The thick and hazy morning air wafting through his tiny lungs was suffocating, a small child laid beside his mother, spotting with those tearful azure eyes weak and shaky breaths heaving from her labored chest. The only sign that he could see that she was still there, despite the littering of dark spots upon her body, and her eyes screwed shut hiding her own matching pair of watery blues behind dark eyelashes, was the fluttering of her eyelids in tentative, quiet fervor. A loose shudder racked her small frame, jittering through that child's delicate arms as his hands, tiny and frail, remained firmly grasped in tight fists upon the sleeve of her shirt, almost appearing tethered to her side. Just shy of his grip was her own hand, warm reds seeping through gnarled fingertips, a thick cut through tattered, beaten clothing severing the fine skin underneath.

Of course, the boy didn't know what to do about that. Any timid attempt to look at it, as if sensing his gaze, the woman would turn on her side, stroking his head of unruly gold before resting upon the ground once more, heaving a tired sigh as distant rambles and rants, along with the fair sound of doors slamming and furniture falling, made her flinch beneath him. His young eyes and ears could only hear and see so much, and for that moment, despite the racket that came barreling towards them for the far hallway behind him, he stayed, though he couldn't deny that inky black that settled in his gut the closer that thumping came, loud, angry words cutting the air around him.

Between the instinctual need, that desperation, to remain with her, to help her, to stay with her, stuck with him, manifesting as the crumpling fear that grew nastily behind his eyes and formed as tears that slid lazily down his cheeks, the wish to hide away, far from the loveless, choking shadow that loomed just beyond his view.

He knew it wouldn't make a difference, his tiny voice amongst the indomitable dark pressing on him as he twisted his head around on slow, reluctant cogs, feeling his resolve wither ever more as those wide eyes looked ever upwards at the towering beast in his midst. His head, that brain that mulled around his little head, demanded that he shout, scream, defy that crushing black, but his heart, thrumming so wildly in his chest that all he could manage, through his tight throat, were a mess of whimpers and snivels. Perhaps it was the smoke that clung to his nasal passages, filtering a fine layer of mucous and phlegm in his throat, thicker than syrup, more viscous than molasses, dribbling down his nose at the sight of it. At some point, he vaguely realized, he'd begun crying, burning, stinging tears, leaving streaks of cleanliness through the filth of his cheeks. Of course, he made no move to wipe them away, only grasping harder at the sleeve, that dirtied, mottled sleeve tightened and bound in his fists.

It was strange to think that even doing that didn't really comfort him, finding no strength in his voice worth his forcing through his throat those pitiful cries in his stead. Of course, he tried it, over and over again, even as a yellowed grin stretched across that man's face, gross and wide through the haze of the cigarette between his teeth. Empty eyes looked down, down at his own wary ones, wide and shaken with terror so tangible that he felt his bladder cease, warmth engrossing his pants and soaking into the sullied carpet where he kneeled. Thrum, thrum, his heart pounded and danced between ribs of his own, pressing closer to his mother's body, grasping tighter, ignoring the sensation of her pulling away from him, easing down and away from the deplorable stench that stung his eyes. Singed his eyes and cloaked him with that twist and turn in his gut; there it was, egging him on, pushing his body and throttling his thoughts to and fro just as calloused hands, contorted, wriggling free of the bottle that they gripped, that man's smile stock still though he reached down, down towards the boy.

He was afraid. He knew it well.

"D-daddy...," He felt no more able to resist it, no more than an insect as the swatter bared down upon them. Just like a fly, he sat there, frozen, breath hitching at the touch of the rough skin to his own; primal, intrinsic, was the desire, still, to stay close to her, though he felt not the power to back any longer, that he resisted, pulling away from him when the man tried to yank him from the floor.

At least he would have if he were strong enough.

