I could feel his heart pounding and curly hairs against my face, his hands roaming and smoothing my thighs, my ass, my ribs – breathing me in and holding me like magic smoke inside him.
“Oh my sweet baby woman,” he exhaled before he rolled me onto the pillows with his knee tickling my pussy, and coveted me under him in a tent of my blankets.
“No one can see Baby, and no one can hear us now. Tell me another secret,” he whispered.
“I want to be your best girl, Evil,” I said, reaching and wanting and panting, but he wanted more. He wanted all of me.
He took all my needs and desires and fears and he took my love too. I knew he would cheerfully take my body and devour my soul if I learned the right way to ask him.
He taught me how to orgasm with my fingers inside my pussy. I liked feeling my finger slowly push in and out and slip around all the folds and creases. It became my new favorite past time and I would sit unnoticed for hours under the thick rhododendron bushes next to the front porch. I swiped a small compact mirror from the bathroom (the party mirror was too big and important to borrow safely), and watched fascinated while I prodded myself to coming with all kinds of stuff from around the house.
I became adept at pilfering, fucking, and returning Evil’s belongings without him usually knowing it went missing. I suspected he playfully hid his items around the house for me to find, “soften & warm” and correctly replace, but I enjoyed the mystery too well to investigate.
My favorite was this extremely large copper tipped “bullet” hanging from a chain he sometimes wore around his neck. It was a bit larger than my two middle fingers together, but it was so smooth and cold it didn’t pain me to insert it anywhere I felt the itch.
I warmed it in my mouth, sucking it like a Mr. Freeze for no particular reason once and wondered if Evil’s dick tasted the same. After a time, I preferred to suck the bullet and fuck it in a kind of ritual including bathing myself first and finding a clean sheet from the line.
A few days after I lost my last pair of panties, I realized the comparative insignificance of socks, and of course, shoes soon followed in that logic.
I felt a sense of esteem from knowing I must be growing up because I had no more need for little girl panties and petal pushers.
And I noticed myself as a part of the household and family in a new way. Especially since the adults had their own agendas, we received a certain amount of freedom in expressing the joy of our bodies. Body parts and functions happened regardless of age and only the little kids made a big deal about it. Almost all the girls went about their business in the nude and with the doors open regardless of the activity.
In the summer everyone lounged around mostly undressed. When it was really hot, we’d get hosed down in a community “pool” party out by the smoke pit. It would always start with too much watermelon and the last piece of ice down the wrong chest, and someone finding the plant sprayer… all was lost after that.
In spite of the rampant children and weekly “rock” house parties and annual mid-winter brawl, I saw us as clean, loving folk.
I felt a responsibility to the household and a keen loyalty to Evil and his children – which is to say all those residing in the house. (Most of those kids were genetically related to him by sheer odds anyway). I fed them and bathed them and kept the “candy” dishes and booze out of their reach. I sang to the babies, told stories to the little kids, and herded them through the day out from underfoot of the “working” girls.
I manipulated the chores so that I served Evil in every domestic capacity and felt no one, including my mom, wanted to perform the duties as well as I could. It happened so subtly even mom told me to change their sheets and wash his laundry after a time, thinking it all her idea and giving her more time to get stoned and play with the girls.
I also kept my own space in order and clean because I appreciated Evil’s generosity and he admired my quiet show of respect to him. He insisted on my privacy when everyone else shared and bickered for sofas and corners.
He sometimes told me bedtime stories and secrets. He also talked in his sleep. He cut, and cured and killed in his past life. I think he loved too much once. I loved him because he respected me. He looked me directly in the eyes and told me the truth every time.
We regularly smoked his bong during our “smoke break” and I yearned to feel the bonds around my body so much I could feel those places tingle and my nipples rise while he unwrapped his cords.
It wasn’t always sexual right away. Sometimes he tied me and brushed my hair or rubbed lotion on my skin and talked softly to me for a while until my body fell asleep and my mind drifted with his cooing logic.
He was grouchy sometimes, but usually he was great fun. He always smiled deep in his eyes when he looked at me and welcomed my touch without flinching or turning away. He allowed me to scamper around him like a puppy when he “made rounds” or sit between his feet while he talked business with the men. I knew he genuinely loved me.
