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yapdere · 4 days ago

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Blood Alcohol

After being un-personed and made homeless by her shitty ex, Lexi, Melody realizes that her best bet is to try crash with the mother of her childhood friend, Jacki Zhou. Once a rebellious, devil-may-care alt teen mom, Sara Zhou is a "goddamned Respectable Woman Of Society" now. Sara offers to host Mel as long as she needs, but does she have ulterior motives? As a night of raucous drinking and shitty movies drags on, Sara and Mel realize that there might be something messier between them. Also, alcohol poisoning is a bitch. A story of transmisogynist violence, the traumas of growing up Chinese-American in the South, and extremely drunk corpsefucking.

Read at AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60689491

Content Warnings: Snuff, Guro, Necro, Mind Break, Alcoholism, Abuse, Depictions of Transphobia, Depictions of Transmisogyny, Transmisogynist Disposability Politics, Alcohol Poisoning, Death by Alcohol, Grooming, Mommy Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Depictions of Sinophobia, Extremely Dubious Consent, Non-Con, Homelessness, Parental Abuse, Grief, Impregnation, CSA, Seizures

NSFW 18+

9,720 words

Heat. It’s the wretched fucking heat that’s the worst. Sticky, heavy, weighing on your lungs like the ghosts of all of your mistakes, all of the bad choices that got you to this point. Bad choices enough that the good ones start being infected by them, wilting in the heat, until they too render themselves into curses on your life. Always so dramatic, you think to yourself, as you burrow your sweaty palms into your tiny shorts pockets, taking stock of whatever meager survival supplies you could snatch on your way out the door. Fifty dollars, the spare apartment key, your cell phone, your university ID, and your driver’s license. Not a lot to live off of for… indefinitely. You suddenly feel overwhelmed by the gravity of your situation. Just one girl carrying the weight of half the sky on your shoulders. One girl squished like a little bug into the floor. You wish you could just lie on this searing sidewalk and let it crush you into the hot stone, let yourself get cooked into a crispy little girl sausage. Heh. Girlsausage. Lexi would have thought that was funny.

You feel your eyes start to burn a little at the thought of your suddenly-exed nesting partner. Even after five years on HRT you still get a little caught off guard by how easily you cry now. Everything happened so fast… The groupchat, the hurled insults, coming back to the apartment to find your Lexi standing at the door, arms crossed. Seething. The accusations. Things you would not have imagined them saying about you in a thousand years, saying things about you that you both knew would weigh far heavier on your life than a simple breakup. Things that you had no ability to defend against. Ey had backed you against a social cliff and she was pushing. Girls like you don’t often survive these kinds of things, but of course, Lexi knew that. The lethal, bitter humor in their voice made it extremely clear that they intended for you to drop off the face of the earth, for all ey cared. Obviously, you had nowhere to turn. Everybody else in the ‘cule landed firmly in Lexi’s “camp.” It was the word of a beloved “local organizer” against the word of some random tranny. Damn Lexi Roaders, you think to yourself, in a limp attempt at levity. Another one that Lexi would probably have thought was funny, if they didn’t hate you, if she wasn’t now helming a massive, mechanized social attempt on your life. You suddenly realize you should have listened to Lili, when she offered you what you now understand was the last good piece of advice you’d hear in a long time. “Careful of that one, Mel. She’s a chaser with the tongue of a serpent.”

Which brings you here. In the wet summer heat, needing a place to crash and a way to get something to eat while you figured out how you would move forward. It’s funny how the sudden assertion of crisis makes for very practical rearrangements of your priorities. No more worries about Lexi’s petty drama with Sly, no trying to figure out how to manage your plans to go to Lattice’s basement show despite knowing that Fox would definitely be there. No, your priorities are exceedingly clear. Shelter. Food. Water. In a way it’s kind of focusing. Your immediate objective populates at the forefront of your mind, as you fidget, sweating, in the halfhearted attempt at AC of the Greyhound station. Shelter. Food. Water. Suddenly it hits you. You have to make a call. Whipping out your phone, you thank whatever gods you care to remember that you still have charge and reception. Won’t ever take those for granted again, you tell yourself. You scroll down your contacts list full of people who want to kill you, until you land at your last hope. The screen on your phone goes dark except for the words “calling… Jacki’s Mom. ”

“…Melody? Hi! Oh my god! What’s wrong babes?”

***

The Greyhound seat is itchy. It’s one of those horrible 90’s patterns, the kind that look like the carpet at a bowling alley, and feels like the bastard child of the shittiest blanket you remember from your childhood and a shoe brush. Horrible, horrible stim. At least it’s nice and cool in here, even if it has that gross plasticky quality endemic to the ACs of old cars. Pressing your palms against your eyes hard and watching the starworks, you take stock of your current trajectory. One.

One. Lexi and I aren’t together anymore. Our relationship of four years has ended.

You start to feel a well of emotions about this. Despite all of the issues, you did love Lexi. You don’t know if ey loved you back — you realize you don’t know if you ever did know — but you certainly loved her. Thinking about that too much starts to make that familiar tightness squeeze around your chest. Push the feeling down. Deal with it when it’s safe to. Breathe. In. Through the nose. Out. Through a straw. Two.

Two. I am now — at the very least, for this current moment — homeless.

The relative emotional predictability of material crisis is, in a sick way, kind of comforting. It’s unambiguous. The goals are direct. Just point yourself in a direction and go. Like a vector. None of the mushy messiness of trying to figure out if your partner of four years was actually an abusive chaser. Immediately before you is a problem with a clear answer. Need a place to stay. Three.

Three. Jacki’s mom has offered to let me crash with her.

Jacki is your childhood best friend, and you basically grew up together. It was kind of inevitable that you would both be friends, being the only two Chinese kids at your San Antonio elementary school. It was pretty much you two against the most racist suburbanites to ever get thoroughbred for Cotillion.

