Hi Mr. Lyle,
I suppose I should apologize. When you came to see me those months ago, I feel like was short with you - not my typical way of dealing with a customer, or anyone for that matter. It's foolish for a historian to say, but those figurines you brought gave me a hell of a feeling of unease, and I rushed you out the door because of that. Since that day, I've thought about our brief interaction every so often, and so it was with some relief that I saw your email in my inbox, giving me a chance to make right.
Looking at those figurines via your enclosed photos is much more agreeable to me than handling them personally. Call it the weakness of a superstitious old man, but I've handled artifacts from before the Civil War, tomahawks and revolvers that were no doubt used to commit all manner of violence, I've even had an old woman show me a piece of embroidery still stained red with the blood of her identical twin, murdered by her husband, so she said, around the time of the second World War. She told me it contained some of her sister's spirit, and she spoke with great conviction. Yet I held it, examined it, and felt nothing. My point is, I've felt no sense of foreboding quite like what I experienced when I had your strange little statue in my hands that day.
I feel like I owe you. So per your request, I did some research, and I'll tell you all I know.
It probably won't surprise you to learn that religion quickly mutates and goes wild, like an untrimmed hedge, the further it gets from the orthodoxy. In the time of the rum-runners this was especially true as people stuck to reconcile drinking with god. Any man who enjoyed a good drink would naturally gravitate toward an interpretation of the bible that would not condemn him to hell for it, for the most fervently religious people at the time were in favor of temperance and likely to turn their backs on him. Once those compromises started, they didn't stop. A man would find a priest who would say it was okay to take a drink, and then what next? A priest who could offer god's forgiveness (if not outright permission) to do a little whoring or a little gambling. Preachers who could twist the word of god to give justification to the scoundrels of the day were in high demand, and as as they tended to their scoundrel flocks, they themselves partook.
What is the point of all this? I'll get there, I just need you to understand that religion comes in many shapes and forms, born from a mix of tradition and circumstance. Even prostitutes need a god to pray to, Mr. Lyle, one who would forgive them their fornications and thefts and help them through the day to day of their wretched lives, help them suffer the beatings of the pimps and the depravities of their clientele. As it so happens, about half of the prostitutes in the Partridge speakeasy had Creole heritage, having come from a place in the American south, down on the bayou. This is readily apparent in the correspondence that was uncovered from the site. When they came to New England, they brought their brujas and gris gris with them, and the huckster holy men who had intercourse with them were all too happy to bring some of that bayou magic into their sermons.
The result was a church of a new kind, part Catholic, part hoodoo, and the end result very different from either. Talk of hellfire and repentance mixed with loas and voodoo dolls, the Book of Revelations, omens and portents. In backwater churches the rum-runners, thugs and bandits would hold a strange mass with their bayou prostitutes, and the preachers would justify all of their ills. A special sort of witchcraft with a dark reflection of Jesus Christ lurking in the shadows, a loa Jesus Christ who would forgive all of their sins and bring vengeance on the men who mistreated them. Who would make their tongues turn black for their slurs and their genitals rot off for their unbidden affections.
I believe you've come into possession of some artifacts from such a sect. My question for you is, how much are you prepared to believe? I won't be asshole enough to disregard the evidence of my own experience. I had that statue in my hand and I felt something. Since you emailed me to follow up, I assume you are feeling something too. Or perhaps experiencing something more.
Here's all the information I have. The idol seems to represent a figure born from a mish-mash of Catholic, druidic and Creole voodoo tradition. There are two distinct presences represented. The letters you recovered refer to these as the Little Sister and the Little Brother (your colleague Ted Shaw, to whose research you directed me, seems to have missed the significance of these terms in the prostitute diaries). They are also called Thanatonica and Xandernath, and from my research, seem to represent the old Mesopotamian notion of succubus and incubus that would eventually appear in the Book of Genesis.
The Little Brother, Xandernath, is the one represented in the vast majority of your curios. The prostitutes believed that he watched over them as they worked and as they slept. Some of their letters describe seeing him in dreams, in the form of a delicate boy with refined, streamlined features who promised to take vengeance on abusive men, in exchange for part of their body and soul - a part, I must say, they seemed happy to give. The Creole prostitutes called him Touyeboy, which literally means MurderBoy. To them, he was a loa, and the statues you recovered were carved by their hands as talismans.
This is where it gets delicate. I'm not going to turn you down, not after what I felt, but I get the sense in your email that you are looking for a sort of 'remedy' to these presences. Before undertaking any harmful of potentially dangerous rites of exorcism (a practice largely out of favor in this country, I should warn you), you must be honest with yourself and ask if this entire preoccupation might just be a projection on your part. I don't mean disrespect. But sometimes when life takes a tragic turn, the tendency to look for external causes can be strong.
Please consider carefully, whatever you intend.
Anyhow, as for what I promised. I've attached as a text file a list of spirit banishing rites and associated ingredients that this combination of religions has in common. Perhaps, if you've sent this email out of simple curiosity, you'll find them interesting from an scholarly perspective. I cannot vouch for their efficacy as genuine remedies for… whatever might be troubling you.
Yours respectfully,
Calvin Simons
Owner/Operator
Simons Artifacts and Collectibles
From the private blog of user "snak3bit"
May 3rd, 2018
There's a thing inside my kid.
I know it sounds crazy. Writing it, I almost feel crazy. I'm the not the sort of guy to entertain a bunch of bullshit, superstitions and jumping at shadows. Always been that way. Mare asked me to get a tarot reading once, for fun, you know? I rolled my eyes so much the fortune teller hustled us out of there. Mare said I needed to get a sense of humor, but what do I need besides what I can see with my own eyes? Even at BC the religious aspects of school always pissed me off. I don't go on faith. When I had to profess belief in god, I did it with gritted teeth.
How is this different? Well, I have seen this. Evidence of something. A presence within Danny.
Simons sounded ready to check me into the nuthouse, but he gave me the information I needed, and it all basically fits the facts. I didn't do anything right away, or act rashly. I decided I'd bide my time, and really make sure.
I've been watching Danny closely for the last few days, not just seeing him but really watching him, how he moves, how he interacts with the world. What I've seen is startling. At first I had to force myself to watch him; it's easier to look away, since he's so brash about everything. Not really like a kid at all. Sure, he looks like a kid - the slender body, the height, that mop of hair - but there's a darkness inside him, one that knows exactly how to push my buttons. He typically walks around the house bottomless now, letting his penis swing free. In the mornings, Mare washes him in the bathroom. It's just off from the bedroom so even if I'm lying down, I can hear every detail. Sometimes, this happens after I've gotten out of bed, and they always do it with the bathroom door open, and Danny setting on the edge of the tub. The way she's so worshipful of him, kissing his body, cleaning him, I couldn't help but think about what Simons wrote, that the 'Little Brother' is an incubus. A demon that comes to women at night, and messes with their minds.
It would explain a lot. She has absolutely no shame in what she does to him, right in front of me. This morning she was naked, kneeling by the bathtub, bending forward so she could use her mouth to wash Danny's balls. She made a big show of sniffing his sack, pulling the hot, smooth skin of his scrotum with her lips, rolling his testicles around inside. Danny looked over her shoulder and made eye contact with me while I was slumped at the kitchen table. I just tried to look tired and defeated, and not let on about why I had been watching. It was not hard.
