Bullied Three Ways From Sunday
Copyright© 2026 by Xanzibar
Chapter 1: Biting Off More Than You Can Chew
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: Biting Off More Than You Can Chew - Lydia Taylor, brilliant son, Carl, who is about to go to college is bullied at school by a lowlife and his friends. After dropping her son off to leave for two weeks she decides to go and confront the parents of the bully. The parent is an ex-con who loses it when she threatens to get the cops involved. He and his two sons subdue her. They decide they are going to train her to be their plaything and a series of humiliations quickly ensue.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction School Cuckold Mother BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Spanking Torture Gang Bang Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Body Modification Foot Fetish Leg Fetish Public Sex ENF Prostitution Transformation
Lydia caught sight of Carl slinking into the kitchen, one hand pressed awkwardly to his cheek. She set the mail down, heart stuttering at the dark bloom of a bruise beneath his left eye.
“Carl,” she said, sharper than intended. “What the hell happened?”
He froze, eyes darting to the floor. “It’s nothing. I just, bumped into a locker.”
She crossed the tile, refusing to let the tremor in her voice show. “Don’t lie to me. That’s not from a locker.” Lydia reached out, but he flinched away.
Carl hugged his backpack tighter. “It’s fine, Mom. Just drop it.”
Her blood simmered. “No, I won’t. Who did this?” She kept her voice level, but her hands balled into fists at her sides.
He shrugged, jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just school stuff. I can handle it.”
Lydia exhaled, fighting the urge to shout. Her son, her brilliant, gentle boy, trying to hide behind bravado. “This isn’t handling it. Talk to me, Carl. Please.”
He shook his head, lips tight. “I have homework.”
She watched him retreat down the hall, the silence between them colder than the bruise on his face.
Later that night...
The house was still. Lydia stood in the doorway of Carl’s empty room, arms folded tight against her chest, staring at the scatter of textbooks and the hoodie tossed over his chair. The purple mark beneath his eye burned in her memory.
She pressed her lips together, fighting the old, familiar guilt. Was she too hard on him? Too protective, too controlling? Carl needed to stand on his own, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering in silence, especially not because she’d missed something, or pushed too hard.
Sighing, Lydia sat on the edge of his bed, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over her. She’d built this life for him, safe, structured, disciplined, so why did it always feel so fragile? Was her strength helping him, or just teaching him to hide his pain?
She closed her eyes, letting the ache linger. Carl was growing up. Maybe the best thing she could do was loosen her grip. But every instinct screamed not to.
Garrett was a damn 19-year-old senior, and the school just looked the other way. They wanted him to graduate and be out of their hair. In the meantime, he was in their hair, particularly Lydia’s son.
Carl has always had an effeminate intellectual nature about him. His father left them when he was younger and it was up to her, Lydia Taylor, to take on the roles of both parents. So, when a problem came up, it was up to her to fix things and make them right. He was not gay but if you asked anyone if they thought he was they would respond to a man he was. Which was odd that he landed such a looker in his science class.
According to Carl that is when the bullying started, Lydia thought that Garrett might have gotten rejected by her in the past and was jealous of her sweet, sweet, boy claimed her as his own. Lydia knew that if she could just get him to college Life would start shifting in Carl’s favor in a big way.
Lydia agreed that she would drop the matter. She did not want to upset him before his big two-week-long visit to MIT in Boston, he would not be back until fourteen days due to the fact they were leaving on a Friday and not returning until the following week.
The Next Day...
Caldwell Airport.
The car idled at the curb; headlights reflected in the sliding glass doors of the departure’s terminal. Lydia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, stealing glances at Carl in the passenger seat. His suitcase waited between his knees; he stared straight ahead, jaw set, backpack straps twisted in his hands.
She forced a smile. “You have your boarding pass?”
“Yeah, Mom.” He didn’t look at her.
Lydia reached over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, old habits dying hard. “Call me when you land in Boston, okay?”
He nodded, shifting in his seat. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a week.” His voice was small, almost hidden under the low thrum of traffic.
She wanted to say something reassuring, something that would make it better, but the bruise was still there, peeking from beneath his glasses, turning every word to ash in her mouth.
