Beloved Daughter.

Suddenly, her head flew sideways as if an invisible hand slapped her, causing a pink flower to bloom on her cheek. Another non-existing slap made her head whip the other way. She cried out. A bunch of hair rose on her head as if pulled up and her pink mouth was forced over the cock's purple helmet. She felt her lips open wider and wider until they stretched over the cock's impossible girth. Feeling her tongue being pushed back, Annabeth knew she should gag and choke, but the pole slid easily down her throat, where it started pounding up and down. But it wasn't the cock that moved, it was her head that flew up and down, urged by an invisible force. Her throat must be bulging as saliva ran from her nose down her chin and chest. Soon, she felt as if she dangled from a hook like a writhing fish. "Stephen, oh God, no, Stephen." The words only resounded in her skull, getting lost in the maze of her confused mind.

Finally, as her nose reached curly hair and her chin hit the man's ball sac, a seething avalanche of liquid shot down her throat and up her nose. Wrestling free, she fell back to the floor, gasping and gurgling a fountain of sperm; it welled up from her mouth, covering her face like frosting. Hands held her as soft tongues licked her cheeks and eyelids, her throat and chest, sweet voices mumbling endearments as they lifted her body to carry it away.

Ethan.

'Daddy, Stephen...?' Dangling in the bluish moonlight, Ethan McAllister knew he must have had a name, although he'd lost any notion of what it might have been. Not that he cared to remember, really. There were so many more important things to cope with, like staying alive in a whirlpool of excruciating pain. His body leaked vital energy with every tormenting climax these godawful women squeezed out of him. Lights around him dimmed, sounds muffled; looking up, he saw the moon gaining a blood red hue. The only thing still alert or even more alert with every gut-tearing ejaculation, were his senses. His nerves lay wide-open, crackling with electricity; a mere touch of breath rippled his skin.

"Lilian," he heard the pale woman say, and he raised his exhausted head once again, his eyes burning in their sockets. Out of the darkness came yet another ghostly cunt he didn't know, or did he? The one before had a name he knew, didn't she? But why bother, they were all the same, weren't they? Rows of blank faces they were, silly interns, schoolgirls, really. He saw ambitious little gold diggers, secretaries, neighbors' wives, drunken party whores; all just greedy sluts and treacherous bitches. They all wanted a piece of him, didn't they? They might scream or spout their silly 'no's,' but he knew what they really needed: to go down and service his urge, his eternal hunger.

The girl that hesitantly neared his dangling feet, shook her head. She wasn't young, she was a woman, really, but her skin was waxen, her face puzzled like an innocent girl's. Always this charade of innocence; he knew better, didn't he? Always this damn denying that they really wanted it. Bitches with children's faces they were, teasing whores with virgin's bodies. Oh, God, his cock pulsed anew, it ached, tightening painfully. He arched, making it jut out even more. A cold hand cupped his boiling balls.

"Why?" the girl said, looking up. He stared at her and the whole damn unfairness came crashing down. 'Why,' she asks? What the fucking gall! Why him! was the question. Why here, why this! Why the fuck!

"I don't know you," he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. Or did he even talk? "I've never seen you. Why do this to me? Why me?" A chuckle sounded; the entire room laughed, the creaking blinds, the flapping wings, even the sailing clouds. The ashen-haired harpy appeared next to the girl called Lilian and she seemed to grow, her face reaching up to his, her white eyes aflame.

"Because," she said, making her lips crawl around the word. "Because, when my daughter turned eighteen, you raped and murdered her. Because, when Lilian's mother was nineteen, you raped her and left her pregnant, destroying two lives with one spurt of your disgusting seed." The woman's pale face came even closer, spreading a sickly-sweet stench of death. "Because," she went on, "when Annabeth, your PA, the one I made you want to fuck so desperately, when Annabeth loved her husband, he beat her and raped her night after night, like you rape and beat women, drugging them and discarding them, lying to them and ruining their lives."

Ethan felt a remnant of desperate resistance rise in his ruined body. "It wasn't me," he whispered. The woman cackled, blasting her sickly-sweet breath into his face.

