thieves; composed by jason john horn

Below is a work I have titled thieves.  It is about a woman who, after surviving a rape during her adolescence, struggles to define her own autonomy via the relationships in which she engages in.  It is a work of fiction.  I have not used quotation marks or paragraph breaks.  I leave it to the reader to interpret such things, and think the ambiguity that sometimes arises adds more depth to the work.  Some passages are broken off with a blank line, some, which are supposed to be tightly juxtaposed with another segment of the narrative are separated only by a slash.  Each segment in turn slips back and forth from a present and a past moment.  This is used again to juxtapose passages that share something with each other so that the reading of one might be enhanced by another.  The omniscient narrator also does not use possessive pronouns, this is meant to challenge our preconceptions of ownership.  It is a relatively short piece, only 75 pages, but it does take a couple of hours to get through it.  Your comments would be greatly appreciated.  Thank you for taking the time to read it.

 

ISBN:  978-0-9877208-1-8

Paper in hand, he reads carefully before speaking: I needed to know you were clean after what you did, that you didnt have any Contagious Diseases.  He disrobes, commanding her to do the same.  But I am still using a condom until you go back to get retested in six months.  Kathrina is glad that the wedding wont be called off, or rather, glad that she wont have to explain the affair to the parents, the friends, the relatives, the students.  She is relieved that there wont be gossip, that the joint account will be unlocked.  But she is not prepared to share a bed with him, nor does she wish to be chauffeured around, or to follow a curfew, but such is the cost of conformity and comfort in this instance.  The parents away, and naivety in bloom within her, Kathrina agrees to visit.  She agrees to the kisses.  She agrees to the touching.  The skirt she wore is quickly pushed up and the pale, freckled flesh exposed by the low-cut top devoured, ravaged by lustful lips as she asks him to slow down.  To stop.  She is lying on the bed, facing the ceiling, as instructed, and Jefferson is mounting her.  There is a coldness about the latex-covered erection, a falsehood about the act itself.  She is dry and unprepared for penetration and he can feel this.  There is a grimace as the tip of the erection pushes in slightly without spreading the lips apart, and he can feel it, see it in the face that is below him and this excites him, makes him stiffer still, and stirs in him a sense of vengeance.  The belt is undone and the zipper down, and she turns away, but the strength exuded by the man-child barely eighteen pulls her to him and the hands with which she had put on make-up, the hands which she clasped together to pray, the hands she employed to play the instrument that was a passion within her are now being forced to gratify him.  The hands with which he steered the car, the hands with which he pushed weights, the hands he used to masturbate, are buried between milky-white legs that have not yet walked or crawled fifteen years on this earth.  There are fingertips pressed between vaginal lips which had been moist with excitement but were now frozen in fear, and the gratification he was receiving was not being returned to her, but instead traded for humiliation.  The vaginal lips finally begin to spread, but it is not painless.  Soon the first inch is in, the eyes he stares at below him closed at first, then opened and turned to the side, unable to look at him and quickly welling up, instilling in him even more excitement as he forces another inch in the unreceptive vagina canal.  She bites down and grips the sheets.  He pulls out slightly only to push in deeper, the vaginal walls remain dry and the tightness brings satisfaction to him, but to her…   The refusals she offers are ignored and the white panties she had put on earlier that day torn off.  A hand is buried in the hair she had dyed the colour he preferred and she is forced onto the knees that she had prayed on so many times at church.  The hands no longer gratifying enough, the man-child has decided he needs the lips, the lips which she whispered prayers through, the lips with which she pushed air through the flute she spent so many hours at practice with, and when they do not open willingly a hand is launched across the face below him; once, twice and after the third time she gives in and performs as requested.  He is all the way in now, though skin has yet to touch, forcefully reclaiming the territory that had been willingly offered to another, the fingers with which he had presented the ring pulling up the hands that clasped the sheets beneath him, weaving them together and in so doing he touches the platinum shackle he had placed upon her, feeling the princess cut across the knuckle and rousing him to smile at how thoughtful he was for getting the cut she had adored so much after reading about it in the wedding magazines.  She cries as the man-child is now between two spread legs.  