Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"That sheriff was a married man," Luda Mae says to her son after she hands him the dead sheriff's trousers, watching him preen in the mirror. 

"I know," Charlie replies, pried the man's wedding ring off his finger himself. Found it didn't fit, sheriff had thinner fingers, Charlie couldn't get it past his knuckle. 

Luda Mae tuts at his carefree tone.

"Well what you gonna do about his widow?" she presses, "Still in town far as I know."

Charlie smiles at his reflection.

"Gonna pay her a lil visit."

"What, now?" Luda Mae's eyes are owlish behind her spectacles, "Dressed like that?"

Charlie ignores the question, hitches up his pants, 

"Hey they fit real nice. Did a good job."

Luda Mae huffs, praise making her flustered.

"Hard gettin' those stains out but I got 'em."

Plenty more to come, Charlie thinks. 

Luda Mae sighs,

"Frighten her outta her wits, calling on her like that. You two boys caused enough mischief today."

Charlie chuckles at her choice of words. Mischief, like he and Tommy got up to some school boy shenanigans instead of committing a count of murder each.

But Luda Mae loved her boys. 

Proud too. Wouldn't say so because she was Christian woman but she was proud of Tommy killing that supervisor. Man treated him like a freak for years. She wasn't mourning that big mouth sheriff either. That trigger happy bastard would have pumped Tommy full of lead. If Charlie hadn't blown his head off first. 

Luda Mae is eying him exasperatedly. Too much of a worrier, his mama. Far as Charlie's concerned, the events that transpired today have put them in a favourable position. Hewitts are going to run this town. Very least they'll never go hungry. Charlie's made up his mind about that. 

When Charles Hewitt Jr. made up his mind, that was that. The others would fall into line, his mama included.

"You listenin' to me Charlie?" she says.

Charlie sighs,

"Hoyt, mama," he corrects her, "It's Sheriff Hoyt now." 

Luda Mae only grunts, looks at him with folded arms. Charlie turns back to the mirror, adjusts the brim of his hat.

"Anyway quit your fretting. Dear Mrs. Hoyt ain't any threat to us."

"Oh no?" Luda Mae challenges, "Think she'll be fine with you turning up in her husband's uniform?"

No way a sheriff's house wouldn't have a telephone. Could ring the sheriff's department next county over. But Charlie could simply snip the wire. Bitch couldn't call for any kind of help then.

"It's my uniform, mama," he answers, admiring himself - mama's right, he really is something, "Don't you worry about this girl. I'll talk her round."

He grabs the set of keys he took from the dead sheriff, ones that have his house key. Charlie's house now, though he ain't interested in living any place but the farm. More interested in the contents. One item in particular. 

"Talk her round to what?" Luda Mae calls after him worriedly, "Junior!"

Hoyt, Charlie huffs to himself, sheriff Hoyt! But he tries to be understanding. Fifty odd years he'd answered to Charlie or Junior. His mama would get it eventually ("you make sure you silence her!" she's calling resignedly, not connecting that Charlie has other plans.) 

He sits in his new cruiser, opens up the wallet he found in the glove compartment. Got his predecessor’s licence in it. Home address. Not that Charlie needed it. Small town, folks knew where everybody lived. He's more interested in the picture of his wife. Wholesome thing to do, carrying that around. The pornographic magazine he found along with the newspaper, not so much. But he supposes there ain't much for a sheriff in a near ghost town to do all day. Tommy probably interrupted his routine of jacking off. Charlie isn't sure why he didn’t just stay home and fuck his wife. 

Probably ‘cause his wife don't compare to the busty blondes in the magazine. She's no sex kitten judging from her picture. Which is to be expected. No way that rabbit-y looking sheriff would be married to a Jayne Mansfield lookalike. But she's pleasant enough. Strawberry blonde. Got a cute smatter of freckles on her nose. Good teeth. That might change depending on how she acts. Charlie won't tolerate any horseshit. He imagines her face all bloody, gets his cock stirring in his new pants.

"Got yourself a lil wife now Charlie," he murmurs, readjusting his hardening cock, squeezing it a little before he tucks her photo away. Have the real thing soon enough.

But he’s a little too excited. Hasn’t even made it a few miles before it’s too hard to drive. Pulls over on a lonely stretch of road. Grabs her picture back out – tries to remember her name, mama or Aunty Dora would know, women remembered shit like that. She was a year or so above Tommy in school, back when he went to school. Vaguely remembers a strawberry haired girl with another black haired one, her friend Susie. Susie was the better looking of the pair of ‘em, Susie’s brother belonged to the pack of boys who used to bully Tommy. Avery. They were all there that afternoon after school Charlie arrived to see all them boys circling Tommy like a bunch of dogs, those two girls in the background. Weren’t involved but they weren’t exactly stopping ‘em either.

Charlie was the one who put a stop to it. Most of those boys scattered but not that asshole Avery, looked him dead in the eye and tried to mouth off while Tommy lay there in the dirt, messed up face dripping blood. Charlie had decked the little bastard, the boy’s sister shrieking in the background. Boy stared up at him dazed with a broken nose. Didn’t have anything smart to say then, on the verge of crying. Charlie blocked his exit, grabbed the snivelling boy by the shoulder, wasn’t a fair fight, bunch of boys ganging up on one poor soul. Boy should be a man, fight Tommy one on one, c’mon Tommy, get up, son. Fight this boy here. Do your uncle proud. Tommy hesitated at first. But then he launched on that kid like a rabid animal. Charlie was damn proud, listening to the boy’s hitch pitched screams. Avery’s handsome face was awful mangled by the time Charlie pulled Tommy off.

That’ll teach you to mess with the Hewitts, he crowed, leading Tommy away, boy was shaking like a leaf from the adrenalin. Did good Tommy, Charlie murmured, did real good. Clapped him on the back. Made him hold a handkerchief to his face so he wouldn’t bleed all over the interior of the packard. Glanced back to see blubbering Susie peeling her brother off the ground, one of his bully buddies slinking back to help her carry him. She starts screeching at Charlie how she’s gonna tell her daddy, how he’s gonna call the sheriff and have him arrested.

Charlie just laughs at her. Her little threats don’t mean shit to him. When Sheriff Dodd comes to the house, Charlie’ll trot Tommy in front of him, make the man uncomfortable at the sight of him - look at what those monkeys did, Tommy was right to defend himself. Anyway I’m taking him outta school, going to work at the slaughterhouse. Dodd would be appeased by that. He was a lazy fucker, wasn’t about to arrest some underage halfwit. Avery’s face would heal, unlike poor Tommy’s. He had left town after high school, same with his pretty harpy of a sister.

Unlike her mousy friend. Charlie remembers her being frozen on the spot as Susie hollered threats. All wide-eyed and pale, strawberry hair glinting in the sunlight. D something, Charlie racks his brain as he strokes his length in her dead husband’s cruiser. Susie yelled her name when they left, knocked her out of her frightened daze. Something starting with D.

Debbie? Dolly. Something like Dolly. Charlie remembers overhearing Luda Mae and Teadora in the kitchen, discussing the wedding announcements in the paper, then Deputy Hoyt marrying that Sawyer girl. Dolly? Dorcas. Hadn’t interested Charlie at the time. Gossip about weddings and babies was women's business. Thinking back that was probably ’58, ’59. Meant they’d been married for about ten years. No kids from what he could recall. Strange to be married so long with no offspring. Even Charlie had his little bastard Jedidiah floating around somewhere.

Not that he’d prefer her to have kids. Didn’t want to raise another man’s progeny. Rather be the first one to put a bun in her oven. Knock her up with a Hewitt. Boy hopefully. Charles Hewitt Hoyt III. That sounded awful distinguished. But he’s getting ahead of himself. Things might not even work out with his new wife, especially if her plumbing didn’t work. Bitch who couldn’t breed was no bitch to be married to. Especially since it was up to Charlie to keep the bloodline going. Couldn’t rely on poor Tommy. Poor bastard probably wasn’t even sure what sex was. His cousin Henrietta was baby crazy but she was simple as shit. Charlie had considered taking her as a wife – wouldn’t be the first time their family married their own. Charlie was a product of that. Etta was a nice kid but she didn’t exactly get his engine revving. Rather sow his oats elsewhere.

Charlie growls as he fists his cock, left hand fumbling to dig out Mrs. Hoyt’s portrait. Her straight-toothed smile isn’t exactly sultry enough. He rifles out that porn magazine in a moment of inspiration. Spread it open on the steering wheel, positions D’s face over the image of a girl with her legs spread wide open, flashing her bare cunt. Grins at his own genius.

"That’s good honey,” he pumps his cock with more ferociously, “You hold that pretty pussy open for me. That’s a good lil wife.”

He groans, feeling his balls clench with oncoming climax,

“Gonna bus’ that pussy,” he growls, “Rough you up n’ make ya all bloody. Gonna lick blood outta that pretty cooch n’ fill it fulla my cum. Make you ahhh mama.”

He aims his dick to ejaculate over the page, splatters over the model’s bare pussy and Mrs. Hoyt’s smiling face. Charlie grins raggedly, releases his softening cock to grab D’s picture splattered with his seed.

"Aw honey, made a mess all over ya face, sorry 'bout that,” he cleans it with his handkerchief, smudged with the blood he wiped off his badge, “There ya go.”

He admires it a moment before leaving it on the passenger seat to fully dry. Rips out the cum-splattered page out of the porn magazine, winks at the spread-eagled model.

“Thanks for the memories, honey,” he smiles, “Can’t keep you though, I’m a married man.”

He crumples her up and tosses it out of the window. Shoves the rest of the magazine back in the glove compartment. Might be a married man but hey, literature like that is hard to find. Don’t exactly sell it at the family store.

Chapter Text

Doris Hoyt kneels on her marital bed, dress and panties discarded on the floor, hand between her legs, sliding through the slick folds of her pussy, blue eyes focused on the magazine spread out beneath her. Magazine her husband snuck home, hid under the mattress not realizing she'd find it when she changed the sheets. Magazine featuring girls bound and gagged, eyes wide as some anonymous man - most of him angled out of frame split them with his big dick. Not just their pussies either, took them up the ass too, cheeks red from spanking. Or he positioned himself near their mouths, tongues waiting to receive his offering.

Should have shocked her. Good Christian girl. Should have closed it and prayed for their souls. Prayed for Winnie's soul at hoarding it. But he was weak for that sort of thing. She knew what reading material he kept in his cruiser. Knew what he really did when he left the house to go on 'patrol'. He wasn't patrolling. He was parked somewhere, blowing his jism into his handkerchief rather than his wife. Told her he kept misplacing them - had enough decency not to make her wash them.

But the literature in his cruiser was tamer fare than this. Your run of the mill dirty magazine, big titted girls flashing their pussies coquettishly. The genre of magazine at home is called bondage. She learnt that from title - Bondage Babes. Doris had looked up the word in Winnie's dictionary - one he used to improve his vocabulary. Finesse was a word he was using a lot. Thought it sounded fancy. As fancy as the word bondage, which meant 'state of being a slave'. That's what the girls were sexual slaves, all trussed up for the man's gratification.

Sweat beads on her forehead as she rubs furiously between her legs, that sweet spot she found as a girl, touching herself at night thinking about Susie's brother. Makes delicious heat ripple over her, a whine spilling from her mouth. Doesn't have to be as quiet as she was back in her childhood bedroom, hand clamped over her mouth - her left hand now free to rub her pebbled nipples over her brassiere, twist them in a way she found she likes. 

Should dispense with the bra - she's been slowly building up to it. When she first started she kept her dress on and only lowered her panties. But she found it was too hot to keep doing that, dress kept getting in the way too. It's harder justifying taking off her bra, letting her tits bounce freely like those girls on the page. Makes her flush with arousal thinking about it. Maybe next time, though she always tells herself this is the last time. She's bound to get sprung one of these days. Always the possibility of Winnie arriving back at the wrong moment... 

But somehow that only makes it more exciting, trying to climax before her husband got home. Keep hiding her secret, like she's having an affair. Affair with the man on the page. 

His face is hidden but his large hand are gripping the girl's pink ass, his thick vein-y dick is half buried in her pussy, her wrists and ankles tied. Her red hair spilling over her back, a more fiery red than hers but enough to imagine Doris in her place, mouth drooling around that gag as the man rams her with his large manhood. Spilling into her, jets of fertile cum, getting her pregnant...

Doris presses down on that spot between her legs and climaxes, imagines her orgasm rippling around that big cock. But as she comes down to Earth, she's alone, man is only a still image on the page. She rolls onto her back, feeling shame wash over her. Shouldn't be pleasuring herself to such filth. She closes the magazine, trying hard not to stare at it. Blonde on the cover, gagged and bound to a chair. She slips it back under the mattress. 

Heads into the bathroom for a quick sponge with a damp cloth before she throws her dress back on. The water from the faucet brown tinged. Leaves her skin feeling slightly gritty. She can't wait for clean water from a tap, no longer needing to boil it.

She pads back to the bedroom, buttoning her dress. Smiles at her row of ceramic cat figurines on her vanity. Smiles at their adorable kitty faces. She should pack them up soon, wrap them carefully in newspaper. 

The move was next week. But she knew she'd hold off to the last minute. She was used to looking at them, made her feel better. Like her routine with the magazine. Anything to get her through the monotony. She has high hopes for Michigan. Where they're going is a lot more bustling than Fuller. Susie is always bragging about what she gets to do at the country club in Austin. Doris knows they ain't well to do enough for that but maybe she can find a circle of friends among the wives of the Michigan officers. Hasn't really had a friend since Susie left town. Still writes but it's not the same. Never invites Doris to visit either. 

Maybe a book club, though Doris ain't that good at reading and she doesn't want to be viewed as some backwards hillbilly from Texas. Maybe a knitting group. Maybe she knit booties. Booties for the baby she desires so much. Maybe in Michigan she'll finally fall pregnant - though that doctor's diagnosis weighs on her mind, telling her its unlikely.

But maybe just being in a new place with new friends, new hobbies. That'll be enough. Maybe Winnie might finally relax some, stop getting on her darn nerves. Maybe she'll be so happy she won't have to touch herself to filthy images as a pastime. Feel dirty about herself afterwards. Promises herself it was the last time. But it's a promise she keeps breaking. She prays to God for more strength, prays for a baby. That would make it easier for her to ignore the pull of Satan, a baby taking up all her time. 

She wants to broach the idea of surgery to Winnie again. But she knows the timing is bad. Especially with the call he got this morning in the middle of breakfast. He was reading the paper - article detailing the closure of the slaughterhouse, shaking his head - town's about to go absolute Hell D, they'll be pillaging in the streets soon, like the end of days. 

Doris just nodded, Winnie had a tendency towards melodrama. She doubted there'd be riots. Most folks had simply packed up and left. 

"Good thing we're leaving," she said.

"Not soon enough," according to Winnie, "Wish they'd left off closing off that slaughterhouse another week. Gonna have a lot of angry folks on the streets. I'm the only one around can deal with it!"

Doris tries to make a sympathetic noise. She's more distracted by the fact Winnie's got egg on his moustache, something that irks her for some reason. Maybe because Winnie overall is taxing her. Wishes he would calm the fuck down. Wasn't good for a sheriff to wound up so tight. Dangerous really. 

Then the telephone rings. Winnie answer it, egg still stuck to his moustache. Hangs there as his eyes go wide listening to dispatch. Still there when he slams the phone down, turns to Doris,

"What was I jus' tellin' you, D. That 'tarded boy Thomas Hewitt, he done killed Mr. Murphy this mornin' at the slaughterhouse. Word is he's roaming around with a chainsaw. Probably about to go on a goddamn killing spree."

His face is red and flushed. Egg quivering on that moustache. He storms over to seize his holster hanging over the back of his chair. 

"Probably gonna have to put him down like an animal."

Doris remembers a screaming Avery pinned under Hewitt all those years ago. Hadn't glimpsed Hewitt since but word was he was monstrous. Ain't much of Winnie, Hewitt could snap him like a stick. Worse, saw him in half. He'd been working at the slaughterhouse since his uncle pulled him out of school. 

His uncle, that tall threatening man in overalls, ordering his nephew to beat on Avery like an attack dog. Boy listened to him then.

"Why don't you call at his house, ask that uncle of his to come with you."

Winnie pauses donning his hat at the front door, grips the brim, knuckles white.

"Charlie?"

"He's his family. Help you talk him down."

Winnie sneers,

"Half the reason this happened is his kin not raisin' him right. Ought to have kept him locked up!"

"Then let that same kin help you arrest him," Doris presses, "It's the least they can do. You don't want more blood spilt."

Winnie seems to see reason.

"Alright alright," he plops on his hat, "I'll call on that asshole."

Doris feels a hint of relief.

"You got egg on your moustache," she says as he reaches for the doorknob.

Makes him jump and whirl around. 

"Jesus woman," he bats at his face, "why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Glares at her with those beady eyes that suddenly remind her of rat. 

Leaves her smarting as he slams the door closed. She's still smarting as she clears away breakfast. That's why she heads for the bedroom and the magazine under the mattress, relieve her pent up frustration. Despite the lingering sense of shame it works, feels not quite so angry about Winnie's outburst. Men don't like being made to feel a fool.

Especially with the stress of a killer running loose in town. In hindsight Doris should have told him to call the next county over for backup. Not get Hewitt's uncle involved. Probably didn't even care his nephew slaughtered a man. Though hopefully he would care Hewitt was taken into custody rather than shot. Winnie's so worked up, the latter feels like a high probability. 

He doesn't make it home for lunch. Not that there's much left to eat. They've been trying to use up for what food they have left. Doris only munches on a few pickles, debates whether it's time to kill their laying hen for eating. Not taking her with them to Michigan. Be nice to have a roast chicken for dinner. But Winnie said something about leaving it until the last minute so they can keep using her for eggs. 

Doris decides she'll just make hash with what's leftover in the fridge. She's sitting at the table peeling the potatoes when she hears Winnie's cruiser pull up outside. Jumps up to grab him a beer from the fridge. Probably need it. Must have been a big ordeal since he's been gone all day. Debates grabbing one for herself. Winnie gets funny about her drinking his beer. Especially if it means he'll run out before they leave. 

She licks her lips, beer would be nice though. Help her get through the evening with him. She hears his boot treads as he enters the kitchen. 

"Hey honey," she calls, her voice echoing inside the almost empty refrigerator, "How'd it go, you get..."

She jumps a little as she feels him behind her. 

"H-him?" her breath hitches as his hand suddenly clamps over her eyes like a blind fold, "What are you..?"

He pulls her backwards, the door to the refrigerator slamming closed. Then he pushes her forward, pins her against it, Doris almost dropping his beer in surprise. Manages to keep hold of it. Grips it as she feels his crotch press hard up against her rear. Starts to grind his hips, breath growling in her ear. 

A blush spreads over face, heart fluttering in her chest.

"Win..." She breathes.

He's never acted like this before. Only time he touched her intimately was in the bed. After prayer, with the lights out, like good Christian folk. In the light of day the most she got was a kiss on the cheek. 

"W-what's gotten into you?"

Is it the adrenalin from bringing down Hewitt? Victory making blood rush to his cock? The bulge rutting against her ass almost feels like he's gone up a size. She's not sure how that's possible. 

There's a chuckle in her ear at her question. Doesn't sound like Winnie. It's too guttural. Winnie sounds like a donkey when he laughs. This chuckle, there's something almost predatory about it. 

His other hand squeezes her breast roughly. Rougher than Winnie normally would in bed. Hand feels bigger too, same with the one still clamped over her eyes. Maybe it's her mind playing tricks but they feel almost foreign.

Like it's not Winnie at all. 

But it can only be Winnie. She can feel the hard outline of his badge digging into her back as he heaves against her, breath harsh in her ear, the scent of tobacco heavy in her nostrils. 

That's strange too. Winston smokes - calm his nerves - but the scent usually isn't this strong. Smells like he's been chewing tobacco all day. 

His lips brush her neck in a rough kiss and she jolts, fear rippling up her spine. There's no prickle of facial hair. The man kissing her is clean shaven.

It's not Winnie! Her brain races. Not Winnie!

She jerks like a rabbit caught in a snare, the hand blocking her vision lifting as she twists around to stare at the chest of Winston's uniform at her eye level. His name tag and badge look newly polished. Her gaze cranes up.

Stares into a face she hasn't seen since she was fourteen. There's a few more wrinkles and grey in his brows but that smile is the same. That malovent smile. Way he smiled when his nephew attacked Avery. Like he was the Devil perched on the boy's shoulder.

Charlie Hewitt.

Charlie Hewitt wearing her husband's uniform. Even wearing his hat. 

She stares at him dumbstruck. The beer still clenched in her hand slips through her fingers. Charlie catches it before it falls to the ground and shatters. 

"Lucky I caught that," he tsks, "Could have gone all over my pants. Already been cleaned once today."

Doris can't quite process what's happening. Surely it's some kind of prank, bad dream. Charlie can't really be here wearing Winston's uniform - calling Winston's trousers his, saying they'd been cleaned. 

Why did they have to be cleaned? They were clean when Winston left. Where was Winston? 

Where was her husband?

"What's wrong, honey. You look like you seen a ghost."

Charlie grabs her by the arm, the contact like a jolt of electricity. His thick fingers curling tightly around her bicep - how the hell had she mistook him for Winston earlier. Let him touch her so... so intimately, her body reacting like it had.

Her gut churns with nausea. 

"Come sit," he says, "Don't want you fainting now."

He shoves her into the chair she was sitting in earlier peeling potatoes. Adjusts his crotch right in front of her, growling a little. Then pulls up a chair alongside her. Takes his hat off. Cracks open the beer. 

Drinks it like this situation is the most normal thing in the world. Man breaking into her house, in her husband's stolen uniform, molesting his wife then sitting down at his table to help himself to his beer. 

Doris wrings her hands under the table.

"Where's - where's Winston?" 

Charlie lowers the beer.

"You're looking at him."

Looks at her like she's being silly. 

Doris stares back with bulging eyes.

He can't be serious.

"No, you're Charles H-Hewitt!"

Hewitt smiles, put a finger to his lips,

"Shh don't tell no one. It's our lil secret. I'm Sheriff Hoyt now. See, Hoyt," he slowly sounds it out, tapping the name tag, her husband's name tag, "We clear?"

Oh yes things were becoming clear.

Her Winston was dead. This crazy son of bitch or his nephew had killed him.

Chapter Text

"Are you gonna h-hurt me?" Doris asks fearfully.

Hewitt cocks his head with a smile, 

"Depends on if you listen to me. Tell me what my name is."

"S-sherriff Hoyt,” Doris forces herself to answer.

It’s a goddamn lie but she knows it’s safer to play along. Man killed her husband…

Killed…

Charlie laughs,

"Call your husband by his title?" he asks wolfishly. Her cheeks colour.

"Winston."

"There you go," his patronising tone makes her flush even more, "I don't mind you calling me sheriff though. Might help with the... transition."

Transition. Doris suddenly realizes this isn't a one off thing to scare her. This lunatic actually intends to steal Winnie's identity on a full time basis. Which is crazy. Folks around town know him as Charlie Hewitt. Then again there ain't that many folks left in town. Are the ones who've stayed really going to argue with a cop killer and his chainsaw wielding nephew? More likely they'll play along like Doris is doing, to spare their lives. 

She starts as Charlie reaches to fiddle with the top button of her dress.

"What's your name anyhow?" he asks, "Debbie?"

"D-doris," she presses her lips together trying to control her stammering - man is still toying with her button.

"Doris, what?" he croons, abandoning her button - Doris might feel relieved but his hand drifts down the outline of her left breast. 

"Doris, sheriff," she squeaks, gut roiling as he squeezes her tit like he did earlier. His hands big and calloused, hold her whole breast in his hand.

"That's good sweetheart," Charlie croons, "You're a fast learner. I like that in a woman."

"Thank you, sheriff," she forces out tremulously. 

His other hand falls on her right breast, squeezes them in tandem. A perverse moan issuing from his throat. Seems to reverberate through her whole body, revulsion mixed with... With heat. Same heat as before when she thought he was Winnie. 

Maybe it's a result of being starved of physical affection. Winnie wasn't as obsessed with her breasts as he had been in the early years of their marriage. Probably got tired of them. Couldn't compete with girls in print. Only get bigger if she fell pregnant but that never happened. 

Now Winnie's dead and the evil bastard wearing his uniform is groping her breasts, making her feel all manner of twitchy as he does it.

"Graciousness, that's a fine quality too. You a godly woman, Doris?"

Asks her this while he molests her. 

"Yes sir," her voice is a quiet sob.

"Sir?" he stops squeezing, looks at her approvingly, "Huh. I like that too, Doris."

He gives them a final squeeze then leans back, reaches for his beer. Doris watches, her breasts sore and tingling.

"Doris," he raises the beer to his lips, "That's cute."

He takes a gulp then leers at her again,

"Doris," he says again, "Sure are a plain lil thing."

Doris' jaw clenches. She knows she's no stunner. Susie was, that's how she'd snagged that rich businessman from Austin. But Charlie was no prize himself. Not that she'd tell him. Won't argue with his assessment either. Apart from his intimidating size, he's armed, Winnie's revolver nestled in its holster. 

"You'll fit right in with my kin," he says, Doris' gut clenching at the words - fit in, "Ain't many lookers among 'em."

He knocks back the rest of his beer, wipes his mouth.

"Breeders though," he gesticulates at her with the empty bottle, "That's what ya need. Nothing more important than sowing your seed. Keep the bloodlines going. Family's important. You agree with me, Doris?"

Doris forces a nod distractedly. He's set the bottle down on the table. Maybe she could lunge for it, crack him over the head. 

"Reach for that, you'll be in a world a' hurt," Charlie says, making her jump, "Only warning you once."

Doris grits her teeth. 

"Would - would you like another one, sheriff?" she tries to keep her voice polite as possible.

Charlie sneers,

"Well ain't you the perfect hostess," the heat from his gaze is like knives peeling at her skin, "No thank you, honey. You stay right here."

His hand squeezes her knee - you ain't trying to run, he's warning her. 

"Prefer the harder stuff anyway. Take it with us though. Uncle Monty'll drink it."

Doris processes his words uneasily. Take it with us. 

Us. 

He seems to be waiting for her to raise an objection. When she doesn't, he chuckles.

"How long we been married, dumplin'?" 

Doris winces. At the pet name but also his phrasing. We again. Like he actually was Winston Hoyt the man she married. 

"C'mon," he says a tad impatiently, "You'd remember a thing like that."

Shouldn't you? She wants to shoot back. If you were the real Hoyt you'd know. But even the real Winston tended to forget their anniversary. 

"Ten years next October," she answers, "Got married on 19th."

"19th?" Charlie echoes, like he's actually committing it to memory, "Ten years n' no kids. You ain't barren?"

Doris flinches, 

"No sir."

"Then why no kids? Way you acted earlier, don’t strike me as frigid.”

Doris' stomach roils at the memory. Smug way he smiles, eyes running over her, like he's undressing her. Then they lift, narrow in a way that's a lot more menacing,

“Did stop 'fore we got to the good stuff. You ain’t a tease are you?” his voice is as threatening as his gaze, “Tell you right now tease is a hell of a lot worse than frigid. Are you a tease, honey? Rile ya husband up then leave him high n’ dry? Treat your wifely duties like some sorta game?”

Doris can't quite get her tongue to work.

"Well answer me," he growls, "Ain't a hard sort of question," he eyeballs her like some hard-nosed cop. Strange how he seems more natural in that uniform than Winnie ever did. Could almost believe he was a sheriff, "Were you putting out or not?"

"Y-yes," she manages to stammer.

"How often?" he demands. 

Doris' eyes feel hot, on verge of tears. 

"Please," she whispers, "You shouldn't be asking. It ain't decent."

"Decent?" Charlie says harshly, voice making her skin prickle with fear, "Girl, weren't you taught to cooperate with law enforcement?"

You ain't the law, Doris wants to sob at him. Wisely stops herself from doing so. Can't argue with crazy. Crazy killed her husband and is wearing his uniform.

"I'm the goddamn sheriff," he's ranting, "Gotta badge n' a service pistol."

He removes it from its holster. Sight makes her blood run cold. Stares at him mute with terror. He smirks back, eyes bright with glee.

"You don't answer my question," he waves it under her nose, her eyes bulging, "I'm gonna shove..."

She gasps as he shifts the gun towards her lap, 

"This here barrel..." he uses the muzzle to lift up her skirt, "Riiiight up..." She feels cold metal graze the bare skin of her thigh, "Your fucking cunt."

He tries to jam the gun between her legs and she clenches her thighs together.

"No, please!" 

"Aw c'mon honey," he growls mockingly, "Didn't you say you weren't a tease? Spread your legs."

Doris stares at the gun in her crotch and shakes her head fearfully.

"Open your fucking legs!" Charlie shouts, making her heart skip a beat before it continues hammering, "Open 'em 'fore I put a bullet in one of 'em!"

Doris clenches her eyes shut against the imagery. Breath ragged, she slowly parts her legs. Feels the wetness still sticking to her panties as she does, hopes that monster doesn't notice.

"That's it," Charlie croons viciously.

Doris whimpers as the muzzle presses against her entrance, the metal cold through the thin damp fabric, pokes roughly at her hole. Her whole body is clammy with fear, imagining him ripping off her panties to cram it inside, a hard bolt of steel impaling her. 

"What do you think, Doris. Bit of steel up stretchin' your pussy. Can you feel it, honey?"

He moves it up and down, rutting it against her like its a cock. Hard and cold. Her breath hitches as the muzzle nudges that sweet spot above her opening, sends a pleasurable tremor through her body. 

Charlie seems to notice. Brushes that same spot and she jolts, gritting her teeth to stop from crying out. There's no way in hell she can be enjoying this. It's a fucking gun. Blow her cunt wide open with a click of a trigger. Kill her in her process. 

Charlie goes back to digging it into her entrance, the fabric twisting around the muzzle as he rotates it this way and that, like a boy studying a bug he's pinned with a needle, watching her squirm.

"Bit fatter than your old husband's pecker," he taunts, "I seen it. Didn't stare too long. Ain't a queer," there's a hint of defensiveness, "Man just wants to compare. Hate to speak ill of the dead but it was so small it was hard to find. Biggest thing on him was his mouth. But I took care of that."

He flashes his teeth in a nasty smile. Gun still twisting below. Her husband's gun. Her husband's gun being pressed into her cunt.

"Blew away what little brains he had in that head. Didn't even see it coming. What kinda dummy leaves a person unattended with a loaded shotgun?"

The tip of the gun brushes that certain spot again, makes her spasm. Her hips seem to buck slightly of their own accord, chasing that friction. Like a rational wire has been cut in her brain. She goes into some sort of daze. 

"Hey," Charlie's voice barks, “You listening to me? Look at me goddamn it!"

Her eyes snap to him, bulging in their sockets. 

"You think I ain't serious about this pistol? That I'm fucking 'round tryin' to scare you?"

He jams it harder into her pussy and she grunts in discomfort.

"Think I won't pull this trigger?"

His finger caresses it. Doris whimpers, eyes pleading. Charlie seems to breathe in her fear. 

"Got no idea what I'm capable of, missy. Things I've seen. Things I done. I was in Korea."

"I know," she stammers, "You were a POW."

Wasn't much that went unnoticed in a small town. Men receiving draft notices was a topic of discussion. Charles Hewitt Jr among them. 

"Hope those gooks shoot him full of holes," she overhears Avery saying at school.

That fateful afternoon after school was still fresh in his mind even though his wounds had healed. It was still burned into Doris' brain. Avery's squeals, his body all but swallowed under Thomas' bulk, like the bigger boy was a beast mauling him. 

He was a beast. The sight of him scared her, his face horribly disfigured. But she felt sorry when Avery and his friends threw rocks at him. Boy kept to himself. Was only trying to walk home. Avery should have let him keep walking. Not that she said anything. Avery would only tell her to shut up carrot top, upset her because she had a little crush on him. If anything Susie should have intervened. But all she did look on with faint interest. 

Doris was relieved when Charlie pulled up in that packard. An adult to take charge of things. Only he took a different approach. Punched Avery square in his pretty face. That was shocking enough. But what happened next haunted her. Charlie was like the old Romans, gleefully throwing Avery to his nephew the lion. War seemed the best place for man like that. 

Then came a rumour through town Luda Mae had received word of her son's unit being captured. Captured sounded as good as dead. But Charlie Jr ended up returning home. The camp's sole survivor. Fuller residents were a patriotic bunch. The Hewitts weren't viewed that highly - they were poor trash. But Charlie's ordeal earned him a newfound respect. Not that he was seen much around town, kept to himself at the farm. 

"That's right honey," Charlie says softly, "I certainly was. Experience like that, teaches a man a lot."

Doris can only imagine.

"That cocksucker never served, did he?"

Doris shakes her head quickly, hair bouncing. 

"Yeah I figured," Charlie sneers, "Hands were soft like he ain't done a hard day's work in his life. Probably sat his ass in that cruiser all day stroking his pencil dick. What kinda man'd prefer his palm to his wife's pussy."

Doris squeaks as he draws the pistol away from her slick crotch. Watches with horror as he lifts it to his nose and inhales. Inhales the scent of her pussy on the steel. Sighs appreciatively.

"Damn stupid one."

Chapter Text

Doris feels faint. Charlie takes another deep whiff of the revolver. Doris wonders how dangerous it would be to lunge forward, try to pull the trigger with it still aimed at his face. But it's too dangerous. Might get shot herself. 

The thought crosses her mind that maybe it ain't even loaded. Charlie was a military man. Made no sense for him to be so cavalier with a loaded gun. Maybe he thought she wouldn't know the difference. 

Loaded or not, it's still threatening. He could easily crack it across her face if she tried anything stupid.

Charlie seems to have gotten his fill of sniffing the gun, lowers it to rest on his lap, muzzle aimed at her. That's when she notices his erection, tented in his pants. Her stomach churns. Man got aroused sniffing her pussy on a gun. Or maybe it was the act of shoving it there in the first place.

"Asshole thought he was smart. Spoke to me like I don't know what's what. Like I'm a bumpkin. You think I'm a bumpkin, Doris?"

"No sir," she stammers rapidly, "An' - and I'm sorry he treated you that way. He could awful thoughtless sometimes. Make - make you feel small."

She's not sure why she's blurted that out. It was the truth. Winnie did have a tendency to speak down to her, like she was idiot. Made her blood boil because she wasn't. 

Charlie arches his brow knowingly,

"He make you feel small, Doris?" he enquires.

"S-sometimes," Doris thinks she may as well answer truthfully, "But mostly he was just a lil tiresome."

Charlie chuckles,

"Yeah?"

Doris finds herself strangely buoyed by the response. Maybe because she's had no one to confide in for ten years. No point telling Susie. She wouldn't care. She was too self-absorbed. All her letters were about the renovations she'd made to her house, husband's promotion, new car they'd bought. Never asked Doris how she was faring back in Fuller.

If she had, Doris would have written back: Winnie drives me crazy and I'm suffocating from boredom. 

Boredom. She wants to laugh hysterically. Fancy complaining about boredom now. Being held at gunpoint by a man who murdered her husband. Stole his identity. Imagining penning all this in a letter to Susie. 

The thought suddenly occurs to Doris that she might not live long enough to write another letter. If she didn't play things smart.

"U-uh huh," she tells Charlie, "Dullard really."

Earns her another chuckle.

"You don't say?" there's a mischievous twinkle in his eye that makes him look almost handsome.

Doris mentally slaps herself for thinking so. Man's a goddamn lunatic. Shoved a revolver between her legs.

Part of it felt good, her brain reminds her, you liked it. 

"Yeah he was a real bore," she rambles distractedly, "But I married him 'cause he had a good job. Earned more'n fellas at the slaughterhouse. Don't come from much. Know enough you gotta make the most of opportunities..."

Wasn't like Avery Jessup had blown back into town to sweep her off her feet. He'd married some glamorous gal from California. 

"Security is a lot, to a woman. Winnie could be unkind but he wasn't violent. In fact he was..."

She pauses, realizing how much of a tangent she's gone off on. As if Charlie cared about her insights into her husband's character. 

"Aw go on," he surprises her by saying, tone almost paternal, reminds her of the tone he used talking to his nephew, "Can't exactly hurt his feelings. Sounds like it's something you wanna get off your chest."

He eyes her expectantly. Doris gnaws her lip, 

"He was, uh, kinda jittery. Like if he turned around and saw a roach on the floor, he'd jump n' holler."

Charlie laughs, the sound grating. 

"Sounds like a real pussy. Excuse my French honey," he gives her a strangely contrite look, "Go on."

"Probably wasn't real fit to be sheriff," Doris obliges, "Temperament like that. But old Sheriff Dodd, he killed over with that coronary n' there was only two of 'em left at this point. Him and Jerry Hanscomb. Jerry was probably better suited but he was already planning on moving. So, so Winnie took over. He was real proud at first but... but then Jerry left n' he started working on his lonesome. Started to stress him, was even keeping his pistol under his pillow, like he was expecting something awful to happen."

Paranoia that seemed justified now. 

"Couldn't keep living like that so he looked into a transfer. We were supposed to leave..."

"Next week," Charlie interrupts, smiles at her look of shock, "Yeah he said. Michigan huh?"

Doris nods. Charlie's smile widens. 

"Well I hate to break it to you, honey. But you n' I ain't headed to Michigan," he says, despair washing over like a wave, "Hewitts called this town home for generations. Mighta changed my name n' occupation but you can't change blood."

He cocks his head, squinting,

"That makes you a Hewitt too. Doris Hewitt Hoyt. How do you like that?"

Doris looks at him pained. She's not a Hewitt. He's not her husband. He's a monster wearing her husband's uniform like a skin. She wants to go to Michigan, start over as a widow.

All she had to do was get the hell away from this fucker. Somehow. 

Charlie's gloating face sharpens,

"Cat got ya tongue?" he growls, Doris wincing, "Couldn't shut you up before."

He leans back in his chair, demeanour vaulting back to amiable. 

"Sure can ramble a lot," he says, "Like my mama and aunty. Always waffling about something. Sittin' in the kitchen like two hens in the henhouse. Bawk, bawk, bawk."

He chuckles at his own impersonation.

"That's what ya'll sound like. Give me a headache."

"S-sorry," she apologizes. 

That seems like the safest thing to say. Charlie seems amused. 

"S'alright honey, been interesting talking to you. Though you still ain't answered my question, got lil sidetracked."

His tone is faintly accusing, like he's suspicious of her managing to evade him. Doris clenches her teeth. Fuck it. This son of a bitch wants to know, she'll tell him.

"Cryptorchidism."

Charlie's wiry brows furrow, 

"What?" there's a sharpness edge to his voice. Like he thinks it's an insult.

"Undescended testicle," Doris explains hurriedly, "That's what Winnie had. Mighta noticed when you... you said you looked at his..."

"Christ, woman," Charlie actually looks a mite flustered, "Ain't like I fondled his nutsack. What's this got to do with anything, man having one fucking ball. Could still get it up."

He smirks at her,

"Found that dirty magazine in his car. Cheating on ya with a bunch of painted whores in print."

"I know," she surprises him by admitting.

He cocks his head,

"Ain't bother you?"

Doris bites her lip thinking about the magazine under the mattress. 

"Not my place to tell my husband what to do," she ends up saying.

Charlie seems to grunt in approval.

"So this, uh, one ball business..." he prompts.

"Doctor said the condition affects your... your sperm count. Recommended a surgery to fix it but Winnie didn't like the idea. Convinced himself it was all a bunch of hokum. He could get it up so we should just keep tryin'."

Charlie takes all this in with a nod, 

"When's the last time ya'll tried?"

Doris winces,

"Two weeks ago," she forces out.

She'd initiated it. Received a letter from Susie telling her Avery and his wife were expecting again. Made her depressed. Spent the afternoon staring at Avery's handsome face in the yearbook, thinking about his home full of kids. His pretty Californian wife with her baby bump. Imagined herself in her expensive yet elegant shoes. 

Only for a while. Doris prided herself on being practical. No use mooning over a life you didn't have. Just had to make do with what your lot. So she cooked Winston a nice dinner, got all dolled up in her nicest dress. Looked at herself in the mirror knowing she hardly compared with Avery's wife or Susie. But she looked as good as she was ever gonna look without help of a plastic surgeon. Enough to lift her spirits, made her feel eager about Winston coming home. 

But then he came home. Doris felt herself deflate when she kissed his cheek and received no compliment. All he did was slump to the table with a heavy sigh. Heaped her offering onto his plate while he bitched about work, pausing only to shovel in mouthfuls. Didn't bother to thank her. 

Doris almost gave up on her plan then. But she persisted, reached between his legs when they lay in bed later. Must have resisted masturbating that day because he was rock hard in an instant, rolled on top of her with his pecker digging hard into her belly. Doris let him guide it in clumsily, imagining the man in that magazine to keep herself wet. Tried to ignore Winnie's pathetic groans and pants in her ear, eager for him to finish, spilled inside her with a moan that grated on her nerves, sounded like a hog being slaughtered. 

Lay awake afterwards listening to his snores. Prayed. Lord, please let me have a baby. Please. 

But the doctor seemed adamant it wouldn't happen without Winston getting the surgery. But Winnie refused to get the surgery. 

Doris started wishing a man would break into their house while Winnie was at work. A big burly sort of man. One who could hold her down, tie her up like those women in the magazine. Then he'd fuck her with his big dick. Enjoy her pussy so much that afterwards he'd let her go. Winnie would come home and she'd pretend nothing happened. 

Nine months later she'd give birth to a baby. Sometimes she even decided to run away with the man. Fled to Mexico or somewhere more exotic than Fuller. Start a new life together. 

Must have been crazy fantasising things like that. Wasn't such a fantasy in real life. Dangerous man busting into your house.

Charlie looks irritated at her answer, makes her nervous. 

"You ain't bled since then?" 

Doris squirms with discomfort. Shakes her head.

"But you'd be due for 'em soon?" Charlie goes on, "It's every month ain't it."

He sounds a little uncertain. Which is not all that surprising. Menstrual cycles were a mystery to most men. 

She nods, the line of questioning making her uneasy. Charlie makes a grumbling sound in his throat. 

"Hmm. Guess we'll have to wait."

"W-wait?" she stammers.

Wait for what? 

"In case that dummy did knock ya up with one ball," Charlie says, pointing at her stomach, "Don't want any confusion who the daddy is."

Doris' stomach clenches with fear.

The daddy.

"So we'll wait for your monthlies then start with a new slate."

Rape, Doris translates with horror. He's going to wait until she's finished her period to rape her. Rape and try to impregnate her. 

"Bit of a pain on the ass but it'll give us a chance to get to know each other."

Panic claws in her chest like a flapping bird. 

"Ain't no reason we can't fool around a lil either. We are married," Charlie grins at her wickedly, "How good are you at sucking dick?"

The bird in her chest flaps harder. 

"Well?" his voice hardens, "I ain't jacking off while I wait to see if ya worth keeping. Gotta earn your keep, honey."

Doris gawks at him like a deer in headlights.

"What's the matter," he asks, "Ain't done it before?"

A memory assaults her. Avery dropping her on the side of the road to walk the rest of the way to her grandmother's house, the grimy taste of his seed sticking in her throat as he sped off without even a good night kiss. Only a disinterested "see you 'round Carrot". Then pretending nothing had happened, like he'd never taken her for a spin out in the sticks after he broke up with Libby Hitchens just before college, charmed Doris into going down on him. 

Because she'd foolishly thought that might endear her to him. He'd complained Libby was frigid, barely let him touch her tits over her blouse. That's why he'd dumped her. She was boring. Doris tried to show him she wasn't boring. Took his cock in her mouth in the back-seat of his car. 

Wasn't all that bad once she worked out how to breathe through her nose, liked the way he fisted her hair and the sounds he made. Because she was sucking his dick so good. Her. Plain ol' Doris, letting Avery spill his seed in her mouth because she thought it might convince him to put a ring on her finger. She wouldn't be a frigid housewife like Libby. Let Avery do whatever he wanted.

But what Avery wanted was for any girl to give him reprieve from his hand. Realized she would do, sister's friend who'd made puppy eyes at him for years. Easy to persuade her into his car then dump her once the deed was done. Probably didn't even give it a second thought.

Doris did. Cried herself to sleep for a whole week, thinking about how foolish she'd been, prayed to God for forgiveness, for being lead astray so easily into temptation. Promised she'd never fall for the same trick again. 

Promise she kept. Winnie popped the question a month into their courtship because she refused to do anything but hold his hand. Never told him or anyone what had happened with Avery. Tried to forget. But now Charlie has bought it all flooding back. 

She wants to lie - her past ain't any of this monster's business. But the truth is probably written on her face and Charlie's gaze far too scrutinious.

"Y-yes," she admits.

"Oh?" Charlie raises a brow, "Regular little cocksucker are you?"

Heat spreads over her face.

"Only wuh-once," she answers.

"Wuh-once huh?" he says, mimicking her stammer, "Why's that?"

Doris squirms. He really is like a cop. Relentless. 

"It's... it's sinful."

"Really?" Charlie says, "Know my bible. Ain't nothing in there about a woman taking her husband's dick in her mouth. Unless..."

His mouth quirks at her knowingly, 

"Oh dumplin'. Wasn't Winnie's tiny pencil dick was it."

He keeps smiling but his eyes are fierce. 

"Lil premarital indiscretion huh? Who was it?" his smile vanishes at her silence, "Answer me," he barks, waving the revolver. 

"Avery Jessup," she whispers.

His eyes widen.

"That fucking asshole!" he exclaims, "The hell is wrong with you?"

He sounds like an angry father. Old enough to be her father. Shame she felt years ago comes flooding back.

"I know," she mutters in a tight voice, "It was stupid. Shoulda know he was just usin' me."

"Yeah no shit," Charlie drawls, "Boys like that don't marry girls like you."

The comment makes her flinch. Can't say he's not speaking the truth. He is. But it still cuts.

He sighs,

"Least ya didn't try n' trap him with your cunt. Would have skipped town leaving you the baby to raise. Boy was a chickenshit coward."

"He's married with three kids n' another one on the way," Doris finds herself blurting, "Wife's from California."

Charlie scoffs,

"Couldn't even marry a good Texan girl. How you know all this? His sister?"

"Writes me letters. She lives in Austin."

"Married some rich asshole didn't she? Suppose she was pretty enough."

For some reason that stings. Him calling Susie pretty, even though it was the truth. Maybe it was because he'd called her plain earlier, had come to the house not even bothering to learn her name. Had taken note of Susie marrying - though to be fair it had been the talk of the town. Small town girl marrying some big city big shot. Big shot who bought her folks some fancy house in Austin so they could be closer to Susie and the grand babies. 

Charlie's snort breaks through her thoughts.

"Well you can forget exchanging any more letters. She and hers ain't any friend to us."

Us. Keeps talking like she's member of the family. 

"That brother of hers tormented Tommy," he says, gaze pointed as if to say you were there, you saw it.

Doris winces.

"Tommy almost killed him," she says softly.

"Shame he didn't," Charlie retorts, "Woulda prevented you from acting a whore. Whole thing makes me wanna knock your teeth in."

Doris stares at him fearfully. 

"Didn't go any further with him?"

She shakes her head.

"You ain't lying to me?" Charlie growls, "It's a crime to lie to law enforcement. You know that, right honey?"

He's still nursing the revolver. 

"Yes sir," she says frantically, "I didn't do nothin' else with him. Or anyone. Not until I married Winnie."

"Who's dick you never sucked?"

Doris flounders a little.

"He - he never asked."

Probably thought she'd never stoop to such a thing. Way she was during their courtship. 

Charlie gives a harsh laugh.

"I ain't asking either honey. I want something, I'll goddam tell you." 

He widens his stance. Nods at the space between his legs.

"On your knees."

Chapter Text

Doris stares at him pitifully.

"I said get on your fucking knees!" he barks, the order sending a jolt up her spine, her heart leaping into her throat, "Don't test me dumplin', you guzzlin' that Jessup boy's cum ain't put me in the best mood."

She rises on jelly legs. Charlie smirks, gestures at the spot between his legs again. She forces herself to stumbles forward, sinks down onto her knees. Looks at the erection tented in his pants - Winnie's pants. Strange how well they fit him. Like someone modified them for him. His mama maybe. 

Imagine bringing home a dead man's uniform asking your mother to alter it to fit you. Get her to scrub out the blood stains. The brain matter. Her gut churns. Charlie's dick twitches under the freshly cleaned fabric like a snake. 

"What are you waiting for, an invitation?" he growls, "Said you done this before. Get me out."

Doris reaches with trembling hands, fumbles trying to open his belt. Winnie's belt. Unzips Winnie's fly. Briefs ain't Winnies. Drew the line at stealing his underclothes. Probably because they would have been stained with shit. That's what happened when you died. Bowels evacuated themselves. 

Happened to her mama when she died in bed. Just never woke up. Soiled the mattress. After they buried her, Daddy just flipped over. Kept sleeping on it. Slept on it like the reek of death never bothered him. But it must have. A few months later he dropped Doris at an old lady's house - woman who turned out to be her estranged grandmother. 

Grumpy woman who made her sit in her parlour ("Don't touch nothin'!"), glared at her over her cup of tea, not offering her any. Doris clenched her hands in her lap, eyes flicking to the ceramic felines on the mantelpiece, their faces more inviting than the woman's, wondered when her daddy would come back. Only he wouldn't because he hung himself. That's how Doris came to live with her grandmother. 

Thought she was frightening with her cold, biting demeanour. But there were eviler beasts than her in the world. She's kneeling in front of one, springing his cock free. It rises in front of her, large and engorged, makes her eyes widen and throat go dry. 

"What do you think, huh?" Charlie leers above her, "Upgrade?"

Doris stares transfixed by its inflamed veiny thickness, slit weeping. Apart from the greying pubic hair, it reminds her of the faceless man's cock in the magazine. 

Isn't this what you wanted, a voice inside her head taunts, man forcing you on your knees like those whores. Careful what you wish for.

A whimper issues from her throat, Charlie's cock looming in her eye line like a reared snake, red and twitching, leaking venom from the slit. Doris is horrified to feel a fresh gush of slickness between her legs

"That impressive huh, made ya dumb?"

Doris' eyes dart upwards, immediately regretting it. Charlie grins like a shark but with tobacco stained teeth. 

"Aw don't be scared of it," he grabs her by the hair, drags her face closer, "Won't bite," he humps it against her cheek and she feels a drop of wetness from his precum, like a tear, "Give it a kiss."

It bobs in front of her again. Doris watches it, cheeks burning. She feels something hard and cold press against her temple.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Doris inclines her head slowly, the metal tip of the revolver still digging into her flesh as she presses a kiss to the head of his cock. Charlie chuckles but it's breathy, his cock seems to leak more.

"Give the boys a kiss too."

Doris looks at him confused. Realizes he means his balls. Tries not to cringe. Winnie never asked her to touch down there, though maybe that stemmed from sensitivity about his condition. Avery hadn't either, only seemed interested in her taking what she could in her mouth, ejaculating a few moments later. Didn't have much stamina. Like Winnie on their wedding night. 

Grandmother warned her it'd be disappointing. Men were disappointing creatures, she told her. Had as much instinct about sex as bulls in a paddock, quick mount and a spurt of seed. They'd feel good but she wouldn't. Best thing she could do was grease herself up down there. 

It'd still hurt, which it did, like being stabbed with a knife, even bled, not as much as her monthlies but a few drops on the sheets. Realized when she washed them. Still hurt the next few times but the pain was more bearable.

Pain was a woman's lot, her grandmother said. Word of wisdom she drilled into her the moment she came to her with blood soaking her panties, thinking she was dying. You ain't dying, her grandmother stared at her like she was something disgusting, you've become a woman. 

Charlie still has that deadly bit of steel pressed to her temple, she ducks her head - trying not to inhale the overpowering scent of his musk - presses two kisses to his swollen hairy sac. Feels him shudder, her nose rubbing against the underside of his cock. 

"Good girl," he growls, the approval in his voice sends a strange ripple down in her spine, clenches in her stomach, "Now lick me." 

Before she comply, he wrenches her hair so hard she whimpers, 

"Not some half ass tonguing either. I wan' you to lick my dick like it's a popsicle in the middle of August. You get me, honey? Otherwise I'm gonna break your nose."

Doris flinches, his big knuckles digging into her scalp. The revolver is still jammed at her temple. She opens her mouth, laves her tongue up the underside, tries to imagine it is a popsicle though the texture and taste is anything but. Meat popsicle maybe. 

She has a flash of instinct hits her as her tongue swirls the salty groove of his slit, could bite into that tender flesh like an apple, make a dash for freedom while he doubled over in pain. But the pistol at her head makes her think twice. Fact he's watching her so closely, making content rumbling noises in his throat.

"Like that popsicle honey?" 

Doris only stares up at him, eyes pleading. Teary even. But the sight only makes him groan. His hand leaves her hair, pumps over his length before circling the base.

"Open ya mouth," he orders, "Tongue out."

Doris forces her mouth wide, pokes her tongue out, humiliation rippling over her body. Like a heat. She can feel it in her muscles, coming out her pores. She can hear her heart hammering in her breath. 

Charlie sighs,

"Ain’t that a pretty sigh," he taps his cock on the flat of her tongue - like the man in the magazine, her loins clench, "You're a natural whore, sweetheart."

Doris flushes. Like the girls in the magazine? She shouldn't be excited to be compared to them. 

Charlie rises a little off the chair to thrust forward, his dick moving into her mouth like a train into a tunnel. Doris accepts her fate, widens her jaw to accomodate the intrusion. But its hard, he's big, hurts her jaw. Struggles to breath, panics.

Nose, she reminds herself, breath through your nose. Allows her to calm a little but not much. There's still a gun at her temple, a large cock invading her mouth. 

"Don't make me do all the fuckin' work," Charlie growls, the threat in his voice enough for her to crane her head, try to fall in rhythm with his thrusts, mouth bobbing over his cock. 

Charlie sighs, slumps back in his chair, lets her do all the work. Her mouth devours him desperately, soon as he cums it'll be over. But he seems to have more stamina than Avery. Or will power. She can hear him hissing through gritted teeth between his moans, like he's trying to control himself. Prolong his pleasure, her suffering. 

Is she suffering? Physically her mouth is aching. Mentally she's terrified - not of him climaxing, idea repulses her more than anything - the danger of disappointing him, having him lash out and hurt her worse than bruised lips and jaw. She's terrified of the unfulfilled wetness between her legs, how tempting it is to reach down and touch herself. Wonders how Charlie would react, would he be angry? Punish her?

She goes into a daze, mouth slowing on Charlie's cock, suckling the bulbous tip, whole thing threatening to fall from her lips.

"Hey," Charlie barks, "Gettin' sloppy. Ain't supposed to be slacking."

The tip of the revolver traces the bridge of her nose and she freezes, ache between her legs forgotten as fear courses her body. She looks up Charlie begging, tries to say 'please' around the head of his cock - knowing not to let it fall from her mouth. Charlie will crack her dead husband's pistol against her nose, break it. She clamps her lips around his dick like it's a lifeline, body trembling as she laves her mouth over it in a frenzy, her nose scratching against hard steel.

Can't see Charlie now for tears. They're spilling from her eyes like a stream. 

"Jesus that's it," he groans and she feels him resume thrusting into her mouth, "Cry honey, I like that. You look so pretty."

Pretty. The word seems to cut through her suffering. Never been called pretty. Doesn't understand how she can be called it right now. All blotchy and blubbering while she bobs on his cock, drool running down her chin. Then again Charlie's a madman, makes sense he'd see beauty in the ugliness of his own making. 

"Pretty lil wife for Charlie,” he croons, abandoning his new Hoyt persona, too caught up in his own perverse enjoyment to realize, "Next time I might bloody you some first," his cock twitches inside her mouth, aroused by the imagery, "Be beautiful then. You wanna be beautiful, Dottie?" 

Doris lets out a muffled whimper. That's not so nice to her ears, her gut clenching. Beautiful with a broken nose, blood dripping to mingle with the saliva leaking from her swollen mouth, burning trying to keep up with his relentless pace.

His cock hammers the back of her throat and she gags, flailing with tear-blurred eyes, 

"Ah ah, you keep goin'!" Charlie growls as she tries to retreat. Hears a thud as he sets the pistol on the table, "Keep fuckin' goin', goddamn it!"

A large hand clamps the back to her head, his other hand pinches her nose, cuts over her oxygen as he keeps thrusting into her mouth, 

"Thaaaaat's it," he croons as Doris flails and gags around his cock, blind and breathless, "Haha, your face is turnin' purple. You wanna breath? Make me cum."

It's like being held underwater with a rod being jammed down your throat. Her lungs burn and her stomach heaves. But Charlie keeps gripping her nose. Her brain is seized with panic. She'll pass out soon or worse.

Unless he cums. But he doesn't. He's enjoying the ride too much. Can hear his awful moaning laughter. Needs to tip him over the edge somehow. Her shaking hands scramble, grope blindly upwards for his nuts. Seizes them like udders on a cow, rolls the swollen sweaty sac in her hand, squeezes. 

Her foggy brain registers Charlie' strangled bellow, his pelvis quaking against her face.

"That's a goddamn dirty move. Ain't fair. Ain't... fuck, keep goin'!"

Doris squeezes his balls and sucks as hard as she can, lungs burning. Hears Charlie roar above her, feels a hot spurt of fluid, same sensation as years ago when Avery blew in her mouth. Unpleasant and copious, her mouth still wrapped around Charlie's spasming cock. 

At least he's released her nose and she can breath, breath and swallow his cum, swallows around his dick, Charlie letting out a strangely pitiful whine. He grits his teeth, Doris opening her mouth as she feels him pull back, his cock sliding from her mouth, hitting her saliva wet chin.

She barely has time to catch a breath before she's wrenched upwards, suddenly finds herself perched on Charlie's knee, his arms snaked around her.

"You did good, honey," he's rubbing against her like a cat, "I love you."

Doris is struck by the tenderness of his tone. There's a juvenile note in it. Like he's some head over heels teenager, not a middle aged rapist. 

She hears her own ragged breath in the silence.

"Ain't gon' say it back to me?" 

Charlie's voice has sharpened back into its usual threatening timbre. Doris stiffens in his arms, like a trapped animal. Options race through her head, the safest one being capitulation.

"I love you," she forces out, the three words bringing her to breaking point. Fact he's made her bow to him in this way, her husband's killer. Her body tremors as she weeps.

"Alright, alright," he hushes her, managing to sound almost like a kindly older man, "Quit crying now. No need for tears. This is a happy day."

Doris lets out a sob. Happy day? It's a nightmare. But she manages to get hold of herself, before Charlie loses his temper. 

"H-happy tears," she lies hoarsely. 

Charlie chuckles, 

"Happy tears huh? Least you gotta sense of humour."

He keeps one arm around her waist as he tucks his flaccid cock away. 

Doris attempts a weak smile, wriggles on her lips like a caterpillar. Charlie seems amused. He reaches for the revolver, makes her sweat a moment before he holsters it.

"Come on, I wanna see those teeth like in your picture."

Her picture? He must mean the one Winnie kept in his wallet. Charlie's wallet now.

Doris forces her lips apart, bares her teeth at him like she's some sort of animal. Wishes she was. Raccoon with sharp little teeth, sink them right into his jugular, claw his fucking eyes out. The imagery makes it little easier to hold her smile. Stares at him boldly with her big toothy grin. Maybe a little too bold. His amused look recedes. 

"That's enough. You look like some kind of dummy."

Doris flushes, stops flashing her teeth. Her body is trembling again. But this time its more with rage. She's not a dummy. She's not a fucking dummy!

But she is afraid. That's why she keeps her rage to herself, swallows it. Living with Winnie all these years, its second nature. 

"That's better," Charlie says. 

But then he sighs.

"Still a goddamn mess. Can't take you home to my mama lookin' like this. She'll be on my case."

He pinches her cheeks, soaking in the ugliness of her tear-sodden face. Breathes in her despair is some fragrant scent. 

"Let's fix ya up huh?"

He pulls out a handkerchief, proceeds to wipe her face. It stinks of dried cum and faintly of iron. Blood, her stomach churns. She squirms in his lap.

"Easy honey," he laughs, "Get me going again, wriggling like that."

Doris freezes. 

"Can - can I splash some water on my face?"  

Maybe she can wriggle through the bathroom window. Be a tight squeeze but surely she'd have to try something. 

"Sure go ahead," his arms unwind from her waist and she tries not to rise too hastily, incite his temper. Slides off slowly and starts towards the hall.

"Ah, where you going?" his voice makes her freeze. Turns to meet his narrowed gaze, "Sink's right there."

He points. Doris tries to mask her disappointment. Knows better than to argue. Turns on the kitchen tap, splashes brownish water on her face. Her eyes stray to where the knives are kept. Could she lunge for one? Knife against a revolver? 

Revolver that may or may not be loaded. She tenses as she feels Charlie's presence behind her. Presses hard up against her like he did earlier at the refrigerator, crotch digging into her ass. Breath stiffling on her neck as he reaches around to hold out the handkerchief. Doris takes it reluctantly, dries her face trying not to inhale. 

"Thank you," she forces herself to face him, holds out the handkerchief. Endures his smile as he tucks into his pocket. 

"Aw you're welcome," he says, still invading her space. 

His eyes roll over her. 

"Lil scrawny up top, honey," he cups her breasts again, squeezing, "But you're big in the hips," his hands drift down to claw her there, makes her feel the power in his hands, "Good fer pushin' out kids," he pins her bodily against the sink, voice slithering against her ear, "Let's hope y'can put 'em to use huh?"

Chapter Text

Charlie grinds against her, his cock still soft from her draining him. She's not sure how fast he can rally at his age, he'd be at least fifty. Doris forces herself to meet his fierce brown eyes in that weathered face. 

"M-maybe I should doll myself up some?" she manages a shaky smile, "Want to look nice for your mama."

Anything to get her near a window. Not sure if she'll be able to wriggle through. He was right, she was smaller chested but wide in the posterior. Might get stuck halfway like a fat rat. But it was worth trying. Wasn't it?

Charlie squints at her suspiciously. 

"No makeup," he answers, "Mama will think you got airs. We'll take it with us though. Paint yourself up for me."

He smiles at her lecherously.

"Come on," he nods towards the hall, "I'll help you pack. I said move it," he barks, making her jump, "Ain't got all night. I still have to cook supper."

"You cook?" she blurts.

Winston could barely crack an egg. But that was normal. Lot of men didn't know their way around the kitchen.

"'Course I do," Charlie says proudly, "Mama usually does it but I don't mind stepping in. Certain kind of meat, requires a special touch."

His smile twists into something more wicked. 

"What kinda meat?" she asks queasily. 

Roadkill? 

Charlie just stares at her with that unnerving smile. 

"Oh you'll find out," he grabs Winnie's hat off the table, "Lead the way, dumplin'."

Doris complies, shows him into her and Winnie's bedroom. Rather was. Has to start thinking of him in the past tense. 

