Keep It Clean

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Editor’s Note: this story contains elements of force/sexual violence.

**NOTE: this is part of a book I’m writing, which is generally revenge-oriented and only peppered with erotica. I decided to delete the following blow job scene, seeing as it was a bit too gratuitous, but figured I could put it to good use here.**


Dusk fell like a guillotine, and still no signs of life. I wondered if Jeremy hadn’t secretly slaughtered his family, and was feasting on their roasted remains right now while I sat in my car. I was beginning to nod off, when a bright light flashed directly in my face. Obnoxious halogen lights like glaring eyes, staring at me from a hulking navy SUV, the very same one that had taken residence in the Angelis driveway for so many hours. I slouched in my seat, not wanting to catch their attention, looking like some creeper. Two grim-faced adults, whom I assumed to be Steven and Maria Angelis, sat in the front seats.

Once they had pulled off onto a side road, I crept out of my car and tiptoed through the front lawn. Is Jeremy home? Is he already in juvy, or what? My rhetorical worrywart question was answered in seconds, as the screen door banged closed and Jeremy Angelis stared at me, dressed in an olive Class of 09 sweatshirt and camouflage cargo pants. The day’s newspaper, swathed in a yellow plastic bag, dangled from his fingertips.

I don’t know what came over me.

I hurled my body at Jeremy like one possessed, letting out a strange roar at the same time. He was much taller than me, and was built like a chess rook, thick and bricklike. He just barely jolted backwards when I rammed my full weight into his frame.

“I’ll kill you!” I yelped, clawing at his face. A dog started barking. A wild glance presented me with the excited family golden retriever, who ruffed and pawed at the door.

“Aah! What the fuck!” Jeremy shouted. “Who—OW! –are you? What are you doing in my yard?”

I started pounding my fists into his chest. I was feeling light-headed. “I am vengeance! I am justice!”

And then, with one cuff of his mammoth hand, my head suddenly felt like it was a carefree kite, detaching from my neck with a painful crack. I fell face-first onto the freshly manicured lawn, coughing up grass and soil. I grabbed a clump of grass and flung it at Jeremy.

“FUCK YOU!” I shouted incoherently.

I struggled to my feet and managed to balance a fighting stance before flailing toward Jeremy Angelis once more. He swiped at my arm and yanked me to the ground, giving me another mouthful of turf, then delivering a sharp kick to the back of my head. My vision went blank. I hardly registered the pain. There it is, I half-thought a second later, when the flash of agony bit into me. Jeremy stood over me, his mouth agape, his lower lip drooping.

“Who are you?” he said.

Gravity had never felt so potent, nor sleep so imminent. The earth was beckoning me to stay a while, cradling me as vertiginous forms—house, mailbox, Jeremy Angelis—swirled overhead. In a superhuman act of desperate strength-squandering, I pulled my torso upward and clung to Jeremy’s leg, and sunk my teeth into his meaty calf. My mouth was full of his wiry leg hair. Jeremy let out a shriek. His blood flooded my mouth, hot and foul, tasting of old pennies. Then I was on my feet again; Jeremy had effortlessly pulled me up and was now staring into my face, frenzied and bewildered.

“I have no fucking idea who you are,” he said, seemingly to himself.

I managed to land a sucker punch to his jaw, and then he was on top of me. We rolled in the grass, and his fists were battering rams and my chest felt like a paper Japanese sliding door; was he ripping me open? Pain, everywhere. A punch connected to my temple and I saw darkness. I didn’t know where it was all coming from- other than Jeremy, of course, who was like some sort of demon boxer.

“Stop it, stop,” I moaned, and Jeremy stopped. He panted, sitting on his knees on top of my groin area. If I weren’t in such casino oyna pain, and I didn’t hate this boy so very much with every fiber of my being, it would have been an incredible turn on.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Why does this shit keep happening to me?”

I rolled out from under him and started staggering to my car. He stared at me, dumbfounded, still sitting in the grass. Then I turned around, and kicked him in the arm with all of my considerable might.

Jeremy howled. I galloped to my car, limping and bleeding profusely, and Jeremy was following me at a cautious pace.

“I will run you over with my car, you FUCKER!” I screamed at him, struggling to open the door—my hands were vibrating, I was full of movement and hurting and everything was dizzy—

My hand managed to capture the elusive door handle, and then I was inside my car, shuddering. I locked the door. The keys were still in the ignition, and the car let out a banshee screech as I raced down Brookbend Avenue, away from that monster.

My car had a mind of its own—dancing on the wrong side of the road, which twisted like a grey ribbon. Seasickness overcame me, and the contents of my stomach rose and poured from my mouth into my lap, as I struggled to roll down my window. It suddenly dawned on me that I was in someone’s front yard, careening toward a pine tree.