Instead, she squeezed his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
Carl gave a lopsided smile, shouldered his bag, and climbed out into the predawn chill. Lydia watched him join the stream of travelers, his shoulders hunched against the world. Only when he disappeared inside did she let herself sag, the memory of his bruise eating at her all the way home.
Later that morning.
Lydia paced around her kitchen with her cell phone pressed tight to her ear. The automated menu droned on,”If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911”, before finally connecting her to the front office.
“Westfield High, Mrs. Lopez speaking.”
Lydia took a steadying breath. “This is Lydia Taylor. I need to speak to Principal Owens. It’s urgent, about my son, Carl Taylor.”
A pause. Paper rustling. “He’s not available right now. Would you like his voicemail?”
Lydia’s patience snapped. “No, I would not. My son came home with a black eye yesterday. This isn’t the first time. I want to know what you’re doing about the bullying problem at this school.”
Mrs. Lopez hesitated, voice suddenly careful. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Taylor. If you leave your number, Principal Owens can,”
“I’ve left messages before,” Lydia cut in, her voice tight. “Nothing changes. I want action, not apologies. Carl deserves to be safe.”
There was another pause. “I’ll make sure your concerns are relayed. Principal Owens will get back to you as soon as possible.”
Lydia ended the call, jaw clenched, frustration boiling beneath her skin. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring with something more than empty promises.
Lydia sat at her kitchen table, laptop open, the screen glowing with the county’s public records database. She sipped coffee gone cold, eyes narrowed at the list of Sullivan addresses. Her finger hovered over Garrett’s family name, there it was. A rundown house on the other side of town.
She hesitated, her mind spinning between worry and resolve. The school had stonewalled her. Carl wouldn’t talk. How many times had she told herself she’d do anything to protect her son? Here it was that anything.
She scribbled the address on a notepad, heart hammering as she gathered her purse and keys. Fear prickled beneath her ribcage, but she forced herself to stand, to move.
This wouldn’t be the first time she had to do something hard for Carl. If the system wouldn’t protect him, she’d handle it herself.
Lydia squared her shoulders, locked the front door behind her, and headed for the car, her mind already rehearsing what she’d say when she faced Garrett’s parents.
One Hour Later...
Lydia pulled up to the curb, her sedan rumbling to a stop in front of the Sullivan house. The place looked even worse in person, peeling paint, a battered pickup truck in the driveway, toys and beer cans scattered across a group of weeds that was called a lawn. One shutter hung off kilter over a grimy window, clapping in the wind.
She killed the engine and sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. The neighborhood was silent except for the distant bark of a dog. Lydia’s heart thudded in her chest, but she forced herself to breathe, to remember why she was here.
She checked the address, double-checked her resolve, then stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. Gravel crunched beneath her flats as she crossed the yard, every step heavier than the last.
At the door, she hesitated, one more second to gather herself, then knocked, wrapping harder than she might have liked. She could hear voices inside, a television blaring, then a thud. A string of profanities, likely from the person that caused the thud,
Lydia straightened her shoulders. Whatever greeted her on the other side, she was ready to face it for Carl’s sake.
Lydia tried to keep her head up as she knocked, but when the door opened, she found herself staring into a wall of muscle and faded tattoos. Edgar Sullivan answered in a threadbare tank top, arms thick as saplings and stained with grease. He looked her over with quick, cold efficiency before shifting his gaze to the battered mailbox nestled in the crook of her elbow.
“Yeah?” His voice was low and blunt as an ax handle.
“Mr. Sullivan?” Lydia said, her voice was firmer than she felt. “I’m Lydia Taylor. Carl’s mother.”
He grunted. The living room behind him was a tumble of mismatched furniture, pizza boxes, and the stale scent of cigarettes. Lydia could see two boys on the ratty couch, Garrett, with his jaw set and eyes narrowed, and another she recognized from school photos as Isaac, the younger brother. Both stared at her, silent and sullen.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to talk. About what’s been happening at school.”
Edgar’s face barely moved, but his knuckles whitened on the edge of the door. “You come to my house about my kids?”
“I came because your son has been harassing mine. This needs to stop. I’m prepared to go to the police if it doesn’t.”
The silence thickened. Lydia heard the faint snap of a beer can popping open. Garrett’s lips twisted into a thin smile.
Edgar stepped out onto the porch, crowding her with his bulk. “You threaten me, Lady?” He was close enough that she could smell sweat and cheap aftershave.