Feels strange, man in her bedroom who isn't her husband, even though he's dressed as her husband. Sits on their marital bed, springs creaking as he bounces a little like he's testing the mattress. Maybe he's deciding if he wants that too. Steal the bed like he's stolen his identity. But then he seems to shake his head to himself. Not sure if it's the mattress or the logistics. 

His eyes stray to her vanity. 

"What's with the pussies?"

Doris flushes as Charlie heaves himself up, wanders closer.

"Oh I just collect 'em is all."

Half of them she'd inherited from her grandmother. Woman made her carefully polish them each Saturday morning like she was a maid. But she liked them so she didn't mind. Woman showed her little to no affection but she gifted them to her as a wedding present. Shook her head when Doris asked if she was sure - they were her treasured possessions. Grumbled that she'd be dead soon, may as well have 'em. 

Doris thought she was being dramatic but she died not long after Doris moved in with Winnie. Died in her bed like her estranged daughter who'd ran off with Doris' no good father. Left the rest to the church, including the house. Winnie was irritated but Doris took it in her stride. Her grandmother probably wanted to get in good with her maker. Doris was happy with her cats. 

Charlie eyeballs them, pulls a face similar to one Winnie used to make, look of masculine distaste. 

"Just cats?" 

He bunts her Siamese duo with one finger, makes her tense, imagining him knocking them off the vanity.

"Wanted a real one," she says distractedly, "But Winnie was allergic."

Charlie sneers. One ball, allergic to felines. He picks up the Persian with big blue painted eyes. 

"Gotta cat in the barn," he frowns in thought, "Ain't seen it in a while. Tommy might have..."

He trails off, leaving the rest up to Doris' imagination. She remembers Tommy's lone figure in the school yard, hunched over some gristly needlepoint. Boy was obsessed with animal hides. 

But she's more concerned with the Persian in Charlie's hand, worried he might intentionally drop it on the floor and smash it.

"That's my favourite," she says in a pleading voice.

It was one of her grandmother's, the fanciest looking one with its sculpted curls of white fur and a pretty bow around its neck instead of a collar.

Charlie holds it up tauntingly,

"What, this one?"

"Yes," Doris answers tensely, "Her name is Bianca."

Charlie's brow shoots up,

"You name 'em?"

"Y-yes," she flushes.

Started with her grandmother's collection as she polished them. Made them feel more familiar, like they were friends, family. 

Charlie laughs.

"What's the matter with you childless gals, not popping a kid turn you cuckoo or something? Naming your little herd of cats. Suppose at least they ain't real ones. Ain't a real crazy cat lady."

He laughs again, the sound like a slap across the face. 

"Men name their boats," she mumbles, "Things like that."

Charlie huffs,

"Don't have a boat. Gotta rifle named Marilyn."

"Like Monroe?" Doris asks.

"Yeah," Charlie says eagerly, "She visited the troops in '54. I just missed out. Real shame," he sighs, "Nothing like a hot blonde."

Gives her a taunting look as if to say you ain't that. Doris bites back a retort about Norma Jean being a natural red head. Read it in a magazine. But challenging Charlie wasn't a good idea. He's still holding Bianca.

"My lil boy's mama was blonde."

Doris' attention snaps away from the cat.

"You got a little boy?"

That surprises her. Hewitts did tend to keep to themselves but children being birthed - especially bastard children - wasn't something that stayed secret for long.

"Jedidiah," Charlie names him, "He's four, maybe five? I don't know, Luda Mae keeps track of shit like that."

He shrugs, looking disinterested. 

"What about his mama?" Doris asks uneasily. 

"Dead, bled out givin' birth to the boy," says it so carelessly it takes Doris a moment to process, "Weren't married or nothing. Met her when she blew into town and boy just kinda happened. If she lived mama mighta been on me to marry her. She's traditional like that. Even though she didn't exactly like her. Out of towner n' all. Least you're a local gal."

He smiles at her in a pleasant way that makes her skin crawl.

"Anyway just goes to show my balls work fine. If you don't end up pregnant, we'll know who's fault it is."

Despite the warmth of the room, a shiver runs up Doris' spine. Charlie glances at the cat still clenched in his hand. 

"Guess everyone needs a hobby."

He sets it down roughly, making her suck in breath expecting it to crack. It doesn't and she exhales shakily. 

"Suppose you can keep 'em," Charlie says, eying them, "Ain't going in my room though. Maybe Luda Mae'll clear a spot somewhere. I'd wait afore mentioning it to her though. She's a little particular. Let her warm up to you first. Got a suitcase?"

"Under the bed," Doris answers faintly, tensing a little as Charlie stoops down to pull it out, fact he's so close to the spot where she shoved that magazine. Not sure why she'd care if he found it. Probably believe it was Winnie's.

"Might take a while," Charlie resumes his train of thought as he dumps the suitcase on the bed, "We're a tight knit bunch. Set in our ways, 'specially Luda Mae. She tell you to do something, you do it. Might be my wife..."

I'm not your wife, she wants to scream.

"But there's a heirarchy to these things," he says, throwing the suitcase open, "Be respectful and work hard, she'll accept you. Treat you like one of the family. Like Tommy. Came to us as a baby. Mama found him in a dumpster at the slaughterhouse, can you believe that? Throwing away a baby like a bit of trash? Mind you, he was one ugly son of bitch. Even before the disease."

He seems to pause, remembering. Doris tries not to stare too blatantly at his hip, the revolver. Her fingers itch with indecision. She jumps as Charlie comes out of his reminiscence, hones in on her like hawk.

"Only got worse as he grew. Couldn't leave it alone neither. Doc called it self-mutilation," he smiles at Doris flinching, "Upset mama but there was no stopping him," doesn't look particularly fazed about it, "But he's a good boy," his voice takes on a more sincere quality, "Loyal. Works hard. Creative too. Stuff he makes. Takes a lot of imagination."

Doris' mind strays to those hides. Drew all manner of gruesome things in a notebook. Avery stole it once, flashed her and Susie a page of a squirrel dissection that was far too detailed. Made them squeal. Squirrel's face was only the skull.

"Can't say a lot of its particularly wholesome," Charlie says with a flash of teeth, "But it makes him happy. Lot of its downstairs so you won't be seein' it. It's his lil domain, likes his privacy. Shy, you know. Even with us, prefers to be alone. Don't blame him. People ain't been the kindest to him. Your old flame for one."

Doris winces at mention of Avery.

"He was never my..."

"That asshole supervisor," Charlie cuts over her, "Way he treated him, Tommy was justified killin' him. Boy worked twice as hard as anyone else and that bastard looked down his nose at him. Treat a man like a beast, he's bound to act like one."

Doris finds herself nodding. Ain't like Charlie was completely wrong.  

"Anyway don't stare at him too much," he instructs, "Know it's hard on account of his size but he don't like it. Face is a mess like you know but he's gotta mask coverin' most of it. He'll probably hide the moment he sees you. Told ya he's shy."

He cocks his head thoughtful.

"Might remember you from school. Suppose that was last time you seen him?"

Doris nods nervously. 

"Yes sir."

"Huh," Charlie grunts, "Be an interesting reunion."

He side eyes her. 

"You gonna start packin' or you need me to do it?"

Doris cringes at the thought of him rifling through her undergarments. 

"Don't bother me none," she can hear the smirk in Charlie's voice, "Doubt you got anything racy but..."

"I - I can pack," she says hastily, racing to her dresser, starts pulling out items, tries to imagine she's packing for Michigan or a vacation, packing for anywhere that wasn't the Hewitt place. 

She takes her armful of clothes over to the bed, starts to pack them in the suitcase carefully one by one, fingers trembling under the heat of Charlie's gaze. 

"Land sakes, don't have to be so dainty about it," she squeaks as he wrenches the nightgown out of her hands, shoves it in the suitcase then throws the remaining bundle of clothes on top of it. 

"W-wait," she stammers as he goes to close it, "Nuh-need my toothbrush n'..."

"Go get it then!" Charlie growls.

Doris bobs her head, starting towards the bathroom. Hope building in her chest as she realizes Charlie isn't following. 

"Wouldn't try squeezing through that window if I were you," he calls, causing her to freeze. Whirls around to gawk at him, "Had a gander 'fore I come in. Get your big ass stuck. That happens I'm gon' let ya stay stuck, tan it with my belt, listen to ya wail."

He groans a little at the thought.

"Or I'll jam my revolver up that virgin asshole," his grin widens, likes that plan better, "Let you beg me to not to pull the trigger. Convince me, I'll pull ya free and you can lick it clean. See what your own ass tastes like. Bet it ain't as sweet as my dick..."

Doris stares at him with horror. Charlie scratches his nose idly.

"Your choice," he says, "If ya don't get a hurry on, I might do it anyway."

Doris flees into the bathroom, heart racing. Fights back tears as she gathers her toothbrush and her hair brush, her little case of make up. Doesn't doll herself up much, ain't like she goes anywhere glamorous. Not like Susie. Wonders what she's doing right now. Having cocktails at her fancy country club with her new wealthy girlfriends. 

Meanwhile Doris is being terrorised, abducted...

Breathe, she tells herself, breathe. Aint no good getting upset. Have to think clearly. Your time'll come to get away. Just have to be patient. 

She goes back out to Charlie, drops her things into her suitcase.

"That everything?" 

He doesn't wait for an answer. Shoves her to the side to close the suitcase. Hoists up by the handle. 

Doris finds herself glancing at her vanity.

"My cats - said I could..."

She's not sure why she's so distressed about it. Got bigger things to worry about, leaving with the man killed her husband. Shoved a gun in her crotch, made her swallow his seed. God knows what else he has planned.

But those cats are hers, doesn't want to give them up. 

"Shit fire woman," Charlie growls, "I ain't waiting around for you to pack up your precious pussycats. Told ya about supper. Just grab that white puss ya like. Come back fer the rest later."

"Promise?" she finds herself pleading.

Charlie' mouth curls in amusement. 

"If you're a good girl. Otherwise I might use 'em for target practice," he savours her look of fear, "Grab your kitty, honey."

Doris scrambles to seize hold of Bianca, cradles her carefully to her chest. Charlie shakes his head at her. 

"Christ you're like Tommy with his little projects. Always worried ya gonna take 'em off him," he rolls his eyes, "C'mon pussycat."

Doris slinks past him like a nervous dog, not quick enough because he lands a swot on her backside. Makes her jump, Bianca almost flying out of her hands. Manages to keep hold of her, grips her tight, heart hammering. Hears him chuckle behind her as her ass stings. 

Still stings as she sits in the passenger side of the cruiser. But it's dull compared to the fear crashing over her body as Charlie picks up the radio.

"Hey uncle Monty you there?"

"Yeah," comes from a gruff reply.

Charlie scowls.

"Yeah sherriff."

"Huh? Oh, yeah Luda Mae tole me. She ain't too pleased. Said you was going over to..."

"Yeah I'm about to leave. Ain't much pickings except for a tv..."

"Take that!" the voice interupts eagerly.

Charlie lowers the mic to smile at Doris.

"We only have a radio."

Doris attempts a wobbly smile back and nods. She's got bigger problems than the Hewitts' looting her television.

Charlie's smile widens, he raises the mic back to his mouth.

"Hen out back. Mama'll want it."

"Can't you bring it?" 

"Ain't having a damn chicken roaming loose in the back of my cruiser," Charlie argues, "Against procedure."

"Procedure?" the gruff voice sighs, "Junior, you know you ain't a real..."

"You really wanna tell the man with the badge n' gun he's pretendin'?" Charlie's voice has hardened but there's a petulance to it, like a boy upset no one is playing his game, "I'm the law now, uncle. No ifs or goddamn buts about it. You hear me?"

"Whatever you say," the other man capitulates wearily. 

He's the elder but Charlie obviously calls the shots. 

"Sheriff," he says, "Whatever you say sheriff."

"Whatever you say sheriff."

"See that wasn't so hard," he croons, "Now you come fetch this chicken. Oh and tell mama I'm fixing supper. 

"Yeah okay... sherriff."

"Well lookit that uncle Monty, old dog can be taught new tricks," Charlie says snidely.

Doris can imagine the other man gritting his teeth on the other end. But he forces a respectful answer.

"Suppose so sheriff."

"Bed going too if you want it," Charlie goes on, "Better shape than yours."

"Wouldn't be hard to improve from that piece of shit. Why you think I sleep in my chair? Hurts my back."

"Hurts my back, what?"

"Hurts my back, sheriff. Can't wait around, give me a hand loading it?"

"Naw I gotta get home, get the wife settled in. Have to figure it out on your lonesome. Beer in the fridge though, help yourself."

Offering like its his goddamn house.

"Oh I'll help myself," the man grumbles, "Did you say wife?"

"Uh huh," Charlie's voice is smug.

"The sheriff's wife?" 

Doris can hear the shock in his voice.

"My wife. I'm the sheriff," Charlie answers, "You'll meet her later. Coming to live with us at the farm."

There's a pause.

"How she feel about it?"

"I'll ask her. Doris?"

"E-excited," she lies.

Glee spreads over Charlie's face.

"Hear that uncle Monty she's excited."

Doris sucks in breath as Charlie puts his hand on her thigh.

"Luda Mae ain't gonna like it," Monty warns.

"She'll come round," Charlie huffs, "Always at me to settle down. Give her grand babies. Jed around?"

"I don't keep track of that kid."

"Want him to meet his new mama," Charlie squeezes her thigh, sliding up her skirt a little, "Guess he'll turn up. Like a stray cat."

His fingers inch down her inner thigh and she squirms, Bianca clutched tight in her hands. Charlie grins.

"That reminds me. Can you bring the wife's cats? They're in the bedroom. Can't miss 'em there's so many."

"How many we talking?" Monty asks in a long suffering voice, "Gonna need cages."

Charlie laughs,

"No just a box and newspaper to wrap 'em."

"Wrap 'em?"

Charlie rolls his eyes.

"Figurines. They're figurines, uncle Monty. She's attached to 'em, ain't you sweetheart," his hand leaves her thigh to pinch her cheek, "You pack 'em up n' bring 'em to the house for her, understand?"

"Copy," Monty sighs.

"Copy sheriff!" Charlie shouts, voice booming inside the interior of the cruiser, "Sher-riff! How many times I gotta say it?"

"Copy sheriff," Monty says hurriedly, "I'm goin' now... sheriff."

Charlie hangs up the mic with annoyance.

"Sweet Jesus, my kin. Love 'em, honest to God I do, but they get on my damn nerves. Ain't hard to call me sheriff. You learned quick enough."

"Yes sheriff," she stammers.

Charlie sighs appreciatively.

"Hmm, sounds nicer coming outta your mouth."

To her horror he leans to plant a kiss on her lips. 

"Maternal or paternal uncle?" she blurts before he can do it again.

Charlie's brow rises,

"Monty?" he settles into his seat and starts the car, "He's my mama's youngest brother. Gotta aunty too. Dora. She lives close by with her daughter, Henrietta. Got four boys too - Adam, Lyle, Cal and Clem. They tend to roam like a pack of dogs. Then there's Shiloh and Zeke... I got a lot of cousins. Wasn't lying about us being breeders."

He shoots her a look that makes her stomach clench.

Gonna breed you.

Doris feels a shiver run over her body. Her thighs squeeze together. She can still feel the dampness clinging to her panties.

Charlie turns his attention back to the road.

"But there's only me, mama, Tommy and Uncle Monty at the farm. So don't worry about being overrun. We'll have our privacy."

He glances at her again.

Privacy to do whatever I want with you.

Whatever I want.

Doris tries not to think about what other perversities he has in  store for her.

"W-what about your son?" she asks.

"What about him?"

"He don't live at the farm?"

"Sometimes," Charlie says indifferently, "He comes and goes."

"But - he's only a little boy," Doris says softly.

Little boy with no mama. Daddy like Charlie. Sleeping God knows where like a stray dog.

Charlie huffs,

"Ain't nothing wrong with a boy toughing it on his own. My Daddy used to kick me out of the house all the time. Builds character. That's why I'm so tough. Tommy was raised different. Mama coddled him. That's why he's so sensitive. That and..."

He gestures at his own face in reference to the disfigurement. Then taps his head indicating Tommy's mental capacity.

"If Daddy was alive, he woulda told her to drown him like he did the runts. Strong breeds strong, weak breeds weak. Wise man, my Daddy," he grips the steering wheel, "But he was gone n' I was all grown. My mama needs someone to look after. Gives her purpose. That's Tommy. Thirty years old and she treats him like he's five."

He shakes his head.

"Hell, she treats me like I'm fifteen sometimes. Have to remind her I'm not."

He huffs, bottom lip stuck out a little. Like he is fifteen. 

"Why you call him your nephew?" Doris asks timidly, "He's your adopted brother."

The query makes Charlie squint at her. She squirms, wishing she hadn't said anything. Finally he sighs.

"Aw hell, I don't know. I was twenty five when he came to us. Seemed easier for him to call me uncle. Anyway uncle's a term of a respect in my family. My mama called my Daddy uncle."

Doris frowns. Why would...

Her eyes widen with realization. Charlie Snr had married his neice. Charlie Jr was a product of incest. She can feel the heat from his gaze, like he's waiting for her to express shock and horror. That's why he's told her. Goad her into reaction and take offence. 

She doesn't want a broken nose from an inbred monster. 

"Daddy liked keeping things in the family," Charlie continues chipperly in the wake of her silence, "Hewitt through n' through. Me I think sometimes its better to diversify. Bring in fresh blood. Long as it's quality. Want strong stock. You're a little long in the tooth - my mama was fourteen when she had me. You're more than double that..."

Doris tenses as he slaps her thigh again. 

"But we'll see how you do. Can't hurt trying. Trying's the best part really. See what else you can do."

He pries one of Doris' hands off Bianca, moves it to his crotch, holds it there, thrusting into it as he drives. Doris endures it, listening to Charlie's little grunts as he ruts, dick starting to harden in his pants. To her relief he finally moves her hand back to her lap.

"Best stop that," he says in a chiding voice, like she had been doing it if her own volition, "Make us have us an accident. Almost there."

He stares down at his erection like he's talking to it. Doris clutches Bianca like a protective talisman. Her grandmother told her the ancient Egyptians thought cats were good luck. 

Doris stares at the weathered fortress of a farmhouse that emerges into sight like a sleeping giant.

"Welcome home," Charlie croons.

Doris swallows hard. Her fingers are clammy as they grip Bianca's porcelain body. Lucky charm don't seem to be working too good.

Chapter Text

There's someone moving about outside as Charlie parks the cruiser in an empty spot next to his old packard. Old woman Doris recognises as Luda Mae Hewitt. Been served by her a handful of times at the Cele store. Looks the same as she does at the register, faded dress with her faded blonde hair roughly pinned. Big spectacles. She's lugging a big basket of washing onto the porch. 

But as soon as she gets there, she sets it down. Grabs a broom, starts sweeping, head pointed in their direction, the late afternoon sunlight catching on her glasses. Charlie grumbles as he heaves himself out of the cruiser.

“Shoulda known she’d be waiting to ambush us,” he waves to his mother who carries on sweeping, "Remember what I said about being polite.”

Doris nods, stomach in knots as she reluctantly climbs out of the car while Charlie fetches her suitcase from the trunk. Jerks as he grabs her hand, roughly entwines their fingers and tows her towards the big house. 

Must have been something in its prime, judging by its size. Hewitts must have been well to do once to buy it. But like the family itself, the house is a decaying shadow of its former glory. 

Doris tries not to trip as Charlie lugs her up the stairs, his sights set on Mrs. Hewitt.

"Hey mama,” his voice is overly friendly, “Uncle Monty told you about supper?"

“He mentioned,” Mrs. Hewitt answers gruffly, setting her broom to one side, surveys them in a formidable sort of way, "Wanna tell me what you’re doing with this woman here?”

Charlie laughs but it sounds forced.

"Her name is Doris, mama. She's here because she's my wife."

Mrs. Hewitt stares at him in consternation.

"Land sakes, Junior! Didn't I say there'd been enough tomfoolery?"

"Hoyt, mama," Charlie pouts, "You n' uncle Monty are like peas in a pod. Ain't hard. Doris calls me sheriff."

He looks at her expectantly, gives her a nudge.

"Yes sheriff," she forces out, feeling like a performing monkey. 

Charlie grins.

"See?"

Mrs. Hewitt's eyes are large beneath her spectacles,

"You... you're fine with this?"

How the hell would I be fine with it, Doris wants to scream at her, I'm a goddamn hostage! 

"O-of course," she attempts to smile, "He's my husband. Says it right there."

Charlie puffs out his chest and smiles,

"Sure does."

Mrs. Hewitt gapes at both of them.

"Darlin' he killed your husband."

"Mama, what's done is done," Charlie sighs, "Can't undo it. Should be happy your son's got himself a wife."

Mrs. Hewitt shakes her head,

"Her though?" 

"Yeah she ain't much to look at," Charlie says, causing Doris flush, "But she does grow on ya."

Smiles at Doris like she's meant to be flattered.

"Ain't talking about her looks!" Mrs. Hewitt says, "You think I don't remember?" 

Her blue eyes turn piercing as she points at Doris,

"She's one of ones what used to tease my Tommy. She was thick as thieves with that little jezebel Susie Jessup. Her brother Avery was the worst of 'em."

Doris swallows nervously, glances at Charlie for help but he's standing there, hand on his hip. She's on her own.

"Not arguing with you, ma'am," she says, "Avery was awful mean to him."

Mrs. Hewitt snorts,

"Mean don't begin to cover it."

Doris clenches Bianca tight in her hands. 

"I never teased Tommy," she goes on, "Mighta seen it happen but I never joined in."

"You think that redeems you," Mrs. Hewitt growls, "Watching and doing nothing? Makes you just as bad."

"I - I know," Doris concedes, "Ain't trying to make excuses..."

"Heh, sounds like that's what you’re doing."

Doris swallows hard, 

"Tommy was a lil, uh, different but he ain't deserved what we did," Mrs. Hewitt is still glowering and her mind races, "An' with your blessing, I'd like to apologise to him."

"Well that's something," Charlie says.

Mrs. Hewitt glances at him irritated.

"You think you saying a pretty apology is going make up for my boy's emotional scars?"

"Come on mama," Charlie cuts in before Doris can answer, "Can't hurt letting her apologize. Hell Tommy probably won't even know what's she's talking about. It was Avery and them other boys what made his life hell."

Mrs. Hewitt purses her lips angrily.

"You're only excusing her because you're pretending she's your wife."

"Ain't pretending," Charlie says, a touch of growl in his voice, "Tell you something else. Ain't a crime to witness a crime. Eyes of the law she's innocent. Trust me, I'm an officer."

Mrs. Hewitt rounds on him,

"Charles Ezekiel Hewitt, you are testing my last nerve."

She looks at him so fierce Charlie doesn't correct her about his name. He actually holds up his hands.

"Mama there's no reason for you to be upset," his voice sounds almost childish, "Tommy got away with murder. I'm the new sheriff. Got a daughter-in-law you can put to work. Help ya out at the store. 'Fore you know it you'll have a grand kid to fuss over. Things are looking up for us."

Mrs. Hewitt's brow arches as she looks between the two of them.

"Oh you're planning on kids?"

Doris tenses as Charlie's arm snakes around her waist.

"We're planning on it, ain't we honey. Doris is keen on kids."

Doris forces a nod. Mrs. Hewitt huffs,

"Why she ain't got 'em yet?"

Doris flinches. That was one of the harder things about small town life. Everyone took note of everything. Like the fact Doris and Winnie had been wed for almost a decade with no children. 

"Aw that ain't her fault," Charlie says, "Old Hoyt had a problem with his nuts."

He ignores his mother's look of confusion. Claps his hands together briskly.

"This supper ain't gonna fix itself. How about you give Doris a tour of the place?"

"Hold your horses," Mrs. Hewitt splutters, "We ain't done talking. What about your brother?"

Charlie sighs,

"What about Tommy?"

"Does he know about her? That you're planning on her staying?"

Charlie pouts,

"I already told her how to treat him."

"Ain't up to her how Tommy reacts," Mrs. Hewitt growls, "He's a sensitive boy. Can't just spring her on him at the supper table. You gotta explain to him first."

"I'll tell him now," Charlie growls back impatiently, "He's been butchering the meat for supper."

"What meat?" she asks, "Fed the pigs. They're all accounted for."

"Ain't pig," Charlie smirks, causing his mother to huff. He pulls out his handcuffs and Doris tenses.

"Hands behind your back n' turn around honey," he leers at her, "Oh, best gimme puss so you don't drop her."

Doris looks down at Bianca. She's reluctant to let her go. Especially in exchange for a pair of restraints. 

"She's mine," she mumbles pitifully.

"You'll get it her back," Charlie croons, "Unless you keep stalling."

Doris looks at him fearfully then passes him Bianca.

"Here mama," he hands the cat to Mrs. Hewitt who studies it with faint curiosity, "Mama will carry her for you, make sure nothing bad happens."

It sounds like a threat. Charlie smiles at his mother who nods.

"Something special is it?"

"Its her favourite. Got a bunch of other ones. All cats. Uncle Monty is bringing 'em."

"Where we gonna put 'em?" Mrs. Hewitt grumbles.

"I dunno, the kitchen," Charlie jokes, "Scare the mice away. You decide mama. Decorating is women's business. Long as they ain't cluttering up my room."

Mrs. Hewitt sighs, 

"Could sell 'em as knick-knacks at the store."

Doris opens her mouth in protest. This woman can’t sell her possessions. She looks at Charlie who chuckles.

"Aw mama you're scaring her. They're her babies."

Mrs. Hewitt snorts.

"Babies," she rattles Bianca in her hand, "This ain't a baby, child," she looks at Doris like she's a half wit, "Hurry up n' cuff her, Jun-Hoyt."

Charlie grins at her self-correction. Doris forgets her cats, shoots Charlie a look of pleading. 

"You really have to cuff me sir?" 

Charlie gives her a pitying smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry honey just a precaution. Gotta prove we can trust you," he makes a spinning motion with one finger.

Doris reluctantly turns, places her hands behind her back. Feels cold metal as Charlie snaps the cuffs on her wrists. Presses close as he does, breathing in the scent of her hair,

"Look at you honey, my first arrest."

He whirls her back around to witness his smile,

"You be a good girl for mama, okay?"

Doris tugs on the cuffs a little, despair in the pit of her stomach as the steel digs into her wrists.

"Yes sheriff," she forces out.

Charlie laughs,

"Ain't she a peach?" he says to his mother.

Mrs. Hewitt only grunts. Charlie seems to take it with good humour. He smacks a kiss to Doris' cheek.

"You girls have fun."

He saunters to the door, winks over at Doris as he opens it.

"Mind your manners," Mrs. Hewitt calls after him, "Take that hat off!"

"Yeah yeah," Charlie calls from inside irritably. 

Mrs. Hewitt shakes her head,

"I'm an officer," she mimics Charlie under her breath, "Lord deliver me from this foolishness."

She sets Bianca on top of her pile of washing with a grumble. Pulls a cigarette from her dress pocket. Doris' eyes stray to the field in front of them. Could she make a run for it? 

"Thinking of running?" Mrs. Hewitt's knowing voice makes her jolt, "Ain’t easy with ya hands tied. Probably fall ass over head down them stairs."

Doris tries not to wince. She's right. 

"I'm not running," she stammers.

Mrs. Hewitt grunts, cigarette clenched between her lips. Takes a deep drag.

"You be straight with me, girl," she says, "Why are you really going along with this?"

Doris chews her lip, unsure how candid she should be. Mrs. Hewitt didn't owe her any loyalty if she told the truth. Same time the woman doesn't look like she'd take kindly to bullshit. She sighs,

"Mrs. Hewitt, your son killed my husband. Came to our house in his uniform saying I was his wife, gun in his hand. You think I was gonna argue?"

Mrs. Hewitt's whole body seems to heave in sigh. She takes another drag of her cigarette, pensive.

"Was he improper with you?"

Doris' brain is suddenly assaulted with sensory memories. The muzzle of a gun grinding against her pussy, the mix of adrenalin and terror. The fire in her lungs as she sucked Charlie's cock while he held her nose, laughing. The ache in her jaw, ache between her legs. The hot spurt of his seed hitting her throat, lingering in her mouth. His embrace afterwards, overly affectionate. 

She clenches her eyes shut, breath shaky. Feels herself trembling.

"I - I'd rather not..."

"Was there a consummation?" Mrs. Hewitt presses, cigarette clamped between her fingers.

Doris looks at her pleadingly. 

"Please Mrs. Hewitt..."

"Tell me child," Mrs. Hewitt's voice is firm but not unkind, "I need to know how far this has gone already."

"No," Doris mumbles, "He - he wants to wait."

Mrs. Hewitt frowns, arms laced across her bosom.

"That ain't like Charlie."

The comment unsettles her. Was Mrs. Hewitt privy to Charlie being a rapist? She was his mother after all. A savy one. Didn't look like much escaped her notice. She's looking at Doris suspiciously as she stamps out her cigarette.

"What's he waiting on?"

"My period," Doris stammers, "To be sure I'm not pregnant. Wants the baby to be his."

Mrs. Hewitt nods,

"Ah. That makes more sense."

She takes off her glasses, rubs her tired eyes. She probably looks a lot older than what she is. Baby at fourteen will do that to you. Having a baby to your own uncle. She cleans her spectacles on her dress. 

"What was he saying about your late husband's privates?"

"Winston had a medical condition - his testicle hadn't descended, made it unlikely for him to sire children."

Mrs. Hewitt pops her spectacles back on, blue eyes shrewd beneath the glass. 

"You know my Charlie already sired a boy?"

Doris' stomach twists.

"Yes ma'am he told me."

Mrs. Hewitt seems surprised. But then her expression grows scornful.

"Huh, probably thinks you're gonna raise him. I don't bother much. Know he's my grandson but he's a hard boy to love. Got the Hewitt looks but his spirit," she shakes her head disappointedly, "Too much his mama."

Says it with distaste. She cocks her head, gaze avian. She's more chameleon than Charlie. Charlie can't hide his nature. The menace oozes off him. But his mama - she could pass you in the street and you'd only see an elderly lady, poor but harmless. But the way she's staring with her eyes narrowed. She's anything but harmless. Harmless women don't raise monsters. Has to hold her own against them. Doris has seen the way Charlie seems to regress around her. 

Doris averts her eyes. You don't make eye contact with a mama bear. She'll come for you.

"How much he tell you about her?" Mrs. Hewitt asks.

Doris shrugs, shifting about on her feet uncomfortably.

"Only that she was blonde, died giving birth to the boy."

Mrs. Hewitt scoffs,

"She was a useless woman," her voice is cold, reminds Doris a little of her grandmother, "A vagrant. Hitchhiking on her lonesome, doing God knows what to the men what gave her a ride. But Charlie was besotted," she sighs, "Junior's always been weak when it comes to the fairer sex. Thinks he's a ladies man like his daddy."

The last part makes Doris look at her wide eyed. Mrs. Hewitt's eyes also widen. Pained, a tad alarmed. 

You know, those eyes say. You know our secrets. He told you.

The woman clears her throat, tries to compose herself.

"Strange he's picked you. Ain't his type," she looks her up and down, tilts her head thoughtfully, "Maybe that might be for the best," she mutters, "Pretty girls cause nothing but grief. Like that whore Mary-Ann."

She gives Doris a little shove towards the door.

"Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but it was a blessing she died. Thought she was better than us. Woulda fled first chance she got with our Jedidiah."

Our Jedidiah. Boy they don't keep track of. Treated like some sorta stray.

"Loathed my son," Mrs. Hewitt goes on, "Wouldn't say Junior treated her well but that’s beside the point. A mother always sides with her children," she stares at Doris pointedly, "Always."

I'm no ally, she's warning. I won't interfere. I'll let him do what he wants with you. Like the one what came before you. 

Mary-Ann.

Charlie obviously picked her on the roadside, bought her to the farm, kept her hostage, raped her until she got pregnant...

Doris' chest feels tight. The cuffs jangle as she tugs at them. The sound makes Mrs. Hewitt click her tongue.

"You ain't escaping, child," she says, voice horribly toneless as she picks up her washing basket, "Your part of the family now.”

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hewitt balances the basket on her hip as she opens the door, orders Doris inside with a gruff, “Hurry along now.”

Doris walks over the threshold, the feeling ominous like she's being devoured. This place she's entering is more prison than new home. The woman at her heel is one of the jailers.

"Ain't much use with your hands tied," she grumbles, still hefting her laundry, "Coulda helped me with this washing. Suppose you can at least carry your suitcase."

Charlie bought it inside only to drop it near to where he hung his hat. Maybe did it out of petulance. Left it for his mama to deal with. 

Or rather Doris, who is forced to squat in front of the suitcase, groping blindly with her manacled hands until she manages to grasp the handle. Struggles to haul it up behind her, the weight and awkward position straining her arms. Mrs. Hewitt watches unsympathetically.

"This way," she points.

She waits for Doris stagger in that direction, lugging the suitcase like some ungainly packhorse. Mrs. Hewitt falls into marching step behind her, directing her from behind. Her relentless pace and the suitcase make it hard to take in the surroundings. But she tries to memorise as much of the layout as she can. 

The assortment of furniture reminds her of her grandmother's house. Generational hand me downs, weathered by time. The animal heads mounted on the walls not so much. The only animals gracing Charlotte Horton's home were her ceramic cats.

There's family photos but Mrs. Hewitt is herding her too fast for her to fully absorb their detail. But she thinks she spies Charlie in a few of them. Or men who resemble Charlie. She supposes a family engaging in inbreeding is bound to share more physical similarity than one who marry outside their own kin. 

More prone to defects too. Though the Hewitt with the most deformity doesn't owe that condition to cousin marriage. He's also the one she's anxious about bumping into as she's steered through the house. She tenses at each murky door way, every shadowy corner, afraid he's going to appear like some bogeyman. 

There's an eerie feeling of being watched. Though maybe it's simply the eyes of the portraits and Mrs. Hewitt's gaze boring into her back. There's no sign of Tommy. Not even in what appears to be a sewing room. 

She remembers the patchwork of animal skins Tommy bought to school as a home-making assignment. Was only for the girls but Mr. Hansen let Tommy participate. He was the only teacher who seemed to pay Tommy any attention, kindly soul that was. But the quilt still disturbed him. Disturbed all of them. 

What had Charlie said earlier about Tommy's hobbies? Imaginative but not particularly wholesome. Also said most of it was downstairs. Maybe that's where he is. Working on God knows what. Doris notices a lamp they pass, the shade looks like its fashioned out of skin. Another of Tommy's projects? It's resourceful but at the same it sends a chill up her spine. Why the obsession with hide?

"This is Charlie's room," Mrs. Hewitt breaks through her thoughts.

She pushes past her to open the door. Waits for Doris to shuffle in with her suitcase, suitcase she drops with relief. Hears it hit the floor with a thud. Looks around at Charlie's bedroom. It's fairly Spartan, bed - stripped down to the mattress, dresser, mirror, another skin-shade lamp, rifle mounted on the wall. Is this the one named after the hot faux-blonde? 

Mrs. Hewitt sets her basket down. Bianca rolling about on the sea of linen. Doris tenses a little as Mrs. Hewitt swipes her up, takes her over to the dresser. Sets her down between two family photographs.

Doris eyes the placement nervously.

“Hoyt didn't want her in his ro..." 

“He don’t like it he can shift it,” Mrs. Hewitt cuts over her, “Got better things to do than make room for your trinkets.”

She starts making his bed with the fresh sheets. Doris watches awkwardly before her eyes drift back to the dresser. Studies the photos in more detail.

One is Charlie in his military uniform, posing with a slightly younger looking Luda Mae, a ferrety faced man in a cap and coveralls. Uncle Monty maybe? Tommy is a spectre in the background, trying to hide behind Luda Mae, body half turned, greasy hair shadowing half his face while a big hand attempts to block the rest. Only one dark eye peaks out between his fingers, wide with... distress? Probably hated getting his picture taken. Face like his. Doris might pity him. But he's the reason she's stuck in this mess. If he hadn't killed Murphy, Winnie wouldn't have gone to arrest him. Got himself killed.

You got him killed, a voice sounds in her head. You told him to call on Charlie. Charlie's the one who blew his head off with a shotgun. This is your fault!

Doris tries to ignore the voice. Focuses on the other photograph. There's a picture of a pre-teen Charlie posing with a dead buck. Can tell its him. Same bushy brows and ears that stick out. There's two men standing with him in hunting jackets who resemble the older Charlie. One's grinning and has a tooth missing. The other looks surlier with a cigarette in his mouth.

"That's his daddy n' granddaddy," Mrs. Hewitt mutters, "Charlie Snr and Abner."

Doesn't say which is which. In fact, it's hard to tell the two apart. They're practically... identical.

"Twins run in the family," Mrs. Hewitt confirms her unspoken question.

Doris stares at the two men, stomach queasy. Fact Luda Mae had married her uncle who looked exactly like her daddy. Had she been given any choice in the matter? 

"Charlie was a twin," Mrs. Hewitt tears her attention away from the photo, "Brother didn't survive the birth."

"I'm sorry," Doris says softly.

Means it sincerely. She knew how devastating it felt to bleed each month knowing nothing had taken root. Could only imagine how it must feel to grow a life then hold it tiny and lifeless in your arms.

Mrs. Hewitt looks away, lost in her own thoughts.

"Would you like to see his uniform?" she says finally.

Must mean his service uniform. Doris nods, thinking it’s best not to risk offending her. Mrs. Hewitt opens the bottom drawer, lifts out a bundle of folded khaki. Takes it over to Charlie's freshly made bed, starts unfolding it. 

"Patched it up when he come home. It... it'd gone through a lot."

Her expression is sombre. She smooths out the creases then steps back. The uniform lies on the bed like a headless man. 

"Did this family proud," she says softly, "Serving his country. Enduring what he did at the hands of those commie heathens. Don't talk about it but I know he musta suffered."

She turns to Doris,

"Has nightmares. Yells n' carries on like he's back there."

She turned back to her son's uniform.

"You'll see, assume you'll be sharing his bed like you're married proper."

Doris tenses, idea of her trapped in a bed with Charlie. Him screaming in his sleep was the least of her worries. 

"If you'd prefer I sleep elsewhere, I'm happy to..."

"Aint a hotel," Mrs. Hewitt gathers up Charlie's uniform with a slight huff, "Only got so many beds. Charlie wants you bunking with him, this is where you're sleepin'."

She tucks the uniform back in the dresser. Hefts Doris' suitcase onto the bed, opens it. Picks up Doris' hairbrush and turns to her. 

“Suppose Charlie’ll want you looking nice for supper – whatever it is. Sit, I’ll brush your hair.”

Doris complies, sits on the edge of the bed, wincing as Mrs. Hewitt starts to untangle the knots in her hair. There's a few from Charlie wrenching it while his cock hammered into her mouth. Memory of it makes her heart race. She squeezes her thighs, face hot. Thankfully Mrs. Hewitt doesn't notice. She's focused on her task. Actually seems to be enjoying it, there's a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Always wanted a little girl," she breaks the silence, "My sister had four boys then a girl. She's simple but such a help to her mama. That's what girls do, help their mamas. Grandmothers. Was hoping Jed would come out a girl. Mighta liked him better."

She sighs wistfully, 

“Yeah, lil granddaughter, fix her hair, bake her cookies, be a real grandma. Let’s hope that’s what you n’ Charlie might give me a girl.”

She pauses her brushing,

"Or you prefer a boy?"

Doris squirms at the question. 

“Oh, uh, I – I don’t mind. Just a h-healthy baby.”

"Hmm," Mrs. Hewitt says, turning Doris' head to reach another section of hair, "Let's hope fer a healthy girl then. I do love me a baby boy though. Most beautiful babe I ever saw was a boy."

"Charlie?" Doris guesses.

"Charlie?" Mrs. Hewitt snorts, "No, child, Charlie was an ugly thing, big ears and mercy me, the squalling. Like a lil hog. So loud we barely noticed his brother was..." she trails off abruptly, pain in her eyes, pain she blinks away, "Got better as he grew. Grew into them ears. Still squalls though. Temper on him."

She tuts.

"No, I meant his brother. Tommy. Tommy was beautiful."

Doris forces a nod, remembering Charlie saying Tommy had been an ugly baby. Here's Mrs. Hewitt saying the opposite. But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, especially in the eyes of a mother.

"How anyone left him in that bin I'll never know. Poor angel, such a quiet thing. And curls. Such lovely curls. Loved to brush 'em while I sang to him. Tommy loved his lullabies."

She starts humming the tune of Hush Little Baby.

"Miss those days," she murmurs, "Times was hard but they was peaceful, just me n' my sweet baby."

She sighs,

"But then he grew, started to fuss. Developed a - a aversion. Wouldn't let me touch him. It was his face. Pained him so. My poor child. Suffering so much n' I couldn't comfort him."

Her jaw clenches. So does her grip on the brush. Her strokes become rough, painful.

"You kids never thought about that," she mutters as Doris winces at her harsh brush strokes, "How much he suffered inside himself. Only cared how different he looked on the outside. Calling him a monster n' making fun. If ya'll had only treated him with kindness, he mighta accepted his face. Instead he felt he had to hide. Started believin' all those things you were calling him."

"I'm sorry," Doris whimpers, scalp stinging.

Mrs. Hewitt huffs,

"You can tell that to him," to Doris' relief she sets down the brush, "No use saying it to me. Know as a Christian I'm supposed to forgive, but as a mother?"

She shakes her head resolutely.

"Fate's in Tommy's hands. He forgive you, I will too. If not, well, I ain't having anyone in my home who causes my son distress. Charlie’ll agree with me. End of the day he'll put us first."

Anxiety claws at the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Hewitt's speaking the truth. Charlie calling himself her husband was one big perverse game to him. He wasn't devoted to her in any genuine way. If his family wanted her dead, he'd cut his losses. Look for another girl he could call Mrs. Hoyt.

"Yes ma'am," she whispers to Mrs. Hewitt.

"Ma'am," the older woman huffs, "Lottie Horton's grand daughter in my house, calling me ma'am. Woman would be rolling in her grave."

"You knew my grandmother?" Doris says, surprised.

"Oh yes - was a maid in her house when Charlie was a little boy. Grand house she lived in before that husband of hers..."

She stops abruptly as a large shadow passes under the half open door. Doris catches it too, tensing.

"Tommy," Mrs. Hewitt calls, "That you child?" 

There's no reply. Then the sound of boards creaking as a large body shifts outside. 

"Tommy I know it's you," Mrs. Hewitt says as Doris' heart starts to hammer. 

More silence. No more creaks. If Tommy is there he's keeping still. Mrs. Hewitt sighs.

"Thomas Brown Hewitt," she calls more sternly, "Don't you hide from your mama.”

A heavy thud of a footstep on the other side of the door signals surrender. One then another. The sound making Doris' hair stand on end. One huge hand appears through the gap in the door, meaty fingers digging into the wood. Doris holds her breath waiting for that monstrous face to loom into view.

It doesn’t. Tommy just clings to door on the other side, remaining hidden. Waggles his fingers a little in what seems like greeting.

“There you are,” Mrs. Hewitt croons in a gentler voice, “Ain’t gonna come in? Meet our... guest?”

Those fingers recede a little, like he wants to do the opposite. Always fled rather than fought. Only fought the day Charlie forced him. But Doris knows better than to write him off as a gentle giant. Giant killed a person this morning. Person who’d wronged him. What if he counted Doris as someone who wronged him? Avery and Susie were too far away to exact vengeance but her – she was in his house.  

“It’s – it’s okay,” Doris hastily assures her, “Whatever he feels comfortable doing.”

Mrs. Hewitt purses her lips but nods.

“Well go on,” she says, “If you got somethin’ to say to him.”

Doris swallows hard,

“H-hello Tommy,” her awkward greeting makes his visible hand stiffen, “It’s, uh, Doris from school. D-Doris Sawyer but now I’m Doris H-hoyt. I don’t know if you remember me?”

Silence except for heavy muffled breath. Wet-sounding. Probably from the mask, she realizes, Charlie said he wore a mask now. One finger lifts from the door, jerks in an up and down motion.

“He does,” Mrs. Hewitt translates.

“Oh,” Doris said faintly, “G-good. D-did Charl-, uh, Hoyt, tell you why I'm here? That he wants me to live here an' be his wife?"

More wet breathing. Then that big slab of a finger jerks again in a nodding motion. 

"A-are you comfortable with that? Me being here?"

Tommy's fingers wrench the wood. Doris can imagine them around her neck, break it as easily as a chicken's. She glances at Mrs. Hewitt's severe expression.

"It's okay if you ain't quite sure," she tries to keep her voice gentle rather fearful, "It's your house n' you got every right to feel the way you do. I know I wasn't all that friendly to you at school..."

Tommy's fingers grip the door even tighter. Doris almost expects it to break and splinter.

"I'm s-sorry for that," she goes on quickly, "Looking back I shoulda been more kind. Musta been hard going what you gone through. People like me just made it worse."

She trails off, watching his fingers on the wood. There's no response except his muffled breath seems to have quickened. She hears Mrs. Hewitt growl like a mama bear about to charge, protect her cub. Doris' hands tug futilely at the cuffs, the skin turning raw red. Her breath is probably on par with Tommy's.

Keep talking, it's your only hope. Talk your way outta this, Doris!

"My, uh, old husband, one what tried to arrest you. Just want you to know I don't hold no grudge. Sounded like he did the wrong thing, pulling a gun on you. Should have tried talking to you, got your side of the story. The man you killed, he mistreated you. Must have done something bad for you to kill him. Probably o-only defending yourself right?"

Tommy's finger starts to lift in agreement then stops. Was it self-defence? Yes? No? His finger lifts, falls, lifts, falls as his mind grapples with his version of what unfolded. Maybe he doesn't even quite remember. Could have fallen into blood-lust then come out of it standing over Murphy's body. His finger seems to tremor with distress.

"It's okay," Doris races to reassure him, "We don't have t-to talk about it. Main thing is it's over now n' no one's gonna come after you. You're safe 'cause - 'cause your uncle's the sheriff and I'm gonna keep your secret. We can put it all behind us n' move on as a family. Are you okay with me being family, T-Tommy?"

Please say yes or your mama's gonna have me killed!

"I'd like a family," she blurts out words desperately, "Old sheriff never gave me any kids. The rest of my family's dead. My parents died when I was young. I don't know if you knew that. I was an orphan at school. Guess that's why I wanted girls like Suzie to like me. Didn't want to be alone..."

"He don't need your sob sorry girl," Mrs. Hewitt hisses in her ear.

"But you were alone n' I'm sorry for all the hurt we caused you. It wasn't fair. You don't have to forgive me but... But if you just gimme a chance to make things right. That's all I ask. Chance to prove myself to you n' the family. Would that be okay T-Tommy?"

Tommy's fingers jump indecisively over the wood, clenching and unclenching. His damp breath coming out in ragged bursts. 

"Answer her, child," Mrs. Hewitt pipes up, "Can't sit on the fence. You wanna give her a shot or not?"

Tommy's hand keeps jittering on the door. His breath turns into a grunting sound like he's gnashing his teeth. Makes her rigid with fear. It's beastial. She almost expects him to throw open the door and lunge at her. 

"Please nephew," she begs, "Have mercy. Have mercy, Tommy."

Tommy seems to quieten. Grunts turning a softer plaintive whine. 

His finger twitches, lifts, nods.

Doris starts to break down in her relief.

"T-thank you Tommy," she sobs, "Thank you!"

"Never mind shoutin'," Mrs. Hewitt's voice is low, hard to read, "He's gone."

Sure enough there's no hand wrenching the door, no wet breath. Only the distant sound of retreating boot steps. 

"Hope you know you owe him girl," Mrs. Hewitt says gruffly.

Doris nods, eyes bright with tears. They spill down her cheeks as her shoulders tremble. Feels like she just escaped a hangman's noose. Or rather a chainsaw.

She hears a ringing sound somewhere in the house. A dinner bell?

"That'll be Junior," Mrs. Hewitt confirms, "Time for supper."

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hewitt pulls out a handkerchief and wipes her face. Her handkerchief smells better than Charlie's, no dried jism. Its lemon-y, the scent almost comforting as she dries Doris' tears. 

"Thank you ma'am," she murmurs, voice slightly hoarse from talking to Tommy. 

Mrs. Hewitt grunts as she pockets the handkerchief.

"Come," she says gruffly, "Let's see what my boy's fixed for supper."

She grabs her arm, pulls her upright off the bed, pushes her in the direction of the door. Tommy is long gone but his scent lingers. A heavy musk of masculine sweat mixed with something more fetid, smell of blood and meat, the stink of a butcher. 

The scent cloys in her nostrils. Makes her breath shake. She feels like she escaped slaughter by the skin of her teeth. She's not out of the woods either. She's still trapped here.

Mrs. Hewitt marches her back through the first floor into the dining room. Room is almost entirely taken up by large ancestral dining table. Charlie is there talking to an older man she recognises from the photo on his dresser. Their heads turn as soon as they enter. 

Doris' gut clenches watching the glee spread over Charlie's face.

"Hey pumpkin," he bridges the gap between them in a few strides, envelopes her in an unwanted hug, squishes her to his chest, "I sure missed you."

Doris jerks as his hands slip down to squeeze her ass, her wrists straining against the cuffs. Hears him groan in her ear as he roughly kneads her flesh. There's a sharp clearing of a throat in the background - Luda Mae - and Charlie releases her. Pushes her back a little, hands clamping on her shoulders, holding her in place as he studies her,

"Eyes kinda red," he notes cheerfully, "Been crying? Been missing me too huh?"

Doris decides it’s easier to nod.

"Y-yes sheriff."

"Aw poor baby," he croons, "Don't worry. Won't be out of your sight for the rest of the night. How's that?"

Doris attempts a wobbly smile. 

Charlie looks pleased. 

"Hair looks pretty."

Doris tenses as he coils a strand around his thick finger. 

"Mrs. Hewitt brushed it for me," she mumbles.

Charlie chuckles as he tucks the strand behind her ear, 

"You can call her Luda Mae or mama if you want. Right mama?"

"Luda Mae's just fine," comes a gruff reply.

Doesn't look keen for Doris to call her anything more familiar. Doris isn't sure if she wants to risk calling her anything but ma'am.

She's studying the large pot on the table next to a pile of bowls and jars of brownish water. Doris can smell a rich meaty aroma wafting from it. Makes her mouth water. She only ate a few pickles for lunch. 

"This is Uncle Monty," Charlie introduces the other man, "Talked to him on the radio."

"G-good to meet you."

The man grunts,

"Politer than the last one."

Doris winces. The last one had been held against her will and died in childbirth. The comment earns a hard look from Charlie, makes the man squirm.

"My, uh, cats?" Doris asks.

Monty looks at her,

"Yeah I bought 'em. Time consuming packing 'em all. Hope you appreciate it."

Speaks to her more harshly than he does his nephew. Not sure he's trying to establish himself as higher in the pecking order than her. 

"I do, thank you sir, uh, Uncle Monty."

Monty's grouchy expression softens ever so slightly. 

"Suppose I should thank you for my new TV."

"Ain't your TV, it's the family's," Charlie's says.

"I drove it here," Monty protests, "Box of cat statues and a damn chicken."

Charlie steps away from Doris to leer at him with a flash of teeth, 

"And we're alll very appreciative, uncle Monty," he says, the older man quailing a little, "Don't mean you can claim the TV. Some of us wanna watch Gomer Pyle."

Monty averts his eyes in submission,

"Yeah yeah alright," he mutters, jaw clenching.

Sits there looking all pitiful. Doris gets the feeling he used to getting the short end of the stick. It's either Charlie's way or Luda Mae's. 

The older woman takes a seat. Monty slinks around to pull up a seat opposite her. Doris squeaks as Charlie whirls her around.

"Take these off huh?" Doris grimaces as he roughly jangles her cuffed wrists, "Can't hug me with your hands tied."

He unlocks them. Doris rubs her raw red wrists gingerly. Hears Charlie cough from behind her. She reluctantly faces him, still cradling her wrists. He gives her a darkly expectant look,

"Well?"

Doris fights back a grimace, brings her arms slowly around his middle. His torso is different to Winnie's. Winnie was narrow with a beer paunch. Charlie's belly is slightly soft with age but he's mostly muscle, like an old workhorse. He smells of some awfully pungent cologne undercut with soap, must have cleaned him up before ringing the dinner bell. He's combed his grey streaked hair.

His arms cage her again and she feels his pelvis grinding into her belly, growls lowly in her ear. Doris squirms as his hands creep down to her ass again.

"Stop canoodling," Mrs. Hewitt interrupts sternly, causing Charlie to freeze, "Show her to her seat."

Charlie sighs. Doris finds herself towed to the head of the table. 

"I sit here," Charlie says, obviously proud of his status, "Monty, you move down one. Make room for Doris."

The older man stares at him startled.

"But - this is my seat."

"Now it's Doris'."

Monty looks distressed.

"I been sitting here since Daddy passed. Men sit on the right, eldest to youngest. It's tradition."

"Well I'm starting a new tradition," Charlie smiles at him, "Doris is my wife, she sits next to me. Ain't making mama move. That’s her place."

"This is my place," Uncle Monty protests, looks at his sister for support, "Luda Mae..."

"Just move Monty," Mrs. Hewitt says gruffly, "I ain't got the strength for bickering. She's his wife."

Monty rises with a loud scrape of his chair, 

"For now," he grumbles under his breath.

"What you say?" Charlie growls as he steers Doris towards Monty's vacated seat.

Monty shoots him a look like a dog caught peeing on the carpet.

"Nuthin'," he says as he takes his new seat, "Sheriff."

Charlie huffs, Doris gasping a little as he pushes her chair in.

"Right," he leans over Doris' shoulder, "Comfy honey?"

He nuzzles her cheek, Doris unable to move, pinned against the table. She nods, squirming as his lips brush her cheek.

"I said quit that canoodling," comes Mrs. Hewitt.

Doris notices she's not even looking in their direction. It's towards the door. Doris ignores Charlie who's stopped kissing her to toy with the ends of her hair. Looks over at the doorway and tenses. There's a large dark shape. 

Tommy. He's bigger than she remembers - biggest kid in school but even taller now, broader, would fill the whole doorway but he's hiding off to the side. Only showing enough to make his presence known because she hears Charlie say "there ya are, Tommy."

Tommy only sways a little on the spot. Big arms laced against his massive chest. Prize fighter's physique but he's dressed in his butcher's apron - probably his uniform at the slaughterhouse. Probably still sprayed with Murphy's blood. He's squeezing his hands restlessly like he used to do at school. Like he's not sure what to do with his hands if there's nothing in them. A needle for his skin quilt. A butcher's cleaver. A chainsaw.

Doris' eyes focus upwards on his face. Still has that lank greasy hair. But his lower face is covered by a mask of dark leather, a macabre looking thing that's strapped to his head like a dog's muzzle. His dark eyes bore out above it, meet hers and widen. 

She quickly averts her gaze. Charlie said not to stare at him. But then she remembers she's trying to be friendly. She looks at him again and gives him a small wave. 

The gesture makes him stiffen, eyes blown wide, makes him look like a startled deer rather a hulking bear. Doris thinks he might duck out of sight. But he stays put, ducks his head, still fidgeting with his hands. Doris supposes that's the best reaction she could hope for.

Doris feels eyes on her and notices Mrs. Hewitt watching her, expression hard to read. 

"All here then," Charlie claims her attention, squeezing her shoulders before shifting to his seat, "Let's begin shall we?"

Doesn't sit, keeps standing. Faces them all head on. Like a preacher about to address his flock. Even sounds like that when he speaks.

"That slaughterhouse meant more to this town than them fools will ever know. Just a matter of time before this town's overrun by bikers and hippies. Us, we're staying right here. We will never abandon the place of our birth. We're on our own now, people," sounds like a general now, he's the general and they're the troops, receiving a pep talk before battle, "And alone we will rise above it all. People may not remember what we say here tonight, but they sure as shit gonna remember what we do."

Unease prickles up Doris' spine at the last words. How ominous they sound.

"Thanks to the good sheriff here..." Charlie says, patting the pot.

Doris tenses. Sheriff. Winnie. 

"We ain't gonna go hungry tonight. Matter of fact, we ain't never gonna starve again."

Charlie ladles what looks like stew into the first bowl. Holds it up to his nose. Inhales it greedily with a mmmm sound. 

"Charlie," Mrs Hewitt blurts, "Say grace."

Charlie lowers the bowl with a pout, 

"Mama, I told you Charlie's dead. It's Hoyt now, Sheriff Hoyt."

He sighs, gaze darting to Doris as he shakes his head. Doris only stares back wide eyed. 

Charlie closes his eyes, rattles off a short grace. Doris catches the tense look between Mrs. Hewitt and Monty. Way Mrs. Hewitt shakes her head in warning. 

Go along with it, she seems to be saying. 

Go along with... Doris grits her teeth, mind reeling. 

Surely she's misunderstood. Charlie can't mean the meat is Winnie. He must have stolen money from Winnie's wallet, used it to buy meat.

Charlie finishes with an "amen". Doris starts as he holds out the bowl to her.

"Pass that to Monty, sweetpea."

Doris stares at the meat floating in the broth as she passes the bowl to Monty who stammers "thank you" in an overwhelmed voice. Feels his fingers tremble as he grips it, the floating meat jiggling. 

He sets it down in front of him with a small clatter. Meanwhile Charlie is carrying another stew-ladden bowl to the other end of the table. 

"Tommy," he calls as he sets it down, "This is yours son. You earnt it."

Tommy's head nods slightly. He eyes his bowl intensely but doesn't move.

"Come on son," Charlie says a bit more sternly, "Gotta join us to eat."

Tommy ventures in with the timidity of sneaking mouse. A massive mouse. He hunches over his bowl and sniffs like some sort of animal. 

Doris tears her gaze away to watch Charlie ladle stew into another bowl.

"Here you go, dumplin'," he says, voice horribly tender. 

He sets it in front of her. Doris studies it queasily.

It's meat he got from the butcher, she tells herself. It's animal meat. Pork maybe?

Charlie said it wasn’t pig, she reminds herself.

It’s not chicken either. Too light to be beef. Veal, is it veal?

Even if it was it doesn’t explain the tension emanating from Luda Mae and Monty.

Why would they be so nervous about meat paid for by robbing the dead. Hadn’t minded looting that same man’s house or Charlie abducting his wife. 

The pair of them haven't even picked up their cutlery. Neither has Charlie though, he seems to be watching them all. 

"Eat it while it's hot, people," he prompts.

Mrs. Hewitt and Monty exchange glances again. Monty's eyes behind his spectacles are a little pleading. Mrs. Hewitt sighs, picks up her fork. Skewers a bit of meat. Everyone seems to watch as she raises it to her mouth. Takes a breath then jams it in quickly like she's taking medicine, chews and swallows. 

Then she sits there, a look of surprise settling over her face. 

"Try it Monty," she says, voice soft.

Monty grabs his fork. Eats a morsel in the same fashion as his sister, chews quickly at first then his jaw slows, seems to savour it more before he swallows.

"Ain't bad," he says, looking overwhelmed like Mrs. Hewitt.

"Huh. 'Spose that's a high compliment from you," Charlie quips.

Monty licks his lips,

"Is - it's really that sheriff? Tastes a bit like pork."

"Well he was a pig in a manner of speakin'," Charlie grins. 

Monty returns it half-heartedly. He goes in for a second taste. 

Meanwhile Doris' heart in her throat. 

"This... this is a joke right?" the words bolt out of her mouth, the others staring at her, "Prank or - or something. You didn't actually cook W-winnie."

She looks desperately at Charlie. 

It's a joke. Tell me it's a joke.

"Course I did," Charlie tuts instead and her blood runs cold, "Weren't you listening to my speech?"

Her eyes fall back to the bowl, brain almost overloading. These innocuous looking bits of meat... They were pieces of her dead husband. 

"Oh my God," she sobs, "Oh my God! You..." 

Her tongue gets tied in her distress. She ends up sobbing into her hands. 

Let me wake up. This is a bad dream. A bad dream. 

There's a scrape of a chair and boot steps. 

Wake up. Wake up!

She shrieks as Charlie pulls her hands from her face. 

"Shush, shush," he says, hands locking around her raw wrists as she tries to thrash, "Calm down, calm down."

His soothing tone disturbs her. She thrashes even more, hearing Charlie growl.

"Calm - hey!"

He delivers a sharp clip to the side of her head and she stills, body trembling.

"That's better," he picks up her fork, "Just try it honey. It's real good, I promise. Ain't my first rodeo, know all the right herbs and spices."

He skewers a lump of meat, juice dripping as he holds it up.

"C'mon just one bite. Can't judge it until you've tried it."

"No," Doris gulps, voice quaking as she turns her head, "No!"

"C'mon honey," Charlie's voice hardens, "Don't want to hurt my feelings."

His other hand clamps her head, forces it back in his direction.

"Slaved away to show you what a good husband I am. Ain't like this asshole in ya bowl. Probably never lifted a finger to help ya 'round the house. Me I'm a modern man. Bring home the meat and cook it too,” he smiles at her toothily, “What more could you ask for?"

Doris sobs, eyes filling with tears. Charlie growls impatiently.

"Need me to feed you like a baby? Here, look here comes the airplane. F-86 Sabre."

He makes a zooming noise as he jams the meat to her clenched lips. The warm, wet squelch making her shudder. She sucks in air through her nose, aroma prickling her nostrils.

Juice drips down her chin as Charlie keeps jamming it against her lips.

"Open your goddamn mouth!" 

"Hoyt!" Mrs. Hewitt pipes up, "Lay off her a little. It's her husband."

"I'm her husband!" Charlie snarls, his voice booming around the room, fading into silence.

Doris tries not to lick her meat-greased lips. Charlie is looking at his mother. Her eyes are wide from his outburst. Enough for Charlie to wince, looking a tad contrite. Even a cannibal cook knows he ain't supposed to yell at his mama. 

"I'm her husband mama," he says, a hint of pleading in his face. 

You have to go along with me. This is my big moment. Converting everyone to cannibalism. 

"You know this is symbolic her eating him," he gestures at Doris, hunk of meat still on the fork, "Eating her old life and embracing the new. Rebirth. All of us. This is the night we stop struggling and start living," he's fallen back into preacher mode, "Don't ya'll want to start living?"

His mother and uncle both nod their heads. Charlie smiles, satisfied. 

"Are ya'll crazy!" Doris cries, "This ain't living. That's a goddamn person. This is worse than murder. You wanna burn in Hell?"

"'Everything that lives and moves about will be food for you. Just as I gave you the green plants, I now give you everything'," Charlie intones, looking smug as Doris gapes at him, "Right there in the Good Book, honey. Genesis, God to Noah. Now eat your food."

Doris grits her teeth.

"But - but the bible also says..."

"Eat!" Charlie interrupts, "'Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord'. Ephesians. Ea..."

"You ain't my husband!" Doris shouts, revulsion trumping self-preservation, "You're a goddamn monster, Charlie Hewitt! You can't make me eat this!" 