The rest of the morning routine followed. Each morning after Mare cleans him, he urinates in front of me, making sure I can see every detail of his cock spraying into the toilet bowl. Mare kneels beside him submissively as he does this, and then wipes his cock off, planting a kiss on his pisshole to conclude the act. She does this every time he pisses. Sometimes she uses her hair to wipe his cock off, sometimes she uses her tongue.
The last two days, Mare has served Danny a large breakfast. She no longer bothers to prepare food for me, just Danny, and she makes sure to make all his favorites - scrambled eggs with cheese, cinnamon toast, breakfast sausages, and the all-time Danny favorite, pancakes. I've been watching Danny eat, and he does so with an almost unnatural relish, as if he's rediscovering the taste of food and enjoying it anew. I describe precisely that way for a reason - I think he is trying this stuff for the first time, in a way. His eye almost seem to sparkle. The thing inside him enjoys the act of consumption, I'm sure of it.
Whatever you want to call it - the Little Brother, or Xandernath, the incubus, is experiencing the world through Danny. He's more fidgety than normal, moving around more, sometimes in ways that look experimental. Half a dozen times a day I see him almost in a trance, turning an object over in his hands, examining it, feeling it, even though it's something he's seen or felt a thousand times. The pages of a book. The TV remote, running his hands over the buttons. Even just the texture of a wall, it's like he's drinking it in. You see? A kid would normally be bored as shit with that stuff, but what I think is, to the passenger inside, Danny's uninvited guest, it's all new.
There's something in there. It's taken over Danny, and I'm 99% sure that if I were to wait for a silent moment, and surprise Danny by crying out 'Xandernath!', he would whirl around and I would see the look of comprehension on his face. But that would be tipping my hand. I can't let IT know what I'm planning, because physically, I'm so weak. My muscles tremble when I move. I get exhausted and need to rest for a couple of minutes just from trudging from the bedroom the living room. That's my part in this. Xandernath has possessed Danny, and he's also hypnotized Mare, but it's saved the worst for me - it's using me as a source of energy. My body feels numb and drained. Hell, the only time I feel anything now is when they-
Well, you know.
It was even worse this morning. Instead of eating, Mare squatted by Danny's chair like a dog, and he chewed some of his pancakes and then opened his mouth and let the chewed-up food slop onto her face. He did this repeatedly, and she seemed to love it just as much as she loved jerking him off onto her plate and eating his cum in her food. I sat there exhausted while my naked 10-year-old son filled my moaning wife's mouth to the brim with chewed-up, lumpy food, right in front of me. Sometimes the spit-loaded, wet sludge would splatter onto her tits as well. Mare had an hungry, slutty look. Her sheer panties were wet in the crotch. "Danny, your spit tastes amazing!" she moaned, and then gave me this reproachful glance, as if by 'feeding' her in this obscene way, Danny was providing for her better than I ever had in ten years of marriage.
And, fuck. My cock was rock hard.
That's the hell of all this. The only time I feel any sexual pleasure is when they do this in front of me. It must be part of Xandernath's curse. I'm no fucking cuck, I'm not into any fucked-up kinky shit or being humiliated. So it's a cruel twist to be stuck in this situation. I don't even know how small my penis is now. Half an inch? Less? I'm not overweight, though my muscles are doughy now, from disuse, and my skin looks pale. But even so, my penis almost completely disappears into the small amount of fat in my pubic area. And my balls… they're barely there anymore. Smaller than grapes. He - it - is always flaunting itself, all but inviting the comparison.
He fucked Mare's face in front of me this morning.
Before even finishing his pancakes, Danny got on the table and put his hands in Mare's hair. He was totally nude, so I could see every detail of his body. It's vessel. It always shows Danny off to me whenever it can. Makes me see the difference between his glowing complexion and my deteriorating one. Between his supple young body and my flabby, weak adult one. I was across the table from Mare, and Danny dipped his hips and shoved his round ass out toward me and forced inch after inch of his fat cock down Mare's throat. I could see his hairless, slightly-raised pink asshole and bulging cock root and his enormous, hanging balls. There was a glistening fleck of spit on rim from when Mare had been kissing and worshiping him earlier that morning. These days she loves to wake Danny up with a hot, deep rimjob while I lay beside them in bed.
He made her gag like a pig, ignoring me like I wasn't even there. She seemed to love every second. I saw his girth make a visible bulge in her neck, like something out of a crazy porn film. She gagged and drooled all over his meat with each thrust. A foamy white mess gathered around her lips and mouth. At first her arms were limp but eventually they came up to grope Danny's ass, to pull him harder into her as he did what he was doing. His fat ballsack slapped and bounced against her chin, smearing the mess of spit.
He pulled out long enough for her to hoarsely groan one phrase. "God, you're so amazing, Danny!" Her eyes had a crazy look when she said it, like some sort of animal in heat. Then he was back inside her and… emptying himself. It's hard to describe the sound. Like paint falling from a bucket on top of a ladder, and splashing on the floor. A sloppy, liquid sound. I could see his balls twitch as they propelled a massive load into Mare's stomach. It made me see. It was draining me. Feeding her. And Mare took delirious joy in nourishing herself.
I had an orgasm. It was totally dry. Not even a drop came out.
When it was over, Danny left the table to eat the rest of his breakfast in front of the TV, and it was just me and Mare. I was in my pajama pants and a white t-shirt, slumped in my chair, and she was wearing nothing but her panties. She looked beautiful, in spite of what had been done to her. Her hair was wild, her face was flushed. Yet her large breasts were covered in ropes and chunks of spit, cum, and pre-chewed food. I remember, I thought: This woman used to be mine, and now my ten-year-old son defiles her every day with his huge penis. He empties himself into her and onto her, right in front of my face.
She must have noticed I was staring. "What's the matter, John?" she asked. Even that question was unusual. She and Danny had given up the pretense of 'normal family life' more than a week ago. That included most conversation. Her eyes told me she knew exactly what she was doing and what was going on. She was probing me. Keeping an eye out for trouble. So I made sure to sound suitably miserable. Fuck, I was miserable.
"This whole thing is… just wearing me out, Mare," I said.
Amazingly, she reached out and put a hand on my wrist. If I was expecting a hint of the old Mare, though, it never came. Instead, she confirmed my suspicions. All but telling me what my fate would be.
"It'll be over soon, John," and I felt my heart skip a beat. Because the way she was looking at me made it clear she wasn't talking about Partridge, or our money troubles, or our marital troubles. Not the trip back east or the rent. "A little longer, and you won't have to worry anymore." And as she said it, she reached down to the side of her mouth with a finger and gatheried a lumpy chunk of semen from there, sliding it into her mouth and swallowing. It was so thick, she chewed it briefly first. Then, she got up from the table with her hand rubbing her belly, just above the waistband of her panties. There was a slight bulge there from all the semen in her stomach, she was caressing it just as lovingly as an expectant mother. She wanted me to see how much sperm Danny had fed her. How big my son's massive load was.
A week. Maybe two weeks. I have to make my move before I'm too far gone to matter.
I'm running out of time.
From the private blog of user "snak3bit"
May 5th, 2018
I'm almost prepared.
Looking at Simon's list of so-called exorcism rites and anti-demon wards makes me feel like a fucking crackpot. Or the protagonist in a video game, gathering materials. If I wasn't in this situation I'd be the first one to laugh.
The prayer is like nothing I've seen. Apparently Simons got it from one of the bastard preaching tracts from that area of New England during Prohibition. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning. Depart, profligate dragon, in the name of the Lord God of Sabaoth, who has trodden on the basilisk and the scorpion and the asp. And it goes on like that, mixing stuff that vaguely sounds like the bible with Creole bruja, bene gris-gris and shit that's probably even older. Shit you'd hear druids chanting around a stone while they prepared to cut out someone's entrails.