He looks at the girl below him and sees the tears, sees the mascara run, hears the sobs and the panting and gasping for breath and this all excites him so that he stiffens as he never has before and ejaculates inside her before even a minute has elapsed.  He collapses beside her and looks over at the quivering body, staring at the firm, taut, freckle-speckled breasts as they heaved up and down with each gasping breath. Jefferson looks at the girl below him and sees the tears, sees the mascara run, hears the sobs and the panting and gasping for breath and this all excites him so that he stiffens as he never has before and ejaculates into the condom before even a minute has elapsed.  He collapses beside her and looks over at the quivering body, staring at the firm, taut, freckle-speckled breasts as they heaved up and down with each gasping breath.  When she arrives home, dropped off by the boyfriend she came to know as a rapist, hair and make-up a mess, the mother who birthed her is waiting at the kitchen table watching a telecast by Jack Van Impe.  She sees Kathrina and the mussed hair and make-up and believes that the prophecies she has been spouting have come to fruition.  You know everybody at school is going to think youre a whore.  Dating one who is already old enough to vote?  Four years older than you?  And that outfit?  None of the boys will respect you.  You look like such a slut, and that is all you are!  Kathrina has heard this speech already more times than she can count and all inside a three-week period, but now they are cutting her deeper than before.  As she begins to cry whilst climbing the stairs to the room in which she will spend most of the next year, the mother at the kitchen table smiles silently and proudly.  When she arrives home that night, the mother is sitting on the couch and closes the Bible as she hears Kathrina enter, marking the spot where she had just finished: Leviticus 20:10.  You know you should count yourself lucky to have found somebody like Jefferson.  She smiles silently and proudly./Not aimlessly driving, but with such an appearance he steers, watching the sidewalks, the restless eyes with which he had read so many novels and journal articles, leap from side to side, until he sees one.  Tall. Lean.  He slows the car which with he drove to school, to work, to home, then stops as he rolls down the window.  She is without a flaw, unlike the others he had spotted, those who were aged, obese, those who had discoloured and/or missing teeth, torn flesh ravaged by addiction.  Need a lift?  Im working.  I’ll drive you to work then.  She looks from side to side and reaches to open the door, but he has reached across already and pulled it open for her.  They walk the stairs of the hotel lobby as he pulls out the key to the room and when they arrive he opens the door for her.  As she looks inside she can already see the candlelight, smell the fragrance the melting wax emanates, already hear the seductive and relaxing sounds of a piano manipulated by Thelonious Monk whispering through the room, and the effort put forth inspires her to smile, to blush because she knows what she means to him.  Im Sonia.  Im John.  She almost laughs to herself at the pun, assuming the name he has given is as false as the compliments she had offered to the john she had performed irrumation on thirty minutes prior, but she has heard it too many times for it to be funny.  So what are you looking for?  I dunno?  Well you must have picked me up for a reason.  Because youre beautiful.  She laughs, and blushes internally.  He stares ahead silently and thoughts drift to Kathrina, but Sonia is not patient.  Im working.  I understand.  How do I know you arent a cop?  Im not.  She reaches down and undoes the belt she had only just done up minutes ago.  Button and zipper follow, exposing the organ which in a way inspired the need for the escape which she seeks, and with which she has sustained the addiction that had provided the escape for her so often that the thought of being without that diversion, the thought of enduring the life she had come to know as reality, instilled in her such duress that she would forever submit to both men she knew not, and to men she knew too well were not deserving of the gratification they would pry from her, submit like a woman who surrenders to a rapist who had already drawn blood and imbedded bruises.  And if the need for escape were not duress enough, she must keep the sickness off as well.  Touch my pussy.  His response: a curious glare.  Cops arent allowed to touch.  The hand with which he had written so many exams, and typed so many essays, slides down the opening of the jeans and feels the warm, moist flesh.  Then she instructs him to retract the hand.  So what do you want?  He thinks in silence: To return to what was, or at least forget what is absent, even if only for a moment.  It is a near perfect inversion of the thoughts she does not speak: To escape what was and also seeks asylum from what is.  Finally he speaks.  Whats on the menu?  If you are having second thoughts, if you dont want to go through with this, I wont be upset.  I will understand.  The eyes John looks upon are filled with consent, desire, and Kathrina backs up against the wall and pulls him to her.  