Lifted from his rooted place, the safety and sanctity of the murky, muddled carpet, the child couldn't move, couldn't think; all he could think was 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy', tiny body trembling violently in his father's hands, terror and anxiety made tangible if only by the tremors that racked his form, or the way his eyes remain unblinking, tracking with startling accuracy the black pits that looked into his own. He couldn't stop it, his heart. Some odd moments in the midst of this, the child felt faint, barely registering the slow drawl of a laugh from chapped and dark lips before him, head lolling about his shoulders in a dizzy spell.

But he tried anyway, though the choice wasn't his own.

In that same moment, the man, the beast, watched, fists tight and unrelenting on his tattered. dirtied shirt. It was mildly funny, he found, in his drunken stupor and listless amusement, how he could scare this kid shitless. Taking into account the state of his wife, casting an idle glance to her unconscious, or at least it appeared that way (the bitch had an odd way of playing the part of a defenseless when it counted), he felt the trail of a chuckle playing on the wide grin that distorted his features. It was all so comical: the crying, the drama, the boy's feeble attempts to fight back. He knew, all-in-all, the boy was a pussy, a little cunt that pushed when he shouldn't and said too much when no one asked him to. Who could blame him if he had to show the little shit what happened when he dug in things that he shouldn't have?

Thinking back, he didn't it was all that unreasonable to say that he was pissed off. Taking a drag of his cigarette, low and slow before blowing it into the child's face, watching as his little face twisted with distaste at the oily, slick smoke at crawled along his features. Tiny coughs, wracking him through the shivers and trembles, parted the clouds of hazy detest guiding his eyes to the ground, tears having stopped through the dryness of his eyes. It looked as though he wanted to say something, he noticed, chuckling, still, but leaving it there.

His look, made the child's blood run as cold as ice, those eyes, made vacant, black abysses as far as he could recall in recent memory, inky pools that of an animals', waiting and prowling on him.

He didn't understand, couldn't understand, why.

Why did Daddy do this? Why was Daddy doing this?

Why did he look like the monsters that he hid from in closets, from that which hid under a child's bed; every look, every touch, rough and hurtful, always waited and pressed to eat him whole. It hid right there, in the darkest corners of those dark, empty eyes, biding its time to feed and drain him. He was scared, terrified, wanting to know most of all if this was his own fault. It had to be, he pondered, distantly pondering if all he could ever do was make the man angry, though, with this, he knew that this time that had to be the case. It was just behind his reach, the shards of a broken bottle and its contents laid waste on the floor a distance away. It seemed so innocent, lying there, unmoved since this all began; if he hadn't known any better, it wouldn't still be there, wiped up with a napkin and they would all be together, watching tv or playing a game.

At least, that's what Kwan would say.

But he was different.

All he did was mess up, mess up stuff he didn't need to. That's why his Daddy was doing this, right? That's why he was angry, always angry, and it was all his fault.

Who else could but him? It was his own fault, and he had known it, too.

It flooded his senses, tobacco, and alcohol collectively burning themselves into his mouth and nose so profoundly that he reeled back, squinting his eyes to avoid the pungent mist that filtered through his every pore, his every orifice. It felt as though even his blood had curdled, sticking to his veins as the gross substance worked its way through him, biting down his airways and tightening about his lungs. It hurt to move, to think, as was the case when he was near him, the older male's presence making it hard to filter his thoughts.

That's why he deserved what he got. Why he had earned this.

Clicking his mouth, the man chortled, each thunderous cackle causing his thick, burly arm to shake, throttling the boy to and fro. Pulling him closer and pushing him into the back wall, further, yet further still, from his away from his mother, that depending void cutting closer, falling deeper. It was quickly becoming harder to hear her breathing, to see her as the hulking shape of the shadow pressed the distance between the two of them. Abruptly, he stopped, letting the boy go, though his thigh blocked him as he leaned down to face the five-year-old, smirking at the reddened cheeks and eyes squeezed shut, mirroring the look of his mother a distance away. The man took out his cigarette and picked at his teeth, wiping orange plaque that had settled onto his nail onto the shirt of the boy, though that didn't work to get a rise out of him. As a matter of fact, none of the jabs or shoves seemed to deter him, much to his irritation.