The ingredients for the ward are just as strange. There's my blood, of course. A popular ingredient for rites the world over. My sweat. No problem there. They way my stamina has wasted away, I get a sweat on my brow just from walking across the room a couple of times. This afternoon I got one of the more difficult ingredients, which was moss from a consecrated grave. I told Mare I was going for a walk to clear my head. This is unusual for me these days, since walking takes so much energy, but she was too busy tending to Danny to care.
"Alright, John," she said. She did not even look up from licking his feet as he reclined, watching Netflix, seeming especially interested in scenes of violence or the occult. More evidence of Xandernath. His penis hung over the edge of the couch like a club, and she lifted it and kissed the tip tenderly as I threw on jacket and a ball cap and departed.
I took the bus to the local cemetery, but I stopped at the florist first to pick up some white roses. Not only were they one of the items on Simons' list, but would provide a nice excuse for why I was skulking around the cemetery. With our finances in disarray, the $12 for the bouquet was dear, but I guess you can't put a price on the health of your soul.
The cemetery was almost deserted. Nobody there but a caretaker and one old man in a brown suit that looked like it was from the 1960's. He saw me as I was walking the rows, passing the graves. Most of them were simple markers, but the older plots, near the back of the cemetery, had more elaborate headstones. I was examining one - a big crucifix stone tilted slightly off center by the movement of the earth - when he spoke up.
"You got it too," he said. He was at least an octogenarian, and I bet his joints gave him some hell even getting into that suit. He walked with a cane and his face was liver-spotted. A few strands of wispy white hair trailed out from under the brim of his hat.
At first I thought he was just talking to the gravestone in front of him; an old guy, praying aloud to a departed friend. At that age they all start dropping like flies. But then I saw he was looking right at me. I must have made a pathetic sight, standing there trembling in a jacket and jeans that barely fit because I've lost a good 20 pounds, trying to catch my breath because the walk to the back of the graveyard had been uphill.
"Are you talking to me?" I asked him, and he nodded.
"Cancer," he said. "It took my friend George in March. We were in the service together."
Then I thought, of course. Of course he thinks I have cancer. I look like I have it, I move like I have it. My skin is pale from being indoors, slumped on the couch or napping in a chair, I probably look like a ghoul who shambled from his hospital bed for one last look at the sun.
"Something like that," I told him, and then I noticed a place where lichens had grown on the damp underside of the crucifix headstone, and reached a shaky arm out while the other went into my pocket for the petri dish I'd brought. It was Danny's. Part of a home chemistry set he lost interest in, a few years back. Kid never could keep that flighty mind of his focused on one thing. Just like his mother. Feeling my anger at them flare, I controlled it as best I could, and scraped some of the damp moss and re-pocketed the dish.
"Are you at peace with yourself?" he asked. "Got things right between you and God?" I almost laughed. I told him I had some important things to do yet, and then turned and slowly made my way back to the bus stop. It was five blocks, and during that trek I almost fainted twice. When I got back home I felt like I was going to keel over, but I had what I came for. Some white rose petals and a clump of gravemoss. According to Simons, I can apply these to a talisman, an object of meaning, and it will become a ward against evil.
But there's a problem.
There's one more ingredient I need. Semen. My own. My dick has shrunk so much, I'm not sure I can even produce any. The last time even a couple drops came out was over a week ago. Since then, it's been dry orgasms. I tried jerking off just before sitting down to write this, and at first I couldn't even get hard. Eventually I had to resort to using a fantasy. It killed my pride to do it, but I thought about Danny and Mare, together. Doing… you know. That's the only thing my body seems to respond to anymore. I imagined them together, and after a few minutes, I felt a twinge. My penis was still capable of getting hard. But…
...that was it. No matter what I imagined, I couldn't cum. The only time I can get worked up enough to cum is when-
Yeah.
So you can see the situation I'm in. I just need one drop of semen. The talisman I chose is a letter from my old high school jacket. Something back when I was free and clear and healthy, and not saddled with an ungrateful kid and an ungrateful wife. Something pure. I applied the blood, the moss, the petals, the sweat. I've memorized the rite that creates the seal. Just one drop!
To get it, I'll have to
I don't even want to write it
UPDATE May 6th, 2:00 AM:
forgot we kept vodka chilled in the freezer
had a quick belt
when you're weak as I am it hits you quick
you want to know what I'm going to do when this is over
can I forgive them
no
no i can't.
they blamed me
and that's how they let him in
they all but invited him
From the private blog of user "snak3bit"
May 8th, 2018
That little bastard, that fucking bitch.
I got it. It killed me to do it, but I got it.
Having to watch them. Having to hear Mare go on and on with that enslaved look on her face. Goddamnit! Feeling my body respond to it, it makes me sick! They both make me sick. All that for one drop of semen.
When I asked if I could watch them, this look came over her. Like oh, so you've finally given up and swallowed your pride, John. God, I wanted to smack her right in her smug face. It's bad enough that she dresses like a fucking whore for him now. Makes up her face like a slut, does her hair long and fancy like she did when we were dating. She looks better than she has in years, but with me she couldn't be bothered. Wearing her housecoat half the day. Frumpy sweaters and pantsuits. Fuck.
I had no choice!
She sat me down across from him. Made me undress and just sit opposite Danny in a chair from the kitchen. He was on the recliner, this big old leather thing, like a throne. The undressing was bad, considering what's going on between my legs, but I felt worse than naked. That close, facing him - there was no hiding the difference between us.
Mare was stripped down to her panties, too. Her breasts were perfect - large, round, full - and as she slid onto her hip on the arm of the recliner, she hugged Danny to her side, pressing his head against her hanging tits. The little bastard didn't hesitate to start groping and sucking her, right in front of me. And her body responded.
"I let your son suck my tits any time he wants, you know that?" she taunted, licking her bottom lip as she ran her hands through Danny's hair and pressed his mouth harder into her large, raised nipple. "I'll never let you touch me again, John, but Danny can do whatever he wants. He's the man of the house."
"Yes," I said. There was nothing else to say. I couldn't let on what I was planning. I tried to think of it as a price I needed to pay. I slumped in the chair, my skin on my upper thighs and chest fishbelly white. My cock was a tiny little nub in my pubic hair, barely visible. Meanwhile, my son's dick was piled on the recliner seat like a sleeping python, coiled between his thin thighs.
She measured us. I've said before that her behavior with Danny seems like a ritual sometimes, the way she cleans him, anoints him, exalts him. It really is like demon worship. This was like that. In our knick-knack drawer in the kitchen there's an old roll-up tape measure, and she took it and unrolled it down Danny's fat dick and made me read the result.
"F-fifteen inches," I read. My mouth felt dry. His cock absolutely dwarfed the tape measure. Mare even wrapped it around his girth a couple of times, making the half-hard length bulge.
"God, it's bigger than my arm!" she moaned, and planted a kiss right on Danny's pisshole, sliding her tongue inside. When she drew back, a wet bridge of semen connected her lips to his crown, then snapped.
Then she measured me. Made me… present myself, and held the measure up against me. It was the first time she touched me down there in I don't know how long. "Oh my god," she said. "It's not even half an inch!" The inflection in her voice made it sound like she was observing something disgusting, like a beetle she'd just turned up from under a wet rock. Then I heard her stomach grumble.
