Covet Not (9 page)

XV

Jared had finished
surveying for the outer fence. The posts were set, trees were marked, and their
fortress–no, their sanctuary was completely mapped out.

He
wouldn't bother with such a boundary, but as long as it would take to build
such a massive thing, children might be something less abstract.

Because
Jared knew with extreme certainty that his father would be dead at his hands by
then.

He
learned something when he banished his father from his property. It was
something that he had already known because he genuinely liked Shula. He knew
he wanted to be with her, and give her children and safety and comfort. If
someone asked if he loved his wife, his answer would be: Of course. Without
thought. It was what he was
supposed
to say. And Shula made it easy.

As
arranged marriages went, he thought it had the potential to be a great one. The
chemistry was amazing. She liked pleasing him, not because of societal norms,
but because he was grateful for it.

But,
he liked pleasing her, too. She adored the little home he had built for them,
and she was more open and at ease than she had ever been. She had said that
he'd given her a place to belong, and while his father had tried to mess it up,
it was also a place she had felt the safest.

Because
of him.

He
had let her down previously, allowing fear to permeate their home and
especially their first time. Jared had to take control of the situation. For
too long, his father dictated the outcome of everything.

Not
any longer.

So
Jared knew what he had to do. There wasn't a question or a doubt, guilt or
impending regret.

He
would have to plan it
just right
. And he wanted his father to see it
coming.

Because.

Because.

To
become an alpha, you had to
destroy
one.

XVI

It's not like the
sex was bad. Or unsatisfying. She quite liked the sex. But it was still so
novel, so new, that she didn't know how to completely let go. She wasn't sure
if that was even done. She could let go a bit, but it was always so much
trouble. To Shula, sex seemed to be somehow less about pleasure and more about
the connection of two lost souls slotting into place. Because that's what it
felt like. It felt amazing. Perfect. But, she didn't know quite how to tie
those feelings together.

The
intimacy was already so fulfilling, and felt so wonderful that she didn't know
how to add on to it. It seemed impossible.

Or
maybe she had set it up for failure once she'd discovered her clitoris. Maybe
she was just so used to getting off
just so
and deviating from that
would be too difficult.

It
hadn't occurred though, while completely surrounded and
full
of Jared
that something could be more. It didn't occur until a little later when it
didn't feel quite done.

There
was no one to tell her these things, and Jared seemed plenty pleased. He did
seem to hold back on occasion as well, but maybe it was the same for him. Maybe
he was as careful as she was. Maybe, with time, they could both let go.

It
had been far too long since she'd done this. Far too long. Shula raised her
skirt and hastily moved aside her knickers, and clumsily pressed her clitoris.
God, this was going to be quick.

She
froze when she heard a scuffle of feet. She looked up and met his eyes briefly.
Guiltily.

He
leaned on the door frame, eyes half closed, and a smile that the devil surely
created. He spoke, and her mortification disallowed her to truly understand
what he said, and she was unable to process the million syllables that rang in
her head, crept down her spine, and made her cunt
ache
.

“Need
a hand?”

XVII

'Beggars can't be
choosers'...oh how Jude was feeling that right now. He was so desperate that he
found he couldn't care about trying to keep on the righteous path, or that his
meager option was the only homosexual, unappealing though he was, within a
hundred-mile radius. Well, that he knew about. He needed to get a few of those
farm boys alone in his barn and see how fast they'd cooperate.

“Do
you really think there's a difference between you fucking me or me fucking
you?” Jude huffed out as he felt the slick end of a cock nudge against his
hole. “Or do you believe you are somehow less of a deviant because you aren't
the one bent over with his ass in the air? Besides, you were slobbering all
over my dick last week. Like a
starving
man.”

Martin
pushed a little too hard to be comfortable, but Jude wasn't complaining. He'd
wanted exactly that. Rile him up, and it would be quick and hard. Exactly how
he'd wanted it.