"Hey, open 'yer eyes, boy. I'm talking to you." No dice. Still, with this, the child made no move to listen, pressing into the wall that cradled his back in objection to what he could feel as the tensing air, little hands, gripping his shirt on either side before sliding down to meet the carpet again. He almost cracked at the feeling of a harsh hand pulling at his matted locks, the stark throbbing intense enough to elicit a shrill cry from the boy, but still, he made no move to open his eyes, remembering in his head what his mother, on a day much quieter than this, told him in his ear like a secret playing for his ears and his ears alone.

It told him to remain still, remain quiet. Through his closed eyes and pocketed words, he would wait. Wait until the monsters went away, she would tell him as she did the same.

Even when he yelled and screamed and her, she was quiet.

Even when he blamed her for things she didn't do, she was quiet.

Even when he hit her, pushed her, punched her, she was quiet.

His mommy was always right. She was always nice, and kind, even if she didn't always help him.

So why did he want to cry?

Why wouldn't he go away and be nice like she said that he would? Why was he yelling at him, and screaming at him like he did to mommy even when she closed her eyes?

More tears, burning hot on his pale, dirty cheeks made it hard for him to see, and the snot stuffing up his nose hard to breathe. Over and over again, the older man shoved him into the wall, hurting words, awful words, eating up his resolve. It was in those moments that he thought of opening his eyes, bearing the full brunt his father's eyes upon his own, and though he didn't understand it too well, he knew it would make him happy to see that he had gotten him to do what he wanted.

Then it stopped.

That, too, tempted him to crack them open, just to see what had happened. Then he heard his voice, picking out the coy words even in the encompassing void of the world behind his eyelids. It beckoned him, another plume of suffocating smoke brushing against his face and filling his blood with the choking taste and sticky filth.

Even though he knew he couldn't do anything, nothing to stop what would happen, he still had to try.

"Ah, I see whatcha tryin' ta do here..." Pulling out his cigarette, at least, that's what he figured he were doing (since he couldn't see, after all), there were a few quiet moments where felt as though the older man had left, but he knew better, the looming silence breathing overtop of him. It simply sat there, and in that same breath, the boy was confused, but he didn't have much time to mull over it, his father appearing to turn away, thundering footfalls in steel boots casting a roar through his back and feet, threatening to throw him off balance.

There was rustling, like the fluttering of clothes somewhere beyond his reach, the disgruntled groan of a woman's voice awakening something primal in him; he stopped, the quiet ring of his mother's voice loosing his wish to say the words that danced upon his tongue and played on his lips that quivered with protest.

Be quiet, be still.

Quiet.

Still.

But her voice stirred him, primed him, chancing him a moment's look.

Yet even so, his effort was for naught.

Thankfully, he wouldn't have to fight this desire much longer, his father's voice returning to his ears like knives along a cutting board, grating his senses from the tempting stupor he'd fallen into.

"Thought you had wizened up, huh? Thought you'd follow her lead, huh? The stupid shit she tries to pull, too?" More rustling, more movement, though this time, he could hear something hit another, and a shaken whimper tremble from her lips. In the black of his non-sight, he couldn't imagine if she was doing the same thing, closing her yes, being quiet like she told him to.

Maybe she was; who could know?

"Or...are ya just tryin' to act all big for this stupid bitch. That's weird; don't look like she appreciates that too much, do she now? You should see the look on 'er face." This time, there was a squishing, muffled cries from beyond the black chasm that dressed the world around him. Perhaps he had imagined it, maybe his mind had made it up, but he thought he could hear a zipper, and the intensifying struggle of that smaller voice before a hit resounded again, this time silencing it completely. The rustling, the shifting of clothes; his heart pounded with fear as the sound of the slaps grew quieter, repeated over and over on his virgin ears, something he didn't understand. Were they laughing? He could hear them, growling like dogs and making weird sounds...

There was nothing he could do to change his fate, was there?