She feels the warm lips, the moistness, the suckling and a hand rolling down to and grasping the hips that had garnered the notice of more eyes than she should hope to count.  She looks up at the ceiling then closes the eyes with which she had seen more things than she cared to, and the foreign lips suckle the left earlobe and then move down the neck.  One hand is buried in the hair which she now dyes black and the hand tilts the head back so as to expose the neck and soothes her with lustful and affectionate kisses, soft and hard and thoughtful, the other hand exploring the breasts that she had enticed him with on the first day of class two months prior, then reaching down a rough firm hand is massaging the milky white thighs as lips plunge into her ample bosom the hand continues working slowing to the hot and the damp of the moistening vagina.  A finger reaches the destination, but pauses, waiting for consent to be indicated through inaction, or quickened breathing, or a refusal to be instructed with a word or a hand pushing away.  The quickening breath tells him to continue and he discovers the wetness along the labia minora and he spreads it all around the vaginal lips and to the clitoris, circling it, pressing against it, massaging it, before sliding the fingers back to the vaginal opening and pushing two fingers inside, palm up so that he can curl the fingers up into the g-spot whilst the thumb continues to stimulate the clitoris and the lips still devour the neck and earlobe with lust and affection.  In only a short moment she has already climaxed once, and then he is suddenly resting on knees before her as she stands, balancing and she quivers, hands on the head that she looked at below her.   Well, it depends on what you want.  If you want everything, then it’s a hundred.  Whats everything?  Everything.  Just a blowjob is forty, and just the pussy is eighty.  Im not sure, I dont normally do this sort of thing, and as he speaks he thinks to himself that this sum is far too small for that which she offers, but he realizes also that no fee would truly be enough.  Well, go find a place to park while you decide.  As instructed he drives down an alley to a parking space which he rents during the school year.  It is secluded and quiet, and though lust and desire are swelling inside him, he is hesitant.  So whats it going to be?  He pulls out the wallet that has never held a picture of a lover, nor a child, but only credit cards, bank cards, currency and licences.  From there he pulls out two twenties and lays them on the council between them.  As quickly as two hands scoop up the cash, those same two hands have undone the belt and pants he had put on earlier in the day.  It is a task she is proficient at, having done it more times than she can count and three times already since dusk.  She is stroking the limp penis before her and in an attempt to arouse him grabs one of the hands that he is resting on the steering wheel and thrusts it back to the warm and the damp that has been the inspiration of the pains she has tried to escape and the tool that has provided the agency to feed the addiction that has provided fleeting sanctuary from those pains.  Almost immediately the penis is erect and she is tearing open a condom package and placing the latex over the penis.  The face she is looking down at is soon suckling the clitoris before him, chin pressed into the palm of the hand that is inside her that he might continue to curl that middle and index finger inside the walls of the vagina before him.  The fingers are alternating, moving up and down like two legs running on the same body as lips wrap around the clitoris, gently sucking it in as the tongue he employed to earn class participation grades, the tongue he used to express the desire he held for her is now massaging the clitoris before him against the roof of the mouth for a moment, then pushing it out of the lips smoothly and gently only to suck it back in and massage it, all the while the fingers are still at work, moving from the g-spot to the cervix, circling it before returning to the g-spot.  There are hands buried in hair, pulling and pushing the mouth harder into the vaginal lips and clitoris, tightly grabbing a fistful of hair with one hand, as she places the other on the neck below her, pulling it harder into her as she gasps and pants and breathes through two successive orgasms.  Once the orgasms are done she pushes down gently on the head below her and he knows he is to release the embrace.  Before the mouth that had endured what seemed to her like as many punches as face fuckings even touches the latex covered erection, he stops her.  He pulls out that same wallet and pulls out two more twenties as the lust brewing in him has decided the mouth will not be enough.  She quickly takes it and jumps into the back seat, pulling off the jeans that would be pulled off a half a dozen times again before day break and inviting him into the backseat with her.  The top is pulled off as well, exposing small loose breasts that are nonetheless beautiful, pinkish skin and nipples in the shape of small bullets.  