Page 38 of Requiem & Reverie

I’ve already decided that Nola is mine. For now, anyway.

I’m not about to be the dick who tries to swindle a piece of ass while her son is missing, but the sooner I find Oliver, the sooner I can go back to whatever intriguing little cataclysm was going on before the shit hit the fan.

And if Carl Jansen has so much as left a paper cut on the boy, I’ll personally remove all of his fingers and feed them to him like a plate of French fries.

12

The Sandman

“What did you do!” The rage exploded inside The Sandman, as he stared down at the flower, his beloved Queen of the Night, lying on the floor in tatters.

He’d left the plant inside the boy’s room, so that he might see it bloom, and witness the glorious transformation that happened only once, only to return from the bar to find it destroyed. “I trusted you! I trusted you!”

“I’m … s-s-s-sorry. The k-k-kitten got away f-f-f-from me. I c-c-c-couldn’t reach him.”

“And where the fuck is the little bastard now?”

“I d-d-d-don’t know. He t-t-t-took off.” The boy pointed toward the window on the east wall of his room, which The Sandman, himself, had vented earlier in the day, when the overwhelming smell of bacon had begun to make him sick.

The next bloom would happen any day now, and that one was reserved for Nola. He’d just have to forego Zelene’s purification. It’d be incomplete without his signatures. A lie. Which meant no gratification for him, either.

Swiping up his plant, he stormed toward the door, from where he looked back at the boy. “No supper tonight,” he said, before slamming the door behind him.

Tromping down the staircase, his muscles burned with the urge to punish Oliver, for allowing that dirty vermin cat to touch his plant. He wanted to string him up and beat him for his insolence.

But what would Nola say, if she saw her boy harmed? As much as he needed discipline, The Sandman refused to dole it out. He loved Nola too much to hurt her that way.

Once on the lower level, he arranged the flower back on the shelf with the others, and examined the leaves for any sign of a near bloom. Only the one he’d reserved for Nola, the healthiest of all his plants, appeared closest to blossoming, and he refused to use it on one so insignificant as Zelene.

No, she would have to die impure. Tainted. Unworthy of his seed.

He glanced back to where she still lay unconscious, strapped down in the latex bed, completely immobile, and shook his head. Making his way past the plants, he entered a door hidden on the other side of the shelves. The dark room greeted him as he closed himself inside, shutting out the light from the main pole barn, and flicked on the bulb overhead.

A recliner sat before a wall decorated in pictures, ones he’d taken with his Polaroid. Beautiful images of each sacrifice, each soul he now owned. Below the images, a table held something of a shrine, carrying jars of eyeballs floating in solutions of formaldehyde, as well as bracelets, necklaces, charms he’d taken from each of his subjects.

The Sandman took the next few minutes to undress and slip into his full-body latex suit that he kept on a hanger, dangling from a hook in the wall. Instead of his usual latex mask, he wore the transparent latex, breathing bag hood. He could see through just fine, but with each inhale and exhale, the air was significantly reduced by a small breathing hole.

A utility cabinet nearby housed all of his devices, items he sometimes used for torture, like the violet wand, dildos, clips, clamps, pinwheels, rigid attachments he’d sometimes strapped onto his cock that had ensured pain during the times he’d inserted them into his subjects.

He reached for a bottle of latex polish, sprayed it over his hard cock, which was cloaked inside the latex, and took a seat on the recliner.

As he stroked the polish over his sheathed erection, he stared up at the wall, where the image of Marnee brought to mind her magnificent breasts and pert nipples trapped beneath the latex. How, during sex, he’d taken her flesh between his teeth, not hard enough to leave an imprint, but hard enough to make her squeal in pain. He’d suckled them, just as he had as a young boy at his mother’s breast, after she’d spanked, or punished, him. How he’d loved crawling into bed with his mother, once her anger had subsided, and suckling breasts that had long since dried up. A comfort he’d missed after her passing.

One he’d learned to find again in other women.

With one leg hooked over the arm of the chair, he hastened his strokes, imagining Marnee’s mouth gaping, eyes lifeless. And at that, his gaze shot to her blue eyes bobbing in the formalin. As his breaths rushed out of him, the bag inflated and deflated against his face, and he could almost imagine the suffering of his subjects in those final moments.

Within minutes, he felt dizzy, furiously pumping away at his cock, until the swelling in his loins was more than he could bear. He visualized the torment of watching Nola’s body squirm in the latex, and at that, climax exploded through him, pulsing against the sheath as he came inside the suit. The hood beat against his face with his fast breaths, just like breathing into a balloon, and he smiled, while his muscles turned cold and weak, his head woozy and light. He tore away the mask and sucked in a fresh breath of air. So crisp and clean, it filled his lungs like new life.

With a sound of satisfaction purring in his chest, he squeezed the last drops from his cock and bit his lower lip at the magnificent glide of latex over its swollen head.

With that out of the way, he was ready to deal with Zelene.

13

Nola

The sound of Oliver’s laughter fills the dark room, as I lie on the couch, watching a video of me chasing him through the park. “I’m gonna getcha, Oli! I’m gonna getcha!” Through tears, I smile, watching my little boy, only two at the time, squeal in the afternoon sun with delight. I swipe him up into my arms, and he laughs harder, as I blow raspberries against his stomach.