He'd
slicked his hole with castor oil before he'd entered the barn, allowing for
enough give, but not too much. Jude wanted to feel it. He wanted the burn, the
sting of impossible stretch to stay with him for the next few days.

“Jesus
Jude, I don't know why I bother. This would be much more satisfying if I was
fucking your mouth quiet,” Martin grunted those last few words.

“You
like it when I talk. You like hearing about how your cock fucking tears me
open. Don't lie.”

Martin
conceded. He indeed liked hearing it. He pressed his thumbs on either side of
Jude's hole, and pulled him apart roughly, hearing the squelch when he slammed
in.

“
Fuck
,
that hurts. More.”

Martin
obliged. He sucked both thumbs in his mouth to wet them, and worked them in on
the side of his cock. He squeezed Jude's ass apart and bottomed out
relentlessly. He was just about to come, and he hoped Jude was taking care of
himself.

Jude
saw the splatter of Martin's brain on the wall in front of him before he
registered the gunshot.

A
Baptism.

*A
note on the POV change from 3rd person to 1st. I primarily write in 3rd. It's
what comes naturally. In this particular case, Grace Agnesson wanted to tell
her story. I resisted for a long time, trying several times to mold it to 3rd
person. I stopped fighting it.

James
Agnesson was more flexible, but I thought two POV within one short story would
be contrary, no matter how traumatizing his brain is.

The
main six books of this story will be in 3rd, but I might write some separate,
out of time scenes that might want to speak for themselves. We shall see.

Nineteen
years ago.

“...'tis
nobler in the mind to suffer...”

-
William
Shakespeare, Hamlet

Sometimes I
struggle, just a bit, so James will squeeze a little harder
‒
or a little longer. Right
before oblivion is the most sublime disconnection. I'm convinced it's a
religious experience intended to get as close to God on our Earthly plane. Such
pleasure can't be dangerous or forbidden, especially in our marriage bed.

These
nights, James would care for waking children most dutifully. He would get them
water and read them stories of Gods among men. It was blasphemous, but our boys
are smart. They can tell fact from fiction. On some nights, I wake soon after,
and I can hear their laughter, and I fall in love all over again with James.
Only something Godly and righteous would keep him in such good spirits, and our
coupling eases him like no other thing. Sometimes I wake in the wee hours of
the morning to him sleeping peacefully beside me, and I watch him. I can
glimpse at an innocence that he keeps well hidden.

And
it is the only time I'm not truly afraid of him. My mother told me to always
keep a healthy fear, and being surrounded by so many sons–I do let my guard
down on occasion. And these moments, when all my boys are asleep and dreaming
of ruling the world, I feel so thankful. So blessed.

We
are all sinners
,
my daddy used to say, and I wonder if he used that to justify his cruelty. When
Mama was perfectly obedient, he never praised her, never saw how easy she'd
made his life.

Like
she'd been trained to do. Like we were all trained to do. And my mother was
very diligent. She'd taught me every day basics of cooking, cleaning, and
child-rearing. But, other times, she told me of being pliant and accommodating.
To not appear too eager. To apply cornstarch when freshening up to stay
pleasing and to prevent obvious arousal. Women are meant to be vessels for our
husband's seed and to grow our children. I wonder sometimes which things were
proper advice and not just Mama's fear.

I
hated seeing Mama so miserable, but Daddy is with the Lord now. At least, I
like to think he is worth redemption. Mama is much happier now. She gets to
enjoy her grandsons, and I'm not certain they would be allowed over there if
Daddy were alive.

But
after being touched by James for nearly eight years...I
know
, the same
way I know there is a God in Heaven, that I am meant to enjoy it. And how I do.
It seemed like a little game. Pretending not to love it, forcing my mouth
closed and my hips on the bed. When his hand goes comfortingly around my
throat, I can writhe freely. Because I know he loves it. He would drive into me
harder and harder, hips losing rhythm, forehead on mine. Sometimes he kisses
me, and I know he would only do that if he truly loved and desired me.