"But it was," she hissed. "It's always you, whatever name you carry. Call it Rapist or Wife beater, call it Boss or..." Her voice died away, and the eyes dimmed. "Or call it Father."

"Little Lizzy," she went on. "She's another girl you don't know, a child, really, raped by her own father. It was 'their little secret' until he left and plunged her into feverish nightmares, destroying her youth, maybe her life."

"It... it wasn't me," Ethan whispered.

Lilian.

"Lilian!" The woman said, turning to the woman/girl that still stood by her, staring up at the man's face. "Use this." She handed her a black object, tall and shining. She hesitated, turning it in her hands, inspecting its long shaft and bulbous tip.

"Up his asshole, honey," the ashen-haired woman said. Then she chuckled. "Up the asshole he is." She stepped forward and spread his legs until the tendons cracked. "There," she nodded.

The dark dildo seemed huge in Lilian's pale hands, but then again, it was, wasn't it? Pressing the knob halfheartedly against his closed anus, she wondered what to do. Then images flooded her mind, faces of a man with an eighties perm, and a porn moustache mixed with the face of her boss, his eternal sneer and mostly, his utter arrogance. Hearing his voice and smelling his disgusting mix of sweat and tobacco, she closed her eyes and pushed the slick monster right through resistant flesh and deafening screams. Blood ran over her hands as the dildo disappeared between his spread buttocks. She started pumping, watching the cock swelling again until it was as hard as before, spasming with the pounding of the dildo.

Ethan.

"Come, you fool, come one last time and end your misery," the pale-haired woman urged, her words hardly registering as he felt the blinding hunger take over again. The tearing pain in his ass numbed down to a throb. It gave an impossible pulse to his sick, disgusting lust, like a quickening heartbeat. He knew he was lost. His vision darkened, sounds drowned in a sea of waves that pounded the insides of his skull. Why care anymore? All that counted, was to come, and wasn't that really all that his life had amounted to? His last remains of self-pity washed away, taking the tiny light of sanity with it.

The stone-hard cock was his entire being now, pulsating on the rhythm of a pounding dildo that seemed to strike deeper at every stroke. All he still saw was the face of the pale-haired woman, and the knife next to it. Its steel reflected the blaze of her crazy eyes; its edge sparkled and maybe, somewhere in the ruins of his mind, he knew why it was there.

Lilian.

Lilian Morley's arms became numb as her hands kept plunging the dildo up the man's asshole, slippery now with mucus and blood. The cock, right over her head, gushed its precome on her hair and on her face. The man only groaned anymore, but his cock kept pulsing and twitching. The purple eye gaped as it drooled clear, sizzling juices.

A new hand grabbed the cock's shaft, bony fingers closing around it, joined by a gleaming object. A cold shiver ran down Lilian's spine. She saw the other girls close in from the opposite side of the man, holding up each leg. They looked pale, almost transparent, and their eyes were dark holes in the harsh shadows of the moonlight above. But they grinned and nodded, and Lilian felt her own lips stretch too, her head going up and down. The man cried out and his cock's head swelled even more. The knife came down. A wave of hot crimson gushed over Lilian, flooding her eyes, her chest, her entire body.

***

Annabeth.

Ethan McAllister lay stretched out on the rug in his apartment, totally naked in a fan of discarded, torn-up clothes. His outstretched hand touched the handle of a bloodied knife. The once apple green rug had soaked up immense amounts of a dark-brownish liquid. Close to his head stood two feet in poorly polished shoes. Another pair of feet wore spotless leather pumps. They supported legs that had the irritating quality of sending unprofessional thoughts to the head of the owner of the ill-kept shoes.

"So, you came here when he didn't show up at his office?" chief inspector Quincy asked the woman in the offending pumps. Annabeth Flynn shrugged.

"He went home sick, yesterday," she said, "so when he didn't answer my phone call this morning, I got worried and came over. He didn't open, I have no key, so I called you."

A man in white coveralls and gloves turned Ethan McAllister's body on its back. The brownish liquid stuck to his body. At his crotch was a ragged hole. What had been attached there stuck to the matted hair on his belly; it looked remarkedly small. Annabeth took in a sharp breath.

