JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  “well that's nice, dear,” but instead the news had been greeted with laughter. “I can't believe it,” she had cackled. “She agreed to go out with you! That girl needs glasses."

  Charley had shut up, his enthusiasm zapped away with that simple comment.

  Mother had continued to laugh and poke fun at him all the way home. Did little Charley ask a girl out on a date? Why how cute? Did Charley like this girl? Oh, that was just so cute! Charley was silent on the drive home, but inside he was seething with rage. He just wanted to reach out and rip her goddamn fucking throat out and silence her taunting voice forever.

  But he hadn't. And he hadn't called Shelly Plant, either. The next week in church she had sought he and mother out and Charley, while not overly friendly and talkative as he had been in the previous weeks, wasn't making any obvious attempt at conversation.

  On the other hand, mother was more talkative with the girl, smiling at her and sneaking teasing glances at Charley as if to say well, come on boy! Talk to her! Now's your chance!

  But Charley didn't, and the next week had been the same and after that it was over. Shelly Plant merely nodded and smiled pleasant greetings and didn't stay for idle chatter.

  He didn't remember Carmen leaving the house. He remembered hearing the dim sound of the side door opening and closing and that was it. His mind just went black. The next thing he remembered was sitting on the sofa in his underwear yanking his crank to a video he had picked up, one of those simulated films of torture and S&M. His orgasm had shuddered hard and he came awake with a wonderful sensation that everything with Carmen was taken care of. He didn't have to worry about her. As long as she was on his mind he could visualize her in any scenario he wanted. She was every bit as real to him when he conjured her in his mind as she was in the flesh. Why be concerned about the flesh and blood Carmen when the one he could conjure up in his mind was so much more desirable? The one in his mind could be made to cavort around in lingerie, or black leather and spiked heels. She wouldn't whine and complain. She would beg for any fetish or desire he wanted to do to her. Anything.

  Charley pressed the stop button on the VCR. He rose to his feet and ejected the tape. His penis bobbed like a divining rod between the thick thatch of pubic hair. He put the tape on top of a stack of others and rummaged in the entertainment center for another, the one his body screamed for. He found it, put it in the VCR and went back to the couch.

  He settled his naked rear end on the plush sofa, a smile creaking his ruddy features. He pressed the play button as the tape started, and as the new fetish video sprang to life his mind drifted back to Carmen Aguirre.

  1:34 a.m.

  He was in the bathtub with Carmen amid a pool of water and blood. The water was deep red, and as he lifted himself out of the tub he felt a warm elation wash over him.

  This had simply been the best one. She had come to him easy and then before she knew it she was his. And all she had done was ask to use his bathroom! It was much easier to take them in the bathroom. When he knew she was finished he had simply opened the door, catching her with her pants down, literally, struggling to rise from the toilet seat. Oh, I'm sorry, he had said. There's a real bad leak in this room and I just came in here to check it and I forgot you were in here. She was just starting to smile embarrassingly when he brought the knife out from behind his back and lunged at her, shoving her towards the bathtub. His left hand was on her throat, his body pinning her down. She had already been off balance due to her jeans being around her knees, and she went down easily. He drew the blade of the knife across her throat before she had a chance to scream, and as she gasped for air he shoved her face-first into the tub, letting her life blood spill. He kept her pinned down until her body started going limp. Then, with the knife still embedded in her throat, he completed the procedure and separated her head from her neck.

  Then they had had some fun together. Just the two of them.

  Now seven hours later he was spent. He must have came four times during the course of the night, once during the actual act of beheading, the second time when he had fucked the headless corpse on the bathroom floor; he had used newly made orifices as well. He had settled back against the tub, a contented smile on his face. He was in ecstasy.

  Between the bouts of sex, he had gone into his living room area and slipped in a tape on the VCR. That got him aroused in no time, and for his second orgasm he mounted the camcorder on a tripod and recorded the event. He had watched it an hour later in the living room with Carmen's headless and limbless trunk perched on his cock. His thrusts matched those of his alternate self on the screen and he came with a shudder. Then he dozed for awhile.