Mare turned her head to the side and vomited. Her mostly-naked body hitched as a thick rail of lumpy gruel poured from her mouth and splattered to the ground. "God you're such a fucking fag!" she croaked, with long strands of whitish mess dangling from her lips. She pressed her hair back from her head so it wouldn't be hit. "Your tiny worm dick makes me fucking sick, hnnn-GLLLLCH!"
I just sat there as she degraded me. Tiny or not, my cock was rock-hard. I almost came right then. Watching her breasts jiggle and hang while she doubled over, falling to her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Seeing the difference between Danny's size and mine had made her physically ill. And the whole time, Danny was staring at me. Cold and impassive. At that range I could tell his eyes were darker.
"You're so pathetic John," Mare said, crawling back to lean against Danny's chair.
"Yes," I said.
"You just made me puke at what a tiny-dicked fag you are compared to your own son."
"I'm sorry." I played my part, placating her. But in the palm of my hand I had the folded-up letter from my high-school jacket, clutched tight. One drop of my semen. One drop was all I needed.
"I want you to say it out loud," Mare ordered. "Say 'I have a half-inch cock. My ten-year-old son has a fifteen inch god dick. My wife sucks it every night."
I did what she asked. Danny watched me the entire time, expressionless. Really not like a little boy at all, it was obvious now. Like a demon on his throne. His spindly young limbs extending from a small torso, his enormous penis hardening and jutting up like a spike.
Mare leaned over the arm of the chair and started kissing and sucking Danny's balls, pursing her lips against them, licking them, slathering them in her spit. They were far too large to even get one into her mouth. "God, can you imagine if you both fucked me, what a joke it would be?" she moaned, sniffing his sack. "Danny's big, fat sperms would fucking annihilate yours. He shoots such massive loads, John. You'd have no chance to ever get me pregnant. So, you tell me what you want to see. Do you want to see me suck his balls and lick his ass? Right in front of you? Danny has such a cute little ass, John. That's right. Every night while you're laying in bed, I bury my face between your son's cheeks and make out with his perfect asshole. I'd rather do that than kiss you, John."
I told her no, I had something else in mind. Something I knew would have the effect I needed. As she listened, a smile came to her face.
"So, you really have accepted it," Mare said. "That's good, John. Things will be so good around here, with everyone in their proper place. We'll be a family again." She believed it, too. But her version of us being a family meant a slow and pathetic end for yours truly. I no longer doubted that. It only reinforced the importance of what I had to do.
But I still almost rebelled, because she wanted me to ask Danny. Beg him, actually. That bitch. I'd been able to shut off the prideful part of my brain, and tell myself this was all a nasty means to an end. But the idea of begging my hung, grade-school aged son to fuck my wife…
It was too much.
Almost.
In the end, I did it. Mare could see I was struggling with it, and the struggle wasn't an act. I got on my knees in front of that reclined with my tiny dick barely visible and I asked him.
"Danny, please fuck your mother in front of me."
Mare laughed. Good, she said, but not good enough. She gave me the words to use for my second try. Danny was almost grinning as he watched me. I swear, I could see it - Xandernath - floating right behind his eyes. This time I bowed. I was so close to cumming, and I knew if I could just do that, and bring the talisman clutched in my hand down to absorb even the scant bit of fluid I might produce, the job would be done.
Danny looked so regal. His body was… perfect. Youthful and smooth and dappled with a sheen of clean sweat. His hair was wild, brushing the back of his neck, his chest narrow, his thighs almost edible in their precocious, featureless, golden perfection. And between them, that massive prong of flesh, towering upward above his fat, churning balls. An avatar of boyhood and sexuality. Next to him, Mare was his concubine, thick and matronly and glowing with arousal and fulfillment. I was the old and broken down one, cringing, pale, deteriorating. I'll admit now, and I can always delete this paragraph later anyway, in that moment I almost believed it. Believed how superior he was.
I took a moment to collect myself and then said what Mare instructed. I remember the exact words her enthralled mind designed, calculated to exalt Danny and humiliate me. They're hard to forget.
"Please Danny, rape my wife in front of me and make her cum. Destroy her pussy with your god cock while I jerk my worthless dicklette. I want to be cucked by my own pre-teen son!"
Danny said one word in his haunting, dual-channel voice. Part boy, part demon. It was the only thing he said the entire time.
"Very well."
That's it. 'Very well.' I don't think Danny - the real Danny - ever used that phrase in his life. And then...
Well, what else is there to say?
It happened. It happened, right in front of my face. Mare removed her panties, got up on the chair and turned her back to me, so I could see her thick ass squatting down on Danny's cock. Her body was so large compared to his, so full and voluptuous, but below Danny's waist it was a different story. His cock was so massive, it looked like it would tear her apart. I mean, it was thicker than her arm, and way too long for her to completely take inside… or so I thought.
She dropped her body and Danny's baseball-sized cockhead pressed against her pussy. I could see it straining to get inside, pressing her thick outer labia aside in each direction, spreading her. In my mind I could imagine a tearing sound as her pussy gave out. But it didn't happen. She lowered her hips and her big ass bounced as he began to slide inside. She howled like a banshee. I'm sure the neighbors heard it. "Oh my god it's so fucking big!" she moaned. Mare sounded like an animal in heat, not a woman at all. She showed no hesitation.
Every guy likes to feel like he owns his girlfriend or wife's pussy. That's what I think. Let the feminists cry all they want, but that's something about relationships that will always be true. But as Mare dropped further down and took inch after inch of that fat cock, I felt, and saw, what it's like to have something you 'own' conquered.
My ten-year-old son absolutely wrecked my wife's cunt.
I could hear the wet, sloppy sounds of her vaginal walls mopping his fat, veiny dick. Even at half insertion I knew she was being changed, reshaped, having her pussy repurposed. It would never be the tight, welcoming sleeve I remembered from our wedding night. The soapy, sloshing sounds and the bulging cock-shape in her abdomen as her guts were stirred up, they told me that Mare's pussy was now nothing more than a sleeve for monster cock.
"Look at it tearing me up, you fag!" she moaned, bouncing up and down, her buttocks clapping as I saw her pussy gripping his cock, sliding up and down it, leaving a froth of lube on the long, smooth shaft. "Your son's donkey dick is fucking me up! It's stuffed deep than you could ever reach!"
She turned around then, stepping off, re-straddling, re-inserting, and I could see the post-like bulge the brutal length made in her gut as she impaled herself. Maybe three or four inches of Danny's pipe was outside of her pussy now. "Danny fucking owns my cunt now," she cried at me, bouncing up and down. "Gawd, my fucking womb is stretched around him! Auuuugh! He's making me cum so fucking hard!
Her eyes rolled back and she almost collapsed on him, sinking down to take his length all the way to the balls. I swear I heard a sinewy, meaty stretching down from within her body, and a bulge in the shape of Danny's turgid fuckmeat appeared in her upper abdomen as her pussy exploded in a hot eruption of squirt all over the floor… and all over me.
I was almost there.
I was jerking off, I could feel it building, and I knew, I just knew, that the orgasm would be big enough to produce the semen I needed. Danny was thrusting into her from underneath, making soupy, sloppy noises in her stretched pussy, as Mare slumped over him in near catatonia. I could see his heavy balls sliding with each hip thrust.
"That's it, jerk off while your son uses me as a cum sewer," Mare moaned, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "Jerk your tiny dick off, fag. How does it feel to know that Danny owns my fucking pussy? His huge, thick load will erase any memory that you were ever inside me, fag!"
