Chapter 2: Mother Takes Charge

Deidre Icke, the president of the Institute of Apotheosis, shook her head as she stared at the camera feed of her two sixteen-year-old children each lying unconscious in separate storage rooms, locked inside and kept away from the others in the Institute.

It was all falling apart.

Guilt pressed down on her. Dr. Blavatsky entrusted his dream to her, leaving the Institute in her hands. She was charged with guiding the cult to finishing the creation of the Halos, locating the twelve new Gods, and setting in motion the enlightenment of mankind. It was all going so well, and then Ulrich Geller betrayed them.

And now so had her children.

Alex used the Gemini Halo, the special one designed to awaken a pair of twins, one soul separated into two bodies, a different perspective to finish off enlightenment. He was seduced by greed. She thought she could trust her son. Alexis, his twin sister, tried to stop him, inadvertently triggering the Halo. It was just a machine, a colony of nanites that would activate for anyone.

Deidre’s ex-husband and Master walked in. The sight of Robert stiffened her spine. Once she thought she’d ruined their relationship with her affair. They had grown apart and she found comfort in another man, but the new Gods had shown her something more. That she deserved to be punished by her ex and then that she should be his sex slave.

She found such joy in submission.

“They’re nearly done with the destruction,” he reported. “The hard drives are all shredded and in the acid baths, and the physical documents are being shredded and dumped into the incinerator.”

Deidre nodded her head. She glanced at the screen. Alexis stirred. She was sitting up, her dark hair spilling off her shoulders. She looked confused. Deidre swallowed. Her daughter was a Goddess now, but the wrong one. Alexis looked around the bare storage room and shouted, fear on her face.

Despite the guilt at failure, relief rippled through her. A tension melted out of Deidre to see her daughter awake. Her Master’s hands clamped his hands on her shoulders, strong, gripping her. She leaned back into him.

Alex came awake next, his head casting around. They had to keep them locked up. They couldn’t allow their powers to stop the Institute from completing their mission. The Judas Protocols had to be completed. None of the Gods could have the technology of the Halos. Only twelve were ever supposed to be produced.

And only Dr. Blavatsky and his wife understood the technology enough to recreate them from scratch. And they were gone, passed beyond into the next phase of existence, waiting for the rest of mankind to join them in enlightenment.

Will it even happen now? Deidre wondered. Is ten correct Gods enough?

Emotions whipsawed through her as she pressed a button on her keyboard, activating the microphone. Anger at her son slammed into a yawning terror swelling in her of his power. Then there was the awe. He was different now. Both her children were. The Halo and its nanites had elevated them.

“What have you done, Alex?” she asked her son, her voice quavering. A tremble raced through her body. “Why did you activate it?”

Sirvard Vahan – Cancer

I trembled as I held the gold circlet, the box open before me. The text message I just received burned in my mind. It promised an escape from my husband’s abuse. Everyday I forced myself to believe he was right. I told myself over and over again. Sometimes I believed he had the right to discipline me, to lord over me.

Was donning this an act of defiance? I glanced out at the street, the box lying on our porch. Inside, my daughter, Anahit, was taking dinner out to the table to feed my angry husband and our son, growing into the same sort of tyrant as him. At sixteen, Edvard had grown into the same sort of man as his father, following in the same dominating footsteps.

I pitied the Armenian girl he married.

I pulled off my hijab, exposing my black hair to the world. No one should see me. My cheeks burned for uncovering myself. I felt so naked. Anyone could see my hair. I placed the halo on my head and...

A tingle raced through me. My brain prickled like it had fallen asleep. I shook my head, my heart pounding. I leaned against the doorway, swaying as a wave of darkness washed across my eyes. I blinked, staring out at the street and—

A car drove by.

Gasping, I hastily covered the light-blue hijab over my head, hiding my hair before anyone saw me. I trembled, the tingling swept through my body. I closed the door. I leaned against it, my chest rising and falling as I looked around inside my house.

Why did I do that? It couldn’t really change my life the way the text said. What would my husband say if he ever saw it around my head? I closed my eyes, hearing my husband and son moving to the dining room.

“Where’s your mother?” growled my husband.

My daughter’s answer was too low for me to hear. She never spoke loud, her head always bowed. She knew her place. How she had to act. Especially around her father. The way he looked at her, his eyes considering. How long before he lost control of his lusts? It wouldn’t be the first time he had cheated on me. I wouldn’t have the strength to stop him from molesting our daughter.

I headed for the dining room, smoothing my skirt as I walked. I took a deep breath, putting on my submissive smile. I had to be a good wife. I had to follow my faith. My husband was the lord of the household. I didn’t have any power.

