I'm A Monster
Disclaimer:
The people and events described herein are completely fictional. This story
involves young boys, nudity and graphically depicts preteen/adult sexual
situations. If this offends you, or if there are
laws in your area prohibiting you from reading this type of story...you
should go somewhere else.
Please
have enough brain power to distinguish between a fictional story and the
real world, you have every right to read, write and fantasize about
whatever you feel like, however you should know that this does not give you
the right to act upon these fantasies in reality, so let’s keep the
boundaries well drawn and clearly understood.
Author’s
Note: I’ve written this story from a delusional drunken man’s
point of view, thus the fast and conflicting thoughts, actions and
intensity. This is the first time I attempt to write using this method,
hope you guys like it
Characters: 40’ish year old drunk father
Mark, 11 Years old
I switch the lights off…
I lay down on my bed…
And she's there…
She was my everything…
Without her, I'd still be the same scumbag that I was thirteen
years ago. She was my inspiration when drugs and alcohol were the only
light I could see at the end of a tunnel that had engulfed my dark, violent
and pathetic life for as long as my fading memory can remember.
She was my friend when even my flesh and blood would walk by and
turn a blind eye at the man I had become. She was my mentor, my guide and
my very understanding, when I had to re-learn everything there is to learn
about life, love, trust and humanity.
She was my wings when my body was embracing the dirty soil of the
backstreets that I called home. She was my eyes when my brain saw nothing
but emptiness. She was my hands when I had to learn to work, to earn a
living.
She… was everything I had and will ever have. She was the
light in my life and the reason I would allow my lungs to breath. She was
Sarah, my wife, my beloved and my companion… until one day, our
neighbor's pathetic-excuse-of-a-son thug stabbed her twenty-three times
because she ran over his skateboard…
I close my eyes even more, and the dark is getting darker.
Numb and getting uncomfortable I turn to my other side, and the
other me surfaces back from the grave I had dug, my other me is getting
stronger everyday that she is not by my side. I try to sleep but I can't. I
press my eyelids even more and they hurt. I wriggle in bed but I get
paralyzed more with every move. I pull my hair and it hurts. My temptation
is my master, and I am a mere slave of lust.
He's in the other room, sleeping softly and dreaming about his
homework, about girls, about whatever an eleven-year-old child would dream
about.
He's Mark, my son, the fruit of my love with Sarah,
he's the sweetest, most caring child I had ever seen. He's my child, my own
flesh, my own bundle of joy, the apple of my eye.
He's cute and he's handsome, yes I'm his father and that's what
fathers say about their kids. But he's beautiful. His dirty-blonde hair
running graciously down his face, down his cheeks, and all the way to the
top of neck. His olive-green eyes shining with his boyish charms and
aspiration that would captivate your heart and soul. His cute and perfectly
sculpted bubble nose would fill a plastic surgeon's heart with envy. His pouty lips would cast a shade on any top model, movie
star and otherwise silicon puffed one-dollar-bitches. The splattered
tatters of freckles over his nose and cheeks emphasize his boyish looks and
charm, would make you want him more, would make you hurt. A smile on his
face outshines the splendor of the kingdom of heaven, and his laughter is
the ultimate peacekeeper. He is all boy, he is my
boy, and he's only eleven.
I promised myself. No more. I won't. I can't. I want. I shouldn't.
He's barefoot, wearing his thin Bart Simpson pajamas. The sweet
breeze of May must be invading the open windows, sneaking through the rails
and the curtains, brushing against his hair, his face, his
lips. I'm confused, I'm lost, I'm a monster.
Monsters hide but they never go away. My monster is still living with me,
thirty-eight years and counting. I can't do to him what's been done to me,
but I already did.
I want to but I can't, my body needs it but I shouldn't. I love
him, but in many ways. I sit down but I force myself on my back again. I
sit down again and I stand up. My head is spinning, another glass of scotch
might do. I gobble it down and I'm dizzy. I pour another glass and I gulp
some more and I'm getting heavier. My brain is in a trauma, so many
thoughts struggling to gain control, so many scenarios shifting with every
tick of the clock. I'm lost but I find my way to the door of his room. My
mind struggles to keep my hand off the knob, but my lust is strong. I turn
the knob and I sneak in, like a thief. I'm a thief. I'm here to steal one
night of pleasant dreams and tranquility from my only son.