Your moms weren’t ever that close, though. The thing was that your mom was about ten years older than Jacki’s mom. Sara, you remind yourself. Sara asked me to stop referring to her as “Jacki’s Mom,” or “Ms. Zhou.” Sara had Jacki when she was really young, still a teenager, just 19. In a way, Sara was kind of more like an older sister to you. Your mom was a typical strict Chinese mom. Firm hand, firm voice, stiff upper lip. In contrast, Sara was always kind of a troublemaker, rocking her teased 2000s emo-kid hair, ripped skinny jeans, enough face piercings to set off the school metal detector during parent-teacher conferences. She was the quintessential “Cool Mom.”

When you were 9, you used to go to Sara’s house to play “Princesses” with Jacki, and Sara was so excited for you that she bought you your very own Prettyest Princess Dress. When you were 16, she taught you how to do your eyeliner and lipstick, helped you figure out your first “girl” wardrobe. You remember she bought you your first bottle of wine for your 18th birthday, only letting you keep it if you promised not to tell your mom, giving you that classic wink and lopsided smile. When you finally came out to your mom in college, and she threw you out of the house, screaming bloody murder about the devil making you a faggot, it was Sara who picked you up from the curb, drove you and Jacki to Hardee’s to get milkshakes.

Recalling your last serious crisis snaps you back to the present: speeding towards San Antonio at 80 mph, your forehead leaving a greasy smudge on the shitty glass of the Greyhound window. You’re almost in the city, rushing past New Braunfels, with its cloying Germantown gimmick. You watch miles of desert whiz by, then the airport, then the Riverwalk, and then suddenly you’re getting off at 500 N St Mary’s in the City of the fucking Alamo. You take a deep breath. At least the heat here is dry. You feel the air immediately suck the moisture out of your throat, crack your lips. You walk out of the station and see Sara leaning against her bright pink Prius.

***

Sara looks great, but it’s not like she’s that much older than you to begin with. You try to remember how old she is, deriving it from how old you are. 44? 45? In a few hours, she’ll tease you for forgetting that her birthday was two weeks ago. “You could have sent a text! Hell, you could have sent me an Instagram DM!” On the drive back to her place, you decide to take in how she’s changed. Sara’s no longer the wiry emo girl rocking the cut-up BVB t-shirt and Snake Bites to your 5th grade piano recital. She’s a goddamned Respectable Woman Of Society now, is how she puts it, barely stifling her giggle.

The fluffy, teased pink-and-black striped Emo Hair of Yore has given way, to be replaced with a sensible but messy bun, just the slightest streak of purple bangs framing her face. She wears glasses now, thick, horn-rimmed things that seem to belong to the world’s sluttiest librarian. She’s clearly picked you up straight from the office, since she’s still wearing her uniform: suit jacket buttoned tight over a modest white blouse, black pencil skirt and sheer stockings. It looks kind of skirt-tentingly delicious on her softening mom-bod, if you’re being even a little bit honest with yourself. And, come on, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking. What? You’re a lesbian. It’s basically praxis for you to allow yourself the “cinematic male gaze” or whatever. You’re pretty sure that something about this passes some mutation of the Bechdel test.

There’re still hints of her old self peeking through — a pierced eyebrow, lipstick a little less “wine red” than it is just black, eyeliner a little heavier than you’d expect from a successful corporate litigator. She’s still wearing that Ari by Ariana perfume that makes her smell a little too youthful. And, of course on top of this, she absolutely fucking reeks of booze. You’d be a little nervous if it weren’t for the fact that she’s driven you home from school sloshed more times than you can count, and has only ever gotten you guys into a half dozen fender benders. Somehow she always manages to talk her way out of it anyways. It might have something to do with her famous “get-out-of-jail-free” cards, which are seemingly desperate to burst out of her blouse as she laughs a little too loud. She smiles at you. A big, stupid, drunk grin, overflowing with love, and you feel warm in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. This might be okay, you hesitantly think to yourself.

***

“You don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for, Mels. Just make yourself at home, get cozy, ‘kay? I’ll make us something to eat, pour us some drinks, and put on a stupid movie. You still like Revenge of the Fallen? ”

“Hell yeah, Megan Fox, plus I get to shittalk US military propaganda for two and a half hours? Sounds like a great time.” It’s obvious that you’re forcing a solid chunk of your enthusiasm for Sara’s benefit, and she has the empathy to take it as a sign of affection, rather than you being disingenuous. You both know each other a little too well for that kind of a misunderstanding.

“So glad to hear it, babes. We’ll have a girls night in.” Her smile is so soft and warm you think it might genuinely break your heart.

Your face flushes and you quickly turn toward the living room, busying yourself with being suddenly fascinated by the photos on the side tables. Not like you haven’t seen these photos a thousand times. There’s Jacki at her kindergarten halloween party. She’s dressed up as a spider, smiling a huge, goofy, child-grin. Next to her is Sara, barely 24, smiling the same goofy grin. Her face is painted like a skull. Her eyes are bright. The light of both the pain and the joy behind them are still burning hot and fierce. You think about the fact that forty-three hours after this photo is taken, her ex-husband, Kyle, will break her arm. The divorce proceedings take six years. It’s messy. Jacki runs away from home at one point, hides in the local H-E-B for two days. The next photo is before the divorce is over. Jacki isn’t yet the girl you would know her to be, she hasn’t yet built herself back up after the ashes have settled. The girl you would come to know is fierce, fiery, stubborn, loud. Just like her mom. The girl in this photo is something much smaller — flickering, desperate for warmth. It’s a yearbook photo. Her eyes aren’t looking at the camera. She isn’t smiling. She’s wearing a blue oversized hoodie with a spirograph on the front. Her sleeves are pulled down over her wrists. You decide you’re done looking at photos for now.

“Mels, babes! What you like eat? I’ve got jiaozi, shumai, xiaolongbao, fuckin uhhhhhh, I could make a grilled cheese, I’ve got frozen pizza… Sorry, you know I’m trash at cooking, so all of this stuff is frozen Trader Ming’s shit.”

“Pizza and soup dumplings genuinely sounds incredible right now, jiejie.”

You hear a small clatter in the kitchen and turn around to see Sara peeking out at you, beet red.

“Say that again, Melody?”

“I said pizza and soup dumplings sound great.” You give her an innocent smile.

“…Uh huh, okay, thought that’s what you said.”

She goes back to readying dinner. You stand there a bit awkwardly, hands stuffed in your pockets. She glances at you for a moment before doubling back and giving you a more attentive gaze.

