Master of the House

Feeling like a complete fool, Denise squirmed out from under him when the doorbell unexpectedly rang.

Steven watched her silently slip her shorts and t-shirt back on as she hurried to the front door, leaving him alone in his own mess. Steven could hear snippets of her conversation with the stranger.

"Of course, he's here," he heard her respond to an indistinct question.

Steven strained his ears and heard her speak again. "No. He's in the bedroom."

There was a low rattle that passed for a laugh. Then, heavy footsteps paced the boards.

Steven instinctively knew that it was Mort. His heart felt like it would jump out of his chest as he contemplated what to do now. He looked around the room and saw the window.

Steven was through the window and on to the cool grass on the back side of the apartment complex quicker than it took him to come from Denise's blowjob. And that was mighty damn fast, leaving a frustrated Mort behind to shake his fist and to curse in frustration that he had missed his quarry.

THE PEEPING TOM

Steven heaved a sigh of relief that he had narrowly escaped an unpleasant meeting with Mort, quickly realizing that he had to plan his next move fast. First, in order to keep avoiding a motivated Mort, who may be circling around the building at the very moment. Secondly because he was stark naked.

In his hurry to leave Denise's apartment, he had grabbed no sheet, pillowcase, or item of clothing to cover himself. He was completely exposed.

The back of the apartment complex contained a auxiliary parking lot for the tenants, beyond which on the other side laid the start of a tree line and the beginning of a wooded area.

The area was quiet for the moment. Night had already fallen. One or two lights illuminated an otherwise dark and still area.

If he could make it over to the woods, Steven thought, he could hide in the bushes and wait for a sufficient amount of time to allow Mort to leave. Then, he could sneak back over to tap on Denise's window, and hopefully regain his clothes, and maybe even shelter.

At the very least, he could regain his keys to his car out front in the main parking lot.

With a quick glance to his left and to his right, Steven began to quietly scurry over the asphalt. The paving's rough texture bit into the soft underbelly of his soles, scrapping the tender flesh. Steven was grateful to feel the cool again of the grass on his feet, soothing the minor abrasions.

He hobbled to the tree line, and knelt down behind a bush. He immediately felt a twig press into his knee. He removed it and felt uncomfortable still, hiding in the goddamn bushes in the cooling night air, waiting for a bully to leave the area so he might be safe. He was worse than a child.

The minutes passed by like hours. Steven lost all track of time as he waited, unsure when he should risk venturing back to Denise's apartment. At the precise moment he began to gather courage for the return trek, he heard voices.

A young man was walking hand in hand with a young woman, accompanying her to her car parked nearby. Steven stilled himself. While he could see them clearly, he had no choice but to trust that the darkness of the bushes would conceal his presence.

The couple embraced each other as they arrived at the woman's driver side door, exchanging a prolonged and passionate kiss. The young man's hands trailed down to grip her ass.

"Not here, Bobby!" Steven heard her pronounce only half-reprovingly. Her words traveled crisply on the early night air.

She scanned furtively around the parking lot. Steven saw her small, pretty little face, and he held his breath as her stare seemingly lingered on the bush he was hiding behind. Could she see him?

Steven braced for the inevitable scream that would come when she recognized the perverted "Peeping Tom" in the bushes. But a scream did not come. Instead, she told her young man to behave himself as she yet lingered, apparently not wanting to break away from her lover's embrace.

Soon, the couple were kissing again, and the young man's heavy hand was mauling the young lady's small breast. Steven thought the two may even start fucking right there in the parking lot.

This thought was interrupted by a sudden need in Steven to cough. With all his might, he choked the urge down. He felt that his lungs were going to seize up trying to keep them still. Phlegm retreated back down his windpipe into a nauseated stomach.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He could not risk discovery. He would have to endure this self-inflicted humiliation. His knees began to ache as he continued to stoop, reminding him that he was getting older more quickly each day.

A second eternity unfolded as Steven waited while the couple dawdled, several times pretending to say goodbye, but never leaving. Finally, mercifully, "Thank The Lord," they finally did part, the young woman entering her car and driving away. The young man lingered behind, standing and watching until her red tail lights receded from view.