My slender daughter ladled the fish stew into her father’s bowl. She was dressed modestly, her face wrapped up in her flowery hijab. She had porcelain features, her cheeks pale white, her dark eyes demure and downcast.

My husband, stroking his thick beard, stared at her with such hunger, his eyes flicking down her body. Her dress showed the swell of her modest bosom. A strange itch rippled through me at the way he stared at her. She was a blossoming girl, just so beautiful, and her father wanted to pluck her and ruin her.

An anger swelled through me. A dangerous thing. I had to stay in control. If I showed any defiance, I would deserve the beating he gave me.

Anahit plunged the ladle into the stew and pulled it out brimming with the hearty fare. My husband’s finger caressed her hand to her wrist, meeting the hem of her dress. My daughter gasped at the touch, flinching.

Hot stew spilled across his chest and lap. He cursed, bolting to his feet. Rage crossing his face. My daughter whimpered, cowering before his fury. His hand raised up to strike the poor girl. Of course she flinched. He shouldn’t have touched her like that. Not even our conservative imam would accept incest.

“Don’t hit her!” I gasped out of reflex, unable to stop the anger in me.

My thoughts prickled and burned. I gasped as a dizzy wave washed over me. My husband’s hand, halfway to striking our daughter, halted. He blinked his eyes. He shook his head, then his gaze snapped over to me.

I blinked away the fuzzing darkness and ... My husband ... listened to me. He didn’t hit her. But ... but ... no amount of pleading would stop him. In fact, if you cried and begged him to stop, he would feed on it. It would inspire him to keep disciplining me, to make sure that he had beat any defiance out of me.

His murderous gaze fell on me. I trembled, my heart thundering in my chest as he clenched his fist. He marched around the table. Our son, tall and handsome, his cheeks smooth. He had a rich tan from working outside like his father. He watched, nodding his head in approval as Garegin undid his belt.

“You think I do not have the right to discipline my daughter?” he demanded, his eyes burning.

I should fall to my knees, beg for his forgiveness. I should be a dutiful wife and mitigate the pain that was coming, but ... I told him not to hit her and he stopped. My daughter stared at me, a mix of fear and gratitude shining on her face. I had protected her. I had...

Taken control of a person in my life. Just like the text message said.

“Don’t hit me!” I gasped as Garegin raised his leather belt to whip me.

My husband’s arm lowered as the pain prickled across my thoughts again. I shook my head, blinking through the pain as such a bewildered look crossed Garegin face. He raised his hand again, his face contorting, his beard bristling as he struggled to whip me.

“Father?” Edvard asked. He stood, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“I...” Garegin shook his head. He dropped his belt. “Whipping her with a belt is too good. I should use my hands.”

I watched in awe as he balled up his fists. I stood there unafraid. I told him not to hit me and he ... couldn’t. He squared himself up before me, cocking back his arm. I stared at his knuckles, facing him without fear. His body trembled. He was frozen there. His temple grew flushed. His cheeks, what was visible thanks to his beard, quivered. His lips tightened and his eyes grew furious.

“What have you done to me, women!” he growled, his voice going thick. He spoke in our native Armenian, English never allowed in this house. “Have you put a spell on me? Are you a witch?”

I swelled. I had power. My daughter clasped her hands before her, her eyes so wide. They were filled with ... hope. A smile crossed her lips. My son stood, his chair squeaking back. He drew in a few deep breaths, his handsome face flicking for a moment through fear. Then he swallowed it. Shaking, he marched around the table.

“What have you done to him, Mother?” he said, trying to be a blustering man like his father. He clenched his own fist. “You have to ... you have to release your spell.”

“No,” I said. Was this a dream? How was any of this possible? How could I keep my husband from hitting me? “I do not have to do anything you want.”

These defiant words spilled out of me. Every moment it became easier and easier to speak them.

“Yes, you do!” Edvard said, his voice sounding almost petulant. He stopped before me, trembling. “You have to. You’re a woman! His wife!”

“Yes, release me!” snarled Garegin said, his eyes wild. “You will listen to me, woman!”

“No!” I said.

My son grabbed my arm, squeezing hard. His fingers were iron. He had his father’s strength. His face grew hard. I could see his need to dominate me. To keep me in line. He had to act. He had to put me in his place.

“Yes!” Edvard snarled, his right hand raising up to discipline me.

“Do not hit me, either!” I ordered. “And let go of my arm!”

As the pain fuzzed across my mind, a small price to pay, my son released my arm. His face went pale, the anger melting into fear. He stared at his left hand, fingers flexing and clenching. His right fist, still raised, trembled.

“No, no, no,” he said.