  But now it was time to clean up.

  He rose from the tub, his body covered in watery blood; it caked into his hair, his nostrils, his teeth. He was immersed in the coppery scent of it. He reached down and pulled the plug and stood up while the water-and-blood mixture drained from the tub.

  When it had drained, leaving a red film at the bottom, he turned the shower on and, using the detachable nozzle, he hosed down the tub, turning up the spray on Carmen's dismembered remains. He picked up each limb and washed it down thoroughly. He spent more time on her head, holding the nozzle a hair's length from the top of her head, washing her hair down as thoroughly as he could, washing all traces of blood away. She needed to be clean for him now. For the future.

  When he was finished with the body, he pushed the dismembered pieces against the edge of the tub and turned the nozzle on himself. He scrubbed himself down, working the nozzle all over his body; his legs, arms, back, chest and stomach, his pubic area, up the crack of his ass, his neck, his armpits, his face. He opened his mouth and let the water jet into his mouth; he gargled and spit it out, washing that down the drain. Then he moved the nozzle over his scalp, using his fingers to run the water through his hair. He massaged his scalp under the strong pressure for ten minutes. When he felt clean and refreshed he replaced the detachable nozzle, stood under the spray for a final rinsing, then turned the water off. He reached out for a towel and dried himself off. Then he stepped carefully out of the tub, being careful not to step in the small puddles of blood that had pooled on the floor, the result of the first sweep of the knife at Carmen's throat. He toweled himself off quickly, then padded naked to the workshop and returned armed with paper towels and disinfectant. He spent the next ten minutes mopping up the puddles of blood, throwing the paper towels in the toilet and flushing them down every so often. When the tiled floor looked relatively clean, he sprayed disinfectant on it and used another ten or so paper towels, scrubbing the tiles and grout as clean as he could get them.

  He flushed the remaining paper towels down the toilet, took the leftover roll and the disinfectant back to the workroom, and returned with a roll of butcher paper.

  Humming an aria from Mozart's The Magic Flute, he picked up each body part and carefully wrapped it in the butcher's paper in the tub. When he was finished he carried the pieces—the limbs first, cradled to his naked chest like a man carrying logs to a fireplace—to the large refrigerator-sized freezer and put them in the bottom shelf. He put Carmen's trunk on the middle shelf, and he put her head on the top shelf with the others.

  He smiled at the little collection of seven heads and another body, this one another stupid gang member that he had brought home around Christmas, and closed the door. These should last quite a while. He knew he just had to sample Carmen. He had tried portions of that gang member and his meat had been well beyond ripe and stringy. Still, it was mighty good eating, and he was sure he had a few good portions left. But Carmen ... ahh, Carmen was going to prove to be just delicious!

  He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling a strange sense of euphoria. He was beginning to salivate.

  Chapter 18

  March 24, 1998, 6:30 p.m.

  Los Angeles, CA

  Charley was seated at the kitchen table eating a plate of beef tortellini in spaghetti sauce. Mother was picking at the food wi
stfully but Charley ignored her, plowing into the meal with hungry abandon. He had been hungry for tortellini for almost three days now, and was glad that he had made it. Mother usually liked it, too but after starting her dinner enthusiastically she had slowed down to merely picking at her plate, swirling the beef enclosed pastas around in the sauce like a child playing with its food. Charley tried to ignore her for awhile, but her demeanor got to him shortly. He put down his fork and looked at her. “Why aren't you eating, mother?"

  She shook her head. “I don't know. I thought I was hungry. Guess I really wasn't.”

  She was dressed in her usual garb of flannel P.J.'s with a red and black flannel robe covering her corpulent body, her white hair gathered up in a bun behind her head, wispy strands trailing behind her. Her features were wrinkled and cracked, her hands withered like the limbs of an old tree. She looked older than her sixty-four years.

  “Well, that's okay,” Charley said. “Leave your plate there and I'll clean it up."

