The Dark Knight [Part One]

by L. F. Piper

  Whatever.

  His abs are defined and his legs thick. He has both nipples pierced and all I can think of is how much I want to suck on them. Just as I’m about to make my move, Caleb grabs me by my waist and pins me against his bedroom wall. The condom was rolled on while I was admiring his amazing body. I didn't know guys could look like this.

  “You ready for me, Doll?” Before I even click what's happening, he rams his solid length into me and I scream. I scream like never before; I swear, I've never felt pain like it. My tummy feels like it's been stabbed repeatedly, my groin on fire. “Even better. A tight little virgin. Fuck, your cunt is strangling my cock.” I'm whimpering, and a few tears have escaped my eyes, rolling down my flushed cheeks. Caleb just stands there for a minute or two. I don't know why. Surely, he knows what he’s doing and doesn't care that he nearly ripped me in half? He licks away my tears on a growl and eventually, he starts to move his hips, slowly turning the pain into pleasure. It actually feels really good. I'm digging my polished finger nails into his shoulders so deeply that I'm drawing blood. “Fuck yeah. Make me feel you,” Caleb growls in my ear.

  After about five slowly measured pumps, he picks up the pace. His body is slapping against mine, slick with sweat. I can feel his balls hitting my ass as he pounds my already aching back into the wall and I recognise the feeling I had earlier, brewing inside me again. I now know it's an approaching orgasm, but it feels different to the one before. “Caleb...” his name falls from my mouth as my body starts to shake and fireworks explode from my toes to the top of my head, my vision blurring.

  “That's it, baby. Milk my cock with that tight cunt,” he growls into my neck. I don't really know what he is talking about, but I feel so good right now, I don't want to ruin the moment by acting stupid and getting embarrassed. Caleb slams into me a few more times and roars out loudly. I can feel a warmth within me, which I'm guessing is part his come and part my rushing blood pumping through my overheating body.

  Sex has never really been my thing – obviously, only just becoming an ex-virgin this very second – but now I've had a taste, I think I want it a fuck load more.

  ***

  We didn't say a word once Caleb pulled himself out of me and tossed the condom away. I quickly picked up all of my clothes and rushed straight into the bathroom to clean up; I saw the blood on the condom when he removed it from his still hard dick. Since all the pleasure was over, all I could feel was excruciating pain. The skin down there felt tight, swollen and raw; like all I’ve ever used to wipe myself over the years is sandpaper and not the luxury quilted tissue my mum always buys. I sat on the toilet to have a wee and it stung like hell. After I wiped, I checked out the paper clutched in my hand and gaped at it. The white had completely disappeared, being replaced with deep red.

  All I could think of was how I was going to ruin a brand new pair of knickers.

  Fuck sake!

  ***

  Caleb drops me back home at five, two hours after school ended. Luckily no one is here because I need to shower and make sure my body isn't covered in bruises thanks to being roughed up all day. I lock the front door behind me and wait until I hear Caleb’s car roar down the road. It's strange, but now I'm on my own, I feel safer than I have all day.

  Once I'm in my bedroom, I break down. Today has been one of the worst days of my life, curtesy of Caleb Knight. He's pushed me around, treated me like shit and ripped my vagina to shreds. I don't even know what that was about. He hates me, so why would he want to have sex with me? He has a fucking girlfriend!

  While I'm in the shower I think about the sex I had not long ago. I definitely didn’t wake up this morning thinking ‘today is the day I’m going to lose my virginity,’ but am I a slut now because I slept with a guy who has a girlfriend and who I only just met? Is it doubly slutty that I really fucking enjoyed it too?

  Fuck, I’m a whore.

  I don't know what to do.

