Chapter 10: The Calibration

The wagon’s tires hummed a different tune as we left the I-90 west, a sound I was almost grateful for. Through the bug-splattered windshield, a green sign flashed for the small community of Wall, South Dakota. It was a landmark I’d been counting down for hours, signaling an end to the mind-numbing monotony of the journey. But not to the ordeal itself. That had stemmed from the moment of waking and had only intensified, mile by mile.

A twisted gratitude washed over me, a sensation I felt powerless to stop. I knew the words I should be grateful for that it was ending, but all I could focus on was the overwhelming, continuous sensation of Ashley’s relentless mouth. It was nothing short of consuming.

It had been a marathon of the most agonizing kind. Every muscle screamed in protest, not just my arms and shoulders, but the raw, chafed flesh of my thigh. The pain was a deep, throbbing fire. Yet, beneath it, a part of me fixated on the single, wet sound of her efforts, a part that didn’t want it to stop, while the rest prayed for the release that would finally end the torment. I felt powerless to object, forced to endure until I was certain I would break.

Even after nearly a week of witnessing the degradation of my sisters and participating as a pawn in my parents’ sick game, I couldn’t understand how they had brought Ashley to this. I desperately hoped it wasn’t her choice. I had witnessed them force her, a consequence for some unnamed transgression.

The brutality had escalated after my confrontation with them to do this. Their cold words had ignited an impotent rage inside me, a rage I used when I took over, forcing Ashley’s head down harder, pushing past the resistance of her throat. It was a grim way to exert control, to vent the helplessness I’d felt. My actions were relentless, a brutal thrusting that held no remorse in the moment, only a stark satisfaction that I was fighting back. I couldn’t stop, not with their silent approval radiating from the front seats, a threat more potent than any command.

Now, my whole body ached from the sheer physicality of it, from the strain in my thighs and back to the repeated sight of Ashley’s face as I pushed deep into her throat. Her face, pale and streaked with tears, never once attempted to end it. She just endured.

Looking into her wide, glassy eyes, I knew the people up front were not the parents I remembered. They were something cruel and foreign. Ashley’s forehead was slick with sweat against my thigh, her chin a mess. She was still bobbing, but now it was driven by my hand pressing on the back of her head.

I knew there was more to her endurance than just the parents’ threat. It was a deeper, unspoken pact. In her eyes, I saw a flicker not just of fear, but of a fierce, protective loyalty. She was trying to shield me, to absorb the punishment meant for all of us. That knowledge turned my gratitude for the approaching exit into a profound, suffocating shame.

As Dad turned toward the cluster of hotels, Mom turned around. I was repositioning my hands in Ashley’s hair, increasing the rhythm. It was then, for the first time in days, that our mother spoke. Her voice was something wicked, a sound belonging to someone else. I was convinced that part of her, and of our father, was long dead. I looked at my other sisters in the back; their faces mirrored my hollow shock.

What stunned us was her tone, gentle, almost singsong, the voice she’d once used to offer hot chocolate after we’d played in the snow. It clashed violently with the scene in the back seat.

“Sam, honey,” she said, her head tilting with a look of maternal concern. “Are you comfortable? Your dad and I have noticed this ... slower rhythm you’ve settled into. It seems you’ve really picked up the motions.”