Lydia’s heart hammered, but she stood her ground. “I’m not threatening. I’m warning you. If Garrett lays a hand on Carl again, I’ll press charges. The schools already involved, but I wanted to give you the courtesy, to have a chance to talk-...”
He cut her off with a snort. “Courtesy,” he spat, then leaned in until their bodies almost touched. “You don’t know shit about courtesy.”
Lydia tried to step back, but Edgar’s hand closed around her upper arm, squeezing just enough to hurt but not leave a mark. He totally erased her space and welcomed her into his home “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he said, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Come inside. Let’s talk like adults.” Lydia eyes got wide.
Lydia hesitated, but the alternative was making a scene in front of the entire block. Swallowing her fear, she allowed him to guide her through the doorway. The inside of the house was even worse than she’d guessed: old sweat, undone dishes, untended laundry.
Garrett and Isaac watched her with the predatory stillness of dogs testing a new pack member. She ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed on Edgar as he shut the door behind her with an echoing thud.
She opened her mouth to speak but he held up a finger, gesturing for silence. He stalked into the kitchen, returning with a dripping can of beer for himself and a bottle of water for her, which he placed on the coffee table as if it were an offering to a priest.
“Sit,” he said.
Lydia, suddenly aware of how small she looked in her tailored pantsuit, perched on the edge of a stained armchair. Edgar slouched across from her, legs spread, beer balanced on his knee.
She tried again. “I’m serious, Mr. Sullivan. Carl’s been coming home bruised. The school does nothing. This ends now, or”
Edgar set the beer down and leaned forward. “Or what?”
“Or I go to the police.” Her hands knotted in her lap, but she forced herself to maintain eye contact.
Edgar smiled for the first time, a slow, smug curl of his lips. He nodded at Garrett. “You hear that, boy? Lady says you’re bullying her kid. You want to go to jail?”
Garrett shrugged, but his face betrayed nothing.
Edgar’s gaze flicked back to Lydia. “You want to know what I think?” He stood, looming over her. “I think you’re full of shit. You come here, acting like you’re better than us, but your world does not exist down here. You should have stayed in your bubble bitch. Here you challenge a man in his home you get what’s coming.”
“Listen your idle threats do not scare me Leave my son alone, or I will make your life miserable. You fucking hillbilly!” Lydia spat back.
“Idle threats” Edgar shouted back with a force that shook her to her very core. She felt her resolve leave her at one time. She realized the man was much bigger than her.
“Look call the police think I care, you think they will take us all in, you going to do when Isaac there decides to make your sissyboy pay for sending his brother to jail or do you think I will just sit by and tear us apart.” Edgar snarled.
“Not if you play ball, like good neanderthal Ed’” She cried derisively.
The room went very still. Even the refrigerator seemed to be quiet.
Edgar stared at her, then, with terrifying calm, said: “Get up.”
She hesitated. Garrett and Isaac straightened on the couch, as if some invisible signal had passed between them.
“I said get up.”
Lydia rose to her feet. Edgar’s shadow swallowed her whole.
“You think you can come into my house and insult my family?” He took a step closer. “Bitch, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
He reached out and, with alarming speed, gripped her by the throat, not strangling, but pinning her voice inside her windpipe. She tried to wrench away, but his grip was iron.
“Listen to me, you cunt,” he hissed. “If you ever threaten my family again, you’ll see what real pain is.”
Lydia’s vision blurred. She groped for his wrist, futilely scratching at calloused skin.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Garrett stand, then Isaac. The two boys approached, their faces blank, all traces of adolescence erased.
Garrett yanked her arms behind her back and she heard the sharp click of a belt being unbuckled. In a single, practiced motion, he bound her wrists.
“Let’s take her to the back,” Isaac said, his voice soft and weirdly polite, as if suggesting a parlor game.
Edgar let go of Lydia’s neck and she gasped, vision flickering. He shoved her forward, down a narrow hallway lined with yellowed family photos and the stink of old cigarettes.
They corralled her into a windowless den, bare except for a sagging couch, a cracked TV, and a battered wooden coffee table. Edgar shoved her down onto her knees, his hand heavy on her shoulder.
Garrett looped the belt tighter, cutting off circulation. Isaac disappeared for a moment, then returned holding something black and heavy: a dog collar studded with nickel spikes.