The young man finally sauntered away like an unconcerned, insouciant boulevardier, off away into his own unconcerned world. He even annoyingly stopped once or twice, smiling to himself, reflecting on the memory of his most recent acquaintance.

Steven hated his fucking guts.

When the young man's figure at length passed around the corner of the building, Steven strained to stand up from his long crouch. His knees snapped like brittle rubber bands, and his nerves began to reawaken angrily from their imposed obdormition.

Suddenly, he longed to be safe and sound in his own bed, with his beautiful wife by his side, her soft, silken black hair falling onto his chest as she pressed up against his torso, cuddling with her man post-coitus.

That was a long time ago, Steven thought, long before her attitude towards him changed. Nevertheless, he could not keep standing in the woods reflecting.

He gingerly crossed the asphalt pavement again. He was so very tired.

Standing at the back of Denise's apartment, he carefully knocked on the window with the knuckle of his index finger. The overly loud ping on the glass startled him; he instinctively feared he was going to wake up the entire neighborhood.

He waited with a jumping heart. He thought he heard some rustling within. He risked knocking once more.

A light switched on inside. Steven smiled to himself. It was working.

Steven glanced around him. He saw the beginnings of car headlights pulling into the long, winding drive of the back parking lot.

Steven knocked urgently again. If Denise opened the window in the next few seconds, he could slip in and avoid discovery. It was going to be close.

His heart beat faster as the window was raised in a single, violent swoop. His heart seemingly stopped. Steven looked at his rescuer in shock.

It was Mort.

"Stay right where you are, motherfucker!" Mort shouted from the window.

The approaching car's high beams grew brighter, illuminating Steven's profile as he backed away from the window, recoiling in horror.

Before Mort could shout again, the composition of the lighting in the parking changed. Suddenly, the flashing of blue and red lights joined a glaring spot light, washing over Steven's naked body.

Mort shut the window and ignored what was happening outside like any good citizen.

A voice from inside the police cruiser projected itself through a loud speaker, ordering Steven not to move. Steven froze.

Steven instinctively raised his hands in the air. He could not, however, help from pissing himself in fear.

FUN TIMES

It was not by design, but rather from his own incapacity to speak that formed the reason why Steven did not answer any of the arresting officers' questions.

What was he doing there? Why was he naked? Why was he at that window? Why was he running? Whose bodily fluids were on his legs? Who had he raped? Where was she now? Who was he? Where did he live? How had he gotten there? How long had he been a pervert? Why did he piss himself a second time?

Displeased with his lack of cooperation, Steven was frog marched, buck naked and handcuffed, into the station. Cheers and jeers resounded throughout the walls from cops and fellow criminals alike.

One sassy, female sergeant almost burst a brain aneurysm laughing so hard, before asking through tears why "its always the guy with a small dick who has to show it off?"

Samples were taken. His own DNA as well as a collection taken from the mixture of fluids from off his legs. It was mostly piss.

Another interrogation followed. This time by the county detectives. After finally identifying himself, all Steven could answer to their questions was, "I want a lawyer." His first intelligent decision that day. That ended the conversation as the detectives did not have a lawyer to give him.

Ultimately, Steven was charged with public indecency and failure to identify himself at the scene. Both misdemeanors. He received thirty days total and one year of probation.

Thirty days later and after one too many bologna sandwiches, Steven was finally released, given a pair of raggedly clothes purchased for $3.50 total from the local thrift store.

Steven learned that the police had located his car, and had it impounded. It would cost him $500 to retrieve it from the yard. He had only 5 more days to do so before it would be placed up for auction.

Steven found that there was someone outside the jail's gates waiting there to pick him up.

It was Mort.

"Get in the car, Dumbfuck," Mort commanded in a soft, yet forceful susurrus.

Steven looked back over his shoulder at the guard who had released him at the gate. The man had a complexion resembling a peeled greasy potato. He was chuckling at Steven's predicament. He waived hello over to Mort before yelling out, "He's all yours."

Steven's stomach sunk. He placed himself in the passenger seat sheepishly.

Mort took command of the large vehicle and proceeded to drive to the rural section outside the town proper, turning down a long gravel path. As the car's wheels noisily rolled over the gravel, crunching and grinding into dust the individual stones, Steven felt a sense of doom. He should have stayed in jail.