"Ugh - boy. Open...open your goddamn eyes. See...see what mommy and daddy are really like - fuck!" Daddy was out of breath? What was happening? Why was mommy laughing?

What was going on?

All of these questions were unconscious to him, his young curious mind thrusting him forward with curiosity.

Then he opened them.

And what he saw made him confused.

"M-mommy?...Daddy...what are you-" Cut off by his mother that pushed into his father's intensifying thrusts, hardly minding the wide eyes that laid plastered on them, brimming with tears as he began to back away. His father looked at him, striking him with those ugly pits for irises that almost appeared to taunt him, grunting as he buried himself further in his mother.

What were they doing? What did this mean?

He didn't understand why this was, what this was; he wanted to look away, to shut his eyes and close his ears to the sounds and sight of it all. This wasn't something that he liked at all.

With all of that effort, there was nothing to show for.

"A-Allen! Hnnn...!-"Her handed traveled down, down to the little thing his father was in, and she moved vigorously, laughing more as far as he could see.

Then it hit him.

Did it feel...good?

Did mommy and daddy like it when they did this?

Did they like when they touched their private parts and hit each other? They were laughing, right? So they had to, at least, it made sense to him, he thought. Wiping his nose on his arm, he watched them finish, white milk dribbling from beneath his mother as their laughter died down. His father pulled away, pushing the woman off of him before taking her clothes to wipe himself and tossing them back to her a moment later. He didn't however, pull up his pants, his now softened member swinging to and fro before the child; he didn't like how it looked.

It looked...weird.

Was that his special place? He thought that Mrs. Snagglesworth said that you weren't supposed to show it to anyone. Was Daddy okay with showing it to a lot of people?

No matter how he screamed, cried, and begged...

His mother, too, left unclothed on the ground, but she looked...sad. Again, the child was left perplexed, to say the least. She was laughing just a moment ago, but she didn't look happy? Crawling towards her, he didn't notice the small flinch as he sat in her lap, laying his head upon her shoulder. The woman was silent, turning her head away as small tremors wracked her body just as they did to him not so long ago. Thinking back, he could recall what she had done, what they had shown him; looking at his tiny hand, he could vaguely reason what he thought would be the right choice to make. Taking one last look at his mother, he slid from her lap and onto the carpet beside her, placing one hand upon her thigh before he called her name, a whisper in the now stale air.

"M-mommy? Are you okay? I can make you feel better...," The woman didn't look at him, he knew, but he sobbing stopped, if for just a moment to regard, even though her voice was short and irritated. Through gritted teeth, she spoke.

...it did nothing to stave off the terror in his heart.

"Michael, I don't feel like dealing with you right no-," She could hardly register the sensation of a tiny hand between he legs, shaking and rubbing upon her groin. A moment passed before she caught them again, those hopeful, bright blue eyes that framed a smile on his lips.

He was...touching her.

And immediately, she felt disgusted. Repulsed by the notion, though...she found herself leaning into the strokes, stifling a moan that played on her lips before she spotted it, that glitter in his eyes as he laughed, too.

What was she doing?

What the fuck was she doing?

"Michael, no! Stop!" It happened so fast, the contact of her hand to his cheek, sending him back a few steps to which Allen remarked with a chuckle, leaning down to pick up his pants from over by the couch.

"Damn, Mira. I mean, gotta give the kid points for trying-" Pausing, the two of them glanced up at the sound of the boy standing and running off to the back rooms, and for a moment, the woman debated going after him but it didn't remain long, resting back on the floor, turning her head where if had been just moments before, though the sensation, the didn't cease, the feelings didn't pass. It wasn't her fault that he looked, that he couldn't just shut his fucking mouth at times and just not...not...

Whatever, he would get over it, sneaking a glance to the room he had run into.

What was wrong with that boy?

She couldn't help the flinch moving through her as she saw the older man stomp by, those padding footfalls blaring beside her before dying off in the direction that her son had gone, the small room that he had been allotted. There was the vague sense of duty that burned in her, almost that of an obligation to say something, anything; that was her job, her lot in life.