“Fuck, sorry Mel, I totally forgot, uh… I’m going to guess that you… You packed pretty light, yeah?” She’s trying to handle this delicately, but she’s never been the best at graceful landings.

You just kind of smile halfheartedly before silently gesturing at yourself as if to say, this is what I “packed,” you’re looking at it.

“Shit, yeah, right, I uh, I imagine you didn’t have a lot of um. Prep time. Well, uh, you should go dig around my dresser a bit, I’m sure I have some comfy PJs that should fit you, and you can grab a fresh toothbrush and a clean towel from the bathroom if you want to freshen up. You know where they are.” You do, in fact, know where they are.

Sara is obviously a little frazzled with everything happening — she’s always been spontaneous, sure, but this is kind of a situation to handle for anyone, and it’s a Friday evening and you’re certain she’s probably had a very, very long week at work, suing Tesla for running over someone’s dog or whatever she does all day, and was probably expecting to come home and crack open a beer or six. You decide to give her some space to let her decompress a little. Hell, you definitely need the shower. You let her know that you’ll be taking a shower and she tells you to give her a holler if you need anything else.

***

The bathroom is like a temple to Past Sara. Sink stained rainbow after being used for years worth of Manic Panic dye sessions. “Manic Panic Dream Machine,” she used to call herself. The slightly broken hand-mirror is hanging up on its hook, next to the now-disused professional-grade Wahl hair clipper. You wonder about the last time she hung those up, retired from their years of labor carving her into the alt edgelady she used to make herself, as she transitioned from Emo Teen to Professional Lawgirl. Did she know that was going to be the last time, do you think? You think about brushing your teeth this morning in your — no, Lexi’s — apartment. Did you know that would be the last time you did that small ritual? You blink as your vision suddenly zooms out. Dissociating. Losing track of the present again. You start taking deep breaths and stare at your palms, opening and closing them slowly. Easy now. We’ve got time to fall apart later. In a warm bed, with a soft pillow shoved into your face, where you can sob your heart out. For now, just take a shower. You dig under the sink and grab the fresh toothbrush, brush your teeth, step into the shower, and turn the heat up. A different kind of wet heat than the smothering weight back at Lexi’s. You let it wash away the sweat from the hours at the bus stop, the greyhound, the defeated walk from Lexi’s apartment to the subway. Take these horrible things, break them up, feed them to the soil, you pray silently. Let them boil with hatred and vaporize into the sky where they can become dark thunderheads that crash red and putrid. Let my pain and anger water the plants. Let them do something good. Let them be life-giving.

***

“Babes! Dinner’s pretty much ready! You coming?”

Sara’s got a set of fucking pipes, you swear. You hear her over the pounding of the hot shower.

“Uh, yeah! Give me one sec.” You step out of the shower.

Ah, shit.

“Ah, shit,” you say out loud.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, I just, ah fuck, I forgot to grab a towel.”

“Oh, is that all? Don’t worry about it Mels, I’ll grab you one.”

“Oh- uh, are you sure? Because-”

“Mels, please, I’ve bathed you and my daughter in the same tub. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay, sure.”

The door immediately opens wide. Sara is standing there holding a towel in her arms. She looks up at you standing fully out of the shower, completely naked. Both of you are clearly caught at least a little off guard.

“Oh! Uh, right, here you go…” She hands you the towel. She isn’t not staring. In fact, actually, she is just fully staring at you. Pretty blatantly. Pretty much straight at your cock.

You grab the towel quickly and cover yourself with it.

“Thanks, Sara,” you respond, a little forcefully, as if to say “hey, wake up, my eyes are up here.”

She comes back from whatever homoerotic dreamland she’s found herself in and immediately realizes she’s been gawking at your dick. She goes fully red in the face and stammers out:

“Y-yeah! For sure! Literally any time.”

She turns around and quickly shuffles back to the kitchen.

You try not to hold it against her. She is, after all, pretty much saving your life, and you know that she’s probably already into at least a bottle and a half of Cabernet at this point in the evening.

You head to her bedroom to try find some clothes.

***

Wrist-deep in dresser drawers full of wadded up clothes. Sara still can’t seem to get herself to fold her laundry before putting it away. What a mess. You smile in spite of yourself. She certainly does just stay herself. It’s reassuring. She’s been a landmark in your life, a sentinel, standing watch over the years as they whiz past. You can see it in your mind’s eye: a great stone cliff juts out of a red desert, looking out over the horizon. Tall, proud, unyielding. The wind and sand howl past, angry ghosts trying to find purchase in your throat, ripping away your breath. The storm whistles but the cliff stands firm. Cracked, imperfect, but eternal. The great mass of stone cuts through the sky like a blade, defies the sky entirely. You know in your heart that you can take the stone for granted, the way you can take the sun and stars. It will be there tomorrow, even if you are not. A rock in the midst of chaos. A cornerstone. You could use something solid, something stable right now. You’re glad you have someone like that to lean on.

You dig out a ratty My Chemical Romance t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, some soft pajama bottoms covered in little pink coffee cups. You pointedly avoid her underwear drawer. The thought of essentially panty-raiding someone who feels simultaneously too much like a mother to you, and somehow, dangerously, not like a mother to you at all, sends a kind of electric bolt through your core. Yeah, you definitely don’t have the emotional space to deal with whatever that is right now. You pull on the clothes and head back to the living room.

***

It seems that while you were showering, Sara got herself comfortable. The modest officewear and updo are gone, replaced by a very tight spaghetti-strap top with a stylized picture of a skull printed on it, a pair of soft cotton pajama shorts, and long, flowing black hair pouring out all over the couch like ink. She’s sprawled on the couch with a plate of steaming soup dumplings and a piping hot “Trader Joe’s Meatlover’s Pizza” waiting for you on the coffee table. She sees you come in and blinks before smearing her face into a sloppy, lopsided grin.

“Babes! So glad you were able to find something comfy. Take a load off! Get some grinds! Here, I made us wine coolers.”