I don't know how long he raped her in front of me. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Twenty. She talked to me the whole time. Told me that Danny's pre-cum was thicker than my own pathetic load. She fucked him cowgirl, reverse cowgirl. They got on the floor in front of me and went doggystyle. Then he started fucking her in missionary while she threw her legs behind her head, just inches away from my face. I could see every detail of his balls and asshole as he hilted himself in her and made her squeal.
When Danny started to cum, I thought I would, too. I watched his balls twitch, I could hear the big, sloppy bursts of nut spraying into Mare's womb as she moaned about how he was knocking her up, how I was a fag and my wife was being bred right in front of my face by a grade-schooler's donkey dick, how my own son was choking her oviducts with cum so thick it was almost solid and she was going to have his big-dicked baby for sure.
But I didn't. I couldn't. I watched him explode into her, saw the big cum-vein of his dick actually swell as he inflated her womb with fat, chunky cum ropes that sloped back out over her asshole and formed piles on the floor. But I was still jerking… and when it seemed it might be over, when their breathing was settling and Danny was pulling out, drawing his long, sticky, cum-soaked cock out of Mare's gaping cunt… I still couldn't make it. Not even seeing the aftermath of her gaping, cum-sloppy twat. Her pussy and cervix were so brutally fucked-out I could even see inside her womb, where her egg-tubes were leaking fountains of semen like busted pipes.
I needed something more. That was when Mare brought out our wedding picture.
It was us, in happier days, me in my tux, her in her white dress. Us before all of this madness brought the whole thing down. The only reason it was close at hand was because it was laying on top of a box - I'd been packing some things since we were going to have to move soon. She threw it on the floor and the glass cracked. Then, as Danny watched, she squatted over it like a stripper.
"This is what I think of our marriage, John," she moaned. She gritted her teeth and there was a lewd queefing noise as huge creampie slopped out of her cunt, instantly covering the photo. Her face was such a picture of relief, it was disgusting. It was like it was unburdening both her body and soul to drop her own son's big, nasty cum-load on a representation of our bond.
She must have thought she utterly defeated me, when I cried out and fell forward, jerking my half-inch cock, orgasming. I've never felt anything like it in my life, that much is true. It was the best, hardest orgasm I've ever had. Just seeing what an animal she was. What a disgusting pig Mare had become, for him. Thinking about him taking possession of her, compelling her to be a filthy whore just because his cock was so much bigger than mine - that's what pushed me over the edge. My wife was a nasty pedophile kid-fucker. She'd rather a slave to her cute young son's big dick than have anything to do with me.
Humiliating. But, I got it.
I fucking got it.
When I brought my fist forward and came into it, they didn't even notice. A few drops was all I produced. Nothing compared to the load sliding from Mare's pussy and onto our shattered wedding pic. But it's enough.
Now, he can't touch me. That was eight hours ago. I stuffed the letter into my sock so it's always against my skin, and I can already feel my strength returning.
Soon. I'll never forgive them for what they made me go through. Demon or no demon. Impossible to take revenge when I was so weak, before. But now, like I said, he can't touch me. It's just Mare and a kid, against an adult man.
I have to act before Xandernath realizes something is wrong. I have the rite prepared.
Tomorrow. Yes. If I feel strong enough, I'll do it tomorrow night.
One way or another, this is all going to end.
From the private blog of user "snak3bit"
July 11th, 2018
I never expected to take up this blog again. Looking back over it now, it seems like something that happened in a dream. Even if I were to make it public, nobody would believe the story. It'd just seem like a crazy, dirty joke; some sort of fucked-up performance art, like those guys who hammer nails into their noses at the freakshow.
But the way things worked out, I do get to finish it. It's all over. Xandernath is gone.
It will be a relief to tell what happened that day.
May 9th was the day I put my plan into action. I remember saying, "Danny, can you come into the kitchen? I want to talk to you," and how it felt unnatural coming out of my mouth. By that point, I hadn't addressed him father-to-son in weeks. He was sitting on the couch, playing video games, shirtless. One leg dangling languidly off the edge, the other tucked up Indian-style. I could see the bulge of his big, flaccid cock in his boxer-briefs, pressing against the sole of his foot. It seemed no matter his pose, that meat was ever-present, a constant reminder of his size, relative to mine. His eyes turned toward me and I could see the darkness. Xandernath was behind his eyes.
At first I thought he would just ignore me. He'd long passed the point of showing me any respect. But eventually he paused his game, rose from the couch, and pattered over in his bare feet. The ease and confidence of his movement made me grit my teeth. He was like a king, indulging one of his servants. By contrast, I was hunched over at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed, looking miserable. My body was still a wreck; the strength I'd recovered wasn't enough to make up for a month of muscle atrophy. Yet I was an adult, and Danny was just an 10-year-old boy.
Mare was in the bedroom, recovering from what he had done to her that morning. It was just the two of us. He pulled out a chair, making a sharp sound on the linoleum floor, and sat down. His feet didn't even touch the ground, that's how small he was, and yet between the two of us he felt gigantic. Filled with power. For a moment I was so scared I almost called the whole thing off.
"What do you want, dad?" Danny asked. His voice had that weird stereo effect, he either could no longer hide it, or didn't care to. In the bright light of the kitchen I could see every detail of his face. The thin, graceful nose, the subtle freckles on each cheek - freckles that usually were only visible when his skin would tan and peel in the summer. I knew what he was seeing in my face. Bags under the eyes and gauntness in my cheeks. Not quite as bad as those photos of Jews in concentration camps during the Holocaust, but close.
In that moment my hatred for him was pure. That's one of the shittiest things about this - the way the demon has made me hate my own son and wife. For their weakness in letting him into their hearts and into our home. He was so flawless. The way his tangle of sandy blonde hair pouring down each side of his head, stopping just below his ears, the bangs nearly covering one of those dark eyes - it was enough to drive me mad. My own hair was ragged. Receding. That's when I knew I was brave enough to do what I had to do. It wasn't self-interest that drove me to it, not completely. A lot of it was hate for something younger and more beautiful. I wanted so badly to go back to when I was his age and my whole life was in front of me, without this shitty marriage, Mare sabotaging me with this ungrateful kid, and he was the avatar of that longing. The image of what I used to be back before things went to hell.
"I want to talk to the other one," I said, and kept my face calm. I had moved the ritual talisman, that small, soft letter from my high school jacket, from my shoe to my right hip pocket. If there looked to be trouble, I could grab it in an instant. Danny's eyes seemed to darken when I said this, and I knew the demon was in there, watching me, like the captain of a spaceship watching the outside world through a viewscreen. When he next spoke, the stereo effect in his voice was much stronger than before. It was through hiding.
"The other one," Danny said. "What do you know of him?" Again, not talking like a boy. Talking in a way that seemed old-fashioned, like from a movie set in England in the time of King Arthur, or whatever. It was strange and off-putting to hear a young boy talk that way.
"I want to talk to him about what's going on," I continued. "And… ending it." I gulped. "I don't want to drag things out any further." At that point there was a sick grin on my face. I must have looked like a desperate man going to the electric chair. "I thought… maybe we could make a deal."
Demons love bargaining with mortals. This is something I had learned from the confusing reading list recommended by Cal Simons. Half of the texts were written in such an arcane, fucked-up way I couldn't make heads nor tails of them, but one message was repeated often in between the recipes for summoning and capturing - the idea that a soul freely given is worth a thousand times that which is coerced.