To protect that boy for as long as she could, right?

That was the path that she chose, what she thought she had wanted...but in those moments before, where she had been lying there as her husband antagonized Michael, she couldn't honestly say that she had wanted to be in his position. As she laid there, she could be made to be left alone, to not be hit for a few minutes.

The sound of Allen's footsteps was quickly fading out to the sound of the television as he neared the back of the rancher. Her heart lilted, thrumming with anticipation at the prospect of her taking another shot for him, but it died out on still lips that pursed and formed a fine line upon her bruised face. Leaning back, the hand that had begun to reach out as if to touch the older man was lowered, grazing her side before she stood up, though not quickly, a dull throb of her backside hindering her movements.

Gazing at the television, she didn't bother putting her underwear back on and took a seat, though not moving to change the channel, knowing that Allen would be back soon.

In the back room, a small hand cradled a stinging cheek, plastered shock and disbelief etched so deeply into his features that he could hardly stand to breathe, the stench just beyond the door reminding him of whence he'd come. At least here, amongst the layers of dust that appeared to paint everything white, floating gently on wistful air currents before landing on the small blankets that had been laid flat upon the murky carpet, did he feel as though he could think. Though he reminded himself, pushing further into the corner furthest from the door (the one he always chose), he shouldn't make too much noise, but it was hard to remain quiet when the new budding of tears forced a hiccup from his throat, the child trying his hardest to silence the sniffles that resonated from him.

It made his heart hurt, his headache; moving his other hand, the one that he had used, his watery blue orbs skated over the surface of it, minding not the tremble the wavered through it. What had he done wrong, he wondered, crumpling into the odd corner he'd looked to first before collapsing into it, turned to face a wall that was similar to that he'd been near before. Splintered wood breathed around his arms, grazing them and leaving light scratches upon the pale surface, though the child hadn't noticed. Not beyond the now dull sting of his cheek left a brazen red or the hurt that lied within him.

It was supposed to make Mommy happy, it was supposed to make her laugh; that's what Daddy did and she was. That was the most he had ever seen her look like that, though he still didn't quite understand why there was so much stuff coming from her mouth; was that what happened when someone was super happy? He couldn't remember ever doing that when he laughed, but there was that one time when Kwan and Dale were making really funny jokes, and he had laughed so hard that milk came out of his nose. Thinking back on it, it wasn't so fun when he had to help clean it up, but that's the closest that he, in recent memory, could recall looking a little bit how Mommy did.

So why was it when Daddy did it, did she laugh and look happy?

Another idea struck him.

Taking his other hand, the one that had been nursing his reddened cheek, he pulled at the helm of his sweatpants, still smelling of urine but he didn't mind so much. He didn't have any trouble doing so, since his underwear often didn't fit and were loose. There were many times that he had to go to the nurse to get new underwear when the other kids said mean things about how he smelled. Even Ms. Lulamoon, the nurse, didn't like the smell, once asking where he had gotten his clothes, recalling that he had told her that his mom went to a funny place called 'the garbage' to find him clothes and stuff. Mommy and Daddy weren't happy to know that he had told someone that, but he didn't know that it was supposed to be a secret. From then on, he made sure to never tell anyone anything; his arm sometimes still hurt from the place Mommy had hit him when she found out.

Through the many holes in the tiny fabric, he could spot his own special place, lying limp against his inner thigh.

His looked...smaller...than Daddy's?

Standing up, he finished pulling his own pants and underwear, leaving his bottom half bare and uncovered. Looking down, he poked it, giggling at the weird sensation that it brought. It sort of tickled, he thought, going to poke it again and again before taking his index finger and stroking it, surprised to see that after a bit, it looked different.

