Victims
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Victims free porn video
The thirteen year old was running. He ran away... He ran aimlessly. His heart beating so hard that it felt as though it was trying to jackhammer its way out of his chest. His saliva felt thick, tough in his mouth and a long string hung down from his chin. The blood roared in his ears, drowning out all other sounds until that was all he could hear. He didn't hear the traffic, present, even if it was sparse, at this time at night, half past ten. A soft whisper in the background. The constant swishing of tires on wet asphalt. When he had no strength left in his legs or lungs, he realized to his astonishment that it was raining. A slow, steady drizzle, but still heavy enough to seep through his sweater and shirt. It didn't feel cold against his skin. Not yet anyway. He knew that it would later. Later when he had reached safety. If indeed he could ever again feel safe again. He looked around, trying to find out where he was. This was a part of the city where he had never been before. As a thirteen year old you don't get around very much. Life tend to hover close to home and school at that age. He looked around. Mostly he looked behind him. No one was pursuing him. He thought he had heard his name being called as he slammed the door shut and ran down the stairs, three steps at the time. The soft soles of his shoes made hardly any noise, once the echoes of the slamming of the door had faded away in the naked stairwell. It was in that silence that he thought he had heard his name being called but he knew that couldn't be so. There was no one there to call his name.
It had started almost three months ago. No, actually it had started earlier. It had started years ago when his father had left his mother. He didn't remember his father. There wasn't even a photo of him in the house to show him how he looked. His mother never spoke of him.
There had never been an adult man in his life. A man who could substitute a father. Who could show him the ways of a man. Show him how to treat a girl. As it was, he was very awkward around girls. Didn't know where he should look, he knew where he wanted to look. But he knew that you don't look at a girl in the places you wanted to look at her. At least not blatantly. On the sly if you got the chance, but it was important to not be caught at it. That would only mark you as a pervert. An outsider. Not that he was exactly an insider now. But not exactly out either. He sort of orbited in a no-mans-land, somewhere between the utterly despicable and the barely tolerated.
As his thoughts wandered so did he. Not so aimlessly any more. Now he tried to find his way out of this maze. This crisscrossing of streets. These dark, almost black, bodies of heavy buildings. Most windows already dark, curtains tightly drawn, shutting him out from the comfort of knowing that there were other people around him. Shutting him out of their lives.
He had walked for more than thirty minutes when he came to a street he thought he recognized. He recognized the name when he saw the street sign on the corner of one of the dark buildings. Now he knew were he was. Another thirty minutes to get home. Ten if he took the bus. He shrugged, a shivering shrug, no, not the bus. He had to walk. As he rounded the corner the cold, damp wind struck his face and he started to feel to chill of his soaked clothes.
His mother had finally met a man, Tom. Actually, Mister Thomas Wilkersen. A soft-spoken, educated man. Not overly charming but he had a certain - flair. He had felt self-conscious when his mother introduced him. And even more so when she had told him to show Tom his books while she set out the dinner she had cooked. He didn't even remember what they had eaten even though his eyes never left the plate in front of him. His mother chattered happily all through the meal. He felt embarrassed for his mother's babbling. His own silence. When he at last dared to lift his eyes from the plate he gratefully noticed that Tom paid his undivided attention to his mother. In fact he never once looked at him during the meal, except to hand him the dishes of food that were circulated around the table, his mother always the last to take anything from the dish.
As soon as dinner was over he retreated into his room. Lay on the bed and tried to read. He had found this book at the second-hand bookstore just last week but hadn't got around to reading it yet. It looked promising. 'Winnetou' by Karl May. It wasn't until years later that he learned that it wasn't an American author but a German. He was going to read it as soon as he could leave his mother to her TV watching. It was then his mother had told him that they would have a guest for dinner. She had seemed happy and he had felt some joy at seeing her smile. It didn't happen that often. Mostly she just came home from work and cooked something for them to eat and then she sat in front of the TV for the rest of the evening till it was time for bed. That was his mother's life. Getting to work at eight o'clock. Work nine hours. Cook a meal. Watch TV. Sleep. Over and over and over. Hopelessly monotone.
He had laid on his bed. On his stomach. His hands supporting his head and the book on the pillow. As he started to read he heard his mother giggle. The man's voice, muffled by the closed door. Another giggle from his mother changed into something he thought of as a moan. He had heard enough around the school yard to know what that meant. He felt ashamed on his mother's behalf. But at the same time - aroused. His cock had stiffened at the knowledge of was going on in the adjacent room. When he had heard the soft thump as the door to his mother's bedroom had closed he knew. Knew what was going to happen.
His erection had felt uncomfortable, pressing against the bed so hard he had rolled over. Looked at the clock. Nine fifteen. That was early for his mother. Usually she watched something or other on the TV till at least eleven o'clock. He tried to read but his mind wandered. Fixed itself on what his mother and Tom were doing in her bedroom. He was so embarrassed that he drew the blanket over his head and after a while he fell asleep.