I loved his genitals and felt a sense of power nearly stronger than my desire when he let me use my imagination to make him hard. I liked teasing him by rubbing my face and chest on his crotch holding his knees spread wide. I’d breath in his dusky scent; my nose burrowed in his balls, and flicked the end of my tongue into the little puckers of his hairy asshole. I waited until his dick thumped me on the top of my head before I wrestled it into submission and licked the salty drops of “love oil” out of the little hole on top.
I’d watch his funny faces and giggle uncontrollably as his dick wiggled and twitched to free itself from my slippery grasp. It always thrilled me when he couldn’t control himself from touching me, stroking my hair or tugging a nipple, and talked “dirty” to me. Usually I would cum in resonance when he called me a bitch because he only used that name with his favorite women and I knew he would soon spurt into my victorious face from the tone of his strained voice.
As much as I liked sucking Evil in my mouth and scraping my teeth up and down his dick like he wished, he was much larger than his thumb and it would pain my jaw and choke me when he was fully hard.
Most often, he liked to “fuck my face.” As terrorized as I always felt, each time, there was a certainty in marrow of my bones that Evil sincerely wanted me to live in his grasp till I’m a hundred years old; he wouldn’t even accidentally kill me.
Therefore I could beg him from the bottom of my soul if he only would. I thrived alert and aware and utterly in accord with Evil.
Sometimes I could smell whiffs of past pleasures on someone’s hair or on the towel that lived on the back of the bathroom door, and I would think about commanding Evil’s dick in new ways. I felt no fear because he always enjoyed all my little truths.
He ceremoniously opened my hymen with a small; mother-of-pearl handled blade one sunny afternoon after my birthday.
Enduring the pain and courage of that sharp, penetrating truth felt like a rite of passage in my journey toward womanhood in Evil’s arms.
I asked him to tie my knees open like he described in one of his bedtime stories, and tie my hands down so I wouldn’t hurt myself. He was right, I needed the gag. He knew everything.
He calmed me first by letting me kiss and lick the head of his dick for a while as I alternated desires of flesh and freedom and unquestioned devotion.
“This is your last chance, tell me what you want, Sweet Baby, and I’ll do as you wish.” Evil tickled into my pussy with his steamy moustache after binding me to the mattress handles — my ass between ankles and arms stretched above my head.
“I want to be your best woman, Evil,” I said, yearning and straining and knowing I’d never think the same way about any other man ever in my life. He wanted more. He wanted all of me, but he was eternally patient in his perseverance.
He kissed me to orgasm and took me by surprise. He was so swift I felt the gag as part of my arousal as I clenched down on his sterile gauze padded fingers and silently sobbed my relief in time to my throbbing femininity. He held his hand still and pressed hard on my clit with his thumb. When I opened my eyes, his face cleared inches above mine as he removed the gag with his free hand and I saw the pleasure and pride and reverence in his eyes for the first time.
“I want you to cum for me, Baby. We’ll go slowly, that’s it.” He took my first blood and first tears of slavery and he took my love too.
He assisted me when I peed even long after I healed.
I waited until Evil eased himself next to me after his late bath that summer night and attacked. Something inside me had changed and I wanted Evil to recognize the new woman in me.
I “pinned” his hands near his head, I was tired of his fingers. I wanted the promises of all my pain and devotion and refused to take “no” for an answer.
He accepted my bites and angry sex with amused arousal – hands behind his head like arrogance himself — while I impaled myself to orgasm on the head of his semi-hard dick. I panted in triumph in the face of Evil, thinking myself a complete woman.
I remember his slow smile as he pinned my hips to his loins and slipped deeper into my consent. I saw the light change in his eyes and for the first time I saw his true nature and felt genuine fear.
“Yes, my sweet baby woman, I shall fuck you now,” he hissed in my ear and eased his firming dick out to my strained edge. Although I resisted loudly in my mind, I could feel his excitement and pleasure and, as if hypnotized, I responded passionately. He reached and firmly anchored his hand in my hair at the nape of my neck. Evil drew me to his chest, palmed my tailbone – fingers grazing my ass crack — and rocked himself into me as I learned my inexperienced, hypersensitive rhythm. He moaned and hissed as he controlled his urges and manipulated my reactions to his piercing benefit.