The room is dark, except for a few rays of moon light sneaking in,
projecting patterns and magnified shadows of the window pane on the walls,
soft rays of pale blue light stream across my son's face. Frightening
patterns and freaky shadows are making me shiver, are they angry at my
evil? At me? At my ugly thoughts?
I sit next to him on his bed but my fatherly love is attacking me
and I'm in pain. I ache for a touch of his skin, I
crave for the feeling of his lips on mine. I yearn to be inside him, to
feel his body engulfing mine. My desires are sweeping my fragile body and
my need is growing stronger with the sight of him tucked under his Simpsons blanket, laying on his side, his arms folded
and his hands clapped together, resting near his face. His tiny
fingers tenderly curved and his thumb touching the tip of his nose.
His gentle breath drives me nuts, I still remember the way we
breathed the last time I gave him a late night visit. My ears can still
hear the echo of his hums and the jingle of my moans. My nose remembers the
sweet aroma of his skin. My hands, my heart, my eyes, my mouth, my everything is craving everything in him. My
resistance is fainting, I can feel the change of his breath pattern, he's waking up. My resistance is dead when I notice his
eyelids slowly breaching, his head turning around and his nervous smile
that informed that he knows why his father is here.
"Hi dad"
My heart is pounding. I can't look my son in the eye. My feelings
are heavy. I'm a scumbag. I'm an animal. I'm a monster. I'm a monster. I'm
a monster.
"Hey kiddo"
My saliva is clogging my throat. He knows what I want. I don't
know what I want. He knows what's going to happen. I don't know what had
happened. He knows, I don't.
"Son.. uhh…"
"I know dad…"
"I love you, and I love you so much tiger"
"Dad it's ok, if you want… I
umm… I want you to be happy dad"
He's looking after me, after my happiness. I'm looking after me,
after my happiness. I'm his father and he's taking care of me. I'm the same
scumbag that I was, I don’t know what to
think, so I keep quiet.
The blanket is going down. My hand is doing the thinking. It's
down his waist, down his knees and all the way against
the bed's rails.
"I'm sorry son… I, I… I don't… know
if… I don't know if I can stop" I stutter and then I'm quiet, I
can't speak no more.
I climb on the bed, I straddle my son's legs and I lean forward. I
rest my elbows near his head and my mouth is closing in on my child's neck.
My nostrils are less than a hair away from the soft skin of my son and I
can smell his sweetness. His boyish aroma is invading my nasal senses. He
had a shower a few hours ago and the sweet smell of apricot and apple snuggles every hair on his head. I open my lips
and my mouth makes contact with the velvet skin on his neck. I kiss. I kiss
again, but this time with a gentle suction. My nose is rubbing his lower
cheek and his jaw bone as my mouth grabs another bite at his flesh. I can't
stop so I kiss. My tongue is tingling. It needs a taste. My lips slowly
leave his skin as my tongue goes out of its cave. A gentle lick at the
bottom of his neck sends a shiver down my spine. I'm lost in my sensations
so I plant another kiss behind his ear. My tongue goes back to work, only
this time it's yearning for more. From the bottom of my boy's neck, over
the edges of his jaw bone and all the way up to his hair line. The sweet
taste of boy-flesh is a needle poking my heart, I want it but it stings.
But I want it.
I kiss him again, this time on his nose. I nibble on his cheeks,
planting a kiss here and leaving a trail of saliva there. I love you my
son, I keep saying that without saying it. I love him, I adorn him but I
can't stop myself from hurting him. He knows where I'm heading and he wants
me to be happy, so he parts his lips and he waits for my arrival.
I'm licking his neck, I'm biting his chin, I'm kissing his cheeks and pressing my nose on his.
Slowly but steadily I come forward. My lips touching his. A peck. A longer
peck and then a soft bite on his lower lip. The velvet texture of his lips
drives another shiver down my spine so I open my mouth and engulf his, and
I kiss. Once, twice, three times. I can feel his teeth, I can feel the
warmth of his mouth on mine and I stick my tongue out, wrestling it inside
my boy's mouth and picking up an unfair fight with his young tongue. It
feels good but it makes me feel even worse. But I'm not thinking now, I'm
only doing. I slowly back out but then I lick his lower lip and bite it
again, this time harder and more passionate. Time goes by and my jaw is
aching and I kiss some more until my tongue is numb and my lips are
tickling. I turn on the dim deep-yellow night light. Time to move on.