She seizes her bowl.

"I won't!"

It goes flying over the edge of the table, hitting the ground with a shatter. Doris feels a rush of victory, so much she smiles at Hewitts. They all seemed stunned. Finally Mrs. Hewitt speaks.

"That bowl belonged to my great grandmother Esther," her voice is thick with disapproval.

Wipes the smile from Doris' face. Charlie's served them human flesh and she's worried about a broken bowl? 

A force suddenly collides with her face, her head snapping, vision blurring. Leaves her dazed, pain blooming across the middle of her face, blood starting to drip from her nose. Her stunned gaze swings to Charlie, his fist still curled, trembling with rage.

"See what you done, you ungrateful bitch!" her body goes into free-fall as he drags her chair back and throws her off. She hits the ground hard with a pained grunt, "Broke great grandma Esther's bowl!"

Charlie looms over her. She tries to sit up, blood from her nose trickling over her lips. Charlie's boot forces her back down,

"Take you in, seat you at our table, include you in our supper and this is how you repay us! Repay me!" his boot digs into her crumpled body and she hisses with pain, "Your husband?"

He leans his weight on her. More pain, she grits her teeth, tensing as she hears the snap of his holster.

"Insult me and reject my offering?" Doris feels the hard muzzle of the revolver dig into the back of her skull, “You're lucky I don't just blow your brain out like dear ol’ Winnie there."

"No guns at the supper table!" Mrs. Hewitt reproaches from the background.

"Sorry mama it's just this once. My wife needs a little extra incentive."

His boot eases off her back.

“Sit up,” he orders.

Doris painfully pushes herself up onto her knees. Comes eye to eye with the revolver Charlie has aimed at her face. Keeps it trained on her as he drops to his haunches. His other hand reaches past the barrel, thumb pressing into the ooze of blood below her nose. Doris watches in horror as he brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean.

“Knew you’d taste sweet,” he sighs, “Sweeter n’ your attitude tonight. That’s fer sure.”

The pleasure on his face warps into menace,

"Now you listen to me, honey," he says lowly, "’Cause I only gonna tell you once.”

He points at the nearby mess of meat, juice and broken bowl.

“You pick up that meat and you eat it."

Doris goes to shake her head.

“You eat it!” Charlie booms, jamming the pistol against her forehead, “Eat or you'll be next!”

Doris stares at him in horror. Next?

“Blood’s sweet darling,” Charlie confirms, “Meat’ll be even sweeter.”

Doris imagines her body dissected and bubbling away on a stove. Charlie grins like a demon.

“What's it gonna be, dumplin'? You're either a Hewitt or food. That's the way it's gonna be!”

He looks up towards the table, as if that threat is universal. He looks back at Doris.

“Eat, Dottie,” he commands, “Eat and be reborn.”

Doris’ hand trembles as it reaches for the closest morsel of meat. She plucks it off the floor, the texture squish-y and lukewarm between her fingers. Her stomach roils. Eat human flesh or die, what kind of hellish choice was that? Hellish being apt. Eating it would damn her immortal soul. She either died now and went to heaven or ate Winnie’s flesh and burned for eternity later.

Maybe not if she begged God for forgiveness. Couldn’t God see she had been coerced? Why had God even allowed her to be thrust into a situation like this? What had she ever done to deserve it? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be forced to make a choice like this.

But life wasn’t fair. She knew that. She knew that because God hadn’t blessed her with good looks like her friend Suzie. She knew that because God took her mother early and her daddy killed himself, left her to be raised by her cruel grandmother. She knew that because instead of a fertile husband, she ended up marrying the only man in Fuller with one ball. She knew that because today a psycho cannibal murderer killed her husband and pulled her into this nightmare just shy of her escaping to Michigan.

Charlotte Horton was wrong about cats. They didn’t bring good luck. Or maybe Doris was just too fucking unlucky to begin with. No feline was gonna turn it around.

She looks at the meat. Meat she thought was veal. Could pretend it was veal but it’s too late now for pretend. Still hard to reconcile with it being Winnie though. Hard to believe it was a chunk of him. Monty had said he tasted like pork. Would she think that too? The thought is like the devil in her ear. Try him and see. Try him and survive.

The tip of the gun scratches her forehead.

Doris lets instinct take over, shoves the meat into her mouth. Chews feverishly, the flavour hitting her tongue. It is pork-like but not quite, a bit chewy, a little gritty from being on the floor. The marinade salvages it a little, the combination of herbs, it’s unpleasant but not as disgusting as she thought it would be. That’s what disturbs her the most.

Shouldn’t the most taboo of all meat be absolutely unpalatable? Like poisonous berries in the wild, taste terrible so you know to spit them out. Human flesh doesn’t taste like poisonous berries. Still she hasn’t swallowed, the meat now masticated mush in her mouth, in limbo between damnation and death from a head wound.

“Swallow,” Charlie growls and Doris forces her throat to comply, feels Winnie disappear down her esophagus, “See that weren't so bad? Uh uh, don't you dare puke. Be the last thing you ever do. Take some deep breaths. That’s it,” he says as Doris breathes through her nose, “Okay?”

Doris sobs. Okay? He’s damned her. She’s damned herself.

“Yeah you’re okay,” Charlie says unsympathetically, “Look sharp, honey, you ain’t finished yet.”

There’s a two more pieces on the floor along with bits of onion and carrots.

“Don’t mind the veggies, just the meat.”

Doris reaches for them. Ate one piece, she can force the others down. Forces them down, combating nausea and despair. Swallows to Charlie’s approval, even holsters his revolver.

“That’s my girl,” he says happily, “Now the juice, can’t waste that.”

Doris looks at the brown puddle studded with fragments of bowl.

“There's broken...” she whispers hoarsely.

“Lick around it,” Charlie snaps, “C'mon, pretend you're a kitty licking up spilt milk. C'mon.”

He jostles her head threateningly. Doris whimpers, resistance slipping through her fingers. She's already damned. She lowers her head, revulsion and humiliation burning through her body as she dips her tongue into the pool of juice on the floor. Tastes meaty broth mixed with grit. More tears cloud her eyes but she blinks them back, has to be able to see to avoid the broken porcelain.

“That's it,” Charlie coos as she fights back another wave of nausea to keep lapping at the decreasing puddle of juice, “You like it, pussycat, ol' Winnie's meat juice, huh?” he grabs her head and draws it to his crotch, dick semi-hard, “Like what Daddy made for you.”

He ruts against her with a perverse moan.

"Hoyt, enough!" Mrs. Hewitt cuts in, "You're upsetting Tommy. Let her up before she cuts her damn mouth."

"Alright, alright," Charlie grabs Doris by the arm, "Up you hop, honey."

He hauls her up and into his arms. Doris doesn’t have the will power to struggle, only sob against the chest of his uniform – Winnie’s old uniform, Winnie making his way through her digestive tract – her body shuddering violently. Charlie groans, Doris realizing it’s from her trembling against his erection. Makes her sob harder.

“Hush now,” Charlie rocks her in his arms, “Proud of ya. Proud of you Mrs. Hoyt.”

His tone is horribly genuine. Is proud of her. Proud of all of them. His little tribe of cannibals.

“You'll get a taste for it,” he strokes her hair, “You all will. Better n' starving."

He deposits Doris back in her chair like a limp doll. Slumps there like one.

"Water?" Monty holds out one of the brown-tinged jars.

Doris doesn’t answer.

"Suit yourself," Monty grumbles.

He resumes eating. They all do, while Doris sits there in a state of anguish, pitiful whimpers issuing from her mouth.

"Quiet honey," Charlie's hand squeezes her thigh under the table, “Rest of us are trying to eat. Can't leave until everyone finishes. That's the rule."

“Take off your mask honey,” Mrs. Hewitt is calling gently to Tommy, “Can’t eat with your mask on.”

Doris’ bleary eyes drift down to Tommy. Sees the way he’s wrenching his own hair. Probably from watching the spectacle with her and Charlie. That’s why Mrs. Hewitt put a stop to it.

She looks away as Tommy’s hand seems to shift to detach his mask. Can’t stand to see more horror. That monster wouldn’t want her staring anyway.

The closer monster – the ring leader - squeezes her thigh and winks at her. Then he tucks ravenously into his stew like a man possessed.

Doris clenches her eyes shut, tries to disappear into some safe recess of her brain. But all she can hear is Winnie being devoured. Winnie being chewed and slurped and swallowed. She cracks open her eyes to see Charlie licking his lips.

"Everyone done?"

Sure enough there’s four empty bowls.

Charlie rises from his chair,

"C'mon honey," he peels the shattered Doris out of her seat, "Let's get you cleaned up."

Her legs feel like jelly and she allows Charlie prop her up, cradling her to his chest while he gives orders.

"Tommy you clear the table. Mama can you put some water on the boil," he rubs Doris' back, "Run you a nice hot bath. Make you feel better."

"Who's gonna clean the mess on the floor?" Mrs. Hewitt asks testily.

"Surely uncle Monty can help."

"I didn’t make the damn mess," Monty protests.

"Only take you two seconds," Charlie growls, "Doris cleaned up most of it."

He trails off in a chuckle. Nausea builds back up in Doris' gut and she fights it down.

"What about the bowl?" Mrs. Hewitt says, "Family heirloom n' and she..."

"Lands sake mama just a bowl," Charlie interrupts, "Accidents happen. She's sorry ain't you sweetheart," Doris' head bobs pitifully, "See?"

Mrs. Hewitt huffs but Charlie ignores it. He's bundling Doris away. 

"C'mon honey. Hoyt'll take care of you."

Chapter Text

Charlie steers her towards the door. Doris glimpses Tommy scrambling to reattach his mask as they pass, dark eyes large with distress, leftover juice from supper dripping off his chin. Catches a big whiff of him too. Smells of raw meat. Raw meat because he butchered Winston's headless corpse. Butchered him to eat as stew. 

Her stomach lurches and she puts her hand over her mouth fighting down the urge to vomit.

"Got a whiff of Tommy huh," Charlie says as he bundles her into the hall, "Boy reeks but he seems to prefer it. Gotten used it myself. Funny what you get used to."

Like cooking humans for supper.  

Doris fights down another strong urge to retch. Tries to breathe through it as Charlie pushes her though another door that turns out to be a grimy bathroom lit by oil lamp. Doris is shoved down onto the toilet seat. Charlie grabs her chin, roughly tilts her head up.

"Let's have a look at ya," he studies the damage he did to her nose, blood now a congealed crust, "Aw that ain't nothing. Not even broken."

He actually sounds disappointed. He lets go of her chin.

"Got a lot worse done to me as POW. Lot worse. Those heathens didn't spare the rod. No dignity either. Pissed on you for morning call."

Doris nods but only slightly. She doesn't get a shit about the NKPA urinating on Charlie. Breaking his bones. She ate human flesh tonight. That was a worse crime. She still can't believe she did it. But she had, the taste still lingers in her mouth. That strange pork-but-not-quite taste. 

Memory of Winnie with egg on his moustache flashes in her mind, eggs digesting in his belly when Charlie shot him. Would that have affected his taste? Was like that with livestock, grain fed tasted different to grass fed. Maybe not the egg so much but last night's dinner and the dinners preceding it. Fact he smoked, old how he was. Doris can't believe she's pondering this. It's sick. But like a sickness, she can't shake her curiosity. Her guilt. Her shame.

"Could endure it though," Charlie is saying, "The marches. The beatings. What really got to you was the hunger. Gnawing emptiness making you go slowly mad. Nothing worse than starvation."

Doris looks at him pained. Why is he going on about this? Is he trying to distract her? Make her pity him? She'll never pity him. She hates him. He's degraded and violated her. Worse he's corrupted her. She'll burn in Hell thanks to Charlie Hewitt Jr.

"Going to hell," she chokes out, "Eating that... it was a person. It was Winnie!"

Man she'd sat across from ten years. Shared a marital bed. Cooked his meals, washed his clothes. Man who gifted her with cat figurines each Christmas - routinely forgot birthdays and their anniversary. Got frustrated when she reminded him - couldn't buy her different damn cats three times a year. Stopped reminding him. Like she stopped reminding him about the surgery. Wasn't worth him getting huffy with her. A huffy Winnie went straight for jugular with insults plucked from that dictionary, called her moronic and imbecilic, told her to quit carping and shut her corpulent ass up. 

Doris wasn't ignorant of the fact she disliked him. Be a lie to say she never pictured him dying either. Sometimes she imagined him dying in a car wreck after he made a harsh comment at breakfast. Imagined herself starting over as a widow. But like her routine of masturbating, she always felt guilty. Prayed for more patience and understanding. Winnie was a bore but he didn't hit her. Didn't philander behind her back like Lewis Horton had her grandmother. 

Her grandma made no secret that she had only married the former owner of the meat factory for his money. His money and willingness to overlook the existence of her bastard daughter. As long as they kept her out of the public eye. Easy enough since Rosemary was a sickly child, constantly bed-ridden.

Best kept secret in Fuller, Doris' mama. Most folks didn't know she existed until she ran off with Bill Sawyer. But even that was less of a scandal than Lewis Horton blowing his brains out after some bad business decisions at the height of the Depression. Opted for that over poverty. Poverty he spared his widow by receiving his life insurance. There was a rumour Lottie had put the gun in his mouth herself. Doris wouldn't have put it past it. Maybe that's why she'd left her most of earthly possessions to God.

Even if she was innocent, she was guilty by public consensus. She was an outsider, which was practically a sin in and of itself. A failed starlet who's only credit was a slave girl extra in Cleopatra, one staring Theda Bara. Had more luck as model, a Lucky Girl to be exact, appeared in an ad for Lucky Strikes. Something her husband crowed about. His "famous" wife. Hung her Lucky Girl poster in his office. Screwed his secretary under the gaze of Lottie smiling with a cigarette. Same office he splattered his brains over. Hilton and Herman Lee had to have the place deep cleaned before they moved in.

After her husband's death, Lottie downsized, became a recluse, which only added fuel to the rumours. Why hide away if she had nothing to hide? But even if she killed him, she certainly hadn't eaten him. Barely ate anything, she was skin and bones under the silk nightgown she wore around the house, hair wrapped in a matching turban. Doris wasn't sure why she kept herself so slim for - no one to admire her. Only Lottie herself. Her grandma in front of the mirror, face smothered in cream, Doris doing her nails, trying not to fuck it up. 

Earn Lottie's wrath. Lottie's insults cut more than Winnie's. Didn't need a dictionary to come with them either. Her cruelty was almost an art form, it was effortless. Winnie was an amateur by comparison. Maybe that's why Doris could stand his mistreatment. Wasn't as bad as living with her grandmother. At least Winnie left the house and gave her some reprieve. 

But as bad as Lottie had been, Charlie is worse. Her grandmother had been a witch but Charlie Hewitt is a devil. Devil staring at her without a trace of remorse.

"Was. Then he died, became a pile of meat and bones, no different than any other creature. Look at it this way, he was useless to you in life - couldn't even put a child in you..."

Doris squirms as his palm runs over her stomach, caresses it as a smile blooms over his face. 

"But he nourished you in death," his hand snakes up to cup her breast, "Nourished all of us."

There's a growl in his throat as he squeezes her breast. But Doris is thinking more of Winnie's meat dissolving in her stomach. 

How could forbidden flesh nourish you? 

"But..." she whispers.

"But nothing," Charlie interrupts sharply, his fingers digging into her breast, "You wanna survive don't you? Like I did in Korea?"

Doris' eyes bulge. She should have realized. That's why he was talking about his POW days. That was Charlie's cannibal origin story. 

"Oh yeah darlin', they were chowing down on GI beef. Think yours truly wanted to be served with rice? I showed those fuckers who was food."

Charlie grins, only for briefly. Glares at Doris' wide eyed expression.

"Well, answer me!" he shouts, "Do. You. Want. To. Survive?"

Her heart hammers, Charlie clawing her breast like a beast. 

She does want to survive. That's why she ate Winnie in the first place. She nods pitifully, flinching as Charlie thrusts his face close to hers. His breath stinking of meat, her realizing her breath probably smells the same.

"Then you eat. You eat any creature that gets put on your plate n' don't feel sorry for 'em. It's them or you. Life's a war darling. There's strong n' there's weak. Tell me deep down that meat didn't make you feel strong?"

Strong? Doris has never felt strong. Why would eating human flesh make her feel any different? She's not even strong enough to tell Charlie he's full of bullshit. 

Only nods. Nods like she did whenever Winnie said something damn foolish. Yes dear. Whatever you say dear. Whatever makes my life easy dear. 

With Charlie the stakes are higher. 

Whatever keeps me alive, dear. 

Charlie smiles that awful smile of his.

"There's my girl." 

He smashes a kiss to her lips, other hand caging the back of her skull so she can't move, only quiver against the pressure of his mouth. 

"That was a pretty frigid kiss," he huffs as he pulls back, "Almost like you don't wanna kiss me."

He pouts, plucking at her nipple over her dress, the sensation rough and sharp and her body tremors. 

"Need to loosen up, dumplin'."

He moves over to the sink, bends to open the cabinet beneath, looks at her over his shoulder.

"Want some hooch?" 

Says it in a conspiratorial voice like a teenager up to no good. 

Before she can answer, he sticks his arm into the cabinet, brings out a grubby jar of moonshine.

"You keep it under the sink?" Doris mumbles.

"Keep it everywhere," Charlie says gleefully, "Never know when you're gonna need it."

He pops the cork and takes a large swig, smacks his lips.

"That's the stuff," he sighs, "Open wide honey."

He obviously isn't trusting her with the jar. Could throw the contents in his face. Blind him and flee. Doris opens her mouth. Alcohol might at least ease her distress her.

Charlie moans a little, seizes hold of her jaw.

"Sure look good with your mouth open," to her disgust he shoves his thumb in her mouth. Ruts it over her tongue like a cock, pushes it deeper and almost makes her gag. She flails, Charlie chuckles, "C'mon you took a dick way bigger n' this. Show me honey."

Doris looks at him confused, eyes watering as his thumb keeps probing inside her mouth.

"Don't be a dumb baby," Charlie growls, "Suck my fucking thumb."

Doris' stomach lurches. She doesn't to suck his thumb. Its sick and degrading like making her lick the floor. But there's too many violent variables if she refuses. The stolen revolver in its stolen holster. The glass jar he could smash down on her nose.

She closes her lips around his thumb and sucks down. Bobs on it a little, her top teeth grazing the knuckle, resisting the strong urge to bite down. Charlie groans.

"Shit, that feels nice. Makes me all tingly."

Doris is horrified to feel a tingle of her own. The hell is wrong with her? Sucking a man's thumb of all things. A cannibal's thumb. Arousal is quickly superseded by nausea. Luckily Charlie's had his fill of this particular humiliation. 

"You're a good baby, honey."

He pulls his thumb out of her mouth with a wet pop. Plants a kiss on her forehead. Somehow that's worse than the thumb sucking. The sweetness of it.

"You're a lotta fun, Dottie... don't mind me calling you Dottie? Doris is cute but you got that lil patch of freckles..."

He bops her nose.

"Dottie seems fitting."

"D-dottie's fine."

What did it matter, he'd call her what wanted. Honey. Dumplin'. Baby. Bitch. 

Supper. 

A chill runs over her body.

"What'd Winnie call you?"

Doris flinches at the name. 

"D," she whispers.

Ate the man who called her D.

Charlie sneers,

"D? That's not very inventive."

Neither is Dottie, she thinks.

"'Spose he weren't a very inventive sort of fella," Charlie goes on, "Never asked ya to suck his dick. Even the rag in his car, blondes with big tits, boorring!"

He takes another slug of moonshine, wipes his mouth with a grin, 

"Bit like his meat. Needed a lot of seasoning."

Doris flinches. 

"Aw I'm just messing with you," Charlie chuckles, "His meat weren't so bad. Did a good job fattening him up around the middle."

Doris stares at him stricken. The idea that her cooking had unwittingly ripened Winnie's waistline like a hog.

"Your face, dumplin'. It's a compliment. Fat-bellied husband, couldn't call you a bad wife."

He pats her cheek and she fights the urge to scream. 

"Cheer up Dottie, give Hoyt a smile."

The urge to scream intensifies. She wants to claw his fucking eyes out and wipe that smug look of his face. But she's too much of coward. She wobbles her lips in some semblance of a smile. 

"That's it honey," Charlie wags a finger at her, "You know you're a better sport than Jed's mama. She was pretty but her attitude stunk. Didn't mind a drink. Probably the only thing we had in common. Bitch preferred reefer. Me I don't touch that shit. Fries your brain. Seen it with a few of my cousins. Most of 'em didn't have much fucking brains to begin with. Stick with liquor thank you very much. That's a real man's poison."

He puts on a stern look - sheriff look.

"You don't smoke dope do you honey?"

"I d-don't smoke."

Her grandmother smoked like a chimney. Doris had sucked down enough second hand smoke to last a lifetime. 

"No vices huh. Little Miss Perfect."

Doris thinks about the copy of Bondage Babes stuck under the mattress. That was probably a worse vice than cigarettes. 

Get a grip Doris, she thinks, you ate human flesh. That's a worse sin. Worst sin there is besides killing a man. 

"N-not perfect," she answers Charlie, "Like a beer s-sometimes."

Charlie chuckles.

"This is better than beer," he holds the jar above her head, "Open that pretty mouth again."

Doris obeys, wary of him sticking his fingers in her mouth. But he doesn't. Thrusts a hand through her hair, snaps her head back. Mouth open, throat exposed, watching the jar as it tips. Moonshine fills her mouth to the brim and she chokes, struggling to swallow, spluttering as it burns its way down her throat.

Charlie laughs,

"Got some kick don't it. Old family recipe." 

He takes another swig. 

"Want some more?"

Doris shakes her head, throat still burning. Least it's washed all traces of Winnie in her mouth.

"Temperance, that's a good quality too honey," Charlie winks, "More fer me."

He raises the jar to his lips. Doris watches, his demeanour baffling. Man's a kidnapper, rapist and an identity thief. He's a cannibal. And yet he's perfectly at peace with it all. Doesn't fear for his immortal soul. Not when he's misinterpreted the good book to justify his evil. 

Was it always this way though? Had he eaten his first human as easily as he had Winnie at supper? No hesitation or discomfort or regrets? Or had his tormentors pushed him so far to breaking point any morality, any qualms Charlie might have had had been eroded away. Only the will to survive remained. Will to survive and a drive for vengeance. Did seem like a perversely apt form of it. Devouring the people who starved you.

Had the other GIs done it too?

But then Doris remembers something. A disturbing detail as Charlie’s last words ring in her head.

More for me.

More for me.

"That POW camp,” she stammers, “O-only you survived."

Charlie lowers his moonshine.

"That's right,” he smiles.

Doris' blood run cold.

"D-does that mean you…”

"Ate my fellow soldiers?” Charlie admits far too easily, “Didn't taste as good as the gooks. Malnourished, barely any meat on 'em. But I couldn't leave anyone alive. Risk 'em exposing me.”

His eyes are a little glazy. Like he’s back there, dragging his fellow soldiers out of their cages one by one, the men screaming at him that they’re comrades, unable to fight because they’re so weak and Charlie is strong, strong from eating their enemy.

“Once I started, I couldn't stop. The taste," he swallows like the memory is making him salivate, "It was like a drug or something. After starving so long I couldn't get enough of being full."

"Don't you feel bad at all?” Doris asks, overwhelmed, “Those men could have gone home to their f-families."

"Most of them were at death's door," Charlie huffs, "Gone through Hell like I had. I gave them mercy. Slit their throats and delivered 'em to Jesus. Made it so all their suffering hadn't been in vain. Kept their sergeant alive."

Doris' eyes bulge. Charlie had been the commanding officer? That made his actions even more twisted. These men had been in his charge and he'd chosen to eat them.

Charlie's eyes narrow, 

"I suppose its easy for a person like you to judge. Ain't been pushed to that limit. Brain can't comprehend it. What's the longest you've gone without food?"

"A - a day or so...".  

Time just before her daddy drove her to grandma Horton's house. Had no food in the house. Been slowly dwindling since mama died. The animals were gone but only because Daddy had sold them. Sold them to buy liquor. Empty bottles kept piling up in the kitchen while Doris eats her her way through the last of their pickled reserves. 

Now there's only empty jars, empty cabinets. Empty Doris. But she tries not to pester Daddy. He wasn't a fool, something he was always yelling at mama when she was alive. If that was true, he didn't need Doris to tell him the kitchen was bare and they needed to go shopping.

But her tummy aches so bad. She almost sobs with relief when her daddy emerges glassy-eyed from the bedroom, grunts at her to get in his truck, thinking about all the yummy food they'll buy at the store.

Only instead of the store he pulls into an unfamiliar driveway, Doris not understanding why. Wanted to ask but her daddy wasn't a fool. Be a reason he bought here instead of the store. Why he tells the scowling older woman who answers the door that he "got some business, mind mindin' your grand daughter?"

Doris isn't sure why Lottie agrees. Doesn't look like she's particularly thrilled. Her daddy pats her head, "be good" and goes back to his truck. Leaves her with Charlotte Horton. Sits uncomfortably in her parlour, staring at her cats while her tummy cramps.

"Why you look so pale?" Lottie grumbled, "Got your mama's constitution? Don't look like her that's sure. Look like your Pa. That isn’t a compliment. Well answer me, girl."

"H'gry," Doris mumbled, trying not to cry. 

Lottie looked annoyed as she clenched her tea cup.

"How long since you ate?"

Doris told her. Lottie only sneered.

"Not surprised. You know why he left you here?"

"B-business," she stammers, fighting back tears.

She wants him to come back and take her to the store.

"Business," Lottie says mockingly, "That man hasn't done an honest day's work in his life. He left you here so I'd pity you. Give him money. Probably why he starved you. Make you look more pitiful. Not pitying you child. Not paying your daddy neither. Didn't pay him when he stole your mama, thinking I'd support 'em both. Came to me when you were born too. Your daddy should have picked a better mark. Lottie Horton isn’t a pushover. Tell him when he comes to collect you."

Only he didn't. So Lottie phoned the sheriff’s office then tensely smoked a cigarette, the smell making Doris’ empty stomach churn.

“Jesus, look like you’re able to pass out,” Lottie grumbled, pulled a hard candy from her pocket, “Suck on that.”

Doris sucked on it ravenously, not minding it was sour lemon. It was something. Actually it was better than something. Makes her body buzz.

“Sheriff’s gonna call me back,” Lottie says, almost to herself, “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

She looks almost worried as she keeps smoking her cigarette. Her eyes stray to the cats on the mantelpiece then she rounds on Doris again.

"Can you cook?” she asks harshly and six-year Doris looks at her overwhelmed.

“Um, e-eggs,” she mumbles around the lemon candy, “S-scramble e-eggs…”

“Go scramble some eggs then,” Lottie orders.

Doris stares at her wide-eyed, the lemon candy now a tiny nub on her tongue.

"Where's m'Daddy?"

Lottie raised her cigarette to her lips,

"He ain't coming,” she mutters, not looking Doris in the eyes, “Kitchen’s that way.”

Doris scurried off like a mouse. Scrambled some eggs. Overcooked them because she was nervous about the mean woman coming in. But she didn’t. Doris ate her dry, rubbery eggs alone in the kitchen, finding they didn’t taste too bad. Which was strange. When her mama used to overcook them at home they tasted awful. Just about most things her mama cooked tasted awful without a generous heaping of salt. Her mind wandered too much, burnt things black if Doris didn't pull her out of her daze.

Daddy called mama half-retarded and maybe she was. But Doris preferred her in the kitchen burning food to lying in bed, especially when Daddy bought home "friends" to visit. Menfolk who never seemed all that friendly. Mama didn't seem to like them either. Could hear her crying through the wall after Daddy took them into her. Came back and sat at the table, only ducking back in if the hollering got too loud. Her mama, not the men. Didn't care how much noise they made, strange noises too like they were pretending to be animals. Maybe to entertain mama. She liked animals. Cuddled the chickens when they collected the eggs. Held them like babies.

But mama didn't like the animal impersonations by the men. They made her cry. Then the men would come back out, hand her Daddy money. Daddy said it was because they felt sorry for mama. Felt sorry for Daddy having to take care of her. Doris didn't argue because her Daddy was no fool and the money kept them fed. Bought them the hens that mama liked to cuddle, hens that gave them the eggs her mama overcooked and tasted so awful. Unlike the ones Doris has made.

They taste so good, it almost comforts her from the fact she's lost everything else. They’re the best thing she’s ever eaten beside that lemon candy.

Chapter Text

Looking back Doris supposes it was because she was so hungry. Anything would have tasted like heaven, even overcooked eggs and sour candy.

"That's nothing," Charlie scoffs at her answer, "A little discomfort. Not even enough to make you truly desperate."

He sets the moonshine down on the basin, leans against it with his arms crossed.

"You know the only reason Luda Mae found Tommy was 'cause she was looking in that bin for scraps? That's the kind of shit you resort to. My mama understands what it's like to starve. Monty too, but especially mama. That woman'd go hungry if it meant everyone else in family got to eat. That's the kind of woman she is."

His voice goes a little soft and Doris is almost moved, despite everything. Because Charlie seems to genuinely care for his kin, his mama and Tommy at least, even though his methods are despicable. His expression hardens, resolute.

"But I ain't letting her go hungry. This family is done with being hungry."

"Surely e-eatin' people isn't the answer."

"Hippies, hitchhikers n' bikers," Charlie says derisively, "You think anyone's gonna miss 'em? They're a stain on society. Do everyone a favour. Mark my words dumplin'. Get you hungry enough you'll see. You'll see I'm right. Just have to get you there."

He strides over to the tub, lets those ominous words sink in as he turns the tap on. The pipes creak. A trickle of brownish water turns into a steady stream. Charlie splashes a handful over his face and neck. Probably to cool himself after several hits of moonshine. 

Her eyes stray to the jar he's abandoned on the sink. Could she lunge and throw it at his head while he splashed his face? 

"Don't even think about it."

Charlie's comment makes her tense. He's not even looking at her but its like he's read her mind. He turns off the tap.

"You ain't getting outta this honey. Best get that through that lil brain of yours."

He turns, straightening to his full height, face hard and eerie in the lamplight.

"Any smart ideas you think you have, they're actually real dumb. They're dumb because there ain't a single move you can pull I ain't thought of first. I'm two steps ahead of you. I'll always be two steps ahead. You can't beat me. I'm a soldier. Sergeant fucking major. I'm the law. I'm your husband."

The last word echoes harshly off the walls as he storms over and grabs her face, squeezes it so roughly with both hands it feels like her head will pop.

"You're my wife," he says gutturally, "Say it."

"I-I'm your wife," Doris wheezes. 

"That's right," he drags her up off the toilet seat, "I own your ass."

He grabs it in emphasis, drags her closer. So close she feels the outline of his cock twitch against her belly.

"Now you kiss me like you ain't frigid," he orders, face looming close, the ethanol on his breath almost dizzying, "'Cause I sure as shit know you're not."

His mouth quirks.

"I smelt your pussy on my gun. That weren't the smell of a frigid girl. That was a whore's stink," the words send an electric jolt through her body, "You was dripping with it. Think you mighta actually wanted me to shove that barrel up your cooze."

Doris whimpers, tries to shake her head. 

"No."

"No?" his hand suddenly clenches her windpipe and she jerks, "Think I can't work out your nature, huh, how well you sucked my dick? Knew to squeeze my nuts when you only did it once before. Makes you either a natural or a liar."

Doris' eyes bulge as he exerts more pressure.

"Lucky for you I believe the only dick you sucked was that asshole Jessup," he loosens his grip, enough for her to suck in breath, "Saw the look on your face. Once bitten, twice shy with that shit weren't you. Didn't even stray to get yourself knocked up. Lesser woman woulda done that but not you. Baby wasn't worth damning yourself. That's admirable honey. Virtuous whore is hard to find."

"'M not a w-...." Doris stammers tearfully, fists clenching, "I'ma g-good wife."

Had impure thoughts and self-pleasured but it's unfair of him to call her a whore. She's not a whore!

"Oh I know, honey," he croons, "Put up with a lot, Winnie blowing all his useless loads over whores' pictures rather than giving you any at home. Only bothered to screw you once this month."

He pulls a pitying face as he massages her bruised flesh of her neck.

"Just been dying for some attention, haven't you pussycat. Well, now you got it," his expression sharpens into something predatory, "Got alll Hoyt's attention. You can be a whore for me honey, me and only me."

A shudder rolls over her body.

"Well," he says darkly, "Still waiting on that kiss."

Doris fights down a wave of nausea.

Just close your eyes and kiss him, she tells herself. Pretend he's Brando or Beatty or the man from her magazine. But even with her eyes closed she can tells its Charlie by his breath as she blindly leans forward, brushes his lips with hers, meekly flicks her tongue out. Hears him moan as he allows her entry. Soon as he does his tongue snakes around hers, like a python curling around a smaller one, choking it for dominance, Doris submitting, unable to retreat, Charlie's grabbed the back of her head. He'll decide when they'll come up for air.

Doris can only endure it. 

The man in the magazine probably would kiss her like Charlie's doing. Try to choke her with his tongue, dominate her. She feels a flush of heat ripple over her and she tries to blame that big gulp of moonshine coursing through her blood stream. She didn't drink often and that stuff was potent. She's surprised Charlie isn't slurring and stumbling.

Instead he's kissing her with a disgusting passion that she tries to match, knowing he'll know if she doesn't. At least she has practice with Winnie. His amorous kisses in the bed always felt clumsy and slobbery. Moustache only made it worse, scratched her. Like kissing a wet broom, made her only want it to be over. 

Never kiss that wet broom mouth again, she thinks. Eaten him. She's relieved when Charlie breaks the kiss, both of them panting.

"Wooee, you sure can kiss good."

There's something in his demeanour that's changed. He sounds the way he did after climaxing earlier, like an giddy teenager. He cups her face, smiling at her all flushed.

"You know I can't stop thinking about my dick in your mouth," he babbles, "You squeezing my nuts. Never had a girl do that. Felt so good. Want you to do it again. So much I wanna do to you."

Doris' breath hitches as his hand delves between her legs, cups the heat there. Rubs her pussy over her skirt and Doris whimpers, the rough stimulation making her recoil and pang, like her body's at war with itself. Even worse is the hideously affectionate way Charlie's kissing her cheek, nuzzling his nose into her skin. 

"I reaallly want to try this pussy," he whines almost childishly, "Ain't fair I gotta wait. Why'd you have to screw Winnie One Ball? Couldn't wait for me to turn up? Swear to God, I'll be so pissed if he did knock you up. I'll throw you down the stairs to get rid of it..."

The imagery makes Doris seize with terror, almost forgetting the fingers probing between her legs.

"Or get my aunty to make you some special tea," Charlie groans in her ear, his erection bearing down on her hip, "That's probably more of a guarantee to work. Woman knows her tea."

"No," Doris whispers.

Can't abort her baby. 

"No?" Charlie breathes like a bull against her neck, "I'll do whatever the fuck I want dumplin'. Ain't as charitable as my mama raising Tommy. Anyway why are you worried? Odds sound slim to none from what you told me."

Doris makes a feeble noise in assent. There was probably no life growing inside her. Be a miracle if there was. But that made the idea of Charlie forcing her to kill it even worse. Killing her miracle.

Then again Charlie was the evilest brand of monster she'd ever met. Man who feasted on his fellow soldiers just to keep his hunger at bay. Fed his own family human flesh, convinced them it was their only option other than starving. Why would a man like that have any qualms about killing an unborn child? 

"Gotta be prepared though," Charlie goes on, sounding annoyed, "Thats what you learn as a soldier, prepare for the worst n' hope it don't fucking happen."

He resumes thrusting his hand between her legs.

"Just want you to bleed so we can move on with our lives n' I can fuck this pussy," he nestles his head in the grove of her neck, an act thats far too intimate for the filth he's saying, "You ain't gonna be able to walk after, just gonna lay in bed so I can keep filling you up with cum. Like the sound of that, baby?"

A whimper escapes Doris' lips, one not of pure fear either. She's glad that Charlie seems too caught up in his own fantasy to notice.

"Even bind your legs so you can close 'em," he keeps rubbing between her legs, the friction rough and scorching, "Keep 'em spread wide open so I use you whenever I want," he trails off with a shudder, "Fuck, getting me riled up thinking about it. Don't think I can wait 'til after you bleed. Wanna bust this so bad."

One finger drives up into her clothed core, illicits another whimper. Imagines that same finger plunging up into her if the layers of the fabric were ripped away. Charlie twists his finger, hums impatiently as she squirms.

"Maybe I could get a rubber?"

He makes a growl of indecision in her ear.

"Kind of against it though. Having to wear a rubber to fuck my wife the first time. Maybe I'll pull out and cum over your face."

Doris breathes tensely as she feels him smile against her cheek.

"Or shoot it up your ass. You got such a nice plump ass."

He reaches around to squeeze the flesh with a moan,

"I wanna fuck this too. Virgin ass. Wanna break it in."

Doris has unwanted flashes of that magazine as Charlie's bulge grinds into her hip.

"Choices, choices," he sighs.

She finds herself spun around, Charlie bending her over the toilet, her hands shooting out to brace herself as he presses up hard against her backside. Hears his heavy breath, way it hitches with excitement. 

"How about we just see what happens once my dick's out huh?" She hears him unbuckle his belt, body pulsing with fear, "See where we end up."

She attempts to squirm but Charlie's larger body has caged her. His hand claws her skirt, wrenches it over her back and his erection hits the fabric of her panties with a lewd slap, rubbing against the cotton before Charlie peels it back to expose the flesh of her ass cheek, ruts against it, groaning as his cock dribbles streaks of precum over her skin. He snaps the fabric back into place, trapping his cock against her ass while he continues to rut, sandwiched between flesh and cotton. Hears him whine and huff like a dog. It mingles with a sob and Doris realizes it's her. She's sobbing. 

She's running hot and cold, the clamminess of fear and revulsion at odds with the heat in her belly coiling in her belly, pulsing between her legs, too close to where Charlie's degrading her. This was rape. She shouldn't be wet. 

Whore. Natural whore. That's why she touched herself to that magazine. Why she's responding to Charlie's assault in this way. There's something wrong with her. Very wrong. He's a cannibal.

She's a cannibal. 

She cries harder, feels an arm wrap around her chest, arch her backwards until she hears Charlie's groaning breath in her ear. 

"Yeah you cry," he moans into her neck, kneading her breast roughly as he draws his hips back, his dick slipping from the cocoon of her panties, leaving a wet patch in his wake, "You cry honey..." his cock probes at her covered asshole, her spincter clenching at the idea of him splitting her there. Even worse is the idea of him discovering the shameful wetness pooling at her other hole, she can feel the tip of his dick trailing down the crevass of her ass towards it, Charlie mid-soliloquy, fingers hooking the waistband of her panties, "S'pretty when you cry, sweetness, gonna fucking ruin you..."

The door suddenly swings open, startling them both. Doris blinks through wet lashes to make out Mrs. Hewitt standing there taciturnly with a tea kettle. Charlie's hands and cock swiftly vanish.

"Jesus mama," he hisses as he struggles to hitch his pants back up, "You couldn't knock?"

Doris throws her skirt back down, feeling Charlie's precum sticking to the fabric. Wipes her damp cheeks as Mrs. Hewitt bustles past with the kettle.

“Want hot water or not?” she grumbles.

She pours it into the bath in a cloud of steam. Her glasses are misty with condensation as she faces them. 

"Think the sight of your pecker is gonna scare me? Woman who changed your diapers? Been looking at it since it was the size of a thimble."

"Mama!" Charlie hisses, his face red as he relatches his belt buckle. 

There's a faint hint of a smile on Mrs. Hewitt's face as she cleans the mist off her spectacles. 

"You was always playing with it too. Thought the good Lord was gonna strike you blind amount of times I caught you with your hand down your pants."

"Mama!" Charlie hisses again, glancing at Doris, "I did not - you're thinking of Zeke!"

"That boy was always stuffing little critters down his britches," Mrs. Hewitt pulls a face as she pops her spectacles back on, "Suppose I should be glad you stuck with your hand."

"Mama!" Charlie stomps his foot childishly, "Enough alright. You're embarrassing me."

"Embarrassing you? Ha. Ain't nothing but the truth. Anyway you got no reason to be upset. In here getting up to mischief. This is a communal area you know."

Her faint smile is gone, replaced by something a lot more formidable.

"Got a bedroom. Don't have to treat the rest of house like some kind of bordello. You hear me Hoyt?"

"Yes. Yes, I hear you," Charlie grumbles.

Mrs. Hewitt eyes the jar of moonshine.

"You're giving her liquor?" she says reproachfully.

"Best remedy for pain," Charlie pouts at her arched brow, "Don't gimme that. We're two grown adults."

Mrs. Hewitt snorts,

"Yeah two grown adults pretending to be married."

Charlie scowls at her as he drags Doris over to the tub. 

"Well, like to get back to it if you don't mind."

His hands slip to Doris' chest, her heart hammering as he starts unbuttoning her dress. 

"I need to talk to you," Mrs. Hewitt says, ignoring Doris' squirms of distress, "In private."

Charlie grumbles. 

"Later," he says through gritted teeth, his fingers fumbling with the buttons as Doris keeps struggling, "God damn it, stop..."

"Now," Mrs. Hewitt says.

Charlie snarls.

"Quit that shit!" he slaps Doris' face. She freezes, pain blooming over her cheek, "Can't bathe in your clothes, can you, you dumb b..."

"Hoyt!" Mrs. Hewitt snaps.

Charlie groans. 

"I'm busy!" he growls, popping the remaining buttons as Doris weeps silently, "Can't you see I'm busy!"

He grabs Doris' skirt, starts working it upwards.

"Boy should always have time for his mama."

Charlie pauses with Doris' skirt halfway up, exposing her legs and panties. Looks at his mother with a sigh.

"Won't take long," Mrs. Hewitt says.

Charlie sighs again. 

"Okay," then he rips Doris' dress over her head in one savage movement, Doris feeling the stuffy air of bathroom prickling her bare flesh as she stands there in her undergarments. Blearily catches glimpse of Charlie's lecherous expression as his eyes sweep over her, her body pulsing with shame. Fear. She tries to cover herself with her arms only for Charlie to grab her wrist.

Ignores her squawk as he loops his handcuffs around the tap and cuffs her wrists to it, Doris cowering against the outside of the tub as he leers over her. 

"You wait here dumplin'," he gives her a mean smile, eyes flickering down to her body spread under him, licks his lips, "I'll be right back."

He joins his mother at the door. She closes it behind them with barely a glance in Doris' direction. Doris lets out a sob, jiggling on the cuffs, the tub hard and uncomfortable against her back, kicks her legs futilely. 

Listens to Charlie's muffled voice outside saying,

"Okay mama, what's so important you had to interupt my honeymo..."

There's a sharp sound of a slap.

"Ow!" Charlie's voice is half whine, half growl, "What was that..."

"Don't you ever - ever pull something like that again!"

"Talking about the bathroom or supper?"

"Supper!" Mrs. Hewitt hisses, "Boy, I am your mother. You don't keep me in the dark. You ain't eight, sneaking bugs into Monty's food 'cause you thought it was funny. This was a murdered man you served us!"

"Still ate it," Charlie says defensively.

"Don't matter if I did. It's the principal. You're the head of this family, Hoyt, I respect n' honour that. But I'll be damned if you're gonna make decisions without running 'em by me. I taught you better than that!"

There's a whap of fabric like she's hitting his arm.

"Mama, stop..."

"The hell were you thinking involving poor Tommy. Thought the best thing for him after a killing a man was getting him to butcher another? Have him keep it from me. I've already had strong words with him and you know I hate doing that. Has it tough enough as it but I won't have him lying to me. Neither of you should be lying to your mother!"

More rustling fabric, the sound of Mrs. Hewitt's exertions. 

"Alright, alright, I get you!" Charlie's voice cuts over it all, "Quit whacking me!"

"Watch your tone," Mrs. Hewitt growls, "Be truthful now, how did you even start partaking in this sort of thing?"

There's a hint of tension in her voice. Her son, the secret cannibal. Mothers were supposed to know their boys. 

Charlie sighs,

"Well gee mama, didn't you ever wonder how I came home looking so well-fed? I was a prisoner of war for Christ's sake."

Luda Mae is quiet.

"Thought... Thought they fattened you up before they shipped you home," there's a hesitance to her voice like she never truly believed it.

"Nope. In fact they were suspicious. Had to tell 'em I survived on a big stockpile of rice. Had no choice but to buy it." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mrs. Hewitt sounds a mite hurt.

“Wasn't real sure how you'd accept it,” Charlie’s voice is soft and awkward, Doris isn’t sure if he’s putting it on.

Seems to work on Mrs. Hewitt.

“Oh Junior - Hoyt, sorry, I know it's Hoyt now - you know I'd accept you no matter what. You're my first born.”

"Did - did you like the recipe?" Charlie's voice is boyish, eager.

“Room for improvement but my, it was tasty,” there’s a mischievous brightness to her voice that makes Doris’ stomach curdle, “Like nothing I ever expected.”

“So you think I'm onto something?”

“Well… I suppose it beats starving.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Charlie enthuses, “Be so easy too, mama. Those freeloading hippies and bikers stop by the store all the time. We can pick which one we want and I’ll foller them in my cruiser. Arrest ‘em on some bullshit charge and bring ‘em home for Tommy to butcher. Don’t even have to worry about their vehicle since Uncle Monty can collect it. They’ll vanish without a trace. Not that anyone’ll come looking for scum like them. Big fat biker’ll keep us fed us for weeks. What do you say?”

“I guess we could at least give it a shot. As long as we do things careful. There’s too much at stake if we don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie sounds impatient, “No need to worry mama. Operation Supper is gonna so smooth you’ll wonder why we didn’t do it sooner.”

“Operation Supper?”

“It’s a work in progress. Guess the name doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re gonna be up to our eyeballs in fresh meat.”

“Let’s hope,” Mrs. Hewitt sounds less assured than Charlie, “One more thing.”

Charlie groans.

“Yeah?”

“That woman in there,” Doris tenses at her mention, “I don't care what you do in private. You're a grown man, that's your business. But not in front of Tommy. He got a child's mind. Won't know what to make of it."

Charlie huffs,

"Killed a man today. 'Bout time he learnt the nature between a man and a woman. In fact he probably knows. Swear he used to spy on me and... Ow!"

"Your brother ain't a peeper!" Mrs. Hewitt growls, "He's a sweet boy. Heed your mama. Not in front of Tommy. In fact keep her away from him altogether. Face is plain as mud but she's got a way with words. Sweet talked Tommy into forgiving her earlier."

"Ah, mighta had a hand in that," Charlie's voice is sheepish, "Told him it would really please me if he accepted her. Aw don't give me that look. Man has needs you know. I like her."

"You only met her a few hours ago!"

"You know I got a romantic soul. Been a spell since Annie. Can't tell me Dottie ain't a better fit than her ungrateful ass. Showed a bit of fire earlier but she ended up doing what she was told. She's docile."

"That girl ain't docile," Mrs. Hewitt hisses, "She's cunning. Waving to Tommy at supper like they're best friends."

"You're sore at her being friendly to him?" Charlie sounds amused, "Mama ain't that what you wanted? Folks like her to treat him nice?"

"Not if they've got the wrong intentions. I don't want his heart broken. Yours either for that matter."

Charlie chuckles, 

"Aw mama I don't have a heart."

"Yes you do," Mrs. Hewitt says fiercely, "You're a good boy who does right by his family and loves his mama."

“I do love you,” Charlie actually sounds sincere.

"All I'm saying is be wary of her,” Mrs. Hewitt’s voice is soft but still gruff, “I know a tricky woman when I see her."

"Takes one to know one I guess."

"Don't give me cheek! Just don't let her wrap you around her finger is all."

"Mama that ain't happening," Charlie says a tad petulantly, "I'm the boss and she knows it."

Mrs. Hewitt huffs,

"That why you're letting her have a nice hot bath while the rest of us clean up?"

"I'm just trying to settle her in," Charlie argues, "I'm aiming this to be a permanent thing."

"Think that's what she wants?" Mrs. Hewitt challenges.

"Don't matter what she wants. It's what I want.”

Mrs. Hewitt sighs.

"You're just like your daddy."

"You loved daddy," Charlie says.

Mrs. Hewitt doesn't answer.

"Don't say I didn't warn you.”

There's the sound of her footsteps bustling away. The sound of Charlie's sigh. Doris stiffens as the door swings back open, looks down like she hasn't been eavesdropping.

Charlie sighs again as he leans against the door. Doris' gaze swings to him nervously. He shakes his head at her.

"Mama don't like you."

Chapter Text

Doris gulps only for Charlie smile.

"Don't fret. You could be a genuine angel from Heaven n' she'd still find something to fault you for. For what it's worth she hated Jed's mama more, and Jed's mama never broke great grandma Esther's bowl. We'll just keep at it, she'll accept you eventually."

He saunters over, Doris jerking in the cuffs at his approach. Whimpers as he kicks her legs apart, drops to her eye level on his haunches. Grabs her cheeks and smiles. 

"Me, I'm pretty smitten," he actually sounds genuine which is even more horrifying, "My opinion is the most important wouldn't you say."

Doris fights back tears.

"Yes sheriff," she forces out, body taunt with fear and hatred. 

Charlie digs his fingers into her face,

"I'm reeal glad you've gone back to being polite. Suits you better."

He uncuffs her from the faucet. Doris lowers her aching arms, rubs her wrists as Charlie holsters the handcuffs.

"Trusting you'll behave not to need these," he says, "Prove me wrong I'll bring this out to play."

He pats his baton. 

"This'll break your nose, goddamn guarantee."

Doris swallows hard. Nods.

"Glad you understand," Charlie coos, "Now you take off that bra."

Doris looks at him stricken. 

"Do it!" he growls, "That shit's more fiddly than an engine. I ain't struggling. You take it off now!"

Tears spring into her eyes. But that only makes Charlie groan.

"That's it honey. Gimme a show."

Doris chokes back a sob. Reaches back with trembling fingers, gropes at the clasp. 

"See what did I tell you," Charlie says as she fumbles to unhook it, "Stupid invention. Hear those hippie gals is burning 'em. Probably only thing I'd agree with. Don’t need 'em. Especially tits like yours. Ain't like they need the support."

Doris feels the clasp give way, reaches to slip the straps off her shoulders, eyes blurred, body hot with humiliation. It twists in her gut as she lets the bra fall away. Feels the air hit her breasts. Charlie chuckles.

"You really do have little tits," his hands are on her in an instant and she squeaks, squirming backwards into the hard surface of the tub, "Gotta get a kid in you," he caresses them in tandem, hands rough and foreign, so unlike Winnie's and he only touched them under cover of darkness.

In the lamplight of the bathroom, she feels so exposed. Exposed and trapped.

"That'll blow 'em up. Feeding a babe," Charlie's voice is hideously hopeful, "Especially if there's two. That'd be alright. Two in one go. Twins run in the family."

His calloused palms grate over her stiffened nipples before they slide lower, making her start as they grasp her hips.

"Uh uh, don't start acting up now," he warns as she starts to buck and twist, "I'm your husband, this belongs to me."

Doris gasps as his hand thrusts between her legs, feels his fingers stroke the outline of her opening through her panties.

Charlie lets out a low chuckle.

"Well, well. This feels pretty damp to me honey n' it don't smell like you pissed yourself."

Doris flushes with shame. Grinds her teeth as Charlie's finger twists into the wet fabric like he's trying to puncture it. Squints at her excitedly.

"Let's see that pussy huh?"

He seizes hold of her waistband before she can properly react, wrenches her panties down to her ankles in one harsh movement. Doris feels air on her cunt and instinctively squeezes her thighs together.

"No need to be shy," Charlie croons, peeling the panties from around her feet and tossing them aside, "Like I just said, we're married."

They aren't married. Even if they were, Doris never flashed her cunt at Winnie. Never flashed it at anyone. It wasn't lady like. Wasn't Christianly. 

"Spread your fucking legs!" Charlie barks and she jolts, "Do you want the rod? I'll count to three. One. Two..."

He starts reaching back. Doris writhes with fear, forces her legs apart like they're a steel trap, her cunt fully exposed like some vulgar flower. And Charlie studies it like some perverse horticulturalist, forgets his baton and leans in.

"That's a preeeetty pussy, honey. Not sure why you're so bashful about it."

Doris feels herself burning up, unsure how to process the praise. Her nakedness. She's never been naked in full view of someone since she was a babe. This is much different to that. A woman's body is different to a baby's. A fact she's painfully aware given the way Charlie's ogling her. A certain part of her. Stares at it, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth, makes her experience a strange pang. 

She wants to squirm but she fights it. Doesn't want her body heaving in front of him. Instead she holds herself like she's a statue. Though she's not, her hammering heart can attest to that. Way it leaps into her throat when Charlie asks rather conversationally,

“Ever had a fella go down on you?”

He smiles at her stricken look,

“That a no? Winnie didn’t like getting his moustache wet? That’s a shame. Or maybe it’s a good thing. That dumb fuck probably struggled to find the right hole. How many times he accidentally poke you in the ass? Have to hold his hand like a kid, guide it in? Probably came too quick too. Over before you even felt it.”

“P-please…” she begs, not quite even sure what's she begging for. Him to stop talking filth or actually commit it. Show her what a tongue feels like down there. 

Susie had let Jesse Jackson do it to her in exchange for a hand job. Said it was felt a lil good sometimes but mostly slobbery and gross. But at least she knew and it wasn't like a boy's tongue could get you pregnant. Neither could fellatio but Susie wasn't about to let Jesse talk her into that. He was a farm boy. God knows where those boys stuck their cocks. Wasn't the kind of boy she wanted to get stuck with either. No matter how blonde and tanned he was. Susie had her sights set on a rich man. 

Jesse seemed to take it in his stride. Started seeing Mary Beth Taylor. Disappeared not long afterwards on his way back from the swimming hole. Body was never found. Consensus was he must have skipped town like so many others. Was slowly declining even back then. But Doris found that odd, why would a fella go swimming with his buddies and girlfriend then leave without telling a soul? Not even return home to pack his things. More likely he ran afoul of something. Someone. 

That swimming hole wasn't far from Hewitts' property. Hewitts enjoyed hunting. Charlie hunted. Maybe he chanced on him, killed and ate him. Or Tommy. Jesse had bullied him - not as relentlessly as Avery but if he saw him he'd treat him like a mangy dog. Hurled insults, sometimes stones until Tommy fled. What if Murphy wasn't Tommy's first victim at all?

She thinks of that patchwork of hides. Those lampshades made from skin. A shiver ripples over her body. What if...

What if...

She jolts as Charlie's palm fondles down her inner thigh, his tongue poking between his teeth.

“I’ll eat your pussy, dumplin’," the words make her shiver and clench, "Eat you out so good, you’ll want me to live down there," he gives her a leering squint, smiling out of the corner of his mouth, "But only if you’re a good little pussycat. Be good to Daddy."

Doris isn't sure why that makes her shiver either. He's not her daddy. Daddy wouldn't be caressing down her bare leg, eyes on her bare pussy. His fingers brush the folds, she jerks. No man's ever touched her there. Closest Winnie ever got was guiding his cock in. Charlie's finger press deeper, breaching through the lips of her sex, she feels the coarse pad at her entrance.

"Fuck you're leaking enough," he groans, "Told ya you ain't frigid. Tight lil hole though," Doris whimpers feeling him poking at it, "Let's see how you take me huh?"

Suddenly he's inside her, the abrupt entry leaving her stinging. She feels his finger pushing upwards and her whole body seems to crack around it like she's an egg, seems to tense and fall apart at once, feeling herself stretch to accomodate the intrusion, his finger like a thick knobbly stick.

"Gonna lemme do whatever I want?" the finger sinks deeper into her core, "Screw you any way I want, like a good little whore wife? Shit you're warm," he groans before she can answer - not sure she can form an answer, "Tight too, can feel you squeezin' me."

She is squeezing him. She can feel her muscles clenching around the invading digit. Feels it twists inside her and she jerks like a puppet, the sensation foreign but not overly painful. Still she's fearful of the unknown, fearful of pain. The fact she knows Charlie is aroused by blood and pain. Likely won't be content impaling her with his finger. She feels it draw back through her channel before it slams back inside with such force she chokes, his palm slapping against a spot that makes her pulse. She rides the tremor, hearing him groan as his finger claws deeper, palm flush against her, in such a way that if she ground her hips... 

She fights the instinct and keeps still, so still she can feel Charlie's finger rutting back and forward inside her, the movement experimental, like her pussy is some kind of perverse science project. His finger curls, hits some spongy place and she feels strange pleasurable pressure. Her breath hikes and her hips roll mechanically. Charlie stills, watching her intensely, his finger crooks again. She hears herself whine like a dog, feet scraping the floor. She didn't know there was a spot inside her like that. Never really looked. The idea of impaling herself always made her queasy, spot on the outside always did the trick. 

"You gonna answer me?" Charlie breathes in her ear.

There again, she thinks.

"Don't h-hurt me," she begs instead.

She jolts as Charlie wrenches his finger free, her pussy cycling down on nothing, the sensation leaving her strangely cold. Charlie straightens, expression ominous,

"That ain't a fucking answer," he growls, "One thing I don't like, folks what beat around the bush," he sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking at her essence, the sound making her shudder, "That and commies," he adds, studying his sucked finger, lips pursed, "Draft dodgers. Hippies. Bikers. Big city assholes. Any person what used to bully my nephew..."

He sighs.

"'Spose there's a lot of folks I don't like. But I ain't married to any of 'em. I'm married to you. I ask you a question, you answer it. Well?"

Doris stares at him in a panic. He'd gone off a tangent and her brain couldn't exactly...

"I'm s-sorry," her voice is so small and pathetic and cringing, "I d-don't remember wuh-what the question w-..."

"Girl, you're lucky you're flashing me those wet eyes and pussy!" Charlie barks, his voice vibrating through her body, feels it in her cunt, like the infernal thing likes the sound of Charlie yelling, the obsene way it slicks while her heart hammers, she almost squeezes her thighs closed but thinks better of it.

Only stares at Charlie with teary eyes. He seems to calm a little.

"Ain't that hard to pay attention," he grumbles.

But he doesn't repeat the question. Maybe he can't even remember. Instead he smirks.

"Or maybe it is."

His hand forms a fist, drags his knuckles along her slick entrance, makes her shudder. He chuckles,

"You're such a reactive filly, honey, way you keep twitching."

His fist nudges against her hole. Doris whimpers imagining him trying to force inside.

"W-won't f-fit," she pleads.

"What, my fist?" Charlie laughs as he exerts more pressure, "Yeah probably not. Not even sure how you'll take my dick, you're so tight. Almost believe you were a virgin. Maybe we could even pretend?"

Doris nods only to avoid punishment. Charlie's fist pulls away. Doris watches him lick it clean. Feels a clench of heat in her loins as his tongue lap over the grooves of his knuckles, something feline about it. Charlie's no house cat though, not even a stray one. He's a mountain lion in a dead sheriff's uniform. 

Even growls like one when she tries to furtively close her legs.

"I tell yer to shut your legs?"

"Nuh-," Doris begins.

"Think we're finished?" Charlie cuts over her, "Me fingering you like a school boy? Open 'em and keep 'em open. Otherwise I will try to jam my fist up there. Won't bother me. I'm a farm boy. Think I ain't never reached inside a mama goat to pull a kid? Be more fun getting up your insides."

Doris flinches at the image, widens her legs, feeling the air brush at her wetness. 

"Good move darlin'," Charlie croons. The feeling of his eyes on her cunt is almost like a physical sensation. The feeling of being devoured. Not just devoured but savoured. There's a horribly satisfied smile on his lips. 

He cocks his head, gaze lifting, 

"That cute lil stammer. Is it me or you always had it?"

Doris' mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Remembers Lottie berating her - spit it out girl, spit it out, Jesus Christ, which only made it worse. Same with trying to give her elocution lessons, thought she was qualified, former actress. Only thing that helped was Doris practising on the cats while she cleaned them. Whispered to them. They didn't bark when she slipped up. Just listened to her with their serene faces. B-b-bianca turned into Bianca. Thought of them when she was nervous so she didn't stammer so much. 

Still stammered a bit with Lottie, even when she was an adult, introduced Winnie to her the first time as D-Deputy H-hoyt. To which Lottie replied, "Well D-deputy H-hoyt, you gonna take this one off my hands are you?" Doris kept her mouth shut for the rest of the evening. Let Winston do the talking while her grandma chain smoked and sneered. "Don't have to convince me, boy. Lord knows she ain't getting any better offers. Neither are you by the look of you. Don't think she's coming with much of a dowry. This is mine, not hers." She held up her bejewelled fingers, had decked herself in every bit of jewellery she had for the occasion. Doris supposed she wanted to sparkle more than her plain stuttering granddaughter. 

"Don't care that harridan's money D," Winnie assured her afterwards, which was a lie because he was awful pissed when she only bequeathed them her cat figurines, "you're the only thing I want". Which made her melt and in that moment she loved him. Even overlooked the wet and sloppy way he kissed her good night. Man wanted her and just her.

Looking back she realizes there was fine print to that line. He wanted her for sex, her virginity specifically - would have walked around like a big man afterwards, oblivious to the fact she hadn't enjoyed it. Wanted a mother, someone to cook and clean and take care of him without much argument. Beyond that he didn't really care about the intricacies of her person, didn't care about what she liked or didn't. But that was most marriages. 

Marriages full of love and passion belonged in books and films. They were pretty illusions, like Lottie posing all doe-eyed and sweet with that Lucky Strikes poster. The reality was a woman who intimidated Doris so much she stammered. Like the man in front of her. There was no illusion of sweetness with him. 

"Um, I d-don't r-really..." she stammers in answer, the stammer worse because she's focused on the fact she's stammering, that coupled with the intensity of his proximity, her nakedness, "It's w-worse w-when..."

"You're scared?" he interupts in a jeering voice, "You scared a' me, Dottie?"

He hangs his head in mock melancholy,

"Well ain't that a kick in the teeth."

Bears his teeth at the last word like a dog flashing its fangs. 

"S-sorry," she blurts.

Charlie surprises with a full bellied laugh that grates on her ears,

"Sorry. That's funny, like a jack rabbit apologising to a hawk," he is a hawk, piercing eyes and swooping talons, his fingers dig into her cheek, "You should be scared of me, darlin'," he murmurs approvingly, "Can't respect something without fearin' it a little. That's what my Daddy used to say."

His daddy-great uncle. 

"Respected him. Ain't scared to admit I was afraid of him too. Even on his deathbed. He was pretty sick but he could still look at ya like he'd give you a thrashin'," a strange distant look crosses his face as he straightens to his full height, arms crossed almost defensively, "Yes sir, he was tough. Way a man oughta be. Wouldn't put a gun in his mouth, blow his brains out. That's for damn sure."

