” That afternoon he helped her down the hallway. I saw them disappear into their room but then I heard them in the bathroom which accentuates sounds and echoes. I kept hearing my mother call his name, and I was curious as to why she had to call his name when he was right there. Still upset, I crept down the hall to hear what they were saying and came upon a shocking sight: she was lying on the bed, robe open, and his head was between her legs. The door had been left open as an oversight, but since my bedroom was on the opposite side of the house, normally I was not down near their room. I stood, frozen to the spot, watching him trying to bring her off, and hearing her calling his name, screaming it, her legs wrapped around his head, his tongue licking her between her legs with his face soaking wet from her juices. When she was finally done bucking and screaming “Oh GOD, OH GOD”, she passed out and he pulled her to the top of bed, cradling her head with a pillow and wrapping her up in. Every slight increase in his desperation gave me just a tiny fraction of pleasure. At least it made me feel a little alive. The only pleasure I could ever have. But that fraction continued to be surpassed by the greater increase in lust. Inevitably I found out just how much he could take. I was actually surprised that he had not cracked before. Did he really hate me that much? He seemed to boil with conflict. He loathed me and loved me. Hated me and wanted me. That night I ran into him in a less frequented passage. He was loitering in the hall, seemingly just waiting for me to pass by. Before I managed to notice the strain in his body, he grabbed me and pulled me into a dark cave. What I saw in his eyes terrified me. There were no signs of hatred. No trace of lust. His pupils were just small pebbles in seas of yellow, drowning every ounce of sanity. He did not speak a word, just proceeded to tearing off my clothes as easily as if they were cobwebs. Finally, I noticed a dark part of.
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