Edgar grinned wide. “You wanna play at being the alpha, lady? Let’s show you how it feels to be the bitch.”
Lydia twisted as Isaac closed the collar around her neck, the buckle cold against her skin. Panic threatened to drown her, but she forced herself to breathe, to think.
“I’ll scream,” she whispered.
“Go ahead. These walls are thick,” Edgar replied. “And nobody in this neighborhood gives a damn what happens on this side of the street.”
He crouched beside her, so close she could smell the sour tang of beer in his breath. “Now, time for some correcting and believe you me, you will be corrected...” He mumbled to himself, “Bitch thinks she will send us to jail. I will be damned if I am going back”
Edgar’s hands moved to his own belt, this time, he looped it and whistled through his teeth. He wrapped the metal part inside his hand and left a lick of leather dandling from a coil he made. Lydia braced for pain. She didn’t have to wait long.
He lashed her, once, twice, across the back of her thighs. Heat burst under her skin, then blossomed into fire. She bit back a scream, but the third strike tore a sob from her lips.
“See if you know how to be a good girl?” Edgar said, satisfaction oozing out of every word he uttered.
He whipped her again. Lydia’s world shrank to the sting of leather, the rough carpet scraping her knees, the quickening rhythm of her heart. She tried to twist away, but Garrett and Isaac held her in place, their grips unyielding.
By the fifth blow, Lydia was crying openly, humiliation burning hotter than the pain. She blubbered apologies, anything to make it stop, promised she’d never come back, never call the police, never tell a soul. A few more to demonstrate the helplessness of her situation. Then Edgar finally relented, tossing the belt onto the couch. He knelt beside her, hand heavy on the back of her head, forcing her to look at him.
“Garret go find the boy and bring him here. We are going to teach that sissy a real good lesson for sending this nosey bitch to try and fuck with our family” Edgar barked out already buzzing pretty good when Lydia showed up.
“No ... he is not here!” Lydia finally managed to blabber out.
“What do you mean he is not here?” Edgar barked out. Lydia still shellshocked, sniffled some more as she did not want to answer afraid they go after him in Boston somehow.
<Slap> “Answer me when I ask you a question bitch” Edgar growled.
“He is at a College Visit to MIT for two weeks, they liked his work with the Robotoics Club” Lydia said with a hint of pride.
“The Robotics club ... what the fuck is a robotics club?” Edgar looked like someone said the most offensive thing ever.
“No wonder your boy is getting his ass kicked.” Edgar said. “Fine your fucking husband will have to do to teach you a lesson.”
“Where is your husband bitch?” Edgar asked.
“I ... am not married” Lydia admitted almost sadly.
“Oh ... so let me get this straight, your boy is gone for two weeks, and you are not married, any boyfriends whose ass I can kick?” Edgar asked getting frustrated that he cannot let his anger out on some poor guy.
“No.” Lydia said started to recover from her hiding. Edgar simply grunted a brief, “Huh” Edgar face lit up as the wheels were turning, he looked at his boys with the most evil smug grin he could muster the boys apparently were on the same page.
“Boys take Ms. Taylor’s keys here. Go to her house you know the drill just like last time.” Edgar ordered.
“Fuck yeah! This is going to be fun.” Garrett said excited. Isaac on the other hand gave a very cold calculating look at Lydia before leaving.
Meanwhile MIT campus Boston
The MIT campus was nothing like Carl expected. Instead of the dour, monolithic institution he’d pictured from glossy admissions brochures, the buildings were a patchwork of brutalist concrete, glassy modern additions, and oddities like the twisted metal of the Stata Center. The air smelled like rain and chalk dust, and everywhere was the electric hum of possibility, as if the campus itself ran on a secret current for those bright enough to tap into it. For once, he blended in. No one gave him the up-down for a wrinkled polo or the way his handshake warbled. He was just another brain among many.
The tour group shuffled down the Infinite Corridor, a glossy-haired admissions rep leading the way. Carl walked near the front, close enough to catch every word. The rep listed programs and innovations, dropping names of Nobel laureates and alumni who’d changed the world. Carl couldn’t help noticing the way her eyes flicked to him every time she mentioned student-led research or how freshmen could run million-dollar experiments.