Danny's pert mouth turned up at one corner in a smile, showing an incisor, and his dark eyed filled with something unmistakable. Greed. I had his interest. "Then you admit I am the greater power," said the demon-thing in side my boy. Danny's mouth moved, but he was not the one talking, I could tell that much.
"Yes," I said.
"And what do you offer?"
"My life. My soul. This body, for as long as it holds out." The words felt heavy coming out of my mouth.
"And what do you ask?"
"Spare the boy. And my wife." It was something to say. Something to distract the demon from my true intentions. I wanted the bastard out of Danny and Mare, one way or the other. Then I would deal with my family on my own terms.
The creature in front of me threw back his head and laughed. "I do not need your body. You are already depleted. The boy makes ten of you." Danny's own sweet, child-like voice had all but disappeared, leaving the dark hum of a hidden presence. "You are an arrogant and foolish man. The boy is resourceful, intelligent. Willful. He has been ill-used by you, your boorishness and aggression. In the dark of night he cried out against you, and I answered. I gave him power against you."
"And how does Mare factor into it?"
"She was my price. The boy wished upon a star, he would give anything. He did not expect I would ask for his mother, to feel her flesh through his body. Yet the bargain was made." Xandernath, through Danny, showed his teeth again. His eyes flickered like pools of oil reflecting a burning matchhead.
"You tricked him," I said. My hand twitched near my pocket. I knew, again from Cal Simons' books, that more the demon showed itself, the closer it was to the 'surface' of Danny, the more effective the ritual would be.
"No," replied the demon. "He is a strong-willed boy, and could have cast me out, at least in the beginning, before I took deep root. But he likes his mother's touch. The things I feel, rioting in her flesh, he feels as well. He enjoys." Xandernath uttered a deep laugh. "He would make a good demon himself! Which is more than I can say for you, you weak and silly man. You are nothing but a thrall. Your body is broken. You have nothing to offer but your soul, that immaculate part of every human that even a wretch like you cannot sully. I have seen every kind of human weakness and ugliness. The prostitutes of the bayou trafficked with men steeped in sin. And you, 'John' are no different than the pimps and flesh-peddlers who raised their fists against those unsheltered women."
"If my soul is all I have, then I offer it," I replied. "For the boy and his mother." Of course, it was revenge I wanted. Once Xandernath was destroyed, I could deal with Danny and Mare as I wished.
My offer caused something to surge behind Danny's eyes. His wild blonde hair seemed to levitate at the ends and a deep breath rose in his narrow chest. At that moment, I heard Mare stir in the bedroom, uttering a low, tired inquiry, barely recovered from her latest fuck session with Danny, in which she no doubt took his huge young cock in every hole. I had heard the wet slapping sounds. I knew that I had to act. If Mare walked out to the kitchen and saw us, she might interfere. Xandernath, in Danny's body, naked except for those boxer briefs slung low on his slender hips, was leaning toward me, hungrily.
My hand slid into my pocket and clutched at the soft, fuzzy shape of my jacket letter. I closed my first around it, and the second I did, Danny's eyes opened in surprise. He - it - realized it had been tricked. That I had kept something from it. Perhaps the demon had underestimated me. The talisman had protected me from losing any more energy, and Xandernath either had not noticed or had assumed I was nearly empty. Either way, when I closed my fist, a great and thrumming power surged up my arm. I started chanting the words that I had memorized in the previous night.
"Exsúrgat Deus et dissipéntur inimíci ejus: et fúgiant qui odérunt eum a fácie ejus!"
Let God arise and let His enemies be scattered: and let them that hate Him flee from before His face. My pronunciation was shitty, but the words still had their effect. Danny uttered an inhuman cry and recoiled, his body seeming to bend like a blade of grass in the wind. I raised the talisman in my fist and thrust it toward him, and he pushed the chair away from the table with a screeching sound. It tumbled over behind him. His mouth seemed to stretch open like a bat or a hyena, baring teeth. He made an animalistic snarling sound; not really a boy at all, a demon wearing a boy's face. He backed up until he was pressed against the kitchen counter, and I rose from my seat.
"Écce Crúcem Dómini, fúgite pártes advérsae!" I said. "Open the rocks I dash the usurper scorpion! Papa Legba, close your everlasting doors! Ogun! Changó! Obatalá! Yemayá, Yemoja, Iemanja! I offer you the sacrifice of white and black hen! This world be shut! This eye be closed!" I must have looked mad, a thin, crazy man brandishing his fist and reciting that half-Latin, half-voodoo prayer, but I felt true energy moving in my body for the first time in months. Danny was shrinking against the wall. His head was tilted back and his face twisted into an awful expression of agony. I realized I could see it leaving him. Xandernath. The demon presence was a sparkling black cloud, barely perceptible, rising out of Danny's eye sockets. It was working.
"Leave the boy!" I cried, and my ears seemed to be filled with a great tea-kettle shrieking, a noise liable to drive anyone mad. From the bedroom I could hear Mare calling out, asking about the yelling, asking what was going on. I would deal with her, but first I had to drive the demon out. Then there would be time for her, and Danny. Oh yes. I would make special time for them.
"Curse you!" came a snarling voice from inside him. "You are no shaman!" But that denial meant nothing to me. I continued reciting the prayer, walking ever-closer to Danny. His small body was trembling and twisting, like a kid having a seizure. He looked so helpless, so far from the confident, strutting presence that he'd been for the last weeks. I admit, I liked that. Seeing him powerless. I was already plotting my revenge, you see. The rite was working. Xandernath would be banished, and what then? It would be just me and Mare and Danny. Considering what they had done to me, the lack of respect, the humiliation… no man should have to suffer what I suffered. I decided then and there that I would have my vengeance for every indignity they put me through. It had been hard contemplate revenge while I was barely strong enough to stand. But when a man has power, it's natural to think about how to use it.
Xandernath's spirit flew from Danny's eyes and his irises faded to their previous hazel color. He looked dazed, barely aware of his surroundings. The demon was freely floating now, like a black cloud of vapor, gathering in the corner of the kitchen. It looked like an optical illusion, a movie special effect. With no one to invite it in, it was helpless against me, and against the white magic I had in my hand. The bene gris-gris. "You're safe now!" I yelled to Danny. "I've driven it out!" It was true. But what I really mean to say was Danny was mine now. My son. He didn't belong to Xandernath, but to me. And when all was said and done I was going to teach him how to respect his father.
I could see the realization of what it meant, in his face. Kids are smart. They know when they're in trouble. I remember when I was a kid, my mom caught me looking at girly magazines in the bathroom. I stashed a Playboy in the lid of the toilet tank. Nothing matches that fear. The fear and shame of a boy who knows that punishment is coming. I was glad to see it, you understand? That fear, that respect, had been absent for too long.
In my mind I already knew what I was going to do. There would be a beating for Mare. More than one. I'm not a violent man, but she needed to be put in her place, for what she did to me. A beating, and then two choices - divorce where I get every dime and custody, or get pregnant again and raise the kid right. How *I* want. A kid who respects his father. Who isn't encouraged to whine and complain like Danny. A rugged kid. No long haircuts. I wouldn't tell her that she and I could patch things up, because that's not true. The bond between us was broken. Maybe it was before this whole mess started.
For Danny… well, he needed to learn to respect his father. Looking down at him, with that mop of blonde hair and his smooth body, thin and small, with slightest bit of girlish puffiness in his nipples, made me sick. And that cock. That tool between his legs that had made me feel so inferior and humiliated. Even with Xandernath gone, hovering in a crowd of black smoke, it was still huge, bent over on itself in his underwear.
