Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross
Dean’s father was yelling, the sound echoing off the stucco walls. Dean hated it when his father yelled. It meant he was really angry, and that meant someone was going to die. He pulled up on his window, but his father had installed new locks from the outside, so unless he was willing to take another beating for breaking the glass, he was trapped. Maybe he could hide. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, and hiding was more difficult. His eyes scanned the room and made a quick decision—he headed for the closet.
His bedroom door banged open, making him jump before he got even halfway across his floor. One of his father’s guardians appeared. His large shadow filled the doorway. He didn’t know the man’s name—he never bothered anymore. They were all the same, nameless, brainless muscle that died protecting his father or ironically died by his father’s hand.
Dean swallowed hard as he slowly backed up to the furthest corner of the room, which happened to be by his bed. His heart hammered in his chest as the man stepped further into the room. Dean’s eyes flicked to the gun in the guard’s hand and wondered if tonight was the night that his father lined him up for execution as he’d done with so many others.
“Tu padre te quiere,” the guard said.
“But he’s angry, and I don’t want to see him.” Dean moved a little further away from the guard. He had nowhere to run, but he didn’t want to get beaten again. The bruises were still dark that lined the left side of his body.
“Please don’t make me go. I won’t tell him that you did,” he begged and knew that if his father heard him, he’d be beaten within an inch of his life for sure.
The guard’s eyebrows drew down over his eyes, his jaw tight with obvious annoyance as he marched toward Dean. As the man rounded the end of the bed, Dean launched himself over the bed and ran for the door. Before he could make his daring escape, the man crashed into him from behind, and he smashed into the wall face first. Sliding down the wall, Dean landed hard on the floor, dazed, and gasping for air. He wanted to cry out as pain exploded behind his eyes. His bloody nose meant that it was probably broken, but weakness in any form would only infuriate his father further.
The guard grabbed his arm in his massive hand and squeezed hard as he was dragged to his feet. No matter how hard he tried to pull away, the iron-like fist didn’t loosen in the slightest. He knew where he was being taken. His father had a sitting room attached to his office, and this was where he spent most of his time and usually had most of his depraved fun.
As they neared the room his father was in, he looked up at the guard and tried one last time. “Please, not tonight. Let me go for just tonight, and I won’t tell him. All you have to say was that I wasn’t in my room,” he was trying for sympathy, but he should’ve known that wouldn’t work. His father handpicked the men that were around him all the time. They all had two things in common. The first was that they were loyal fuckers, and the second was that they all loved the same type of debauchery.
“Mejor Tu que yo.”
“And here I thought it was better you than me. I will remember this.”
Dean cast a dark glare up at the guard, memorizing his face in case the day ever came that he could escape. He had a list, a list of those that if they were not already dead, he’d make sure they were before he left.
The guard sneered at him as he tossed him through the wooden doors into the room. Dean stumbled, and his angry gaze lingered on the guard before he turned to look at his father. The doors closed loudly behind him, effectively sealing him in and to whatever fate his father had planned this night.
“Ah, my son.”
“Father.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest but bowed his head in submission. Better to not enrage him.
“Tonight, you become a man. Come look what I have for you.”
Dean flinched as his father wrapped his arm around his narrow shoulders. Dean had no interest in whatever his father had planned but followed him to the adjacent room that already held the lingering scent of metallic blood and fouler things. A man and a woman were on their hands and knees, bound and mouths gagged.
Dean thought he recognized the man as someone that did business with his father and the Cartels, but so many faces passed through the halls it was hard to be certain. The woman he didn’t recognize at all.
“This is your gift.” His father waved his arm toward the two people kneeling. “Well, what do you say?”
“Thank you, father.”
“That’s better. You need to learn respect. You are too much like your mother with that defiant mouth.” His hand unconsciously balled into a fist as his father dared to mention his mother.
“Well, have at it.” His father wandered over to the large wooden desk and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The bottle was already almost gone, which was also not a good sign.
“Father, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them.” The glass slammed down on the desk sending alcohol flying. His father marched toward him, and he instinctively flinched back, then sucked in a breath to hold still as the fist came for his face. He closed his eyes a second before the blow struck. His already sore face took the powerful strike, blood flying as he crumpled to his knees. Groaning, he held the side of his face, and Dean stared across at the two strangers. His eyes locked with the man’s, and they shared a moment of understanding. Like flies in a spider’s web, they were all stuck.
“Get up!”
Dean pulled himself to his feet, his head pounded, and the room swam a little, but he knew that if he didn’t stand, the night was going to get a whole lot worse.
“This is why you need to learn your role. You should already know what is expected of you. You are going to run this cartel one day, son. I keep telling you that you should be more involved.”
Dean swallowed and tasted blood. He didn’t know what to say to make this night end faster. One thing was certain—he would never run the cartel. He would die before he was put in charge.
His father turned his large fist, sinking his fingers into the woman’s hair. She screamed through the gag as he pulled her crudely to her feet. He had a terrible feeling he knew where this was going, and his suspicions became a reality as his father bent the woman over the desk. His father snapped his fingers, and the guard that had been standing in the corner stepped forward and grabbed the rope that held the woman’s hands together.
The man on his knees tried to get up, but Dean shook his head at him, trying to tell him that was a mistake. The man didn’t take the hint, and the guard that had dragged Dean in here picked the man up like he weighed nothing, only to slam his ass down in a chair. The man struggled in the guard’s hold, but much like Dean had conceded to his fate, so did the man as the guard easily held him in place.