When the group rounded a corner into the robotics lab, his pulse spiked. A second year showed off the swarm of microdrones they’d programmed themselves, Carl saw immediately the flaw in the drone’s flight pattern and, unable to resist, blurted out a suggestion. Instead of the usual snickers, the other kids pressed closer, and someone even tapped his shoulder and said, “Nice catch.” The tour guide grinned at him, that calculating way adults did when they’d already circled your name on a list.
Later, a recruiter met the group in a lecture hall. He wore a stained Red Sox tie and spoke with the certainty of someone who’d read every application twice. “Young man, your scores are frankly the highest we’ve seen from a public school in your state. Robotics, math Olympiad, that AI project, impressive. We’re eager to see what you can do here, Carl.
Carl felt a little dizzy. Even when his mother told him he was gifted, he didn’t really believe it, not in a town where “gifted” just meant “target.” Here, it was currency. It even drew admiration. A girl sitting behind him leaned forward and whispered, “You’re the kid who built the spider bot? I saw it on YouTube. It’s insane.” Her tone was awe, not ridicule.
Outside, on the quad peppered with chessboards and hacked science sculptures, the recruiter hung back as the rest of the group moved on. “You seem the type who’s already running experiments in your head,” he said, almost conspiratorial. “That’s what we look for. The Institute isn’t easy, but for people like you it’s home.”
Carl felt his chest go tight, then loosened with a kind of brittle relief. For the first time he could remember, he didn’t feel the need to shrink or slouch or brace for attack. He could already picture himself here. Maybe, for once, belonging wasn’t just a word.
Two Hours Later back in Caldwell...
Garrett and Isaac were excited and relieved as they entered Lydia’s house and found no mention of the cops being called nor any evidence whatsoever, Lydia was bluffing. While Garrett looked for the evidence, Isaac went right for Lydia’s room and rummaged through her clothes and left with a couple of her heels and shoes, but most was what Isaac would consider a lost cause. He even found her journal, her laptop, and some jewelry. He went around like a some sort of mastermind with his hands behind his back calculating everything that crossed his vision.
The pair returned to the house with a couple of Lydia’s own suitcases from her house and both smiled a mile wide.
Garrett and Isaac came swaggering through the battered front door, arms weighed down by suitcases, faces shining with the victorious glee of successful pillagers. Droplets of ice water tracked behind them from the snow-stained soles of their boots. But even that faint parade of mischief evaporated the instant they entered the living room and saw what their father was doing to Lydia.
She was on all fours on the den’s threadbare carpet; the studded dog collar cinched tightly around her neck. Edgar positioned himself behind her, jeans dropped to his ankles, pounding into her with the unyielding force of a man whose only measure of affection was blunt domination. His thick, calloused hand was knotted in Lydia’s hair, yanking her head back so her spine arched into a trembling bridge. When she tried to look away from the boys, Edgar gave her hair another savage pull, forcing her to lock eyes with her audience. The moans that spilled from Lydia’s mouth were as much pain as pleasure, laced with a desperate animal cadence that echoed off the unadorned walls. Edgar filled the room with his own guttural grunts, punctuating each thrust with a litany of slurs and insults, daring Lydia to disobey, to break character, to resist even a little.
“You like that, huh? You like being a bitch for real men?” Edgar barked. Lydia’s cheeks flamed, her breath stuttering in short, sobbing gasps. But she nodded, her chin quivering against the collar. “I’m just a...” Her voice caught, eyes darting to the ceiling before she forced out, “a filthy slut who needs to be t-taught a lesson.” The words came stilted, rehearsed, each syllable seeming to scrape her throat raw. Behind her, Edgar’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as Garrett and Isaac dropped the suitcases with twin thuds, their snickers filling the room like smoke.
Garrett threw himself onto the couch, boots up on the coffee table, eyes glued to the spectacle. “Fuck, Dad, I knew she’d turn out to be a freak.” Isaac, more reserved, simply folded his arms and stood by the threshold, coolly observing the choreography of humiliation with a predator’s detachment.
Edgar slowed his rhythm, then leaned forward to press his mouth to Lydia’s ear. “Say it. Tell my boys what you are.” She whimpered, choking on her own spit, but forced the words out anyway.
“I’m your bitch, Mr. Sullivan. I’m your new whore,” she whispered, the humiliation coating her throat like acid.
