Father Figure Page 7

  “Shut up!” It took all he had left in him to shout those two words. “Don’t you dare —“

  I pushed the head of my cock against his slightly opened bud then, not the kind of opening that would make the entry easy, nor was I completely hard. I wanted just to silence his words, to hear him scream instead. Perhaps have him beg for my forgiveness or tell me he’d made a mistake in trying to run. Anything else but this insistence on defending a half-brother that I didn’t know, one he clearly loved more.

  I pushed against him — the small hole felt impossible to penetrate. I only pressed in further, by using more force. He started to scream, his body twisting to pull himself away from me, when the rim of his puckered opening started to give. It was being forced open, perhaps tearing it a little in doing so. I didn’t stop.

  “You were saying what? I shouldn’t dare what?” I asked. The tightness hurt, but I didn’t allow it to show. I continued to drill into him, not stopping until his little bud gave way and swallowed the thick crown. He let out a cry when it did — the small point our connection made, the moment that I took his virginity.

  The vise-like grip that clamped down on my cock then didn’t feel too good, but the very thought that I was inside him was exquisite. I had made a kind of intimate connection with him that no one else had ever made with him before. It got me hard. I smiled down at him.

  “I really love you,” I told him.

  He didn’t acknowledge me. He had screwed his eyes shut, trying to endure. “It’ll hurt less if you’d stop tightening up....”

  He ignored me. I spat in the palm of my hand and rubbed the saliva on my shaft — wetting it as best I could before I slid further into him. He was still drawn tight and it still pained me to go in. It was a good kind of pain, though, the kind that I would remember and savor in my memories.

  “...unless you want to be torn up, force yourself to relax.”

  The advice probably sounded ridiculous to him. His eyes opened, trying to stare through me.

  “How dare you say you love me as you rape me?” The words were hissed through clenched teeth. I leaned in and cupped his face, my thumb stroking his feverish cheek.

  “Since you will not acknowledge me in other ways,” I told him. “This is my way.”

  I held his face, forcing him to look at me as I rolled my hips inward slowly, screwing my cock into the hot, tight passage. It was gradual, going deeper and deeper inside. He was sobbing openly, the pain probably taking the remains of his will. The quickly recovered rebelliousness was gone as more of his inner-most self was being taken. Devoured. My arousal only peaked with each little bit I took from him.

  I also realized then that I only wanted him that way. To own him that completely. I would not have been satisfied with him calling himself my father, our relationship reduced to occasional phone calls.

  “This isn’t about you being someone who fathered me twenty-three years ago,” I told him. “This is about my love for you. This is about our future.”

  “There is...no future...” he gasped. The rest of the sentence was replaced with a sharp intake of breath that silenced him. I was inside him completely. I bent down and gave him a kiss.

  “You feel very good,” I told him. “So much better than your mouth.”

  I pulled out all the way with the rim of his bud still clinging to the head of my cock — tenting the mouth outward until it let go. I waited for a couple of seconds before I pressed it back in. It was a little easier with each re-entry, but he was still tense, his tears hadn’t stopped flowing.

  “I can’t...take it...,” he finally said. His hands came up to grip my arms. “Please...take it out....”

  “It’ll get better,” I promised him and gave him another kiss. “Just endure it. It’ll hurt a little, but this is something you’ll get used to.”

  I slid my hands back, resting them on his hips. He shook his head when I started to thrust in and out of him in shallow jabs. A couple of inches out and back in. His insides contracted, trying to be rid of the foreign thing inside him that was hurting. The contractions only massaged and squeezed my shaft wonderfully, adding to the pleasure that was spreading through me. I could almost taste him.

  Whenever he could catch his breath, he begged. However, no matter how hard my strokes were, he didn’t resort to bargaining with me. He didn’t give up what I wanted from him. He took the pain that he could barely withstand, but he clung to his past and refused to give them up, even though he was being broken.

  I didn’t mind. I’d always love him, no matter what he was. Even shattered, I’d still cherish each piece of him.

  He was struggling again when my pace quickened. My grip on his hips hardened, bruising them. My head started to hurt again, my vision hazy. When I felt a trail of blood trickle from my wound, I was reminded that I was suppose to punish him. Hurt him for his disobedience.

  “You won’t try to run away again...!”

  He probably couldn’t hear me. His screams were loud, filling the small space of the cabin. I was still fucking him hard, even as I saw droplets of my own blood dotting his thighs — creating their own lines on his pale skin as they slid down. The harder and faster my thrust, the more I bled. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even stop when my vision went white, then gradually dimmed, darkening to gray.