The womanly frame that lies before him is unhealthily thin, the pelvic bones and ribcage visible through her emaciated flesh, but this stirs his desire as he has never been with a woman so thin and it is a new sensation.  Below the belly button is a tattoo stretched from one pelvic bone to the other.  It is the skull of a Texas Longhorn, the horns seemingly piercing the bone beneath the skeletal flesh.  He thinks of the Brahma Bull when he looks at the tattoo, and he wonders what kind of person he is and is becoming, and then wonders if the two are even much different.  He would wish to be neither hammer nor nail.  He is in the bed, nude beneath sheets, watching her disrobe.  The body before him is more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.  She is like a book open to him, and he is eager to read every page, line, word and letter.  He suddenly feels like the painter in La Tentative de L’Impossible, as if the woman before him was one that had been created to specifications dictated by him, but dismisses the thought even as it is birthed because not even he could have imagined or hope to create such perfection.  The soft white flesh of the stomach, the perfectly curved hips, the breasts full, giving in slightly to gravity but still maintaining a beautiful, rounded form, and above all the smile that expressed excitement at the prospect of sharing this perfection with him.  There is a silence for a time and she feels replenished by the way he reads her.  The desire in the eyes that rest upon her fills her with confidence and is perhaps even more gratifying than the orgasms she has just enjoyed.  The moment is not as long as it feels to each of them and soon she is in bed and he is behind her, pulling on the hips before him, pushing deeper inside her, flesh to flesh, she moans, and though the pillow muffles the words, he understands that he has been ordered to slap the generous flesh of the buttocks before him.  She knows the body she has been endowed with, knows how to reach climax, and does so easily with him.  Soon they are spooning and he is inside her from behind, lips are pressed on the back that is exposed to him, on the shoulders, fingers massaging the scalp and pulling gently and firmly on the hair.  He guides the body he is inside toward him but remains inside her and now he is able to reach the clitoris, and as he thrusts in and out, the fingers he has placed there gather the moisture that lubricates the penis as it glides in and out, and he spreads that moisture around the clitoris, allowing him to rub it smoothly and quickly as he is sliding smoothly and swiftly in and out of her.  His eyes fall on the breasts, pale, milky-white, pure, they seem to dance, to recoil with each thrust, to spring.  He tries to stem the orgasm he feels coming,she begins to moan louder than she has yet, he feels a hand reaching back and pulling the lips with which he had been massaging the back before him into the shoulders.  He sucks on the flesh, rubs the clitoris faster still, quickening each thrust, and when the moans turn into screams he releases the seed inside her and allows the orgasm to arrive as he knows she too has been satisfied in the same moment.  The lovers both collapse and look to each other, both chests heaving up and down, and exhausted smiles of disbelief highlighting each face.  She feels the warmth he left inside her and the thought of it comforts her.  Legs are spread before him.  He looks at the body strewn across the backseat of the car.  Desire engorged within him, but still he remains unsure, uncomfortable.  She slides fingers down and spreads the vaginal lips apart, fingering the vagina slightly, not because it brought her pleasure, but because she thought the show would arouse him and get this transaction over with all the quicker.  Then she reaches for the erect penis and tries to pull it to her, but the effort is lost as he has gone limp and he recoils.  I’m sorry.  I cant do this.  You can keep the money, but…  Words could not express the feelings that swarmed the conscience within him, so for a moment he is silent.  You shouldnt have to do this.  But this is just how it works.  That doesnt make it right.  You help me out, I help you out.  I dont want to do this with you unless this is something you want to do with me.  She is not going to argue the point and has the zipper up and the ragged jeans she wore that day back on for the moment.  This zipper will undo later, as will the button she fingers in place.  He does the same.  Are you hungry?  She looks at him puzzled before answering.  Then why dont I treat you to something to eat.  She agrees and after sharing a meal at a late-night Mexican restaurant, he drops her off in front of the house where she will buy the reprise from reality she longs for, though the time with this john served as a subtle reprise in and of itself.  She gives him a number with which to contact her and agrees to meet him for drinks later in the week.

 

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Rambler About Rambler

Jason John Horn is a writer and critic who recently completed his Master's in English Literature at the University of Windsor. He has composed a play, a novella and a number of short stories and satirical essays.

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