“Now, son, this is what you do when your father gives you a gift.” His father lifted the bottom of the woman’s dress, balling it in his hand at her waist. A tearing sound could be heard as he ripped the underwear she’d been wearing off her body. She wiggled and tried to scream again, fighting against the two powerful men.
Her underwear hit him in the face, and he looked up to his father as the man laughed. “Smell them, son. That is what a real woman smells like.”
Every part of his face ached as he made a face of disgust. A hard crack sounded as his father smacked the woman across the ass.
“I said smell them, or she gets another. ”Dean stared at the white material, and he slowly brought the small piece of fabric to his face when another crack sounded. “Faster!”
The woman was now whimpering in steady sobs, tears running down her cheeks as her ass clearly showed the bright red of his father’s palm print. Dean quickly realized this was another of his father’s lessons. Dean didn’t know what he was supposed to get out of this one, but his father only tortured him with more than physical pain when he wanted Dean to learn something. Dean crumpled the material in his hand and held it to his nose but didn’t breathe in. His father laughed a deep and deadly sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the two guards smirked.
He made the mistake of staring the woman in the eyes. Her fear was palpable as she begged with her eyes for one of them to help her. If he could, he would have killed his father and the guards, but even at fifteen, he was a skinny kid and no match for one of them, let alone all three.
The unmistakable sound of a zipper sounded loud in the room. Only the woman’s increasing whimpers were louder. Dean didn’t want to watch this. Sadly, he had watched his father rape women before tonight. It had become a regular occurrence that he managed to avoid by hiding, most of the time, but there had still been many times he was ordered from his bed to watch these events. Once more, the man behind him fought the guard holding him and fell silent as a fist connected with a loud thud to the poor man’s face.
His father stroked his cock for the room to see, and Dean realized that his father was sick on so many levels that he knew he couldn’t begin to comprehend yet.
“Hold still bitch!” Three more hard cracks sounded as his father’s hand came into contact with the woman’s ass. The woman buried her head into the desk, and Dean looked around for a weapon, any weapon, but other than what the guards had on their person, there was nothing. With a mighty grunt, his father forced himself into the woman.
“You see, this is how you treat a woman. They do as they are told, and they speak only when spoken to—do you understand?”
“Yes, father,” came his patented response.
“If you want to fuck one, they should ask how do you want it? Not struggle unless you like that, of course.” And smile curled up at the corner of his father’s mouth. “You are going to like this one, boys. She is tight.”
The man in the chair regained consciousness and struggled hard a couple of times, trying to get Dean to help the woman--his wife, most likely. Another sick form of torture his father would relish in. Beads of sweat formed on his father’s forehead as his hips worked, and the sound of slapping flesh and the banging of their bodies hitting the desk created a sick drum-like rhythm. Dean pictured anything other than what was in front of him, his mind using the sound to create a visual that took him away from this life.
It hadn’t been as bad when his mother was here, but ever since she disappeared, the abuse had become worse and more frequent. He had no idea what happened to his mother, but he suspected his father had everything to do with her disappearance. Dean had simply been too afraid to ask, to find out the truth.
His father groaned as he finished, then smiled at the guard holding her hands. “Your turn.”
The men swapped places, and Dean was forced to watch the show all over again. This time the sounds of pain coming from the woman were almost too much as the guard took the woman up the ass. Dean held still, making sure never to deviate his eyes from hers, but his mind was not in this room.
Once the third man had his fill, Dean’s father smiled wide at him. He looked ridiculous as he stood watch, his pants still undone and his semi-flaccid dick hanging out. Dean lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping that would end this misery, but he should’ve known better.
“Come, son. It’s your turn.”
Dean’s mouth dropped open the underwear forgotten fell to the floor. “Father, please don’t make me do this.”
The rage that contorted his father’s face into a vicious snarl was enough to terrify anyone. His father stuffed his dick back in his pants and marched toward him. Dean unwisely backed up quickly toward the door and stumbled over the decorative rug, and then banged into the small table that would hold a drink for guests.
Much like he’d done to the woman, his father grabbed him by the hair and yanked him over to the woman’s ass that was still naked and on display. She was dripping with sweat and semen, and Dean’s stomach turned as she stared at the gaping holes.
“You will fuck her. You will fuck her and become a man. I didn’t give birth to a pussy.”
Dean had the strongest urge to correct his father that he indeed did not give birth to him, but he was already in way over his head, so he kept his mouth shut.
His father held his head a few inches from the woman’s exposed ass and then kicked her ankles hard, making her whimper louder.
“Spread your legs wider, so my son can get a good look.” His father’s fist gripped his hair tighter and pushed until his nose was touching her soft folds. “Smell that. That is what a well-used pussy smells like, son—the aroma of the Gods.”
“Father, is this necessary? I already know what a pussy is?” He tried to sound bored, but his heart was galloping faster than the wild mustangs that roamed their property.
“Get your dick out now!”
* * *
Dean sat upright in bed. The thin sheet that had been covering his body was soaked with sweat.
“Fuck!” He jumped from the bed and leaned over the desk, his large fist making contact with the heavy wood over and over again until the polished surface was slick with his blood. Dean straightened and stared out the dark window—his father’s smiling, smug face reflecting back at him. He fucking hated his father before that night, but when he was forced to rape that woman and then kill her husband. There was no coming back from that. The relationship was done.
He remembered clearly what it felt like to kill that guard that forced him in that room that night, the look of horror on his face as he awoke, choking on his own blood. Dean had stood over him and made sure that he was good and dead.
“I told you I’d remember,” Dean had whispered in his ear.
Dean stood straight, his chest heaving, his hands still clenched in fists. One day he would get his revenge, one of these days, his father would pay for all the shit he did to him, and worse, made Dean do.