  She seemed to accept this and nodded. Charley resumed his meal. Mother remained in her seat, hand still clutching her fork, staring down at her food. She had a vacant stare.

  Charley stopped eating and looked at his mother. “Mother, are you sure everything's all right?"

  “Yes, I'm sure."

  “It looks like something's bothering you."

  “No, nothing's bothering me.” She shook her head empathetically.

  “Well, it looks like something is."

  She looked up at him for a moment, her hands stealing down to the front of her robe. He offered her a smile and lifted his fork to the plate of tortellini. With a fluid motion, mother reached into the folds of her robe and brought out a black beaded rosary.

  She clutched it between her knobby fists. “Pray the rosary with me, Charley."

  Charley felt his patience deflating. He also felt himself in her crosshairs, suddenly a child again and not an adult man of thirty-six years. “Mother, I really don't think—"

  “Why don't you got to church with me anymore, Charley?” Mother asked. She looked saddened suddenly, as if she were looking at a drowning man. “You used to go to church with me every Sunday, sometimes even on Wednesday evenings, but you don't go with me anymore. It's been over three years since you even went to church yourself."

  “Mother, please...” He felt himself grow tense.

  “Please, what? I'm only concerned for you, Charley. I don't want you slipping down the path of—"

  “I'm not slipping down the path of anything!” he cried a little too loudly.

  The sound of his voice didn't startle her as it would have in the past. She seemed to brush past it and continue. “You're a good boy, Charley. God knows I raised a good son in you. But you're not like your brother at all. Johnny is not only devoted to—"

  “I do not want to be compared to my goddamned brother! ” Charley thundered, and this time the sound of his voice made her tremble.

  The resulting silence echoed louder than the tone of Charley's voice. Mother shriveled back into herself, looking down at her food, the tears silently running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Lord, please forgive Charley for he knows not what he says—"

  “Mother!” Charley warned, voice stern and powerful, but not as loud as before.

  He was doing all he could to control his anger.

  “Why don't you go to church?” She cried and now he could see that she was crying now. Small sobs cracked her voice. “I'm not saying that you have to be like your brother, but if you go to church you will be happier ... you won't be spending so much time in your room doing all those nasty things—"

  “Mother—” Charley closed his eyes, steeling himself.

  “—that are so sick.... they're sick, Charley. Sick and wrong and—"

  “Goddammit mother—"

  “...if you went to church you wouldn't have the need to do those things, you might even meet a nice girl that would—"

  “A nice girl!” Charley squealed. He rose from his chair abruptly, the chair squeaking back from the table on the floor. “And so what if I meet a nice girl at church, mother? You'll just drive her away like you always do."

  Mother burst into fresh tears. She reached out for Charley, grabbing his hand.

  “No, Charley ... not like that ... that girl you brought home a few months ago ... not girls like that..."

  “Well what the hell kind of girls do you fucking expect me to like mother?” He leered at her. “Nuns? Because other than nuns, girls like Carmen are typical of the girls you see at church. There's nothing morally wrong with them except—"

  “They will lead you into sin and despair!” Mother cried sharply. “And don't lie to me boy, I see how you look at those girls with lust in your heart. I know that you watch those ... damn videotapes of naked girls spreading their legs for men ... that you ... you..."

  “Masturbate to them? Jack off to them? Yeah, well, welcome to the real world, mother.” Charley was breathing heavily with anger and the exertion of yelling. “That's what happens when you've force fed your son a steady diet that sex is wrong, sex leads to sin, sex leads to eternal damnation, and then finding out later that all that you've been saying is outright lies and bullshit. Thanks for raising me to be not only afraid of women but of my own sexuality as well. You fucking bitch!"

  “Charley!” Mother cried fresh tears, sobbing hoarsely.

  “Stop your fucking crying,” Charley said but he was crying now too, though not as hard as mother was. The tears ran down his cheeks, and he felt the sobs threaten to spill from his chest, fueled by long-buried emotions that he had kept pent up inside him. His hands clenched at his sides with uncontrollable fury, threatening to unleash on her. Christ, but he felt so much like killing her sometimes. Maybe then the madness would stop.

