AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Name this flower,” they whisper, as I drop to my knees in front of her. I rest my weight on my hands and arch over her, drawing my body parallel to hers, aiming for her center.
“Obedience,” I say clearly. The word leaps to my tongue as though placed there by someone else. It's a perfect name. Gina nods slightly, her dark curls falling onto the wooden floor behind her head.
“Obedience,” I sigh as I feel warmth grasping at the tip of my cock. It's tight. So tight. Yet welcoming. I push gently, so gently, yet just the weight of me will breach her entrance. She unfolds for me, crumpling like petals. I plunge to the center of this flower, taking its first sweet nectar for myself.
The auntie places the small wooden cross around her neck. Wood reaching for the sky, the celestial pole, held by the horizon of the world. Like a man held by a woman.
She gasps, and for one short second she meets my eyes. Something new is there. Pleasure. She groans then covers her mouth with her trembling hand. I feel her walls convulse around me, quivering in waves of orgasm.
Her eyes get even bigger, then shut tight as her legs wrap around my hips, pulling closer. I have to pull away now. The aunties are getting nervous.
She whispers something I can’t make out. I lean closer to her and put my ear to her mouth. Am I hurting her?
“More,” she pants. “More…”
I can’t give her what she wants — that’s for her Master — but I smile despite myself. It’s done.
She’s ready.
Angel
As the sun goes down, I rush around our small house, trying to finish my chores. We've only got four rooms, five if you count the bathroom. Mama's room, my room, a living room and a kitchen. That's it. I know a lot of people have a lot more than that, but this is all that we need and wishing for more would be wrong.
Mama spent all day with Agatha and Mary in the reclamation shed, sifting through donated items, looking for things we could keep. It's kind of a funny thing that I bet most people around here don't know. Most of what we have was given to us, not made here or bought with money.
The people who live nearby donate huge amounts of clothes to us, dropping them off at the main gate in plastic bags that they fling toward the posts before they leave. We retrieve the bags and bring them to the reclamation shed, then pull out the things that would be useful for us. Bedsheets, towels. Sometimes scarves or table cloths. Mostly, were looking for the large pieces of cloth that we can use to make our garments. And there's n
ot a lot of those in what we are given. Maybe five or six pieces out of every hundred?
When we find those, they are set aside to be laundered and given to the aunties in the sewing shed. Everything else goes back in a bag and one of the Masters will take it to the Salvation Army or the other Christian mission or something back in town. I have never seen the town. I’ve seen other towns in movies, sometimes in pictures in magazines. We get picture books too, and the occasional scrapbook with snapshots from all over the world. These items are not supposed to be kept but if they are donated, sometimes we will indulge. Just for a moment. Then we send them back out.
I bet the people who donated all this have no idea their stuff ends up somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder if they shop at the thrift stores and end up buying some of it back.
The house smells good, like bleach and Pine-Sol. My hands are gritty from being submerged in the soapy water for so long, but I am pleased with what I've done. The floors are clean, and the windowsills are free of dust or cobwebs. I even washed the little window over the kitchen sink that looks out over the tiny, messy garden. The sweet peas need to be picked. I have to do that in the morning.
I hear Mama on the front steps, her boots hard on the wooden slats. She comes in the door with a weary look on her face, the back of her hand already rubbing the space between her eyebrows. I turn away automatically because I want her to catch me in the act of doing housework, not just standing around. Never that.
“Dinner is started,” I let her know, hoping she can smell the pot of stew bubbling on our small gas stove. She nods, smiling weakly. Her job isn’t really that hard. Mostly it's gossiping and plotting with the other aunties, but she acts like she's been digging ditches all day.
“Did you find anything good?”
“Almost nothing,” she sighs as she shuffles toward the kitchen. I see her eyes dart around, taking in the work I've done, but she doesn't say anything about it.
“You'd be shocked what people throw away. Shocked.”
“Well, they're not really throwing it away, are they? They're donating it to us?”
She looks at me back over her shoulder, pushing her braid to the other side. Her eyes narrow slightly as she considers it. I can tell that she was repeating a conversation the aunties must have had several times over the course of the day. It sounded rehearsed. They must have all been shocked at what got thrown away, maybe holding pieces up and laughing, maybe spinning tales about people who previously owned the things we have been given. And I guess I'm the first person today to disagree.
“Go ahead and eat,” I offer.
She pulls a bowl down from the shelf and sits at the table after ladling out a couple spoonfuls of stew. Through the steam, she tips her head and stares at me. I shift from foot to foot, plucking at the long skirts that brush around my ankles.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Oh, not today…” I shrug. “I had some tomatoes out of the garden earlier. Some porridge. Really, I'm stuffed.”
She tips her head forward, folding her hands over the wide metal spoon. Her lips move as she prays for an extraordinarily long time. I know she prayed this morning too. I could hear it when her knees hit the floor. But she just goes on and on. Why does she have so much to tell Him?