I let out a yell. Where are the brakes? I wondered, and seeing as they were playing hide and seek with my feet, I attempted to steer back into the road, where I hit a stop sign and turned the car off.

I leaned my head back and emitted a sour death rattle of a sigh. The pungency of my vomit overpowered all other senses. My hands shook, fumbling for my phone. I called Nikki. I was so tired. Voicemail. I hung up. No one to call. Not Mona, anyone but Mona. No sense in complicating things. Walt. I didn’t really think about it, just pressed the green button, and then some ringing, and a tunnel voice: “Hello?”

“Help me,” I tried to say, but my tongue had a mind of its own and it came out “Ffluer blugh.”

“What is it? Where are you?”

I struggled to find the green street signs, staked into the ground like informative heads-on-sticks. Waverly and Brookbend. I hadn’t gotten as far as I had thought.

“Waverly and Brookbend,” I said, and hung up, dry heaving until some clear liquid dribbled out of my mouth and onto my shirt, not bothering to move. I felt a little better. Then I fell asleep.

I woke up because Walt had opened my door and suddenly I was falling out of my car. He caught me, and my scent, and wrinkled his nose.

“What is all over you?” he asked.

“I threw up.”

My pants were soaked through, clammy and uncomfortable, and little dried up things clung to the fabric.

Then I was in Walt’s car, and he was talking loudly and asking me questions and shaking my shoulder, and then we were in his apartment on his couch and he was undressing me.

“No,” I whimpered.

“I’m just going to wash your clothes. You smell terrible.”

The room was big and white and nice and the couch was white, and I was vaguely aware that I was bleeding on it. I felt bad and rolled off onto the ground, where he had for some ungodly reason a white shag carpet. I gave up.

Then he was back with a first aid kit and touching all the spots that really hurt with a wet washcloth. I was on his bed now.

“Oh, gross,” he said, picking out pebbles and pieces of grass from a gash on my palm.

“Sorry,” I said.

“What the hell happened to you? Did someone run you over with a lawnmower, or what?”

I explained to him about staking out Jeremy’s house and attacking him.

“Did you at least get him good, too?” Walt grinned. His face fell a bit when I told him no, I don’t think so.

“If I had been there…” Walt said. He didn’t need to finish the thought. His humongous biceps weren’t just for show, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” I said, for probably the thousandth time.

“Well, at least you canlı casino tried,” he mused. “That’s far more than I would ever have given you credit for. Maybe I underestimated you.”

“Some of the blood around my mouth is Jeremy’s,” I offered. “I bit him in the leg, pretty deep.”

Walt laughed. “So you gave him a souvenir or two. That’s not too bad.”

I half-smiled, but it made the cut on my lip hurt and crack open. There was a mirror on his ceiling, oh what a nasty pervert was Walt, and I could see myself in all my mangled glory. Pasty skin polka dotted with ugly bruises and red marks. My face looked the worst, like some sort of hideous chimera, half human, half zombie. My socks were still on, and I was a little embarrassed to be wearing white briefs, and not something cool like boxers. Walt seemed like the boxers type.

“Can I just… sleep a little?” I asked.

“Sure,” Walt said. He flicked on the fancy flat-screen television to some old Western, and I dozed off to horses whinnying and gunshots sounding and dramatic trumpet music.

When I awoke, the first thing I registered wasn’t the very real pain that dully throbbed through every cell in my body. It was something warm, human heat, and I cracked open my eye to find that I was sprawled on top of Walt, my leg tangled with his, my face buried into his chest. There was a dark patch of drool on his t-shirt.

I jumped off of him with a start, very aware that I was almost nude, very aware of unwanted arousal.

“You’re awake. Finally.” Walt was still watching his Western, but it looked like it was the climax—a cowboy was shooting desperately at everything that moved, cradling a mortally wounded farmer boy.

“You’ll pull through, Gus!” the cowboy promised.

Walt turned the TV off, apparently not very invested in Gus’ survival.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“What time is it?” Mona’s going to flip out…

“Late. It’s pretty late. You’re not in any condition to drive, either. You’re staying here for the night.”

“Uh… okay. I should call my… my wife,” I faltered.

Walt grinned, and I felt embarrassed. “Go ahead,” he said, and motioned toward my cell phone, which was sitting on the nightstand. “She’s been calling.”

I picked up my phone. Twelve missed calls. Twelve? And then I looked at the time, and realized with horror that it was two in the morning.

“What am I going to tell her?” I asked myself aloud.

“Tell her you were beaten to a pulp by the guy who killed Shawn Sousa. Tell her you’re staying at your ex-boyfriend’s fuck buddy’s place for the night. See how she likes that.”

“Um… no thanks.” I put down the phone, delicately. I am in such deep shit right now…

“I ordered a pizza,” Walt said. “It’ll be here any minute.”

