Prologue
It was cold and raining, as it often was. Thankfully, my fur coat kept me warm, and the hood shielded my freshly curled hair from the damp. My mother held my hand, while my father’s hand rested on her waist. We were hurrying towards an old bar, a place where we were supposedly hidden.
Inside, the bar was sparsely populated. A couple of men sat at the bar, nursing beers. Two women flirted over cocktails in a booth. A small group danced on the floor, and the waiters and waitresses looked uniformly bored.
“Sit with your mother,” my father commanded, his voice stern. He was handsome for his age, forty-nine, with black hair streaked with gray that he periodically dyed back to black. His glasses, solid black, fit perfectly on his slightly crooked nose, framing his tanned face.
My mother… she was a model, of sorts. If she weren’t so sour, yet so affectionate, I might have genuinely looked up to her. But I only admired her beauty and hygiene. She was slender, with pale skin, blonde hair that reached her waist, and blue eyes.
My parents appeared perfect. They *looked* perfect. But they weren’t. I inherited their good looks, yet felt just as flawed, if not more so.
Sitting in the booth, my mother’s hand draped along my thigh, a cigarette held in her other. It quieted my thoughts. I glanced at my father, who was speaking to a large, bald Hispanic man. They shook hands, then shared a shot, smiling and laughing. Friends, I thought, before turning my attention back to my mother. She exhaled a plume of smoke, her hand rubbing slowly against my thigh.
I stared at her hand, flat against mine on the table.
“Darling,” her voice chimed, sounding more like an order than an invitation. “Would you mind if I had you tonight? Your father will be occupied with business at the bar, and I’d like your company.”
I could only nod. “Yes, Mother.” That was all I could do.
Later that night, my mother and I went upstairs to a suite above the bar. We quickly settled in, wrinkling my nose at the stench of garbage.
“This place is a shithole…” I muttered, “Why aren’t we staying at a decent hotel? Does it even *have* a pool? What if I want to swim or relax in a hot tub? Is there even a spa?” I glared at my mother, irritated.
A hard slap across my face earned me a sharp rebuke. Her long, red nails dug into my cheek. “Have some respect for your mother! I have to endure these conditions too, you slutty brat!” She nearly screamed, pushing me away.
I rubbed my cheek and blinked back tears. As I sighed, I looked around. The suite was meager: two beds, an old box TV, a small kitchen, and one bathroom. At least there was a walk-in closet.
I began to undress, running my fingers through my hair, disrupting the curls. I remained in my briefs, rubbing my aching feet and sighing as I lay down. My mother sat beside me, the bed dipping slightly. She stroked my hair, humming a gentle tune. I closed my eyes, pretending she was one of the mothers from a movie.
But movies are fiction. Mothers touch their sons to feel pleasure when their husbands aren’t around—or even when they are. It is a son’s sole purpose to please his mother. And that’s what she wanted. Though my stomach churned, I let her have her way. I let her acrylic nails slowly drag across my half-naked body, down to my briefs—lace and silk, expensive and delicate. My mother and father always bought me stylish clothing, unisex, but mostly feminine. They could afford it, thanks to my father’s business. In our old mansion, I slept in a king-sized bed, but there were nights I wasn’t allowed to sleep alone in it.
Men and women were often sent my way. I was a popular object, a specimen. My parents sold me to their acquaintances, then sold the children and teenagers they kept, trafficking them, auctioning them. But never me, never ever. They would never sell their son at auction. It annoyed me, for some reason. Perhaps I was jealous of those unfortunate children. But I was probably more fortunate, in their eyes. They had no idea what my mother and father did *to* me.
No one has any idea.
“Esmeralda, your skin is softer than silk, just like my mother’s,” my father whispered in my ear. I involuntarily closed my eyes. Waking up to my father’s lust was nothing new. His calloused hands wrapped around my bare thighs, spreading them, admiring his “favorite part” of me. My eyes drifted to my mother, who sat in a lace robe, applying red lipstick to her plump lips. Unlike my father, her favorite part was my lips—the plump lips I inherited from her. She often traced her fingers along them while holding me to her bosom after sex.
Was it really sex, Esmeralda?
I ignored the thought and gritted my teeth. As my father suddenly thrust himself into me, dry and unyielding, I clamped my hand over my mouth, tears forming.
*Be silent unless you want another punishment.*
As he began to thrust his hips, moaning and groaning in my ear, praising my skin and ass, I bit down on my tongue. Blood flooded my mouth.
“Oh darling, it’s alright. I’ll join you and your father in a moment,” my mother smirked, mistaking my tears for pleas for her own body.
This is my life. This is what it is.