James
is a good father and a good husband. He dotes on me and the boys. I know that
he never really intends to hurt me. Not with four boys and one on the way.
Jacob,
Jonah, Josiah, Jared, and soon-to-be Jude
. If I were dead, I couldn't
provide more boys for him. And God wouldn't keep giving me more boys if He
intended for me to be elsewhere.

James
brings me gifts sometimes. Little trinkets of jewelry, or fine chocolates.
Those nights he would push me to my knees. It seemed highly indecent, and I
didn't see the purpose of it, but I always kept my mouth open and wet. I would
try not to be ill. The first time I did it, I spat afterwards, and James didn't
speak to me for three days. I finally fell to my knees, begging for him to take
my mouth again, and I brought him back around.

It
will never be my favorite activity, but I love pleasing him.

I
once brought it up with my good friend, Mary. Mary was newly wed and a little
outspoken, and I was in my twentieth week of my fifth pregnancy. Our first
little girl. Mary blushed and stammered and admitted to such an activity. My
mistake was mentioning how I enjoyed my dear husband's hand around my neck.
That the pleasure was immeasurable. Mary was horrified and believed James to be
a psychopath. Silly girl. Every day for that week, Mary would visit, and try to
talk to me about it. She told me that my baby would be born dead if I kept on
allowing it. That I was lucky with my boys. Which was nonsense. I never said
that it was happening each time now. And that I craved it.

Once
James came home early while Mary was here. He only came home early when John
Agnesson, my father-in-law, angered him. Their relationship confused me. Mr.
Agnesson hadn't said more than two words to me ever.

Mary
was in the master bedroom helping me with the laundry and I told her to hide in
the closet. I didn't want James to see that I was receiving help, and I hadn't
asked permission to have a friend over. James disliked Mary. Called her wild.
And I couldn't bear to disappoint him. I was a little worried that Mary would
confront James, and I wouldn't be able to survive his cold shoulder.

As
predicted, James wasn't in an agreeable mood. He'd pushed my dress up and
ripped my knickers. As soon as he impaled me roughly, his hand went around my
neck. All thoughts of Mary left me, and I hadn't meant for the hissed
yes
to leave my mouth, but it was probably the reason I didn't wake up until dawn.
Mary must have left when James fell asleep.

And
I didn't see Mary again until I was well into my sixth pregnancy.

I
was sore, so sore. Everything ached. I hated not knowing what was done to me
after.
The next time, I would make a point to fake it, and to see what happened. I
would need to be impertinent again. And again.

I
would soon become addicted to it. As soon as I recovered from my miscarriage. I
began bleeding several days after that encounter and went into very premature
labor. The baby was still living, so I knew that Mary had lied. Or just
ignorant. But the baby didn't draw her first breath. She probably wouldn't have
lived long after anyhow, being so young.

She
must have been perfect for God to want to keep her.

Josephine.

I
was heartbroken, but James was stoic as always. She would not be buried in the
family plot, but James allowed me to keep her ashes. I buried her close to Mr.
Agnesson's unkempt hunting lodge while James was at work. I wanted a marker so
that I could find her again. I wrote her name on the urn along with other
sentimental nonsense, and wrapped it in a well-used nursing towel. It wasn't
pretty, but it had been my companion when I nourished her brothers. I collected
the colostrum that had been intended for her and rubbed it into the blanket
along with the milk that came in like a tidal wave of agony the day I buried
her. I covered her with a simple arrangement of rocks, and still would take her
pretty stones that I might find in various places. I shamelessly stole an
amethyst geode from an antique shop, downtown Agnes Oaks. It was the last thing
I put on her grave because I hadn't found anything as beautiful.

James
never asked about her ashes and I never told.

I
couldn't be paralyzed with grief. My boys needed me, and I needed a baby inside
me. It was my purpose. I also missed my husband and his body on top of mine,
filling me, and showing me that our life wouldn't be defined by my failure to
keep our baby alive. It was indeed a paradox. To believe that God so wanted
her, but would allow a mother such grief. I knew that she was in good hands,
and I knew, had God granted me a day or a week or a year, I might've killed
myself. He was merciful and had only given me what I could handle.