"It's a...balloon?" Quietly, he pondered, poking at the engorged member with fascination before stroking it again, Was this why they laughed? He wanted to laugh too, he found, though he couldn't deny how it felt funny, and it made him confused. Just then, a cough from the doorway of his room caught his attention, Allen bordering on the frame, a newly lit cigarette in hand and a bottle of liquor in the other. Quickly, the child went to cover the privates, the echo of Mrs. Snagglesworth's worth whistling between his ears, knowing full well he wasn't supposed to let anyone see his no-no place. To this, the older man chuckled, taking a swig of his drink before stomping over to the boy, as he always tended to do, and took a seat on the blankets, splaying out his feet so that his stained underwear could bear the light, opening himself up to the boy.

Michael still didn't move or remove his hand, even turning away from his father, but that didn't last when the older man's voice called to him, booming over the mantra that had paid their time in his head.

"Found you kinda like that, huh? You like touchin' it?" To this, the child reluctantly nodded his head, though he was still trying to discern how he felt about it. Sure, it felt funny, he thought, but why did it feel so...weird? Allen, placing his cigarette between his teeth, beckoned for the boy to come to him, and despite his reservations, the child, padding softly upon the carpet and to the spot beside his father. Still covering himself, they sat like this for a few moments before Allen spoke again, eyes firmly trained on the small hands that hid away his now softened member, licking his lips before parting them to speak.

"So what are ya hidin' it for? No reason to do that for me." Taking a drag of his cigarette, the man rested back on his free hand, moving his cigarette from between his lips and putting it out on the carpet, moving to bite back and stomp at the small flame that appears once it had made contact with the muddy fabric. His now free hand moved to pull away at the child's hand, though he was peeved to find that the younger of the two flinched, subtly pulling away until his back was turned to his father, though Michael didn't miss the irritated click of the former's teeth. Quickly, he tried to recover the situation, feeling the air almost constrict with tension.

"M-Mrs. Snagglesworth told us that this was a s-special place, Daddy. You're not supposed to look...," For a moment, nothing happened, that is, until a large, calloused hand fell upon his shoulder, turning him to face the yellow sneer of the older man.

"Oh yeah? Is that what she told you? That your dick is special or somethin'? Bullshit. Let me show ya somethin'." Moving to take the hand from his crotch once more, he encountered little resistance before he forced it from him, revealing what he thought was amusing. Snaking his second hand around to touch it, the older man grinned at the tiny squirm the child made in response, and he noticed that his mouth ran agape, like a fish out of water wishing for air.

"D-Daddy...you're not supposed to-," The sound of a hand slicing through the air and colliding with his opposite cheek almost appeared to silence the air itself, following in short by the beginnings of a sniffle, the child cupping the other side where the start of a bruise had appeared just as quickly. Going back to stroke the younger, the older man stopped and grabbed a fistful of his hair, dark, empty eyes again staring into woeful blues.

"I already told you to shut the fuck up about that dumb shit, didn't I? Ms. Snaggletits or whatever her fuckin' name is doesn't know shit about anything, so why don't you keep your mouth shut for once." Thrusting the child's head back as he released his mess of blonde hair, his freed hand grasped at his member, applying light strokes despite the quiet cries of the former.

As annoying as it was, the older regarded the child in the midst of it, eying him as the sobs died down and a conflicted smile broke out on his features, the child rocking his hips to the rhythm of the large, rough hand that slid over his member. Hell, he could feel his own cock beginning to press against the fabric of his underwear, going to rub at his own. Smirking, he increased his pace before stopping abruptly, leaning down to take the child's length in his mouth, much to the confusion of Michael who had since yelped in surprise and fear.

What was happening to him? What was Daddy doing? He didn't...he didn't like this at all, but it felt...good? But it also hurt?

Hot, burning tears brimmed the corners of his eyes as the feeling that he would burst, unable to stop the strange laugh that was coming out of his mouth, forced past his throat, in short, heaving breaths as the feeling grew ever stronger.