There was only one way to pay him back for what had happened, the humiliation and disrespect. The most straightforward way to reestablish the pecking order between man and boy. Between the one who makes the rules, and the one who follows them. It wouldn't even be about sex. It would be about power. And even if I physically didn't return to normal at the exorcism's completion, I had other ways to do it to him. There were other things around the house - large, cylindrical objects that he would feel deeply. I would make Mare watch. I'll spare you any further details.
All of these thoughts went through my mind in a split second. I'm not proud of them. But the demon in them had brought out the demon in me. They had hurt me. Humiliated me. And I would hurt them if I could.
I was looming over Danny, holding the talisman out toward the disembodied smoke, watching it fizzle and dissipate and retreat. I had only to close the rite. Mare walked into the kitchen, wearing only silk panties, her breasts bare and hanging heavily down her front. Her eyes went wide with alarm. I saw in that moment how huge her tits looked, hanging down nearly to her waist.
"What are you doing to him, you bastard!" she cried, in a banshee keen. Her hands reached out to me, and her eyes were filled with an irrational protectiveness, for Danny and the demon that had made her a fuck slave. I backhanded her in the face, knocking her over. A good deal of my strength was returning. I could feel my out-of-practice muscles creaking and my vitality rushing back.
"Mom!" Danny cried, and there were tears in his eyes.
"This is for your own good!" I growled. I stepped toward the demon presence for what I assumed would be the final time. It cringed away from the talisman, but had nowhere to go. Though it looked like vapor, it seemed unable to move much, robbed of its earthbound hosts. I intended to destroy it.
Then, there was a blur of motion from my left. Danny. He stepped toward me and snatched the talisman from my hand, lickety split. He was fast, and forceful. He tore it from me, grabbing the part that was protruding from my first and plucking it up and out of my grasp like he was pulling a weed. The feeling of power left me immediately.
"Danny!" I cried. For a moment, I couldn't believe it. I felt sweat pour down over one of my eyes. My heart was thumping a mile a minute. Danny was clutching the talisman to his narrow chest, looking at me fearfully.
"Give it back," I ordered. My voice was hoarse from all the yelling. "Give it back, Danny. I swear to god, you have to give it back right now. That thing has to be destroyed."
There was a click as Danny turned on the burner of the gas stove. It made a WHOOMPH! Sound as the blue flames appeared and started licking upward. I took a step toward him, and he held out the talisman, suspending it just inches above the stove burner.
"You hit us," he said, simply. There were tears in his eyes, those deep hazel eyes. They pooled and ran down his cheeks in twin streams.
"Danny, listen to me. You've been seduced. Fooled by this thing," I gulped again. My mouth was dry. I inched toward him. If I got close enough, I could do what needed to be done, take it by force. He was just a boy after all. "I'm your father, Danny."
"You hit us," he repeated. "We trusted you more than anyone and you hit us, and you messed up our lives because you're such a selfish asshole," he accused, his voice rising. For the first time I realized how wounded he was. Because of what I had done.
"Danny, you obey me," I growled. "You mind me now, boy. I'm your father, goddamnit."
Danny sniffled, and looked at his mother cringing against the baseboard, holding her wounded cheekbone, and back to me. Then he said something he had never said to me in ten years.
"Fuck you, dad." He opened his hand, and the fuzzy letter dropped onto the stove burner. It went up like a torch, instantly. I cried out. Howled. As it burned I could feel my soul burning, or so it seemed. I tried to pick it up, burning my hands as the flames licked over them, but it was no good. The thing was a cinder.
The feeling of power was gone. The feeling of protection was gone. My eyes slowly turned to the corner of the kitchen, and I saw it coming for me. The black vapor. Heading right for my eyes, two prongs already extended like a plug meeting a socket.
I screamed.
My 10-year-old son, Danny, runs my household now.
I realize that I was wrong for the things I did to him, and I thank him for allowing me to finish this account of events so I can post it publically and embarrass myself like the stupid fag I am. The names and locations have been changed to avoid inconvenience for him, but everything I have written is absolutely true, even if I made the terrible mistake of resisting his superiority for most of it.
He is perfect in every way and it's my honor to have him stretch my wife's pussy every night with his long, smooth, hairless 15 inch penis. I love that a woman I married is considered worthy to be fucked by his godhood! Watching Mare defile herself on his rape blade every night makes me so proud. The way it stretches her guts out into a cock shape always makes my pathetic half-inch dick have a dry orgasm.
Danny owns my body and my mind. Xandernath was right when he said that Danny was a smart and resourceful boy. When I purged the demon, the contract between it and Danny was broken. It took refuge in his body again… but on Danny's terms. Now, he holds sway over it, and not the other way around. As for me, well… I bargained my mind, body and soul. It belongs to Xandernath, and Xandernath belongs to my son. Danny punishes me every day for the way I mistreated him and Mare, and I richly deserve his punishment.
He controls my energy level with expert precision, and permits me just enough to breathe and move my extremities. I spend most of my day laying down or surfing the internet - even clicking a mouse is an effort. Typing too. At night, I lay in the middle of the bed and they fuck right on top of me. My beautiful blonde wife begs for Danny's huge loads while crushing me into the mattress with her weight, calling me a bitch and a fag with a tiny worm dick. I cannot even move my arms and legs and can only lay there with her hair covering my face and her back flat against my chest, while Danny slides his small, young body between her thick thighs and scrambles her womb with his monster cock.
I can feel it when he cums into her. Her whole body churns with the spurts from his big, heavy fuckmeat.
Afterward, Mare always squats over me and queefs Danny's huge, thick creampie all over my face, all while calling me a bitch and a faggot cuck, asking me how it feels to be cucked by my own son. Sliding my tongue around her cum-loaded slit is the only sexual contact I am allowed with her, and my worthless worm-dick always has a dry orgasm from this treatment. After that, if they have to relieve themselves, they move me to the edge of the bed and piss on my face and body. Danny's stream of stud god-piss is so strong, my faggot dicklette can dry-cum just from it blasting against my half-inch stub. I am so proud to have him as a son and I love sleeping in his and Mare's smelly piss while they cuddle on the dry side of the bed and talk about what a fucking fag I am. In the mornings, he permits me enough energy to change the sheets and launder their cum-soaked underwear. Sometimes I am forced to wear them on my head.
I am only allowed to eat the leftovers of food from Mare and Danny's breakfasts, but only if Danny has jerked off on it. If Danny bathes that morning, I anoint and wash his fat cock while Mare looks on to make sure I do a good job. While doing so I tell him how amazing he is an how I'm nothing but a worthless cuck fag by comparison. Using soap and a rag, I make sure to get his dick nice and clean so it will give Mare a good fucking that night. Sometimes, she blows him right in front of me in the bathroom, and I have to start washing again from scratch. Mare makes sure to tell me how poorly I compare to him while he's standing there naked, with his big cock hanging down. She loves to talk about how his ass is so smooth and tight and cute, his skin so flawless, his eyes deep and dark and lovely, his eyelashes long, his feet shapely. She tells me I look like shit by comparison, a used-up thirty-something piece of trash, and I always enthusiastically agree with her.