I
was ready to live. I felt brave and unconcerned with the ramifications of my
brazenness. One night after my bath, I wore a sheer slip, and left off my
panties. When I walked into the bedroom, my nipples visibly hard against my
white gown, and my skin pressing damp against the useless garment, I could see
the arousal take shape in my husband's face. My James. I was wet beyond belief,
and as soon as my knees hit the bed, he roughly grabbed the material and lifted
it above my head.

I
didn't remember the last time I had been naked in candlelight, if I had ever
been. I was only momentarily self-conscious. I would not show weakness, because
above everything, I wanted him careless. I wanted to be on the other side of
enough.

I
was unconscious within the minute. I was too awash with sensation to fake it. I
would try again.

It
took a few more days, but he caught me unaware. The boys were at my mother's
and he pulled me onto his lap as soon as we walked in the door after Sunday
dinner at my old house. He took me on the couch, slow and methodical, but his
hands stayed on either side of my head. We were both out of sorts by the end,
and he instructed that I stay where I was. He wanted me pregnant again, and I
was over the moon.

Later
that evening, I showered and made myself as visibly pleasing as I had that
night he took me quickly. I would try harder. As soon as I walked into our
room, all indecent nipples and wetness, he hadn't the foresight to push his
flannel pajama pants down. I soaked them clean through. And the sound he made
was inhuman. He fumbled for a few seconds, fist hitting a small bundle of
torture and perfection, and I moaned. My hips rutted against him. When he
thrust upward in one swift movement, impaling me deliciously, I sighed and
ground against him. “Yes. Oh, yes. Harder.”

And
he did. Uncontrollably. “Quiet. You are making a fool of yourself. I will stop
if you don't shut your mouth.”

He
was a liar. Though I didn't hold it against him. “You won't. I need to be full
of you. I need my body to have no other choice but to accept your seed.”

“God
won't grant you a baby if you're behaving like a harlot.”

“God
wouldn't have given me
this
if he didn't want me to behave otherwise.” I
moved my hand deliberately downward.

His
hands went around my neck suddenly and I hadn't expected it. A few seconds
before darkness, I stilled, and held my breath. Thankfully, he believed me,
because one second more, I would have been out.

He
stopped thrusting and held still for a moment. He must have been close. A
second later, he was down between my legs, pushing who knows how many fingers
into me. His face was pressed against my wetness, and I tried not to stiffen in
mortification. I could feel him inhale and his tongue and teeth lapped at me
like an animal.

Staying
still was the most difficult thing I'd ever done.

A
little while later, he thrust into me again. He grabbed at my breasts and bit
my nipples. He pulled my bottom apart and dug his fingers into the crease. I
fell asleep shortly after he emptied inside me.

I
was smitten by this secret behavior, and wondered how else I could encourage
it. When his hand went around my throat the next time, I smiled, stilled, and
closed my eyes dutifully, hoping he got the point.

He
did, and I rather got punished for it. He pushed me onto my stomach, and pushed
into my bottom after I had gotten him sufficiently wet. His hand was across my
mouth, stifling my screams, and he laughed against my shoulder blade. He would
whisper, “Grace. My sweet Grace.” He was pleased with me.

I
would do it again and again. And he would take me roughly each time. Until I
pressed back against him. Then he wouldn't touch me for days and I was
malleable once more. It was a vicious cycle. One I loved. He liked control, but
I wanted him to be aware that I had accepted it wholly. That I was his. Not
because it was commanded at birth, but because I wanted him. I wanted James. My
James.

Then
one day it wasn't enough. His father died and James was never the same. He
became brutal. He wouldn't be satisfied until he tasted my tears. My body would
be battered and bruised the next day, but I would still be his. I would always
be his.

He
trusted me with his demons.

That's
what I would tell myself.