She hands you a red solo cup that was clearly filled to the brim with white wine with a gentle suggestion of Sprite. She’s also clearly had one or four herself already. Her face is flushed with that classic Asian glow. You wonder if you should have trusted her with the oven, even if it was just for a frozen pizza. You gratefully take the solo cup and sit down on the couch next to her. All things considered, getting absolutely shitfaced with your surrogate mother right now sounds like pretty much exactly what you need.

“You still good to watch Revenge of the Fallen? I’ve got it all set up on the Xbox.”

“That sounds great, Sara, thank you for doing all this.”

“Are you kidding? It’s been years, kid! In any other situation I’d be throwing you a fucking welcome party. The prodigal daughter returns!” At the ironic biblical allusion she raises her solo cup in a mock toast, laughing loud and hard, in the process sloshing some of the wine cooler down her arm and the front of her tank top.

The way she says “daughter” does something funny to your heart. You can’t really tell what.

“Anyways, have some pizza! You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in years. Sorry, I only had meatlover’s. I hope you didn’t turn into a vegetarian since you’ve left town!”

Your stomach is gnawing at you with hunger and anxiety from the day. Now is certainly the time for some comforting vices. You stuff a soup dumpling into your mouth and relish the burst of hot, salty, rich broth and chewy dough. You’re going to try your best to have a good time. You’re still chewing while you reach for a slice of pizza. A little dribble of dumpling broth spills down your chin, but who gives a shit. You moan at the symphony of delicious, fatty savorinesses. The thing is, it has been years since you’ve had a decent meal. Lexi was a Political Vegan with a dash of moralism and would never abide you eating anything that she hadn’t otherwise approved, which most days, meant something scant, flavorless, and cold. No, this. This was real food. Hot, greasy, real food. Food made with love. You turn to Sara with a mouthful of dumpling and pizza and watch as she smiles at you through the haze of drunkenness. She gestures to the TV and hits play.

***

Over the course of the next two hours, you and your surrogate mother lay splayed out on the couch, stuffing yourselves with nothing but carbs, fat, protein, and alcohol. You’re firmly and honest-to-god drunk now. Drunk is a place where you have your feet firmly planted.

“I’m drunk!”, you announce to no one in particular.

“Hell yeah, bitch!”, Sara shouts back at you. You’ve spent the duration of the movie laughing your asses off and heckling the screen. You cheered as you watched the University of Pennsylvania get utterly trashed by a Decepticon sexbot. It genuinely feels really nice. Sara throws her arms around you in a jolly embrace.

Your heart rate starts to accelerate as her arm lingers around your shoulders while she slams another solo cup of wine cooler. Her skin is warm and slick and you are suddenly very aware that she isn’t wearing deodorant. It’s not unpleasant. If anything, it’s a little troublesomely pleasant. Sara is exuding an aura of swirling odors. It’s a heady mix of the juicy, fruity remnants of Ari by Ariana, the musky, animalic tang of sweat and natural body odor, and extremely boozy wine breath. It makes you a little dizzy. It doesn’t help that her sweat-drenched tank top is doing absolutely nothing for her modesty, and her very generous breasts are pressed, soft, against your arm. She’s spilling out of this thing. A little bit of soft, smooth tummy peeks out between the waistband of her elastic shorts and the hem of her top. Your skin tingles hot and alive where the touch of her breasts and your bicep kiss. It’s so hot it feels like it might burn you. Yeah, ok, you’re definitely getting dizzy. Oh.

Oh. Oh god. Well, you guess you know where all the blood that should be in your brain is going.

You suddenly wish you had grabbed some underwear after all. The thin, soft fabric of the pajama pants are doing an exceptional amount of nothing to hide your twitching, throbbing girlboner. You shuffle around hoping that you can minimize how obvious it is, hoping she won’t notice, hoping she’s too intoxicated to care.

Unfortunately, it seems like you’ve used up your answered prayers for today. She turns to you in the midst of a inebriated giggle, eyes a little glazed over, before immediately eyeing the adorable tent in your PJs. Her PJs. Some of the focus returns to her eyes, but it’s not clarity, per se. It looks like something else. Something… Hungry?

“Uh, babes. You’ve, uh, got a little...”

You try very hard to act nonchalant, and fail spectacularly.

“Huh? What? Oh, uh. Yeah,” you respond, about as far from cool and collected as you can be.

You expect her to shove you away, cover herself up with a blanket, start shouting at you about the fact that she’s old enough to be your mother, that she basically is your mother, how appalled she is. You brace for impact.

Instead, you feel soft, warm fingertips against your neck.

“You’ve gotten so pretty, Melody.”

Okay. So that’s definitely not the response you were expecting.

She presses her fingers against your cheek and carefully turns your head back to face her. You are suddenly making intense eye contact with her. You are suddenly very aware of how close your faces are. Blood is pounding in your ears. You’re quivering.

“Oh, Melody. You’ve gotten so big. And so pretty. I’m so glad you’re here.”

It’s like a spear pierces your heart. It’s also like an electrical bolt strikes you straight in the dick. Your little girlcock can barely handle the amount of strain it’s under, standing that much at attention. Oh, this is so wrong. This is so, so wrong. You feel like you might be sick.

“It’s been such a blessing to be able to see you blossom into such a beautiful young woman. I’m so glad. It’s the greatest gift.”

As she says this, she starts gently trailing her fingers from your face, down your neck, the center of your chest. You panic. Oh god, fuck, this is so, so fucked up. This is fucked up! This is so fucked up, you are so drunk, Sara is so drunk, she’s basically your mom, and— Jesus fucking christ you are hard enough to cut glass.

She starts running her fingers down your stomach, your hips. She stops just past your hips and opens her palm. Splays her fingers across your soft thigh.

“You know I love you. I love you so much, Melody. I love you like I love my own child. I love you so much and I will never leave you behind or forget about you.” She punctuates this with a firm squeeze of your thigh. You feel nauseous. You feel violated. You’re shaking. This is so fucking fucked. You are dripping pre, straining against your PJs, soaking through them.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” You say out loud.

“It’s okay, Melody. It’s okay. I’m here, I’m going to take care of you.” You are frozen in place. You try to will yourself to throw her off of you, to run out the door, to shout, to cry, to do anything. Instead you just break eye contact and try to lower your eyes.