Every movement sent thrills of penetration up my spine, through my nipples and pounded like the ocean in my ears. My tears of submission pleased him and I finally learned the joy in participating wholeheartedly as Evil’s lover. I felt the throbbing urgency of my first vaginal orgasm and knew Evil owned me body and soul, but he wanted more. He wanted all of me.
Like an Olympic wrestler, he flipped us around without dislodging my desires and settled into several slow thrusts making growling noises against my neck. Each, deliberate stroke leveraged my welcome and I rose to meet him a little more courageously. I felt my orgasm rise to dangerous proportions with his sharp snap to my nipple and I released my voice in abandoned ecstasy, howling and huffing, and digging my well trimmed nails into his flesh.
“Tell me, Baby. Tell me another secret,” Evil urged in a gravely voice in time with his slow, rhythmical grinding. He seemed to savor his victory and fill me entirely. He possessed me from the moment I read his tattoo and this realization struck me in the thin air of his full weight.
“I would die for you, Evil,” I confessed, suddenly accepting my slavery.
He crushed the truth from my pores and I rejoiced in his capture of my soul willing my body and breath and every thought commanded by Evil. I believed he would kill me and the prospect excited me to insane proportions and sealed our bond. I felt pain and mortal threat as motivation for sexual completion and understood no other sensations as love and fulfillment except those that Evil instilled in me. Only Evil persisted and existed in my universe. I thrived entirely at Evil’s sadistic whim. I joyfully submitted even this kinky self-acknowledgement as belonging to him: his heart beat in my breast where I had none prior.
Our eyes locked in my new understanding, and he came inside me for the first time like an angry lightening bolt along my spine and out the top of my head.
By late ’73 his best ole, big friend, Number One, traded Evil smokes and stuff to watch while Evil made love to me.
It happened kinda by accident the first time, but it felt so natural and comfortable I never noticed Evil had always touched me privately until then. Uncle One (as I fondly called him) should have knocked like he always did, but I’m sure I didn’t hear it. He must have slipped in while I buried my face in the mattress and the blood rushed in my ears waiting for my ass to warm up under Evil’s initial greeting.
Evil sat at the head of the bed with his back against the wall, legs as wide as a king, because he liked watching himself spank me in the long mirror on the back of my door. This time I face the mirror in his favorite “new” position: my back arched with my ass in his face, his hairy crotch tickling the soles of my feet, and my hands trapped under his thighs. I liked this tremendously because he could finger me and surprise me and I could anticipate when he wanted to cum by the tightness against my toes. The best part was feeling his thighs tense against my palms just before he pulled me back by my hair and tits and sat me on his searing dick. My head rush always amplified my orgasm sitting so quickly upon him like that, but my brains shattered in stars watching him penetrate me, twist my nipples, give me a hickey on my neck… in the dusty glass. It was as if I could be in two places at once and would cum in the gaze of my own eyes as if I was someone else.
Uncle One gurgled unconsciously in the back of his throat when he came; otherwise, I might never have noticed him.
He preferred masturbating quietly in the bean bag chair with a beer or bong in one hand. He never intruded or interrupted, he just sincerely appreciated the love Evil and I shared.
Soon Evil and I began “sitting in” on several steady couples and watched while they shared each other in a fantastic array of sadistic creativity. It wasn’t long before I openly watched Evil fuck various people as well. I learned the ways of the world by comparing technique and adapting our abiding understanding of each other to creative extremes. For example, he allowed me to wear his bullet nestled between my pussy lips and chained around my waist permanently. I revered its weight and powerful meaning. I could stretch the chain to pinch my clit and walk around with the bullet gripped in my womanhood like a chastity talisman. He knew everything about me because he created me.
He told me everything and I knew he always told me the truth. I understood Evil completely capable of any extreme, and could not have loved him and trusted him if he were not reliably steadfast in himself.
While I continued to do my chores and excel in my life, I learned my rewards in the pain of loving Evil. It felt, looking back, that we created the trends others merely shadowed in comic imitation as we grew in a Master/slave love.