He gives her a knowing smirk. One that seems to say:

Yeah I remember your daddy. 

Doris supposes it makes sense. They would be the same age, if her daddy had lived. She wonders what Billy Sawyer would think about his little girl naked in front of Charlie Hewitt. Probably ask him for payment. The thought makes fresh tears prick at her eyes. 

Her daddy was no fool.

Or maybe he was. Her mama had been. What did that make her, daughter of two fools? 

She gasps as she feels Charlie's boot slips between her legs, the hard leather nudging up to wedge against her cunt.

"You like these boots?" he rocks his foot, the friction making her shiver, her slickness smearing over the top of his boot like a snail trail, "Ain't your husband's. Wrong size. Same with the wedding ring. Too small. Same with those commies. Most of 'em had tiny feet. Except for the head honcho, Chow. He was a big asshole. His were just the right size. Figured he didn't need 'em. Nice memento. He tasted the best outta all of them. Don't know if it was the extra joy of killing him or him being a big, fat hog."

Doris half-catches all this, he's still rubbing his boot into her cunt, long, slow rocks, her pussy snagging on his bottom of his laces, the bumps enhancing the friction. The combination of rough cord, metal eyelets and polished leather. Reminds her of the man in the magazine. 

Never saw his face but he wore big black boots. Something masculine about it, she supposes, authoritian. He never rubbed them over the girls' cunts but they were always in shot. One image in particular, a close up of one girl licking them with a heavy collar around her neck, is seared into her head. She wonders if Charlie will make her do that. Shove her face into the damp leather like she's a dog being scolded. 

The thought makes her shiver as that boot keeps rocking against her, carving sparks of heat, finds herself angling her hips so the laces brush the most sensitive part of her. Bites her lip to muffle her pleasure. Pleasure should be the furthest thing on her mind yet in the moment she's desperate for it to continue. Its like touching herself, gets lost in the pursuit. Feels good. It's nice to feel good. 

"Weren't really his boots," Charlie is mid-tangent but he doesn't break his stride, he's watching her on that boot of his, "Not in the beginning. Commies wore canvas boots even in winter. Woulda taken 'em off some poor GI. GI he woulda gobbled up. So really I repossessed 'em on behalf of the US military."

He grins, watching her eagle-eyed.

"You're liking this aren't you," his harsh voice is pulsing with excitement, in fact he looks like a kid at Christmas "Feels good, humping some dead commie's boot?"

"Your b-boots. S-sir."

The response tumbles out of her mouth and she's not quite sure where it came from. From her dark recesses of her imagination, what she fantasised saying to the Bondage man. 

Only she's blurting it at Charlie. 

"That's right darlin'," he moans, gleeful, "My boots. You like ridin' Daddy's boot, honey?"

He rocks his boot more vigorously, makes friction hot and chafing, painful yet somehow pleasurable. She pants and whines. Charlie's boot slows in his distraction.

"Jesus, you really are a deviant," he utters as she looks at him teary eyed with agony, "Lucked out with you didn't I. Look at me," he growls when she averts her eyes from his gloating face, "Don't you look away from me."

Doris' head snaps back up obediently. Charlie's leg has stilled, she straddles on his motionless boot, cold and unfulfilled. 

"Don't need me to do the work," he tells her, "Show me how good you ride."

Doris seems to obey without thought, grinds her hips to find a rhythm. The position makes her knees ache but the pleasure surmounts it. The thrill racing over her. Even Charlie unbuckling his belt is thrilling. The rustling drop of his pants, the sight of his dick suddenly bobbing in front of her, red and turgid as he fists his hand over it.

"Aw honey," he says in a strained growl, "We're gonna have so much fun you n' me."

Yes, Doris thinks wildly as she rubs her cunt over his laces. Yes this is fun! This is the most excitement she's had in her life. She's a Bondage Babe. Charlie's the man. She's finally seeing his face. It's more weathered than she imagined - more John Wayne than Brando but there's something compelling about it. Maybe it's the legitimacy of his dangerousness. He is a bad man. He's not faking a thing. 

"I was gonna fuck one of your pretty holes. But why the rush huh? Got the rest of our lives. Til death do us part n' all that. Rather mark you."

Doris' rhythm falters. Charlie grins, all teeth and flushed cheeks,

"Relax not gonna piss on you," he grips her chin, fisting his erection, "Ain't a commie heathen. Rather see you painted with my cum."

Doris quivers, regaining her momentum. Feels the spark in her lower belly ignite into all consuming heat. The intensity actually makes her latch onto Charlie's leg for purchase as she grinds down onto his wet boot, his cock thrusting through his fist close to her cheek. Doesn't manoeuvre it to her lips like she expects. Maybe he wants to keep all the control, remembers how easily she wrestled it from him earlier by squeezing his scrotum. 

"Who's the boss, honey?" his words confirm it.

"You," she whines, not voice even sounding like her own, it's breathy static.

Charlie's hand slips from her chin into her hair, wrenches it.

"You who, private pussycat," he barks lowly, addressing her like she's a soldier, a subordinate. Excitement cracks down her spine like a whip, heat pooling in her lower belly. 

"You, s-sir, S-sa-sergeant," she stammers, the response illiciting a pleased groan.

She keeps rocking and rocking, her legs burning but she ignores it, stuck on her single-mindes pursuit, she's close, very close, it's coiling inside her,a tightly wound spring about to snap.

"Yeah, thats me," Charlie's authoritative voice pushes her a little farther, "Now tell me who ain't the boss?"

"Meee," she sobs, "Ohh! Please!"

"Please what?" Charlie growls.

Like he doesn't know she's close to climaxing. 

"Nee' tuh," she babbles, desperate for him to give the order - he's supposed to give the order,  "Pleee..!"

"Calm down!" Charlie snaps, his own movement on his cock faltering, "Can't understand what the fuck you're..."

Doris sobs in both frustration and the imminence of her climax. 

"TellmeeIcan!" 

"Damn it, yes, fine!" Charlie says impatiently, "Just quit your fucking babbling. Trying to jack off on you n' you're carrying on like a crazy..."

Doris blacks him out - he's given her what she wants - loses herself to the building eruption. She angles her hips down, seats herself hard up against his boot to grind into that sweet spot, way she does with her finger.

Her orgasm hits her in an explosion of white. It's more intense than one this morning. It keeps rippling and rippling over her body. She clings to Charlie's, riding the coat tails of her climax. Sobbing into the muscle of his thigh, his leg hair scratching her wet face. Then goes limp, her legs like jelly.

"Jesus," Charlie sounds shocked, his movement on his cock halting, "Did you..." Doris groans as he draws back his boot like he's curious about the physical traces of her climax. Grunts when he sees only wetness, "Yeah I thought so," he huffs, affecting a knowing sort of voice - cat's out of the bag though, makes sense he wouldn't have experience with the female orgasm. He clicks his tongue, "Whats the big idea private? Don't respect the chain of command, get off before your commanding officer?"

"Gim' permission," she slurrs, still groggy from her release.

Charlie chuckles but there's a sharpness to it.

"'Spose I did. Let it slide for now. You look alive though," he wrenches her head up, Doris blinking wetness from her lashes, "We ain't finished."

Charlie resumes pumping his cock.

"Where were we huh?" 

"N'boss," her mouth actually twitches in a smile. Earns her a glare.

"That's right," Charlie growls, "Wipe that silly smile off your face. You think this is funny? Think my dick is funny?"

Doris almost laughs. Maybe it's the euphoria seeping through her body. But she quickly nips in the bud - dangerous idea to giggle - shakes her head.

"No sir," her stammer is gone. Maybe that's the euphoria too. She can feel it wearing off now, replaced by alertness. It's the look on Charlie's face, red from his exertion, almost demonic in his frenzy, teeth clenched, hand a blur, 

"Damn right its not. Don't you fucking forget it! You're my plaything. Cry more!"

He pinches her bruised nose, there's a spike of pain, fresh tears spring into her eyes. She cries out.

"That's it!" Charlie fists her hair again, "That's what your sergeant likes. Those pretty tears, shit you got no idea how you look, fucking crybaby. Now open your mouth, Daddy'll give you a reward."

Despite her throbbing nose, Doris' mouth snaps open dutifully, tongue on display. Sight's enough to tip Charlie over the edge because he groans "oh fuck!", face screwing up as he ejaculates, semen splattering into her mouth, some land on her lips and chin like hot spittle.

"Lick it up pussycat," Charlie pants, still wrenching her hair, cock softening in his fist, "Tell me what tastes better? This or supper?"

Doris licks her lips, straddling the damp, hard mound of Charlie's boot. Laps up the salty unpleasantness. Swallows it, the taste sticking to her throat. Tastes marginally worse than Winnie's stewed flesh she ate off the floor. 

"A-all of it," she lies, knowing this is the most diplomatic answer. Safest answer. Doesn't want more pain. Everything aches, her nose, her cunt. 

"Ha liar," Charlie's words make her tense, "Lucky that's the right answer."

He strokes her head. Like she's a dog but there's something horribly comforting about it. The approval. Monster's approval.

Devil's. Charlie's some kind of devil and she's not slipping so much into damnation as plummeting. Plummeting into a deep abyss of sin. Swallowed whole. Strange thing is she's never felt so alive. She feels it in every sinew in her body despite the drain of climax. Her heart is still thundering as Charlie keeps stroking her hair, fiddles with the dishevelled strands. Smoothes them somewhat fussily. 

"Mama's right," he murmurs, "You are smart."

Even that makes her feel strangely warm. Not one ever called her smart... 

His fingers clench her head in warning.

"But I'm smarter. That's why I'm..."

"Boss," she blurts pre-emptively. 

She's quickly learning to equate submission with survival. Charlie likes being in control. The only person he seems to defer to is his mother. Regresses back into a child. But with everyone else, he's boss. Likes any validation of the fact. He eases his grip. Pats her head again.

"That's right dumplin'," he cooes as he tucks his cock away and hitches his pants, "Now you're getting it."

Doris finds herself scooped off the floor, only tensing instead of flailing as Charlie cradles her to his chest, letting her feel the the power in his arms - he's not as strong as Tommy but he'd be stronger than most men his age. Stronger than a lot of younger men too. Holds her in his arms like a child. Not that she remembers being held as a child. Her mama always nursed those chickens instead of her. Maybe when she was the smaller and the size of a chicken. But her memory doesn't go back that long. Even if mama had cuddled her, she wouldn't grope her ass the way Charlie's doing before he shuffles forward, deposits her down into the bath, 

“You enjoy your bath, honey," the water sloshes as she sinks down into it, the temperature lukewarm. Charlie perches on the edge, leaning close as he strokes her hair again, "You're a good girl," he praises lowly, "Good woman. Love you honey."

He presses a kiss to her head. Nuzzles his mouth into her scalp. The sudden affection takes her aback. 

"Love you," she forces out.

"Aw shucks," Charlie smirks, "Clean your face, baby."

There's a patronising note to the last word. He throws her a worn washcloth. Doris clenches it, tentatively reaching for a wad of nearby soap. Lathers her face trying not to think that the soap and wash cloth are likely shared between three men. Two if Tommy never bathed. Smelt like he didn't. The muck on his body would probably turn the soap black. She gingerly cleans the blood around her nose, rubs her legs and feels the tenderness of her cunt under the water. Stares at the dark smudge her blood leaves on the wash cloth. 

Meanwhile Charlie has sunk down on the toliet seat. Takes another slug of moonshine, licks his lips and sighs. Looks down at his feet, smirks at the damp stain on his right boot. Pulls out his handkerchief and scrubs at it. Then raises the handkerchief to his face and inhales, Doris' stomach churning. 

She can't believe she did that. Rubbed against his boot for release, climaxed. Boot belonging to a poor cannibalised GI, worn by a cannibal GI. Same cannibal GI who jerked off in her face and came in her mouth like she was some kind of whore. She is some kind of whore. A cannibal to boot.

She woke up this morning a bored but godly housewife and in the span of a day become a widowed cannibal harlot. A lot of it isn't her fault but some of it...

She screws her eyes shut, the washcloth falling through her hands as she presses them together, starts praying fervently for forgiveness, her mouth shaping silent entreaties. 

"What are you doing over there?" Charlie asks sharply.

She forces her eyes open.

"P-praying."

"I know dummy, for what? Divine intervention?"

"F-forgiveness," she croaks.

Charlie seems a little taken aback. He scrunches the handkerchief in his hands a moment and huffs.

"You don't have to ask for forgiveness. You didn't do nothing wrong. You kill a man today?"

Doris winces. 

"Ate him," she whispers.

Him. Winnie. Can't even say his name. Dead husband's name. 

"Because your husband told you to," Charlie fishes out a tin of chewing tobacco, "Ephesians remember?"

He shoves a wad of tobacco in his mouth, pushes it to the side of his cheek. 

"Don't worry about God, honey. Reckon you're square."

Has that preacher authority in his voice from earlier. Only he's not a preacher. He's far from being a man of God. 

He goes to pocket the tin then pauses,

"Want some?" he holds it out in offering, "Know you don't smoke but it'll relax ya."

Doris stares at him, taken aback by his offer. Winnie never offered her cigarette. Or his beer. A piece of his candy bar if he came home munching on one. Winnie never shared what was his. Never cared if she relaxed. 

"Well?" Charlie snaps at her silence. Water sloshes as the harsh octave makes her flail. She shakes her head rapidly.

"N-no, thank you. Sir."

Can't see how chewing tobacco can be any more pleasant than smoking it. Charlie grumbles in response, makes her worry she's offended him.

"Suit yourself," he sighs as he pockets it, "'Spose I shouldn't be tryin' to give you a bad habit. Mama'd complain too."

He launches into an impersonation of Luda Mae, 

"'Why you lettin' her chew that, looks even more like a heifer'. I know my mama. Gotta get her on our side if you're gonna stay."

He chuckles at her tense expression. She's still smarting at a little at the heifer comment. Charlie might have been impersonating Luda Mae but he'd still come up with it. 

"Don't look so worried," he croons, "She's not unreasonable... I mean she is unreasonable - she's stubborn as hell - but it's only 'cause she loves us. Me n' Tommy. We're her boys. Wants the best for us. You just gotta prove yourself. You're gonna try real hard, aren't you?

There's a hint of threat in the line.

"Y-yes sir."

She's not sure how she can win the old woman over. Even being friendly to Tommy seemed to have backfired, made her suspicious. She even seemed to think Doris was capable of manipulating Charlie, which seemed incredulous to Doris. Charlie was controlling her, not the other way around. 

"Hoyt," he says.

She looks at him confused.

"You can call me Hoyt," he elaborates impatiently, "Don't have to call me sir n' sheriff all the time."

He looks kind of irritated, like he's having second thoughts. Has to reconvince himself.

"Don't get me wrong, its respectful n' I like it. Sergeant too. Really got my motor running, that one," he makes a pleased sound in his throat, eyes glazed with the memory, "Really liked playing soldiers with you."

He comes out of his reverie, clears his throat.

"But that's just between us. In front of mama n' that, you can call me Hoyt. Ain't Charlie no more. Damn sure ain't going by Winston. Winston's a jackass name. Winnie too. That's the sound a horse makes. Might be a stallion but I ain't having a nickname like that. Hoyt's good, passes as a first or last name," he nods, decided, "Call me Hoyt, okay Dottie?"

"H-hoyt," Doris complies. 

"Good girl," he rises off the toliet to spit in the sink, "You know I never really liked Charlie. 'Spose its 'cause I ain't the first. When ya named after someone, kinda feels like yer always in their shadow..."

He stares at his own reflection. Is he thinking about his daddy-great uncle. Man he claimed to admire but said the man used to kick him out of the house? He shakes his head like he's trying to unclog whatever thought is running through his mind.

"And don't get me started on Junior," Doris stiffens as he whirls to face her, "What kind of grown man likes being called Junior, make you feel like a lil kid over n' over."

Doris grows even more taut as he perches on the side of the tub. One big hand dips into the water to grope her breast.

"Nice to have a name of my own."

It's not your name. You stole it.

"S-suits you," she mumbles. 

Because it's better to lie. Stroke his ego. Especially when he's rolling her nipple between his finger, rolls it until it stiffens, pinches it while Doris rubs her thighs together restlessly, the sensation a blunt ache. Followed a sharper pain as he gives it a hard flick it, spraying droplets of water.

"Thanks sweetpea," his wholesome smile warps into something more devious, "I really think this whole arrangement is gonna suit us both. Long as you don't try anything stupid."

Chapter Text

It's hard to surprise a man like Charlie. Correction, Hoyt - even has to remind himself! He's seen a lot in his several decades on Earth. Done a lot. Couldn't call him an innocent. Neither were the cousins he grew up with. Their shenanigans didn't startle him much. Tommy's, suppose you'd call it artistic side, that was the only thing that threw him for a loop. His creations. But he'd come to expect the obscene from him. Be more surprised if Tommy showed him a pretty painting of flowers. But Tommy had no interest in flowers. 

Unless it was strips of a flesh sewn into the shape of a flower. Charl - HOYT! Damn it! - wouldn't put it past Tommy to make something fucked up like that, hand it to Luda Mae on Mother's Day, flesh flowers on stems of rusty wire for her to coo over ("how creative, Tommy"), have her put it in a vase like it was a sweet-smelling bouquet. That wouldn't surprise him. No sir. 

His new wife, on the other hand.

His new lil wife humping his boot in her birthday suit until she climaxed, that had been a shock - in the nicest way possible. Hadn't exactly expected that would be the way things would go down. Only meant to terrorize her, sticking his foot there, make her cry. Well she had cried but she'd enjoyed it too. 

Enjoyed it so much she'd...

Charlie thought the female orgasm was some sort of myth. Knew it could feel good for 'em - not through personal experience but he'd heard things. Seen things. All those whores in the magazines seemed to enjoy being plowed, or they were at least faking it. 

But the mechanics of female climax was alien to him. Men it was simple, you shot your load out of your dick. Dottie's orgasm seemed internal. And she hadn't needed anything inside her to do it. Just outside friction. So maybe there was something on the outside that felt extra good when it was stimulated. 

Could ask Dottie but he doesn't want to seem ignorant. Make it seem like he doesn't know much about sex when he does - yes sir he does but only what pleased him. Never cared much about the woman involved. Mary-Ann never seemed to enjoy it. Cried and screamed. Which suited him fine. Her terror got him hard. Her pussy was bone dry but he used spit to get in there. Wouldn't need spit with Dottie. Her pussy was the wettest he'd ever seen. Left that wetness smeared all over his boot. 

Can only imagine how it would feel to sink his dick in something so wet and tight. Warm. He remembers how she felt clenching around his finger. Didn't miss the way her breath hitched and hips jumped either - when his finger hit something inside her that felt kinda spongy. There's something to that too, he makes a mental note.

Not that he's particularly obsessed with her pleasure. But it's interesting. 

Dottie is interesting. Which is funny, given her dull looks. Guess you can never judge a book by its cover. Clean cover now that she's washed all traces of his cum. Clean canvas for him to get dirty again. 

"Done?" he asks impatiently. 

Because he ain't sitting there watching his wife huddle in a tub all night. His booze is almost gone. He tucks what's left back in his hidey hole under the sink. It's not really a hidey hole. His mama would know about it. Like she knew every inch of the house because she's spent her whole life in it. The other two knew better than to touch his stuff. Tommy had no interest in booze anyway. Didn't seem to like it. Maybe he preferred animal blood for all Hoyt knew. His nephew was a strange kid. 

Dottie gives a furtive nod. Cringes a little when Hoyt holds up a towel. His towel. Knows not to offer his mama's one with little floral embellishment sewn on it. Doesn't want to push Luda Mae after their talk. 

"C'mon," he growls when Dottie continues to huddle, "Ain't got all night."

She rises clumsily, trying to shield her naked body as much as she can. Funny how she wasn't shy about it earlier when she was riding his boot. Hoyt hungrily watches the water drip off her body - it's such an exaggerated shape, tiny at the top then swells at her hips and ass, hips and ass he wants to dig his hands into, feel the meaty flesh there. It jiggled a lot when she fucked his boot, more than her tits.

Instead he offers her the privacy of the towel, watches her clutch it tightly around her. Even the towel can't hide out the way her hips jut out. Surely those kinds of hips are suited for babies. 

"No point dressing in your day clothes," he says when she starts shifting towards her cast off clothing.

He bundles her out into the hallway still clutching that towel. She peers around fearfully. Maybe it's Tommy she's looking for. Which is silly, even if Tommy was around, he never stood out in plain sight. He hid. Mama was deluded. That boy was a peeper. But it's more likely he's downstairs, wallowing. Wouldn't have liked mama scolding him. Took it to heart more than Hoyt did. Mama was right about one thing. He was a sensitive boy. 

But they aren't alone in the hallway. Uncle Monty's making his way towards them, a rolled up magazine under one arm and his bed clothes stuffed under the other. As soon as he sees them he looks like he'd rather run the other way. Hoyt presumes that has more to do with him. Not Dottie. Hoyt doesn't miss how his uncle's eyes jump to her standing there in a towel. 

"Come to splash 'round in my wife's bathwater, Uncle Monty?" he croons dangerously.

His uncle's gaze jerks around the hall - everywhere but at Dottie. 

"No point wastin' it," he mumbles.

Hoyt clears his throat meaningfully.

"Sheriff," he stammers then attempts to shuffle past, "Ya'll have a nice night."

The words are rushed and Hoyt notices the way he's angling his body, like he's trying to shield the magazine rolled under his arm. Hide it.

"What you got there?"

Watches his uncle jump.

"N-nothin'," he brays, practically lunging for the doorway, "Jest bit o' readin'. Sheriff. Night. Good night."

He slams the door shut and Hoyt listens to him fumble with the lock. He glances at Dottie, standing miserably in the hallway clutching her towel. Shakes his head.

"Readin'," he scoffs, "I know what kinda reading, you horny ol' coot."

He bangs on the door,

"Hey! Don't leave a goddamn mess in there. This is a communal bathroom! Hear me?"

He keeps banging on the door, imagining the frustrated look on his uncle's face.

"Yes!" Comes a strangled reply, "Sheriff! I hear you!"

Hoyt smirks. 

"Don't touch my hooch!" he adds for good measure, "I remember how much is in that bottle."

Which is something his daddy used to yell at his grandpa. Only his grandpa never cared much for his daddy's threats. Would drink his moonshine then piss in the jar, leave it for his daddy to find. Laugh in his smoker's voice when Daddy found it and started hollering. Wait for him to storm out to confront him.

"You finish in my girl, I finish in your bottle."

Took Hoyt a while to realize he was referring to Luda Mae.

To which his daddy would retort:

"You finished in her mama."

Meaning Hoyt's grandmother, Clara, who happened to their cousin. Hoyt never met her. She'd died not long after having her last kid who was Monty. 

But apparently her marriage to Hoyt's grandpa was some source of friction. Same as his daddy's marriage to Luda Mae. Hoyt wasn't sure why because in his family blood married blood. Been that way for generations. Whatever the reason he learnt to stay the hell out of it. Watch from a safe distance as his daddy threw the bottle of piss at grandpa's head.

Sometimes it hit him, sometimes it didn't. Then they'd get into a fistfight. If mama was home and the fight broke out in the house, she'd holler "take it outside 'fore you break something!" Because she knew she couldn't stop the whirlwind, only try to relocate it where they could do less damage. 

But more often it happened when she out working. Came home to the aftermath - both men having slunk off to lick their respective wounds. Would sigh at the destruction then fetch a mop, Hoyt watching from the sideline. 

Play with the tin car he'd stolen from a boy in his class. Hoyt never went much but he was glad he went that day. Came home with a shiny new toy. Only had to threaten the kid with his grandpa's pocket knife. Own stupidity really, bringing a nice toy like that to school. Lording it over Charlie who had no toys. Mama said they couldn't waste money on toys. But she let him keep the stolen car. On the proviso she didn't get any letter from the school or the boy's parents. But the kid kept his mouth shut. His daddy obviously didn't beat him as hard as Charlie's did him when he messed up. 

So Hoyt played with his car and waited for his mama to clean the mess. Didn't help. If either grandpa or daddy caught wind of it, he'd get a blow across the head. Cleaning was women's work. It was Luda Mae's job. Been Teadora's too before she moved into that trailer. There was plenty of men's work around the farm but Charlie always did his chores before playing with his car. If he didn't, he'd get a beating about that too. Not from just the men of the house but Luda Mae too. 

She accepted the way of things. That's why she didn't ask him to help her sweep up the debris. Just sighed and said "wish I had me a girl". There had been girls but they had died young. There was a graveyard of dead siblings, including Charlie's twin brother. But Charlie didn't mind. He preferred being the only living son. Meant he got all the attention. Not that mama had much spare time to give him. That's why he liked helping her with supper. 

Normally the kitchen was woman's domain too. But as Luda Mae pointed out - after Teadora left to start her own brood - it was a matter of efficiency.

"You wanna be fed," she told grandpa and daddy, "Let Junior help me in the kitchen."

The pair capitulated. Better to be pragmatic and have supper on the table on time. Charlie wouldn't admit to either of his male role models but he liked cooking. Liked the chemistry of it. Liked the time with his mama. One of the only times Luda Mae seemed at peace, when she was baking bread or sweets.

At least when they could afford the ingredients. More often they couldn't. Couldn't afford meat from the butcher's so they ate whatever the men could hunt. Roadkill too, if it was fresh enough. But whatever they scraped together to eat, grandpa and daddy took the biggest portion. That was the hierarchy of things. Sometimes Hoyt only had a few spoonfuls on his bowl. Might have complained but when he looked at his mama's bowl, it was empty. 

Hoyt didn't like looking at that empty bowl. That gaunt look on his mama's face. But his hunger was too great to do much about it. So he ate his two spoonfuls and stewed about it. It wasn't fair his mama had to starve while there was so many useless people around. Really it's surprising the idea of cannibalism never came to him sooner. Took being captured by those damn commies to put two and two together. 

And Hoyt is convinced his plan will be a success. Mama's on his side. Tommy. Dottie will need more persuading but he's decided the best way to do that is to starve her. Doesn't know it yet but she's in for a rude awakening. 

Monty will do what he's told. Because Monty's a runt and he's scared of him. Been scared of him even when Hoyt was a boy. Can yap like a terrier but it doesn't take much to make him cower. 

Right now Hoyt can hear his low grumbling on the other side of the door. 

"What was that?" Hoyt barks.

"I said yes sheriff! Won't touch yer hooch."

Hoyt smiles.

"C'mon honey," he grabs Dottie by the arm, tows her back to his room. Their room now he supposes. Their lil marital suite.

He slams the door behind them and grabs her suitcase. Rifles through it to find her nightdress. It's a boring, conservative thing, the only flair to it is the frills but even that is sweet and overly feminine. It's not some lush, sleek slip, kind to get your motor running. But it's to be expected. Might have secret whorish tendencies but she's still a housewife. 

He brings it over to her. If anything she clutches the towel around her bosom even tighter. 

"No point acting coy," he croons, "Ain't like ya body's some goddamn mystery."

She cringes at that. Then sadly releases her hold on the towel, endures Hoyt ogling her naked form again. Her skin is pale, almost translucent in places, can see the pattern of veins. Her small breasts are heaving from the fear in her breath. Maybe she's worried he's about to throw her on his bed. 

He probably should. Hasn't busted any of her holes yet. Only his dick isn't quite up for the task. He's ejaculated twice, no three times today. Not in his twenties anymore. Needs time to recover. Not that he's about to tell her that. He throws the nightdress at her head and giggles at the way she flails.

She recovers and pulls the nightdress rapidly over her head, her nakedness swallowed by shapeless, unerotic fabric. It's white but the color is faded. Probably had it for as long as she was married to the old Hoyt. Wore it on their wedding night. Irks him thinking about it, that dumb ass pencil dick taking her virginity. 

He moves in closer and hears her suck in a breath. Feels her body tremor under the fabric as he gropes her tits. He doesn't really mind their size so much. They fit nicely in the palm of his hand, two cute little handfuls he can squeeze.

"Bit bland, sweetheart," he means the nightdress.

Her breath quivers. Her mouth opens and closes like she's unsure what to say. Fuck all she can do about it but she knows better than to offend him. 

"D-don't h-have any others."

Something mournful in the way she says it. Maybe she wouldn't mind a silky slip. 

Hoyt hums,

"Maybe we'll get you something nicer."

The people they're planning on killing will have clothes to spare. Not thinking of the big brutes but their woman. The sluts in their skimpy outfits. Might rifle through their knapsacks and find something racier for his wife to wear.

That or she could sleep nude. Hoyt likes the idea of sharing the bed with a warm, naked body. Easy to fuck her with no fabric in the way. Just force her legs open, thrust into that wet, tight hole. Be a nice way to wake up, especially since she'll be bound to the bed. No way he's trusting her to sleep without restraints. He groans, still squeezing her breasts. Notices she doesn't tremble as much. 

Something's caught her eye. Her head is slightly tilted and she's staring past him. Hoyt follows her eye line. She's looking at the dresser, a worried look in her eye.

"Looking at the pictures?" he guesses, "Ain't seein' double, my daddy was twin."

Dottie licks her lips, distracted.

"I - I know. Mrs. Hewitt told me."

Hoyt's surprised. Usually his mama is tight lipped. Didn't tell no one their business.

"Yeah?" he says, "What else she tell you?"

She doesn't answer. She's staring at the dresser, brow still creased.

"Hey," Hoyt barks and she jumps, "Asked you a question."

"O-oh," her wide-eyed gaze is back on him, "Um, s-she showed me your uniform."

"Really?" Hoyt says, honestly a little touched, "What'd you think?"

She looks at him helplessly like she's not sure how to answer.

"Your mama's very proud of you," she ends up answering.

Which is a clever response. Too clever and it irks him. 

"Yeah no shit she's proud of me," he growls, "I'm a war hero. I meant what do you think of the uniform."

"It's fine," she says.

"Fine?" Hoyt sneers, "Maybe you'd like it more if I put it on. Make things a bit more authentic when we play soldiers. What do you think private pussycat?"

She's silent, like she's imagining it. 

"If - if that's what you want," she mumbles.

Hoyt tries not to grin too wide,

"I'll think about it," he answers haughtily.

He's not sure if it'll still fit him. His gut bulges a little more than it used to. Not by a lot - he's not some huge fat ass like his aunt, mama feed her any more cookies she won't fit through the door. But its enough that he'd notice if he pulled on his army pants from decades ago. He doesn't want to be uncomfortable while he orders Dottie like some snot-nosed private, have her hump his boot again. 

Maybe he can ask mama to let out the pants. She'd do it but she'd grumble. Rather not have his mama knowing his business. Especially if she's going to complain. He and Dottie didn't exactly keep their voices down earlier. He's expecting some sort of disapproving look or comment when he sees her next. Already told them it wasn't a bordello.

Dottie is staring at the dresser again.

"The hell's the matter with you," he snaps, "Keep gawkin' at that goddamn dresser. Ain't that fucking interesting."

She tears her gaze to him.

"B-bianca," she says, to his consternation.

"Huh?"

"My cat. Mrs. Hewitt put her there."

She points at the dresser. Hoyt lets out a growl of anger.

"I said no cats in my room!" he berates her, "Don't want any girl-y shit. Didn't you tell her?"

"I tried but she didn't listen," Dottie protests.

Then with a touch of paranoia,

"You didn't move her?"

Hoyt glares,

"I didn't even know it was in here."

Cat would be in pieces if he had. This is his fucking room. 

"Well she can't have just disappeared," there's a note of anger in her voice, too much for his liking. 

"Don't get snappy with me, dumplin'."

That seems to rein her in. She falls back into her stammering. 

"S-sorry it's just... she's gone an' an'..." she goes quiet, brow creased in thought, "Your mama musta moved her. She - she's angry at me for breaking that bowl. She's taken her!"

Looks at him for some kind of confirmation. Hoyt ain't in any mood. 

"Careful throwing around accusations like that, honey," he says lowly, "You ain't been here that long."

Seems to knock the wind out of her sails. Watches her deflate miserably. 

"Well who else woulda taken her? T-tommy?"

Hoyt laughs,

"If it was a living cat maybe. Nah you're probably right with your first guess. It was mama."

Mama on her high horse, being petty. Would have stormed in after their talk and abducted the stupid thing. 

"Said she didn't like you."

She clenches her small hands impotently. 

"Can't just take someone's things if you don't like 'em. It's not fair."

Hoyt snorts,

"Fair's for fools," he echoes another of his father's sayings, watching her flinch, "Anyway it would be fair in her eyes. You broke a family heirloom. Eye for an eye as the good book says."

He groans as her eyes go all watery.

"Jesus, don't cry. You'll get me going again."

Not quite. His dick is still sleepy. Should have resisted the moonshine. 

Dottie frantically rubs her eyes. Does a big sniffly inhale. Hoyt growls at the sound. She really is a fucking crybaby. It was nice when his cock was hard but now it's annoying.

"It's just a figurine," he finds himself saying, "Not even a real cat. You gotta heap more of 'em."

She looks at him with raw eyes,

"She's my f-favorite."

"Thought I was your favourite?"

She cringes. Starts stammering some kind of answer.

"Land sakes, I know what ya meant," he says and she closes her mouth, "Look, odds are she's all in one piece. Mama wanted to smash that cat she woulda wanted ya to know. Woulda left it scattered over the floor."

His mama knew how to twist a knife in. She was a Hewitt after all. 

"She just wants you to suffer a little."

Dottie nods tentatively. 

"Can you ask her to give her back?" 

Hoyt huffs, 

"Why should I do that, ain't none of my business."

"Y-you're my husband."

Hoyt tries not to smile at her saying it. Tries not to be affected by those big pathetic eyes either. His cock stirs a little from its liquor coma.

"So?"

She looks at him helplessly. Like a lost little kid. 

"You're supposed to... to support me."

"Support?" Hoyt feels his lip curl, "Look princess, I been your husband for what? Couple hours? I been my mama's boy since forever. I don't want drama with my mama."

Especially not when she was starting to warm to his idea of keeping the family fed.

"You two birdies need to sort it amongst yourselves."

Expects her to protest. But she wisely ducks her in defeat. 

"What's the deal with it anyway?" he huffs curiously, "Just a bit of ceramic."

Ain't like its gold or jewels. Something valuable. Hell, it ain't even useful. Just sits on a shelf doing fuck all.

"Shouldn't let it bother ya that much."

"She's... She's a comfort I guess. W-when I was little an' lived with my grandmother, used to talk to her..."

"A figurine?" Hoyt sneers.

"Made my s-stammer not as bad."

Hoyt stares at her a moment then breaks into raucous laughter. 

"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard! Ya mean to tell me this thing's got magical powers? You get it back you'll quit stammering like a half wit."

"I'm not a h-half wit," she protests, cheeks flushed, "You ain't ever had something special? S-Something that meant a lot to you? Hurt if you lost it?"

Farm, he thinks immediately. 

Then he thinks about his daddy throwing his beloved tin car into the fire during one of his moods, watching it bubble and melt. Bubble and melt like his insides as they roiled with rage. Couldn't do shit but take it.

Rage that resurfaces but he pushes it back down his throat like rising bile. Manufactures a carefree look.

"Nope."

"W-what about that uniform? If someone tried to take it off you. B-badge n' your pistol. The -the cruiser."

"Like to see 'em try," Hoyt growls.

Her pale lips twitch.

"Because it's yours right?" she says, "Belongs to you. Ain't right for s-someone to take it."

Hoyt resists the urge to nod in agreement. Instead he gives her a mean smile.

"You're a sly lil thing," he watches her stiffen as he cocks his head, "Maybe mama is right about you. You're tricky."

She quivers in a way that makes his hands itch. The miserable way she looks at him. 

"I'm not... I'm just trying to make you understand h-how much she means to me."

Her eyes are pleading.

Hoyt hums, keeping her teetering in suspense. 

"What's in it for me huh?" 

Chapter Text

"Said you trying to make me to understand," Hoyt croons at Dottie, "I don't need to understand, honey. I don't give a shit. Unless, it's worth my while. So instead'a crying at me, how about you use that brain..." he pokes her forehead and she whimpers, "To convince me."

She looks despondent.

"I... what would you like?"

Hoyt bites back a groan. What wouldn't he like? He wants that soft mouth around his cock. Her hand squeezing his sac. In fact she could pop those two cherries in her mouth too. Show him what that felt like. Then there was that asshole to break in. Her pussy.

He mock tuts at her,

"Can't just ask me. That ain't no fun."

Because it's much more amusing to see what she'll offer him. The rest he'll take, sooner or later.

She grimaces. Bet she regrets saying shit about her lucky talisman now. But its too late now. He expects a fucking answer. She paws the ground anxiously. Trapped. She's trapped.

He makes a noise of impatience and she jerks.

"There.... there's a magazine back at the house," she blurts. 

"Huh?"

She eyes him uneasily, breathing heavy. 

"Under the mattress. It's a... it's a... The ladies are..."

Hoyt sneers,

"You're offering me a porn rag?" he says offendedly, "I don't want old Hoyt's cummy leftovers."

Her pale brow furrows,

"Aren't I leftovers?" she asks quietly, the remark taking him a little off-guard. 

Recovers with a chuckle,

"You're funny," he says and her lips twitch like she can't work out if its compliment or an insult. Hoyt's not even sure himself. A little of both. Ain't tedious, thats for sure.

He grins at her,

"You're better leftovers than a titty magazine dumplin'. You proved that tonight. Never seen a real life woman ride a boot like a dog. Real eye opening. Can't wait to see what other tricks you can do."

"Then you should rethink that magazine."

Anger bristles at his neck,

"Quit talking in riddles," he snaps.

"I-I'm not," she stammers, "That magazine it ain't... it ain't regular... it's different."

"Different how?" he demands. 

She wrings her hands anxiously.

"Um, it's.... there's uh, the girls in it are..."

She's blushing like a school girl. Hoyt would find it cute if not for his impatience.

"Spit it out!"

She swallows hard trying to overcome her stammer. 

"Tied up!" she manages to blurt, "Lotta 'em are..." She's trying to mime but all she's making is meaningless shapes, "While they... they're... The man is... You know. An' an' some of 'em have collars like dogs n' there's w-whips. They're gettin'... spanked."

Says the last part in a whisper.

Am I dreaming? Hoyt suddenly thinks. Because it sounds like a dream, woman in a virginal nightdress describing degenerate acts in a magazine.

Used to have all manner of fever dreams during his internment. Dreamed about meeting Marilyn, got an erection when she pressed that buxom body against him then he took a bite out of her, started gobbling her up like she was a hunk of steak. Woke up to gnawing hunger and wet pants. 

But this isn't a dream. This is real. There's a real life woman in front of him. Plain lil Doris Hoyt nee Sawyer. Despite her embarrassment, there's a strange gleam in her eyes. Her pupils are blown big like they were when she was humping his boot. She's excited. She's excited about this dirty rag.

"It's called b-bondage," she adds breathily, "That's the name of the... Bondage Babes."

"Bondage Babes," Hoyt echoes.

She nods, looking a little overwhelmed at her confession. Because it is a confession. Couldn't have described the filth if she hadn't had a good look at it.

Her deviancy excites him. No wonder she liked fucking her cunt on his boot, looking at shit like that. Didn't skip a beat at calling him sergeant. Asked his permission to cum like some obscene cross between a soldier and a whore. All of that hadn't come out of nowhere. She wasn't just going along with Hoyt's proclivities. 

Oh no. His dumplin' had some inspiration of her own.

"Had a good gander, huh?" he croons.

She winces,

"Yes," she admits, "I know I shouldn't but - but I was curious. I prayed after."

Hoyt laughs at the last part. Remembers her praying in the bath.

"Oh did you?"

She nods vigorously, her hair bouncing in a girlish way Hoyt finds awfully titillating. He wants to wrench that pretty strawberry hair and make her sob. 

Instead he clicks his tongue.

"Think it's a good idea, telling your husband you been looking at dirty pictures?"

She stares at him fearfully. 

"Thought you was a godly wife."

"I am," she says pathetically, "I prayed. I told you."

She gasps as he moves a hand to her throat. Feels her pulse, his cock stirring. 

"I just thought..." she babbles, "Thought it might be... You talked about t-tying me up."

"So?" he growls.

"So I thought it might a-appeal to you."

"Yeah?" he gives her throat a firmer squeeze, "Think I ain't got better things to do, jack off like some pathetic teenager?"

"Never s-said that," her words are choked, her eyes teary. 

Hoyt's cock seems to be getting its second wind. It's hardening against the starchy fabric of her nightdress. 

"Then why are you offering me a dirty magazine, dumplin'?"

He squeezes again, liking how her eyes bulge. 

"To... so we could... You could pick a page a-and..."

Oh, Hoyt realizes, ohhhhh.

He releases her neck and she greedily sucks in air.

"Well shit," he's grinning so big his cheeks hurt, exciting bubbling in his chest, "Aren't you full'a surprises."

She cringes, eyes downwards.

"You said to offer you something w-worthwhile," she mumbles.

"That I did," Hoyt chortles, "I certainly did."

He looks at her with a unexpected rush of fondness. 

"I like how your mind works."

She's quiet. Lost in some inner train of thought, maybe despairing her own degeneracy. She starts as he hooks a finger under chin, jolts her head up.

"That's a compliment, honey."

Her mouth flexes in a twitchy smile. Hoyt is starting to think she's more attractive than he initially thought. Her freckles are cute and her hair is a nice shade, wouldn't mind her passing it on, to a daughter at least. After giving him a son, son who took more after him. 

Her eyes blink rapidly, pale lashes fluttering.

"S-so you'll help me get Bianca?" 

Her tone is sweet. 

Sly.

For all her fear, his new wife is sly.

Should grate him - idea of being manipulated. But there's something in it reminiscent of his mama. Tone she'd use with his daddy sometimes. A sugary sweetness, like frosting on a sharp knife. 

Kind she used talking to that vagrant girl his daddy bought home. Some filthy haired thing he took up to his room. Weren't shy about what they were doing either. Even with mama in the house. Not that she confronted them. Just went about the housework like her husband wasn't loudly breaking his marital vow upstairs. 

Ignored grandpa's growls of "you want me to go up there? I'll fix 'em." Hoyt wasn't sure if it was paternal love or wounded pride. They had bought that whore home together but Daddy had been more persuasive. Grandpa handled the rejection by boosting daddy's moonshine and pestering mama in the kitchen. 

"I can handle it," she replied flatly.

Pushed him away when he tried to cuddle her. Grandpa pouted, slunk into a nearby chair, nursing his moonshine and the hammer mama wouldn't let him use. 

She whipped up a batch of sweet tea. Hoyt didn't know why she was bothering. Only her and Aunt Teadora liked that stuff. No one else in the house drank it. 

His daddy finally emerged, shirt rumpled, his arm around the woman he introduced as Lois. Her hair was lank and greasy and she had a rat-like face. Shifty rat eyes too, sneaky, way they jumped about. She was younger than mama and she hadn't bothered to fully button her dress.

Hoyt could see the curve of her breasts. He was eleven at the time, that sort of thing was starting to interest him. Had a hard time when Luda Mae dragged him along to visit his aunt. She was breastfeeding her latest boy, Adam. Always had one giant tit flopped out. Hoyt tried not to gawk too much but sitting in close vicinity seemed like a kind of torture.

He usually excused himself before his pants got tight. Went outside to see what the rest of her boys were doing. They were dumb as shit but at least their antics kept him from thinking about their mama's breasts. 

This girl's tits are a lot smaller but the glimpse of mammary is still tantalising. 

"I'm Luda Mae," his mama greeted her cheerfully - too cheerfully. One thing his mama wasn't, it was cheerful, "I'm Charlie's niece."

Doesn't say she's also his wife. 

"You must be thirsty," she said in that sugary sweet voice, "Try it, it's a family recipe."

Rat girl Lois eyed it cautiously, licking her lips.

"Drink it girl," Grandpa slurred from his corner, "Can't refuse hospitality."

Daddy scowled at him,

"You been drinking my moonshine?"

"Fuck you gon' do about it limp dick?" Grandpa said, waving the hammer.

"Limp dick? What's with the hammer, jackass? Put that down and fight me like a man."

"You wouldn't know a man if he was fucking you up the ass."

A giggle escapes Hoyt's mouth before he can stop it and his daddy's head swings in his direction.

"You think that's funny, boy?" 

Hoyt gulps. 

"Let him laugh," his grandpa says, "His daddy's a joke."

Thankfully that diverts his daddy's attention.

"Joke? Only man in this room who got his pecker wet and you're callin' me a queer, you miserable asshole. Come at me with that hammer, I ain't afraid of you!"

There's a violent sound of choking. All of them turn to see Lois the rat girl clawing at her throat. Luda Mae watching serenely, holding the empty glass. 

Her dull eyes were big and fearful as she frothed at the mouth, jerking on the spot until she lost footing, hit the floor with a thud, lay there twitching like a real poisoned rat. Then she went still, wide eyes vacant, her dirty hair framed around her head, scrawny limbs contorted, one tit had come lose from her dress, flopped out in plain view, a bite mark around one dark nipple. 

Hoyt stared, awestruck, the image burning into the back of his skull. 

"Damn it Luda Mae!" his daddy hollered, 

He took a step towards Luda Mae. Grandpa intervened, cracked him with the hammer. His daddy staggered back, a dumb look on his face. 

Hoyt expected daddy to launch into a rage but he was still stunned from the head blow. Just stood there blinking. Trickle of red running down his face. Hoyt found it almost hypnotic, way it trickled and dripped. Something satisfying about it. 

"Land sakes daddy," Luda Mae grumbled.

But the side of her mouth twitched, like she was secretly pleased. Hoyt wasn't sure if it was grandpa's doing or hers. She towed daddy to a chair, set him in it. Wiped his face with a cloth. 

He seemed to recover. Scowled at grandpa.

"Goddamn hit me."

But he stayed put. Maybe because grandpa was still brandishing that hammer. 

"You deserved it. You know why she did it."

His daddy grumbled. Then he looked at the corpse of his former conquest.

"Lucky she's a stray," he said with little emotion, "No one'll come lookin' for her."

"Daddy," Luda Mae said to grandpa, "You take her to the creek. Junior will help. I'll take care of uncle."

Grandpa rolled his eyes but beckoned at Hoyt.

"C'mon Junior."

That was the first time Hoyt helped dispose of a body. Rolled the girl in a sheet and dumped it in a nearby creek weighted down with rocks.

"Shame we had to sell the pigs," his grandpa sighed as her body sank under the surface, "Those fuckers make short work o' bodies."

"Is mama going to Hell?" Hoyt asked as they made their way back to the farm. 

"Huh?" Grandpa asked tiredly. 

He was breathing hard from his inebriation and the exertion of corpse-moving. He fumbled for his tin of tobacco. Hoyt watched him shove a wad in his mouth.

"She killed her."

He's not particularly distressed about the death himself. He's seen plenty of animals die and the girl was a stranger. But the Bible said thou shalt not kill, seemed like his mama was in a lot of hot water. 

"Oh, naw," his grandpa answered breezily, "She killed a harlot n' interloper. That ain't the same in God's eye."

He spat out a brown glob of spit, 

"God gave us this land, Junior. It belongs to us. Don't need to answer for the vermin we kill on our soil. The world is better off without the likes of her. What if your daddy knocked her up, think about the mess we'd be in. More mouths to feed. Your mama did the right thing."

Hoyt nodded. 

"I understand, Grandpa."

"Good," the older man patted him on the back. He tended to be more affectionate than Hoyt's daddy, "It's good for you to learn all this, Junior. You'll be head of the house one day. Family comes first," there's a harsh resignation on his lined face, "Family comes first. You remember that."

Words that stuck with him later. Floated through his head as he replayed the events later in bed. Tugged himself a little thinking about that tiny of nub of tit with that vivid imprint of his daddy's teeth, thinks what it would be like to bite that part of a girl. Then shudders, thinking he shouldn't be jerking off about a dead girl. But he can't quite let go of the idea. Surely it would be like biting into a piece of meat. The thought makes him hungry. Hasn't had a chunk of meat in... he can't remember. His belly rumbles.

Daddy is saying to grandpa they should try their hand at goat farming. Use the money mama's been saving from her maid job. Mama will go along with it. She's already made up with daddy. Hoyt spied them in the kitchen. Mama's wrapped his daddy's head wound in a bandage. 

"What'd you expect when you keep denying me?" he's saying. 

Mama has her back turned to him. She's angrily shucking peas. Hoyt should be helping but his daddy's presence makes him hang back at the door.

"Lost my baby," his mama mutters.

Hoyt listens to the peas tumbling into the bowl. 

"That was six months ago," Daddy says, "You can't keep using that as..."

"It was girl!" Luda Mae spins to look at him, expression wretched, "Had me a girl."

"It was too small to tell, Luda Mae."

"It was a girl," his mama's voice is slightly shrill in its insistence, "I was having tea with Dora and she read my tea leaves. They was in the shape of a bluebonnet. Said it must be a sign."

"Luda Mae," Daddy groans but his mama doesn't seem to hear him.

"Then those boys came rushing past n' bumped me. Flew outta my hands n' broke."

Her voice cracks like that cup. Hoyt remembers hearing it, he was outside with Zeke burning ants with matches. Watched Cal and Lyle come bursting out of the trailer, giggling like hyenas. 

"Shoulda know then I'd lose her."

Daddy shakes his head.

"You gals should know better n' to mess around with witchcraft."

Luda Mae jolts. 

"It aint..." Her eyes are big with distress, "You shouldn't be messing around with whores!"

She glowers at him.

"What if she gave you something? Last one gave you those downstairs lice. I ain't suffering all that itching agin 'cause you can't keep it in your britches."

"Then gimme what I want," his daddy says unrepentantly, "Man has needs. Don't you want a lil girl?"

"More than anything."

Part of Charlie pities the yearning in his mother's voice. Another part is incensed. Ain't he enough? He should be enough. But mama didn't think so. 

"Only one way for that to happen, mama," his daddy says.

Mama sighs. She turns back to her bowl of peas. His daddy huffs. 

"What you wan' call this lil girl anyway?"

Mama's lips tighten. Like she's loath for Daddy to draw her back into conversation this way. She keeps shucking peas.

"Lois is nice name," his daddy says.

That makes her whip around quick.

"Bite your tongue, wouldn't call it after that creature!" she seems to ponder the question in earnest, "I like Gilda."

"Like Gilda Gray?"

He moves his hips in an exaggerated shimmy. Luda Mae lets out a laugh she quickly stifles.

"Stop!" she chides but she's smiling a little, "I don't like that name now. Maybe Loretta or, or Grace. Grace. That sounds nice."

"What if its a boy?"

"I like Thomas." 

"Thomas is a good name."

He reaches for her but she retreats, her back pressed against the counter top. 

"I ain't forgive you yet."

But she does nothing to stop daddy closing the gap between them. Presses so close is like they're melded together. 

"Let it go, honey," he strokes her cheek, "You got your vengeance. Didn't think you'd poison the lil bitch."

Luda Mae smiles rather proudly. 

"I'll poison the next one too," she says in a honeyed voice, "Though its a lotta extra work for all o' us, uncle. And a waste o' sweet tea."

His daddy chuckles. His hand falls to Luda Mae's hip. Squeezes in a way that makes Hoyt's stomach feel funny. Way his mama giggles. Its the only time Hoyt feels his mama ain't that smart, when she forgives his daddy. Lets him smooch her.

Hoyt tears his gaze away. Storms to the living room. His grandpa is sprawled on the sofa, snoring loudly. Hoyt purposely makes a racket on the squeaky floorboards until he heaves to life, flailing upright with a raucous cough. 

"Goddamn it, can't a man sleep?" he narrows his bleary eyes at Hoyt, "Why you lookin' so sour, boy?"

"Why mama want another baby when they just keep dying on her?"

Grandpa scowls.

"Forgave yer no good daddy then?" he says knowingly. 

"I guess," Hoyt says, trying not to think about his parents having congress. 

He knew what sex was. Couldn't grow up on a farm without witnessing some form of fornication. Animals didn't give a fuck who was watching.

"Why she want babies?" he prompts again.

His grandpa sighs,

"'Cause that's her duty, son. Bring more Hewitts into the world. Don't you wanna brother to play with?"

"Mama wants a girl," Hoyt makes a face, "I'm fine being the only kid."

He's seen the way his cousins were with one another. All they did was squabble. Hoyt preferred his peace and quiet.

Grandpa rubs his eyes.

"How many roots a tree got?"

Hoyt frowns,

"I don't know. A bunch?"

"More than one?"

Hoyt nods.

"More roots the sturdier the tree," his grandpa says, "Each Hewitt is a root, son. One day me n' yer daddy n' yer mama ain't gonna be here. You gonna hold up the whole farm by yerself?"

He lets that cold inevitability sink in. Hoyt has never really pictured any kind of life without his mama. Imagines it now. Empty kitchen. Empty dining room. 

Empty house. Nothing but bones and silence. 

"Farm like this," Grandpa says, "Tempting to a lot of folks. Easy for an army to defend it. One person..."

He shakes his head,

"Let's hope this new baby sticks."

Only it doesn't. There's no Grace or Thomas - not until after his daddy dies and his mama brings home a baby from a dumpster. His daddy, while he's alive, still sows his oats elsewhere. That's how Hoyt ends up with a half-brother called Hank. 

Luda Mae doesn't poison Hank's mama. Ernestine Porritt is wise enough to stay well clear of the Hewitt's farm. Avoids the Cele store too. Gets her produce next town over, giving hand jobs to good Samaritans for a ride - something if she'd stuck to doing with Daddy there'd be no need for her to whore herself. 

Then she died prematurely of a stroke. Luda Mae claimed it was divine justice. Hoyt isn't so sure. At that point the bitch wasn't even peddling flesh anymore, put Hank to work once he turned 10. Has more years at the slaughterhouse under his belt than Tommy. 

Seemed to enjoy it almost as much as his nephew too. He'd be smarting from the closure - not enough to go out murdering but enough to get stinking drunk, end up on the floor lying in his own puke. 

Hoyt makes a mental note to check on him tomorrow. His mama doesn't exactly approve of their association. But as he reminds her, Hank is still a Hewitt. Another root on the family tree. She forgave Daddy for creating him. Or maybe she just pretended. Maybe it was easier. He was blood after all. 

Couldn't poison him like a vagrant whore.

Or maybe she did. Because not long after Hank's birth, his daddy suddenly started getting weaker and weaker, 'til he had no strength to get out of bed. Bed he died in. 

Maybe mama had had enough after all. 

She continues to visit his room. Visits his mummified corpse. So does Hoyt but not as frequently. He probably should swing by, show off his uniform. Tell him about his new wife. Daddy won't appreciate it - man's dead after all. But honestly its easier talking to him now than when he was alive. Can't argue or rebuke him. Can't melt his toys. 

Might even take Dottie in to see him, frighten her with an introduction. But she's been through a lot, whole husband being murdered and eating his flesh. Rather wait until she's had a little reprieve. Get a better reaction. Push a person too far, too quick, they go off the deep end. He doesn't want some batshit crazy wife. She's more amusing with her wits intact.

"Hold your horses," he tells her with a flash of teeth, menacing enough to wipe that sweet smile from her face, "I ain't chasing down nothing 'til I got this book in my hands. Got it. Make sure you ain't fibbing."

"Y-you think I-I'd make it up?" There's a hint of petulance in her stammer. 

Hoyt shrugs,

"Think you'd do anything to get that pussy back."

"W-what g-good is me l-lyin'?" her vexation makes her stammer worsen, reminds him of Tommy - distress always made him more vocal, not that you could tell what hell he was saying, "Once you found out, you'd h-hurt me."

She finishes with a fearful look in his direction.

"Oh I'd hurt you alright," he breathes.

Her body quivers. Hoyt chuckles,

"Okay," he tweaks her nipple through her nightdress, she whimpers, "I believe you."

Watches the relief tentatively build on her face. His hand slides up her neck, fingers the red mark from him squeezing her throat. Caresses it with his thumb.

"We'll go tomorrow," he tells her, "Then I'll help you get your cat back from mama."

"Thank you sir, uh, H-hoyt."

Hoyt smiles. His new name sounds almost as nice coming out of her mouth as sir. Almost but not quite. Still prefers the power trip that comes from sir and sheriff. Be awhile before the rest of the town call him that. Has to lay low, wait until the exodus out of Fuller is well and truly complete before he exerts his full power over who's left. They'll comply. Won't have much choice. Won't be leaving town alive. 

Hoyt's town now. His grandpa would be proud, he's sure. 

For now he's got a new wife to keep breaking in.

"You're welcome, honey," he tells her, "Now, how about a lil preview?"

Chapter Text

Screwed up Doris, she tells herself, what were you thinking?

Telling him about the existence of her biggest, shameful secret. For a ceramic cat. Cat he probably wouldn't even help her get back. Wouldn't fight his mama for it. He's a mama's boy if she ever saw one. 

But he's also a dangerous man. A killer. A cannibal. A rapist. Told a rapist about a magazine full of filth. 

You're a fool, she can hear her Daddy's voice in her dead. Bill Sawyer ain't no fool but you are. 

Idiot girl, her grandmother would say, idiot, idiot...

You ignoramus D, Winnie now, dead cannibalized Winston, look here in the dictionary. Ignoramus. Means ignorant or stupid person. That's you D. 

You're the ignoramus, she thinks defensively, let a man shoot you with your own gun. Brought this nightmare on me. 

Waking nightmare she can't escape. Hasn't even tried to escape, she reminds herself. Just done whatever it took not to be killed. Ate human flesh. Condemned herself. 

Maybe that's why she's so hellbent on reclaiming Bianca. Distract herself from the horrible reality. Reality of Winnie dissolving in her belly. Wants to cling to Bianca for some sort of comfort because there's little on offer from anyone else. 

Wants to stroke her smooth curls of her ceramic fur and feel like she's a little girl in her grandmother's house. Felt trapped there too but even her grandmother's cruel presence is preferable to her new husband. 

At least she tells herself. But her cunt still aches from grinding herself all over his boot and despite the feelings of horror and shame, there's an insidious lingering of euphoria. Because that had been the most perversely exciting experience in her life. 

And maybe - maybe that's why she blurted out the existence of that magazine. Not just because she had to offer him something - anything - but because she wanted him to know about it. 

Maybe she wants him to do all the things the Bondage Man does to those slutty girls. To her. Make her horrible fantasies come true. 

If that's the case she's more damned than she thought. Wanting a man like Hoyt to use her body. Man who ate his own unit. Man who ate Winnie. Made her eat Winnie. The thought him laying a finger on her should fill her with nothing but disgust...

Disgust and fear. There's a lot of that when he mentions preview. 

But there's a shiver of something else too. 

"P-preview?" she echoes. 

"Yeah," Hoyt says eagerly, fingers hooking his belt at the hip, "You mentioned spanking didn't yer?"

Doris' mouth goes dry. Hoyt leers at her wolfishly. 

"Don't have a whip but I reckon this'll do."

He waggles his belt on his hips. Doris stares at the hard weathered leather, the ominous metal buckle. It's like some kind of demonic face. Imagines the crack and pain. 

Pictures that girl on page 4 bent over with a chair with her whipped ass on display, angry blotches of red. Ball gag in her mouth to mask her screams. Black tracks of make up running down her cheeks.

Tension grips her body like a fever. 

She swallows.

"B-but..." Her voice is a hoarse squeak.

"But what?" he growls, eyes her tauntingly, "Think you don't deserve any kind of punishment fer looking at naughty pictures? Mighta made things square with the Lord but you ain't made it right with me. I'm yer husband."

"I'm s-sorry," the words tumble out of her mouth automatically. Eyes pleading, heart pounding - pounding because of fear, not anticipation. 

There's no way she can be excited about him lashing her with a belt. Excited for pain. Who in their right mind could be excited for pain?

Maybe her mind isn't right. She's touched herself imagining a man doing what he's planning on doing. Imagined herself as the gagged girl on page 4. And the one on page 7. 

The hand-tied girl nestled between the Bondage man's huge thighs, buttocks positioned to the camera, the red imprint of a hand marring one cheek, like a vermilion tattoo. 

Hand seems preferable to a belt. One large calloused palm can't do as much damage as hard leather. Could just shove her over his lap and spank her. Leave his imprint on her ass. 

To her horror she feels a slickness between her legs, feels it acutely as he's given her no panties. She's bare under the shift, vulnerable. All he has to do is wrench the gown up...

Hoyt shakes his head mockingly,

"We don't do apologies in this house honey. Gotta do yer penance. Penance is I whoop yer ass."

Penance. Funny he should use that term. Perverse really. Her corruptor dishing out punishment. 

"You can argue with me but that's only gonna make it worse. I ain't exactly decided how many licks I'm gonna give. But the more you resist, the higher the number. So how about you. GET yer ass over to the bed!" he shouts, the snarling pitch send her heart leaping into her throat and she lurges forward, tripping over her own feet like a clumsy newborn deer, "Don't make me ask again!" 

She reaches the bed and whirls around. Stares at the gap between them. He hasn't moved. 

He cocks his head,

"Want me to belt your face?"

Doris flinches, shakes her head frantically.

Hoyt raises one finger in a circular motion.

"Then I suggest you turn the fuck around."

Doris grimaces then forces herself to comply. Turns and loses sight of him. Feels his presence like a predatory beast sneaking up on its prey, gut clenching with dread. 

But he doesn't come. 

"Christ, ain't you been beat before?" he grumbles, "Think I want ya standing at attention? Bend the fuck over!"

Doris reluctantly bends her frame over edge of the bed, hands falling on the quilt Luda Mae laid over it so fastidiously. Feels the starched fabric under her sweaty palms. Smells strangely sweet, like she added a drop of vanilla. 

"More," Hoyt growls, "More. Stick that plump ass out."

Doris flushes with humiliation but obeys, arches her back like her stretching Siamese cat Benjamin, backside stuck out in the air, minus the tail.

There's the leisurely, terrifying sound of footsteps. Feels them physically like he's stomping on her rather sauntering across floorboards. His tall shadow falls over her and her throat goes dry, ass still stuck out on the air. She instinctively starts to shift upright and a large hand slams down on her spine.

"Don't even think about moving," his voice is a guttural murmur, "Got you riiiight where I want you, pussycat. You keep still."

An impossible task. She's shivering like a leaf but she stays in position, whimpers as Hoyt presses up hard against her like they're two animals in rut. Like she's a bitch in heat presenting herself. His hands roughly seize her buttocks.

"You really got a hell of an ass, dumplin'," he growls in her ear.

Doris' stomach flutters with something not quite revulsion. No one has ever complimented the back of her. No one really complimented her at all. Hoyt has malicious intentions but he sounds sincere as he molests her.

"Don't mind a bit of padding on a gal. Gives me somethin' to work with."

She listens to his breath. It's heavy, excited, like a salivating wolf. Her dress suddenly goes flying up over her waist, her lower half exposed to the air. Exposed for Hoyt's hungry gaze for him to groan. She yelps as he grabs her flesh.