Then his father released him, tendrils of clear fluid dribbling from his tip and onto the blanket beneath them. He flinched as his father took one more roundabout the softened member, licking his lips to take in each and every morsel upon his tongue. Michael needed a moment to collect whatever thoughts that he could muster, though that proved to be a harder task than he thought it would be, whimpering as his father stood, having since closed his eyes, welcoming the encompassing dark. He likely would have stayed there, if not for the tap on his stinging, bruised cheek, forcing his eyes open to the sight of his father's own cock, dripping a weird, clear fluid the child didn't know that name of that looked a lot like his own.

From here, it looked scary and strange, but Allen's words caught his attention, however, distracted he may have been.

"It made you feel good, didn't it? When you were touched down there? When I put it in my mouth?" Through his tears, the child thought about it for a moment, and if he were honest, he didn't know how it felt, how he should feel. It made him laugh, it tickled, kind of, but it also hurt? Was it supposed to feel that way? Was it supposed to tickle and hurt? Looking up his impossibly tall father, the child nodded, though still unsure of what he thought. He didn't know if he liked it or not, but seeing his Daddy smile when he said that almost made his insecurities melt away, knowing that he could get him to be happy like this. The older man pumped his own length, letting loose that weird growl the child had heard earlier.

"Good, because now it's your turn. Now you're gonna make me feel good." Michael didn't understand.

He was supposed to do what Daddy did to him? A few moments passed, though the child could see that he was getting angry.

"You want me to put it in my mouth, Daddy?" He didn't know why, but something about this felt...bad.

Really, really bad.

Backing away, he didn't get far until his father's hand yanked at his arm, pulling him back before pressing it against his face, the throbbing tip smearing its contents upon his face; the sharp ache of his face resounded full force as the man brought him closer, leaning down to whisper into his ear.

"Yes, you little shit, I do. That's what you're supposed to do; didn't you know that?" Inching his member closer to the child's mouth, Allen watched him for a moment, seeing if he would follow suit. Michael eyed the stiffened object with emotions the older man couldn't place, but it didn't matter much, he figured, deciding in that same breath that he would try something different. He would do it, one way or another.

"You...you are? Does it make you happy, Daddy? Make you laugh like Mommy?" Allen chuckled, giving a quick look to the disjointed woman just a room over. It was weird; for a moment there, he wondered if she knew what he was doing.

Whether she gave a fuck at all.

Not that it made a difference to him.

It only made things easier, after all.

"Yeah, when I'm fuckin' Mommy in her ass damn right it makes me happy. It makes Mommy happy, too. Even if she isn't willing to admit it." In her butt? Michael thought that was pretty funny, even if he didn't know what 'fucking' meant. Was that what they did? They liked fuckin'?

"You and Mommy like to fuck? You do it because it feels good? It tickles?" Looking down at himself, you poked at his own member, limp once more.

It didn't feel like anything.

"Pretty much. That's all there is to it. Now, you want me to feel good, don't you? I want to, but you wouldn't say no to that, would you?" Tipping his hand beneath his chin and pointing his head upwards, back to its initial position, the child nodded silently, not taking his eyes off of the object pressing painfully into his sore cheek, and the man didn't take his eyes off of his mouth, slightly agape but not wide enough to fit it in. Taking his free hand, Allen pulled down on his lower jaw, widening his mouth a bit before the child, once again, pulled back, tears brimming in his eyes.

'Not this shit again...,' The older man's mind mused irritably, biting back the urge to shove it down his throat. The last thing he wanted was the little asshole using teeth on his precious cargo, shivering at the thought.

"I'm s-scared, Daddy. It's too big-" Snapping his head up, the older man's face was less kind, less open, worn with agitation as his cock throbbed with need against his face. He wanted to help Daddy, he wanted to make him laugh; it's just that knot in his belly, thick and twisted with fear.

"Scared? For what? It's just like...just like a lollipop. You like candy, dontcha?" A little smile appeared on his lips, nodding vigorously at the question.

He loved candy!

Even though Mommy and Daddy never bought candy, Mrs. Snagglesworth always brought it to class when they were good, and sometimes, Kwan would give him some if he didn't do good in class. He wasn't always good in school, but Kwan and his friends would always try to cheer him up. His favorite were the little cups of peanut butter with the chocolate on top; he would have to ask Mrs. Snagglesworth what the name of it was since he'd forgotten.