I no longer served beer or emptied the ashtrays for the men at their poker nights. I sat near Evil at the table when he played (or between his feet under the table so I could whisper with the other girls) and brought him luck instead. I reveled in my vicarious status with most of Evil’s women and other men’s good luck girls and showed my gratitude by availing him every opportunity to posses me as completely as he wished. We openly expressed our love, but respectfully and selfishly kept our intimacies private with only specific conditions for public display of our sexuality.
Evil was deadly in his skill at a number of games he played with his friends, and if a one of them respected him — he was adored by all.
Theirs was an incomprehensible bond of masculine pride and clannish fellowship demonstrated for the most part by seasonal group activities. Like the “Fucking Chest Game” out in the back forty one summer with Evil, Uncle One, and half of my (naked), stoned aunts and uncles who attempted to get through an entire human chess match. But they always fucked around too much.
Another time we were snowed in for three days with temperamental fuses and frozen pipes. One came home from jail with a scabby tattoo that “just might turn out pretty good this time” and a new harmonica. He just happened to settle in before the storm hit, and it felt so weirdly comforting to me. It would have probably been better to shovel the bikes out first (so they could go on a run for new fuses) because it always took them a whole day to sober up from a good party. However, this was one of those times where a “public” sexual activity was nearly required.
Evil mesmerized me into preparing myself for an “Official Welcoming” with small tasks, slicing through my confusion and disorientation in the dark snowstorm. This was no ordinary orgy or smoke enhanced “free love” trip. Anything labeled “Official” was his term for sexual “sacrifices” of varying social significance. Each event required specific behavior and attention from me. This time the more significant for me as the “maid of honor” in my first public presentation for One’s welcoming celebration. Although many girls came to the house just to endure the initiation and succeed through successions of dicks to approach Evil, most found themselves waylaid in the ranks.
I understood Evil more as natural instinct rather than any kind of formal training. I merely attempted to fulfill One’s responsibilities in his absence and in his behalf. Evil permitted him to thank me publicly.
Evil planned this event of One’s celebrated homecoming long in advance, including contingency plans in case of coincidental inclement weather conditions and faulty fuses. He did know everything; he simply savored the brutal truth he told so well. He allowed me to question and quest. It is his seduction, his enchantment. After all, Evil genuinely enjoys enslaving children.
I knew his expectations of me in honor of One and performed Evil’s quiet requests in the nude. I eagerly anticipated the consummation of my “official” consent to Evil’s ultimate “mastery” of me. However, he wanted more. He wanted all the best of me too. He was a genius at bringing out all the best in everyone, yet I pitter-putted around the enclosing space as if I couldn’t trust myself to remember all his instructions.
The electric thrills of Evil’s bullet of ownership slipped up and past my clit, with its “dog tag” chain not quite large enough to slip off my hips, not withstanding all my practiced grace. I remembered he expected my sincerity in all things each time I tapped it back between my slippery pussy lips. The object’s presence against my body meant I could not fake my orgasm with One because Evil loved him. He urged me to serve his best friend in an oath on my precious bullet and it felt like a brand of the most sacred order.
Evil forbade me to visualize or fantasize about him, even if he touched me, that dark night. His ownership allowed me the freedom to obey without hesitation or restrained sensibilities. It assisted me to focus my attention on my long undeniable, sexual attraction to One. I accepted this twist on a dangerous game, acknowledged my longing for One in his absence, and focused my gratitude in his rightfully celebrated return.
It worked better than a slap in the face.
I knew exactly my capabilities and anticipated Evil’s forum to accommodate a cozy diameter of furniture and carpeting and automatically stoked the fire and set the lanterns safely for comfort and intimacy. I focused on one skill at a time until I regained my sanity.
It took me only a couple hours to grow accustomed to my boundless capacity to adapt to more dangerously erotic forms of acquiescence to Evil’s will. And I imagined One in obedient enthusiasm with the nearly subconscious stimulation of my vows engorging my pussy — twisting my pain into pleasure like my clit caught in chains.
Evil firmly and quietly set small tasks for me showing an example of my obedience and adoration of him and I contained my nervousness and fear in each accomplishment.