Still straddling my son's legs, I reach for his pajama's shirt. I
run my hand over the clothed chest of my son and I want more. I start to
unbutton his shirt and my erection is aching. One button is gone and a
small area of my boy's skin shows. Another button is gone and the shallow
crack running down the middle, defining my son's beautiful chest is
revealed. A third button is gone and his belly button pops out to view,
it's gorgeous, it's beautiful, it's lickable,
it's fuckable. I part the two sections of his
shirt and my son's torso is naked so I stroke. Both my hands are working.
My left is caressing the sides of his tummy and my right is stroking his
chest. I pinch a nipple, then I pinch the other and I caress some more. His
shirt is cute. His shirt keeps him warm. His shirt has gone...
I know how much it feels weird my son. I speak without speaking as
I shift my body down my sons legs, his tiny feet touching my thighs. my hands reach for the waistband of his pants. They're
going down and naked flesh is breathing fresh air. I can see his silky
thighs. I can see his beautiful knees. I can see his developing calves. I
grab a hold of his ankle and one leg from the pants is gone. I grab another
ankle and my son's legs are no longer warm. I bought him these boxer shorts
just yesterday, and they should give him comfort,
but now they must go. And in a drunken man's minute, they're gone and my
eleven-year-old boy is naked, he lays in front of
me, he's waiting for me.
I grab his left foot and I begin to squeeze on it, rubbing my
thumb across the arch of his foot and my other fingers across his instep. I
massage both his feet, slowly, passionately, lovingly. I love the way a
boy's foot looks, I love it's softness and
symbolic eroticism. I lean forward and I spread my tongue and I lick the
entire sole of his right foot, heel to toe. I nibble once, twice and thrice
on his arch, biting stronger with every nibble, and sucking more flesh with
every bite. I massage his instep with my lips then I slide my mouth on his
big toe. No. it doesn't smell. So I suck and I shift to other toes, licking
and sucking, biting and chewing.
I go up and I reach his calves, and I redo everything I did to his
feet but my hands are not idle. As I go up, I begin to stroke my boy's
silky thighs, and squeeze his suave inners. His little pecker is no longer
asleep and it needs someone to calm it down. I don't want my son to stab
himself with that little protruding finger of flesh so I part my son's
thighs, just enough to squeeze my head in between. My cheeks are rubbing
against the ingratiating texture of my son's inner thighs. My mouth is
moving on it's target and a few inches are left.
My lustful tongue beats my lips and as my nose made contact with my son's
shaft, I was lusciously licking the miniscule sack of flesh, poking to find
the two hidden jewels, well tucked inside. He's moaning and I can hear him.
He's feeling good and I know he does. I want him to feel good. I want to
feel good. I open my mouth and I close it down on my prey. A tiny 2 inch
finger blazing with youth is inside. So I suck. A drunken man's minute
lasts, and it lasts a lot and I sucked my son's loveshaft
for so many of such minutes. Taking his entire instrument and the two
almonds inside my mouth, then sliding them out.
Again and again.
He's moaning harder, his breath is getting heavier, his
limbs are stiffening, his back is arching, his
hips are thrusting. He wants more of him inside of me. He sighs, he groans
gently, he grunts heavily and his little pecker is bouncing. Trapped inside
my mouth. It bounces again and again and again. And my boy's body goes limb
again.
I had seen it on my way down, and now it's
right under me. I'm drawing circles of saliva around it and sticking my
tongue in it, I'm biting it's edges. It's a
beautiful Innie with a perfect nod. I kiss his
tummy, down to his groin, up to the bottom of his chest only to lick again,
and again, pinching his nipples, twisting them, torturing them, biting them
and chewing them. I'm a hungry dog with a taste for flesh. So I bite, and I
sink my teeth into every single inch of my boy's body. His flesh is nothing
short of a fine piece of dessert made by the best French patisseur. I can't get enough of it. I'm an alcoholic.
I'm a drug addict. I'm addicted to the smell, taste and feel of my son's
body. I don't think there's a support group for that yet, so I suffer alone.
He knows what's coming next. His heart beats faster under the palm
of my hand. nervousness is eating my son's face.
But I can't stop. I plant a last kiss on my son's lips as my hand grabs his
hips and motions it to turn around. My heart beats racing. I grab his butt-cheek
and I grab the other, I squeeze and I pinch. They're soft, they're smooth, they're beautiful. My drunken mind is not functioning
but my drugged cock is aching, it has a mind of it's
own and right now, he's in charge.