"Sorry that you have to see this," the inspector said. "A most curious way to take your own life, I'd say. Nevertheless, we have to consider other causes; did he have enemies as far as you know? Problems of the, ehm... amorous kind?" Annabeth shrugged.

"I have been working for him for less than a month now," she said. "We only had professional contact. He has, well, a certain reputation, but I hardly know anything about his private life." The inspector stared at her for a minute, then he went to his haunches, making his shoes creak. Intently watching the wound and the severed penis, he said: "Thank you, Ms. Flynn, the impact of all this on his company promises a few very busy days for you as his PA, I suppose. Let's not keep you."

Annabeth smiled. "Thank you as well, inspector. Yes, I have a lot to do. I do hope you'll find out what this is all about." Then she turned on her pumps and left the apartment, feeling the man's eyes on her behind.

Lilian.

After waking up, Lilian Morley felt dirty. She took a half-hour shower, scrubbing her skin until it was pink all over. The exhaustion of the last few days seemed gone, but even after her shower, she didn't feel clean. She had no recollection of having another nightmare, but there were images, a lot of random violence, huge cocks, seas of sperm, and a man's face, men's faces, really, shifting and changing. Most faces she didn't know, one she did. There had been screaming and a lot of blood. She recalled the blazing eyes of a woman, another face she knew, or did she? After having her breakfast, Lilian showered again.

At the office she got the news that her boss wouldn't be in that day. To be sure, he would never again as he had been found dead in his bath tub, suicide, maybe; further details weren't given. Lilian had been called into the office of the mayor and she'd been asked to at least temporary do his job. She'd grimaced and, to her own surprise, asked for a raise. The mayor had put on his delicate face and told her to take it up with administration 'after this awful business has been sorted out.' At that, she'd gone back to her desk. Who knows, she might finally get paid for the work he never did; maybe even half of what he had gotten.

Liz.

Elizabeth Carlson woke up, feeling nauseous. A mist in her head clouded her memories of the night before. She vaguely knew she'd been in a dream, another nightmare for sure, with the usual faces, the pale woman, the girls. But this time there had been male faces too, shifting and changing. One she knew, or did she? She felt slightly sick remembering, her head was in turmoil. There had been feelings, feverish, scary feelings that tore her through horror into really shameful lust. There was a sticky white fluid she drank, salty and bitter, and there were wet tongues on her skin. Finally, there had been a sea of red fluid. Blood?

Liz Carlson didn't go to school that day, although she felt better than she'd done for weeks. Later that morning, her mother told her she'd had a message; her ex-husband, Liz's father who lived three states over, had been found dead in his bed by his girlfriend. Suicide, they said.

Before last night, Liz would have taken the news with indifference. Her father had left them when she turned seven. It was about the same time that she'd started suffering her attacks of fever and nightmares. When she'd come out of those, he seemed erased from her memory, only kept alive by the very few family pictures he appeared on. But last night she'd seen him, hadn't she? And she'd felt deep emotions about him, feelings of pain and loss. She must have dreamt of him and now he was dead.

She took a deep breath and hugged her mom.

Annabeth.

When Annabeth Flynn came home from a day of pandemonium at her office, she got a phone call. It was her ex-mother in law, a woman she'd kept liking even after she left Stephen Moore.

"Stephen is dead," she told her. "Oh, it is so awful..." The woman's voice drowned in tears and Annabeth felt her eyes burn with sympathy. Stephen had been a monster, during their marriage and later on, he'd been a violent, abusing brute. But this woman was his mother and she hurt.

"What happened?" she asked, after trying to comfort her.

"Oh, God, it is too awful to tell. He... he cut off his..." Her voice again thickened with emotions.

"Do you...do you want me to come over, Mrs. Flynn?" she asked, surprised by her honest wish to offer comfort to the mother of the man who had beaten, betrayed and raped her. There was a long silence, filled with quiet sobs.

"Would you?" the voice then asked.

***

Epilogue.