My daughter’s pink lips swelled in a smile. Her features so lovely. I could see why her father would lust for her. She had my beauty at that age. The beauty that had attracted Garegin to me. Then I thought I was lucky to have the handsome man courting me, wanting me for his wife. My parents approved of the marriage. He had talk of coming to America, of escaping Syria and building a life. I supported him.

When riches didn’t come ... It was my fault.

Now ... I had the power. My son and my husband stared at me with that fear I used to feel. My body straightened. A smile crossed my lips. I didn’t have to beat myself down. I didn’t have to kowtow to my husband’s lusts, suppressing my own desires.

My eyes flicked to my son, his cheeks smooth, showing off the line of his chin. Then my gaze returned to my husband. He stood there trembling, his hand tugging at his beard. Anger flared in me. “Go shave off your beard right now!”

Pain stabbed into my brain. I swayed as my vision went dark. I blinked my eyes against it, my head shaking. As my vision cleared, my husband had already fled from the dining room, his footsteps thudding through the house.

“How are you doing this, Mom?” Anahit asked. She moved around the table towards me, her eyes so wide.

I cupped her cheeks when I reached her, stroking her. “You don’t ever have to be afraid of your father or brother again. I’m protecting you now. I love you.”

“Mom!” she said, her eyes shining. She was such a beauty. I could see why my husband lusted after her.

A strange, jealous itch shot through me. I was the woman my husband once lusted for. When we first married, the first time I stripped naked for him, he had stared at me with such boyish lust. I felt so loved at that moment. Despite my fear of having sex, the way he stared at me made me feel like a woman, made me ready for him. I found pleasure in it then.

It had been so long since I’d experienced pleasure with him. I was just a hole for my husband to rut in, when he wasn’t fucking someone else. When he wasn’t coming closer and closer to violating our daughter. He wanted her so badly.

How long would it have been before he lost control?

A razor buzzed from the bathroom.

“Mother,” my son said, his voice quivering. “What ... This...”

“Quiet!” I snapped at him. “You are no better than your father. He raised you to think it was okay to beat women, but it’s not!” Pain rippled through my mind. “You should worship women. Love them. Do what they want. Do you understand?” I waited, but he didn’t answer. “You can speak!”

“I...” His eyes widened as he stared at me. “I ... I’m so sorry, Mother. I ... I should love you. Worship you.”

Something in his eyes, that hot glint I once saw in my husband, burned in his. I shuddered, feeling like a woman for the first time. Not a wife. Not a mother. But a woman. A heat burst between my thighs as this handsome, young man flicked his eyes up and down me. A smile crossed his lips.

“Now you just sit down,” I told him, giving him a smile, some of my anger dying. Strange, perverse thoughts rippled through me. All those desires I had tamped down to force myself into the mold of a perfect, Muslim wife now brimmed through me.

I didn’t have to fit in that mold. I didn’t have to force myself to be something I wasn’t. I could just be myself. I could let myself blossom. I shivered, beneath the lust my son stirred an anger simmered at my husband. He forced me into this.

He needed to pay for that. For all he had done. I glanced at my daughter, her beautiful features that my husband lusted for, the hijab hiding her silky hair. I grabbed the scarf, pulling it away. It whisked as I drew it down.

“Mother?” she asked, trembling as I drew it off.

“You don’t need to hide your beauty,” I told her. “You don’t have to conceal it, Anahit. We’re in America, not back in Syria.” My thoughts prickled. It wasn’t as intense, like it wasn’t taking much for me to impose my will on her. “Trust your mother. Do whatever I tell you.”

“I do trust you, Mom,” she said as her black hair spilled about her pale face. She smiled. “It’s really ... going to be different?”

“Of course,” I said. “Your brother and father have to listen to us now. We’re in charge.”

Her smile grew.

I leaned in and brushed my nose against hers, nuzzling it like I had when she was a child. That heat in me sent such wicked thoughts through me. I didn’t have to suppress them. If I had a lust, I could express them.

No one could harm me now. The Halo had sent me free. I didn’t understand why it was sent to me, but it had liberated me.

The bathroom door opened. My husband appeared, his face fresh-shaved, revealing the doughy jowls. He wasn’t the fit, young man like our son was any longer. He couldn’t look at me as he stood there, his manly beard gone.

“Look at our daughter,” I said. “She’s a beautiful, young woman. You never should hurt her. Threaten her. Yell at her. She’s a woman. A man should love her, worship her.” I sneered. “You already lust after her, don’t you?”

He nodded his head.

“Say it!” I snapped, my mind burning with pain. I didn’t care. This didn’t hurt as much as being whipped by a belt until I bled.