  I can't tell Kaydee – she'll think I'm crazy. My mother will kick my ass a thousand times over and what would I say to Phoebe? ‘Hey, Pheeb. So, I had sex with a guy that has done nothing but bully me and it was incredible!’ She would tell my mum herself to get me a therapist. I am so screwed. I'm glad it's Friday tomorrow and I'll have the weekend to figure things out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Caleb

  I truly felt awful that I’d ruined Rachael's kitchen

  What in the fuck was I thinking? I'm attracted to Emilia, like she is so fucking hot, but I hate her for some reason at the same time. I know what you’re thinking, I’m aware I have Mommy issues and that’s probably why I hate all females. But why did I fuck her? Shit, she was so tight, my dick is hard now just thinking about how wet her cunt was. Jesus, I only had her an hour ago and I already want her again. She didn't say a word to me when I was driving her home. She didn't seem angry or needy like we needed to hug and shit before she left. Most of my other lays do. Anya fucking does. She just seemed, indifferent.

  I've taken many virginities over the past four years, but I've never been as rough with them. I’m such a prick. It makes sense she wouldn’t want to cuddle after that. It also makes me smile that I was her first. Obviously, I've never had my Hyman broken, but she took a lot of pain at school today, the football being the worst – that throw was epic! – and she didn't shed one tear. Her first time and I pin her against a wall and ram into her and that's what makes her lose two or three salty tears. I must be a sick fuck because those tears made my dick even harder; I had to taste them. Hell, I know I'm a sick fuck.

  ***

  Growing up in foster homes is what made me a sick fuck to begin with. I have no idea who my real parents are or why they didn't want me. I've been in the system since I was born, passed around to numbered families all over the state that just simply wanted the pay packet each month. No one loved me, cared about me or really wanted me.

  Until Rachael and Frank.

  They were great when they got me at fifteen years old. I was already at my worst – kicked out of schools, drugs, drinking. I didn't know how else to be because no one had taught me any differently. I grew up learning how to talk with my fists, but Rachael taught me more about reading and writing than any school, Frank taught me how to fix stuff and drive. It took me a long time to realise that they weren't going to beat me or send me back. They told me all the time, but I had no faith in anything or anyone at that point. I eventually changed my ways, well most of them. I continued to fuck, smoke the occasional blunt and had the odd beer with Frank, but I gave up the hardcore drugs and fighting. Well, I stopped going out looking for a fight. I never stopped sticking up for myself. Rachael and Frank were always telling me how much they loved me, but I never said it back. I had no understanding of love. I still don't.

  When I was sixteen, I noticed Rachael had bruises all over her arms. I asked her what had happened, but she brushed it off telling me not to worry about it. Over the next few months I started seeing them more and more. Her neck, arms, legs. All over. I'd never noticed them before, but now I knew they were there I started paying more attention to her. I didn't question her about them again because deep down I knew what the problem was. Or rather who the problem was. Frank. I'd seen him push Rachael around a few times when he got a little out of control after drinking heavily, but it never occurred to me that it was a regular thing. They always seemed like a much happier couple than all the other families I'd been forced to live with. It was obvious they all hated each other, but not Rachael and Frank. They laughed, joked and teased, ate dinner as a family every night. Always smiling, touching and kissing each other. I thought it was fucked up when I first got here. I'd never been around that crap before, it was like watching a romance movie. It still makes me feel uncomfortable just thinking about it now.

  I knew Frank needed to be stopped, but I never knew why. I hadn't cared about any of the other woman I'd lived with, so why Rachael? I've been asked, and I've asked myself that question a lot since it happened, but I
still don't have an answer. For myself or the therapists I was forced into seeing. I’m still not very good with my words.

  Is it because she was always nice to me?

  She told me she loved me?

  She looked after me?

  It couldn't be because at the time, Frank did all those things too. He acted like a real Pop to me. The first one I'd ever had. Maybe it's because Rachael deserved better than to be hurt by her husband every day? She is a good woman.