You end up staring straight at her massive, hanging tits. Filling your entire field of view with soft, perfect golden flesh, speckled here and there with dark brown freckles. Oh god.

“It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.” She runs her palm up your shaft through the pajamas and then grabs your cock, firmly but gently. There it is.

You immediately start sobbing. Everything pent up inside you from the day, from the months, the years of bottling everything up, comes spilling out at once. You’re not just crying. You’re pouring. Tears are streaming down your face and soaking the borrowed t-shirt. Your face is slick with snot and tears and spit. She starts stroking you through your clothes.

“Please-” you manage to choke out between sobs. She doesn’t stop, but she does hesitate for a moment before continuing.

“Please what, babes? Tell mommy what you need.”

You want to say “please stop.” You want to run away and never turn back. You want to forget everything that’s ever happened in your whole life.

You want to ignore the fact that every single cell of your body is screaming with arousal, screaming about how desperately, incomprehensibly, primally you need to fuck the shit out of the woman in front of you. How instinctually you need to rut into her, in heat, slam your hips into her ass and pour out all of your everything inside of her fat cunt and fill her up and impregnate her. How much you’ve wanted to do this your whole life. How it feels like fucking the shit out of her is your whole life. It’s uncontrollable. It’s suffocating. It’s delicious.

“Please,” you answer.

“Okay, babes.”

She kisses you, hard. You don’t push her away. You kiss her back.

***

Her tongue tastes like booze. She presses her entire body hard against yours. Kneads your cock with her thigh, pressed up between your legs. You moan loudly, reflexively, into her mouth. She runs her right hand up your shirt and starts to squeeze your breasts while her left hand slips under your waistband, delicately strokes your cock. Tears are still streaming down your face. You feel like you might explode.

She breaks the kiss with you and pulls away for a moment. You’re both out of breath like you’ve just run a mile. Her eyes are filled with rapacious appetite. She takes a moment to — Jesus Christ — she chugs an entire bottle of tequila she’s somehow produced from thin air before ripping off her shirt. Her breasts are gorgeous and full, hanging softly and naturally. You’re suddenly certain you want to be nowhere else but smushed between those two delicious breasts. You barely have a chance to express this before she’s pressing them into your face anyways.

“Suck.” She says it with so much maternal authority you don’t even respond, you just start suckling on her massive tits. She’s moaning loud enough to wake up the neighbors. God, this woman has a set of pipes. You think the sound of Sara moaning as you nurse on her is possibly the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard in your life. You feel like you might cum from just the sound. You’re sobbing.

She pulls away again and you whine involuntarily. Her eyes are utterly clouded but she still smirks at you before pulling off her shorts, finishes ripping off your clothes, and straddles you. She cups your face in her warm hands. Her hands are so soft. She stares directly into your eyes and says:

“Good girl.”

You moan, long and loud. It’s too much. You can’t handle it. You start spurting cum up against her stomach, then continue dribbling thick down your erect girlcock. You’re barely conscious, brain short-circuiting through the immense physical pleasure you’re experiencing, the massive volume of alcohol in your blood, the trauma of the last 24 hours. Your awareness hangs by a thread over an endless darkness of succumbing.

She smiles down at you, pleased by her handiwork, how effortlessly and flawlessly she’s been able to manipulate your basic bodily functions, how easily she’s been able to take you apart. Especially pleased to find that you are still hard and raring to go.

“Mommy…” you whimper. It’s enough. Total submission. Something deep inside of you snaps, collapses, gives in. It hurts. It feels good. She looks at you with a feverish, crazed, delirious hunger, that charmingly-uneven smile rendered terrifyingly predatory. You both know that it doesn’t matter anymore if you even want this, because you need it, and neither of you are strong enough to resist. Sara has broken you, reduced you into something less than a person but more than a toy. Prey. The word bubbles out of the sea of your intoxication. She’s going to take whatever she wants from you. She doesn’t care if you want it or hate it, only cares that your body twitches and dances to her puppeteering, only cares that you function. At this point, the soul inside of your body, the person you are beyond your flesh, is just a distraction, an inconvenience to be moved out of the way, in pursuit of her use of you. Your will isn’t what she’s interested in, so she breaks it apart, sets it aside, in pieces. It doesn’t matter to her if it will ever function again, if you’ll ever be able to put yourself back together. She wants to play with you. And, babes. You are going to be her doll. The faintest, smallest sparkle of awareness flits through your mind. Lexi used to say that. Then, nothing. Warm, hazy darkness. Mind an empty space. Body turned into a doll. This one is not a person.

She gathers some of the huge pool of cum that’s collected around the base of your cock and starts stroking your cock with it, sloppily lubing you up with your own cum, messily slathering girlseed all over her soft, slender fingers in the process. You are a collection of nerve-endings experiencing nothing but pleasure. You are a flesh automaton animated by neurotransmitters in service only of feeling good. She presses her pussy, hard, against your cock, squelching with semen, and starts grinding herself against you. Sweat is pouring off her body. The air smells like sweat and cum and pussy and so, so much booze. Intoxicating and toxifying. The smell fills every nook and cranny of your awareness, pushing out any hesitation, doubt, self-consciousness. You don’t have room for thoughts in all of that musky haze. You’ve been utterly emptied out, a vessel, all of the things that make Melody, Melody, poured out onto the ground, then filled back up with a saturating, warm, fuzzy lust. You contain nothing but heat and desperate, mindless need. Nothing in your life has ever felt like this. She grins at you viciously, carnivorously, looking at you like you’re the last piece of meat in the entire world. Like you’re the finest calf she’s raised for slaughter, and she’s finally able to partake. In one hard rut she plunges your cock fully into her cunt, fulfilling for her your ultimate function. You both gasp. It’s been years since she’s had a good meal.

“God, I’ve wanted this since you were a kid,” she mutters, and it is easily the hottest and most profoundly fucked up thing you have ever heard in your life.

***

You wrap your arms around her, under her thighs, and lift her up. She yelps in surprise as you stand up, still fucking her, both gasping desperately. You throw her, violently, back onto the couch, face down, with a wad of her long black hair balled up in your fist, forcing her head against the couch. You can hear her giggling and moaning, muffled through the hair covering her face and the couch cushion against her. You start thrusting. Words have abandoned you both.