At the end of the trail, Mort stopped in front of a large lake. There was not another human soul around for miles. It was a perfect spot. No one could see them. No one could hear them.

"Get out," Mort ordered.

Suddenly, that was the last thing in the world Steven wanted to do. He wanted to remain in the shelter of the car.

"If I have to drag you out," Mort explained through clenched teeth, "you are only going to make me angrier."

Steven weighed Mort's words carefully. He pulled at the door handle.

Standing by the side of the car, Steven watched Mort's tall, lean, and muscular presence circle around the vehicle slowly. His eyes were black and lifeless, like a shark's, whatever remnant of humanity within him having long ago reverted back to a more primal state.

Arriving in front of Steven, Mort's presence became even more menacing because of his calm deliberateness. Steven took a deep breath as Mort contemplated his fate.

Pain exploded through Steven's body as Mort's fist made contact with and rearranged the cartilage in Steven's nose. Steven was completely disoriented as Mort proceeded to punch him again, once and very hard in his left kidney. To finish him off, Mort administered a powerful left upper cut to Steven's bent over figure, causing copious amounts of bitter bile to surge out of a damaged liver.

Steven fell down onto the ground in the fetal position. He tried screaming, but no sound would come out. For several minutes, Steven continued to scream silently to himself, as tears rolled down his eyes.

Steven felt more drops of stinging hot moisture descend onto his head. It was suddenly raining. If he only could have looked up at that moment, Steven would have noticed that Mort had taken out his massive cock and was pissing on Steven's prostrate figure.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Mort leaned on the side of the car, smoking cigarettes and staring wistfully at the glistening water of the lake he had visited so often professionally. If ever it should surrender its secrets, Mort would be in some serious trouble. A metallic, death-like chuckle rattled in Mort's throat at the thought. Serious, mother-fucking trouble, indeed!

As Steven began to stir back into the land of the living, Mort went to his trunk and pulled out a square piece of plastic. He spread it on the vehicle's back seat. Very gingerly, he helped Steven onto his feet and into the back of the car.

"You're a lucky mother fucker," Mort pronounced at the wheel as he turned the car around, "Renard did not want you dead."

Steven did not feel particularly lucky at the moment.

THE WELCOME HOME

Thirty minutes later, Mort's long sedan pulled into Steven's driveway. Steven's house, set off the road and situated on top of a hill in a quiet neighborhood, also had the virtue of being quite spacious.

At once, Steven noticed several different and strange cars parked at the side of the house. Was his wife throwing a party?

Before he could twig an answer, Steven became even more surprised when Mort exited the car and began leading the way into the house, not pausing to knock at the front door, but rather walking right in, almost as if he owned the place.

A drained Steven followed his lead through the foyer and into the front living room. Several strange men were sitting on the Steven's two leather couches. One man with greasy hair and a greasier smile had his feet up on Steven's expensive marble coffee table.

"Get your feet off the table," Mort ordered.

The greasy smile instantly disappeared under Mort's glare. The feet were removed promptly. The man sat up straight with correct posture. He was not going to cause Mort trouble. No, Sir.

"Wait here," Mort instructed Steven, leaving him standing in front of the assemblage, each man staring hard at Steven as if it were he, and not each of them, that was the uninvited guest and interloper.

Thoughts raced through Steven's head. Who were these scumbags? What were they doing in his house? Why did he have to wait there? What the fuck is happening?

Despite the surge of whatever adrenaline remained in his body after his encounter with Mort, Steven felt older than time itself and completely impotent to do anything with his increasing anger.

That anger instantly turned to joy at the sound of the voice of his daughter, Jennifer. He turned into a large hug from his daughter, who was wearing nothing but an over-sized sweatshirt.

Steven noticed all the men leering at his gorgeous, raven-haired daughter, as her arms clinched tightly around his neck, her massive tits clutched tightly against his chest.

Muffled sounds of approval emanated from the couches as the hem of her sweatshirt rode up to reveal her bare ass and a tiny sneak peak, perhaps imaginary, of her quim.

Steven felt himself reddening.