"I'm gonna tan this ass raw. What you think huh?" he jiggles her ass savagely, her face burning hot, "Or maybe, maybe I should fuck it instead?"

He grinds his pelvis against her, Doris feeling his cock twitch beneath the fabric.

"Ain't a proper honeymoon if I don't pop some kind of cherry."

"B-belt," she blurts. 

A belting is better than him raping her. Especially that part of her. She's fingered herself to Bondage Man taking those girls up the rear, imagining herself in their place. But the idea of experiencing it in real life, makes her queasy. That hole wasn't designed for entry. Didn't self-lubricate like her cunt. 

Her wet traitorous cunt. She can feel it despite her terror. A tiny puddle of arousal. 

She cries out as Hoyt stops rutting and sinks his nails into her buttocks.

"You tellin' me what to do?" he snaps. 

"No," she bleats, "Just, you said I deserved it."

"Yeah you fucking deserve it," he bends over her back to hiss in her ear, "Old Hoyt ever put you in your place?"

Question throws her. 

"Nuh-never hit me."

Sometimes when he was in a foul mood, kind of mood that made his face turn blotchy, made his moustache quiver in a ridiculous way. He'd look like he wanted to strike her. To the point Dottie would tense herself in readiness, way she did when her grandmother used to hit her with her cane. 

But then he'd call her some insulting word from his dictionary instead. Which hurt as much as a slap really. Dug themselves under your skin and stayed there. Haunted you without leaving a visible bruise. 

Bruised cheek she would have preferred. Could have walked down the street with it on display, let the townsfolk draw the conclusion that Sheriff Hoyt was a piece of shit who beat on his wife. Verbal scars left his reputation intact. 

Allowed him to stay on his high horse. He was always so quick to tell her about the house calls he had to make about some bastard beating his wife. 

Lucky you married a fella like me, D. 

Lucky, she used to think, lucky that you call me an imbecile and ignoramus and corpulent and...

But then she'd think maybe he was right, she ought to be grateful her husband didn't beat her. Maybe she was an imbecile like he said. Grandmother said she was stupid. Two people were enough to form a consensus. 

Still, of the three of them she was the only one alive. Was determined to keep herself alive. 

"Yeah I figured as much," Hoyt sneers, "Goddam useless. What kinda asshole can't discipine his wife? Lucky I killed him, honey pie."

Killed him and ate him. Had his wife bailed up against his bed bare-assed, with a belt in his hand. 

Thankfully he doesn't seem to expect her to answer. He even shifts back, relieving his weight off her spine. But any relief is short-lived. She hears him unbuckle his belt, heart thundering.

"What about ya daddy?" he says, there's a jangly rustle as the leather slides free of his hips like an unfurling snake. 

Doris' gut clenches.

"My daddy?" she croaks.

"Yeah he never whooped ya? Mine sure did."

"No. He never."

Hoyt grunts,

"Huh, maybe he didn't care about you enough. Too busy whoring your mama."

Doris flinches. How did Hoyt... Of course he knew about mama. All of Fuller must have known about mama.

"My daddy loved me," she whispers pitifully.

Hoyt laughs.

"Yeah? That why he tied a noose around his neck? Sounds like he reeeally gave a damn about ya."

Doris' body trembles. Tears pool in her eyes. Not like he ain't right. Daddy did put that noose around his neck. Prior to that she can't recall a time he ever smiled at her. When he left her with Lottie, he patted her head like she was a dog. Maybe his lack of beatings didn't come a place of love. They came from a place of indifference. 

Because his little girl was a burden to him. Burden like her mama was. Only mama could pull her weight with the strange men he bought to her room. Little Doris was useless. Why waste your time on something useless?

Hoyt surges against her again and she sucks in a shaky breath. He's holding his belt in his right hand and he's pressing the buckle into the flesh of her ass. The sensation like a cold burn. 

"Aww, cryin' already?" he croons, "We ain't even started yet."

His finger prods her face. Smears the wetness and disappears, listens to him sucking it clean.

"Your tears taste real good, princess," he growls in her ear, "Not as nice as your blood. Maybe I'll see some o' that if I hit you hard enough?"

He pulls back as Doris whimpers. Whimpers again hearing the sound of him pulling the belt taut.

"Let's begin shall we?"

Doris grips the quilt, clenches her teeth. Tries to prepare herself but all she feels is the cold drench of fear. 

It'll hurt - he'll hurt her - no doubt about that. But how much. How much was the awful unknown.

"How many times you look at that magazine, honey? Be honest. I'll know if you lie."

Doris cringes.

Sixteen. Thats the amount of times she's gawked at it. Managed to resist touching herself the first five. But Hoyt's question was about looking, not masturbating. She's not even sure if he realizes that she touches herself to it. Thinks she's only guilty of voyeurism. 

"S-six..." she starts to stammer. 

"Six?" Hoyt cuts her off, "Shit, darling. You studying the damn thing? Bet you got it practically memorised."

Yes, Doris thinks, yes I do. Knows it better than the good book. Could argue the bible has a lot more pages, less illustrations, less filth that's going to send her straight to Hell. 

You are in Hell, she thinks. Consorting with a demon. 

Demon she's afraid of answering. Hoyt thought six times was a lot and it wasn't even the right numb-...

There's a loud crack and pain spreads across her ass like a tiny spark of ember that billows into a flame as her mind recovers from the shock. Stinging pain, hot and cutting. Throbbing. She belatedly whimpers, fingers digging into the bed. 

"Hurts don't it," Hoyt chuckles gleefully, "Imagine what five more is gonna feel like. How 'bout you count 'em fer me?"

Doris whimpers. Five of these. Lucky she didn't say sixteen. 

Another crack, more intense stinging pain and she howls.

"Answer me! How you gonna get rid of that stammer if ya don't fucking talk?"

Doris fights back a sob. Her whole body is quaking. 

"Y-yes," she manages to force out.

"Yes what?" 

She imagines him starting to raise the belt. 

"Y-yes s-sarge," she blurts. 

Seems to still his hand. 

"Oh I like that comin' outta your mouth," he groans and she imagines him groping his crotch with his free hand - because this depravity would be turning him. Like the Bondage Man, that got his big cock hard discipling his harem. 

To her horror she feels fresh dampness between her legs. Minuscule despite the pain but even more damning. How can she feel arousal in the midst of...

"You know if we wanted to play soldiers for real," Hoyt says in a bizarrely conversational tone, "I'd make ya do push-ups instead. Reckon you'd barely get past one with those scrawny arms," he chuckles to himself as Doris flushes, "Shit, be fun to watch though. Maybe next time. For now..."

Those words are at least enough to brace herself. Not that it helps much. The fiery pain gets even more fiery and she lets out a grunting sob through gritted teeth. 

Count, she reminds herself, told you to count damn it. That last one was number...

"Th-three," she gasps only to howl again as the belt strikes her. Tears spring into her eyes.

"No you dumb bitch!" Hoyt barks, "Still got five left. Don't count if YOU don't count."

That's not fair! Doris wants to scream. Her ass is pure agony and he's telling her those last couple didn't count. Even Bondage Man wouldn't be so cruel. Surely. 

Bondage Man doesn't exist you dummy, a sneering voice chimes in her head reminiscent of her grandmother, he was some well hung model. Got paid to be there like those big-titted whores. 

This is the real deal, missy. This asshole ain't letting you off easy. He wants you to suffer. You want this to end, play by his goddamn rules.

He's still rebuking her.

"Keep gettin' it wrong and I'll keep givin' you extra. Got it?"

Doris nods, trying to steel herself. She's on her own. Has to save herself.

"Yessir."

Hoyt growls,

"What's the count then, private pussycat?"

"F-five left, s-sir."

She winces as Hoyt unexpectedly caresses the tender flesh of her ass cheek.

"Good honey," he murmurs, "That's real good. You count fer your commandin' officer, okay."

"Yessir," she blurts.

He pats the bruised flesh and she bites back a scream. Waits for him to pull back. Braces herself for the next strike. It comes, the pain worsening. She vainly tries to concentrate on the count.

"F-five s-sir."

"That's it honey!" Hoyt growls excitedly and Doris blearily feels another gush of slickness between her quivering thighs, "Again!"

Crack! Pain. Her eyes are blurred with tears. 

"F-four, sir," she sobs, then another in rapid succession, "T-three!"

"Three what?"

She fights the blinding fog of pain. She wants to crumble and roll into a ball. She claws at the vanilla-scented quilt like a life raft, wet with her tear spatters. 

"T-t-three sir."

She jerks as he presses close, feels the hardened crotch of his stolen trousers against her aching rear. Scratches into her tender flesh as he leans over her shoulder, breathing on her neck.

She can feel the pattern of scorching marks the belt has left over her skin. Like he's branded her. 

"Lookit those tears huh?" he breathes, rutting his crotch against her painfully and she bites back a scream, "You know it's supposed to hurt right? That's what my Daddy used to say. If you ain't hurt, you ain't sorry."

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches his grin. But up close she swears it's slightly faltering. Maybe it's mention of his Daddy. 

He thrusts off her. 

"About face missy. We ain't done."

Doris looks straight ahead, cheeks wet but determined. Two left. Two.

But her resolve crumbles as soon as the belt makes contact. The impact harder, more remorseless than before. Breaks her. 

"T-wuhhoo," she cries brokenly, tears streaming harder, "S-uh-ah-sir."

Keeps sobbing. It hurts so bad. It burns. Swears he's broken flesh. Feels a trickle of blood. 

"God, you're such a big baby," Hoyt moans appreciatively, "C'mon private. Home stretch. Can't ya just taste the freedom?"

Freedom? There's no freedom. But he knows that. That's why he's grinning. Can't see him but she can hear it in his voice. 

"Tell me you want it."

I don't want this, Doris wants to sob. I want it to stop!

The pain at least. It's like several dozen bee stings. Maybe if she rubbed her pussy, it wouldn't be so bad. Its so slick down there. Be easy for her rub, rub, rub until her body was engulfed in blissful warmth. Her hand starts to unbunch around the fistful of quilt. 

"That's an order," Hoyt snarls and her hand re-clenches the fabric, "Tell me, tell me to give it to ya!"

"Please," she babbles before he gives her another lash that won't count, "Please, gimme... Gimme!"

That's all the coherence she can muster. 

Hoyt laughs,

"Golly I'm really starting to like you."

His tone is strangely sincere, boyish even. 

"Okay princess, since ya asked me so nice..."

She tenses for the final strike. Tenses and waits. Hoyt prolongs her suffering by leaving her in suspense, waiting for her to relax just a tad before he brings the belt down. 

The pain is so dizzying she feels faint. Delirious. There's blood ringing in her ears or maybe it's the echoing sound of leather on flesh. 

And yet there's a sense of elation. She's done it. It's over. It's over...

Not over unless you count, she screams at herself. Say it, quick, the number. 

"Wuh-one sir."

She waits. Tense and in agony. A hand falls on the curve of her ass and she sobs in both discomfort and relief. Because it must be over. It's over because if it wasn't his hand wouldn't be caressing his handiwork.

"Tell me what we learned?" 

Doris blinks, lashes sodden.

"Nuh-not t' look a-at pictures."

"What kinda pictures?"

"L-lewd ones," she chokes out tremulously.

"That's right," his tone almost passes for reassuring, "Unless I'm looking with you. Right?"

The thought makes her shiver. 

"Yes'sir," she sniffs.

"Good girl," his fingertips trail over the patterns the belt has scorched on her flesh. Stops at a particularly painful spot, must be where the skin broke, Doris hisses as he fingers the small wound. Hears him moan as he suckles the blood off his finger.

"Trust me you got off easy. My daddy wouldn't let me off with only six lashes."

He trails off, in his own world of memory. She sniffles, the sound bringing him back to the present. 

"Still, six is enough," he chuckles, "Hurt sittin' down tomorrow."

Hurts now as he gives her ass a sswot. 

"How 'bout a reward," she finds herself pulled upright and whirled around, pain flaring at the motion, "Being such a good sport. Would you like a reward, dumplin'?"

He grins at her with fake sincerity. Doris eyes him uneasily. Reward sounded like a trap. Not like he'd let her go. 

"W-what kinda reward?" 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Doris Hoyt is hungry.

Doris is hungrier than she's ever felt in her life. Even as a child when her daddy dropped her off at her grandmother's. The Hewitts aren't feeding her scrambled eggs. Even from her own hen who now resides in a dilapitated coop with a few straggly sisters. No eggs. No bread. Not even a lump of sugar. Nothing but muddish water. Her fake husband has decreed it. 

"Figure you need to starve a little," he pinched her cheek while she lay cuffed to his bed, "Experience what me and mama gone through. Then you'll be grateful to eat folks like your ol' husband. Or, you can die..." 

Said it in a blank voice as he fingered her nipples through her nightgown, a chill running up her spine, broke through the soreness of a night spent hand-cuffed and sleeping on a whipped ass.

"Fade away on nothing but air and your own stupidity. Know which one I'd choose."

Meat. Meat comprised her dead husband.

At least at first. There's more bodies now. Six in total. A veritable smorgasbord of human flesh. 

But Doris still refuses. Because it's a choice, she's not being force-fed with a gun to her head. Hoyt has been devilishly clever devising this scheme. Why force her to be damned when she can damn herself. Doris can already feel the flames licking at her feet - the sexual perversities she's indulging in. 

Perversities she was forced to indulge in. Kept reminding herself it was rape. What Hoyt was doing was rape. And he was imprisoning her against her will, denying her access to anything that wasn't human flesh. Doing everything in his power in the hope she would resort to cannibalism. 

Cannibalism and hellfire. For Christianly folk the Hewitts don't seem all too bothered about the latter. Hoyt always says grace at every supper, thanks God for His bounty. Like the Lord provided them those poor souls to feast upon. Says it with complete conviction. Same with Luda Mae when she echoes 'Amen'. 

Doris watches with disbelief and a little envy. That they can be so assured that their evil is blessed by God. So at peace with their wickedness. How they smile and sigh afterwards with plump bellies. 

Doris watches and tries not to seduced. Tries not to be swayed into their demented way of thinking. But with each passing second, with that cavernous hole in her stomach, she's tempted. 

Each time she's forced to sit at the table in Monty's old spot. Old man doesn't complain. He's got bigger problems. He's lost his legs - well, lost perhaps isn't the most accurate for limbs sawn off by a chainsaw. He's fighting infection under the care of his older sister. 

Doris might feel sorry for the man. But he's a Hewitt like the rest. Wasn't like he was trying to sneak her food under the table, even before he was catatonicly drooling. Being spoonfed like a baby by Luda Mae. Honestly Dottie thinks she's enjoying having an infant to fuss over, way she fusses and wipes his chin. 

God knows she has none of that maternal energy for her grandson, poor little Jed. Even Tommy she's speaks more firmly to - not as harshly as she does Hoyt but firm. He's not her poor tormented boy anymore. He's a multiple murderer. Maybe she's even a little scared of him. Doris is, though she does her best to greet him cheerfully, tries not to focus on the fact he's wearing a dead boy's face at supper. Tries not to think about him slitting that blonde girl's throat like a hog. 

Tries not to recall - in the midst of her horror, a flicker of satisfaction, because Hoyt felt that girl up and bragged about it. The strange fury she felt, fury instead of pity, because why would Hoyt molest this girl when he's had Doris at his mercy, doing all manner of sordid things? Inspiration lifted from the pages of the smutty magazine she stupidly confessed about. Magazine that wasn't under the mattress when he drove them to look. 

Because a certain pervert had discovered it, taken it back to the house instead of the heavy mattress. Something Hoyt deduced after an initial explosion of anger, smacked Doris in the face. Gave her a black eye. Smacked Monty too when he accosted him to hand it over. Rolled it up and beat it across his head like he was a naughty puppy. 

"I tell you you could help yourself to this? I find any trace of you on any'a these pages I'm gonna castrate you."

Then he eagerly starting flicking through the pages. Whistled loudly.

"Boy howdy Dottie, you sure weren't fibbing. Look at these gals!"

He rolled it up again, chuckled at Monty flinching when he feigned going to hit him again. Tapped it mockingly on his head.

"Surprised you ain't gave yourself a heart attack, old man. Shit like this ain't fit for no ordinary peeper. Right Dottie?"

Looked at her in a wolfish way that made her shiver. Made her almost forget the swell of her bruised eye as he dragged her away. 

For his curiosity Monty hadn't soiled any pages. His dick was spared. Doris was almost disappointed, since he was responsible for her black eye. Had failed to safely transport her cat collection too. Her heart sunk when Hoyt allowed her to unpack them. Saw a broken ear, a broken tail. Most of them were intact but it was another hard blow. Seeing the cats she had so carefully dusted and polished missing pieces. 

But now Monty is missing pieces. Despite her horror at Hoyt giving an order to amputate two legs instead of the wounded one, she remembers thinking callously: you deserve it. You deserve it for what you did to my poor cats. Though if vengeance was really being served, that biker would have killed Hoyt when he ambushed him, not been overpowered by Tommy. 

Hoyt has more luck than his uncle it seemed. Hadn't exactly been left unscathed. One of the brothers - the blonde girl's boyfriend - had broken his nose slamming it into the ground. Doris might have felt satisfaction but the pain of the injury led Hoyt to drink. Drunk Hoyt was crueller than his sober counterpart, especially when the booze effected his ability to perform. She still wore imprints of his frustration around her neck. 

Isn't the only time he's done it either in the time she's been trapped here. The exact number of days she's lost track. Her famished mind wanders and plays tricks. Surely she would have perished by now if it's been more than a few days. What she does know for certain is two times Hoyt was yelling in his sleep and reached for her throat. 

The first time she had still had strength to thrash about in panic. Woke Hoyt who snapped at her for waking him up, snorted when she tried to tell him he was having a bad dream. But his breath was erratic and she swore his voice trembled when he berated her. Despite his ire, he shifted to cling to her, face in her breasts like she was his mama. Listened to his breath slowly even until he drifted back to sleep.

Doris didn't. She lay awake trembling, her throat on fire. Filled with realization she was in bed with a man who could kill her in his sleep. But she couldn't resist sleep forever. Not with Hoyt's lustful demands and her body deprived of fuel. Both left her too weary to starve off sleep. So she slept, until she was roused by Hoyt's muffled growl in the dark, a sudden clenching force around her neck.

"Killyoucommiepig!" 

Maybe it was the war movie they watched on Doris' stolen TV. Usually it was more light-hearted fare. Gomer Pyle and Green Acres. He and Monty seemed to both like ogling Eva Gabor. Doris sat next to him faint with hunger, barely able to follow the plot on the flickering screen. But she noticed the tension in Hoyt's body as he watched, way his free hand - one not squeezing her thigh, clenched into a fist over and over like a nervous tic. 

Finally he leapt to his feet.

"I don't need to watch this shit! I lived it. Bunch of Hollywood faggots playin' make believe. Pansy asses wouldn't last two seconds if they was knee high in the real shit."

He hauled Doris to her feet, ignoring his mama looking up from her darning. Towed Doris towards his room like a rag doll. Threw her down like one too. Straddled her and crushed her under his weight.

"People think they know but they can't."

The statement surprises her. The melancholy underpining the anger. Way he looms over her with his head slumped. The look in his eyes, lost look, like he's back there, in that freezing camp, hungry and weak. 

Doris shouldn't pity him. She should be glad those communists made him suffer. Like he's making her suffer. Starving her, way they starved him. Well not quite, those commies weren't serving up a meal each night inviting him to eat. They wanted him to painfully perish. Hoyt wants her to eat, to live. Live in eternal damnation and sin but live nonetheless.

Hoyt blinks, focusing on her like a serpent, all angry eyes and teeth.

"Even you, pussycat," he grabs her chin, "Probably think this is suffering but it's all self inflicted. Prisoner to your own fucking stubbornness."

Doris winces as he stabs a finger into her hollow belly. Smirks at her discomfort.

"But don't worry, I'm plenty stubborn too. You ain't the toughest nut I've cracked."

He wriggles down her body, throws her skirt up. Gives her a lewd look before he descends, licks a stripe up her inner thigh, the sensation a volt of electricity. She quivers. She moistens. Hoyt nuzzling her thigh. Like a cat.

He is a cat, she's come to find. He's an old tomcat, swaggering around, yowling and hissing. Mean old cat. Kind of cat you'd like to kick but he's quick with his claws. Not rabid, that's his nephew, but cunning. Cat that likes to play with his food, torture it before devouring. 

Mercurial cat too. Prone to bursts of affection. Cuddles up like some needy house cat. Wants head strokes and tender words - no matter if they're forced. Curls up purring against her chest - way her husband never did. New Hoyt never turns his back on her to sleep. 

But for now he bites, bites her thigh. Not teasing or gentle but hard, enough to leave an angry imprint of teeth. Doris rides the ebb of pain, hears her own trembling breath mingled with Hoyt's smug chuckle. He peers up between her thighs.

"In fact, you're pretty easy."

Doris whimpers. Because it's no word of a lie. Hoyt fingers the grooves of the bite mark with his tongue and she wishes he would lave that kind of attention on her cunt. But he keeps tracing his handiwork, the still pulsing teeth mark.

Doris lies back, lets herself fall into a daze. It's nicer, just to lose herself. Pretend. The slickness seems to overwhelm the hunger. Instead tonguing her pussy - despite crowing about his prowess, he's never demonstrated. Instead he rubs his erection through her folds, thrusting up against her spot.

But that's nice too. Who knew rape could be nice? Or maybe it only feels bad to nice girls. Doris isn't a nice girl. 

Doris is a Bondage Babe. 

"You like that honey?" Bondage Man croons while she whimpers prettily, "Let's skip the book tonight. Jus' some ol' fashioned loving huh? Get all up inside this pussy. Then I'm gonna cum all over ya face."

And all that seems to put him in a good mood. Old tomcat cuddles up to her after she's wiped traces of him off her face, the taste of it lingering on her tongue, the back of her throat. 

"You know most of the soldiers in the camp, they had wives n' sweethearts back home," he murmurs against her breast, "Kinda irritated me. All I had waitin' for me was my mama."

"None of them made it home," Doris whispers.

You ate them. 

She can still feel the imprint of his teeth on her thigh. Faintly stinging. But she's too exhausted to feel the full extent of her nausea. Too hungry. She thinks of the bowl of chili she refused to eat at supper. Human chili, though you'd swear it could be beef. Person could probably eat it without knowing the difference. Eat it and be sated.

Her stomach gurgles. Thinking about that bowl of chili. Bowl of chili still waiting for her in the icebox. Could ask Hoyt to reheat it...

Could pretend... only she can't pretend. There's no such thing as blissful ignorance. 

Like knowing Sergeant Major Charles Hewitt Jr. fed on friend and foe alike, not caring to make a distinction. 

He chuckles,

"Guess you're right," his finger twists in one of her limp curls, "Still, woulda been nice telling those boys I was gonna make it home to a cute gal like you."

A school girl, Doris thinks. She was sixteen when Charlie left for Korea. Suppose younger girls than that got themselves hitched. His mama had him at fourteen, to her own uncle. No reason for Charlie to flinch at the idea of a sixteen year old bride.

She imagines his old car sidling up the road as she walked home, offered her a ride. Managed to persuade Jed's dead mama to hop in. Not sure if he did it through sweet talk or threat. Inclined to think the latter. Probably drove around with his rifle Marilyn. Imagines herself staring down the barrel.

"You deaf?" he'd snap when she'd try to stammer refusal, "I'm offering you a lift. Don't spit in the eye of charity. Quit testing my patience n' get in the car."

Then she'd be in the passenger side, letting him drive her along some lonely back road, telling her it was a short cut. Jed's mama might have believed that, out of towner like her. But Doris would have known it wasn't the way to her grandmother's. Even if she was too afraid to voice it. This man made her stammer more than Lottie. Even when he attempted to be kindly.

"Why you trembling huh? Ain't hurt you. Driving is better than walking. Shouldn't walk alone anyhow. Never know who you might come across. Times like these, men take what they can get."

Then, parked in some backwood, him wrenching her skirt up the way she'd fantasized Avery doing, hand clenched over her sobbing mouth.

"Don't scream pussycat. Ain't no one can help you. These woods belong to the Hewitts. I can do whatever I want. You're a plain lil thing but you'll do, oh you'll do just fine."

Would have been proper virgin for him back then. Bled over his cock. Wouldn't have been inclined to pull out either. Shot his load then pressed kisses all over her wet face. 

"You're even better n' I thought. Think I'm in love," while he rubbed all over her like a cat, large body smothering her, "Suppose we better get hitched. Hate to leave you an unwed mama while I'm off killing commies. Folks around here are awful judge-y about whores. Better to be a soldier's wife. Hewitt wife. We been here six generations. Be joining a legacy. Aren't you happy?"

While tears streamed down her face and his seed ran down her legs. Seed that she fears will take root, leave her a disgraced woman if she refuses to marry her rapist. One who looped his arm around her trembling body, like they were going steady, relished her tears.

"You're a crybaby," she imagines him chuckling - because he's said the same thing to her in real life, "I do like me a crybaby."

And despite her horror, maybe she might not have minded Charlie petting her hair and cooing endearments. Hugging her. No one ever hugged her. Not her grandmother. Her dead daddy. Her mama who cuddled their chickens. Not Avery even though she dreamed of him putting his tanned arms around her. Even his sister, her best friend.

Would have amused and disgusted her. Paramour like Charlie. Hoyt was old even back then. Suzy would have teased her worse than she did her crush on her brother. Doris swore she mentioned Avery in her letters to taunt her.

Suzy wasn't a real nice friend but she was the only one she had. Grandmother used to say she was lucky to have such a pretty well-to-do girl deign to be her acquaintance. Cooed over her when she visited, allowed Suzy to parade her old gowns, try on her lipsticks - things Doris would never be allowed to do. Suzy was the grand daughter she wanted, a statesque raven-haired goddess. 

Doris would watch her coo and fuss over Suzy until she had to go home. Then as soon as the door closed she'd call her a tramp. Doris felt it was only a half-insult. Her grandmother never had a good word to say about anyone but probably saw herself in Suzy. Sly girl who could make her looks work for her. Which she had. 

Girl like Suzy could do that. Doris didn't have so many options. That's why she'd married Hoyt - the old one. Maybe she would have married Charlie too. Even though his family was dirt poor, she'd been desperate to get away from her grandmother. Wasn't like he was a cannibal then. An alcoholic and bad-tempered, yes, a rapist...

She wonders how old Jed's mama was when she died birthing him. Old enough to have been hitch-hiking on her lonesome. Not a school girl. 

"You gotta eat something tomorrow," Hoyt's voice breaks through her thoughts.

His voice is gruff, still pressed to her breast. One hand roves over her empty stomach.

"You have to eat, dumplin'. Think now is bad, can get a lot worse."

Which it does in a way Hoyt doesn't expect. He's deep in commie killing dream as he throttles her. She's too weak to dislodge him, her hand is still cuffed and she has no voice to rouse him. Amid her body's natural instinct to panic, there's something more insidious. A feeling to let it happen, let herself slip away into darkness. Surely the Lord will have watched her suffering and allow her into Heaven. 

But He's also watched her indulge in other sins of flesh with a cannibal. Unwed, licentious sin. There's no guarantee of paradise. 

Should have eaten the meat, an internal voice reminiscent of Lottie huffs, going to Hell anyway. Always were, you were born in sin. Your mama couldn't consent to the act that made you, had the brains of a duck. Surprised she didn't accidentally drown you in the bath thinking you were a doll. Those chickens soothed her more than you did. You were hellspawn from Bill Sawyer's loins. 

You belong in this den of sinners, bride to this monster. 

Be feeling Hell's fire if you let him kill you. Need to live. 

Need to...

Doris feebly raises her knee to wedge her foot between his legs. Doesn't kick. No strength but even her brain rapidly losing oxygen knows she's better off not kicking a sleeping giant to wake him. Rubs her foot against his crotch, Hoyt moaning as it hardens, his hands slowly easing their stronghold and she sucks in air. Feels Hoyt rutting against her foot like a dog, emits a growling whine. 

"Hate you," she rasps in the dark. 

She hates herself. Her cowardice. Wishes she had the nerve to say it to his face. To kick his crotch. But she lays there submitting to his urges the same way she does when he's awake. Hoyt shifts closer, his erection hitting her hip where it continues to thrust. 

He's still asleep or at least she thinks so. His breath comes out in growling huffs. Then she felt hot dampness staining her gown, Hoyt going limp with a sigh. Soon he was snoring, deaf to Doris' whimpers of relief tinged with disgust. 

Is woken some time later to Hoyt's weight crushing her.

"Roll call!" he cries gleefully, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed, everything Doris isn't, groaning underneath him, fragile and tired and weak from hunger, "Let me hear you, private."

"Yes, S-sergeant, sir," Doris forces out, "Re-reporting for duty."

Earns her a groan of approval as he uncuffs her, her wrist bandaged because the cuff chafed her skin so much it bled. She tries to rub life back into her arm as her gown is hoisted up,

"Yes you are."

His morning wood is suddenly inside her like an eel and her feeble gasp is dwarfed by his louder groan, can feel his veiny girth slithering inside her channel, his breath scorches her ear.

"I had a dream about you. Thought it was Marilyn at first but you was wearin' her dress. The slutty one she wore singing Happy Birthday to Kennedy. You looked real cute n' we ate commie hog roast."

Doris moans, her stomach panging, insides twisting from the angry stretch of Hoyt ramming into her cunt, fucks her hard and quick, words coming out in an excited tangent. 

"Your dress got all filthy n' I ripped it off. Fucked like animals with full bellies."

Doris feels saliva in her mouth. It's been so long since she felt full. Only empty. She's so empty. Hungry. She sobs, a broken sound that's muffled as Hoyt rolls her on her stomach, drives into her again. Wrenches her hair that's dull and limp like the rest of her. 

"You know I'm startin' to like gingers more'n blondes."

His hand slips under her belly to root between her legs - must be in a good mood, strokes the place that makes sunshine break through the darkness. Brief euphoric sunshine then cold bleak reality as Hoyt splashes his seed over her buttocks. 

Is launched back into disgust and self-hatred and hunger, Hoyt cooing familiar endearments in her ear "love you pussycat", trying not to believe them, knowing his mood will change at breakfast when she refuses to eat last night's leftovers. 

Chapter Text

Hoyt is one thing, his mother is another. Her mood never changes. Not when it comes to Doris. Treats her with a mix of suspicion and authority. Grumbles when Hoyt leaves her in her care and sharply designates her chores - always in her view. Dusting. Ironing. Washing. Helping her in the kitchen - the most tortuous of all. Not because they're cooking meat - Hoyt helps her with that. Instead she fetches ingredients for her to bake biscuits, endures the tantalising smell of them baking. 

Watches Luda Mae's behemoth of a sister scoff them down, along with a pitcher of sweet tea. Woman seems the reverse of Luda Mae in her temperament. But her agreeableness must be skin deep. A sweet-natured woman wouldn't look at a starving prisoner - feet tied to the chair she'd been unceremoniously pushed in - remarking in a cheerful drawl,

"How nice for Junior to have a bride. And soon you'll be blessed with grand children, Luda Mae."

"Ain't holding my breath," Luda Mae replied, "And he's calling himself Hoyt now. Have to remember. He gets awful worked up about it."

"Aw he's just like his daddy. Such a temper," she pauses, pats Luda Mae's arm before reaching for another biscuit, "But, er, Hoyt is it? Yes he looks so smart in his uniform. Imagine, our family in law enforcement."

She gives a breathless giggle. Luda Mae's lips actually twitch in amusement.

"She's a Sawyer isn't she," she's talking about Doris but asking Luda Mae, "Billy's girl. My, he was a rascal. God rest his soul."

"You knew my Daddy," Doris blurts, Luda Mae frowning in disapproval. 

Meanwhile her sister smiles, strange too bright smile. Something off putting about it. Not quite right. She's starting to see a resemblance with the Hewitt women. They're more cunning than they appear.

"Oh honey, everyone in Fuller knew your daddy," she sips her sweet tea, smacks her lips in a satisfied way that makes Doris' stomach gurgle. Same when she reaches for the last biscuit. Her small eyes go wide, "Oh my stars, you a Horton too aren't you."

She devours the biscuit, licks her fingers to collect the crumbs. Doris watches miserably. 

"Oh Luda, they were divine. You do spoil me."

Luda Mae grunts at the praise, a hint of a smile on her face. The chair housing the bigger woman creaks under her weight as she leans towards Doris, 

"I remember your granddaddy. I was tea lady when he owned the factory, back when I was just a slip of a girl," she pats the large expanse of her hips, chortling a little, "He just loved my brew. Loved him an ample gal too, if you know what I mean."

She winks at Doris,

"Man couldn't keep his hands to himself, no sir. Amazed I could pour with him..."

"Dora," Luda Mae sighs. 

Her sister chortles.

"Not sure why he married a skinny beanpole like your grandma," she tells Doris, "Why I'm sure if he hadn't shot himself, he woulda divorced that sourpuss, made me the next Mrs. Horton. Woulda been the belle of Fuller. Got me a Royal Albert teapot."

She seems to ignore the sceptical look on her sister's face. 

"Horton wasn't her granddaddy," Luda Mae says gruffly, "Miss Rosie wasn't his child."

Takes Doris a moment to register she's talking about her mother. Fact she calls her Miss Rosie, not Rosemary. 

"Oh thats right," her sister hums, "Daddy was some Hollywood fella wasn't he. So scandalous, child born outta wedlock."

"You'd know," Luda Mae quips, causing the other woman to laugh, chin wobbling.

"Oh I do, five times over. Do it over again too. I love me a gentleman caller."

Luda Mae grunts,

"Be Henrietta's turn now."

The other woman smiles,

"Oh yes, my poor gal is itching to get knocked up."

She looks at Doris, her small eyes reptilian in her plump face. 

"Must be nice to have help around the house."

Luda Mae huffs,

"For as long as it lasts."

By which she meant, as long as you last. 

"You do nails honey?" her sister croons at Doris, "My Etta does mine but she's a lil sloppy. Doesn't quite have the knack for the beauty products."

"Used to do my grandmother's," Doris mumbles, noticing the way Luda Mae's eyes widen before they narrow.

This was before the hunger made her hands tremble too much. Luda Mae's sister is pleased with the result. 

"Oh she is a keeper," she cooed, waving her freshly painted nails. 

Luda Mae grunted. Snorted when Doris asked if she wanted hers done.

"Who am I trying to impress?" 

Gives her a challenging look, as if to say you can't win me over with some pretty polish. Doris wants to sneer back, I ain't trying to impress you. 

But out of all of them - even Hoyt and Tommy, it's Luda Mae who seems the most dangerous. Jed wouldn't hurt a fly - well he would. He doesn't mind torturing a bug or two but that's all little boys isn't it? Gives him a pass time. Monty's even less of threat, wheelchair bound and up until recently mostly incoherent. 

Tommy, when Tommy isn't sequestered in his basement, gives her a stiff nod when she waves at him across the super table. Doesn't look at her though, those eyes staring out of that dead boy's decaying face bore holes in his supper. Progress she supposes. At least he's not dragging her downstairs by the hair. Hasn't glimpsed the true horrors down there and never wants to. 

Right now she's sweeping the porch. Or at least sweeping is what Luda Mae ordered her to do. In her current state she only has the strength to feebly push the broom around. Mostly she's leaning on the handle, fighting heavy eyelids and an aching belly. Jed's on his haunches nearby. Whenever she's outside he tails her like a little dog. Been doing it since Hoyt told him she was his new mama. 

Trailed her from a distance at first. Could feel his eyes watching her whenever she swept the porch or brought the washing in. Luda Mae never sent her to collect the eggs - that awful woman knew she couldn't be trusted not to crack one and suck out the yolk. Same reason she kept her out of the vegetable garden. There'd been arguement between her and Hoyt about her working in the store. Luda Mae was resistant. 

"Her face is all busted up n' she's wearing that goddamn bell."

She points at the old goat bell that Hoyt forced on Doris' neck in a moment of inspiration. Padlocked it at the back so she couldn't take it off. Tinkled when she moved. Made it if she tried to run they could hear it. Track her. Tommy at least. Charge after her like a bear, pierce her with a meat hook and drag her back to the house.

Hoyt scoffed at his mother,

"Them bikers won't blink at a black eye. Beat their women like its a sport. Don't like the bell, take it off. Chain her to the counter by the ankle so folk can't see it n' keep an eye on her."

"That's more work fer me. Lord knows I got my hands full with Monty."

She gave him a pointed look that Hoyt ignored.

"Fever's broken."

"So what?" Luda Mae argues, "Legs won't grow back. Be stuck in a chair rest of his life. For the life of me I don't know why you got Tommy to take both. Would have only needed a cane."

"Easy to think of shit like that after the fact. Heat of the moment I figured they needed to be even."

"Even!"

"Identical, you know, for balance."

He mimes a scale.

"He can't never walk again. He doesn't need balance. Have you even apologized?"

"Why should I apologize?" Hoyt says petulantly, "Tommy cut his legs off."

"Don't give me that. Thomas would have done nothing without your say so. So don't try to weasel out of this, Charles Ezek..."

"It's Hoyt!" Hoyt cuts her off, "How many times I gotta tell you, Charlie's dead."

He glares, panting a little from his outburst. Luda Mae stares back, expression stony. 

"Charlie ain't dead," she says softly, "God knows I buried enough your brothers n' sisters to know."

Hoyt's irritation cedes into discomfort. 

"Mama..." he sighs, but she holds up a hand.

"Renaming yourself is one thing. I've tried not to take offence. But Monty," she shakes her head, "Know you ain't that fond of him but he's blood. To show no remorse at all for... For incapacitating him..."

"I saw his wound and took action," Hoyt argues, more weary of the conversation now than defensive, "Method mighta been a tad extreme but I meant well. He's alive."

Luda Mae huffs,

"Thanks to me n' the Grace of God."

Hoyt seems to suppress a snort.

"We're truly indebted to you, mama," he grits out, forcing a smile that makes her scowl.

"Oh hush your flattery. No one cares how hard I work. Even your brother shut downstairs. All o' you go about your business, not sparing a damn thought less it's something you need me for."

"That's not true mama," Hoyt's voice is a strange mix of frustrated man and childish whine, "We appreciate you, especially me. You n' me are brains of this whole operation."

"Oh?" Luda crosses her arms, "Co-commanders are we?"

Hoyt grimaces.

"Well... not quite..."

"Why not? Don't like the idea of being equals with your mother?"

"You know the way things are done," Hoyt answers, eye twitching as Luda Mae turns her back slightly, like they're lovers feuding instead of mother and son - or at least it seems to Doris resting against Hoyt in a ravenous fugue, there's something a bit Oedipal about their relationship.

"Don't be upset," Hoyt groans.

"I ain't upset," Luda Mae takes a severe drawl on her cigarette, "Learn a long time not to get my hopes up," she pauses, gaze sharpening as it shifts to Doris, "She didn't put you up to it?"

"Up to what?"

Luda Mae blows smoke.

"Monty."

Doris tenses under her accusing gaze. Listens Hoyt to snort.

"Hell you talking about it. Doris wasn't even there."

She'd been cuffed to the bed.

Luda Mae shrugs, 

"Maybe she got in your ear," her eyes never leave Doris as she raises her cigarette to her lips, "Be in her interests to turn you against us. Starting with Monty. Made such a fuss about them broken figurines."

She sneers at Doris' flinch.

"Oh you're paranoid, mama," Hoyt growls, "Dottie was upset about them pussies but she ain't said an ill word about Monty. Even if she did, you think I'd be gullible enough to listen?"

"Seem awful taken with her," Luda Mae sniffs, "Wouldn't be the first man let a woman dull his common sense."

"Nothing dull about my senses. Dottie is my wife and she knows who her master is. I ain't letting you sow seeds of discontent where there ain't none."

Luda Mae only huffs. Hoyt's jaw clenches. Nudges Doris who almost collapses. 

"You're awful sorry about Monty's current state, aren't you dumplin'? Tell mama."

"Spare me the pretty puppet act," Luda Mae huffs before Doris can summon the energy to speak. She hones back on Hoyt, "She ain't my problem, she's yours. I'll put her to work around here but that's it."

Her gaze flicks back to Doris, lolling against Hoyt like some wilted, trampled flower. 

"Barely work anyway, state she's in. Don't eat somethin' soon, she's as good as done for."

"She'll eat, mama, Hoyt growled, "I know she will."

Luda Mae grunts as she bustles past.

"We'll see."

Doris blinks the memory away, still leaning on her broom like a crutch. Jed's still on his haunches, head down. Maybe he's studying a bug. She glances at the window for sign of Luda Mae, sees no glaring spectacled face staring back. Drops her broom and makes her way down the stairs, bell tinkling, so much she half expects Mrs. Hewitt to burst out the front door, thinking she's escaping, hollering for Hoyt or Tommy. 

But she makes it down the steps without intervention. Reaches Jed who's watching her approach like a skittish stray, unsure whether to bolt. She musters a small tired smile. He smiles back, or rather grimaces, like smiling doesn't come naturally - no relatives smile at him, even his own father. 

He's not a pretty child. Even a little unnerving, has a little of Hoyt's unblinking stare along with his big ears. His body is spider thin and he has an overbite. He's dirty too, he's not wearing shoes. Luda Mae doesn't deign to cut his nails. Doris has a queasy feeling she might still clip his father's, like she irons his pants. Trims his hair. 

Things her darling Tommy won't allow her to do, ever since his facial affliction. Won't let her comb his hair. Clean the human filth from under his nails. Hoyt is at least particular about cleanliness. Doesn't walk around with blood stained clothes. 

His son in his dirty overalls, on the other hand. Hoyt couldn't give much of a shit about that.

Doris peers over the boy's scrawny shoulder. Sees his attention wasn't on a bug. He's been drawing in the dirt. A crude cat-like shape, probably quite advanced for his age and lack of education. 

"That's a nice drawing."

Jed's brow furrows. 

"Wha'drawin'?"

Because he's never been told what drawing is. Just started making patterns, realized those patterns could form images. A cat. Maybe the barn cat Hoyt mentioned, presumed dead at Tommy's hand. 

Jed chews a dirty nail.

"Stop chewing on your finger, honey," she says.

He stares, still gnawing. Takes him a moment, there's a little of his father's stubborness but none of ire. There's a desire to please. His finger pops from his mouth and he looks at her with big eyes. 

She points, 

"That's drawing. What you did on the ground."

"Oh," Jed does his little smile-grimace, "Draw-in'."

He gazes at it, guiding his finger obliviously back to his mouth. Doris reaches to halt it. The contact makes him start, flinch even. Used to Luda Mae or his father's harsh beratings. Doris only grasps the tiny wet digit a moment then ruffles the boy's hair. It's greasy and matted. 

"Its a cat?"

"Y'r," Jed nods, pleased. She strokes his hair again, feels him lurch meekly into her touch. 

She flinches at the sound of the door creaking as its roughly forced open. The sound of familiar boot treads. Can picture them so vividly in her mind, taste the leather on her tongue. The texture of the laces. How they feel against her cunt. She shivers against Jed as a shadow falls over her. 

"There you are, pussycat," her husband croons.

Doris looks at the boy she's hunched over and forces herself to weakly straighten. Twists to see Hoyt, razor smile and hard eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. Shadows that mask the bruising from his still healing face. 

Has one arm behind his back, like he's hiding something. Makes her anxious. Last time he did that he pulled out damn goat bell.

Marilyn, rifle not the dead actress, is strapped over his shoulder. 

"H-hi honey," she says, watching his grin widen. She's learnt Hoyt likes forced endearments as much as being called sheriff or sergeant. 

He crooks a finger. Doris wearily heaves herself up the steps, her feet like lead. Hoyt catches her arm and hauls her up the last step. She hits his chest, rests against him almost gratefully.

"Finished the work mama gave you?"

Doris nods, bell tinkling. Hoyt makes a noise of approval in his throat.

"Won't bitch at me then?"

"M-might still."

Comment makes Hoyt laugh then sigh.

"Ha probably, that woman's a pain in the ass."

Doris licks her dry lips, feeling another wave of feebleness wash over her. Fights through it though all she wants to do is curl up in a ball and sleep. Sleep and hopes she wakes up to find this was all some nightmarish dream. Even if she woke up next to that bore Winnie snapping at her to make breakfast. Her mouth starts to salivate thinking about herself in the kitchen, frying bacon. Her stomach pangs so intensely she almost doubles over. 

Hoyt's saying something, still complaining about Luda Mae. Doris waits for him to pause in his rant.

"Will you ask her about B-bianca?" 

"Oh," Hoyt says carelessly, "Darn it if that doesn't keep slipping my mind."

He gives her a mocking smile as if to say: I don't give two shits about that fucking cat. 

Doris supposes in her current state she shouldn't either. 

"Jed drew a cat."

"That's swell," Hoyt says, without so much as glancing at the dirt etching.

Doesn't acknowledge Jed either - the boy's making himself as small as possible, like an anxious pup. His father squeezes Doris' buttock, the bell tinkling as she groans - he whipped her again, after his arguement with Luda Mae and it still hurt. A more seering pain than her empty stomach. Stomach that twists in knots as Hoyt's stinking breath nuzzles her ear, 

"Got a surprise for you," he purrs, "Thought it might be nice to treat you."

He pulls a wicker basket from behind his back, the contents covered by grimy old muslin. 

"Picnic."

Doris gawks at him. Picnic. He wants to go on a...

"Well," he growls at her lack of answer, "Ain't you happy?"

The fuck would I be happy, she wants to scream. Can't see the contents but she can imagine the fare he's packed. Same fare he's been trying to get her to eat for days. 

This isn't some romantic gesture. It's more manipulation. Tempt her to eat. Prove his mama wrong. 

"C-can Jed come?" she ends up pleading. 

Because the boy's presence might at least cheer her. 

But Hoyt snorts,

"No."

He looks at her if she's asked a ridiculous sort of question. 

"Hell I want a kid ruining our good time?" he whirls on his offspring, sneers at his pitiful look of him.

Doris wonders if his own daddy looked at him like that. At least his daddy took him on outings. Hoyt treats Jed like stray cat that keeps hanging around. Doesn't seem to have any paternal feelings for him in the slightest. 

Jed looks at his dirty feet despondently. His eyes flick to Doris pleading, like she's got any kind of say in the matter. 

"Go on, get!" Hoyt snaps. Jed quickly scurries, Hoyt hollering, "Ask ya grandma if you can help her."

Doris bites her tongue. What's the point sending him to Luda Mae. She'll look at him as derisively as her son does, tell him to skedaddle, ain't got time fer baby-sitting.

Doris wonders where he'll slink off to then? The barn, curl up in the dirty straw, wait for his new "mother" to come home. Maybe she should tell him to cuddle the chickens like her mama used to. Always comforted her more than her daughter ever could.

Something joins hunger clawing in her belly. Guess her mama and daddy didn't care much for her either. Maybe that's why she pities Jed. 

She looks down at his drawing in the dirt. Maybe she could persuade Hoyt to give the boy a paper and pencil. Tommy used to draw before his interest in sewing took over. A chill runs up her spine, thinking about Tommy's new mask. Had a mouth hole so Tommy never took it off, even at supper. 

Might turn her stomach if she wasn't so hungry. 

She's so hungry. So hungry she doesn't mind the abomination on Tommy's face. So hungry the smell wafting from that pot of stewed human flesh is the most heavenly thing she's ever smelt. 

But it's in the Devil's nature to tempt. So she keeps refusing when Hoyt goes to fill her bowl. Watches the rage sweep over his face before he manages to choke it down. Gives her an amiable shrug - your choice, dumplin'. Then he fetches one of her cats after dinner, along with a hammer that Luda Mae called a family antique. 

She's not sure if it was out of some shred of affection that he smashed the broken ones first. But boy did he savour the sight of tears rolling down her cheeks. 

Took her to the bedroom, unleashed his pent-up anger and arousal. Picked a page for them to recreate. Makes her lick his boots or his cock, the debasement a warm up to some form of penetration. Whatever page he's selected. When it comes to detail, Hoyt's a perfectionist. His boots even gleam the way Bondage Man's did in the pictures. 

Lost track of exactly how many pages they've recreated. Its all one big debauched blur, punctuated by sleep and chores, uneaten suppers and broken cats. Evening television sometimes. Baths. 

Warm baths. Hoyt ignores his mama's eye roll about boiling water for her. Doris doubts its born from any kindness. He just prefers her clean so he can dirty her again. Easier to scrub off his semen than heal from the licks of his belt. The back of her is covered in welts while the front is covered in angry love bites. 

He's never come in her, which is a blessing but she hasn't bleed yet either. Something that's starting to irritate him. Perplexes her too when she has a spare moment between Hoyt and her hunger. There's no way she's pregnant. Must be stress or the lack of food delaying it.

It would harder to endure the ordeal while bleeding. But she's not sure how long Hoyt can hold off his desire to finish inside her. Sometimes in her hunger-dulled mind she even thinks it would be easier. Less mess. But she still licks it off her face. Its sustenance. Its what a proper Bondage Babe would do. 

And it helps, surrendering into that fantasy. She doesn't think about her cats. Or her dead husband. Poor Jed out in the barn. If she behaves she's even allowed to cum. And those moments of estasy are like a small patch of heaven in the midst of the darkness. When she grinds herself on Hoyt's boot or his thigh like she's a dog. Or if he's in a charitable mood, he'll rub her spot. He's gotten quite good at it, viciously good, he treats her body like its a battlefield to conquer, her orgasm is his victory. Makes him smug. 

But she's getting so weak. She's acutely aware of her hip bones starting to jut, her rib cage, especially when Hoyt licks his tongue over them. 

Why are you wasting time on that brat, an inner voice tells her callously, being starved to death. His daddy doesn't care.

His daddy wants to take her on a picnic.

"Let's go pussycat."

He seizes her arm and she stumbles, bell tinkling, Hoyt's grip the only thing keeping her upright. Does her best to weakly fall into step but she's mostly being towed. The blasted bell keeps tinkling and she wants to wrench it off her neck. It's heavy, makes her head slump as Hoyt sets a course towards the nearby woods.  

"N-not taking the cruiser?" she speaks up weakly. 

Hoyt huffs a chuckle.

"Ain't that far. Exercise'll do you good."

Doris barely suppresses a moan. Last thing she needs is exertion. Her limbs ache and her stomach pangs. She feels light-hearted and she tried to focus.

"Wuh-why you takin' your rifle?" she mumbles.

Is met with a smile.

"Thought Marilyn might like an outing. Been awhile hey darlin'."

He reaches back to pat her.

"Jus' 'cause we got meat don't mean I can't have some fun."

He chuckles at Doris' wary expression.

"Relax ain't hunting you, dumplin'," his voice drops as he leers closer, "Less you give me a reason."

Chapter Text

"Used to nab a few critters 'round these parts," Hoyt says cheerfully, Doris struggling to keep up with his brisk pace as they make their way deeper into the nearby woods, "Not much meat on 'em but it was something. Makes you appreciate the abundance we got now. Those kids'll feed us longer than a couple of varmints. In fact we probably got too much," he laughs at their good fortune, "Have to invite the rest of the kin, have a good ol' fashioned barbecue. Can't let good meat go to waste."

Human meat. But all Doris can think about is steak sizzling on a barbeque. Her mouth waters, thinking about biting into succulent smokey meat, devouring mouthful after mouthful until her belly's almost bursting. In her distraction and fatigue she stumbles. Hoyt catches her,

"So clumsy, dumplin'," he teases, squeezes her ass as he propels her forward, arm draping around her shoulder. Pushes her along at tortuous marching pace, her goat bell tinkling ceaselessly, ringing in her ears. Makes her feel like a farm animal being mustered. 

Hoyt continues his merry tangent,

"'Bout time I introduced you to the rest of the family. Mind you they're mostly a bunch of jackasses so don't get your hopes up. I'm the pick of 'em by a long shot. Lucky for you. Shame I can't introduce you to my cousin Zeke. He's over in 'Nam. Real proud of him, ain't a no-hoper like the rest of 'em. Got a brother, Shiloh. You'll meet him. He ain't like Zeke, poor bastard’s more retard than Tommy," he pauses, "Not that Tommy's a retard. He's misunderstood."

Doris says nothing. Even misunderstood people didn't typically carve off people's faces, fashion them into masks. But she isn't about to argue the fact with one of Tommy's primary enablers. 

He waves at a weathered building in the distance. 

"Old mill over there. I caught him there with a fella once. Not in a queer sense," he pauses, cocks his head in thought, "Though maybe he is queer. Ain't shown much interest in girls. Even those two fine specimens what paid us a visit. Those girls were prime pieces of tail. Especially that blondie."

He smiles in memory and Doris feels a wave of rage break through her weariness. She wants to slap the salacious look on Hoyt's face, remembering his blonde victim. Wants to puncture his throat with her nails. Way his hands twitch in a groping action.

"Had better tits n' Jayne Mansfield," his gaze ducks to Doris' small bosom and shakes his head, "But our boy Tommy. Looked at her like she was no different n' a hog. Took the boy's face."

He gestures at his own bruised one. Doris wishes she'd been the one to break his nose, listen to it crack. 

"There's something to that," he's speaking almost to himself, "Him skinning the pretty boys. Fella he skinned at the mill was a pretty boy. Least he was until Tommy put a knife to him. Not sure why he wants their faces. Turn them into something ugly like him. Turn himself pretty?"

He muses on it a moment before shrugging,

"Guess I'll never really know. Like I said, he's misunderstood. Even by me. By mama. She doesn't get him. She don't even know about this fella he skinned at the mill. Some dumbass farm kid. Probably teased him. Like your ol' flame Avery. Surprised he made it outta town unscathed. Shame really. Hmm, what was that boy's name. Made the local news him disappearin'."

"J-jesse," Doris stammers, "Jesse J-Jackson."

So her instinct had been right. It had been Tommy. Hoyt too. 

"That's him!” Hoyt beams, "Tommy's first. Did a real hatchet job. Bastard wasn't even dead. Had to finish the job. Dumped him in the creek. Always did my best to look after Tommy. That's what family does."

"Can we s-sit down?" Doris begs, already starting to slump to the ground out from faint headedness. 

Its not because of Jackson - wasn't like she really knew him and she already viewed Tommy and Hoyt as murderers. Shouldn't be surprised to learn they had another victim under their belt. She just has no strength to keep herself upright. She crashes to her knees like a clumsy fawn, unable to rise. Only looks up at Hoyt piteously. 

He leers down at her. For a second she thinks he'll be cruel. Bark at her to stand and march. Instead mercifully he drops the picnic basket. 

"'Spose here's better than any."

He joins her on the ground. Takes off his hat. Exposes the ugly bruising on his face in its full glory. Doris tries not to stare too blatantly as he unhooks Marilyn, sets her next to him. Gives the barrel a loving stroke. He raises a hand to smooth his grey hair, pauses when he goes to lower it, fingers the still tender bruising on his face. Grimaces then glares, probably reliving that moment of helplessness, boy on top of him driving his face into the ground.

He reaches inside the basket for a jar of moonshine. Takes a far too generous swig - Doris is worried, drunk Hoyt on a picnic is a more dangerous prospect than a sober one. But at least it improves his mood in the short term. Smacks his lips contently. 

To Doris' relief he only takes one more swig before setting it down. If she's lucky she'll only have to contend with tipsy Hoyt, tipsy Hoyt is more agreeable than Hoyt deep in his cups. But tipsy or not, she's still exhausted. The weight of goat bell makes it hard to hold to keep her head up. 

"C-could you take the bell off?" she pleads. 

Hoyt raises a brow with a slight sneer,

"You know how to ask me for somethin' pussycat."

Oh yes she does. Bondage Babe Doris knows how to talk pretty to her master. Though Doris doesn't really feel like a Bondage Babe at the minute. She feels like a walking corpse, one foot in the grave and losing her mind. Not sure what will come first. Madness or death. 

It's so hard to think clearly, head in an all-consuming fog. But she tries, tries to focus, focus on Hoyt watching her expectantly with a small vicious smile, forces out two submissive words. 

"Please sir."

Hoyt's smile widens, appeased. 

"Alright," he waggles a finger at her, "But no tricks."

Doris just stares blankly. What tricks could she pull in this state? Hadn't even tried to escape when she had the strength of Winnie's flesh in her belly. Too afraid. Mouse looking at a hole to freedom lined with traps, watching other mice fall victim as they tried to flee. Victim to her own inaction instead. Slowly starving to death. 

Not dead yet, she tries to tell herself. Not dead yet.

Hoyt produces the key and Doris sighs as the heavy weight falls from around her neck with a clunk, rubs the tender chafed skin as she meets Hoyt's threatening gaze, 

"I'm good with this gun," he strokes Marilyn, "These woods I know like the back of my hand. Nowhere you can run."

Doris musters a weak nod. Her body has no strength for running. She'd have better luck seizing Marilyn, hope she was loaded. But she knows she won't try that either. Her reflexes were compromised. Hoyt would beat her to it if she lunged. He knows that, despite his fierce expression. It relaxes into a smug smile. 

"Ready for lunch, pussycat?"

Doris only stares at him piteously. Watches him pull out a sandwich, a generous slab of roast meat between two pieces of bread. Offers it to her and her stomach pangs, nostrils greedily inhaling the gamey smell. Can almost taste it on her tongue. Her hand twitches to seize it, open her jaws wide.

Eat, primal instinct in her bellows. Eat!

It's human, she reminds herself, it's human. 

Shakes her head pitifully. Watches the rage fall across Hoyt's face like an impending tornado. But like her refusals at supper, he manages to swallow it. He takes another swig of his moonshine. Forces a smile.

"More fer me."

He takes a wolfish bite. Doris watches enviously. Suffering as he chews - chews the roasted flesh of one of those kids buttered on bread. Licks her lips. Tries to think of hellfire. Damnation. But all she can concentrate on is the sandwich. She tears her gaze away. Stares into the forest, tree outlines hazy due to her hunger-clouded vision. 

Hoyt reclaims her attention with a harsh sigh,

"How long you gonna stretch this out huh?" he says as she pitifully turns her head, "Even Jed eats the meat."

Doris flinches. 

"Jed's simple," she murmurs, "He - he doesn't fully..."

What starving boy wouldn't wolf down a meal from his neglectful family? No matter what it was. Doris told him it was made of people but all he did was look at her strange. Meat, he told her, not able to grasp the connection between its original form. Little wonder, he didn't even know what drawing was. 

Hoyt snorts,

"Not simple enough to turn down food."

He takes another vicious bite. Eyes roving angrily over Doris.

"You're being damn foolish you know. In Hell by the looks of it. What's one bite? Can't live on water n' jism. You wanna die? Maybe that's it huh?"

Does she want to die? Be free of Hoyt and his monstrous family. But deep down Doris Hoyt knows she doesn't want to lay down and die. Human nature isn't it. The will to live, despite the horrors.

Life with new Hoyt is mostly horrors. But sometimes - sometimes it's... 

When they're Bondage Man and Bondage Babe.

It's...

"Answer me," Hoyt orders, "You wanna die?"

She shakes her head. Hoyt strips the remaining hunk of meat from the crusts and thrusts it out at her. Dangles it in the air like he’s feeding a pet kitten.

"Then eat," he coaxes, only for Doris to clench her lips shut, lets out a growl, "Eat, god damn it!”

But Doris continues to clamp her lips. Tensing for what seems like an inevitable punch to the face. But the blow doesn’t come. Instead he’s squeezing the bread crusts in his fist like he’s wringing her neck, glaring at her around the still dangling meat.

“Shit fire woman,” his voice is an exasperated growl, like a man at the end of his tether, “You ain't this stubborn about sucking my dick n' this situation is a lil more dire. This is life n' death. Ain't you got that through your little head?"

His harsh inflection makes her wince. 

"Damn it Dottie, you know I like you. We've been having a grand ol' time you n' me. You're the best plaything man could ask for. But you gotta eat."

In the midst of the command she swears there's a hint of plea. Makes her think maybe just maybe she might be able to reason with him. 

"It's p-people, Hoyt. I can't do it. P-please, I'll do anything else you want - proved I will - b-but not this."

She raises a shaky hand, dares to reach for Hoyt’s forearm, tries to get him to lower his offering.

"Please,” she says, acutely aware of the tension in his body, can it under her palm as she grips his tattooed forearm, watch latched around his wrist – watch she bought Winnie for his birthday, Winnie who she ate, swore never again. Her eyes jump to Hoyt’s steely gaze, begging, “Not the meat. That's all I'm askin'.”

Her eyes flick to his uneaten crust in his other hand – bread, Lord-approved fare, what Jesus fed the people. She can live on bread, surely, while the Hewitts feast on human flesh. Bread, eggs, Mrs. Hewitt’s biscuits. How can Hoyt find that unreasonable? She begs him with her eyes as she reaches for the crust,

“P-please honey, sir, sergeant. I n-need to..."

She could almost pluck a piece of crust from his fist but he shoves her back.

"Ah!"

She topples backwards, hits the ground hard. She groans, feebly pushes herself upright to meet Hoyt’s sneer.

“You’re a sly one,” he breathes and she cowers, “Thought you had me, didn’t you. Giving me those big eyes. I’m no pushover. Thought you woulda realized that by now. I offer what I feel like offerin'. You ain’t in a position to demand shit.”

He devours the slice of roast, washes it down with a swig of moonshine. Wipes his mouth. 

"W-was askin'," Doris speaks up hoarsely, "N-not demandin'."

Hoyt's lip curls in a sneer. 

"No? Practically lunged for this," he looks down at the crust in his hand, back at her, “I’m not a dummy, dumplin’. I know I could feed you this crust. Same as I could let you eat eggs n’ mama’s desserts. Keep you feed real easy since the rest o’ us have meat on the table. Meat all day, every day. Wouldn’t make a difference if you didn’t eat it. But that's exactly the goddamn point.”

He hurls the crust off into the distance. Doris watches in agony, thinking how it’ll fill some critter’s belly instead of hers. Hoyt brushes the crumbs off his hands and reaches into the basket. Pulls out a second sandwich. One that’s even more generously loaded with roast.

"Hewitt way,” Hoyt goes on, “Like my daddy taught me, it's black n' white. Your kin or you ain't. With us or against us. This ain't a sandwich pussycat,” he holds it up, “It's loyalty. Loyalty to me n' the family. Tells us you got the guts to eat any enemy at our door."

"T-them kids weren't enemies," she mumbles. 

Hoyt sneers, makes the bruising on his face more grotesque. He gestures at it.

"Think that sumbitch wasn't trying to kill me?"

"You k-killed his girlfriend."

"Tommy killed her," Hoyt scoffs, "Good riddance."

Weren't saying that when you groped her tits, Doris thinks viciously. But she tries to calm down. Rage makes her light-headed. She keeps smelling the roast sandwich and it's making her mouth water. Resolve once again at breaking point. 

Just eat it, she thinks, it's probably that girl. Eat the bitch who made your husband stray.

Not your husband, she corrects herself. Killed your husband. Ate him. Stole his clothes.

Why are you going along with his ruse? Why Doris?

One thing to go along with it aloud, keep yourself alive. Another thing to go along with it in your own mind. 