  I was still conscious, although I know my own body had given out. I had cum so hard that I had lost some moments. When I became aware of myself again, I was lying on top of him — my cock, although spent — was still lodged inside him. I didn’t have to look to know he had passed out. His breathing wasn’t as labored and difficult. His body that had been twisting underneath, no longer moved.

  I was still bleeding, my head was spinning. I lay still, my head resting on his shoulder — waiting for the disorienting sensation to pass. The rest of my body was different. An electric-like prickling that radiated strongly from my groin and dispersed throughout my body was still strong. I’d had one of the strongest climaxes of my life. Even the tips of my fingers were numb.

  I had no notion of the time, except that the cabin had grown completely dark. There were only sensations and the slight sounds of Father’s breathing. And for the first time since we’d been together, there was a feeling of fulfillment. Even if it was temporary. For those few sweet moments, I felt whole.

  I’d finally been made whole.

  CHAPTER 5

  The senior Superintendent of Golden Falls Estates was a middle-aged man with a particularly hefty beer belly hanging over his belt line, stretching the denim cover-all against its limits. His scarce hairline made his head look bigger than it should — almost in a cartoonish way.

  He hurried ahead; his thick legs had to move quicker than the two men walking behind.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” the Superintendent said, stopping at the door. He jammed the key that was in his hand into the lock and turned it – a small click sounded and he turned the knob, opening the door for them.

  “Thanks, Mr. Lieberman,” Philip Blackstone said.

  “You can stay as long as you like,” Lieberman said. “The owners understand.”

  “Please thank them for me, sir,” Blackstone added.

  Another nod and Lieberman excused himself, hurrying back toward the direction they’d come from.

  “You sure you want to stay here?” George Conners asked, following Blackstone into the apartment and shutting the door.

  “Yeah,” Blackstone said, almost a whisper. He swept his gaze to the right and to the left — carefully, as if to capture anything that might be different from the last time he was here. “Just in case he comes back....”

  “How long ago were you here?”

  “Maybe a year,” Blackstone said, stepping into the kitchen. The heel of his shoe left the carpet and clacked on the linoleum. Conners didn’t follow him. Listening, he tracked Blackstone’s shoes past where he figured the stove would be and heard him pause where the refrigerator should be. “Only earn thirt
y leave days a year, and that doesn’t mean we get to take it. We’re always short of manpower.”

  “I know,” Conners said, going into the living room. He paused at a shelf where framed pictures were displayed. He studied them again. “Did six years in the Air Force. Same boss. Same shit.”

  Blackstone emerged from the kitchen and joined him in the living room. He stood beside Conners, looking at the pictures. There was a pronounced frown on Blackstone’s face, as if he were trying to hold back emotions that threatened to overcome him.

  “We’re trying, Kid,” Conners said, resting one hand on Blackstone’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best to bring him home.”

  Silence — a long period passed between the two men until Conners squeezed Blackstone’s shoulder and let go.

  “I have some things for you to look at,” Conners said. “In the bedroom.”

  Blackstone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded and followed Conners into the next room.

  The room was serene, neat. The bed was made. The vertical blinds were still drawn back and the day’s light spilled through the clean window panes.

  “According to the timeline I have,” Conners said, “he left dinner at an Italian place near his work a little past eight P.M. His friends could only guestimate since he was the first to leave. That was confirmed by his last known credit card transaction. He had a routine of filling his gas tank every Friday after work, prior to coming home, a way for him to get ready for the coming work week.”

  Blackstone nodded. “He does that,” he said. He walked to the dresser, pulled one of the drawers out and studied the contents. “He’s always been a man of routine, to the point that you could set a clock by him.”

  “Right. It was eight twenty-one P.M. when he ran his card at the self-serve Shell two blocks away.” “He did that to cope,” Blackstone said, closing the top drawer. He pulled open the next one.

  “Pardon?”

  “After Mom died, he was really messed up. It took months to make him see a psychiatrist. The doctor said he’d become very focused on having a fixed routine and being very neat...well, a lot more than he used to be, just to have something tangible. Kind of like a crutch to replace Mom.”

  “I can tell he’s very fastidious,” Conners said. “That’s why I am concerned about his wardrobe and toiletries.”

  “Sir?”

  Conners gave the puzzled young man a smile and gestured for him to open the closet door. Blackstone abandoned the dresser and pulled the bi-fold door open. He frowned. Where the dress shirts hung, there were four empty hangers. Three empty pant hangers were stuck between two pair of slacks.

  “This would suggest that he left voluntarily, packing up for about a week’s vacation, although he’d made preparations for the coming Monday — but he didn’t mention this excursion to the friends he’d dined with earlier.”

  “His carry-on bag is gone, too,” Blackstone said, looking at the emptied spot where he knew the case should be. “A black and red one I bought him two Christmases ago.”