“I ... lusted for our daughter,” he said, his voice strained.

“You wanted to enjoy her youthful body, didn’t you?” I hissed as my hand slid up our daughter’s back, tracing the seam hiding her dress’s zipper until I found the top.

“I do,” he said. “I ... I want to sleep with her.”

“Father!” gasped my daughter.

“I know, disgusting,” I told her. “To think he believed he could touch you. You get to decide when a man touches your body.”

I drew down the zipper of her dress.

“Mother?” she asked, glancing at me.

“Trust me,” I told her. “Mother always knows what’s best for you, right?”

“Right,” she said, shivering, her cheeks going crimson as she felt her brother’s and father’s eyes on her body.

I slipped the dress off her shoulders, exposing her breasts contained in her plain, white bra. They were budding mounds, little A cups. They were so cute. She looked so yummy. Her virginal panties came into view next. Her father stared at her with such worship in his eyes. Such lust.

“You wanted to touch this body, didn’t you?” I asked as my hands slid up her stomach to her bra.

“I did, Sirvard,” he said, groaning my name. “To my shame, I did.”

“Don’t ever lie to me. You didn’t feel shame.”

He shook his head. “No, no. She’s my daughter. I thought I could enjoy her. She’s you, but young again.”

My face narrowed. “Our son thinks I am gorgeous, don’t you, Edvard?”

“Yeah, Mom,” my son groaned. “You’re gorgeous. You and Anahit both.”

My daughter shifted as I squeezed her breasts through her dress. “Mom...”

“You like it when your mother touches you,” I said, that heat in my pussy burning. This was so wrong. This was what my husband wanted to do, and I got enjoy it. I had never thought of a woman like this, but ... it was so perverse.

I was free to enjoy this. To enjoy anything.

“You are never going to touch her body, Garegin,” I said, my hands sliding along the band of the bra, following around her torso and meeting at the clasp. With a twist, I undid it. “Take off your bra, Anahit, and show your father the tits he’s lusted for but doesn’t get to touch.”

“Yes, Mom,” she said, her voice so sweet.

“And do not be ashamed. Be proud of your body. You are beautiful.” My thoughts burned.

Her back straightened as she slipped off her bra, the straps sliding off her shoulders and down her slender arms. My hands found her exposed breasts, squeezing those mounds, kneading them. My fingers brushed her hard nipples.

She whimpered as I twisted them. Her body shook in my embrace. My own nubs were hard in my bra. My pussy grew hotter and hotter. Wetter. My panties were growing soaked. I had never been this excited. I reveled in my new powers.

My husband stared at our fourteen-year-old daughter’s budding, nubile body. He licked his lips. He looked so pathetic now, lusting after what he couldn’t touch. He’d never get to enjoy her beauty. He’d never get to touch her the way I could.

“Mom!” my daughter moaned as I pinched her hard nipples.

“Mmm, this is what your disgusting father wanted to do to you,” I said. “You like it. Aren’t you glad I’m touching you instead of him?.”

“I am,” she moaned. “Oh, that feels so good, Mother.”

My heart thundered in my chest. I nipped her ear for a moment, my hijab rustling as it brushed her. I groaned. This was all so incredible. I was showing off her body to my husband. I was playing with her nubile flesh, molesting her and giving her such delight.

And punishing the bastard all at the same time.

“Mmm, but I know what you really wanted,” I said. “Say it.”

“Her ... her pussy,” my husband said, his eyes flicking down to her panties. “I wanted to ... lie with her.”

“Fuck her!” I hissed.

He nodded his head.

My lip curled in disgust. “You’re just pathetic. She’s your daughter!”

“I am pathetic,” he groaned.

My lusts swelled. I knelt behind my daughter, my fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. I had to show him what he could never touch. I ripped them down, my head pressed against her right side, staring at him past her. His eyes were locked on her innocence.

My daughter gasped as her panties rolled own her thighs and then fell past her knees. I let go of them and rose. She stepped out of them, and I caught the first glimpse of her shaved pussy. Though Armenian girls weren’t as hirsute as Arabic girls, the other women in our Mosque shaved themselves to keep good grooming, so we did as well.

My husband liked it.

My daughter had a tight slit. I hadn’t seen it since she was a girl. It was developed and puffy. Juices adorned it. She was aroused. Good. She shouldn’t hide her lusts. We were in America. Women were free here.

I wish I didn’t need this power to have this strength, but I did.

I guided my naked daughter to the table. She sat her rump on it. I opened her thighs, exposing her pussy, her tight slit parting. Her pink hymen glistened with her excitement, her folds aching to be touched, her little clitoris peeking out.