You both cum nearly immediately. You have your hands sinking in the soft fat around her hips and stomach, holding onto her and forcing her onto your cock over and over. You fuck all of your hurt, all of your betrayal, your anger, your hatred, your lust, deep into her fucking pussy. You attempt to hurt every person who’s ever hurt you through the violent fucking pounding into her cunt. Tears stream down your face while you grit your teeth. It’s pouring out of you. A broken, defeated scream twists its way out of your throat. You’re spurting thick and hot, deep inside her, and she’s screaming, keening with absolute satisfaction as she starts shaking uncontrollably, in the midst of a mind-shattering orgasm, an orgasm so total it obliterates any remaining reasoning inside of her. She whimpers, pathetically, weakly, limply. You moan quietly as you keep fucking her over and over. Sara is twitching and grunting and quietly weeping. You don’t know why. You don’t really care.

***

You don’t know this, but deep inside of Sara’s body, a number of inevitable and unstoppable biological processes are underway. These things have been set in motion now, and nothing can change their course.

First, your cum finds its way up her cervix and into her ovulating uterus. A single sperm merges perfectly with her waiting egg and sparks into new life, shivers into conception, as she quivers around your cock. The reproductive cells function perfectly as they were intended to — unfortunately pointlessly, given the inevitable underway.

Elsewhere, the massive volume of toxic alcohol in her bloodstream starts to win out against her body, no longer able to be held back by her overwhelmed liver, utterly destroyed by decades of maladaptive alcoholism. The poison spreads through her bloodstream, ruining her brain tissues, slowly choking off her neurons one by one, as her cognitive function slows down and starts to dull. She’s fading. In a burst of desperation, a jolt of electrical charge flares through her central nervous system — a seizure — and every muscle in her body contracts. Her brain crosses wires, gives her a final, destructive climax. Shifting into the clonic phase, her body begins convulsing, as the muscles in her body go into their final minutes of rhythmic contractions. Her arms flail and twist, contorting themselves in a helplessness that somehow makes you even hornier, send you close to the edge again. Air forces itself in and out her lungs, wordlessly, spasmodically, in a series of pathetic grunts. You feel her pussy clench around you and your girlcock spurts again, an immense burst of sensation, unaware that her spasming is far more total than a simple full-body orgasm alone.

The seizure blazes through her nerves, rolling her exhausted, bloodshot eyes into the back of her head, becoming only bruised, dark circles around white sclera. The arteries in her eyes burst, smearing little pinpricks of scarlet across the white expanse. You can’t see them, smothered in the sea of her soft black hair, cheek still pressed forcefully against the couch cushion. Unfortunately for her, you are exactly how she left you, awash in the throes of lust, completely unaware of everything else around you, personality and consciousness replaced with nothing but a machine for sex. You are oblivious to the fact that her body is rapidly burning out beneath you.

Her teeth clench and her lungs heave frantically, trying to oxygenate blood which is rapidly losing its efficacy. Fearful whimpers seep out of her, incapable of language. Spittle foams around the corners of her mouth as she starts to loudly choke on her own tongue and saliva. Burning hot tears stream down her face as the smallest glimmer of her remaining awareness continues to fade, saturated with terror. The last thoughts she will ever have flit through her awareness, faster and faster, as if trying to outrun the encroaching darkness. Fear, grief, regret, loneliness, bewilderment, confusion — it’s horrible, it’s total, it’s nothing like the peace she was promised. She doesn’t think of her abusive ex-husband Kyle, or her daughter Jacki, or you, or anything else. No profound reflections on her life, no being awash in a beautiful kaleidoscope of memories and experiences. Instead, with her remaining faculties, she’s barely able to formulate one single, final thought. I don’t want to die. Utterly childlike in its simplicity, its impotence, its complete pointlessness in the face of irresistible force.

Then, darkness. Complete fade into unawareness. She grunts — an animalistic, guttural noise — as the last tremors of the seizure rip through her body. She loses consciousness. At this point, she is barely still a person, just a constellation of distant electrical charges barely held together by a fizzling mass of brain tissue. Even if she’s not actually dead yet, her mind is gone. In a way, the ambiguity of this fact reveals something horrifically simulacrum about her personhood. She will never think again, never feel, never weep or laugh or rage or wonder. Her body sputters on without her for a few more moments. Nothing to be done now. Nothing ever to be done again. You keep fucking her twitching pussy, ignorant to her peril, lost in a sea of unresolved emotions and hormones and alcohol. Her arm hangs limp over the edge of the couch, bent unnaturally by gravity. Her fingers twitching. Her body useless, reduced to a barely-living meatdoll. You pound into her over and over, cumming a fourth, a fifth, a sixth time, whimpering to her: mommy, mommy, mommy.

In her chest, her vital organs continue to burn out their faltering remaining function. Her lungs heave, then slow, then barely shudder. Her desperate heartrate grows sluggish, beat by beat, thumping with a mortal finality. 140 bpm, 100 bpm, 60 bpm, 30 bpm, 10 bpm… Her heart desperately struggles to pump the useless alcohol-poisoned sludge through her limp, dying body. Eventually, it cannot hold out, and it sputters, arrhythmically spasming before stopping for the first and final time. She’s unconscious, in cardiac arrest, but still alive, technically, for the moment. But her body is rapidly closing down shop without the necessary oxygen. One by one, her organs shut down and go dim. Digestion stops. Muscles relax. Liver and kidneys, long abused, finally extinguish their functions. Cells cease their decades-long frantic jittering, stop passing oxygen and signal proteins and ions around and around, back and forth. One last sparkling glimmer of electrical current in what was her brain — a single, choking spark in her brain stem — then nothing. Brain death. Her body loses control of her bladder, evacuates all over the couch. Piss sprays from her urethra, then weakens to a dribble, dripping down your cock and your legs, while you keep fucking her. The muscles of her irises relax and her pupils dilate into two open, dark voids. She’s gone.

