MY TABOO STEP DADDY

(CARLTON’S POV)THWACK!!!Mom’s slap cracks like tires on asphalt. I flinch, my ears ringing. Anger grips me as blood seeps through the cut on Tristan’s cheek. It’s as if a Cat clawed his face, adding to his psychotic streak. I anticipate him snapping Mom in half; he just chews gum, popping it on her face like a whore. Amanda grumbles out profanities. A side-eye from Mom renders her mute. “Definitely because of your son,” Tristan tskks. “I was the only prize you couldn’t have, but your son never even had to try.” “You boy fucker,” Mom grimaces, voice trembling with rage. “If the bullet wound didn’t kill you, the shame should’ve done it. Yet you bask in your promiscuity after everything you did?”“I’m hard, bad, and a little bit mad, but shame is a luxury I can’t afford.” His eyes flit to me. “Not when I have something to be proud of.” The prison suit bares the scar on his chest, below his heart. I still feel the coldness of the pistol like it’s yesterday. An inch higher, and thi

(CARLTON’S POV)The devil lurks in the dark, waiting for a piece of me. I didn’t forget to lock the door. I forgot my virtues. Orgasms feel more honorable than morals, master's degrees, and money. It’s the only thing I can’t buy. Three months since Mom married him. Twelve weeks of this nightly ritual. Eighty-six days of hating myself. And it only gets worse. The same cycle of taboo. Kneeling on all fours as he pounds inside me. Pleasure in exchange for his relief.I’ve tried resisting, but his innuendos are like curses. His cock is addictive like junk– one bite leads to another, but I’m never satisfied.Cuddled in my bed, I pretend not to be aware of the figure in my room. Cloaked by the shadows, stealth like a snake, waiting for a rat to sneak too close, before throttling it fangs deep. I’m that Rat. Worse, I crave his bite, that onslaught of venomous pain through my veins, like yesterday. My nostrils flare— cedarwood, sweat, and the salty whiff of cum. Jagged breaths, grunts,

(CARLTON’S POV) Two weeks without Henry’s touch is cancer to my soul.I Grindr’d a guy and drove back home upon reaching the hotel.The twelve steps of recovery failed me. Therapists couldn’t help me. I left the country only to return the next day. How can I forget the man who loved me as a father, lover, and friend?The man who screams my name in the torture cellar like I’m the only thing keeping him from breaking? The charges against him are bigger than the Great Wall of China. The state declared him a high-value detainee; solitary and naked, feathered with assault robots and trained military assassins. From cutting out his nails, to being pummeled, to electrocution. Sedatives and stimulants replaced food, while his blood rolling down his parched throat quenched his thirst. Some said his veins were blue, skin flaccid like a corpse, but his eyes burn like embers. A terrifying gold that licked terror in the spine of his tormentors. Indeed, he was ‘Mad-Bishop.’ But he won’t CONF

(CARLTON’S POV)Eyes, Incandescent, like Ants crawling on my skin. Loud perfume, whiskey, and musk. Who is he?“When you’re in Rome, behave like the Romans,” Russian accent, cold and lifeless as snow. “Being the Pakhan’s cumdumpster doesn’t warrant you to sleep past ten.” My eyes flit open, locking with pernicious green ones, wild and deep as the jungle. Arrayed in a black Armani suit and matching loafers. Young, hairy, stoic, a decade-old version of my captor. Dopamine kicks in. A scorching pain whirs in my ass, and my body hurts like it’s been run over by a truck. I meet his glare head-on. “Who the fuck are you calling a cum-dumpster?” The bastard’s left arm is in a sling, except for his neck, which is yet to be broken if he calls me that again. “That’s not dried water on your thighs, is it?” “Did I fuck your father? Brother?” The way his face contorts shows I twitched a nerve. “Or you?” Rays of sunlight meander with my sight. Scurrying into the sheets, I tug the fabric to

(CARLTON’S POV)My Mother Gothel is drunk, but this Rapunzel has no mercy. I think I’m more of Chucky: blade in hand, smirk like Joker’s, and horny for death. I stare at the white walls, Doja Cat’s ‘PAINT THE TOWN RED’ playing in the background. My captor nurses whiskey on the settee, haggard and spent, but his erection stands firm. He’s staring at a picture with heat in his eyes. His face pales as he traces the edges, stuttering a silent word. I watch his cock swell in his pants, the hungry bop of his throat, and veins pulsing on his neck. The whiskey bottle rolls to the ground, his Glock follows suit, but it doesn't matter, because he’s licking my God damn picture like a psychopath, while stroking himself absent mindedly. The thrum of blood in my ear overshadows the loud music. My heart rattles my ribcage. Anger, disgust, shame, fight for dominance. Two days since he killed Selene and kidnapped Mom. Forty-eight hours since he almost killed me. A day of Yosef making my life h