My head goes down as my mouth opens up. I grab a bite of flesh
from his bums, I chew and I chew hard. I lick a little, suck some more and
chew. He's in pain. His ouches are more frequent but my appetite is grand.
I sink my teeth into his bum cheeks and his tender flesh is aching. I can't
take it any longer. I need to go in. I need warmth in my cold life.
My desire is blocking my thinking. I'm no longer gentle. I squeeze
his butt-cheeks one last time and then I'm ready. I guide my cock to my
boy's rosebud. I part his cheeks and the tip of my manpole
is touching the wrinkled edges of the child's rear entrance. I press.
Gently, painstakingly, slowly but forcibly. An inch goes in and the head of
my cock is buried inside the eleven-year-old body. Another inch is in and
heat is starting to intensify. He's moaning, I'm digging.
His moans are turning into faint screams but I keep pushing. Most of my
cock is inside and his screams are getting louder.
His yelps of pain send shivers down my spine. I'm horny, I'm
lustful and I'm going in, all in. I press some more and my effort pays off.
My ball-sack makes contact with my child's soft skin. He's crying, I'm
crying. I'm so sorry my son, I don't say it but I hope he knows it. I
retract my dick all the way back, leaving the head inside then I shove it
back in. like a mechanical device, I ram my way in and out. A grunt with
every thrust, a moan with every retreat and my dick is mercilessly
pounding. I want to stop but I can't, I'm enslaved.
My thick and rapid diggings of the boy's ass is
tiresome and droplets of sweat are dripping down my forehead. My drunken
body is not helping as the numbness in my balls is preventing an early
orgasm. My boy's suffering. He suffers from my drinking habits, from my
drinking consequences and right now, he's screeching under me, impaled on
my dick.
A few drunken minutes pass, I need a new position. I retrieve my
dick out of my boy's ass and pull my son onto his hands and knees. I guide
my cock back inside my child's body and get hold of his small hips. My
rapid fucks are turning into deep, slow shoves as my right hand finds its
way to pinch the boy's nipple.
The heat and warmth of his body are cooking my cock as I grab my
son's shoulder with one hand while I keep the other on his hip. It's time
to go berserk. I shove my dick all the way until my sack is squeezed
between the boy's thighs. And the excavation starts, full speed. Picking up
the pace, my thrusts are getting more animalistic. The sound of my abdomen
slapping against the boy's bare butt is driving me insane and I want more.
I shove. He screams. I thrust. He's crying. I ram, he's yelping in pain.
Minutes go by, my back is aching, my hip is tired and I need relief.
Minutes go by and my son is in pain, hurting. I need to finish. I have to
finish. The sooner I do, the sooner my son's ordeal would end.
I can feel the build up. My bowls are growling. I grab the boy by
his hips, violently and I stick him even more. My cream is traveling
upwards, going through my shaft, reaching for my slit. I can feel it, I'm
cumming. and with a monster's grumble, I shove my
dick all the way in, slapping against my child's cheeks and a hot stream of
cum explodes out of my cock, filling my son's insides. Waves after waves of
hot liquid flooding the boy's bowls, as my once rock solid dick slowly
leans, softens and goes flaccid. I pull it out,
and droplets of cum escape the dark cave, dripping alongside the boy's
butt-crack and down his thighs.
My son's body goes limb and he crashes flat on his stomach. A hand
on his face, another on his butt-cheek. He's no longer screaming. He's
humming. He's moaning. He's aching and I'm lost. I try to focus but I'm
lost even more. I try to say I'm sorry but I'm suddenly speechless. I try
again but my tongue retreats towards my throat.
A minute later, I lay down next to my
son, draw him closer and place his head near my chest. My hand reaches for
his face, strokes his hair and caresses his bare shoulders. In a drunken
man's minute, his humming stops, his eyelids close down and he falls back
to sleep. Maybe in the morning he'll pretend it was a dream, a bad dream, a
nightmare. Maybe in the morning I will wake up sober, maybe I could change,
maybe I would become human again, maybe I would be his father again,
instead of his monster… maybe…
It's getting darker
Maybe… in the…
It's getting even darker
Or maybe …I ….
It’s dark
I surrender to my slumber.
...
The End ...