***

You come down from your sexual high, satisfied. Your head is spinning from the alcohol and the thrill. You look down at the corpse that was Sara and finally notice that something’s wrong. She’s not moving. Her body is slumped at an awkward angle. You let go of her hips and she immediately collapses, flops over and rolls off the couch. Jarring, uncinematic, sudden. Gravity works on dead muscles much faster than what you might have expected. Her mouth gapes and her eyes are covered in her hair. She’s not breathing. She’s not moving. She’s completely and utterly still.

“Sara?”

No response.

“…Sara? Hey, Sara? You okay?”

Still nothing.

You start snapping your fingers in front of her face.

“Sara! Hey! Wake up!” Motionless silence. You brush the hair out of her face. Her eyes are wide-open, empty, unfocused, staring into nowhere. Hair is falling directly into her eyes and she doesn’t even blink. She can’t. You stand there, gaping, confused, failing to accept the reality. You look around the room, at the literally dozen bottles of wine that are lying empty, and finally, your gaze rests on the massive gallon bottle of tequila that you watched her chug in one go. Confusion gives way. Things start to click into place in your mind. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. A single trickle of blood leaks out of Sara’s nose.

You look back down at Sara. She’s exactly the way you left her. Of course she is. She’ll never move on her own again. She — she’s not even “she” at this point, the woman who was Sara is gone, destroyed, utterly evaporated. What’s left is a husk, a hollow shell, a corpse. Just a bunch of meat and bone and tissue in the shape of Sara, while Sara exists nowhere. Not looking over you from heaven, not shrieking in hell. Sara is gone. Not left to go somewhere else without you. Disappeared. Vanished. One moment here, then the next, nonexistent. You think you’re going to be sick. You are. You lean over the back of the couch and puke helplessly all over the floor.

You lose track of time and space. You don’t know how long you’ve been doing what. You’ve spent — an hour? minutes? days? — sobbing, screaming Sara’s name uselessly at the limp corpse. You’ve shaken her shoulders, pointlessly, as the corpse’s eyes gaze somewhere behind you, the ragdolling head hanging loosely at the shoulders. You pressed your face against Sara’s dead forehead and wept uncontrollably. Blood dripping slowly from her nose to the floor. At some point you picked up the limp corpse, held it tight against your chest, carried it to Sara’s old bedroom and laid it in what was her bed. You definitely shouted “Mommy” a number of times. Mommy, don’t leave me. Mommy, please, not you too. Mommy, I’m scared, I��m alone, I don’t want to be alone anymore. I miss you. I love you.

You are genuinely losing your shit. You’ve completely lost your grip on reality. You look down at the corpse. She’s still naked, covered in your cum. It’s on her stomach, on her hands, dribbling out of her used and useless pussy. Without a living clotting factor, the small trickle of blood from her nose streams freely down her face, staining the Egyptian cotton bedsheets. Somehow, in the midst of your psychotic grieving, it seems you’ve managed to stay extremely hard. You don’t understand anything that’s happening — totally unaware, you’ve been reduced to a set of instincts and emotions and sensations. Wires cross in your brain, associate previously firmly disconnected feelings and desires. As your fragile sanity continues to fall apart like wet tissue, you somehow link your frantic grief to your remaining immense arousal. You curl up behind the still-warm, but rapidly cooling, corpse in the bed, spooning it. Its eyes are staring into the distance. Blood pools under its cheek. You start whispering into its ear.

“Mommy, mommy I miss you, mommy I want you back, mommy I still want you, I need you, please.”

You start rutting your cock against her cold, soft, fat ass, slick with cum and sweat, kneading your breasts and moaning loudly, uncoordinatedly prodding her swollen cunt and asshole. Melody, you are masturbating with a corpse. The corpse of your best friend’s mother. The corpse of the woman who’s known you since you were a kid, who basically raised you herself. The thought of the words “molesting” and “dead” and “corpse” and “desecration” somehow awaken something broken inside of you, somehow don’t make you disgusted but make you sickeningly, blindingly, mind-emptyingly horny.

You are going to fuck this corpse. You are going to fuck this corpse and you are going to love every fucking second of it. You are going to violate this corpse in every way imaginable.

Grabbing the body’s left tit, you jerk yourself off furiously with your right hand. You bite your lip hard enough to bleed and you moan. God, nothing in your life has felt as good as this moment. You squeeze hard with your left hand, digging your fingers in, enough that if she were alive, Sara would have yelped, maybe cried out in pain. The body doesn’t respond at all. You pull on the corpses shoulder, flopping it onto its back. The wide brown eyes stare straight ahead at the ceiling, chest neither rising nor falling, long, pampered black hair stuck all over its face, purple bangs falling haphazardly, mouth hanging open in a frozen, permanent expression of surprise. Eyes dilated huge. Pressing your mouth hot against it, you start slobbering all over its lips, making out with the limp and gaping mouth. The contrast of your burning, frantic, heart-pumping life with her empty, total, still, death fills you with an ineffable desperation. You pull away and look at the body. The body that used to be Sara. Sara’s body.

She really is gorgeous. Was. The thought chokes your heart and makes your cock twitch. The years had certainly affected her, filling out her previously slender figure, adding pads of soft fat onto her hips, stomach, thighs. Swelling her already uncharacteristically fat tits, adding soft, round rolls to her tummy. Her hair spread out from her head like a black halo. She was the height of mom-bod. A Venusian treasure. And, at least for right now, you had access to every part of her, in whatever way you wanted. You could do anything with this body that you could imagine.

The power in that makes you delirious.

***

Melody is gone, completely broken, shattered apart into fragments that do not yet have names. Conscious awareness has left her. She looks down at the empty eyes of the woman who saved her life and loses any remaining modicum of restraint. Mels kneels on the California king bed, at the foot of the corpse, desperately jacking off her long, slender cock, still slick with her own cum and Sara’s piss and pussy juices. She gropes her tit with her other hand, moaning loudly. A part of her — a desperate, hungry, part of her — sees Sara’s open mouth below her glazed-over eyes, and imagines what it would be like to finally fuck that throat, just like she’d fantasized for years, sneaking around Sara’s house trying to peek her changing, realizing now that Sara had likely left the door ajar for her on purpose, in hopes that the young Melody would take a peek. God, what a profoundly fucked up pair of people, another, more detached part of Melody thinks.