"Think if they'd lived, they wouldn'ta gone to the law?" Hoyt breaks through her thoughts, "Chickenshit draft dodger n' his piece a shit brother. Those two whores. Not to mention that ugly biker n' his woman. None o' em were Hewitts. Means none o' 'em were worth shit.”

His disdain bleeds into a smile as he raises the sandwich to his mouth, pauses in way that’s almost performative, makes sure he’s got her full attention. Which he does, oh, he does. She’s not sure if it’s the hunger but her sense of smell seems heightened. Can’t escape the tantalising scent of the roast meat. Maybe that’s what Hoyt’s waiting for, that wretched look of longing on her face. Look of suffering.

He brings the sandwich a fraction bit closer to his mouth.

“Sure are tasty though."

Takes a big bite. Then another. It’s the most heart-breaking thing, watching food be devoured in front of her. Even food she shouldn’t want. Food that isn’t food. Sacrilege disguised as food. But it’s hard to remember that in her hunger. Watching Hoyt smile as he chews, part bliss, part taunt.

Soon it's gone. Nothing but crumbs that Doris wants to lick off his fingers like a pet. But he won't let her, no matter how much he'd enjoy her sucking his digits. He's not feeding her crumbs.

Its meat or nothing.

He brushes the crumbs onto the ground. Turns his attention back on Doris,

"Soon you're gonna be too weak to stand up,” his manner is business-like, no, soldier-like, no nonsense and devoid of emotion, “Won't have the strength to git outta bed. I'll still fuck you - way I see it, I gotta make the most out of it. You'll lie in ya own filth like an animal.”

A hint of disgust breaks through his soldier’s composure.

“Tell you right now that shit ain't sexy to me. Ain't an animal fucker. Animals are fer one thing n' that's eating."

Doris' blood runs cold.

"E-eat me?"

She's not sure why she's so surprised. He's a cannibal. Of course he'd eat her.

But part of her thought – after all their congress, his embraces and declarations, that he might feel different. Might feel like he couldn’t.

He brushes a curl clinging to her clammy forehead, tucks it behind her ear. A loving gesture. Expression tender. Tender as he’s able to look, with his ugly bruising and hard eyes. Has his mama’s eyes. 

“Think I won’t?”

His calloused thumb runs over her lip. Doris almost opens her mouth to suck it. Bondage Babe sucked Bondage Man’s thumb like a baby, amused him. But this isn’t Bondage Man. It’s Hoyt – it’s Charlie Hewitt the cannibal.

His thumb digs in her cheek.

"Shit dumplin'," he says, his tender smile turns razor, "If you ain't no more use to me."

Her first instinct should be fear. Instead it’s a crushing feeling of disappointment.

Because she thought…. 

"S-said you love me,” she can hear the brokenness in her voice.

Why is she so difficult to love? Tries so hard to please but it’s never enough. Not for Daddy or Mama. Avery or her grandmother. Even a cannibal psychopath, man she’s degraded herself with, isn’t she worthy of his affection? He acted like she was – at least he was the only one who ever bothered to pretend.

But Lord – despite everything, all the suffering he’s put her through – she wants it to be real. That he hasn’t used her, like Avery, like Winnie. That’s she not that stupid.

Which maybe she is. Wanting genuine feelings from a man like him, man she should hate more than anyone on Earth.

He’s staring at her, smile receded into a tight line. Brow furrowed.

Maybe it’s not pretend.

“You l-love me Hoyt,” she rasps, “D-don’t you?”

Tries to bat her eyes prettily – like Suzy used to at boys.

You love me, she tries to persuade herself so she can persuade him. You love me. No woman’s ever given you what I have. Not even your mama. That’s why you’re so damn affectionate afterwards, can’t keep it in. You’re so grateful to have me. Woman who lets you treat her like dirt, gets wet from it. Feel like you won the goddamn lottery.

Lose that if you ate me.

Hoyt’s large hands cup her face.

“Pussycat,” he sighs, leaning in, “You even gotta ask me?”

“T-tell me,” she whispers.

“Tell you?” he breathes back, his forehead almost pressed to hers.

She nods. 

Hoyt laughs lowly, smell of meat on his breath, mixed with moonshine and tobacco. His hands on her face exert a more crushing pressure.

"I love my wife," he answers, squeezing her face, "A bitch who don't listen, that ain't a wife, dumplin'. That's supper, plain n' simple."

She tremors in his hands. Her breath quickens as he leans in, plants a hard kiss on her lips. Then he shifts away, reaches once more into the basket. 

"What's this one called?"

Holds up a ginger cat in a playful pose, ceramic ball of yarn fused to his paw.

"Benjamin," she answers mournfully.

Hoyt tosses the figurine up in the air, sneers at it’s cute face as he catches it.

"Well Benjamin, guess I'm using you for target practice."

Chapter Text

Hoyt positions the cat up on a low hanging branch. Aims at her poor Benjamin like a bird. 

"P-please," Doris begs futilely, listens to Hoyt snort.

"Gave you a chance," his attention refocuses on hid target, "Bye bye kitty."

Unlike a bird, he doesn’t drop from the tree lifeless. He explodes in front of her, her ears ringing. It’s slightly less devastating than him breaking cats with the family hammer. There’s no mess of broken pieces to stare at. Benjamin and his yarn are simply are no more. Like they never existed, sitting on her shelf back home with the rest of her felines, meticulously polished and merry. 

She remembers them all now, in their former glory, her only source of solace. It’s like Hoyt is slow killing pieces of her soul.

Tears form in her eyes. Surprises her that she’s even capable of the moisture. Tiny tears, not the big fat ones that used to roll down her cheeks, delighting Hoyt. But even this small level of mistiness seems to satisfy. He groans.

"Least you still got the strength for tears. That's kinda admirable,” he throws Marilyn down and leers over her, hand reaching to wrench her head up, scrutinises her tears in the dappled light, “How about I pick a page huh?”

He glances at the basket where he must have stashed their sinful Bible, hums. Looks back at Dottie. She hastily closes one eye as his thumb sweeps over her lid, her lashes. Gathers whatever wetness he can, draws it to his mouth to lick it off. 

“Or maybe we'll just improvise. That's the mark of every great soldier. Creativity. Get up!"

The last two words are a bark of an order. But before she can attempt to comply he wrenches her to her feet instead. She wobbles on the spot precariously, threatening to crash back onto her knees. 

"Look alive, pussycat," Hoyt growls, seizing her by the shoulders, "No slacking on the job. You collapse on me there'll be Hell to pay understand. I'll smash the rest of your stupid cats. Throw 'em from the upstairs window. Make it so it's rainin' cats n' dogs. Minus the dogs."

He leers, watching her look of fear. Irrational fear. Shouldn't care if he threw her collection off the damn roof. They were inanimate objects. But she can't stop her feeling of distress. Because those cats are all she has in the damn world that isn't this man in front of her. 

"Are we gonna stand up straight pussycat?" he coos.

"Yes'sir," she chokes out, even as her legs threaten to give out. She stands with her back straight.

"Good girl," he pats her cheek, "Don't worry I’ll give you some reprieve while you choke on my dick. How about that?"

"Y'sir."

She whimpers as Hoyt wrenches her hair. 

"I can't hear you!" 

Enunciate, Winnie would tell her snidely, tapping that damn dictionary, know what that means D? Means speakin' clear-ly so folks can understand -

Hoyt slaps her.

"Pay attention! Try again, private," he orders as a dull sting spreads over her cheek, "Do you want to want to suck your sergeant's dick?"

Heats fills her face, eclipsing the sting of the slap. Her heart thunders despite the oppressive fatigue of her hunger. Not enough to shrug it off completely, even as she tries to disappear into the role of Bondage Babe. She's aroused but oh so hungry.

"Yes sir, please!" she bleats in a strangled gasp.

Hoyt shows he's satisfied with a small flash of teeth. She whimpers as his hand delves under her skirt, wrenches her panties down. Slips impatiently between her thighs, prodding at her folds. 

"Still leak downstairs too."

There's a revolting smugness. All too familiar. But why wouldn't he be smug, his fingers squelching in her slick. Not as copious as usual. Maybe the hunger is drying up that river as well. But it’s enough. Enough to wet Hoyt’s fingers and Doris weakly jerks her hips, hoping they’ll slip to that the pulsing bundle of nerves.

But they don’t – after teasing her entrance a bit they abandon her cunt completely. Because his exploration down there is purely for his own ego. Fact he can treat her so abominably and she can still become aroused by him. Proof is on his fingers as he licks them, sucks up traces of her perversity like he did her misery.

Smiles. Because why wouldn’t he smile. She’s his dream come true.

She’s Bondage Babe Doris.

I’m a Bondage Babe, she tries to remind herself – pushing back all the shame and horror and hunger, that’s why I like this. It’s the way I am. I’m a good slave. That’s why master likes me so much. He loves me.

He loves me because I please him.

Hoyt’s the only one in her life she’s ever really pleased.

“Yes sir,” she cries as Hoyt raises a brow, finger still stuck in his mouth, “L-leaks for you, sir. My - my pussy."

Filth she never thought would stream from her mouth. But it comes easy to Bondage Babe. Bondage Babe can say dirty things without shame, unless there's a gag over her mouth.

A grin breaks over Bondage Man's weathered face.

"No shit it does," he surprises her with a possessive kiss, "If you suck my dick real good, private, I might do somethin' about it."

Doris actually smiles as he pulls back. Bondage Babe smiles. Giddy. Excited.

Shouldn't be happy, a voice at the back of her mind pipes up, you're dying, Doris. Don't you understand you're dy-...

"Lift your skirt, honey," Bondage Man speaks over the voice and she snaps to attention, "Show me them marks I gave you last night."

"Yes sir."

Hoyt groans as she lifts her skirt, exposes her cunt and buttocks to the air. The latter Hoyt moans at the sight of and squeezes. Doris hissing as he roughly fondles the tender flesh.

"Did a number on you didn't I?"

Works his way to her hips. His smugness recedes into a frown.

"Shame ya fading away to a shadow darlin', losing the meat on these hips."

Doris winces, eyes drifting down to her hip bones. Used to wish she was skinnier. Realizes how stupid she'd been thinking that. Rather be well fed and plump. 

"Down you go," he doesn't push, rather grabs her arm and lowers her down, "On your knees."

Her knees hit the ground. Fatigue hits her hard again and she fights the urge to slump. That would be sloppy. Bondage Man likes her straight backed and at attention. She stares up at him. Waiting. 

"Hands," he says.

She dutifully holds them out. Tries to ignore how they tremor as Hoyt snaps the cuffs on them. She lets them fall in her lap. 

Hoyt slides one foot forward to the opening of her knees.

"Sit on my boot, dumplin'," Doris' lips quirk and she shuffles forward, squats her bare pussy down on that smooth, inviting leather, "But don't move," Hoyt growls and Doris whines, wanting to gyrate her hips, grind her aching nub up onto his laces, "Not until I tell you. Like a good puppy."

Doris nods mournfully. Her legs aching from the awkward position. Whole body aches, fatigue washing over her again. Her cunt clenches wetly over the hard surface of Hoyt's boot, needy and unfulfilled.

Hoyt stares down at her mercilessly. 

"Now beg."

Doris opens her mouth, sticks out her tongue. Hoyt responds with a groan as he fumbles with his belt. His cock springs into view, angry and red, almost slapping her in the face. 

Hoyt seizes the base, guides it to sit flat on her tongue. Like a dense hunk of raw meat. She drools around it. 

"Go on," Hoyt orders, voice breathy and impatient. 

Groans loudly as her mouth attempts to envelope as much as possible. Fists her hair.

"That's it honey. Take me reeaall deep," she chokes as he thrusts, hits the back of her throat, her eyes rewatering. Stomach lurching but its empty, nothing to throw up, no matter how much she gags and splutters, "Fuck that's a pretty sound. You were made for sucking dicks weren't you pussycat."

His thrusts slow to her relief and she breathes through her nose, calmer, calm enough to look at him in a way she thinks is coquettish, suckling the head of his cock, earns herself a head stroke, 

"That's right," Hoyt half-croons, half-puffs, starting to move his hips again, "My dick-guzzling angel. How come you can eat this so good n' not the thing that's gonna keep you alive? You're fucked in the head, sweetheart."

The comment breaks through her Bondage facade. Hoyt's right. She is fucked up. Degrading herself and lapping up his praise. Praise from a cannibal. Cannibal who's starving her. Is bobbing her mouth on his cock. Can't escape it though. His grip is tight on her head. Can't grab his balls with her hands cuffed, quicken the process. She manages to wrench her mouth off his cock, ducks her nose under it to lave her tongue over his balls, tastes the musky salt of his sweat and the sharp prickle of wiry hair.

Hears Hoyt yelp and shudder above her.

"You're playin' dirty, pussycat. Ugh damn it!" he grits as she lavishes licks and kisses to his swollen sac, listens to his tight breathing, way he squirms, wrenches her hair for some kind of control, "Know what I like don't you?"

Oh she does. But in the same vein he knows what she likes too. She whines as his boot shifts, grinds into her pussy lips.

"Fuck my boot," he orders, "Know you want to. Needy lil bitch. Hurry up 'fore I change my mind. Thaaat's it," he breathes as Doris fights her aching legs, starts to move her hips, feels that satisfying spark of friction, nub rubbing pleasurably against hard leather and laces.

"Good girl," he masturbates his cock near her open, panting mouth, "You like Daddy's boot? Like humping it like a little dog? Pretty shameless ain't you. Rubbing yourself all over me. Imagine what everyone would think watching you now. Your asshole ol' husband n' that stuck up lil pal of yours. Her jackass brother. Imagine them knowing you're a shameless lil whore who likes rubbing that leaky pussy over your sergeant's boot."

Fuck 'em, Doris thinks, conjuring their shocked faces. If anything it makes her more determined. 

"What would ya mama think," Hoyt croons and that's enough to make her miss a beat, stare up at him pained, he smirks down at her, flushed faced, hand still massaging his cock, "If she was capable of thinking. Heard she didn't much."

Who told you? Doris thinks wildly. 

His mama? Told him all about Miss Rosie, her former employer's feeble-minded child. One Lottie Horton kept out of sight from the public. 'Til Miss Rosie was lured away by William Sawyer. Thought a grandchild would entitle him to Lottie's money only for Lottie to slam the door in his face. 

Didn't negotiate with con men. 

Everyone in Fuller knew your Daddy, Hoyt's aunt had told her. 

Maybe everyone knew her mama too. Including Hoyt. Same age as her daddy. Could have been one of his acquaintances, come to the house, paid him some money to... 

No, she thinks in a panic, would have remembered him. Always hid from the men Daddy led into mama but she would have remembered his voice. His manner. Hoyt surely would have mentioned if he'd fucked her mama. 

But he knew enough. Knew she was mentally deficient. Her poor chicken-hugging mama. She never liked how those men treated her. 

The way Doris likes to be treated by Hoyt.

"Please," she pleads, rhythm of her hips stuttering, "Please don't t-, n-not my mama."

"Upset you huh?" Hoyt growls, fisting his cock slick from her spittle, "Why aren't you cryin'?"

The observation makes her start. Usually she would be bawling. But all she can manage is a dry sob. Her body simply can't produce the moisture, fighting cataclysmic exhaustion as she keeps gyrating her hips.

"I - I just can't no more," she cries brokenly, "Please it's so h-hard. I'm too..."

Tired. Hungry. Almost dead.

She's almost dead and she's using her dwindling energy to try to climax on her tormentor's boot. Can't die a whore in fragrante delicto. Go straight to Hell. What's been the point of starving herself?

"Horseshit!" Hoyt bellows.

She's suddenly lifted into the air, body propelled chest-first into a nearby tree, Hoyt's bulk pressed against her back as he scrapes her dress up over her back, nails digging sharply into her hip as he guides his engorged cockhead through the slick to tear inside. Impales her deep, the sound of him like a bull in her ear, breath hot against her curls.

"I don't think you care about any of 'em, Dottie," his voice is low, vicious as one hand grips her ass, the other pinning her back as he thrusts, "Ya mama or ya husband or your so-called friends. Why would you when none of 'em gave a shit about you? You got no one in the world 'cept me. Should be grateful. Should fucking eat what I give you."

He slams deep and Doris whimpers, nethers pulsing despite her spinning head and exhaustion. Her spot aches for attention and her cuffed hands reach down, curling her fingers to touch it. 

Hoyt doesn't seem to notice. He's distracted by his anger and his cock in her pussy.

"You're being so stupid pussycat," he rages as he pistons into her, feeling weaker and weaker under the force of him, like rag doll, her fingers still brushing her swollen nub, "Tryin' to help n' you keep denying me."

He slams her against the tree, pins her there with his cock still lodged inside, hissing in her ear,

"Maybe if I quit pulling out, will you eat then?" his cock pulses angrily inside her as clammy fear works up her spine, foggy brain registering the full implication of his threat, "If I knock you up. Sin to kill your unborn child by starving. You ain't that heartless, are you dumplin'?"

He starts to thrust again, Dottie's finger skittishly regaining its rhymn, finds herself feverishly close despite every sinew of her body crying out in exhaustion, in hunger, fear, what if he does cum in her - won't matter, period hasn't come, maybe it'll never come, won't come because she'll be... 

She's not going to die. Her finger rubs her spot in a strange determination. Not going to die. Not from being raped in the woods. Not before she climaxes one last time. 

Her body starts to seize. Hoyt's still ranting - fucking her through his ranting - but it's just an inaudible stream of noise, blood pounding her ears. Usually she'd ask permission but she's too desperate, too tongue-tied, too tired to formulate such a request. Pushes down hard on her spot.

Her orgasm is like an implosion, almost knocks her into unconscious. Collapses under the force like a tree felled by a tornado, hears Hoyt howl, still lodged in her, dick squeezed by the aftermath of her spasming cunt. His voice explodes back into focus.

"Did you - uhhh, did you fucking cum, you ingrateful bitch!"

He grabs in her in a bear hug, his thrusts sloppy in his fury. 

"Think you can jus' do what you want," his speech is slurred with indignation, keeps hammering into her like he wants her to break, hits the deep recess of her sex and Doris sobs from her own body's oversensitivity, "I'm fucking boss," he grits in her ear, "Don't you forget, pussycat. I own your fucking ass."

He grabs her buttocks, digs his nails into the welts. Doris wails, pain breaking through the overpowering haze of stimulation. Feels a pressure build like she might climax again. Hoyt seems on the cusp, can tell by the stutter of his hips, hiss of his breath.

"You fucking asked for this."

Doris feels a strange polarity of dread and excitement. Imagines her belly big with child. But instead of Hoyt slamming deep to release, she's wrenched around, thrown down on the ground, Hoyt hunched over her like some quivering, snarling animal, cock in hand, purplish red.

Barely has time to open her mouth before the first load of cum splatters her face like spittle. Swallows whatever landed in her mouth greedily, anxiously, can hear the harshness in Hoyt's voice as he keeps fisting his cock to drain it completely. 

Steps back with a guttural sigh. Doris watches him tensely, drops of cum warm on her chin. Raises her cuffed hands to wipe it, licks her trembling fingers. Its salty and unpleasant but its something. Tries to sop up every drop. Her nose. Her cheeks. Then slumps, exhausted and shaking. Wants to curl into a ball but Hoyt might kick her like a disobedient dog.

She forces herself to straighten, like a soldier waiting to be dismissed, cuffed hands clenched in her lap. Watches Hoyt hitch up his pants. Then he turns on her. Grabs her chin.

"Got some explaining to do, honey. Stunt you just pulled. Didn't hear you asking me permission."

Doris cowers under his gaze. 

"S-sorry sergeant, jus' felt too good."

Hoyt sneers,

"When I was talking about you starvin' our unborn? Geez Dottie, might be more fucked up than I thought."

Doris looks at him stricken. Hoyt smirks but it quickly recedes into a look of irritation.

"Can't knock you up without you bleeding first, dummy. You'll die before then if you don't eat."

He waits for Doris' flinch before he reaches for his moonshine. He takes a big gulp, licks his lips.

"Least you got some sustenance huh? Not that you deserve it. Misbehavin' like that."

Pauses so she can stammer,

"S-sorry sir," and "T-thank you," to which he huffs.

"Ain't like its a meal. Choice 'tween meat n' jism, know what I'd choose."

He takes another gulp of moonshine.

"Guess its time fer dessert."

Doris' stomach pangs at the last word. She miserably watches him reach into the picnic basket. It's a pie. Home made. Hoyt deliberatly waves it in front of her nose so she can inhale the sweet buttery crust. 

"Cherry," Hoyt informs her smugly as her mouth waters, "Got mama to make it special."

Of course he did, Doris thinks murderously. Of course Luda Mae would go along with this means of torturing her. 

"Shame I can't offer you none," Hoyt says in a fake sorrowful voice, "Only bought it on the oft chance you'd eat your lunch. Thought it'd be a nice reward. Letting you eat dessert after. In fact I was thinking I could have eaten it off you. Licked cherry pie of your pussy."

Despite everything Doris feels her loins clench at the imagery. Gooey cherry filling spread over her thighs, able to stick her fingers in it. Suck them and sate her hunge. While Hoyt licked up the rest like a cat, lapped the sticky mixture out of cunt.

Still could, she could goad him. Be fun. Wouldn't it sheriff?

But she knows its futile arguing with him. He's already spilled his seed. Means his devious mind is more concentrated on making her suffer.

He takes out a pocket knife. Cuts himself a big slab and wolfs it down in front of her. Pats his stomach contentedly afterwards."That's some damn good pie."

He runs two fingers over the blade of his knife to clean it. Licks his fingers while Doris imagines her doing it.

Hoyt sets the remaining pie within an arm's reach. Doris stares at it longingly - red filling oozing out beneath the perfectly cooked crust. Hoyt reaches for Marilyn as he rises. Doris' eyes dart anxiously away from the pie. Hoyt looms over, rifle clenched in his hand.

"Me n' Marilyn gonna try our luck," he announces, "You stay here huh, get some rest."

Doris tries not to look at the pie. She weakly nods. Hoyt plucks the goat bell collar off the ground. Threads it back around her neck and locks it. 

"In case you have an idea of straying," he says, "Woods is dangerous pussycat. Best to stay put n' wait fer me. Got it?"

She nods. She's hardly got strength to move, let alone run. The bell tickles, feels heavy around her neck, like a lead weight weighing her down. 

Hoyt's gaze flicks to the pie. Doris jerks as he grabs her chin, tall body enveloping her in its shadow, expression hard, threatening.

"You eat this pie, I'll pull your teeth out," he taps a finger to her lips, "One. By. One."

Doris swallows hard.

"Yes sergeant," she whispers.

Because he damn well means his threat. Can suck cock with no teeth. Not like she needs them to chew since she's refusing the meat. A shiver ripples over her spine. 

Hoyt smiles in approval. Hard smile. 

"At ease soldier," he quips as he straightens, clenching Marilyn. Disappears with her in the surrounding woods. Leaves Doris like Eve in the Garden, staring at the forbidden cherry pie.

Chapter Text

Doris stares at the pie. That delicious, sweet-smelling, hunger-quenching pie. She almost lunges for it. Imagines scooping a large handful and gobbling it down, cherry and crumbs all over her face. Her hands. Would suck them clean once she demolished what was left. Sit there with a full belly, licking her lips. 

But then Hoyt would return. Hoyt who warned her not to eat it. Ordered her. She's supposed to follow his orders. Or they'll be consequences. Said he'd rip out her teeth. Believes him too. 

Or does she? Surely he can't be so callous. Knows she's starving and left the pie within reach. Who could resist that kind of temptation? Maybe he'd let it slide, if she only took a tiny bite. Just a little one. A sliver. Just to keep herself going. Going for him. Give herself energy to cry for him.

She keeps staring at the pie. She won't be able to only take a small piece. Once she tastes it she won't be able to stop - like her husband eating his fellow GIs once he ran out of commies. Needed to be full. Doris wants to feel full. 

She doesn't want to die. 

She needs to eat.

So eat the meat, a voice in her brain scoffs, wait 'til Hoyt comes back n' tell him you'll eat the meat. Be so happy he'll cook us a feast. Be so stuffed we'll barely have room for leftover pie. 

Ain't that better than him ripping out our teeth for disobeying him? You know our Bondage Man ain't one for mercy. Neither is his kin. You saw what become of those kids, even the bitch he fancied.

Didn't fancy her, she thinks angrily. Just a walking pair of tits, got his blood running is all. He's a man after all. Didn't spare her. 

Exactly! The voice purrs, but he's spared you, Dottie, so far. But what's he gonna do if you disobey him? He don't like us disobeying him. Might decide we ain't worth having 'round. Can't follow simple orders.

I'm so hungry, Doris whines, staring at the pie. He can't expect me not to...

Yes he does. It's a test and you can't fail it. You have to be good, Dottie. Have to be smart. 

Doris sobs a little. It's so hard to think when she's so ravenous. 

Have to eat the meat, the voice has deepened into Hoyt's deep timber, have to eat it, pussycat. It's your only choice in the long run. Only thing that'll please me. You wanna please me, don't you, Dottie? Eat the meat and I'll lick pie outta that sweet pussy of yours. Have a real nice time, Mrs. Hoyt, cum in you afterwards. Give you that baby you want so bad. 

Lil family. You, me n' our babies. Jed too if you want. Ain't that all you dreamt about? Man to fuck you like a whore n' love you, kids what call you mama. You can have it all, Dottie. 

All you have to do is...

I'll go to Hell, Doris shivers, I don't wanna go to Hell.

Going anyway D, Winnie's braying voice rings distortedly in her ears, forget you ate me? Forget you broke your vows?

You died Winnie, she argues, was death do us part n' you got yourself killed. Marriage was over. We were over. 

So you et me n' screwed my killer? Think that's the mark of a decent, Christian woman, D? Doing what you're doing with a murderer, a cannibal. You ain't innocent, D. Even call you an accomplice if the law ever caught up with you. But you'll atrophy afore then. Know what atrophy means? Gonna waste away n' perish. Won't be waiting for you at the pearly gates neither. No point. You're bound for Hell, D, you tramp. You no good, disloyal Jezebel.

Shut up the fuck up Winnie, she thinks feverishly, I'm glad he pumped you full of lead you insufferable fucking bastard. Know what insufferable means? Means no one could fucking stand you, including me. At least new Hoyt makes me feel good. 

Won't feel good when ya roasting in the pits of Hell, Winnie's voice echoes in reply, the shrill pitch making her skin crawl. 

But maybe it's the ants running over her leg. There's a trail of them making their way towards the pie. Doesn't have the energy to stop them. Just lets them march. In the distance she hears a gun shot. Maybe it's Hoyt. Or maybe she's hearing things. 

The woods are steamy. Oppressively so and she's tired. She lies down, stares at the pie being assaulted by tiny specks of black, lids flickering. 

Falls into dream. Falls into a bath. Instead of water, it's cherry pie filling. Feels warm and squishy between her toes. Makes her giggle as she wiggles her body, bosom deep in ooze. Scoops up a big handful, like jelly. Crams it into her mouth. But then she chokes, instead of soft gooiness, it's meaty, stew-like. Her teeth hit something hard and she spits it back out. 

Stares at the half-chewed mess of meat, a hint of white poking out of it. She picks it out of the mush with trembling fingers. A finger bone. Feels the traces of its meat slip down her throat as she swallows.

"How's it taste, dumplin'?" Hoyt's voice licks her ear.

The bath isn't filled with pie. It's blood. She's bathing in a fountain of blood. Warm, copious, thick. Fuses to her skin, splatters as she thrashes in panic. Hoyt's hand grips her head as he comes into view. 

Sees a hint of his tobacco smile before he throws his weight down on her head and she's submerged in red. Passes a few agonising seconds before Hoyt drags her back up by her blood-drenched hair. Blood drenched everything. She's covered. Blinks it out of her eyes as it trickles of her ears, runs over her mouth. Can taste it. Can't not taste it. 

Who's blood?

Winnie's? The girl's?

Hoyt is laughing,

"Baptism of blood hey dumplin'," he croons, "Sacrifice or victor. Which one it's gonna be huh? Hewitt or supper?"

He points at something floating between her trembling thighs. It’s an eyeball. Hoyt plucks it up, a blood-stained ball with dangling viscera.

"Look familiar?"

Doris tries to study it but it’s hard to focus. Her gaze is strangely blurry, worse than blurry. Like someone's pulled a shade down on one half of her vision. Has to squint with one eye.

Hoyt pops the eyeball in his mouth, holds it between his teeth theatrically like he's performing a trick. Then his teeth bite down with an awful squelch. 

Hoyt smiles at her while he chews. Licks the blood off his hand. 

"Still ain't put two n' two together? Tommy c'mere son. Show yer aunt yer new face."

Tommy suddenly looms over Hoyt's shoulder. The gruesome mask is different, not the pretty boy's. The skin's smooth, free from stubble. A woman's face - he's slathered red lipstick around the mouth. The effect is terrifying. But she notices, in the midst of her horror, how the stretched skin around the nose is dotted with freckles. 

Her freckles.

Her face. 

It's her face.

It can't be but it's her...

Her hands leap to her face. Instead of skin, she feels a hardness. Like bone. Her whole face is bone, been stripped down to the skeleton. She screams, her fingers dipping into the empty socket where one of her eyes used to be.

"Finally get it," Hoyt laughs, "Shoulda listened to me, dumplin'."

Doris scrambles to rise from the tub and flee. But she slips, falls back into the blood, feels an unseen force trying to pull under, tries to claw onto the side of the tub. 

"Help me!" she cries at Hoyt, "P-please help!"

Hoyt shakes his head sadly.

"No can do, pussycat," he says, as Tommy looms behind him wearing her face, "Only you can save yourself."

He starts prying her fingers off the tub.

"No, don't!" Doris screams, sinking lower into the blood, "Don't do this! Please Hoyt!"

Hoyt suddenly seizes her wrist, halting her descent. He leans in,

"This is your last chance, soldier," he kisses her - she has no lips so his mouth hits her teeth, makes them rattle, "Eat the meat, honey."

He releases her wrist and she hits the bloody surface, sinking down, down, like an ancient beast in the tar pits, Hoyt's voice ringing in her ears as they're plugged with blood. 

"Its the only way."

While she drowns, drowns in a bath of her own blood, feels her body give out, floating there face-down and twitching. Imagines Hoyt leering over the tub, shaking his head.

"My poor silly pussycat. I'll miss her," then smacking his hands together briskly, "Well least she won't go to waste. Move it Tommy, haul her fat ass outta the tub."

Imagines Tommy shuffling forward in obedience. 

"Take off her face while yer at it," Hoyt orders, "Used to fuck that mouth hole, think I want it paraded on my goddamn nephew?"

Doris feels her lifeless body being rolled over. Stares at Tommy's disfigured face - face that used to horrify her as a school girl - through the lens of her single dead eye. Feels herself being hoisted out of blood bath, to be carried to Tommy's butcher's block. Can't scream, can't move. 

Tries to move, tries to scream. 

Struggles with her mind until she manages to break free of the nightmare's prison. Stirs into consciousness with whimper. Lies there with her chest heaving, warmth of the sun on her still closed lids, exhausted from her struggle, too weak to force them open.

There's a foul smell in her nostrils. Isn't sure if it's a lingering sensation of the dream. Like the feeling of a hand skimming over her leg. Tommy lining up her calf for dissection...

"Bad dream, baby?" 

Doris jerks at the question, eyes wrenching open. A face swims blearily into view. Hoyt, her brain jumps automatically. Looks like Hoyt's leering face except its younger, hair dark instead of grey. 

"Hoyt?" she rasps, confused.

Is she dreaming again? 

The not-quite-Hoyt sneers.

“Who’s Hoyt?”

Fear breaks through her languor as she heaves herself up. Finds she's surrounded by Hoyt's imposter and three other strangers. 

That's what she can smell. The collective stink of them. Fetid body odour. 

"Ain't that Junior's new name?" another voice says. 

“Must be that gal mama was talking about," says another, "His new ‘wife’."

“Heh,” the definitely-not-Hoyt leers over her, “Ain’t as nice lookin’ as the last one. Nice gams though."

Doris suddenly realizes the hand she thought was a ghostly sensation is very much real. It squeezes her upper thigh under her skirt. Doris cries out in alarm, bell tinkling loudly as she scrambles backwards trying to dislodge it. 

"Stay away f-from me!" she shouts, breathing heavily and fighting a wave of light-headed, can't pass out. No telling what these men will do. "D-don't come any closer."

"Or what?" Not-Hoyt straightens, takes a leisurely threatening step towards her, "It's four aginst one, sugar."

He gives her a feral smile, waits for that to sink in. Doris' gaze jumps anxiously from him to the three others in the background. 

"We's family too in case ya hadn't noticed. You're Dolly right? Our mama tol' us about you."

"M-mama?" Doris stammers. 

"The tea lady," the man answers, "Aunty Luda's sister. She's our mama."

Doris looks between the four. 

"All of you?" She blurts.

They all look so different. Only the fat one resembles their mother. Another shares her poor eyesight, is wearing spectacles. 

"Yeah," the man who resembles Hoyt confirms, "Our mama loves babies. Makin’ babies.”

Another brother, tall, skinny, his hair a greasy mop, grimaces.

"Don't talk about mama like that."

"Well she is. Popped all o' us out. Hey where you goin'?" his attention rounds on Doris trying inch away, "Rude to run away from family, Dolly."

Doris fights down her fear. Surely Hoyt had to be close by. Would have heard her cry and the tinkling of the goat bell. Would be on his way back to rescue her from these creeps.

"It's Doris!" she grits, "We ain’t family, you’re a s-stranger who was m-molesting me!"

The outburst leaves her breathing hard, faint-headed again. Has to fight the blurriness in her vision to keep focus on Not-Fucking-Hoyt who sneers,

"You're awful uppity for a slut who decides to nap outdoors. What do ya expect fellas to do when they find ya? Step over ya like a dead log?"

He closes in to the sound of his cohorts' laughter.

"Ain't a log but you is a new cousin. Even if you is a stray. Kin in the Big House sure do love their strays."

Doris cries as he drags her on her feet. Laughter grates her ears, all of them are giggling, like a pack of hyenas.

“I’m Adam,” he grins, his teeth are worse than Hoyt’s. In fact it looks like they don’t have set a good teeth between the four of them, “Adam Calhoun Hewitt. Them boys is Cal, Clem n’ Lyle.”

Doris is too terrified to figure out which brother is which.

“Charlie’s our cousin,” Adam adds, dragging her attention back to him, “Which makes you our cousin too, DOR-is. Least for the short term,” he leers closer in a faux-conspiratorial manner, “Jus’ between you in me, cousin Charlie ain’t got the best track record with women folk.”

More chuckling from his brothers but Doris barely hears it. She’s remembering her nightmare. Hoyt’s indifference at her demise.

Just a dream, she tries to tell herself, just a dream. Have to focus, Doris. You got bigger trouble than a bad dream. Four troubles but her main concern is Adam, his stinking proximity.

“H-hoyt,” she rasps, not sure why she bothers to correct him, “H-his name is Hoyt. He – he went h-huntin’, s-should be back soon.”

Says it in the hope it’ll intimidate them.

Doesn’t seem to work.

“Y-y-yeah?” Cal-Clem-or-Lyle, whichever one is the skinny man, mimics her stammer to their collective amusement, “Why he leave you on ya lonesome?"

“Probably lookin’ for a new piece of tail,” Adam says before Doris can open her mouth, “Looks about finished with this one from the state o’ her.”

“Nothin’ wrong with leftovers,” the other brother grins.

Ain’t leftovers! Doris wants to yell but she can’t quite seize control her tongue. There's an unsettling energy about these cousins, fact there’s four of them. But Adam’s obviously the ringleader, despite looking younger.

“What’s this bell?” he flicks it to make it tinkle, “You livestock or somethin’. My cousin think ya a goat?"

There's an audible squelching sound. Doris looks over the see the fat brother has picked up the pie and jammed his thumb in it. 

"Don't t-touch that,” Doris finds herself crying, “That's his!"

The fat man cocks his head as he loudly slurps pie off his thumb, not minding the ants he swallows with it.

Holds out the remains of ant-swarmed, thumb-holed pie as if in offering. Doris stares at it, half disgusted, half-compelled.

"No!” she cries, “I'm not a-allowed."

"Dieting huh?" Adam says, “Tryin’ to get rid of this big ass.”

He grabs her buttocks, squeezes as he cackles, Doris weakly failing.

“Don’t t-touch m-me,” she whimpers.

“Why not?” Adam croons, “You know fucking is good exercise. I can give you a good workout.”

Doris tries to flee but he snatches a fistful of her skirt. Brings her toppling back into him. His arm locks around her neck and she wheezes, the pressure making her light-headed.

“Prefer pussy to pie,” Adam breathes against ear, “Come hold her fer me, Cal."

“S-stay back,” Doris stammers before the brother can comply, “H-hoyt won’t like you touchin’ me.”

 Adam laughs,

“Charlie ain't here. Makes you fair pickin's."

He twirls her around and shoves her backwards towards Cal who locks his arms around her. 

"He's an old man anyway," Adam says as she pitifully tries to squirm out of Cal's hold, "Bet he struggles to get it up. Young buck like me ain't have that problem. Don't matter ya ain't much ta look at. I've had worse."

"Henrietta," comes a titter, the others joining in. Except for Adam.

"Shut up about Etta!" he snarls, so harsh the trio collectively tense.

His gaze swivels back to Doris,

"No need to get jealous," he croons, rage receding into a gruesome smile, "My sis is sweet but right now she looks like a boy. It's the damn raccoons. Dummy keeps catching 'em to play house. Puts 'em in a baby carriage. But the drugs wear off n' them critters go apeshit. Lucky she ain't caught rabies. But they do give her lice so mama says it's easier to keep her hair shorn. 'Til she gets a bun in the oven. But I keep tellin' mama, fat chance of that while she looks like a fella."

Doris stares at him mutely in disgust. Disgust he seems to take in his stride,

"You got nice curls."  

He rips his fingers through it, way Hoyt does. But Doris doesn't feel an itch of arousal amidst her nausea. Only the latter. He's not Hoyt. His gaze travels downwards.

"Shame about ya itty bitty tits. Junior's last gal. She had nice melons. Pussy's pussy though, I guess. You got lil ginger hair down there?"

His hands slip down her torso. Doris twists feebly in his brother's hold, kicks her leg out at Adam, hits his shin. Not hard but he grimaces.

"Feisty huh!" His hand jumps around her throat, "Thought Junior woulda beaten that outta you. Must be goin' soft in his old age."

"Quit fuckin' 'round Addy," Cal whines, "I want my turn."

Doris registers his erection rutting against her, squirms trying to escape it. But the two brothers have her sandwiched between them, Adams hand still on her throat. 

"Yeah, you'll get it," Adam is saying to Cal, "Ain’t right not to share," he leers at Doris, "My brothers won’t mind if ya pass out me from fuckin’ yer so good.”

He leans closer like he's going to kiss her.

"Doubt that," Doris blurts. 

Adam pulls back and glares,

"What'd you say?"

Doris swallows, 

"You don't know w-who you're dealin' with," she forces out, trying to ignore how weak her voice is, how it shakes, "Either of you."

Adam snorts,

"Think we can handle Charles Junior."

But there's a flicker of unease in his eyes after he says it. 

"N-not him. M-me."

"Huh?"

"I - I ain't some run of the mill h-housewife. I'm - I'm a bonafide h-whore. I'm a Bondage Babe."

Adam stares like she's grown another head. His eyes flick over her shoulder to his brother, confused. 

"A what?"

Doris feels a strange calm fall over her. She ain’t afraid of this two-bit rapist. What she’s been through. What Hoyt’s put her through. Adam's an inferior specimen compared to him. Needs his brother to hold her while he does his deed. Hoyt never needed anyone else to overpower her. He commanded and Bondage Babe Doris obeyed. 

"Bondage," she repeats at the bewildered Adam, "Don't expect you to know what it means. You're just an ordinary m-molester. Take what you want by force n' it makes you feel like a big man. You ain't a big man. No girl's ever enjoyed your pecker, no matter how much you boast about it."

Rage spills over his face.

"You fu..."

"My master on the other hand," she speaks over him, as much as she can, scratches her throat to match his volume, "Even thinkin' about his dick gives me butterflies down south. I-if you know what I mean."

Adam's gone back to gawking at her.

"Master?"

"Hoyt, s-silly. Sergeant Major Charles Ezekiel Hewitt Hoyt. But that's a mouthful, s-so I call him sheriff or sergeant or plain ol' sir. Daddy s-sometimes, even though he ain't my daddy. B-boss - boss of all you Hewitts. Know enough about your traditions. There's a hierarchy and he's on the top of it. Took over from his daddy n' his daddy n' so on."

"Don't preach to me 'bout my own kin," Adam growls, overcoming his shock, "Who are you to..."

"H-his wife, remember," Doris interrupts, "Got no right interferin' with me. M-my Hoyt don't care for you by the sound of it. Never invites ya'll 'round for supper. Enough chairs but you still ain't welcome. I am though. Even broke tradition so I could sit next to him."

She smiles at him tauntingly despite her weariness.

"Outrank you and I only just joined the family."

Adam snarls.

"You're no Hewitt, bitch."

He thrusts his face close to hers. Doris stares back unintimidated. He's not Hoyt. Can't trigger a shiver down her spine. Adam's a sad, stupid brute who fucks his sister.

"S-said before I was. When you was plannin' on raping me. Is it what gets you off? Women you rape gotta be relations?"

"Kinda got you there," Cal pipes up, breath putrid as it licks her ear. 

"Shut up Cal!" Adam seethes, "You takin' her side?"

"Jus' you did say she was our cousin."

"I was messin' with her! Like Charlie is but she obviously believes his horseshit. Ain't you heard what happened to the last bitch he kept?"

Doris tries not to wince.

"What about her?" she tries to sound nonchalant, "She didn't matter to him."

Jed's poor hippie mama.

"Think you do?" Adam retorts, "Say you gotta seat at the table but you look half-starved. More n' half."

Doris' stomach spasms painfully.

"D-Diet, l-like you said."

Adam sneers,

"'Til you drop dead?" he looks triumphant at her flinching, "Wives usually gets a weddin' band but all you got a goat bell 'round ya neck. Like you're his pet."

I am his pet, Doris thinks. His pussycat.

"Given ya face a good beltin' too by the look o' it."

“Oh this?” Doris points at her faded bruise, “That’s nothin’. You should see the welts he’s left on my ass.”

Adam gapes at her. Doris breaks into a smile. 

“Not gonna show you though. My husband wouldn’t like me flashin’ nobody. ‘Specially his dumb ass cousin who got the nerve to try n’ rape me in the woods with his brother.”

"The hell is wrong with this chick?" Cal utters behind her. 

Doris laughs, a shrill, slightly demented sound. 

“Oh, a lot," she answers.

Cal's arms falter around her - like he's suddenly nervous about manhandling a disturbed person. She bats her eyelashes at his dumbstruck brother.

"Somethin' ain't quite right in my brain you see. Makes me likes things I ain't supposed to. Things my master is real good at. Hits me with his belt n' my pussy creams itself, wettest pussy you'll ever see, Addy."

Adam audibly gulps, looking at her transfixed. 

"If I'm good, he'll lemme hump it all over his boot like a good lil bitch dog 'til I cum all over it," Doris pants, her hips gyrating a little at the memory, the movement making Adam groan, "Then I'll lick up the mess like I lick up his jism 'cause I'm a good lil soldier, do anything my sergeant asks. Anything, Adam. Whatever my Bondage Man wants."

She can hear the exhilaration trembling in her breath, but it's taking a toll on her body. She's still so weak. So hungry. Still surrounded. She summons a vicious smile. 

"You ain't him. Not even close. Know for a fact he don't like sharing. So you two dumb shits better let me go. Afore he comes n' kills you for touching what's his." 

Before you call my bluff, she thinks, trying to not to let her hard expression falter. Because if they do, they'll rape her. She has no energy to fight them off and Hoyt still hasn't re-

Behind her there's a crack and Doris finds herself floundering as the arms holding her hostage are ripped away. Stumbles - almost topples over - as she turns to see Hoyt standing over Cal, Winnie's old baton still raised.

"Gah ma' face!" Cal's crying, hand over the side of his face now swollen red, "Y-ahhh!"

He wails as Hoyt hits him again. Then he whirls around, seizes the startled Adam.

"You!" he snarls, drives his knee into his stomach, brings him groaning to his knees where he proceeds to rain the baton down on him, "Shoulda. Heeded," he slams the baton down to enunciate each word, "My. Fucking. Wife!"

He pauses, breathing heavy for the exertion. Adam is curled up in an agonised ball, face a snivelling stream of tears, vomit. Hoyt beat him so hard he's vomited.

"Y'don' bus' m' ribzzz."

Hoyt snorts,

"You weak ass baby," instead of the baton, he kicks him, "Always were, Addy. Me n' Zeke always agreed, you talk a big game but when the going gets tough you, you break down n' squeal like a lil pig. Ain't that right?"

His boot comes to press down on his head. Doris sees the white of fear in Adam's tear-blurred eyes. He flails weakly, whimpering as Hoyt starts to push his weight onto that leg, Adam gibbering in pain.

Doris watches enrapt, that leather with the dried residue of her pussy juice on it. She wants to watch it crush Adam's head. Make him bleed.

The bloodthirsty thought makes her head spin. 

"Jesus, Charlie! Nuh-not his head!" Cal cries, still clutching his swollen face, "You'll retard him or somethin'."

"It's Hoyt, numb nuts," Hoyt shouts, Adam crying as his boot keeps grinding into his head, "Sheriff Hoyt. My wife fucking told you n' so woulda ya mama. Fact she thinks I look mighty nice in my uniform. Uniform I'm wearing right now, which if you ain't BLIND, you'd take a look at my BADGE n' call me by my CORRECT. FUCKING. TITLE!"

"S-sorry, sorry, Hoyt! Just - just stop crushing his head! Please Char-Sheriff. He's real hurt."

"Oh it ain't even begin to hurt," Hoyt hisses, "You two were feeling up my goddamn wife!"

"We -we was jus' messin' around!" Cal's abandoned his swollen face, is wrenching his greasy hair in distress, "Weren't really gonna do no-."

"You believe that, Dottie?" Hoyt grates over the top of him, "These boys jus' playin' a harmless game with you?"

Doris shakes her head. 

"I thought not," Hoyt slides his baton away, "My wife don't lie to me. Not just 'cause she's a good wife either. It's because she knows..."

He's taken out his service revolver. 

"It's a crime," he cocks it at Cal, "To lie. To goddamn law enforcement!"

Fires a round just above Cal's head, the man diving to the ground with a shriek. Cowers there. Shrieks again as Hoyt fires another round into the dirt. 

"Lor' have mercy!" 

"Lord ain't gonna help you," Hoyt sneers, "At the sheriff's mercy now. Something you should've thought when you found Dottie here, knowin' who she belongs to. Crime to interfere with a man's wife. Especially yours truly. I don't stand for disrespect. Which, given you jackasses have known me your ENTIRE lives, really speaks to your fucking intelligence," he shakes his head, "Your daddies musta been quite the group of retards what came knocking on aunty's trailer. 'Spose they was all dumb enough to create you fuckers. Pollute our line with stupidity!"

The brothers all seem to flinch. Adam gives a wet moan, kind Doris hopes is internal bleeding. 

Hoyt surveys the scene with a sigh,

"But at the end of the day yer family. Man can't choose his family. Even hay-brain sacks of shit his aunty birthed. Can't disown you assholes, much as I'd like to. All we got is each other. But you also wronged me. Can't take that lying down either. Hewitt way is law. You fuck up, you pay the price."

His gaze dips down to Adam,

"And boy, you really fucked up. Thinking you could put your scummy piece of equipment anywhere near my sweet dumplin'. Question is, how we gonna rectify it?"

He mulls it over. 

"I think," he says with a chilling composure, "I'm gonna shoot off your dick."

There's a feeble howl from Adam. He tries to wriggle away only for Hoyt to plant a foot on his back, leans his weight on his spine

"No, you don't sunshine," he smiles at his cousin's sob, "Gotta accept yer punishment. As daddy always said, if it don't hurt you ain't learnt your lesson."

He rolls him over, leers over him, wiggling the pistol close to Adam's ugly tearful face.

"Don't worry, if I aim it right, you'll only lose ya junk. Might bleed to death, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. Teach you a lesson."

"You're j-jokin' right?" Cal utters, "You can't shoot h-..."

He throws up his hands as Hoyt snaps the barrel in his direction.

"Shut the fuck or your next! Aunty T can have a trio of girls. I'm the fucking law now, you hear. Judge, jury n' executioner. What I say goes, no ifs or goddamn buts."

He refocuses the gun on Adam's crotch.

"Why don't I ask the injured party huh? Help me make a verdict. What do you think, honey? Make things square, me shooting off his dick?"

He looks over at Doris, expression strangely tender. Doris almost blurts yes, shoot his fucking dick off. Has the visceral image of Adam, crater for a crotch, dick blown to smithereens, blood pissing from the hole. 

Maybe he wouldn’t survive.

Would they eat him? Their own blood. Didn't take much to go from cannibalising strangers to eating their own. What's more sin piled on top of the rest?

Where did that leave her? Sitting at the table or hanging in the basement with Adam. With the others. 

Hoyt's nabbed a rabbit though. It's hanging from his utility belt. The limp furry body makes her mouth water. Maybe he'll let her eat that. She's been such a good girl not eating the pie, fending off his rapist cousins. 

"Answer me private!" Hoyt's bark makes her snap to attention, "Want me to shoot him or not?"

She shakes her head.

Hoyt pouts a little.

"You sure?"

"Y-yes," she forces out, "Ain't worth wastin' bullets on that pathetic thing. A-also his sister wants a baby. Don't want their mama blamin' me for that."

Hoyt arches his brow at the answer. Seems to mull it over.

"'Spose there all good points," he says.

He holsters his pistol and takes out his tobacco tin. Stuffs a wad in his cheek and chews.

"Lucky day Adam," he turns to the man still trapped under him, "My wife's more fucking merciful than I am," he yanks him up by the hair, "Say thank you, Mrs. Hoyt."

Adam heaves a strained breath, face grimaced. Hoyt wrenches his hair harder and he lets out a grunting sob.

"Don't make me change my mind. Thank the lady."

"T-nkoooo," he slurs, vomit-tinged saliva dribbling down his chin, whimpers as Hoyt yanks on his head like strings on a puppet.

"Miss-us..." Hoyt draws out the word in a patronising voice.

"Mzzz'zz."

"Hooo-yt."

"H'ttttt," Adam groans.

"Good boy," Hoyt croons with a tobacco-stained grin. Then his voice drops low, growls in Adam's ear, "You touch my wife again, I will break every bone in your goddamn body. Then I'll make you disappear. Hewitt or not. You don't touch what's mine. Got it?"

Adam weakly nods. Groans as Hoyt lets go of his head for it to hit the ground. Hoyt lobs a hunk of brown tobacco spit down on him, smiles as he steps over him.

"C'mere honey," he walks towards her with open arms. 

Doris finds herself stumbling forward, collapses into his chest. Her shaky breath quickly descends into relieved sobs. 

"You're okay," Hoyt's voice is gruffly soothing, "I got you, dumplin'. Don't cry, get my dick hard."

Doris almost laughs. Instead. She's too exhausted to laugh or cry. Tears at least.

"Who ate the pie?"

Hoyt's query makes her tense.

"F-fat one," she whispers, "Told him not to."

"That's okay, honey," Hoyt brushes her cheek, "He's got a sweet tooth like my aunty n' he's simple. It's the rest should know better."

He turns his attention on them. They're all cloistered around Adam. The fat one is attempting to hoist him off the ground, Adam groaning in pain. 

"Careful, Clem," Cal is hissing, hand nursing his swollen face, "He's hurt ya dummy."

Hoyt seems to wait until Clem has Adam hanging awkwardly in his arms like a big, ugly ragdoll.

"You boys get the fuck back to ya mama’s trailer,” he orders, “I see you again today, I ain’t gonna be happy. In fact I see you the rest of the week, I'll shoot you."

They don't have to be told twice. 

"Hey Lyle!" Hoyt calls, the spectacled man freezing mid-exit, "Get yer ass back here."

But the man stays put, half hiding behind a tree.

"I didn't touch her!" he cries in a strangled voice, "It was Adam n' Cal..."

"I know dipshit," Hoyt cuts over the top of him, "That's why you didn't end up like 'em. Come give this to your mama."

He unhooks the dead rabbit from his belt.

"Tell her it makes up for me beating on Adam, even though I was well in my fucking right to do it. Don't want her complaining to Luda Mae. Get enough of her bellyaching as it is."

He shakes the rabbit by the throat.

"C'mon hop to it."

Lyle creeps forward furtively like a fox. Reaches for the bunny, licking his lips, whines when Hoyt jerks it out of reach. 

"This goes to your mama, understand," he growls, "I hear different, I'll fuck you up like those other jackasses."

Lyle nods hastily, glasses slipping down his nose.

"Speak up," Hoyt barks, "Show some goddamn courtesy you son of a bitch!"

"Y-yeah sheriff. Uh, t-thank you, sheriff."

"That's better," Hoyt grumbles, shoving the dead rabbit in the man's face, "Get the fuck outta my sight."

Lyle flees with the rabbit. Hoyt lets out a guttural sigh. 

"Jesus H Christ, said I should introduce you to kin I didn't mean those jokers. Especially that asshole Adam. Shame you didn't let me de-dick him. Worse than a dog."

He leans to the side to spit out another brown lob of tobacco juice. Doris clenches his middle tighter, face buried in his shirt. Doesn't even seem like Winnie's anymore. Smells of tobacco and cologne, hint of vanilla Luda Mae uses in the wash. Shouldn't comfort her but it does. Like his arm around her.

"You handled him good, honey."

His other hand roughly strokes her hair. 

“Look on his face, those things you were telling him. Didn't even stutter much. Proud of you."

Doris feels a swell of happiness, happiness that quickly crumbles.

"If - if you h-hadn't showed up..." she whispers hoarsely.

"Quit that!” Hoyt barks, pushing her back and shaking her by the shoulders, “You know I wouldn't have let them jackasses do nothing to you. You’re mine."

He pulls her to his chest again. It's not so comforting this time. It's constricting, like being squeezed by a python. Maybe it's the distressed thoughts in her head. 

Mine but you said you’d eat me.

Gave away that rabbit. Could have fed me with it. Instead you gave it away. Meat or nothing. 

Meat or become meat. 

Hoyt's hand keeps raking through her hair, his breath harsh.

"You're mine, Dottie,” he repeats firmly, “Let's go home."

Chapter Text

Doris clings to Hoyt on the way back, it's the only thing keeping her upright as she forces her weak legs to move, one after the one. But Hoyt's in a hurry, can't keep up with his pace. She fumbles and he ends up towing her, feet slipping and scraping along the ground. He abruptly halts.

"This shit ain't working. Like hauling dead weight. C'mere," he scoops her up before she responds, holds her in his arms like a bride, "Good thing you lost weight."

Doris shudders at the comment. But only a little. She's too exhausted. She snakes her arms tiredly around his neck. Rests against his chest and closes her eyes, slips into a halfway place between consciousness and not, half-listening to Hoyt humming some tune while he carries her. 

Familiar, a country song. Good Texas boy, Hoyt, listens to gospel and country music. It's soothing though, Hoyt's baritone, like his sermon voice. Like his voice in general, even when it's barking. Gives her goosebumps.

"Nice," she murmurs.

Hoyt chuckles,

"Yeah? You like Buck Owens?"

Doris groggily realizes the tune is Tall, Dark Stranger. 

"Mmm," she nuzzles into his neck. Listens to him growl.

"Wouldn't pussycat. You ain't got the strength fer what you're trying to start."

She really doesn't - even though the image makes her cheeks flush. She stops nuzzling, rests her head in the crook of his neck. Hoyt grunts almost like he's disappointed.

"Gonna eat fer me, honey?" he says, tone cajoling, a little too chipper, "You know I'm a pretty seasoned cook. Ain't many dishes I can't make long as its good ol' Lone Star fare. Jus' has to have that one ingredient. What do you think?"

Question she's never been asked in her life. Been told what to cook. By her grandmother. By Winnie. Cooked what they wanted to keep them happy - not that they were ever really happy. They were fault-finders, the pair of them. Too much salt or not enough. Could never get it right. 

Never been the other way around. Never had the freedom to chose a dish she wanted. Have it cooked for her. The choice is dizzying. Her mind hungrily conjures up dishes. Brisket and barbeque and chili. Her head lolls and her mouth drools, leaves a little patch of moisture on Hoyt's collar. Imagining a home cooked meal made just for her, chosen by her. Like she's someone special. Someone worth cooking for.

Then she suddenly remembers that crucial detail. In her hunger and desire she's strangely forgotten - maybe she wants to forget. That the meat won't be beef or pork or chicken. 

"You hear me?" Hoyt prompts sharply and Doris snaps out of her daze, realizes they're almost at the house, the big structure looming ahead, "Bein' generous you know. Don't usually take dinner orders. Usually eat what yer given. But here I am, offerin'. Like I'm the goddamn housewife. Be stupid not to..."

A sound makes him pause. A wail - no, a shriek. High-pitched and abruptly silenced. Came from inside the house.

Hoyt groans,

"Damn it, what now."

He carries Doris up the front steps where he dumps her on the porch. Enters the house rifle in hand, Doris tailing anxiously after him.

There's Tommy, has Jed pinned up against wall, huge hand around his throat, the boy's skinny limbs dangling in the air, body so small compared to Tommy's bulk, like he's a doll.

"Thomas let him go!" Luda Mae is screeching, "Thomas Brown Hewitt, you listen to your mama. Let him go right now!"

But he doesn't. Boy's face is turning blue and the eyes are rolled back in his skull. Doris starts to race forward but Hoyt promptly grabs her and shoves her backwards.

"Damn hell is going on?" he makes their presence known.

"Make him stop!" Luda Mae gasps, "He'll snap the child's neck!"

Hoyt strides forward, rifle still clenched in his hand but it's aimed at the floor rather than at Tommy. 

"Let him go, Tommy."

Tommy turns his head but doesn't comply. Keeps squeezing Jed's neck. 

"Hoyt," Luda Mae moans, hands pressed frantically to her mouth.

"Hush mama," he answers, eyes still trained on Tommy, "Don't know what the lil shit's done but he ain't worth strangling. C'mon now," his voice is gruff but calm - that persuasive preacher's voice, "That's my boy you're choking, Tommy. Ease off him okay. That's it."

Tommy breathes heavily behind the mask, head hung in a way that greasy locks fall over the dead boy's face, almost concealing it like a curtain. He releases Jed and the boy hits the floor coughing and gasping.

Hoyt grabs him by his overalls and drags him back across the floor, out of reach of Tommy who he keeps his eye on like a dog who might attack. Only Tommy stays put, head still hung and breathing wetly. His broad shoulders tremble. The room is filled with Jed's bawling.

"Shut it," Hoyt growls, steps in front of him as he shoulders his rifle, removes his hat and smooths his hair.

"What'd he do huh?" he addresses Tommy, tone gentle, voice he should be using to console Jed but he's letting him blubber quietly, his neck swollen and red, "Didn't go downstairs? Disturb you?"

Doris can't believe he's taking Tommy's side when he's nearly killed a little kid. She creeps forward, arms open.

"Jed, c'mere honey."

She's about to bundle him off the floor when Tommy's head snaps up, rears like bucking horse, full towering height and dead boy's face in all its hideous glory. The impression is bone chilling, especially when it feels like he might charge. She drags Jed to her skirt. 

"L-leave him," she says, aware how much her voice quivers. How powerless she is compared to Tommy's giant size.

"This ain't your affair, missy," Luda Mae huffs.

Doris looks at her exasperatedly. Trying to protect her grandson. Why can't she ever do right in that damn woman's eyes.

Meanwhile Tommy's standing there like a grizzly raised on its hind legs. 

"Tommy!" Hoyt barks, Tommy refocuses on him, aggressive stance faltering, "Damn it I'm talking to you. Can't make it right if you won't tell us what happened."

Tommy's fallen back into his anxious state, all hunched shoulders. Paws the ground with his thick boots. 

"Ain't got all day," Hoyt snaps.

Luda Mae coughs and Hoyt glares at her. She shoots back a look. Look that makes him sigh and compose himself.

"C'mon son."

Tommy thrusts out his hand. Not the one he strangled Jed with. The other thats been closed in a fist. Becomes more apparent he's holding something, there's bits of white poking out. More white as he unfurls his fist to reveal it, the object feline, familiar.

"B-bianca!" Doris utters.

It's her. Chipped ear and dirty but more or less in one piece.

Hoyt glances over his shoulder,

"That the one you been looking for?"

Doris nods, almost overcome with relief. Her pretty princess cat. Thought she'd never see her again.

"You t-took her?" she says to Tommy. 

Tommy flinches. Shakes his head, the dead boy's face sailing back and forth in the air. He closes his fingers back around Bianca and points in Doris' direction.

No, lower. He's pointed at Jed, face buried in her skirt. Everything clicks. 

"Jed, that true?" she pushes him back to see his big watery eyes and fiery red neck, "You had her?"

Jed averts his eyes, fidgeting.

"Nuh," he lies, voice tiny and raspy.

Doris sees red. Her palm comes up and strikes him across the cheek. The sound rings in the air. She breathes hard, dizzy from the exertion. Feels several pairs of eyes staring at her. 

"Shit Dottie," Hoyt says, sounding startled but faintly amused.

Fresh tears leak out Jed's eyes. Guilt bubbles but fury pushes it back. The sense of betrayal. 

"Thought you was a nice boy, h-had her this whole time. Kept her from me!"

Jed cowers, like he expects another blow. When it doesn't he tries to flee. Hoyt grabs him, steers him back to Doris by his scrawny shoulders.

"Oh no you don't! You stand here n' answer ya mama."

"I'm not this lil cretin's mama!" Doris seethes, trying to ignore the way Jed flinches, "No relation to any o' you. S-starve me n' take my things..."

"Good Lord spare us the hysterics," Luda Mae snorts, "We've housed n' bathed you. Offered you food you've turned yer nose up at."

"Food made of f-folks," Doris retorts, "You're no saint Luda Mae H-hewitt. Raisin' murderers n' thieves."

She points at her grandson. Tries not to be swayed by the mark she's left on his face. Doesn't quite work. She shouldn't have hit him. Poor thing has still tears in his eyes. 

"Ainna teef!"

"Quit mewlin'," his father jostles him with his knee, "Sound like your damn mama. Yer real one. Quit fibbing too. Tommy caught you red-handed."

Jed sniffs, looks down at his dirty hands.

"Not literally, you idjit," Hoyt growls, "Ain't you schoolin' him?"

He looks at Luda Mae, who huffs.

"Told you I was done raisin' boys. Want him schooled, do it your damn self."