It rained. Annabeth Flynn knew that the water and the mud would ruin her heels; she should have chosen wiser. Waiting at the entrance of a graveyard, she hid under a black umbrella that flapped in the gusty wind. It reminded her of something, but she failed to grasp what it was.

A car turned off the road, a little red sportscar. Wet pebbles crunched as it was parked. "Annabeth," the blond woman said, as she stepped out of the car. "Ugh, she could have chosen a better day," she went on, opening an umbrella.

"Lilian," Annabeth said, although she was sure she'd never met the blonde before. "Yes, she should have," she went on, commenting on the woman's remark. "I'm soaked, but we can't complain, can we?" They kissed, and it came naturally. The woman shared her umbrella that was quite a bit bigger than Annabeth's. A few minutes passed, filled with small talk and not very much of that. They seemed to know each other's names and faces, and they both sensed that they shared emotions, but those had no shape, no definition. They were too private anyway to share with a stranger, weren't they? But a minute ago, she'd kissed this same stranger. Ah, well... this whole day was confusing.

"Did you get a half a million too?" Annabeth asked. The other woman nodded.

"I tried to find out where it came from," she said and shrugged. "Seems I won it in a lottery I never took part in. You?" Annabeth shrugged too. "Another crazy thing, I guess," she said, "but I'm not complaining."

A cab arrived and out of it climbed a young girl dressed in jeans and a pink jacket. Her bright white sneakers sparkled as she walked over to them through mud and puddles. They hugged, then they walked through the rusty gates, never hesitating which row of stones they should head for. A lone pigeon cooed its melancholy song.

The stone they stopped by was ancient, covered in moss, but the name could still be discerned. '1868-1883' was engraved under it. "Fifteen," Liz Carlson murmured, taking a sharp breath.

"His name was Anthony," a voice behind them said. In the pouring rain stood a tall woman, pale and ashen blond. She was dressed in white cotton, frilled and cut in the fashion of nineteen century's summer dresses. The rain did not seem to touch her.

"She was my daughter, and he was my cousin. He often visited, and they seemed to like each other. One day, she was alone at the house. When we returned that evening, my husband and I, she wasn't there. But we found this on the terrace." She raised her hand, showing the simple cotton panties with the bright-red smear on it. "Next day, we found her, dead, hastily buried under the bushes behind the house, the ones you know..." Her voice halted as her gaze darkened. Then she shrugged, and her eyes blazed again, sparkling with moisture.

"The police never found who did it, I doubt they really tried. I knew Anthony had been at the house that day. But he couldn't be found until the day he was arrested in Charleston, hundreds of miles away, where he was caught red-handed raping a girl. During interrogation, he confessed three more rapes, but he never admitted to killing anyone. My husband had died by then, so I went to Charleston on my own to see him. In vain, the monster had jumped bail and left the country. I never heard of him again and that ate at me until my death... and beyond." The three women stared at her as the rain soaked their hair and clothes.

"You see," the pale woman said, "we, you and me, are all family, however often removed. We share DNA. I needed that to be able to tap the energy to do what I had to. But it wasn't enough, there had to be a shared rage too. The rage of a woman raped in marriage by the one she loved most; the rage of a daughter whose life was ruined by the rape of her mother that sparked her unwanted and unloved existence; and the confused rage of a little girl abused by her own father. I needed that, I needed you to revenge my daughter."

The two women and the girl by the gravestone just stared, slowly soaked by the steady rainfall. Then Annabeth cleared her throat and said: "But... but the murderer of your daughter has been long dead." The woman shimmered with a crimson hue, her eyes lighting up.

"I don't care," she said. "I saw his face when I cut off his cock, just like I've seen his face a dozen times before and cut it off a dozen times, just like I will cut it off again and again, a hundred times if need be, until the fire of my hate extinguishes."

The silence of the graveyard was absolute, as the rain had stopped falling. The woman was gone, dissolved into the moist air, leaving the drenched figures by the moss-covered stone.

"Elizabeth Ann Morley," it said, the letters shimmering with moisture. "Our beloved daughter."

***