Melody mounts Sara’s face. Slides her hot, throbbing, slimy gock deep into Sara’s open and forever-willing throat with a fat squelch. Melody lets out an involuntary moan as Sara’s permanently relaxed lips kiss the base of her cock. No choking, sputtering resistance like there might be with a living Sara. No chance to change her mind or push away, coughing cum and mucus into her hand. Instead, Sara’s eyes stare wide, dark, looking through Melody’s fuzzy crotch, unblinking as pussy-soaked black pubic hairs are forced into her corneas. Melody looks down, cocks her head curiously, expressionlessly, like a vulture, holding Sara’s head there without moving. Melody’s awareness is occupied by another fragment of her broken psyche — clinical, curious, experimental. Time ticks by. Enough time that, were Sara here, she would be starting to shudder, starting to panic, as her lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen, ten-inch girldick stuffing her trachea, suffocating her, choking the life out of her, making her face red with desperation. But Sara isn’t here, she’s vanished and left behind an achingly gorgeous naked body, and instead of flushing with hot, living blood, Sara’s face continues to grow paler as the blood pools away from her upturned skin, settling with gravity. The cold, curious part of Melody’s psyche sits on its haunches, resting her ass on Sara’s hips, taking Sara’s head limply along with her as she moves, bending the corpse’s neck and upper body at an extremely awkward angle, an angle that, in any other situation, would have been intolerably painful for Sara. Mels holds the head firmly between her two hands and begins methodically facefucking it, slowly at first, then faster, getting more desperate as the physical pleasure builds in her crotch, pressure and heat. Sara stares straight ahead, arms hanging at her side, palms facing the ceiling, fingers loosely half-curled. Whoever is currently piloting Mels’ body cums hard, first deep inside the corpse’s throat, then, in hot, thick pumps, spraying all over Sara’s blank face.

The force of the orgasm jolts the current alter out of the psychic hotseat, clicks into place a panicked, fearful, lonely presence.

“Mommy?” she asks the corpse, to no response.

“Mommy, I miss you. I love you. Please, mommy, please make me feel good. It hurts so much in my heart, and I’m scared.”

Melody wraps her arms around Sara’s relatively smaller body, face against her tits, suckling uselessly on her nipples. Her hips grind against the corpse’s thigh, smearing spit and cum all over its clammy skin. The corpse’s head lolls about, bouncing with the rhythm of Melody’s humping.

“Mommy, I love you so much, I wanted you for so long, please make me feel good, please help me cum, please touch me down there, please, please...” Melody’s hips start moving more erratically, nearing another climax.

“Please, mommy, please, please please please please please—”

She lets out a sob and splatters all over the corpses thigh. As she cums, Melody’s mind becomes awash in long-buried memories, suddenly joined together by a chain of unbroken logic — childhood memories of Sara’s casual touches on her thighs, gentle hand firmly against her naked back, brushing tears away from her cheek, her lips on her mouth. She remembers a number of times as a teenager where Sara would help Melody undress as she got changed into a skirt or dress before school, hiding her transition from her actual mother. How Sara always lingered with her face near Melody’s crotch just a little too long, breathing through her nose a little too hard, “accidentally” brushing her fingertips along the front of Melody’s panties while helping her pull a skirt over her hips. How Sara would wrap her arms around Mels from behind, whispering about how much of a beautiful woman she’ll be one day, while Mels would quietly cry to herself, happy for any amount of validation, desperate to be seen, to be recognized.

Alongside these revelations, a new presence fills Melody, one blazing with anger, hatred, bitterness, hurt. She positions herself over Sara’s still, unseeing corpse, arms at either side of her limp head, skull hanging back at an unnatural angle.

“You took advantage of me,” she whispers. Her voice is breaking, conveying a hurt far deeper than the one felt for what Lexi did to her. An old hurt, renewed and refreshed.

“I came to you in a time of need. I needed your help. And you used me. You didn’t even care if I wanted to be used. You didn’t ask. ” More angry tears roll down her cheeks, fall to splash onto Sara.

“You didn’t bring me here to help me. You didn’t bring me here to save me. You brought me here so you could turn me into your fucking plaything. You’re just like everyone else.” Despair and fury roil inside of her gut, seethe out of her mouth like black smoke.

“So I’m going to use you. Just like you used me, you fucking cunt. I’m going to use your cunt like a plaything.” Her voice is breaking, spittle flying as she speaks through gritted teeth. Mels begins to violently pound Sara’s cunt, sobbing bitterly, letting her body fill with the hatred that she’d hid away for years. She fucks Sara’s husk and in-so-doing she fucks every version of Sara who’d hurt and betrayed her, who’d groomed her from childhood for this. She forces her feelings of rejection from Lexi, her hurt from the abandonment by her friends and metamours, her totalizing feelings of grief at being abused and kicked out by her biological mother, and being groomed and left behind by her surrogate one, into this single act, this final clarifying ritual of release. Screaming in sorrow, she begins to mindlessly pound her fists down on Sara’s dead chest, punching her ribcage, beating down on the corpse’s unresponsive skull, bashing her vacant face with every bit of shattering agony Mels has inside of her. Cold, slimy blood starts to trickle and stream from Sara’s nose, splatters from her lips and cheeks. Mels continues to furiously and ravenously fuck her corpse, bucking her hips wildly as she approaches vindication. Mels howls and releases her seed one last time, before falling over onto Sara’s corpse, spent, clinging to it desperately as if letting go would drop her far, far into a blinding abyss. She sobs quietly to herself.

***

You return to your body, somehow, from somewhere else you don’t understand. Your mind feels different — cluttered, filled with thoughts and voices that aren’t yours, that conflict with each other, that scream and shout and fight with each other. You are frightened and confused and you don’t know what’s going on, and most of all, you are somehow also still utterly alone. You press your face against Sara’s cold bosom, the soft breasts you’d admired just hours before, pressing against your face, lifeless. For the second time today, you weep into Sara’s chest.

#holy fuck.#this is so good that i said 'this is how you become plural' like halfway through #...holy fuck.#i'm going to be thinking about this for a while...

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