Page 80 of Once Upon a Fable

That will happen to me if I don’t snap out of this.

I would be sent to the cabin where I’d never return alive. I’d be used like Wes. I would no longer have the protection of House Rules that kept all Fable slaves bruised, bleeding, and well-fucked but never broken or dead.

Mr. Willby stepped forward and pushed his wife away. Our combined grip fell apart, and my cock was free.

Free for a single breath before Mr. Willby grabbed it and once again forced my hand to squeeze.

“I’m going teach you how to beat off, my boy. Show you how to get yourself hard so you never come to us in this pathetic state again.” His eyes glinted as he pushed my thumb against my sensitive tip before grabbing my other hand and using it to cup my balls.

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to die.

But slowly, sickly, my body reacted under his instruction.

He did what he promised and showed me that if I was touched in the right way, desire had nothing to do with it. Instinct kicked in. Nature took over and condemned me.

I grew hard all while I cursed the very feeling of my fingers working beneath his.

Of my skin on my skin.

Of my body betraying me.

Of my hand making me hard when all I wanted to do was run.

Of myself hurting myself.

I was the seducer.

The defiler, the traitor, the villain.

I was my own worst enemy.

“Good boy.” Mr. Willby smiled as he removed his hand from mine. “Keep going. Get that thing stiff as a stick, and then...we’re all going to have some fun.”

“STOP!” I punched the wall.

I shoved knuckles into stone and rolled onto my back at the onslaught of agony. One of my knuckles cracked, and excruciation blazed through my hand.

However, instead of groaning in pain, I groaned in gratefulness. I kissed fresh blood trickling from a cut. I cradled the rapidly swelling appendage and sucked in untainted air.

With practice born from self-preservation, I snatched up all the memories and hurled them back into the blackness where they belonged.

They should never have escaped.

I’m getting worse.

With shaky legs, I climbed to my feet, stumbled up the steps, and ran through the kitchen to outside.

I didn’t stop.

I ran, and I ran.

I ran until splinters and stitches hurt my lungs.

And then, I ran some more.

I circled the valley twice, I skirted the cave, I followed the river, and by the time the sun slipped from morning to afternoon, I fell to my ass in the wild grass meadow and flopped onto my back, breathless, wrung out, and more wretched than I’d been since that first year of living on my own.