“Ugh… I feel like such shit,” I replied. “Got any water?”

“Yeah, I got water.” Walt stood up.

“And clothes?”

“They’re in the drier.”

I started to say something along the lines of ‘can I borrow some of yours?’ but Walt interrupted me—”They’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

There was a buzz.

“That’ll be the pizza,” Walt said and left the room.

Walt’s room was effortlessly elegant. He had a white theme going on. It was very minimalist, very Ikea, with a tasteful potted orchid on the table. Who has a table in his bedroom? I wondered. I don’t think there’s room for a nightstand in my bedroom. Probably because Mona’s shit was everywhere, and whenever I put it away, or even just organized it into an orderly mountain, she’d flip out at me.

“Pete, come have some pizza,” Walt called from the other room.

I wrapped myself in Walt’s—surprise—white comforter, and stepped into the living room. There were dark patches of blood on his couch.

“Hey, I’ll clean that—” blood—

“No, no,” Walt said. “I don’t want you—” straining myself?—”Getting grease and shit all over my comforter.”

“But,” I stumbled.

“Put it back on the bed.” Something in Walt’s tone compelled me to kaçak casino acquiesce, although when I stepped back into the room, naked but for my underwear and pointless, pointless socks, I reddened in fiery shame.

The smell of pizza tantalized my nostrils, and the promise of fresh water made my thirsty tongue weep with gratitude. I sat down at Walt’s dining room table, still mortified to be in such a state of undress, but mostly famished.

“I bet you’re hungry,” Walt said. “It looked like you vomited about three days’ worth of food in your car.”

I didn’t answer, my mouth was so full of pizza. I finished my icy glass of water in four consecutive gulps, and continued my feasting.

“I guess I was right,” Walt mentioned, tossing a supercilious grimace my way. I guessed I wasn’t eating classily enough for him. I put down my pizza in shame, and noticed a fork and knife had been set out. Who eats pizza with a fork? I wondered, and glanced up to see Walt placing a dainty square of pizza into his mouth.

“Nice place,” I said.


“What do you do?” He must be a trust fund baby. This guy doesn’t look like the type to hold a steady job, not with that dirty hair—

“I’m marketing manager at Car Good Auto Insurance.”

“Wow.” I was a little jealous. I’d always felt above being a security guard—I had a dusty Associate’s in… English… but that really petered out and I stopped caring and no one really wanted to hire a guy from West Lake Community College. Now, I desperately felt above being a security guard, and resolved to finally finish the Great American Novel I’d been penning on and off the past decade or so.

“So,” I said. “Shawn was an alcoholic, huh.”

“Christ! You and your ‘was Shawn an alcoholic’! Yeah, he was, fuck, get over it!” Walt snapped. “So he wasn’t perfect! He was depressed, too, you know that? He tried to kill himself twice that I know of. Do you just have that effect on people? Just looking at you makes me want to shoot myself in the head! You’re so depressing! I mean, what do you think is going to happen—I’m going to tell you all these stories about the fun times Shawn and I had, about the crazy sex we had? About how he talked about you all the fucking time? ‘Peter this, Peter that, did I ever tell you about this photo we took—”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You’re not sorry! You’re gloating! Sitting there gloating at me like you’ve won some big fucking prize. Well, get this, buddy,” and Walt leaned over to me and I was terrified and the only thing that kept me from dashing through his door and out of this hellish place was my lack of clothes—”He’s dead. You didn’t win anything.”

“I never said I—OW!” Walt gripped my arm and dragged me up from my seat. He hovered over me like some war zeppelin, and twisted my arm.

“Stop! You’re hurting me,” I wailed, ashamed to feel my eyes brim with tears.

He pushed me to my knees and for a confused moment I was glad because he wasn’t hitting me, but then I realized I was eye-to-eye with the crotch of his pants, and with horror I realized not his pants anymore, because he was unzipping them, freeing his heavy member. I opened my mouth to protest and Walt squeezed my cheeks and forced his cock into my mouth. Frenziedly I started slamming my fists into his legs, choking for air because somehow his dick was in my throat, and Walt easily grasped both of my arms in one hand, the other firmly against my head. I couldn’t breathe—my face was smashed against his pubic hair, and his balls slapped my chin—I was sobbing and choking and hoping he’d come soon. Walt was making lusty groans, oblivious to my choking pain, and I figured out that I could get half a gasp of air when he pulled back and concentrated on that, and not on the shame of what I was doing. My face was drenched in tears.

Walt released his grip and pulled back, and my lips traced the outline of his erection. I heaved ragged gasps and fell back onto his shag carpet, covering my face with my trembling hands. My lip had cracked open again, and a heavy rivulet of blood weaved down my neck to my exposed chest. I wailed loudly, still covering my face, failing to muffle my sobs with my hands. I was half aware that I was hard.

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