"Ooh, Daddy! You smell like piss," Jennifer shouted suddenly. Backing away in disgust, she noticed his broken nose for the first time, "What happened to you?" Her big, cerulean blue eyes stared at him.

"Jail is a rough place, baby girl," Mort's voice interrupted, supplying the answer, from behind her. Mort winked over her shoulder at Steven conspiratorially.

"Yeah, jail is a rough place," Steven acquiesced, having been completely healthy less than an hour ago upon his release from jail. "Where is your mother?"

"She's busy," Jennifer replied abruptly.

"What do you mean she is busy?" Steven's voice became sharp, suddenly demanding of his daughter.

"She is busy," Jennifer repeated with some unexpected flint in her own voice. "Things have changed around here, daddy."

"I can see that," Steven huffed, viewing all the strange men in the room. "I want your mom to tell me what is going on around here."

Jennifer's eyes narrowed and grew even more hard than her voice, but before she could speak, Mort again interjected himself into the conversation. "Steven, go take a shower," he commanded. "Then we'll have a discussion."

Jennifer giggled at the confused look on Steven's face as another man proceeded to tell him what to do in his own house. The rest of the room had grown deadly silent, everyone else was waiting to see what Steven would do. Would he dare take Mort on?

Laughter trailed his steps as Steven made his decision, turning on his heels and proceeding to the main bathroom. The words "Punk Ass Bitch" chased him down from behind.

Suddenly enraged, Steven turned his head back, as if he was going to say something, but his eyes met Mort's cold stare. It was useless. Steven turned away to even louder peels of laughter.

A few minutes later, under a welcome cascade of hot water - the over-crowed and under-funded jail could only offer cold, not having enough in the budget to fix the water heater - Steven with painful difficulty managed to pee. He rested his forehead against the white-tiled shower wall, as he watched a mixture of piss and blood circle down the drain.

Steven turned off the shower head and pulled open the curtain to another shock to the system. Mort was standing there with a towel and some clean clothes.

"Jesus Christ! Mort! What the fuck?!" Steven exclaimed in surprise.

Mort chuckled hardily. "Dry off and put on your clothes."

"I can do those things by myself without you here," Steven protested.

"I don't trust you," Mort rasped.

"What are you doing in my house? Who are those people?"

"You're getting mouthy for a guy whose dripping wet and standing on a slippery surface. Don't you know that most accidents occur in the home?" Mort asked wryly. "Dry off and get dressed, and you will get your answers."

Mort watched as Steven accepted the towel and began drying off, passing the cloth gingerly over the forming bruises on his stomach and lower back. His nose felt stuffed completely. He could only manage to pull a small tuft of air through his nostrils. His head throbbed.

It seemed to Steven that he had more privacy in jail than he did in his own bathroom as he pulled on his pants and tucked in his shirt.

Mort lead the way out the door and down the hallway to the master bedroom.

THE SITUATION

Renard, who as the local crime boss was both Steven's loan shark and Mort's direct employer, was sitting in the middle of Steven's bed with his back against an intricately carved mahogany headboard, a family heirloom passed down for generations in Steven's family. Renard wore a pair of baggy satin gym shorts and nothing else.

On his hairy chest rested the lovely head of Steven's nude wife, Jessica. She was a complete symphony of sexiness, the firmness of her thirty-eight year old body having not surrendered a fraction of an inch to time.

Her ice blue eyes stared at Steven contemptuously as her long left leg draped over Renard's muscular thigh. Renard's left arm nestled her into his body; his thumb and forefinger were rhythmically pinching and pulling an increasingly hardening nipple.

Steven felt his pulse pounding through his neck as he viewed this mise en scene.

"Well, well, well," Renard tutted, "the prodigal cunt has returned home." Steven's wife tittered.

"Hello, Renard," Steven forced himself to pronounce civilly in reply.

"Is that all you have to say? Hello Renard?" The face of Steven's interrogator twisted in mock disbelief. "I would have thought that you would prefaced our conversation with an apology."

Steven stood uncomfortably mute, suddenly abulic, not knowing what to say. Everything that was flowing through his mind at the moment would only make the situation worse.

"Can you believe this guy, Mort?" Renard addressed the still and deathly presence standing in the darkness behind Steven.