  “His basic toiletries are also gone from the bathroom,” Conners said. Blackstone sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his head with one hand.

  “I don’t know what this means,” he said. “He wouldn’t have packed up and left just like that without telling me...or anyone.”

  Conners shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t think he did.”

  “Then?” Blackstone asked, looking up.

  “I have no names in the suspect pool,” Conners said. “Everyone spoke highly of him. He wasn’t depressed. He hadn’t discussed any impromptu travel plans. It’s especially troubling since he didn’t drive his own car and hasn’t used his credit cards.”

  “There are no leads,” Blackstone summarized.

  “I have only theories,” Conners said. “And they seem to contradict one another.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Everything about this says this may be a stranger abduction,” Conners said. “But this person doesn’t seem to be a stranger to your father.”

  Blackstone’s eyebrows knitted.

  “Whoever took your father,” Conners continued, “understood your father’s habits, as set as they were; was able to get close enough to gain access to this apartment to pack a bag for him; get into your father’s life without alarming him or appearing unusual enough for him to say something to someone.”

  Blackstone looked down at his hands, one twisting the other. “I don’t know anyone like that,” he said.

  “Expected,” Conners said. “Since you’ll be staying here, may I ask you to do something for me?”

  “Anything to find him.”

  “If we go on the theory that this person who took your father is known to him, then there could be a transference of sorts, between them,” Conners said. He paused to study Blackstone’s confused look at him. “Short version — whenever two people have contact with one another, they each take something from the other — from the most obvious to the most minute and unseen form: Law of Transference.”

  “Meaning...?”

  Conners scanned the bedroom. “Can’t pull in CSI to dust this place since we can’t prove a crime occurred,” Conners said. “But I’ll bet there’s something here, in this apartment, that connects that person to your father. I’ll give you instructions.”

  It took a while to clean up the blood. The gash on my head appeared to have split further and dozens of blood-soaked cotton pads later, it stopped. I stared at the bloodied cotton in the sink, the bright red casting an unholy sheen. I looked up into the small mirror. I was pale and looked as bad as I felt.

  It was early morning, although no light had spilled from the window panes yet. I had barely slept — an unusual mix of the enthrallment of finally being with Father, and a nagging headache had kept me up. I splashed more water on my face, cold this time. I felt only marginally better.

  Although all I could see was Father’s shrouded shadow beneath the covers, I knew he was still sleeping — there was a steady rhythm to his breathing. He hadn’t woken since he’d gone unconscious last night.

  I took a seat at the table — wanting a drink in the worst way, but knowing it’d make my head hurt even worse. Somehow, the situation had not gone the way I’d wanted...although I had what I wanted. I’d told him that I didn’t care if he loved me. It was a lie. I did. And our first joining had been what I needed — that physical connection that I’ve never had with another human being. At moments, then and after, I’d felt right with the world. However, now that hours had gone by, I felt empty. Lost again. I might have sat there and cried like a little kid, if I didn’t think I’d just feel worse.

  I sat at the table until the sun’s early light started to seep through the frosted glass and had lightened the cabin a bit. At some point, he must have awakened, but he lay still. Perhaps he’d willed himself to stay perfectly in place, just so I wouldn’t be tempted to go to him. But now that I could see some features of his face, I could see that his eyes were open and they were staring fixedly at the ceiling — almost like a porcelain doll someone had thrown away — joints broken and the once smooth face cracked. He lay there, unmoving, the only sign of life the slight rise and fall of his chest.

  I went to him later, when more light poured into the room. I sat him down on the chair so I could fix his finger. The digit jutted out with a slight bend, while the other fingers curled. I knew he was in pain, although he didn’t make a sound as I unrolled the soiled bandage. The cut no longer healed. The torn flesh had blackened, rotted. Gangrene had set in. I knew he would lose that finger soon and it would need to be amputated in matter of days.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him as I cleaned the wound.

  He didn’t answer me. He was used to my apologies and understood they meant nothing.

  “I think I would be content if nothing existed in this world,” I said. I could feel my throat burn as I spoke. My eyes watered. “And there was only you and me. I want nothing else.”
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  He looked up at me finally, when a tear rolled from my eye and the droplet landed on the gauze I was wrapping around his finger, soaking into the fabric. I was startled to see it. Then other tears came, the flood that followed after the dam broke.

  He said nothing as he pressed a hand against the side of my wet cheek. He pulled me toward him and pressed my head against his shoulder. I broke out in loud sobs – crying like a damn kid. The last time I’d cried that hard was when Mother had beaten me. Recalling that bitter memory right then made me hate Mother for the first time in my life. I didn't want to think about her then, not when Father was doing something she had never done for me. He didn't say anything as his good hand stroked my hair.