  ***

  A few days after my seventeenth birthday, spent at the beach with Rachael and Frank, I got home early from a party and was sneaking up to my bedroom. I had a raging hard on because the nameless girl I was about to fuck had bailed on me the second my pants hit the floor. She got scared, panicked and fled the bedroom we were occupying. I was angry as fuck, couldn’t even be bothered to find where Anya was to sort me out, so I just left. Figured I would fix myself out when I got back to my latest home. That’s when I heard Frank yelling and Rachael crying hysterically and my dick instantly shrivelled up. They obviously thought I was still out and planned on finishing up before I returned. I stopped still, halfway up the staircase. What was going on? I heard things smashing in the kitchen, things being thrown, something being tossed at the walls and then the worst noise of all – bones crunching. It was a sickening sound. Something I'll never forget. When you've heard the sound as many times as I have, it gets drilled into your mind. You never get to block it out.

  I hurled myself down the few stairs I'd already climbed, down the hallway and flew into the kitchen. Frank was standing over Rachael, kicking her in the stomach.

  Broken ribs.

  Damn, I personally knew how much they could hurt.

  She was crying loudly, and Frank was grunting on every thrust of his leg.

  Backward and forward, again and again.

  There was blood flowing down Rachael's face and her left eye was completely swollen shut. Frank's fists were bloody and clenching as he put all his strength into kicking his wife, who was curled up tightly on her side. I roared with an anger that hadn't shown its face for a long time, my blood coursing through my veins like a wildfire, and threw myself on his back, hoping to drag him away. His arms flung around trying to reach me, but he couldn't. We fought for a while, punches were thrown, ornaments smashed. I could smell the liquor on his breath. It was so strong, he must've been drinking the whiskey for a day straight for it to be that pungent.

  I don't know what came over me, but after fighting Frank for about ten minutes and taking quite a few swift right hooks to the gut myself, I picked up a carving knife that had been knocked to the floor and swung it towards him. I was so angry, but what for?

  Because he was hurting Rachael?

  Because I was left and forgotten about the second I was born?

  Because I thought Rachael was weak for putting up with Frank's abuse?

  Well, they were some of the options my therapist threw at me. At the time I was acting like a feral animal, all because I was sexually frustrated and instead of getting off, this is what I had to deal with. I’ve never told anyone that, no one needs to know how truly fucked up I really am. I was just so fucking angry.

  I ended up stabbing Frank four times before he fell onto the tiles, and a further two more just because. Rachael's cries and small hands wrapping around my body finally made me stop. Frank deserved this, I'm sure of it, but why? I spent a full thirty minutes puking my guts up afterwards from the mad adrenaline rush while Rachael called for the cops and an ambulance. I was convinced Frank was dead, but there was some gurgling noises, so Rachael thought best to get him checked over. The fucker was flat out dead when they arrived, but I had finally relaxed from my earlier frustration and didn’t give a fuck.

  The kitchen was a fucking tip. Rachael was always happy when her house was spotless, and her kitchen was her pride and joy. I'd just well and truly fucked that up, though. There was smashed glass everywhere, blood seeping in between the floor tiles and sprayed all over the walls and cabinets from where I kept pulling the knife back out of Frank's chest, only to plunge it back in.

  Again, and again.

  They shipped me off when they took Frank's useless body. I ended up in some shitty young offender’s facility because I was seventeen and still a minor. I wouldn't have given a fuck if they stuck me and my attitude in prison, though. I'm no Rocky, but I know how to stand up and look after myself. At seventeen, there's no doubt I would've had my ass handed to me. I'm not delusional. I just didn’t care about anything.

  It was that night that Rachael wrapped her hands around my face, looked deep into my eyes with hers glazed over and said, 'I love you, son.' That was the first time anyone, including her, had ever called me Son and it made me feel fucking weird. It was also the first time I'd called her Ma and not Rachael.

  Not mom #10.

  I think, deep down, I didn’t want another mom and dad to number, to add to my ever increasing list. I never numbered Rachael and Frank, they always stayed just that. Rachael and Frank Mathis. My adoptive parents. She looked like she was about to explode with happiness. Even though I had literally just killed her husband.

  It was that particular night that inspired the first of my many tattoos. The blood rose, outlined in black, inked onto my right hand.