We then do a ritual measuring each day. Danny says this is to remind me of my place. Mare holds a measuring tape up to Danny's cock and reads out the length, and then compares it to my own tiny half-inch cock and pathetic little ballsack. Sometimes Mare vomits after comparing us side by side. She says I'm such a disgusting, limp dick faggot compared to Danny that it makes her physically ill to remember that she ever fucked me. If I have to piss, they watch me as I do it sitting down, and laugh at the pathetic trickle from my bladder. Sometimes, Danny shows his superiority by taking a long piss into the bowl while I'm seated on the toilet, making me see how much more powerful his finger-thick, yellow stream is compared to my dribbling clear one. Mare says that alpha wolves are good at marking their territory, and that Danny is an alpha wolf. I am not.
The only purpose I serve for the family now is as a legal name for things like bank loans, credit, and the like. I'm proud to give my name to Danny and Mare as a tool to use however they want. Around the house they just call me "Cuck" or "Fag", and I am fine with that. Danny is so superior, after all, that he should be able to call me whatever he wants. Our finances were a mess, but Mare is getting her online business started again, and she already has a bunch of clients. All of my stuff was thrown in the trash or sold at a garage sale. Old things from university, heirlooms, anything having to do with me. Mare says that all my shit around the house was just a reminder of what a dickless fag I am, and it was depressing. Now, the apartment is decorated in her and Danny's tastes. Danny is learning to play the guitar, and he seems very carefree. Mare says that he was always on edge before, not knowing how I would react, but now that I'm Danny's bitch, he really seems to be coming out of his shell. He even started attending normal school again. Xandernath is still inside him, but Danny is in charge. There's no stalking around, no blackness in his eyes. He's made the demon's power his own.
I'm proud of that.
Mare and I are legally married still, but Mare only kisses me now if she's just had her tongue up Danny's ass. Sometimes she will rim him and suck his balls for a long time, worshiping him and talking about how worthless I am by comparison. Drained of energy, all I can do is sit and watch while he sits on her face and she tongues, licks, and sucks his asshole. Usually she also licks his balls and titfucks his big, hanging shaft while she does this. Each of his nuts is far bigger in circumference than the stretched out length of my entire tiny cock, and he produces huge amounts of semen, when I can no longer produce even the smallest bit myself.
"How do you like the taste of your son's ass, faggot?" Mare always asks me, as she kisses me after giving Danny's tight young ass a deep slurping. I tell her I like it very much and it's my honor to get a second-hand taste of the boy who rapes my wife every night. Sometimes on these occasions, she milks a big, fat load out of Danny's prick and onto my helpless body. After that, they go about the day and just let me lay there covered in his cum for hours. The dry orgasms come in a steady ebb.
Mare says I'm a worthless piece of shit, but she intends to get pregnant by Danny so they need to keep me around, with the resulting kid being ostensibly mine. "Of course," she adds, "Once they see how handsome or beautiful our child is, anyone with a brain will know it can't possibly be yours, since any sperm you produce die in your raisin balls before they can even come out of your worm dick. Hell, even if you could cum, you're so inferior that any kid you had would probably be born fucking retarded." Grinding her stocking-clad foot on my dicklette, she tells me she doesn't want the trash from my balls anywhere near her pussy. "If you ever start cumming again, you're only allowed to jerk off directly into the trash," she says. "That's where your genes belong, anyway. I got lucky, having Danny. It was probably a one in a million chance that he turned out not to be a worm-dick, creampie-eating faggot like you."
She intends to have a home delivery of the baby and give birth while I watch. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I will be allowed to lay beneath her pussy so she can push out Danny's child directly onto my face. I'm so fortunate that my boy's superior seed will be breeding my wife's eggs. I am happy to act in whatever way I can to be a pay pig to support a kid that isn't even really mine. She's already gotten into the habit of making me literally thank Danny's fat cock for dumping a big load in her pussy, as if my son's endowment were a real person.
Indeed, most of her communications with me involve humiliation. Most recently, she forced me to say that I'm a fag who wants my own son's cock. "You'd probably suck his dick yourself if you could, you cuck piece of shit," she admonished. "Not that he'd ever have anything to do with you with an ugly troll like you." I nodded and agreed. She straddled me and slapped me, forcing me to talk about how I wanted to suck my own son's monster cock to get it hard enough to rape her pussy that night. She asked if I thought Danny had a nice ass, I said I did. "I knew you were a fucking faggot," she accused. I continued to have dry orgasms from the humiliation. "After he comes in from playing outside you probably want to stick your nose right against his rim and take a big sniff!" No matter what she suggests in these daily humiliation sessions, I agree to it all. Most of it is true anyway. Danny is so superior to me, I guess I would suck his cock or lick his asshole if he wanted. Just to get his fifteen inch cock rock hard and ready to tear apart my wife's wet cunt.
God, when they fuck I can hear her stretching around him. He makes me look like such a needle-dick fag. Life is so much better now that I've accepted the truth.
Mare also fucks Danny's friends from his new school in front of me. He's only in primary school, of course, but he invites three or four of them over at a time, and Mare has taken their virginities as I was made to watch. With Xandernath's help, none of them remembers anything once it's over. I appreciate the chance to be shown that my cock is tiny even compared to a bunch of fourth-graders. Most are barely showing signs of puberty I'm still tiny compared to them. Mare lines up the visiting boys, totally naked, in front of me, squatting with spread thighs and jerking their dicks while they cutely bite their lips and moan.
"Even these little kids make you look like fucking bitch by comparison," she tells me, day after day, and then snakes her head out and takes them in her mouth, balls and all, sucking them lewdly, giving them their first orgasms and pressing her lips up against their smooth, hairless pubic areas. "They even cum more than you, too!" Every one of them is measured, like it's a game, and Mare compliments them with a schoolteacher's patience and indulgence, telling them they should be proud because their cocks are so much bigger than mine. She lines them up and fucks them all just a few feet from me, telling me all the while that I'm such a dickless loser, my own wife needs to go to an elementary school to get some good cock. It turns me on to watch a bunch of elementary school boys running a train on my wife.
Danny always goes last, and gapes her hard, in her pussy or ass depending on his mood. The boys make a game of it, cheering each other on and high-fiving, laughing, acting like boys do. After it's done, before their memories are overwritten, I'm made to learn each young boy's name and earnestly thank him for fucking my wife. I always have a dry orgasm from watching their young bodies rutting between her legs, crying out, their soft, tight asses clenched as they thrust clumsily, eyes squinted shut beneath feathery bangs. Sometimes they all piss on Mare when they're done. She doesn't even let their streams stop spraying onto her face and tits before telling me she'd rather be a little kid's toilet than ever have sex with me again. A hot stream of piss from a young boy turns her on more than I ever could.
This repeats itself, day after day, week after week. And that's my life. That's my story.
Looking back over it, it sounds impossible. But every word is true. My son turned out to be greater than I ever knew. I was the fool all along. But I'm content now. Mare and Danny took out a life insurance policy, you see? It involved some fraud, sure, but when I eventually fade away, they'll be taken care of. Not they they probably need it. Danny is smart as a whip. Mare too. They'll be alright. And as for me, I'm happy in my place, as a worm-dicked faggot, getting cucked and humiliated, watching my wife get fucked all day, every day.
I have to stop writing now, for I am tired, and Mare is calling me. Danny has just dumped a huge load up her ass - he shoots enough to fill her bowels to the brim - and she's ready to squat over me and shit his cum straight down my throat. God, I love felching my 10-year-old son's rape god load out of my wife's shitter.
Fifteen inches to one-half inch. Fifteen inches to one-half inch. Fuck, he's so amazing.
I have just enough energy to crawl and lay at her feet.