"I ain't got time fer that," Hoyt complains, eyeing his son with annoyance, "Jus' do ya chores n' quit stealing other people's shit. Ain't that hard."

"N'steal!" Jed whines, "Found."

"Finding's the same as stealing dummy," Hoyt's harsh inflection makes him cower, "Especially if it's something in my room. You ain't welcome in there."

Jed clutches his red throat.

"Nuh dere."

"Huh?"

"Gran'pa."

Hoyt's brow arches,

"Grandpa's room?"

"Uh huh," Jed gasps, "Unna h' bed."

"You no good lil devil!" Luda Mae exclaims, voice breathy and strangely flustered, "How dare you go in that room! You know better'n to go in there. That's yer granddaddy's deathbed. You better not have disturbed his body."

"B-body?" Doris stammers, "What do you mean his body?"

Hoyt huffs like its a silly question.

"Exactly what you think it means. After he died Mama, uh, decided to preserve him."

Doris looks over at Luda Mae who stares back as if daring her to say something. She doesn't. Shouldn't come as a surprise to find there's a mummified corpse in one of the bedrooms. There's fresher bodies they've opted to eat. 

"Been meaning to introduce you but things have been so busy," Hoyt goes on, his tone taking her off guard. Talks about visiting daddy's body like its a living relative. He shakes his head at Luda Mae, "So that's where you hid it huh."

Luda Mae draws herself up haughtily.

"Hid what?" she sniffs.

Hoyt rolls his eyes,

"Don't be coy, mama. The cat. Suppose I shoulda figured you'd hide it with daddy." 

Luda Mae scowls, 

"You've been smashing one of those stupid things each night after supper. I hide one n' that makes me horrible?"

"Jus' a lil immature is all." 

"Immature? That's rich comin' from the man who has me wash n' iron his pants! I take care of the whole damn lot of you n' all I get is disrespect. So what if I hid her cat. She broke one of our family heirlooms. Where's my recompense?"

"It was a damn plate, mama, who cares?"

"I do! I care about this house n' everything in it. It's my duty. If you must know, I was going to give the damn thing back to her. Only this lil rascal beat me to it."

She rounds on Jed,

"You step foot in yer grandpa's room again I'll tan yer hide. No supper for you tonight."

Jed gapes at her, all gums and crooked baby teeth. Doris stares at the imprint of her hand, feeling like a monster. 

"Get!" Luda Mae shoos him mercilessly, "Go back to the barn."

The boy scrambles away. Doris watches him go with a knot in her stomach. Shouldn't have hit him. He didn't realize what he was doing keeping her cat. Was never given any toys. Probably thought it was a marvellous treasure, way Doris had felt first time she saw it at Lottie's. Something so fine and regal looking. Special. Made her feel special having it belong to her. Maybe Jed felt that way too. Had attempted to draw her in the dirt earlier. Doris should have put two and two together. Could have avoided Tommy assaulting him.

Not that Tommy's reaction made any sense. Wasn't one of his belongings. Strange he would be so incensed. He's hunched uncomfortably, Bianca still clutched in his huge stained hands as Luda Mae scolds him,

"Thomas Brown Hewitt, I don't want to see you put your hands on that boy like that. Not over something so damn silly. That cat has nothing to do with you. Give it to me."

Tommy stiffens, shakes his head. Luda Mae starts, like she hadn't expected him to refuse. She adjusts her spectacles, eyes hard.

"Don't disobey your mama. I said hand it over."

Tommy glances over in Doris' direction. Squeezes Bianca in his hands. Doris fears she might break. 

"Why would he give it to you?" Hoyt says to Luda Mae, "It's Dottie's. Give it to me, son."

Tommy shakes his head. Shakes his head as he suddenly lurches forward. Side steps around Hoyt, ignoring his cry of "Hey!" Suddenly there's nothing between him and Doris. Feels her body freeze up in shock. Watching that dead man's face charge towards her on that hulking body. 

Moves surprisingly fast for a behemoth. Grabs her arm and suddenly she's halfway across the room, her feet scrapping limply on the floorboards. 

"The hell are you doing?" she hears Hoyt shouting behind them as Tommy propels her through the basement door - hears the alarm in his voice amidst the fury, "Tommy! TOM-!"

Tommy slams the door behind them. Doris' senses inhale in the view and smell of hell. She immediately gags. Even from the top of the staircase the smell is overpowering. Rank and dense, like nothing she's ever inhaled before. Like the stink of the slaughterhouse over the town during a strong breeze but multiplied. Multiplied and confined in a small enclosed space with little ventilation. 

There's no escaping it, especially as Tommy tows her down the stairs, Doris lacking any strength to resist, breath rapid and trembling as she tries to suck in any oxygen that isn't soiled with the stink of death. There isn't any.

No fragment of fresh air. Just the fetid smell of meat and blood. Death. Smell of Tommy. That pervasive odour that came from him sequestering himself down here, working in it, arms deep in massacred flesh. Seeping into his clothes and his skin like perfume. Doris can feel it drenching over her too, like something tangible, cloying at every exposed pore of skin. 

Then there's the visual horror. Bodies impaled on hooks, in various stages of dismemberment. Like a heap of dolls exposed to a rough child, limbs snapped off, heads missing. Only these aren't dolls, though their bodies are pale, waxxy, no longer rosy with life. The only colour is their blood. Some a dark congealed rust, some fresher, still freely dripping. Their stomachs and chest have been opened like pigs, organs removed. 

The horror stuns her brain so much the scene almost registers as artificial. Such depravity can't really exist. Can't really be seeing it. It's fake, rubber bodies and pig's blood, like a movie set. But it is real. It's very real. Like the smell. Like Tommy. He's very much real. His terrifying size, the wet sound of his breath under that ghastly mask, quick and panting, excitable? Or anxious. 

His hand keeps squeezing and unsqueezing as he forces her along, like he wants to keep hold of her yet doesn't at the same time. Maybe it's the contact itself. Doesn't like contact. Has spurned contact since his facial condition. Isn't that what Mrs. Hewitt. Developed an aversion. 

Only enjoys contact when the person is reduced to an animal for slaughter in his eyes. A piece of meat to be butchered. A face to slice off, fashioned into a mask, an accessory, like skinning mink for a coat, Tommy fashions himself new faces. 

There's a layer of filthy water on the floor. Drenches her shoes as she's dragged deeper into the basement. 

"T-tommy," she whispers.

A wet grunt. His hand squeezing and unsqueezing. Then squeezing, leading her towards a medieval looking table. There's a metal clasps for his victim's hands and feet, a loop for their necks. Hold them down while he takes their face. Does it while they're alive? Make them suffer more, keep the flesh more elastic for sewing? Doris isn't even sure why she's contemplating his methods. 

"A-are you g-gonna k-kill me?"

Part of her might even welcome it. She's so tired. So hungry. So over the horrors and stresses of trying to survive.

Tommy grunts again. Stops. Pushes her against the butcher's block where she flops, half-sprawled over the viscera-stained wood. Tommy looms over, that pretty boy's face stretched over his own, proportions exaggerated, like a carnival mask. Breathing out of the gap of the mouth. Dark eyes boring out the eye slits, not quite making direct contact. 

Doris suddenly becomes aware of the commotion above. Must have somehow tuned it out with all the horror assaulting her senses. 

"Damn it boy!" Hoyt is yelling, accompanied by fierce banging on the door, "You bring her back or I'll bust this door n' come down there. You hear me! She ain't meat, you asshole. Bring her back right now! Tommy!" bang, bang, "Tommy! I'm warning you. I bust this door, you're in for the biggest thrashing of your goddamn life! Think them kids beat you bad, they ain't got nothing on me. You listening Tommy? Answer me!"

"You know he can't answer you," Luda Mae's voice cuts in, high and stressed, "Why you threatening him? What's that gonna accomplish? Gotta speak kindly to him or else..."

"Oh shut it woman! This is your fault. You been antagonising Dottie since she come here n' it's rubbed off. Probably thinks he's doing your bidding. Tommy! Don't you hurt her Tommy. She's my wife, understand. She's not meat! Tommy!"

He bangs on the door again. 

"Tommy? That's it, I'm breaking this door down!"

"Don't you dare!" Luda Mae cries, "That's my boy's special place. No one else goes down there. We agreed on that."

"Shit on our promises! Only takes folks down there to kill 'em. Ain't letting him kill her."

"I'm not letting you kill each other. You go down there there'll be bloodshed. She - she's almost dead anyway. We can get you another-..."

"I don't want some other bitch! I want my Dottie! Get out of the way, mama."

"No! I ain't letting you..."

Doris starts as she feels something hard being thrust into her hands, Luda Mae's voice turning to background fuzz as she looks down. It's Bianca. Her fingers lock around her tight, fearful she'll fall to the dirty floor.

Looks up at Tommy. He's rolling his hands over his ears in a fretful manner, pulling at his hair. Must be the sound of Hoyt and Luda Mae mid-arguement above. 

"T-thank you," Doris' voice makes him pause mid hair wrenching. She clutches Bianca's familiar weight, those smooth ceramic lines of her fluffy fur, coated with grime but she doesn't mind. Smiles at Tommy. Or tries to. It's hard. The sight of him. What he's capable of.

He tugs on his hair again and nods, exhales a wet burst of air behind his mask. He strides over to what looks like a sewing station. Sewing station for human skin. Doris tries to conceal her disgust. She's still trapped down here. Hoyt hasn't shoved his mother aside and knocked down the door.

Maybe he might be afraid of Tommy. Nephew's bigger and stronger than he is. Maybe Luda Mae's convinced him it's not worth upsetting the apple cart over a woman who's almost starved herself to death.

Tommy picks up a small mouldy box. Bustles back over. What's in it? Trophies? Teeth? Pieces of ear? He thrusts it out so she can see. 

"Oh," she gasps.

It's her broken cats. Or rather they were.

Tommy hasn't simply glued what he could back together. He's taken bits and pieces from each cat, jamming them together to create bizarre new figurines with mismatched proportions. The effect is Picasso-like but disturbing. He's stuck a tail in place of eyes on one of them. 

All in all its gruesome. The sweet-faced originals have been replaced by Frankstein's monsters. Tommy's used blood for the glue, the cracks between the pieces are dark rust. Their delicate new bodies have been reinforced with wire. He's stuck bits of fur on them too. In patches. Real fur. From the barn cat he presumably caught and skinned. 

Would have appalled her grandmother. Seeing her collection resurrected in such a fashion. She wasn't one for expressionism. For a former actress she was quite puritan. 

But Doris is oddly touched. How can she not be despite their ugliness. Tommy didn't smash them - her lover had. Tommy breathed new life into them. He was an artist and weren't all good artists were a little mad? Their creativity coming from some dark, disturbed place? 

Tommy had hang-ups about beauty. He hadn't been able to save his face so he had uglied it even more. If he couldn’t be pretty, he would be demonic. He would slice off other people's beautiful faces, wear them on his face. It made little sense for him to return her cats to their former pristine glory. Instead he turned them into something a little like him. 

"They're, uh, l-lovely," she tells Tommy.

Tommy blows a wet exhale behind his mask, almost like he'd been holding his breath. He shoves the box into her hands where she struggles to balance it with Bianca, almost drops the lot. Her arms are so weak. She sets everything on the butcher's block. Looks back at Tommy.

"I weren't very nice to you in school," she finds herself saying, "I shoulda stood up to Suzie and Avery. If they were here right now, I..."

She thinks of their bodies on hooks. Avery stripped of his handsome face. 

"Things would be different," she murmurs, "I woulda been different."

She's already different. Fact the fantasy doesn't fill her with horror. Idea of her former best friend and her bully brother being harvested for meat. 

Fact her mouth waters suddenly imagining brisket. 

Tommy growls. Looks up and sees the fierce way he's staring at her through the eye holes of his mask. The condemnation in it. 

Can't absolve yourself so easily, those angry eyes tell her. You looked on and did nothing. Can't change that you did nothing.

"'I - I know," she adds apologetically, "Can't change the p-past. I didn't help you, T-tommy. N' I'm real s-sorry."

Tommy's big hands clench like he's grappling with her apology physically. Isn't sure whether to accept it. If its weakness. If it was Avery or Suzie, he wouldn't accept an apology. But her? The guilty bystander. He's let her live so far. 

Live in his house. Seen her every night at supper. Watched her wave at him.

"W-why did you fix 'em? The cats. You - you didn't like me bein' bullied? Is that it? They was mine n' you didn't like 'em being destroyed in front of me?"

Tommy ceases fidgeting. Slowly nods. 

"N' that's why you was angry at Jed. Saw he had Bianca when it didn't belong to him?"

Another nod.

"I see. He - he prolly didn't realize."

Tommy growls. Folds his massive arms over his chest. Doris' cat collection wasn't a secret to Jed. 

"You still shouldn’t have wrung his neck. Only a lil..."

Tommy mimes a slap and she winces.

"Touche," she says, Tommy cocks his head quizzically, "O-oh, means you make a good point. Jesus, I sound like my old husband. He was always explaining things to me like I was an idiot."

Her hands tremble at the memories, all the times he patronised her. Or maybe its from lack of eating. Maybe both. She tightens them into fists.

"It wasn't real nice bein' married to him. Didn't beat on me but he made me feel s-small. Like A-avery I suppose. Wasn't good enough. H-hoyt hits me but he makes me feel like I'm the most special girl in the world. M-makes no sense does it?"

Nothing in the Hewitt's small bubble makes sense. Sexual depravity isn't shameful. Nobody blinks an eye at incest. People are meat. Their flesh is sewn into masks. Yet they all bow their heads at supper like good Christians and thank the Lord.

"I dreamt you took my face," the admission makes Tommy stiffen, but then he lurches ever so slightly. Somehow it doesn't make her nervous. She's too exhausted to feel nervous. "Would you do that?"

Tommy shifts his weight between his feet, hands twitching. Hard to make out any expression on the skin plastered over his face but she can tell he's not sure. Be grabbing a knife otherwise. 

"No?" Doris says wryly, "'Spose there's nothin' special about it. Not my plain ol' face."

Tommy ceases fidgeting. Swear he scoffs under that mask. He lumbers forward, Doris tensing as he grabs her face. Fingers roughly prodding around the outer edges, places where he'd make the incision.

"If you wan' it though you can h-have it," she blurts, even though its a lie.

Doesn't want him carve off her face. Doesn't want to die!

"I owe you. For when we was kids," she gasps as his two of his fingers dig into her jaw, his current mask hovering hideously close in all its mottled pallor, dark eyes boring out at her from the eye holes, "For f-fixin' my cats. It was sweet of y..."

"Uhhhh," Tommy groans, the sound making her start.

"T-tommy?"

"Uhhhahhh," he tries again, applying pressure on her jaw in an up and down motion, "Eeehhh."

She suddenly realizes what he's trying to say.

Eat. 

"Eaaahh," he rasps, sounding frustrated at his ineloquence, his fingers are gripping her so tight it feels like her jaw might splinter.

"Eat," she whimpers painfully, "Tellin' me to eat?"

"Muuurr..."

"Meat."

Tommy nods, wheezing. His fingers ease off her jaw and she almost weeps with relief. Not that she has the energy for to produce moisture. Tommy gestures at his rack of bodies then at her, back and forth. 

"I know," Doris whispers, "I know."

Tommy stares at her. Grunts. Then he pulls her away from the butcher's block. Doris watches on shaky legs as he pulls a torso down from its hook. Throws it down on the butcher's block with a thud. Grabs his cleaver. 

Doris feels like she's been dismissed. Tommy isn't going to waste his time continuing to convince her. He's a worker. Has work to do. 

"W-will you let me go?" she says, his cleaver pausing mid-air, "H-hoyt's still h-hollerin'."

"Tommy!" his voice is hoarse from shouting, "Quit ignoring me, goddamn it! I ain't askin' again. Bring Dottie back n' she better be in one piece or I swear God I'll..."

"Hoyt!" Luda Mae interjects, sounding just as hoarse as him. Pitiful almost, "Its over, she's probably already..."

"Get off me!" Hoyt seethes, "Bring her to me, damn it! Damn it Tommy! You sick son of a bitch. This is your last chance. I'm gonna count to ten. If she ain't back up here, I'm coming down n' it ain't GONNA BE FUCKIN' PRETTY. ONE!"

"HOYT!" Luda Mae yells, her elderly voice cracking. 

"TWO!"

"You ain't goin'..."

"THREE! GET YER ASS MOVIN' BOY. FOUR! I SWEAR TO CHRIST, IF SHE'S GOT EVEN A SCRATCH ON HER, GONNA BE IN A WORLD A HURT. WISH MAMA NEVER PULLED YA OUTTA THAT BIN!"

"Stop!" Luda Mae cries, "You need to calm down! Calm down or this won't end well. You know how Tommy is when he's cornered. Listen to m-"

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. SHE'S MY WIFE. NO RIGHT TO TAKE HER. GIVE HER BACK. GIVE HER BACK TOMMY! FIVE! SIX!"

Tommy has abandoned his slab of meat, started to pace, cleaver gripped in his hand. 

"He won't hurt you," Doris finds herself soothing him, "He's just upset."

Tommy halts, eyeing her wildly.

"He's afraid of you. Him n' Luda Mae. They love you but they're afraid. You're stronger n' either of 'em. Could kill all o' us if you wanted." 

"SEVEN!"

Tommy makes a rumbling noise almost like a tiger's purr.

"Frrr..."

"Family?" Doris guesses. 

Tommy nods.

"You're a sweet boy, Tommy."

Tommy cocks his head in a stiff way that suggests annoyance.

"M-man," she corrects, "S-sorry."

He's only a year or two younger than her. Towers over her, wearing a blood-stained apron and a dead man's face. Nothing child-like about Tommy's sins. But there is something a bit stunted about him. Not sure if it's something inside him, kept his brain from fully developing. Maybe it's Luda Mae's coddling or Hoyt constantly referring to him as son or boy. Both seem to treat him like a teenager rather than an adult equal. 

Doesn't correct them either. But Doris, he wants to be seen as on par with. Same age. Grown thirty something. Not a boy. 

"I'll leave these here," she brushes the box of Frankenstein cats, "Don't think Hoyt's quite ready for modern art."

Not in his bedroom. Might not even want Bianca but she clutches her anyway. Would be better to leave her in case Hoyt decides she's next in line if she refuses supper.

Won't refuse. Too hungry.

Even as she makes her way up the stairs, exhaustion clouds her vision and her feet leaden. But she pushes through. Has to make it to the top. 

"I ain't bearing witness to this!" Mrs. Hoyt's voice is shrill, "Fools the pair of you. All this fuss over some useless..."

"SHUT UP MAMA!" Hoyt cuts her off, "EIGHT! NO NEED FOR BLOODSHED IF SHE'S UNHARMED. GIVE HER BACK IS ALL I'M ASKIN'. I'M ASKIN' TOMMY."

The way he says it. Sounds almost like pleading.

"NINE!"

"Comin'!" Doris tries to shout but her voice is too frail for Hoyt to register.

"TEN!"

"W-wait, I'm comin'," Doris cries feebly.

"THATS IT!"

There's a blast and the door is suddenly wrenched open. Hoyt and Luda Mae register her with shock, both red-faced and dishevelled.

"Tol' you I was comin'."

Hoyt snaps out of his stupor. Shoves his rifle at Luda Mae.

"Damn it woman, I didn't hear you."

He lunges and she's suddenly smashed against his chest. Makes her smile weakly.
 
"Don't be mad at Tommy. Fixed my cats."

"What?" 

"Ones you smashed," she forces up her leaden head, frowns, "You been cryin'?"

His eyes are strangely bloodshot. 

"Christ woman I ain't fucking crying," but even his growl sounds slightly tremulous, way he scrubs at his eyes, "I'm a grown ass man."

He ignores Luda Mae's huff in the background.

"Didn't know what the fuck he was doing to you."

"Mmm," Doris slumps against his chest.

"Have to fix that door," she hears Luda Mae grumble, "Busted it for no reason like some damn cowboy. Don't you dare ask to Tommy help you either. Better apologize to him. My poor boy's probably worried sick you thinking the worst of him. Always looked up to you. Fix his door n' make things right. You hear me, Hoyt?"

"Mama," Hoyt grits out through clenched teeth, "Would you kindly shut your damn trap and give us some room?"

If Luda Mae offers up some form of retort, Doris doesn't catch it. Her ears are ringing and her thoughts are fuzzy. Only dimly registers the palm slapping her cheek, Hoyt's vain attempt to keep her conscious. Instead she goes limp, plummets into darkness.

Chapter Text

Hoyt takes another gulp of moonshine. Barely registers the burn. His mother is in his room tending to Doris. Only allowed him to carry her unconscious to the bed, ordered him to "get that damn bell off her". Dottie stirred a little but barely. Didn't open her eyes, her breathing shallow. Hoyt paced restlessly around the room until it got on his mother's nerves. 

"You ain't helping with yer hoverin'," she told him, "Leave her to me."

So he had, slunk to the kitchen with a jar of moonshine, settled at the table to impatiently wait. 

Wait and stew over what had happened. 

Should have expected it. Only giving her water and cum for days. Surprised she lasted this long. 

But he thought she would have given in. Did everything else he asked. And he swore he could see the yearning in her eyes at meal times. The picnic had been a bust but he felt supper might have swayed her, especially if he cooked something she liked. 

But her body had given out. All that shit downstairs with Tommy. He's still mad at that fucker. Like he's mad at Jed for stressing her. Boy hasn't made a peep from the barn. Just as well. He'd fret. Acted like Dottie was his real mama. Hoyt didn't have patience for a fretting child. Didn't have patience for any child. Most people really. He hated most people.

Didn't hate the woman passed out on his bed. The fucking opposite. 

Shouldn't have pushed. Serious miscalculation on his part. Should have known better. Soldier like him. Supposed to know your troops. Especially one you stuck your dick in. Knew how weak she was getting. Should have kept her bound to the bed. Instead he took her for some dumb jaunt in the woods. 

Should have laid off on whipping her too. Kept having her ride his boot. No wonder her body said enough and fainted. She was a fucking housewife. Housewife didn't have a soldier's stamina. 

Stupid, he takes another gulp of moonshine. Stupid.

"You fix that door?" he blearily raises his head at the sound of his mother's voice.

Glowers at her a little.

"No."

He takes another swig of moonshine. Luda Mae leans against the door frame.

"Hnn. Tommy musta done it."

Hoyt huffs. Sounds like Tommy. Wouldn't like his privacy being compromised. 

He takes another gulp. Feels his mama's eyes on him.

"Don't start," he growls.

But asking his mama not to criticise is like asking the sky not to be blue. Some things you got no control over. Hears her huff as she shuffles into the kitchen.

"Think hooch'll sort your problems? Just like your daddy n' granddaddy."

Hoyt glares at her. 

"Ever think maybe we have a good goddamn reason?"

"Moping ain't a reason," Luda Mae retorts as she closes in, "You had enough."

Hoyt clutches the jar to his chest defiantly. 

"Won't help her. Poisoning yourself."

Hoyt grimaces.

"How is she?"

Luda Mae holds out her hand. Hoyt growls but surrenders the jar. Watches her take it over to the sink.

"Don't waste it!" he staggers to his feet.

"Nonsense," She snorts as she dumps the contents down the drain, "Got it stored all over the house in your hidey holes. Won't miss this."

Hoyt slumps down in his chair, grinding his teeth.

"Such a hard ass."

"Don't cuss," his mother reproaches, setting down the now empty jar, "Fix you some coffee. Need to sober up Junior."

"It's Hoyt!" he groans.

"Hoyt, Junior," she says as she fetches the percolator, "You're my boy who's had too many. Let me take care of you."

I want my wife to take care of me, Hoyt thinks blearily. I want my Dottie. 

"Didn't answer me before," he says to Luda Mae.

Luda Mae is quiet as she fusses with the percolator.

"Well? Didn't smother her with a pillow?"

She turns to look at him sharply.

"Why would I do that?"

Killed the last one, he thinks. Didn't see her do it of course. All he knows is Jed's hippie bitch of a mother survived the birth. Was still breathing when he stepped out to tell Tommy and Monty the good news - that he'd sired the next generation. Came back to a dead woman and wailing son being rocked in Luda Mae's arms, telling him Maryanne had taken a turn.

Which naturally he found fucking suspicious. But he was over caring about that bitch at that point. Had never cared really, beyond her being a body to make use of.

Dottie's more to him than a body.

"You don't like her," he says.

Luda Mae grunts as she fetches out two cups, ones she uses when Teadora comes calling. 

"Lotta mothers don't get on with their son's wives. Don't mean we murder 'em."

"Why dislike her so much?" Hoyt finds himself asking, "Can't just be her hanging 'round those Jessups as a kid. Been kind to Tommy since she got here. Fixed her cats. Shows he don't mind her."

His mother scoffs under her breath, irking him.

"What is it?" he demands.

"I don't know," Luda Mae answers angrily, "Reminds me of her daddy I guess. Looks like him. Don't look like her poor mama. Such a pretty child. Just like Darla Hood."

She shakes her head sadly,

"Poor simple thing. So lonely. Mother of hers never gave her the time of day. Shut her away like some dirty secret. Jus' wanted her a friend."

Hoyt grunts - he doesn't give a shit about Doris' dead mama. 

"Girl like that, easy pickings for vultures like Bill Sawyer. Seeing yer aunt for a time, afore he got his claws in Miss Rosie. You remember that?"

Hoyt shrugs - has vague memories of Sawyer hanging around his aunty's trailer. But like most of her paramours, he came and went pretty quick. Not as quick as the ones she drugged for one night stands, called Grandpa to dump their disoriented asses down the road when she was done. 

Does recall walking past the kitchen and overhearing her saying to his mother,

"That man's too smart to drink my tea. Won't gimme a babe neither. Prefers to finish on my teats."

Luda Mae had spat out her mouthful of tea.

"Lord, Dora!" she cried while her sister chortled, "Ain’t you got no shame?"

Hoyt and Zeke had a disgusted giggle over it later while they staked out the nearby creek, waiting to see if any girls turned up to swim. 

"Don't keep track of aunty's conquests," he answers Luda Mae carelessly, "Can't see what its got to with Doris n' you not liking her. Jus' cause she's a ginger like her deadbeat daddy who killed himself. That's a pretty poor excuse, mama."

"Ain't an excuse," she hisses, "How do you think Billy found out about Miss Rosie? Heard me talking about her after Mrs. Horton fired me. Didn't mother that child but she damn sure didn't want anyone else doing it either. Not her maid."

She turns her back on him to watch the percolator.

"So no, I don't like being reminded o' Bill Sawyer. How he lured that poor girl, thinking he could shake money outta Lottie Horton. What he made her do when it didn't work. No wonder she died, stress of him forcing that upon her. Poor sweet girl. Your wife shouldn'tve happened. Was the death of her."

Hoyt sighs, his body slightly woozy from intoxication.

"Ain't Dottie's fault. Kids don't ask to be born, mama."

He never asked to be. Or Tommy. Real mama had dumped him in a bin. Probably sparing herself the shame when she should have kept her legs shut. Like Dottie's mama. But then he wouldn't have Dottie. So really he owes that conman Bill Sawyer, laying with a simpleton to create his wife. Same as Luda Mae owes some nameless tramp tor dumping her baby.

But maybe she has a point. Dottie ain't simple and she definitely doesn't look like Darla Hood. She's sly. And depraved. But that's why he likes so damn much. Likes her for all the reasons mama doesn't.

Luda Mae doesn't answer. Her hand does tremour a little as she sets a cup down in front of him. Fills it with steaming hot coffee. His then hers. 

"She's alive then?" he prompts.

"Yes," she groans a little as she takes her seat across from him, "But she's weak. Awful weak."

She stares down at her own cup pensively.

"Wager she won't make it through the night if she don't eat something."

Rage rises in his throat like bile. 

"Don't you dare!" Luda Mae barks in warning before he leaps up, "Busting things won't help anymore n' hooch. Sit n' drink your coffee."

Hoyt grips the table, fury coursing through his body with no means of exit. He wants to destroy everything in this fucking room. Like his daddy and granddaddy used to do during their brawls. 

"Can't offer you biscuits," Luda Mae goes on, "Ain't had time to make 'em since I was baking you that pie. How'd it turn out, you like it?"

"Damn it mama," he snaps, "This ain't one of your tea parties where you cluck about inconsequential shit. My wife..."

"Is a delicate condition," Luda Mae interrupts, "Condition neither of us have much control over. So you may as well answer my question."

"What question?" he growls.

"My pie."

Hoyt stares at her in disbelief.

Why the fuck are we going on about pie!

But he takes a breath. Had baked the damn thing for him, albeit with her typical grumbling. Like the rest of her sex, his mama did like receiving compliments. Women her age probably the only thing you could compliment was their cooking. 

"Pie was delicious," he grits out, "Dottie looked at it like it was most beautiful thing she'd ever seen."

Luda Mae smiles faintly. 

"But you didn't give her none?"

Hoyt shakes his head. His mother tsks. 

"No wonder she fainted."

Hoyt seizes his cup, the heat burning his fingers. Somehow it's soothing. Being able to withstand it. Like he withstood torture at the hands of those commies. Hadn't broken him but they'd come damn close. 

How is it this situation seems worse than the POW camp? 

"Could fix her some soup."

Hoyt looks up at her in surprise. She's poker-faced behind her spectacles.

"She won't eat it," he says, his frustration audible, "She won't eat the meat, mama."

Luda Mae grunts,

"Coulda cooked her that rabbit if you hadn't given it to your aunty."

Hoyt stares at her a moment then huffs,

"Didn't take her long to call."

"Adam's got broken ribs," his mother says reproachfully, "Henrietta's in a state over it. Dora calls me wonderin' why you gave her a rabbit instead of what we stocked in the house."

"She knows?"

"She was here remember. Boy used her as a barricade."

"I thought you told her they was shoplifters we were teaching a lesson."

"Did at first."

"And then what?" he sighs, "Mama we talked about tellin' the rest of the family together."

"Couldn't help it," she mutters, "Had to talk to someone," her fingers grip her cup, gnarled knuckles pale, "Lucky she was accepting."

"Woman likes her food. Why wouldn't she like it?"

"Don't talk ill of your aunt. Especially when you beat up her son."

"Two of 'em really," Hoyt says without remorse.

"Yes I heard. But Adam's her favourite."

"Don't know why. He's a jackass."

"They're all jackasses," Luda Mae sips her coffee, "Adam's the one looker among 'em."

The comment irks him more than it should. Hoyt knows he's no Gary Cooper. But when it came to his cousins he always prided himself on being the most attractive. Could walk around other folk without attracting any odds looks. Rest of his kin looked like they belonged in sideshow.

Then Adam came along, a younger version of him for everyone to fuss over. His mama included. That's why Adam got around with that enormous swollen head - mama, aunty and Henrietta all cooing over him.

Hoyt wishes he'd paid more attention to his face than his ribs.

"Quite the lidibo I hear," Luda Mae goes on.

Hoyt growls.

"He was all over Doris."

Luda Mae purses her lips.

"Popular for a plain thing."

Hoyt glowers,

"No offense mama but you ain't exactly a judge of beauty."

Remembers how she cooed over Tommy when she first bought him home. Ugliest baby he ever saw but she thought he looked like a little angel. 

"Guess the apple don't fall far from the tree," Luda Mae retorts.

Hoyt slams his cup on the table so hard it rattles.

You drive me crazy, he wants to shout at her. You drove daddy crazy. 

But daddy didn't treat her the best. That thought cools some ire. Mama deserved more of his patience than daddy had. But damn it if she didn't make it hard for him.

"Be careful with that," she scolds, "It's..."

"A family heirloom, I know. Every damn thing in this house is an heirloom!"

Too broke to buy new shit. Not that Hoyt cares about updating the crockery. As long as the family's fed. That problem had solved itself. 

He purposely ignores Luda Mae's reproachful look at his outburst. 

"I ain't blind. Know Dottie's not Jayne Mansfield. But in this family that don't mean much. Maryanne was pretty but she was a bitch."

"Language," Luda Mae tuts, "I didn't like that woman."

"Yeah no sh- I know you didn't." 

They lapse into silence. Hoyt can hear the television playing at low volume in the living room, Monty's snores. Other than that the house is silent. 

Thinks about Dottie lying on his bed. Could pass from life to death without making a sound. While he sat here with his mother. 

"Promised yer aunt some of the meat," Luda Mae switches the subject.

Hoyt rubs his temples,

"That's fine I guess. We do have surplus."

Luda Mae hums. 

"Won't last forever."

"Then we'll get more."

"Have to be more discernin'. Youngsters like that, they got families."

Hoyt sighs,

"So we'll stick to bikers and folks on their lonesome. Groups is too much hassle anyways."

He touches the bridge of his nose, grimaces at the bruising.

"Coulda killed you," his mother says softly, "Need to be more careful."

"All a learning process, mama. Learnt we gotta kill 'em straight away. No prisoners."

"No playing with the food you mean?" Luda Mae says dryly.

"Who was playin'?"

"You. Land sake Junior, you were makin' the boy do push ups."

"Bastard burnt his draft card. Needed to be taught a lesson."

Luda Mae stares pointedly at his face. 

Looks like he taught you a lesson, the look says. Hoyt grinds his teeth. 

"I got it alright. No fucking around."

"Language."

"Daddy n' Grandpa cussed all the time."

"Doesn't mean I liked it. Raised you better."

Hoyt sighs. Slurps his coffee.

"Told Teadora she could keep the rabbit," Luda Mae says.

"Uh huh," Hoyt says wearily.

"Less I call her back. Say you want it for Doris."

Hoyt bites his lip, half-torn.

"No."

Luda Mae shakes her head.

"Want to keep her don't you. What's it matter if she don't eat the meat?"

"You know it matters, mama. How else are we ever gonna trust her? She eats the meat she'll be one of us. Won't be any doubt."

Luda Mae huffs,

"She'll never be one of us."

The dismissal makes him see red.

"What about Tommy?" he says before he can stop himself. 

Watches her eyes widen. 

"I raised Tommy from a babe."

"He's still not blood. You n' me treat him like he is but he's not," he taps his finger on the table in emphasis, "So don't tell me it can't be the same with Dottie."

His mother is silent. 

"You're in love with her," she gruffs softly.

Hoyt's jaw clenches. Not sure why the revelation irks him. Told Dottie he loved her all the time. But he'd told Maryanne too and hadn't meant it. Just words his daddy told him women liked to hear. Made 'em feel special.

But Dottie was special.

"Thought she'd another plaything," his mama continues, "That you'd get bored, like you did Jed's mama. Didn't care towards the end. But this one. You care about this one."

"I don't care," Hoyt growls, knowing it's a lie.

"Oh son, you do. You was always a callous one, even as a child. Never minded. Wouldn't have survived so well if you wasn't. But this woman, she's cracked something in you, something I thought wasn't there."

Hoyt's chair abruptly squeals as he jumps up, eying his mother like she's a persistant fly buzzing at his ear. Saying things he don't want to hear. 

"Making me sound like some twitterpated idiot!" he hisses, "Dottie tickles me is all. Way she is. Never seen another woman like it. Doesn't mean I'll be heart-broken if she kicks the bucket."

Then why does the thought make his chest tighten. Idea of no longer seeing that plain but strangely appealing face with that smatter of freckles and twitchy nervous smile. Way those big eyes lit up when he degraded her. 

He hasn't had any nightmares lately. Only sweet dreams. Sweet dreams and blissful awakenings, warm body next to him, a wet waiting hole to sheath his cock. The thought of waking of an empty side of the bed...

Managed it for years but somehow the thought scares him. The idea of spending the rest of his days wifeless, only his infuriating kin for company.

What are the chances he could find another sexually depraved woman like Dottie? Lot of whores out there but not many that wanted a master like him. Hoyt wasn't oblivious when it came to female repulsion. Saw it in the eyes of that big titted bitch. Maryanne's too. Once she realized he'd trapped her, that sugary sweet facade fell away real quick.

"Don't give me that," Luda Mae says knowingly, "Can't lie to me, boy. I saw how you were when Tommy had her downstairs. Hollering 'cause you was thinking the worse. That you'd lose her."

Her brow creases.

"Never seen you so upset," she says softly, "Not since your daddy tossed that trinket of yours into the fire that time. When you was a boy. You remember that? Some sorta metal doo dad you liked playing with."

"It was a car," Hoyt grits out, "It was my favourite toy, mama. You ought to remember. Daddy had no right doing what he did."

"I fixed him didn't I?" Luda Mae startles him by saying. 

Closest she's ever come to admitting she killed him. Takes him a moment to work his mouth.

"Not over the car," he says, hating how petulant he sounds.

Way his mother looks at him with a hard look on her face.

"I fixed him," she repeats firmly. 

Hoyt sighs. He's certain her motive was more bruised ego than protectiveness over him. Had enough of his daddy's wandering eye. But he's too exhausted to argue. What did the reason matter. His daddy's corpse was upstairs stuffed full of sawdust.

Maybe he could preserve Dottie if she died. 

But necrophilia had never interested him. Wouldn't be the same. He sometimes overheard mama in daddy's bedroom, chattering away to him. Way her voice cracked a little when she was met with silence. Sometimes he thought he'd be doing her a damn favour if he hauled his corpse out to the burial plot, laid him to proper rest with all their ancestors and Hoyt's dead siblings. 

But then he remembers his toy car and thinks his dead daddy didn't deserve eternal rest. He could keep lying in that bed, big dumb doll for Luda Mae to vent to.

Doesn't want the same for him and Dottie though. Dead stuffed version would only remind him of what he'd lost. 

What he'd let slip through his fingers.

"This woman ain't a toy car," Luda Mae breaks through his thoughts, "'N you wouldn'ta acted that way if she meant nothin' to you."

Hoyt exhales harshly,

"She's my wife. 'Course I want her around. But there ain't no point if she isn't prepared to be one o' us."

If she loved me, she'd do what I want.

Maybe she doesn't love you, comes a brutal afterthought. Ever think of that, genius? Killed her real husband and forced her play house. Starved her 'cause she didn't want to eat human meat.

Maybe she prefers death over you.

Luda Mae is saying something. 

"Huh?" his voice cracks a little. He clears his throat, Luda Mae watching, brow furrowed with concern. Concern he hates. Shouldn't be the source of concern. He's not fragile. Not an invalid like Monty. Not a basket case like Tommy. 

Needs to be a figure of stability. He's head of the household, damn it. 

"Said am I making this soup or not?" Luda Mae asks.

Hoyt's resolve crumbles again. Doesn't answer.

Luda Mae's seat scrapes as she rises.

"Don't leave it too long answering," she gives his shoulder an uncharacteristic squeeze before she gathers their cups, "Getting late."

No shit, Hoyt thinks, staggering back towards his bedroom. The coffee's sobered him but he's mostly on edge. Clenches his fists over and over restlessly, tic that manifested after Korea. Barely realizes he's doing it most of the time. Takes a deep breath before he enters the room. 

Feels like he's walking into a funeral parlour, way Doris is lying. Still except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. Hoyt fights back a tumult of emotions. 

"Hey dumplin'. How you feeling?"

He's met with only the faint whisper of her breath. Suppose at least she's still breathing. Just. Mama's right. She's awful weak.

He kicks off his boots. Unholsters his gun. Unbuckles his utility belt. Dumps it on the dresser. Returns to the bed. Stares at her wan, sleeping face. Luda Mae's brushed her hair. Curls feel silky under his fingers as he caresses them. Mama and her damn priorities. Brushing her hair while she lay there barely breathing. Looks nice but doesn't know why it crossed her mind.

Maybe it was her yearning for her a baby girl to fuss over. Way she fussed over Tommy until all that shit with his face made him spurn her touch. Broke his mama's heart. Not being able to touch her angel baby as he slowly became more deformed. 

Hoyt's finger traces over the smatter of freckles on Doris' nose.

"Bet she sung you lullabies too."

Always singing lullabies to Tommy. Sang to him too as child, has vague memories of it. Sang to all his cousins too when she held them as babies. Even Jed she sung to until her disappointment with him well and truly set in. 

Wasn't the precious grand daughter she wanted to help her around the house. Saw him as a burden. Hoyt admitted he did to. Wasn't the kind of boy Hoyt wanted. Tommy seemed to loath him from the start. Took one look at him in his crib then stalked back downstairs.

Maybe it was jealousy. Jed was a Hewitt by blood and Tommy wasn't (not that it mattered, despite the shit he just pulled with Dottie, Hoyt was prouder of him than any full blooded Hewitt aside from Zeke over in 'Nam).

Maybe it was his looks too. Tommy's face was fucked and Jed's wasn't. Not that Jed was the best looking kid. But he was normal enough. Dottie hadn't minded him before the idiot stole her cat. 

Her precious cat ended up breaking when she fainted in his arms, fell to the floor and broke into a few pieces. Hoyt stepped over the mess carrying her away. 

Be upset when she found out. 

If she pulled through to find out.

"Wake up private," he pats her cheek, "Come on, up and at 'em."

More silence. Hoyt clenches his fists. 

"C'mon pussycat," he shifts onto the bed straddle her limp body, "Wake up, that's order."

He slaps her cheek more firmly. Doris gives a tiny groan but doesn't wake.

"C'mon honey," he nuzzles her lips, dry and chafed, her skin cold despite the heat. Like a corpse, "C'mon pussycat."

He licks her lips, tip of his tongue slipping between them to hit teeth, her breathing seems to become more laboured and he pulls back, groin throbbing. He ducks to her neck, licks there instead. A stripe over her feeble pulse. Expects her to moan and stir, those pale lashes fluttering open, like a slutty sleeping beauty. Instead there's only a weak puff of air. 

Same lacklustre reaction when he thrusts his hand down the neck of her dress, pinches her nipple. No whimper or flinch. Just a tiny groan as he rolls it harshly between his fingers. He snakes his hand free, fighting the urge to punch her in his frustration. Choke her. 

"Wake up damn it!" he shakes her by the shoulders. Her lids briefly flutter but fall closed. Mostly it's like shaking a doll. Her body slumps back in the bed when he lets go, "Damn it Dottie!"

His voice is tremulous and it only riles him more.

"What do I have to do huh?" his shaky hands unzip his fly, "Gotta fuck you awake?"

He fists his semi-erection to full hardness as he rips her dress up over hips. Tries not to focus on the way her hip bones jut like a heifer in a bad season. Peels her panties down to her knees, shoves his hand between her thighs. Finds a small patch of slickness - emboldens him despite the fact it's probably a remnant of their last coupling. 

"See you want it even when you're sleeping," he roots around for that tiny nub that gives her so much pleasure, thumbs it fiercely, notices her breathing seems to speeds up slightly, makes him hopeful, "Wake up n' I'll show you a good time, pussycat."

Hoyt shifts over her body so he can rubs the head of his cock in her wetness, ruts his length against her inner thigh. Wants to shove it in her depths but he holds back. She's still unconscious, something that hadn't bothered him with Maryanne but it bothers him with Doris. Wants her awake. Not the same otherwise.

"Please darlin'," he groans in her neck, still thrusting his cock between against the wall of his palm and her thigh, "Wanna please your husband don't you? Your sergeant. C'mon honey. Wake up n' tell me to fuck your whore pussy."

But she doesn't. There's only laboured breath - probably because he's lying on top of her, thrusting. He's losing his hard on, feel his dick going limp. Not sure if its the frustration or the booze. Tries to blame the latter but there's a hot wetness prickling at his eyes. 

"Damn it," he rolls off Dottie, releasing his softening cock to scrub his eyes, "Hell is wrong with you," he hisses at himself, "Not some pussy. Things you been through. Worse shit than ya wife dyin'."

Voicing it aloud only seems to unsettle him more. 

"You ain't dying!" he barks at Doris, "You hear me. You're gonna wake up n' I'm gonna feed you n' you're gonna be fine. Okay?"

Doris doesn't answer. 

Hoyt presses close to her side, way he's become accustomed to at night after their evening routine of fucking, falls asleep snuggled against her.

"Gotta pull through dumplin'," he clutches her tighter, "Don't wanna deal with this shit on my own. Probably murder my mama if she keeps driving me up the wall. Tommy's on thin fucking ice. Ain't got any clue how to look after Jed. Prolly let him run wild n' hope for the best. Monty's only gon' get more crotchety. Can't stand anyone but you."

He wiggles down to press his cheek on her breast.

"Only you, Mrs. Hoyt."

Like that Buck Owens song. Hoyt usually detested overly sappy love songs but it seems to fit the situation.

Listens to her shallow breath for what seems like an eternity before he finally dozes off. Wakes to a small wiggling sensation. Opens his eyes and finds the room is dark. 

"Hoy'?" a tiny hoarse voice.

He snaps into alertness. 

"Dottie?" 

She moans.

"M' hum..."

"What?" he leans closer to her face in the gloom.

"Hun'reee," she rasps.

"Hungry?" Hoyt translates, "You're hungry?"

Doris whimpers in confirmation. Then she says:

"Meeee."

Chapter Text

Doris falls in and out of lucidity. Sometimes her ears pick up noise - muddy, distorted, snatches of a lullaby, sensation of a comb raking her hair. Feels nice though she can't quite open her lids, like they're weighed down with rocks. Whole body feels likes its trapped under an avalanche. Too weak to move. Stresses her and she tries to whimper. Voice halts it's lullaby, tells her to hush. 

Must be her mama. Same lullaby she used to sing to the chickens. Cradled them to her chest and promised them mockingbirds and diamond rings. Things she couldn't provide and things chickens had no need of. Doris didn't need a mockingbird either but she would have preferred her mama rock her than those damn chickens. Must not be her - humming and brushing her hair. Mama never brushed her hair.

Mama only hugged the chickens and burnt the eggs and cried when daddy bought those men to their room. Then she died. Is this what dying feels like? Is it an angel comforting her? Elderly voice. Kindly. Not like her grandmother's. That raspy smoker's voice, sharp and biting. Made her tongue tied. More tongue tied she got, the more Lottie derided her. Vicious cycle. Cycle she thought she ended her with wedding to Winnie but she was wrong. 

New cycle of sneers and dictionary definitions. Know what infertility means D, means you ain't getting no baby. No baby for her to cradle and sing lullabies too. Instead rows of cats for comfort. A dirty magazine and her dreams of Bondage Man.

Then along came Charlie Jr. Dead husband and a new cycle. Bondage Man in the flesh but cannibalism too. Orgasms and smashed cats. Starvation. Shoulda eaten the meat. She's so weak. She's dying. Angel's telling her to hush again, hush now, hush. 

It's Luda Mae, she dimly realizes as she slips into a darker place. Dreaming place. Lands immersed in some place dense and thick. The bath. She's in the bloody bath. Lunges to grasp the rim. Hauls herself out of the slop, tips herself over the side to splat on the floor in a blood-drenched heap. Lies there gasping. 

Hears a dinner bell.

"Supper's ready," Luda Mae shuffles into sight, "Ain't goin' like that are you?" 

She tuts at Doris' red soaked body. 

"Not at our ancestral table. Get this on."

She motions at a white dress draped over her arm. Doris stumbles to her feet, sodden hair dripping red as she gapes at the offering. 

It's a wedding dress. Not any old wedding dress either.

"That's my grandmother's. How did you..."

"No time fer questions," Luda Mae cuts her off, "Get a wriggle on, girl."

Throws it at her, the delicate fabric sticking to the blood like tissue paper.

"It won't fit."

Lottie Horton had told her so. When she married Winnie. Her big ass had no hope of fitting into her stick thin grandmother's dress. Paid money to have another made, nowhere near as grand. Not like she was marrying a rich man like Mr. Horton. No need to look glamorous.

"Land sakes, just try it on," Luda Mae says impatiently. 

Doris sighs and steps into the opening of the dress. Pulls it up over her body finding no resistance when it slides over her hips. Fits her like a glove. 

"You altered it?" she utters at Luda Mae.

Luda Mae snorts as she rounds Doris to button up the back. 

"It's stained," she looks mournfully at the patches of blood.

"Nothin' stays pure, missy," Luda Mae gruffs at her, "Ain't no virgin bride neither. Jed!"

The boy creeps from the shadows. Doris rushes to clutch him. 

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry for slapping you!"

The boy only smiles at her lopsidedly. 

"Look pretty mama."

"Do I?"

Can't see how. With her skin stained red, sodden hair still plastered to her skull. But Lottie's wedding dress does look elegant despite the stains. 

"Show her to the table, Jedidiah," Luda Mae orders. 

Jed nods, shyly grabs her hand.

"C'mon mama."

She squeezes his tiny hand as he leads her down a hallway. Resembles the Hewitts' hallway but sometimes it shifts, looks like her grandmother's old house. Distorts back and forth. A door she passes she swears it's the same one leading to her parent's room. Can hear her mama crying behind the door. Makes her pause.

"C'mon," Jed tugs her hand insistently, "Be late fer sup'r, mama."

Doris nods, leaves her mother's ghost crying behind the door. Passes another door. Can hear her grandmother's cough - violent cough she had towards the end, coughing up blood. Rushes past. Another door. Hears a gurgling. Winnie, trying to rant but it's hard after a gunshot to the heat. Leaves him to it. 

Passes the door to Tommy's basement. Hears the roar of his chainsaw, shrill screaming.  

"This one mama!" Jed points ahead.

That familiar doorway leading into Hewitts' dining room, guarded by Tommy's hulking form, complete with new mask.

"Oh Tommy, don't you look handsome."

It's Avery's visage, his handsome features warped and stretched to accommodate Tommy's broad face.

He inclines his head, pleased but self-conscious. His big meaty hands hold up two more masks. One is Suzy, coveted raven hair spilling down the back of the mask. The other is the blonde girl with the big tits - minus the tits. Minus most of her body mass. Just the outer husk of her once pretty face. 

Tommy keeps holding them up like he expects her to choose.

"O-oh, that's sweet. No thank you."

She likes her face the way it is, even if it's blood stained. Tommy lowers the masks with a nod. Shuffles to the side so Jed can tow her into the room. 

First person she sees is Hoyt. Hoyt at the head of the table. Uniform immaculate, badge gleaming. Smiles at her in welcome and her heart skips a beat.

"Hey dumplin'," he holds out his hand to her and she lets go of Jed to take it, "Boy don't you look pretty. Ain't she look pretty, mama."

Luda Mae mutters something about a silk purse out of a sow's ear. 

"Don't listen to her," Hoyt runs his hands hungrily over her outline, "Ready to join us pussycat?"

Oh yes. She's ready. She's hungry. 

Hoyt pulls out her chair for her. Doris looks around the table. There's Monty and Luda Mae. Jed and Tommy. Even the big lady Teadora is there, waves merrily with her nails Doris painted.

Her new eccentric family.

Hoyt resumes his place.

"Let us pray..."

Doris bows her head. Half-listens to her husband saying grace. She's eying the pot on the table, filled with impatience. Longing. She's so hungry.

"Right," Hoyt smacks his hands together, "Let's eat."

He lifts the lid of the pot and decadent smell overwhelms her. Hoyt ladles stew onto a plate. Holds it out to her. 

There's distortion. The air buzzes around. Bootsteps on floorboards. Hears Hoyt's voice, distant like its down the end of a tunnel. The table shakes. The pot upends and her grip on the plate falters, slips and breaks. She cries in agony as she hoisted out of her dream, into some paralyzed form of consciousness.

Can barely move or speak. Can't open her eyes but she can hear Hoyt. Half hear him. Her brain is foggy. Not too foggy to miss a fumbling sensation between her legs. Pulses of pleasure wrack over her body in tiny waves. Feels good but her body is too lethargic to properly respond. Can't grind her hips. Moan into his touch. Can't even force her eyes open. Suddenly his touch vanishes and she utters voiceless cry. 

Don't go!

She feels a pressure envelope her body. Hears Hoyt's watery voice in her ear. Can't quite catch what he's saying. Then he goes silent, the pressure still squeezing her body. Not tight enough though. She slips into a deeper dark. 

Rises back into consciousness some fathomless time later, like emerging from some dark sea. A spike of adrenalin as she resurfaces and she manages to crack open the heavy curtains of her eyelids. Is met with murk and confusion.

Doesn't know where she is. How she got there. Feels a body next to her.

"Hoy'?" 

Feels him shift closer,

"Dottie?" 

"M' hum..."

"What?"

Hungry. 

Hungry! 

But her tongue is sluggish in her mouth.

"Hun'reee," is the best she can manage.

"Hungry?" Hoyt translates, "You're hungry?"

She whimpers in confirmation.

Meat. 

"Meeee."

"Me?" Hoyt sounds confused.

"Meeeee," she cries feebly, suddenly knowing how Tommy feels, lacking the facial muscles to enunciate, "Meeeee."

"Meat?" Hoyt says and she whimpers in relief, "You want meat?"

Whimpers again. Hears a sharp intake from Hoyt.

"Oh dumplin'," he utters excitedly, "'Course you can."

Feels the mattress bend and flex as he heaves himself off it. Listens to him cross the room to turn on the lamp. The room is bathed in dull light. 

He's still in his uniform, crumpled from him sleeping in it. Usually that sort of thing would bother him. So fastidious about his stolen uniform. But he barely pays it any attention. He returns to her side. Up close his face seems more lined and waxy. But his dark eyes are alert as he strokes her head.

"Probably take too long to cook you somethin'," he sounds disappointed, "Leftovers okay?"

Doris makes a pitiful noise of assent. She couldn't give a shit if she ate a person's raw giblets. Anything to fill the agonizing void. Hoyt nods, no nonsense soldier nod. 

"Okay, sit tight honey," his lips smack her forehead, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Feels like a slow eternity. Doris tries to concentrate on the shadows on the walls. Can't fall back asleep, might not wake up. She looks over at Hoyt's utility belt dumped on the dresser, his pistol. Thought crosses her mind that she could grab it and shoot him. But the thought is quickly quashed. She's too weak to move. And why would she shoot the man bringing her sustenance. 

Escape was never an option. She's never made it an option.

Hoyt comes bustling back through the door. He's carrying two steaming bowls. Their meaty scent fills the air. Inhaling it is half bliss, half torture to her empty stomach. 

"One's mine," Hoyt explains the double helpings, "Missed supper."

She looks him at him quizzically. 

"Was here with you."

Her lips slightly quirk. That explains his crumpled uniform. Hoyt sets the bowls down to haul up her upright, props her up with pillows so she doesn't slump back down. She still feels half paralyzed, can barely lift her arms. Whimpers in distress when she tries and fails to properly grip her fork. 

"Think I'm gonna have to feed you," Hoyt says.

Doris doesn't argue. She opens her mouth. She's so eager she doesn't even really consider that the meat Hoyt brings to her mouth is human. She only consumes. Savors. It's delicious. Succulent, stewed meat, just the right amount of hearty spices. She's in some sort of paradise as she chews, swallows, warmth of the meat sweeping over her depleted body. Resuscitating her. Bringing her back from the brink. She opens her mouth for more.

More.

"Slow down," Hoyt says after a few ravenous mouthfuls, "Make yourself sick if you eat too much too fast. Trust me, first commie I ate. Puked lotta him back up. Tank's gotta adjust."

Doris pauses, suddenly queasy. This is human meat. Human. She's been devouring human meat without a care in the world. Enjoying it. So much she can't stop herself wrapping her lips around the meat hovering near her mouth. Chews slowly this time. There's a hint of nausea but she fights it down. Has to eat. Has to live. 

Cow has to die. Chicken. Fish. This human - whoever they were - were already dead. Why waste their meat? 

"How is it?"

"Real g-good," she confesses, "B-best thing I ever tasted."

Probably the hunger confusing her brain. Like how her dry scrambled eggs tasted divine to her as a starving child. This fare is even better than that.

Maybe human meat is superior to animal and she just never knew it. 

"This is mama's," Hoyt says, sounding slightly put out, "Wait 'til you eat mine. Reckon I got hers beat."

"H-had yours," she reminds him. Had Winnie to be exact. 

Hoyt huffs,

"Ate it off the floor with dirt n' broken bowl. Won't be eating it like that again," instead of feeding her another forkful, he leans in, "Only thing you're gonna lick on your hands n' knees again will be my dick."

Doris feels her body flush, different warmth to the comforting heat of the meat. This one is a clench of excitement. 

"B-boots," she murmurs.

Hoyt's waxy face smirks,

"If you're lucky," he kisses her. Despite his bad breath - tastes of booze and tobacco - it leaves her giddy, "Jus' concentrate on eatin' honey."

"Who's meat?" she asks after a few more mouthfuls.

Hoyt hums in thought.

"Aint quite sure. Hard to once it's been diced up n' cooked."

"Hope it's the girl's."

Hoyt arches a brow,

"Which one?"

"B-big tits," she says hatefully.

Hoyt chuckles,

"Why? 'Cause I had a feel of 'em?" he cups her face with his free hand, "She didn't mean anything, dumplin'. Plenty of girls with nice tits but no one like you."

That cheers her somewhat, even though it shouldn't. Hoyt steals her next mouthful for himself, ignoring her whine of discontent.

"Probably is one of the girls," he says after he swallows, "Their meat seems a lot more tender. How about we pretend it's Big Tits. That make you feel better?"

A vicious part of her reckons it does. Consuming the bitch that made her husband stray. But then a more rational part reminds her that this girl didn't ask to be fondled anymore than she asked to be slaughtered. All those kids had done was pass through the wrong place at the wrong time. Their deaths are suddenly on her hands as much as Hoyt's and Tommy's. Way she's chowing down on their flesh, ecstasy in every bite. 

Guilt bursts through like a dam. Moisture blurs her eyes as she sucks traces of savory flavor off her teeth. 

"Am I a b-bad person?" she whispers.

Not just bad. Evil. She's evil. Demonic. 

There's a soft clatter as Hoyt drops the fork into the bowl. His hands cup her face. 

"Of course not, dumplin'," he says in that soothing preacher voice, "Lord didn't want us to eat these sinners, wouldn't have provided them to us. Got nothing to feel guilty about. One of us now. Proper Hewitt."

She's not sure why that's comforting. Being accepted into this monstrous family. Maybe because she's never really fit in any place. Wants to belong. Wants to be wanted. She looks at Hoyt desperately through the film of tears. 

"I missed those tears," he groans, "Most beautiful thing when you cry."

Makes her heart soar, hearing that. Makes her want to cry a river of tears for him. But she can only produce a little moisture. Enough. He kisses her. Hard. Biting. Sucks her lip at the end. Like he's sopping up the taste of Big Tits' meat off her mouth. Makes her tremble, loins clenching. Way he growls. He draws back, seems to compose himself. Pats her cheek.

"Don't cry too much," he says, "Gotta build your strength back. You had enough?"

Doris shakes her head. No point being damned and only being half full. She's still hungry. Lets Hoyt feed her the rest of the bowl. Finds its still not enough. 

"Share some o' yours?" she asks timidly.

Hoyt sighs. 

"'Spose I can't complain that you wanna eat. Not all of it though."

Gives her a few bites. By then her belly is pleasantly stretched to its limit. Protrudes in a small mound under her dress. Hoyt rubs his hand over it like she's a good dog getting a belly scratch. Then he eats what's left of his supper. Eats almost as ravenously as her. Sets the empty bowl on top of hers.

Unbuttons the shirt of his uniform. Strips off his pants. Doris looks down her legs, notices her panties are around her knees, clinging there like a rubber band. Expects Hoyt to rip them the rest of the way off, mount her.

Instead he curls up to her side, his hand drifting over the swell of stomach to her breast. Traces her nipple idly then sweeps back down her belly, his face squashed to her other breast. 

"Still h-hungry?" she murmurs. 

"Why?" he mumbles.

"C-could eat my pussy."

Hoyt's head perks up to stare at her. His expression is hard but she swears there's a faint hint of smile.

"You tellin' your sergeant what to do?" 

"N-no sir," she tries not to smile and stay submissive.

Hoyt narrows his eyes,

"You really think," he draws out his words slowly, "I wanna eat out that wet whore pussy of yours 'til you cum?"

Doris looks at him with pathetic pleading eyes as he leans in.

"Well I do," he growls lowly and she shivers, "But I want you to beg me first."

"Please," she whispers, "Put your mouth on my w-whore pussy."

Hoyt's gleeful smile makes her belly clench.

"You're such a filthy girl," he praises, smacking a kiss on her mouth, "Got some messed up priorities too. Was on death's door a minute ago. Now you want me to eat your pussy."

He's right. It's crazy. But maybe she's some sort of crazy. Isn't about to change her mind. Hoyt slides down her body, brushes her skirt aside and rips her panties the rest of the way off her legs.

"Spread 'em," he orders, "Show me this needy pussy huh."

Doris complies, conscious of the slick as her legs part. Feels a throb of heat as Hoyt licks his lips. Hunkers down between her thighs. Feels his breath, tickling her sex. Intakes sharply at the first lave of his tongue. Tentative, experimental - he's never eaten a girl's pussy before, he's a fucking liar. 

He groans - not sure if its the taste or her response, licks her more deeply, feels the tip of his tongue circle her hole, try to press inside. She whines, listening to the obscene slurp of his tongue. He licks up towards her pulsing nub.

"Ohhh," She moans, "There, there, please."

She squirms at the intensity, bucking her hips like she's riding his boot. Tries to fuck herself against his tongue. Hoyt grunts. He draws back, Doris gasps as his palm slaps against her wet cunt. Whimpers at the sting. 

"Quit wigglin'! Can't do a good job if you're squirmin'."

"S-sorry, jus- so... Ah!"

He slaps her again. Grits her teeth. Its like a bee sting but strangely pleasurable. Like when he beats her with his belt. The adrenalin that grips her body. Almost wants him to do it again. 

"Don't give me excuses, private. Ain't letting you hump my face. Hold still or you get nothin', got it?"

Doris nods.

"Yes sir."

Hoyt dips his head down.

"Look at it this puffy red pussy," he licks a stripe between her folds, Doris whimpering, fighting to keep her hips still. His lips nuzzle his handiwork, "Bet you liked it didn't you. Me slapping your kitty, you lil whore."

His arms wrap around her thighs, pin her in place. 

"There, you stay put," he breathes hotly against her cunt, "N' lemme eat you."

Descends on her again. Teases and prods her quivering hole. But it's the attention to her oversensitive nub that makes her come undone, all the forceful sucks and licks. Way he plucks it between his lips. Feels her core tighten, on the precipice of snapping. 

"S'close, pleasecanI... oh!"

She quakes against his mouth in rapture, cunt spasming. Whimpers as he laps the aftermath, still imprisoning her thighs. Then he releases her, she flops back against the pillows, legs like jelly. Hoyt sits up, wipes his mouth. 

"How was that huh?"

"S' good, sir," she slurs, "So good t' me."

"Damn right I am," Hoyt looks obscenely smug, "My turn now."

He's already freed his cock. Fists the veiny girth in front of her.

"You hold that pussy open fer me."

Doris obediently spreads her folds, offers him the hole he's licked cleaned.

"That's it sweetheart. You're my good girl."

The praise makes her flush with heat.

"Bus' my pussy," she blabbers, ever so eager to please, "Want you inside of me. Please, wan' your big dic..."