  A black rose signifies death, well, it does to me.

  The red signifies blood, draining from a body.

  It might be fucking morbid to some, but it’s tattooed on my right hand for a reason. It’s the hand that took Frank’s life.

  To remind me.

  Remind me that I’m a major fuck up, that I took someone’s fucking life. But it’s also so much more than that. It reminds me that, although many judged me for my actions, I saved Rachael. I saved my Ma, and she fucking saved me too.

  ***

  Rachael came to visit me every weekend, always bringing me treats and new clothes, telling me she loved me before leaving me again. I think she felt like she had to, though. I mean, I did get myself put away for looking out for her.

  I think she still missed Frank at the time and a small part of her hated me for taking her husband away. She probably still does. I'm okay with that, though.

  To this day, I've never told her I love her back. I care for her and I want her to be happy, but love? Fuck knows.

  Rachael moved straight out of the house she built with Frank. She probably couldn't stand the stains that Frank's blood left on the tiles, even after the hundred buckets of bleach poured all over the place. That was the first time I ever said sorry to someone. I truly felt awful that I’d ruined Rachael's kitchen. I think she thought I was saying sorry for killing Frank, but I never corrected her. Let her think what she wants.

  My Ma lives down the block from Emilia's family now. I was supposed to head there once I dropped Emilia off after school to fix a bird bath or some shit in the yard, but I'm currently slouched on my sofa, drinking my fourth beer. Anya has been pounding on the door, but I don’t care. My mind is all over the place, what with fucking Emilia earlier and thinking about my past for some fucked up reason. Fuck this. I need some sex to numb my mind. Screw school tomorrow, I'm gonna get Ellis and the guys to come out tonight. A titty bar sounds good to me. I could just let Anya in. She’s an easy lay and lets me do whatever I want with her body, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want her to taint the space where I’ve had Emilia.

  Dude, grow some fucking balls!

  Chapter Six

  Caleb

  Pussy on tap

  By ten-thirty, Ellis, Miles, Todd and I are walking up to Smash This, Pussy Parlour. Tyga – Trap Pussy is pounding, making the walls shake to the beat.

  How convenient.

  It’s quite possibly the dirtiest joint around here; with gum stuck under every table and squished into the stained, fraying carpet. There are cracked windows and busted spotlights. I don’t doubt years of come are coating every available surface, but the shithole has just what
I need for tonight.

  Pussy on tap.

  As we waltz straight through the paint peeling double doors, without flashing any form of ID, we get accosted by pussy every which way. Some of the chicks that work here are probably old enough to be my mother – shit, one of them could be and I wouldn’t have a fucking clue. I sigh, good job I only go for the young ones.

  There are girls dancing on the poles that go through each end of the chipped, grotty bar and some on top of small tables, specifically designed just for that use. There’s even one swinging around completely naked on a free hanging silver hoop bolted in the middle of ceiling. I don’t even want to know how long it’s been there, it can’t be fucking safe. As long as I’m not stood under it when it comes crashing to the floor, I couldn’t give a shit.

  I split from the guys, Todd heading straight to the bar. He likes to drink and check out the girls dancing above him. I don’t think he has ever received a dance in any of the private rooms here, which is probably a good thing considering he’s currently in a two-year long relationship with Mona. They are an odd pairing; they’re both pretty quiet, but Todd has told me she’s an utter freak between the sheets. And against walls. Even on tables. I’m kind of gutted I didn’t get to her first to test the merchandise. Bro code and all that. What? I’m not a complete ass all the time. Just most of it.

  I can’t see Miles, but I already know he has snatched up Cotton Candy from which ever pole was climbing and dragged her straight to their designated room. Candy is a curvy chick in an establishment full to the brim of typically scrawny females. One of a kind. She stands out and because of her ‘shaved, tight pussy and thick thighs,’ as Miles so mildly puts it, she is his favourite. You’d be surprised, but not all the women working here actually shave their cunts. I much prefer a clean-shaven pussy.