Lydia tried to focus on the floor, on the fraying edges of the carpet, on anything but the grinning faces of her tormentors. She wanted to dissociate, to float above her body and pretend this wasn’t happening, but Edgar’s relentless grip on her hair and the sharp sting of the collar kept her anchored in the ugly present.
“Louder,” Edgar demanded, raising his palm and bringing it down on her flank with a thunderous smack. The pain was instant and electric, and Lydia’s cry was raw enough to make even Isaac blink in surprise.
Garrett erupted in laughter, slapping the arm of the couch. “Damn, Dad, I’m not sure she’s loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Want us to open a window?”
Edgar didn’t even acknowledge the joke, so focused was he on breaking Lydia’s composure. He leaned back and used her ponytail as a leash, parading her face around for both boys to see. “I want you to beg, bitch. Beg for it in front of my sons.”
Lydia’s face crumpled, but some vestige of pride made her hesitate. Edgar didn’t care, he reached down and pinched the back of her thigh with a grip that left crescent marks on her skin. She gasped and started babbling. “Please, please, I need it, I’m your slam piece, I’m your bitch, please don’t stop!” The plea was the cruelest blend of pure lust and desperation.
The words tumbled out of her in a waterfall of shame. Garrett’s eyes glinted with sadistic amusement, and Isaac’s lips twitched at the corners, betraying a flicker of approval.
Edgar finally released her hair, using both hands to drag her hips even higher. The pounding resumed, harder than before, and the room filled with the synchronized rhythm of grunts, moans, and the wet slap of flesh against flesh. Lydia’s entire body trembled. She felt every eye in the room on her, cataloguing her surrender, and the humiliation was so complete that it became a kind of numbness, a mercy. She had orgasmed more since being taken than she had in the entire last year. He was a brute, but he felt powerful inside her.
“Boys,” Edgar said, not even pausing, “this is what happens when you fuck with our family. You see that? You remember it. Anyone tries to fuck with you, you show ‘em what a Sullivan does.”
Garrett grinned and gave a two-fingered salute, but Isaac was more interested in Lydia’s face: the way her mascara bled into the raw red skin around her eyes, the smudge of snot at the corner of her lips. He wanted to see if she’d break for good, or if she’d claw back any of that lawyerly dignity.
Lydia tried, after the first wave of humiliation passed. She tried to prop herself up, to look Isaac in the eye, to reassemble her composure from the shattered pieces on the floor.
But the boys only redoubled their laughter, clapping and jeering as Edgar thrust her toward the brink of oblivion.
Edgar growled at Lydia and picked her up by the dog collar and pulled her up to his crotch and sneered out, “Clean me up bitch” Lydia whimpered slightly as she promptly suckled the cock that was just pounding her moments before, tasting herself on his member.
Edgar shoved her face down until she gagged, the sound echoing through the bare room. He kept pressure on the collar, forcing her to take him deep, not releasing until his cock jerked in her mouth and she sputtered, the mess leaking from her lips onto the carpet. He wiped himself on her cheek with a grunt of approval and stepped back, tucking himself in and fastening his belt.
He nudged Garrett with a lazy swing of his beer can. “You two want a shot at Miss Taylor’s new attitude?”
Garrett looked at Lydia’s crumpled figure, then shrugged like he’d been offered a video game with the wrapper already torn. He crossed the room and, still wearing his boots, shoved Lydia’s shoulder until she rolled onto her side. He unzipped himself and pushed into the open, unresisting mouth, holding her head in place with the same easy confidence as his father. When she coughed or sputtered, Garrett only pressed harder, thrusting with quick, shallow strokes. He kept his eyes locked on the television, blue light flickering off the sweat on his brow, and never glanced down.
Edgar paced to the kitchen, talking loudly on his phone. His voice carried: “Yeah, that’s right man, she came to the house. Thought she was going to get us in trouble. I fixed her up real nice. She’ll be good now. Might even bring her for poker night. when we are finished with her.” He laughed and the sound filled the hallway.
In the den, Garrett finished abruptly, pinching Lydia’s nose and holding her mouth shut until she swallowed. He spat on his hand and wiped her face clean, then patted her head like a dog before stepping away. “Jesus, Dad, she’s a fucking mess.”