Finally, at his signal, I brought my blankets to his large, padded wicker “nest” chair and controlled my growing anxiety behind a faint smile while Evil striped and pulled me near as if shrouded in his sinister magic.
It officially began with Evil’s typical call to, “Shut the fuck up, and let the man speak. And pass me that piece-a-shit bong, would ya?” With the traditional “Fuck you, asshole” in respectful, obedient reply.
Evil sparkled like some kind of sexual Dracula that night. It was like a shadow that came upon him in the candle light, when all the little kids sucked their thumbs and the dogs quit huffing and whistling from the back porch. His energy pervaded the visible universe protecting us like the dungeons of a stronghold under siege.
We snuggled together in greeting and fellowship and listened to One’s musical, woefully “harsh” experiences through his songs and stories. I suddenly saw him as a worthy man and understood his loyal responsibility and faithful contribution to Evil’s house and hearth.
Sheltered in Evil’s embrace, protection and guidance, I realized we all shared equally, yet differently, in Evil’s love. I felt … grown.
I cried and laughed and raged in my being, and participated with One’s soulful report from his trip “courtesy of the Man.”
I believed I would love Evil beyond my death, therefore I never feared it. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to “swoon” into another reality altogether as I had so often done over the past couple of years. I especially thrilled and teetered on the brink of orgasm at the thought of his commanding my very physical existence. I yearned to die in Evil’s behalf, or for even his mere pleasure. I prayed for his touch, his mark, his ownership and begged him to sacrifice me in passion with his own hands. But Evil wanted more, and I knew by then, he wanted all of me.
In the early hours, after arousing me to the point of noticeable sexual expectation, Evil shared me with One in a public demonstration.
My whole family watched and shared each other while I discovered intimacy in the firelight with a beloved friend and companion.
I quietly slipped over the edge and gathered into One’s embrace with chattering teeth and blind arousal. One fucked and loved and pleasured me several times first in imagined solitude then over a time amid the grunts and cries of familiar voices inspired to their own orgasms.
I lost my family in slavery, but swooned into womanhood with a gentle, devoted heart as Evil’s slave. It was indeed a powerful exchange.
I felt like a precious gift shared in bounty and received in the highest esteem. My intense orgasm in clear view at One’s command showed me the freedom of my sacrifice and Evil orchestrated even this experience.
I obeyed him in a growing fear for my life and sanity. I was a child enslaved, yet found every means to insure my service.
One and I shared an abiding love affair, while Evil’s devotion and appreciation awed me into a reverence worthy of a mythic god for him.
While the others hooked their girls for gas and beer, Evil selected every detail regarding my sexuality including every man he brought to my bed.
He protected me and cherished me. He shared himself with me more intimately than with anyone else, including One. I continued to love Evil beyond reason, and only adapted a situation with a twist of my mind to hold myself steadfast in his sadistically loving esteem.
He would often make love to me until I was breathless and yearning just before meeting a new boyfriend. I learned to value my loyalty in crisp bills and stiff cocks and friendly faces I called “Daddy,” “Doctor,” “Bastard,” or simply “John.”
He liked to watch from the beanbag in the corner and I felt he touched me though his friend’s hands and eyes and dicks. I enjoyed fucking them believing Evil inhabited their bodies and minds like something out of a science fiction novel. My wild imagination enhanced our romantic ties and he proudly demonstrated my development in “private” gatherings and rewarded me with my own adventures in his bedroom or humped me in the kitchen with his men afterward.
He encouraged me to instigate sexual services for anyone I felt attracted to as long as I conducted my business in the open and with his prior arrangement. I enjoyed all the differences, but I worried Evil would think I fell in love with any of them. I learned to fake an orgasm with everyone except Evil to prove I could obey him without betraying my loyalty to him.
I was indeed Evil’s special woman, exactly as he promised so long ago.
However, times had changed and when some judge’s “runaway” daughter overdosed or got pregnant or something, Social Services would make a new sweep in our neighborhood. Virtually all the kids, including myself, found ourselves “remanded” into the care of strangers. Many of us were never seen, nor heard from again. I came back, but the world had changed by then.