Once her arm was done, I moved to her other arm, up from the fingertips, over her wrist and to her shoulder. Dipping the springy thingy into the bubbly water, I drew her leg up and onto my lap, so she was reclined back in the tub. I scrubbed her toes, the sole of her foot, tickling the arch and over her heel. I washed long, slow paths to her knee and back to her foot, taking tender care over a bruise that had developed after the football game. I scrubbed slow circles over her hip, down her. The guy who was gripping me, pushed me to the wet floor of the van.I was face down in the van’s floor, with a stupid big guy on top of me. I could not move. I was wet and cold. And now I was really scared."Let me in, guys". I heard as another man jumped into the van. I tried to see what he looked like but my face was being pushed into the floor too hard.I yelled again for help and got a hand quickly over my mouth."Keep quiet bitch… or you die". Somebody whispered in my ear as I felt a cold. The first highlights of those days were me going through all my moms new wardrobe and trying things on, which didnt look nearly as good as they did on mom. I loved trying on her thongs, I loved the way they went up my ass. I loved smelling her used bras and trying them on, and hoped someday I could grow tits like her. The second highlight was seeing my mom get fucked everynight. For some of those times, they wouldnt come into the bedroom, John would just take her in the living room. I would. Forget it. Fat chance God is talking to anyone. You’re such a jerk Dave. Remember what you always told others about mourning? C’mon big hero. You remember. ‘After a time, grieving becomes self-pity.’ You aren’t feeling sorry for the person who died. They no longer feel anything. ‘You’re feeling sorry for yourself, that’s all.’ Brave words, even if they are true. Well, almost all true. Memories of how much the person suffered. Memories not yet been buried. Regret for their lost years, for the.
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