He wasn't too good at remembering things, either.

"Like candy? I love candy!" Beaming, he hadn't noticed the older man slowly pulling his member towards his gleaming teeth, smiling back with reddened, dark gums, and yellow teeth of his own, though that smile couldn't be further from genuine.

"You do, don't you? Then there should be no reason why you won't love this. Just remember one thing-," Leaning forward and pressing his mouth to one of his ears, he spat ",...if you bite down or stop at any point, I'll beat the ever-living shit outta you, understand, boy?" The child froze, stock still as the man leaned back up, smile having returned.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go slow, you know, get used to it, then you do what I did. Get a taste for it, heh." Michael wanted to stay just like this, hair raising and bristling in the absent breeze, but he knew his father wouldn't be happy if he did. Staring down the shaft, he opened his mouth to allow his tongue passage, sticking out the appendage to swipe along the tip itself. It tasted funny, he thought, scrunching up his features up the smell and texture of it. Looking back up, he half-wished that he had closed his eyes again, the peeved expression of his father more than enough to make him swallow his doubts and do it again, even as the taste didn't subside on his tongue.

'This tastes like rotten eggs!' The child voiced to himself, taking in a bit more of the tip but being extra careful to watch his teeth. Licking more vigorously, his stomach lurched with quiet joy at the sounds his father was making. It told him he was doing a good job, that he liked it, and with that, he chanced to take in more of it, though it hurt to keep his mouth open that wide, he did it anyway. The stench of sweat and must filled his nostrils as he went about the tip, jumping as that calloused hand took his head and pushed him to his father's crotch, retching through each thrust and brush of the end of his father's member to the back of his throat.

Moaning, Allen could feel the pressure building, building until he couldn't help but grasp at the child's head and release into the cavity, not acknowledging the desperate struggle around his cock.

'Fuck, that felt good,' The man uttered under his breath, holding the boy there as the last of his seed sputtered from his tip. He could hear him, his racking sobs through the way it hummed around his softened appendage, thinking that, despite having just finished, how he could almost work up another erection if not for the fatigue that set over him at that moment. Pushing the child to the floor, Allen pulled up his under, and regarded the former with a tired expression, having grown bored of their exchange.

"And don't you spit it out, either. Swallow all of it. Each and every drop, ya hear? It would make me even happier if you did." It wasn't exactly a lie, he reckoned. All the times in the past that he saw the other kids he'd played with swallow 'him', it gave him something strange. A warm, tingly sort of feeling, though that could have just him getting hard...again. Michael, through his tears, did just that, choking back the thick, bitter sludge until nothing was left in his mouth, gazing up hopefully at his father, a wavering, jittery smile breaking across his features. He had to know if he had done a good job if his Daddy was smiling, and he was, though the look was odd, he thought, nothing like the happiness he saw earlier.

It looked...meaner?

"I won't, Daddy! S-see? Did I...did I do a good job?" Holding open his mouth, the child caved into discomfort as nothing was said, Allen ignoring the question with a turn and a grab of his bottle as he left out of the room, leaving the child, once again, on the murky carpet in the musty, dusty air of the backroom.

Was that it?

Had...had he done something wrong?

Something in him wanted to chase after him, to grab at his shirt, to pull him back just to hear that laugh again, to have him smile like that again. Oddly enough, Michael couldn't even tell what the man had been feeling in the moments after he had left, his little heart pounding with fear and apprehension, the tang of salt of sweat on his lips not helping the sickening flips that his stomach had been doing the very moment he had swallowed. On that, he clicked his mouth, whimpering at the beginning of a tummy ache; he hated when this happened, knowing that they could come out of the blue. They always happened when he felt scared or angry, like now, as he crawled back to his corner, huddling close to the splintered wall with a dejected drag of his feet, making no move to wipe the crusting substance around his mouth.

It didn't taste like candy at all.