  His mother looked up at him, her chest heaving, her voice coming in starts and fits through her crying. “I always thought you were a good boy Charley ... always ... always just thought that ... maybe you were ... shy ... or something ... I ... Oh God, Charley....

  when you didn't show any interest in girls at first I thought you might be a faggot—"

  This accusation cut through him like a knife. He clenched his teeth, his eyes widened at the revelation. He felt his cheeks redden. “Mother..."

  She didn't notice his reaction but kept going. “...but then I saw that ... you were interested in girls ... but not the girls at church, but those ... tarts and tramps in those ...

  heathenish magazines.... and those girls on the street corners..."

  “Mother, don't start.” He advanced on her slightly, fists clenched. What she was saying were such lies.

  “And then you brought home that one girl from your catechism class, remember her? You said you were going to study.” And Charley suddenly did remember. God, that had been so long ago. He had been fifteen and was studying to receive his confirmation.

  The girl his mother was speaking of was Suzanne Borega, who was in the same grade as he. Suzanne was a pretty girl, part of the self-hip, rock and roll/stoner crowd at school, the same crowd that occasionally tripped him up in the halls, flicked his ears from behind his desk in class, and embarrassed him in school with cries of “Hey, Charley ... lose control of your pee-pee lately?” This in reference to when he was in the second grade and he had pissed his pants in class one day and had to be led by the teacher to the bathroom while he cried, and the rest of the class laughed and laughed. That stigma had remained with him ever since.

  But Suzanne Borega was a little different. For one, she never made fun of him at all, but then she didn't go out of her way to be nice to him, either. She was pleasant, polite, talkative, and she didn't ignore him. When she came over to study for their Catholic Confirmation it had been at her urging—they had been enrolled in Catechism together since they were nine-years-old, and up until Confirmation they hadn't talked much or associated with each other. She was pretty, popular, and out-going. She hung out with all the cool people, while Charley
didn't have any friends. But then one day on the bus home from school, she had asked him how much he'd studied for the test, and he said he was doing pretty well. She then revealed to him that she needed help and wondered if he would help her. Charley had been wary at first; after all, she hung out with the same crowd that made him write their term papers and take their tests and copy his answers for them. He was tired of being taken advantage of, but too scared to stand up for himself. In spite of this he agreed, and the next day she had come over with her books. It was then when he realized she was serious: she did need honest to goodness help, and she wasn't out to cheat off him. But then mother had spoiled it.

  After he had ushered Suzanne into his room, he went into the kitchen to get them soft drinks. Mother was in the kitchen making dinner and she started in on Charley immediately; what did he think he was doing bringing that girl in without her prior approval? Did he notice the size of the boobs on that girl? How they bounced freely under her sweater? That meant she wasn't wearing a bra. And you know what that means? She was a whore, a cheap slut, and she was going to take off her sweater and lead Charley into sin right under her own roof and mother wasn't going to have it. And no matter how much Charley explained that Suzanne was his classmate at Our Lady of Guadalupe's catechism class and that they were studying for their confirmation, Mother wouldn't hear it. Her accusations were loud enough for Suzanne to catch some of it, and when Charley returned to his room, mother trailing along behind him, Suzanne rose from his desk where she had been perusing Good News For the Modern Man and the accompanying workbook that was issued with it, and said that perhaps today wasn't a good day for them to study together. Charley had gone red with embarrassment because he knew that Suzanne had heard what mother said about her, and ever since that incident Suzanne spoke to him very little. Charley went through his confirmation and the rest of his freshman year of high school with a feeling of dread that she would tell one of her long-haired druggy friends what had happened and he would receive a viscous teasing or a beating, a cat call across the quad of the school, something like “Hey Charley.... your mother don't like you to study with girls in your room, huh? What does she think you're gonna do? Piss all over them before you can even shoot your wad? Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. "