The next morning he hardly dared to look at his mother. He knew something about her. Something he was too ashamed to even think of. And still he did. The thought of his mother engaged in - sex was almost... it was almost revolting! And still. The inner image of her prone on the bed, thighs wide spread and Tom pounding his cock in and out of her... he shied away from the word cunt but the word refused to leave him alone. And she liked it too, judging from her shrieking and randy laughter! To his shame he again got an erection at the thought.
Thankfully the school made the image of his mother, naked and fucking, shrink to a back corner of his mind. Not forgotten, but temporarily shoved under the carpet of more pressing brain-activities. But a school-day isn't long enough for something like that to be forgotten, especially since he had no one to talk to. He was a freak. An outcast. He was the only one without a father and he had a mother with a history of psychological illness. She was depressive and had to take medication to keep it under control. When he had first heard of her ailment he had looked the word up and he had found something called manic-depressive. His mother never had a manic faze. It was just the depressive and when she was in it, and had 'forgotten' to take her pills, she didn't wash; didn't bathe or shower. She didn't change her clothes and he had caught her sleeping in them more then once. As if that wasn't enough, she had to go for long walks too, filthy, both in her clothing and her hygiene. He feared that someone at his school would see her in that state. He knew the fear was baseless because no one had ever met his mother. So there was no way they would be able to connect the shabby woman to him. But still, the fear lay inside, nagging.
Suddenly he stumbled on a raised joint in the sidewalk and he woke up. Till now he had been wandering almost in trance. He noticed that he was carrying something in his hand and he lifted it so he could see it. It was a long, sharp pair of scissors. How he had got his jacket on with them in his hand he couldn't understand. Obviously he had managed. Again he shuddered, this time not from the cold, but from the memories. He looked around for somewhere to throw them away and saw the storm drain. He stopped long enough to slide the scissors between the grates and let go of them, he listened for the sound of them hitting bottom but heard nothing.
Fifteen to twenty minutes later he opened the door to his home. He kicked off his shoes and flung the wet jacket on the radiator, not bothering to unfold it when it landed in a heap on top of it. He crossed the room, lighted only by the flickering light from the TV. He glanced at his mother but she was either absorbed in the action on the screen or not interested because she didn't look at him. For once he was thankful for her indifference. Slowly he closed the door behind him. Finally he was safe. In the safety of his own, well known room.
Wet, he lay down on top of his bed. He starred at the ceiling without seeing it. Let his thoughts wander. Aimlessly. But the thoughts wouldn't wander aimlessly. They found their way to the place were the unpleasant memories were lurking. The horrible.
Two months ago. That was when it had started. Tom had been a guest in their house once a week for the past month. He knew that his mother had met with Tom on other occasions as well. It had been obvious. She had come home after work. Showered and changed into nicer clothes. Not the latest fashion. Far from it. That much he knew about women's clothing. But nice enough for him to feel proud of her. Almost. Had it not been that he had known what would come later, he would have been very proud of having her as his mother. But he knew. Too well.
Three hours later she had come back home, and Tom was with her. He had heard her giggle as soon as the door closed behind them. Heard Tom's deeper voice and an 'Oops' from his mother. Knew that she had been drinking. He didn't even suspect that his mother drank alcohol. Had never seen her do. He heard the soft thump as the door to her bedroom closed. Then the usual sounds. The usual effect on him. Not that it bothered him that much anymore. He had come to terms with the fact that his mother fucked. He could even think about it without shying away from the word 'fuck'. And yet he got an erection when he heard his mother's groans and shrieks. It didn't seem to bother either of them that he could hear them. They must have known that he did.
It had occurred to him that he really didn't know his mother. They never talked. Really talked. It was mostly trivial conversations. Never a question that showed any interest in the other's day. Feelings had never been touched upon. No praise for his grades. She just took the paper, signed it and passed it back. He doubted she ever even looked at it. The first years he had been proud of his grades, all A's. He wanted her to tell him that he had done well. Not excellent. Just well. But she never did. On the other hand, she never berated him when he was out late. Not that it happened a lot, only when he had been able to sneak some money out of her purse so that he could go to the movies. No praise and no scolding, wanted or not.
Later that night Tom had softly tapped on his door and not waiting for an answer he had opened it and slipped inside.
"I'm off now," he had said quietly. "Your mother is asleep. I just wanted to give you this."
He handed him a package and he could feel that it was a book as soon as he had it in his hands. "I noticed that you read a lot and... Well, it isn't a book for boys. It is one that was always my favorite when I was your age, maybe a little older. Goodnight," he said and closed the door behind him. A short while later he heard the door softly click shut.
He hadn't opened the packet; he just put it on the table beside his bed and forgot all about it. He didn't want any books from Tom. How he could have avoided seeing it lying on the table where he did his homework he didn't know. It had become an non-item, only semi-present. It was there in one plane, but on another it wasn't.
Sherry
- 12.10.2021
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