Hoyt slams a hand to her mouth,

"Hush now," he growls, the vibration sending a shiver up her spine as his cock prods against the entrance of her cunt, "Man can only take so much o' that kinda sweet talk," his thumb caresses her cheek as his cock starts to push inside, "Make me finish before I even start."

He fills her, swiftly, brutally. Doris moans against his palm, hips lifting to accommodate his length as he sets a hard pace. His hand is still over her mouth. Her lips hook around his thumb, breathing harshly through her nose.

"Aw shit, I like that," Hoyt groans, his pace sloppy in his distraction, "You're my big baby huh."

Doris nods around the digit, eyes glazed, lost in the sensation of his cock pounding her tender cunt. 

"Ah! Suck, don't bite," Hoyt growls as her teeth graze his skin trying to find some tether in the midst of being fucked hard into the pillows, "Keep sucking it, get it all slicked up n' I'll put it somewhere you'll really like."

That's enough incentive. Doris tries to lather spit around his thumb.

"That's it honey, get it all wet like this pussy."

His thumb pops from her mouth, drool leaking down her chin. Gasps as he presses it into her spot, rubs it, the slick friction making her seize.

"Like that?" 

She nods raggedy. Fatigue is starting to creep over her. She's still weak despite eating. Can't last against the assault much longer. She might pass out. But she fights it - it feels good. His thumb and his cock in tandem. Way he leans over her body, bends her under his weight, growls.

"Like fucking you with this belly full'a meat," he groans, "Almost as good as fuckin' with my baby in you. That'll come soon enough. I'll knock you up real quick, honey. Jus' you wait."

The thought makes to make her moan. Pregnant little whore housewife. All belly and swollen tits, cuffed and splayed on his dick. She slants her hips, makes him hit that deep well. They groan in unison, Hoyt pausing, fully seated inside her. 

Doris keeps rocking her hips, looks up at his red strained face, gropes for his thumb below. Press it hard against her spot to tip her into completion. Hoyt rears to life, pumping his dick through her orgasm until his hips stutter,

"Fuck!" he hisses and she feels him start to retract. 

"Don'," she implores, "Finish in - please, h-husband."

Not sergeant or sheriff or Bondage Man. Husband.

Husband who doesn't need any urging. Snarls and surges forward, lodges deep and releases his load. Keeps hammering his hips as his seed coats her insides.

"Christ honey," he grits through his teeth, breathing hard, "Fuck... fuck..."

He half-collapses on top of her, covering her face with sloppy kisses.

"I love you pussycat."

What else can she say except,

"I love you too Hoyt."

Earns her another kiss. Groans against her lips as he pulls his dick free, feels his cum trickle from her empty hole to her ass, staining the sheet below. Luda Mae won't be happy. Washing sex stains off her middle aged son's bedding. But if she complains, Doris will remind her that she can do it. She's his wife. Once she gets her strength back.

Right now she can barely move again. It's not as horrifying prospect like it was before. Doesn't feel close to death. Just exhausted.

"C'mere," Hoyt pulls her against him. She rests contently against his heaving chest. Listens to his heart beat pound until it evens. The motion of his chest becomes gentle, lulling. 

Hopes this isn't another dream. 

Feels too linear to be a dream. Everything makes sense. No blood-filled baths or ghosts behind doors. It's all coming back to her now - pieces of her fever dream. Same with what happened before she blacked out in the first place. Was down in the basement with Tommy. 

But even that encounter seems a little dream-like, nightmarish. Bodies on hooks. Monsters made of her broken cats. Tommy attempting to talk. 

Hoyt hollering. Blowing the door open just to get to her. Had he been crying or was that her imagination? Hoyt didn't seem like the kind of man to cry. 

He's resumed caressing the curve of her stomach. Its pleasant until she thinks what's digesting in there. Tries to distract herself.

"Weren't too cross with Tommy?" she murmurs.

Hoyt growls, which seems answer enough.

"Was. Not that I've seen him."

"He talked to me."

Hoyt scoffs,

"Tommy can't talk. Got a, what you call it, speech impediment from the disease. Best the poor fucker can do is grunt."

"More n' grunt," Doris insists, "Tol' me to eat. Least he tried to."

Hoyt huffs,

"Took that big lug to convince you instead of me?"

Doris winces,

"N-no, convinced myself. My decision."

Her decision to become a cannibal. Abandon morality for a full belly. Now her hunter's sated, mind clearer, she can't say she's wholly comfortable. But it's too late now. She's made her choice.

"Is Jed okay?" she asks as another diversion.

"Sure he's fine," comes the dismissive answer, "Probably still holed up in the barn."

"Shouldn't have slapped him," Doris murmurs regretfully.

"Boy was near strangled to death," Hoyt huffs, "Don't think tiny slap like that'd bother him. Luda Mae used to hit me harder with a wooden spoon. That didn't hurt half as much as Daddy's belt. I lived."

Lived but the experience had hardened him. So much he seemed completely indifferent to Jed's suffering. 

"Bianca wasn't worth hittin' him though," Doris says softly, "Just a figurine."

Hoyt hums,

"Kinda glad you said that."

"Why?" Doris asks worriedly.

"'Cause she broke."

Doris' chest tightens.

"She did?"

"Yeah. Dropped her when you fainted."

"Oh," Doris tries to push back a strong swell of emotion, "'Spose no use being upset."

But she can hear it in her voice. Her poor Bianca. Got her back only to drop her. She starts as little as Hoyt brushes the shell of her ear, twists one of her curls around her finger.

"Used to have this lil tin car when I was a kid," he startles her by saying.

"Y-you did?"

"Uh huh. Had to beat up this other kid to get it. Didn't have money for toys. Anyway it was real neat. Used to push it along the floor, pretend I was robbing banks n' it was a getaway car."

Doris imagines a bigger, meaner version of Jed gleefully pushing a tin car along floorboards in slightly better condition than they are now, mimicking gunfire at his imaginary pursuers. 

"Made me forget how tough our lives was I guess. Seemed easy when you was pretending. Law never caught you."

His voice is low, faraway. Like he's relieving being that boy. Boy with his tiny getaway car. Charles Jr Hewitt, most infamous bank robber in Texas, speeding away with bags of money to give his mama. 

So easy to accomplish in a child's mind. Like Doris in her grandmother's house talking to Bianca, telling her one day Avery Jessup was going to ask her to marry her. How they'd live in a big fancy house with plenty of room for cats. And babies. 

Ten babies, Doris told Bianca, five boys all handsome like their daddy and five girls as beautiful as their aunt Suzy. Suzy would live next door. All the cousins would play together and they'd all live happily ever after. 

Doris is embarrassed recalling it. The naive yearning of her younger self. Naivety that led her to suck Avery's dick, thinking her childhood wish would come true if she made him feel good. 

"What happened to it?" she asks Hoyt. 

It's not sitting on his dresser with his photographs, remanent of his childhood. 

"Melted," Hoyt answers, his finger pulling a little harshly on her lock of hair, "Mama called me to help with supper n' I left it on the floor. Daddy tripped over it. Wasn't hurt that bad but Grandpa was 'round n' laughed. Daddy got real mad n' threw it in the fire."

"I'm sorry," Doris says.

"Oh its okay dumplin'," he says in a cheerful voice that sounds all too artificial, "Toy car ain't worth shit to me now. Got me a genuine patrol car. Siren works most of the time. Point is, I know that kitty means a lot to you."

Doris isn't sure what to say. 

Is this the same Hoyt? Same Hoyt that sneered at her collection first time he saw them. Smashed them in front of her. Exploded one with a bullet. Never voiced a word of remorse or apology. 

Could sooner tell her just to get over it. Just a figurine. Instead he's telling her he understands. 'Cause once upon a time he had something like it.

She snuggles into his chest gratefully.

"Tommy could probably fix her."

Doris grimaces,

"Made the others look a lil scary," she admits.

"Yeah? Didn't quite fix 'em then."

There's a touch of satisfaction in Hoyt's voice. 

"Stuck 'em together all mismatched. Added a bunch of wire n' fur."

"Fur? Guess he did nab that barn cat. Christ. That boy's mind - must be an interesting place."

Doris thinks about the basement and shudders.

"How about we get you a real one?" Hoyt says.

"Real what?"

"Cat, silly. That's better n' a figurine. Tell Tommy it's off limits."

"You - you'd really let me have a cat?" Doris asks. Surprised. Tentatively hopeful. 

"You can have whatever you want, dumplin'."

Doris feels a rush of excitement.

"Kitten would be nice."

Small bundle of fluff she could hold in her hands. Scratch behind its silky little ears, listen to it purr. 

"Don't expect it right away," Hoyt's voice hardens, "Mama'll be against it. Take some convincing. Not even sure where I'll get the damn thing."

"I - I can wait," Doris assures him.

Part of knows its a horseshit promise. One to endear her and get her hopes up. But Winnie flat out refused having a pet. Hoyt's at least suggested. Didn't have to. 

Maybe he wants to keep her happy. Made him happy. Ate the meat. What would it hurt, getting his cannibal wife a kitten? 

"Good," Hoyt kisses the side of her head, "Get some more rest, dumplin'."

Doris hums, lids flickering closed. Lies there for a moment before a thought jumps into her head.

"No cuffs?" 

"Oh," Hoyt says, like he's forgotten, "Think we can spare 'em tonight. Already had our fun."

Doris is taken aback. Hoyt's been so zealous in the past about making sure she didn't escape.

"W-what about the bell?"

"Ain't havin' that tinkling keeping awake," Hoyt grumbles, "You ain't going nowhere dumplin'."

As soon as he says it, her mind agrees. She's not leaving. Where would she go? Sinner with human flesh on her conscience. No place for her in Michigan. No place for her anywhere but a speck of town in Travis County, Texas. In a weathered old farmhouse with her Bondage Man. 

"No sir," she answers.

"Damn right," her Bondage Man kisses her with such force it makes her dizzy. She smiles as he settles back against her, "Go to sleep, honey."

She sleeps deeply, dreamlessly. Stirs to Hoyt smothering her face with kisses, his erection digging into her.

"Rise n' shine pussycat," he growls, "Wake the fuck up."

Doesn't wait for her to fully rouse. His cock drags impatiently in her folds, pressing deeper. Doris weakly widens her legs, earns a groan of approval.

"That's it, dumplin'," he roughly kisses her mouth as he sinks into her, and she moans at the feeling of fullness. Luxuriates in it. His thrusts are slower than usual, languid. First coupling that seems decidedly un-Bondage-like. She reaches to curl her arm around his neck, hears him chuckle.

"You like this sweet stuff, honey?" he taunts, "Like me bein' sweet to you?"

Some reason she doesn't. Likes his smothering kisses and endearments afterwards. But this - love-making, gentle and tender. It's not them. Not her.

"F-fuck like you mean it, s-sergeant."

He laughs again,

"That what you really want, private?"

"F-fuck me like a whore," she begs, "Know I can take it."

Hoyt's hand circles her throat. She chokes on his weight as he pushes himself upright. His other hand claws her hip.

"Better?" He drives into her with a harsh slap of skin. And again. Again. Doris' head bobs dizzily in approval. Mewls as his hand shifts to clutch her breast, fingers sharp as eagle talons.

Feels herself relax into the savagery. Feels more natural to her than gentleness. Makes her feel alive despite the current fragility of her body. Still feels brittle from the starvation. Not fully recovered. Her stomach cramps as Hoyt's cock stretches her remorselessly. Her cunt clenches slickly around him. Slick like oil. 

Hoyt looks down between their bodies and freezes mid-thrust. 

"Shit!" His cock abruptly vacates, leaving her empty, "You're bleeding."

Doris looks at the streak of red on his cock. Same red that's leaked from her pussy onto the sheet. Can feel it under her ass.

"Oh," she realizes, "My period."

Hoyt calms a little.

"Shit, thought you was internal bleedin'," he drags his fingers through his disheveled hair sheepishly, "Well you kind of are but the shit ain't fatal."

He seems to look at her in confirmation.

Doris shakes her head.

Is an unwanted drain of her body. One she doesn't need after a period of starvation. She's hungry again. She rubs her tender belly, feels the soft bloating under her finger tips. Sighs. 

Hoyt looks down at his cock, lip curling a little. Doris flushes. 

"Thought you liked b-blood?" 

Hoyt grimaces,

"Ain't the sort I usually..."

"N-not squeamish?" she finds herself goading him.

"Ain't goddamn squeamish," Hoyt glowers, "Call this squeamish?"

He seizes her hips and drives his cock back in, blood acting as slick lubricant. 

"N'sir," she gasps.

"Think I won't fuck you in yer own blood?" 

If anything he pounds her harder, leaking blood creating a glue between their connecting bodies, blood mixed with sweat, blood Hoyt swipes his thumb in as he gropes for her nub, thumbs it fiercely, the harsh stimulation making her sob. 

Her orgasm comes hard and fast. Leaves her weak and light headed, grateful that Hoyt comes quickly after with a strangled roar, hands gripping her hips. He stills, panting, cock twitching inside her. 

His blood-stained thumb presses to her lips and she inhales the strong iron smell of her menses.

"Clean it," he growls. 

Doris obediently opens her mouth. Her stomach churns at the taste but she determinedly sucks the blood off. Blood tinged with her own arousal. Swallows it like she does his cum. 

"Good girl," he breathes, kisses her on the forehead almost paternally.

His cock slips from her cunt. Hangs limply between his legs. Doris worries he'll make her lick that clean too but he's too busy surveying the mess they've left on the bed beneath them. 

"Mama ain't gonna be happy about us ruining these sheets."

Doris rubs her thighs, feeling the combined squelch of blood and cum.

"Tell her it means we can start tryin' out for a grandchild."

Hoyt looks up at her with a smile,

"That'd probably work," he leans over her body to kiss her, "You're a smart woman, Mrs. Hoyt."

Doris flushes despite her exhaustion.

"Hungry woman."

"Yeah?" Hoyt cradles her face, "Good thing we got plenty to eat."

Doris feels a volt of revulsion mix with a strong pang of hunger. In the end the latter wins out. Food is food. She's not starving again. She leans into another kiss.

Chapter Text

1972

Doris Hoyt hums along with Al Green as Let's Stay Together plays on the radio, while she cooks bacon and eggs. Hitchhiker bacon or was it biker? She isn't sure. Only knew if it was particularly tender it belonged to younger person, most likely a girl. Not that she'll get to taste it much. Bacon is for her husband.

Doesn't especially feel like cooking it for him but she prides herself on being a good wife. Whatever kept the peace was advice she usually followed. Which usually meant whatever her husband Hoyt wanted. Sometimes Doris got what she wanted. Like moving away from the farm and into her old house. 

But most of the time she defers to Hoyt. It was simply the dynamic that worked. Both during sex and outside of it. Which has led to her slaving away over a hot pan.

After a big night of drinking, Hoyt wanted a big breakfast of bacon and eggs, more bacon than egg. The latter was only there to compliment the flavour. What he really craved was the greasy slices of human meat.

To Dottie, the smell is hard to resist. Took awhile to adjust to this lifestyle but now she can nibble on a piece of hitchiker bacon without any queasiness. Enjoy the smoky flavour like its regular piggy bacon (only better). Only time she gets queasy is when she thinks about the afterlife. 

But she's not dwelling on that right now. Too focused on her task and Al Green. When the song finishes she switches it over the station Hoyt prefers. One that plays good country music, not hippie crap. Tammy Wynette is singing My Man. Doris hums along with Tammy too. Doesn't mind Tammy. Likes the one about good girls going bad. 

This ditty ain't as good but it's an easy to listen love song. Makes you feel like life ain't too bad, especially if you got a piece of bacon to gnaw on.

The telephone rings, startling her.

Doris sighs, peaceful existence broken.

Grudgingly she turns off the heat. Silences Tammy. Makes her way to the ringing phone.

Only two people ever call the house. Henrietta, if the poor girl wants to talk to someone other than her mama. Though usually she prefers to drop into Cele in person. The other was her...

"Hoyt residence," she answers the telephone in the usual fashion, though sometimes she changes it to sheriff's residence when Hoyt's within earshot. He likes that. 

"Doris," Luda Mae says flatly.

"Hi mama," she forces cheerfulness into her tone, "What can I do for you? Couldn't have spied a new batch this early."

Hoyt wouldn't be in any state to tail them even if she had. 

"Only customer I've had this mornin' is Ezekiel pulling in before his run," Luda Mae answers, "Tryin' to tell me his sandwich should be free since my son owes him."

Doris fumbles in her apron pocket for her cigarettes.

"Well that's possible. Went over to Hank's last night for poker."

"Told him he can pay like everyone else," Luda Mae grumbles, "Store's a business after all. Already discount his gas."

"Hmm," Doris takes a long drag on her cigarette.

She doesn't give a shit about discounting the gas for the meat truck. The profits from the business filter into Hewitt hands in some shape or form. Hoyt and Luda Mae all get their cut. Not that they do much with the money except keep the store stocked in gas, beer and tobacco. Most of it they hoard, including any cash they strip off their victims. Hoyt blew a bit on poker games. 

But he was a hard man to get to pay up. No wonder Zeke was trying to angle a free lunch out of Luda Mae. 

Luda Mae makes a disapproving sound at her lack of answer.

"My son make it home?"

"Uh huh."

She wanders to the window, peers out at the patrol car parked hapzardly on their front lawn. Can squint and see her husband slumped back in the driver side mouth wide open, snoring. Feels a wave of irritation.

Bastard missed the driveway and mowed over one of their shrubs. How is she supposed to keep a nice home if he keeps driving home drunk, destroying their yard. Still hasn't fixed the mailbox when he rammed into it. Kept arguing what the point was. Never got any mail. Suzy Reynard nee Jessup didn't send letters anymore.

Just as well. Couldn't stand her bragging. 

Be too tempted to invite her to Fuller and stick a knife in her throat. 

Inside the cruiser Hoyt's starting to toss and turn. Must be the heat beating through the windshield. 

"Would he like to talk to his mother?" Luda Mae says, which meant I want to talk to him.

"Lil indisposed at the moment," Doris tells his mother, who grunts, a knowing sound that sets her teeth on edge, "He's in the bath," she lies.

Another knowing grunt. 

"I can tell him to call you back?" Doris suggests in a forced sweet tone.

"Don't bother," Luda Mae grumbles, "He won't do it. Barely gives any thought to the mama what raised him."

Doris puffs on her cigarette.

"Oh mama that's not true. We both think the world of you."

"Ha!" Luda Mae says, "You sound more n' more like him every day. All them pretty pleasantries. You can keep 'em, the both of you."

Christ woman, Doris wants to scream, the hell you want from me?

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, listening to her mother-in-law huff, "Well it's been lovely talking to you mama..." 

She cringes a little. Luda Mae's right. She does sound like Hoyt, all sardonic politeness.

"Actually did call you about something else," Luda Mae interrupts, "Couldn't start your shift a little early? My rheumatism is actin' up."

"Oh that's no good," Doris says, sounding insincere like her husband again.

"Makes it hard to work the till," Luda Mae talks like she hasn't heard her, "You'll come then?" 

"Uh sure," Doris says, distracted by motion outside. 

Hoyt staggering out of his cruiser. Takes a few toddler steps before he doubles over and vomits. Makes her grimace, Luda Mae's voice suddenly white noise. What would the neighbors think, if they had neighbors. They don't. They're the only ones left on a lonely street. 

Still wasn't a good look. Town's sheriff (fake sheriff but still) retching the contents of last night's inebriation all over their grass. Hears him curse as he realizes he's gotten some on his boot. Tries to wipe it on the grass and almost goes toppling over. Doris groans.

"Something wrong?" she hears Luda Mae gruff, "Ain't boring you. Thought you liked watching Lucy."

Doris suddenly realizes her mother-in-law's been blathering about the latest episode. Makes her chest tighten a little, remembering the times they used to sit on the couch at the farm, watching Here's Lucy together. That's what got her addicted her cigarettes. And Luda Mae's little chocolates with the hint of coconut.

Gotta stop feeding you them chocolates, she teased her once, go the way of my sister.

Doris smiled and patted her big, pregnant belly.

Oh hush mama, this ain't chocolates. Its your grandchild.

Then they giggled. Funny to think about it now. Her and Luda Mae getting on like a house on fire. But the baby had softened the old woman's demeanor. 

Then I'll keep feeding you chocolates, she cooed, so the babe comes out all sweet. 

She puts her gnarled hand on her bulge, weathered face full of excitement.

Oh it's a lil girl, Doris. I just know it! What you thinking of calling her? You know if I'd had me a girl, woulda called her Grace. Thought it was so elegant. Grace. Makes me think of a ballerina.

Doris preferred Pamela. But this was the first time an older woman had shown her any kind of maternal interest. She's eager to please. Maybe the next girl can be Pamela.

Grace is nice, she tells Luda Mae.

Doris' hand strays to her stomach. Tries to hold back the memory of her stillborn baby that's fused itself to her brain. Puts out the cigarette out on her arm, bites her teeth at the pain, eyes watering. 

"No, I... I missed Lucy," she grits to Luda Mae, "W-watched The Wild Bunch."

Kind of movie Hoyt would like watching. Curl up to his side. Unzip his pants and stroke his cock until he lost interest in the movie. Took her to the bedroom to punish her instead.

Last night she sat there on her lonesome as the minutes past by. Considered phoning Hank's but that would make her seem like one of those needy, killjoy wives. Man needed time with other men. Wasn't his fault she didn't have any girl friends. 

Well she had Etta but that girl wasn't all there. Started to wear on her nerves after a while. Especially if the topic involved Adam or babies.

She ended up turning off the TV, taking herself to bed. Tried to masturbate to a fantasy about the Wild Bunch fellas roping her into a gang bang. Ernest Borgnine stuffing her with his fat cock while the others formed a circle jerk around them.

But in the end she gave up. Curled into a ball. Cried. Cried in her empty house, thinking how Gracie would have been nearly one. Would have been organizing a little party for her. Instead she's alone. Even her husband would rather get drunk than be around her.

And God? Prays to Him but she feels it falls on deaf ears. Her sins are too great for forgiveness. Sometimes she thinks God did what he did to Grace to punish her. Didn't deserve a perfect little babe so he turned her into an angel before she came out the womb. Wouldn't be reunited with her either. She was destined to go the opposite direction.

She stares at the mark, vibrant red compared to the other faded burns. Hoyt won't be happy when he sees it. Told her to stop. Only one who should leave marks on her. But why should she stop. He didn't stop poisoning his liver. The pain keeps Grace in the shadows. 

"Don't mind me that William Holden," Luda Mae is saying, "Ever see him in Picnic? Man looked awful good with his shirt off."

There's a mischievous lilt to her voice that makes her sound younger, less jaded. Reminds Doris of the short span of months where they were chummy. If Grace had lived they still might be like that. She digs her nail into her burn mark.

"Prefer Borgnine," she tells Luda Mae.

He reminds her more of Hoyt. Hard-faced and charismatic. Military man too, though Hoyt would argue a navy man and an army man were nothing alike. 

"Suppose he weren't bad in Marty," Luda Mae says, though Doris only half-hears,

Hoyt is storming up the path to the door with a dark look on his face.

"I have to go mama," she says, "I'll see you at Cele."

She hangs up. Returns to the stovetop to reheat breakfast. Hears Hoyt cursing as he fumbling with the door key, hears the keys jangle when he drops them ("Damn it, Christ!"). He starts banging on the door.

"Dottie! Let me in! Dottie!" 

Doris ignores him, plates up his breakfast instead. 

"Damn it, Dottie!" he bangs again, "Open the goddamn door!"

Doris sets his plate on the table. Opens the door to find Hoyt crouched down swiping his keys off the ground.

"About damn time," he says, rising so quick he almost loses his footing.

"Good morning to you too," Doris says, taking in his disheveled state, streak of vomit on his collar.

"What's good about it," Hoyt growls, shoving his hat in her hands. Has to grip the doorway to take off his boots without falling over.

"I made you breakfast," she says, hanging up his hat.

Hoyt stares at it. Looks queasy but he still licks his lips.

"That an apology?"

"For what?" she asks.

"Leaving me to sleep in my car."

Doris huffs. Got decades on her but he's such a child sometimes.

"Think I got the strength to haul your ass in?"

"Coulda woken me up."

"Tried, you was dead to the world. Lucky you stopped the car before passing out. What if you'd crashed into the house?"

"I didn't so why are we talkin' about it," Hoyt argues, snarling as his finger struggle with the buttons of his shirt.

Doris moves to take over. 

"Can scrub this stain but I won't have time to properly wash it," she warns him.

"Why not?" Hoyt complains, "Dottie, it's my uniform. Needs to be cleaned. Can't go 'round in a dirty uniform."

Shoulda thought of that before you got plastered in it, she thinks.

She helps unbuckle his belt, strip off his pants. He's never quite as intimidating standing there in his underclothes. Something that seems to irritate him. 

"Blame your mama. She's asked me to come into work early. Something about her rheumatism."

Hoyt groans.

"She can't push through a few hours?" he slumps in his chair.

"She's elderly, Hoyt."

"Elderly? She'll outlive all of us," Hoyt grasps his head with a groan, "Goddamn Hank n' Zeke."

"Leading you astray huh."

"No one leads me," he growls.

"So you were the ringleader?"

That earns her a glare.

"Don't start, dumplin'."

"Not starting nothin'," Doris retorts, "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

She bundles his uniform into the bathroom. Scrubs the vomit stain from the collar best she can. Irons out the creases and masks the smell with Hoyt's cologne. Hangs it up for him on the back of the door.

Returns to see Hoyt's wolfed down his breakfast. Moved onto a bottle of moonshine he's sourced from somewhere. Kitchen sink maybe. Keeps changing his hidey holes so she can't find it. Not that she'd touch it. Tried an intervention once, got a black eye for her trouble.

"Don't drink that!" She groans.

"Hair o' the dog!" Hoyt argues, "Make me feel better."

"I'll make you coffee."

Hoyt snorts, lifts the bottle to his lips.

"Please honey don't," she begs, "For me."

Must be in an unusually accommodating mood. He sets it down. 

"Hop to it then," he grumbles.

Sulks while she makes it. Fingers the neck of the bottle then sucks his finger. Doris bites her tongue, focuses on her task, the cigarette burn on her arm throbbing. Hoyt still hasn't noticed it.

"Seen my tobacco?" he grouches.

"Wasn't in your pants."

Hoyt's fists pound the table. 

"Goddamn Zeke! Bet he took it. Sticky fingered asshole."

Doris fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

"I'll pick some up at the store," she brings his coffee over, "Here. This'll perk you up."

She pauses for a thank you, huffs when Hoyt only sneers at it. She whirls to stalk away.

"What's with your arm," Hoyt's question makes her freeze.

She turns, arm still behind her back.

"N-nothin'."

"Show me!" he demands.

Doris sighs. 

"It's not bad," she says, revealing the red ring on her arm, "No need for you to..."

"Damn it Dottie," Hoyt cuts her off, seizing her wrist to inspect the burn closer, "Said you would quit this shit."

Doris presses her lips together. 

"Guess I broke my promise."

She meets his gaze, unusually bold. Winces as his fingers squeeze her wrist, red tinged eyes dark, foreboding.

"What are you tryin' to say huh? Did this to get back at me?" 

"No," she tries to pull her wrist from his iron grip, "It's... It's got nothing to do with you!"

Hoyt's eyes widen then narrow again,

"It's everything to do with me. I'm your husband," he drags her closer by the wrist, "Think I want a wife getting around with cigarette burns on her arm like she's married to some fucking thug?"

You are a thug, she thinks. Thug pretending to be a lawman.

"There's a reason I beat you where no one else can see it. 'Cause its none of anyone's damn business. But this," he shakes her arm in emphasis, "Has got fuck all to do with that. So I'm telling you, for the final time, private, knock it off. Understand?"

"Yes sir," she mumbles.

"You can do better n' that. Answer again n' convince me you mean it."

The drill sergeant bark makes her snap to attention.

"Yes sir!" 

Hoyt glares at her for good measure. Then his expression softens.

"Hurt?"

He thumbs the burn a little too roughly. Always a bit too heavy-handed when he cares. 

"Oh please," Doris breezes, "Tickles compared to your belt."

Makes him smirk.

"Belt is more fun," he looks down at the mark, more serious, "This ain't fun, honey. For either of us."

Doris swallows hard and nods. Hoyt cups her face. Pulls her in for a kiss. 

"Wanna get burned so bad, I can drip hot wax onto your ass, fuck you stupid while yer howling," he leers at her deviously, Doris' core pulsing at the imagery, "What do you think of that?"

"Maybe," she feigns deep thought, smiling.

"Maybe," Hoyt's hand hits her ass playfully as she moves to slip into her seat.

Slurps his coffee. Doris glances over at a nearby drawer. Drawer where she's been shoving Jed's drawings. 

"Jed shoved another drawing under the door," she tells Hoyt.

He grimaces,

"He's still doing that?"

"Third one this week," she says uncomfortably, "Gotta tell him to stop."

"Would if I ever saw him. Kid's sneaky," he pauses a moment before adding, "Why it bother you so much. You're his mama. He's trying to..."

"I'm not his mama," Doris cuts over him fiercely, "Not anyone's mama."

As much as she feels guilty, she doesn't have the will to mother Jed. It's too painful. Looks at him and sees a blend of his father and a stranger. He's not hers. Was easier to pretend at the beginning, when she thought she'd give him a sibling. But after Grace...

Every time he called her mama, it was like a slap in the face. It wasn't the boy's fault. She knew that. But she couldn't bring herself to act differently. She'd hoped the boy would just accept it. But he kept coming to the house, leaving little drawings for her, like a stray begging to let back in.  

Hoyt looks off to the side. Doris grits her teeth. 

"Keep trying," he says finally.

Doris fight back tears. 

So sick of trying. So sick of all of it. 

She rubs the burn on her arm anxiously. Wants to light another cigarette but she's worried Hoyt might take them off her. 

"I was thinking of redoing the kitchen," she changes the subject, trying her best to sound chipper, "The wallpaper. Floral but darker tones, more modern."

"More hippie dippie you mean," Hoyt shoots her down quickly, "Ain't living in a house that looks like some flower power love in. Looks fine the way it is."

Doris grips her hands under the table. He always does this when she suggests renovations. Was fine throwing away everything associated with Winnie - his dictionary, clothes, any photograph he featured in. But any project to update the interior, he finds an excuse. Always fine the way it is.

Fine because he doesn't expect to live here in the long term. But Doris is adamant she's never stepping foot on the farm again. Not returning to the place her little girl died.

"I have to get to work," she mutters, rising to cast off her apron.

Hoyt frowns at her,

"You gonna walk?"

"It's not far," she gathers her purse.

"What if you run into trouble?"

Doris bites back a snort. Trouble? 

She's a cannibal, childless woman in her late thirties with an even older alcoholic cannibal husband, demanding cannibal in-law who won't leave them in peace. Together they run a gas station front so they can kill folks passing through. Butcher 'em for meat. 

Every local in town is either a relation or been bullied into keeping their mouths shut (least they get a visit from Tommy and his chainsaw).

Also there's a knife in her purse. 

She shoots Hoyt a bright smile.

"Honey I'm the sheriff's wife. Ain't no one gonna mess with me," she rounds the table to press up to his side, "Use the exercise anyway."

She moans as Hoyt grabs her ass, drags her flush onto his thigh. 

"Stay here n' I'll give you some exercise," he pushes on her hips, tempting her to rock on his thigh, "What do you say huh, put you through some drills."

Doris sighs as he kisses her throat, rolls her hips to grind herself on his leg.

"Your mama was pretty insistent."

Hoyt groans in her neck.

"She's always insistent."

His hand delves to tease the waistband of her panties under her skirt. Panties already slick with arousal. She whines, torn.

"Rather avoid a lecture."

"Give you one anyway," he lifts his head from her shoulder, "Trust me, known her my whole damn life."

Doris hums in commiseration. She runs her hand through his hair. Hoyt purrs like a wild cat, deep and throaty, eyes closed. Could stick that knife in his throat no problem. The violent image shocks her so much she intakes. Hoyt opens his eyes, stares with tired eyes. He's getting old, wrinkles deeply etched on his face. 

She feels a surge of affection for him. She does love her sergeant. She wouldn’t murder him. She caresses his cheek, feels a faint scratch of stuble.

"You still look peaky, honey. Why don't you get some rest."

"Don't need..." He starts to growl.

Doris cuts him off with a kiss.

"Wanna do page 6 tonight."

That makes him brighten.

"Page 6 huh? Always a good one."

His finger slides between her panties and his thigh, brushing her clit. She shivers.

"Though we could add the wax fer somethin' different."

"We could, we could," he sounds like an excited child. 

He smashes a kiss to her lips.

"I love you, dumplin'."

"I love you too."

She rocks herself on his finger with a moan. Hoyt watches intensely. 

"Damn it woman," he shoves her off his leg with a groan, "Get going before I change my fucking mind. Won't care how much mama chews you out."

-

As soon as his cocktease of a wife leaves, Hoyt lunges for the liquor. Might have a weak spot for the bottle but that also meant he knew what best cured his hangover. Especially with sex off the table. Few years ago he wouldn't have taken no for an answer. Woulda dragged her to the bedroom and sorted her out. 

Wonders if he's going soft. 

No, he tells himself, ain't fucking soft. Just pacing yourself. Every good soldier knows he needs time to recaliberate. Can't perform your best without a bit of time out. Tonight he'll lock Dottie in those cuffs and go to fucking town on her ass.

Might even cook her a nice meal first. Eat her pussy. She deserved it.

Deserved it because...

A woman's face flashes in his mind, streaming snot and tracks of heavy eye makeup, screeching at him hatefully, lipstick on her whore lips smeared from the gag.

The telephone rings. Hoyt grumbles at the sound, heaves his ass up to answer.

"Yeah?"

If he were in better mood he'd say "sheriff speaking" 'cause that sounded professional. Like how Dottie answered with "sheriff's residence". He really liked that shit.

But he's not in the mood. He's hungover and his wife left without fucking him.

"Hoyt," comes his mother's voice.

Hoyt suppresses a groan.

"Oh hey mama."

"Doris ain't left yet?" There's a note of disapproval in her voice.

Hoyt glowers at the wall, imagining his mother's face.

"She's on her way."

"Not giving her a lift?"

More disapproval.

"Wanted to walk. What it's matter?"

Luda Mae grunts.

"When ya'll coming by the house again?" 

Hoyt rolls his eyes,

"I was there yesterday delivering that biker."

Mentioning that greasy hog fucker reminds him of the girlfriend. One he kept tied up in the trunk. Took over to Hank's. 

He clenches his fist, stomach queasy. Can't remember much after that. Has to call Hank after this. Find out what happened. Hope he hasn't messed around with that bitch.

Hope to God. 

"Not you," Luda Mae breaks through his thoughts, "Both of you."

Fuck, Hoyt thinks, not this again.

"We been through this mama, Dottie don't come to the farm no more."

"Still? Been almost a year! What's her problem. Farm too good for her?"

"Her baby died, mama!" Hoyt shouts before he can stop himself, "Our baby."

There's an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.

"Lost my fair share of babies," she speaks up quietly, "Didn't turn tail n' run."

You had nowhere else to go, Hoyt thinks. Dottie did. Pleaded and pleaded for Hoyt to take her back to this house. It was too painful at the farm. Could look out the window, see the burial plot that now had a cross bearing the name Grace Hewitt Hoyt. 

Even Hoyt avoided that side of the house when he visited. 

His mother coughs, a little self-consciously.

"Don't know if you noticed the state of house," she says gruffly.

Hoyt is almost grateful for the change in subject.

"Noticed it was little..." messy as fuck, "Disorderly."

Always been a little cluttered. Bit of grime here and there. But crockery was never left piled in the sink. Chickens didn't roam loose indoors. Never caught glimpse of his mama's delicates lying around. 

"Disorderly," Luda Mae grits out, "Shambles more like. Who's gonna help me if you two don't move back in? Married that woman so she could help..."

"Married that woman so I could have a wife," Hoyt corrects her, "Like it or not, we got our own place, mama. Doris has a job to keep it clean. Also helps at the store. Can't tell me she ain't pulling her weight."

"Saying it's silly you pair living on yer own when we got room on the farm. Farm's yer birthright, Hoyt. Telling me you'd rather live in the house yer wife n' ol' husband used to live in?"

Hoyt sighs. It does bother him. He and Doris have made the place their own. Ain't no trace of Winston Hoyt ever living there. But the bed they sleep in is the same bed that limp dick took Doris' virginity. Same bed they shared until the day Hoyt had killed him. He would prefer his own bed at the farm. 

But that was the same bed Dottie had birthed their stillborn baby. Same bed she refused too sleep in, even though they'd destroyed the bloody sheets. Caused her too much distress. Preferred to sleep in her old marital bed across town.

Hoyt had agreed. Because he loved his wife. But honestly he thought it would only be in the short term. That'd they'd move back to the farm sooner or later like his mama wanted. Like he wanted. Hewitt belonged on Hewitt land. Not a house with his predecessor's name still on the deed. 

"You need to come home, Hoyt," Luda Mae presses, cannily taking his silence for agreement, "Yer place is the farm. With yer family. With your mama."

A hint of plea breaks through her usually gruff voice. Hoyt isn't sure if it's sincere or a tactic to wear him down. Whatever it is, it works.

"I'll talk to her," he concedes, only to hear his mother huff, "No listen to me," he growls before she can argue, "I will talk to her. Don't you say nothing when she gets to Cele, understand? Take yourself home n' try to relax."

"Relax?" Luda Mae snorts, "With the house in the state it's in?"

Hoyt pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"You got Tommy. N' Jed. Tell 'em to help you."

"Jed? That boy's more hindrance than help. Thought he was gonna be staying with you two. Keep finding him in the barn."

Hoyt ignores the question,

"What about Monty?"

"Monty's an invalid. More hindrance than Jed."

"He can dry plates n' shit, can't he?" Hoyt growls, "It's his legs that's missing. Not his arms. Can dust a lil. Chop vegetables for supper."

"N' listen to his grouchin'? Rather him asleep in front of TV."

Hoyt fights the urge to bash the receiver.

"I'm just offering suggestions, mama," he forces through his teeth.

"Suggestions that don't help squat. What about the sweeping? The washing. Tending to the animals?"

"Tommy's there. Ain't like him not to do his chores."

"Barely see your brother these days. Takes his meals down the basement. It's not right," her voice falters again, "Should be all together, as a family. We're a family, Hoyt. Ain't right you living away from yer home. You need to talk her 'round."

"Damn it I said I'd talk to her," Hoyt says at the end of his teether - why is it always him solving all this shit! "Why don't you visit aunty Dora. Have some tea."

Hopefully she gives you the kind that knocks you out. Little rest might mellow you. If that was even possible.

"Don't have time fer tea. Ain't you been listening?"

"Loud n' clear. Look I gotta go. Have shit to do."

He slams the telephone down before his mother can utter another syllable. Stands there seething a minute. Downs another gulp of moonshine. 

Dials Hank's place. No answer. Grits his teeth and dials the slaughterhouse.

Someone picks up. Doesn't say anything. Only heavy breathing.

"Hello?" Hoyt says testily.

More breathing. Like a dog panting. 

"Shiloh?" he recognises his cousin, "Fuck are you answering the phone? Go get Hank. Hank!"

The breathing goes quiet. There's a shuffle of footsteps. Hoyt clenches his fist impatiently, waiting. Waiting. 

"Blair Meat Co.," comes his half-brother's raspy voice, "Who the fuck is this?"

"The sheriff, numb nuts," Hoyt retorts, "Why you letting that retard answer the phone?"

"Can't trust him on the floor," Hank answers blithely, "Zeke's on a short run. Asked if I'd mind him."

"Bastard swiped my good tobacco," Hoyt complains.

Hank only laughs.

"Aside from that, how you holdin' up?"

"Like shit," Hoyt groans, "Can't believe you're at work."

"Someone's gotta slaughter these hogs."

Hoyt grunts,

"Where'd that girl end up?"

"Debbie."

"She told us her name?"

"Yeah, thought it would help humanise her or some shit," he can hear the grin in his voice, "Didn't work."

"I didn't do anything to her?"

"Can't remember?"

"Nope."

"Uh, lets see. Mighta smacked her on that sweet can a' hers..."

Damn it!

"Squeezed her titties a bit..."

Fuck, fucking son of a whore!

"But she was carryin' on so you lost yer shit n' slapped her. Woulda blown her brains out too but Zeke talked you down. Then ya drove off in a huff n' me n' Zeke took turns stuffin' her."

Hoyt looks over at the wedding picture on the wall. Wasn't a real wedding. No minister or nothing. Just a family gathering to celebrate their union. But Doris wore his grandmother's old wedding dress and pearls. Hoyt wore his uniform. Luda Mae wore her best church dress. Tommy refused to be in the photo. Hoyt didn't overly mind. Boy wasn't exactly photogenic.

But Dottie never looked prettier. Aside from a few hours later, when she was speared on his dick, choking on the panties stuffed in her mouth. Tears running down her face. Had looked fucking beautiful then.

He stares at her shy smile in photograph, way she's clinging to his arm. 

If she found out he gotten a lil... handsy.

"Where is she now?" he asks Hank tensely.

"First little piggy of the morning," Hank says to his relief, "Shame. She was purty."

Yes she had been. Fucking temptress. Tits poking out beneath her leather jacket, pert lil ass in those tiny jeans shorts, showing off her long legs. Whore of Babylon. 

"How's the lil lady?" Hank asks, "Pissed you come home plastered?"

"Not too bad. Guess she's used to it."

Not that he enjoyed that look of disappointment on her face. Sometimes he wished she'd just scream at him. He'd probably punch her in the face but at least they'd both get it out of their systems. 

But then there's the shit with her burning herself. Believes her when she says it's got nothing to do with him. Like his drinking has nothing to do with her. It's medication. Takes away the stress. Hell, the boredom. It's boring sitting in that in patrol car day in, day out.

Doris medicates herself with pain. Because she's still messed up over losing the baby. Hoyt's not an idiot. The shit started after they buried her, not before. Before the baby the only pain Doris needed was what he gave her in the bedroom. Now suddenly it's not enough.

He's not enough. 

But that's horseshit because he damn well is. He'll make her realize that. Pour hot wax on her ass and fill her pussy up with seed. Hope it gets her pregnant, replace the one they lost. 

"Different story if she finds out about this girl," he says to Hank, who scoffs.

"Ain't like you stuck your dick in her."

Hoyt sighs. Just as well.

"You know how Dottie gets. She - she'll take it personal."

Remembers how she was about him fondling that girl's tits all those years ago. Can barely picture the bitch's face but he bet Dottie could recall her. Women didn't forget shit like that.

That's why you shouldn't have done it asshole, he thinks to himself. Should drop these fillies off for Tommy to sort out. Not that hard not to be tempted. 

"So she should," Hank surprises him by saying, "Shit big brother, you showed me that magazine you two are into. I had a woman lemme do all shit I wouldn't cheat on her."

"Don't recall askin' yer opinion," Hoyt growls, "Don't even have a girlfriend."

"Reckon that Debbie mighta agreed if it spared her life," Hank chuckles, "Look, Doris isn't gonna find out," he adds more seriously, "Ain't like me n' Zeke are gonna tell her."

"Appreciate it," Hoyt mutters.

"No sweat big brother," he suddenly groans, "Shy - what are you... This baboon's got his fucking hand down his pants. Quit it. Fucking Zeke. Las' time I play babysitter. Goddamn it, gotta go. Tell Doris I said hi."

The line abruptly cuts out. Hoyt hangs up the receiver with a sigh. Reaches for his moonshine.

Chapter Text

Hoyt's waiting for a sneaky little mouse. Waits until he sees the movement of his shadow under the front door then flings it open. 

"Caught you, you lil asshole!" Jed freezing like a fox caught in a henhouse, "What you think you're doing huh?"

Jed looks up at him with anxious eyes, clutching his drawing.

"Where's mama?"

Hoyt fights the urge to slap him. He's a broken record about Doris. Mama, mama, mama. Granted she did lead him on. Reason he's got paper and pencils is because she got them for him. Encouraged the artistic shit she's so fed up with.

"Gone to work. N' she ain't your mama. Made that pretty clear."

Jed looks down at the ground pitifully. Hoyt sighs. 

"Gotta quit it with the drawings. It's upsetting her. I don't want her upset."

He snatches the paper.

"Hell is this?"

It's a family of four stick figures. Two are women. He's drawn two circles for the breasts. One has a bigger circle of a belly like she's fat or pregnant. The other feminine figure has yellow squiggles for hair. 

"New folks," Jed tells him, voice a little breathy with excitement.

"What?"

"Moved into the Crawford house."

"Horseshit," Hoyt growls, "No one's been in that house for years."

"Tellin' the truth!" Jed insists, "Show you."

Hoyt scowls. He doesn't want to go on a wild goose chase with son. This shit is probably a figment of his imagination. No way a family could move in without him noticing.

He studies the drawing again. 

Is a strange thing to make up.

Stays home, he'll keep hitting the bottle. Be soused by the time he has to pick up Doris. Get their evening off to a bad start. 

"Suppose it's worth checking out," he grumbles, "C'mon."

"Why's it parked funny?" Jed asks as he tails to the patrol car.

"Don't know what you mean," Hoyt says archly as they chamber in. 

Jed looks around in wide eyed wonder.

"Can we do the siren?" 

"Yeah alright," Hoyt tells himself its 'cause its still a hoot, not because of the kid, "Don't touch anythin'. N' you better not be wasting my time. You'll regret it."

It's like his father's voice coming out of his mouth. 

There's no car in the driveway at the old Crawford house. But the curtains are pulled back, windows open. There's movement inside. Radio playing. 

"See," Jed says.

Hoyt glares at him.

"Wait here," he tells him, "Remember what I said about touchin' my shit."

He's irate as he makes his way to the front door. Folks moving in without anybody noticing. That's a colossal fuck up. There's a chink in the chain.

You're the chink, a voice reminds him. Knocked off patrol early for poker. Bet that's when they snuck in.

Hoyt clenches his fists.

A woman appears before he can reach the front door. Must have seen him through the window. She's Dottie's age or a little older, with a head scarf over her hair and an apron over her floral dress, hands clad in gloves. Obviously caught her in the middle of cleaning. Her face is pink and sweaty. 

Sweating for two. Way her stomach bulges. 

She looks at him nervously.

"H-hi there."

"Howdy ma'am," he takes off his hat, "Sheriff Hoyt."

"Judy Crawford."

Crawford? 

Hoyt's confused. Far as he knew old man Crawford had no living children. That's why the house sat vacant after he died. By then the mill his family had built had already fallen into disrepair. That's why Tommy used it to skin that boy's face. 

"Is there a problem, sir?"

"No problem," Hoyt snaps his sunglasses off his eyes, squints, "You folks moving in?"

"Uh yes. Arrived yesterday."

"Surprised you slipped under my radar. Not much happens in this town happens without me knowing it."

"Did get in late," Mrs. Crawford tells him, "Even slept in the car. Was cramped but it was better than musty rooms. House came at a good price but it needs a lot of work."

She holds up her gloved hands. Maybe she expects him to smile and nod in agreement. When he doesn't, she lowers her hands to her stomach.

"So what brings you to Fuller? Don't exactly get many newcomers. Been looking at the same ugly faces for years. Most of 'em is my cousins."

He laughs. Mrs. Crawford joins him nervously. Tenses again when Hoyt's expression abruptly hardens. 

"Asked you a question."

"Oh r-right!" Her stammer reminds him of Doris. Lost it bit by bit over the years. Kind of misses it. "My husband inherited the property. He's a distant relation of the previous owner."

"He ain't around?" Hoyt indicates the empty driveway.

"No, he went to pick up some supplies at the store. The uh, gas station, c-community centre?"

"I'm familiar, ma'am. My family operate it. My mama and my wife. My wife's probably asking your husband the same questions I'm asking you. New folks in town, we get awful curious."

Mrs. Crawford nods along in awkward understanding. Her hands clasp her big belly. Way Doris used to. Couldn't keep her hands off the damn thing. Hoyt couldn’t either. Couldn't keep his hands off Doris in general. But used to to put his hand on her bulge, feel the baby kick. 

Showed so much life in the womb. 

How the fuck did she come out dead?

Hoyt grits his teeth. 

"When ya'll due?" he asks Mrs. Crawford.

"November."

"That ain't far away. Tell you right now, go into labour here, not much chance of getting you to a hospital," he savours her look of anxiety, "Lucky for you women in this town know a lot about birthing babies. My mama for one. Don't live far either. Big farmhouse on route 17. She'll help you out. Us Hewitts are the helpin' type."

Her brow furrows,

"Hewitt. Thought your name was Hoyt?"

Hoyt fights not to glare. Smart ass bitch.

"Hewitt Hoyt," he refocuses on her belly, "This your first?"

Already knows it ain't but it's best to play dumb.

"Oh no," she's rubbing her belly like its a protective charm, "Got a daughter and a son."

Hoyt cocks his head.

"Awful quiet in there for two kids."

"Our Johnny - he went with his daddy. He's twelve. Jessica's our eldest. She's seventeen."

"She's inside?"

"Getting her bedroom ready," she shakes her head, "Girls her age are so particular."

Hoyt hums.

"Polite to introduce your family to company."

Mrs. Crawford winces. Then she turns, calls her daughter's name. 

"Yes momma?" Comes a young feminine voice. Sweet timbre that makes his body perk up like a hunting dog on a scent. 

"Could you come here a minute?"

An angel in blue jeans suddenly appears. Her blonde hair poking out of her head scarf. Jed's drawing didn't do her justice. She's the prettiest lamb Hoyt's laid eyes on in a while. Those biker girls, beauty was mostly painted on. Turned ugly soon as they started crying. But this girl. Nothing artificial about her fresh-faced youth.

Looks like nothing bad's happened to her a day in her life. Maybe broken nail or two. That kind of innocence... 

"This is the town sheriff," her mother introduces him, "Uh..."

"Charles Hoyt," Hoyt smiles at the angel, "Jessica right?"

She glances at her mother then back at him.

"Yes sir."

Hoyt tries not to groan. Sir coming out of those soft plump lips. 

"Liking Fuller so far?"

The angel shrugs, 

"Ain't seen much of it but it's okay."

She bounces on her feet, looking anxious to withdraw. Supple legs clad in jeans. Irks Hoyt. Fuck is wrong with this generation, girls wearing boy's clothes. Look so pretty in a dress. 

She's looking at her mother, eyes asking for dismissal. 

"Let you get on honey," Hoyt drawls, earns himself a nervous smile, "Nice to meet you."

Drinks in her front quickly before she turns tail. Then drinks in the sight of her ass. Suddenly he ain't so mad about her jeans.

Mrs. Crawford coughs. Hoyt looks to see her looking a mite severe. Makes sense. Older man eyeballing at her teenage girl.

Her eyes glance down, at his wedding ring. Hoyt tries not to grimace. That bitch got a point. Shouldn't be gawking at fillies when he has a wife. Ain't as pretty but she more than makes up for it in other ways. Told himself to have more self-control.

He meets Mrs. Crawford's gaze, feeling a wave of rage. Stupid bitch bringing a fine piece of tail here to tempt him. Shouldn't be in his fucking town. 

They'll regret in the end. He's certain of it. 

He smiles. Hard smile that wipes the disapproval off her face. 

"Got me a boy. Over in the patrol car," he thumbs in its direction, "He's about eight..."

Or is it nine? Can never kept track.

"Have to introduce him to your boy when he's round. Nice fer him to have a friend."

That way Jed can report back to him.

Mrs. Crawford doesn't look overly enthused. But she's too intimidated to decline.

"Well if he likes baseball I'm sure they'll get on."

Hoyt doubts his son knows what baseball is. 

"'N the girl?"

"Jessica?"

"Yeah, what she into?"

"W-why you ask?"

"Well she seems the quiet type. Kind that stays home, does her chores n' homework. But sometimes those shy gals can fool ya. Act sweet when really they're sneakin' out at night, smoking Mary Jane, letting boys feel 'em up in cars."

"No no!" Mrs. Crawford says alarmed, "My Jess - she's a good girl."

"Thats blessing, ma'am," Hoyt says, enjoying her ruffled feathers, "Obviously raised her right. Hope you ain't offended. Jus' like to be informed. Need to keep my town orderly. Keep scum off the street."

Places hard emphasis on scum, watches her flinch.

"Want you to fit in too. Not many of us but we're hard working Godly folk. Nothing upsets the apple cart with folks like us quicker n' a tramp daughter running 'round making a nuisance. Same with the boy. I assume he's well behaved."

"Yes sir," the stupid woman looks close to tears, "My Johnny - he's such a good boy. Won't cause any trouble."

Hoyt glowers - dragging out the woman's discomfort. Then he bowls her over with a big smile. 

"Well then," he says cheerfully, "I'm sure ya'll get along here jus' fine."

Mrs. Crawford nods, overwhelmed.

"T-Thank you. Uh, thanks for stopping by."

"Jus' doing my duty ma'am," Hoyt plops his hat on his head, "Need a hand, I'm only a call away."

Rattles off his telephone number and street address like any good, caring neighbour.

"Can't miss us, only ones on that street, me and Dottie."

"What about your boy?" Mrs. Crawford stammers.

"Oh him too," Hoyt says carelessly, "Welcome to Fuller, Mrs. Crawford. Let you get on with your cleaning."

He returns to Jed huddled in the cruiser.

"Did good," he tells him as he turns on the engine, Jed looking up with big, surprised eyes, "Notice more going on than the fucking adults. Keep it up alright."

Jed smiles shyly.

"Y-yes sir."

Hoyt smiles back, uncharacteristically reaches to ruffle his greasy hair. Regrets it afterwards, leaves an oily feeling on his hand. Wipes it on his pants. 

"Gotta tell grandma you need a bath. I'll drop you back to the farm."

Drops him there because it's closer and he needs to tell his mama about the newcomers. His aunt's there too, which is good timing. Tells her to make sure her mangy boys stay clear. Doesn't want them moving in on these folks just yet. Then he phones Hank again.

"Said you did that girl this morning?" 

"After the meat are you?"

Sounds a little defensive since the Hewitts have her biker beau to eat. But Hoyt ain't interested in him. Doris prefers female meat. 

"Just two steaks. Treating my lady."

"Lucky lady," Hank quips, "I'll wrap 'em for you."

"Much obliged."

He hands up the telephone, whirls around to see Luda Mae,

"Jesus mama, gotta stand so close?"

Luda Mae doesn't budge an inch.

"Gonna talk to Doris?" 

"Working on it," Hoyt kisses her cheek, "I'm off."

He pauses halfway to the front door,

"You didn't say nothin' to her already?" he growls.

Luda Mae answers with crossed arms and a poker face.

"Your uniform's dirty. Better get her to clean it for you."

Then walks away, leaves Hoyt to grumble all the way to his cruiser. Jed waves at him from the porch. Hoyt almost waves back. Instead he yells at him through the open window.

"Remember what I said about the drawings!"

Speeds away. Looks once in the rear view to see Jed's huddled outline get smaller and smaller. Drops into Hank's to pick up the steaks. Chats to him awhile about these Crawfords. Turns out the father dropped into Blair Meat Co. enquiring for work.

"Give it to him," Hoyt says, "Best to keep him inside the town."

Hank agrees, offers him another beer. Hoyt checks his watch - one that used to belong to Winston Hoyt. 

"Gotta pick up Dottie."

"Gonna put out, you cooking her steak?"

"Wants hot wax poured on her ass."

Hank laughs,

"You two are messed up."

"Enjoy your hand tonight," Hoyt retorts.

"Describe this blonde girl again."

Hoyt shakes his head.

Doris has already closed up by the time he arrives. Is standing out the front smoking a cigarette. Seems to smoke like a chimney now. Remembers a time she didn't, wouldn't even try his tobacco. 

Seemed to change her mind when her and Luda Mae got all chummy. Way they weren't anymore. But Doris still goes through a pack a day. Hoyt doesn't care as long as she's not putting them out on her arm.

He inspects said arm for new burns when she hops in. None that he can see except the one she gave herself this morning.

"How was work?" he asks after she leans over to kiss him.

"I was gonna call," her voice is breathy, "Fella came in today with his boy. Tol' me they'd jus' moved into..."

"The Crawford place. Yeah I know. Jed already sniffed 'em out. Kid ain't half bad sometimes. Told him to quit with the drawings."

Doris fidgets with her purse.

"Maybe I'm being too harsh on him."

Hoyt grunts in response. 

"Remember my tobacco?"

Doris fishes a tin out of her purse. Hoyt lunges for it greedily. Shoves a generous wad in his mouth with a sigh of relief. 

"Dropped in, met the wife n' kids."

"What are they like?"

The angel floats in his head. 

"Nothin' special."

"No one's moved here in years," Doris says tensely, "What are we going to do - if they find out..."

"We kill 'em," Hoyt reassures her, "Pretty simple. Don't worry. Know soon enough if they're the kind that needs taking care of."

Doris nods. Flicks her cigarette butt while Hoyt leans over the side to spit tobacco juice. Glances over at Doris on the way home. Her belly is pudgy under her dress, squishy folds of flesh. Combination of her diet and aging. Hoyt doesn't mind. Told himself he'd never complain about her weight if she kept wolfing down human meat. 

But the sight makes him think about Mrs. Crawford. Her immense belly had shit to do with bad habits. There was life growing there.

"Wife's due to have a baby."

Doris immediately stiffens. 

"Lucky her."

"I mean real soon. Say maybe it turns out we gotta rid ourselves of 'em. Can't kill a lil babe."

Doris is silent.

"Sure Henrietta would claim him," she says, voice soft, brittle.

Hoyt clenches the wheel, 

"You wouldn't be interested?"

Doris grips her knees, knuckles white.

"Barely got it in me to claim Jed n' he's half yours. This baby wouldn't be either of us."

Hoyt sighs. Thought it had been a good idea and now she's fucking upset. 

"You know I don't care about kids right," he changes tact, "Barely take much notice of the one I got. Got plenty of kin breeding the new generation. Don't get me wrong, if it happens, I'll be happy. But if it doesn't, I won't be upset..."

He slides his hand onto her thigh,

"Don't think you're disappointin' me if..."

"Please," Doris grips his hand, voice tight, "Stop."

She turns her head, stares out the window.

Hoyt grits his teeth, stares at the road ahead. Murk of evening is settling in. 

"I'll cook tonight."

Doris looks back at him.

"Cook what?"

"Steak."

To his relief her mouth puckers in a smile. 

"Sounds nice," she sighs.

Sighs again as his fingers tangle in her curls. Shuffles closer to him.

"You can take a bath while I cook," he tells her, "Get dolled up in something nice. Have ourselves a candlelight supper.

"Well," Doris says eagerly, "We do need the wax."

-

Doris sprawls out in the tub, bubble bath disguising the brownish tinge of the water. Tries to relax but her mother in law keeps popping into her head. Words she had for her as she leaving the Cele store. 

"I know it's hard. Ain't trying to be insensitive..."

She glances down at Doris' belly. Doris clenches her fists.

"But you should know, keeping a man from where he wants to be, don't work out too well. Breeds resentment."

"What are you talking about?"

"Farm's my boy's home. Needs to be with his family."

"I'm his family, Luda Mae."

"Ain't the same. Ain't tied by blood. My son belongs on that farm. Like his daddy n' his granddaddy. Denyin' him is like tellin' a dog not to hunt. Turn 'round n' bite you."

Doris grinds her teeth. 

"Jus' warning you," Luda Mae's tone suddenly sweetens, "Be nice to have you two back home. Like ol' times."

Hobbled out to the Packard, left Doris fuming, hands itching to burn herself for a distraction. But she held off. Flicked through an ancient copy of Life magazine. Then John Crawford walked in with his boy. Gave her a better distraction. Tall, uninteresting sort of fella, friendly enough. Boy was polite. Delighted when she offered them a coke each 'on the house'. Luda Mae would be mortified but that was half the point. 

Fuck you, she thought, smiling at the pair.

"Moving's thirsty work. Welcome to Fuller."

Doris distractedly dabs her face with a wash cloth. 

Ignore her, she tells herself. Doesn't know shit. Thinks she can control everyone. 

Problem was she could. Still held a lot of sway over Hoyt, no matter how much Hoyt claimed otherwise. Took her wishes and repackaged them like they were his idea. Doris wasn't stupid. 

But she wasn't about to admit defeat either. Dresses in a lacy slip belonging to one of their previous victims. Couple on their honeymoon. Newly Mrs. Whoever had obviously packed it to impress her groom. Doris used to feel queasy about looting clothes off the deceased. But like eating their meat, it got easier as time wore on. 

Especially if you looked at it in practical terms. Dead didn't need clothes. No place in Fuller you could buy racy garments (less you ordered 'em out of catalogue). Slip's a little too loose in the bosom and little too tight in the hips, had the side split a couple times due to Hoyt being a little too rough, had to restitch it. 

But she likes the colour. It's baby blue and even though the lace scratches against her tits, it looks awful pretty. Makes her feel pretty, even the fatty excess around her tummy bulges out, fabric stretched to its limit in places.

She paints her mouth in red lipstick. Lipstick from some other girl. Some tramp riding on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle. Say what you will about loose women, they had the best taste when it came to lipstick.

Had to fight Etta over it. Girl didn't wear usually wear makeup but she thought it would impress Adam. Ended up drawing straws over it. Doris won, though honestly it wouldn't have mattered if she didn't. Would have put her foot down. She was higher n' Etta on the family tree.

She smiles in the mirror. Pinches her nipples until they're stiff peaks peeping through the lace. Doesn't bother with panties. Effort seems to pay off when Hoyt stops setting the table to gawk at her. 

"Think that's suitable attire for supper?"

Doris flashes him a sultry smile.

"Well your mama wouldn't approve but she's not here."

"No she wouldn't," Hoyt paws a pebbled nipple through the lace, "But your husband does."

He squeezes her backside, bunches the fabric so it rides up her thigh, exposing a hint of her buttocks. Sight that makes him groan.

"Could eat you for supper."

Doris grinds into his touch.

"Save me for dessert. Already gone to so much trouble."

Hoyt chuckles,

"Indeed I have," he stops groping her ass, leads her to the table. Pulls out her chair like a perfect gentleman. Gentleman who helps himself to a squeeze of her breast before he sits down.

She eyes the candle already burning on the table, stares at the molten wax, flutter of excitement in her belly. But it's the steak that makes her salivate. Can't wait until Hoyt finishes Grace to dig in.

"How is it?" Hoyt asks.

"It's real good," Doris says blissfully, "Best I've had in ages. Musta been a young heifer."

"Some biker's side piece," Hoyt tells her, "Lucky we nabbed her. Don't take long for meat like that to pass it's prime."

Doris hums as she sips her beer. Wants to ask what she looked like. But questions like that, especially if Hoyt got a lil agitated, meant she'd been too pretty. So she bites her tongue, sticks to the old idiom that ignorance is bliss.

"So, I was thinking," Hoyt says a moment later in a conversational voice, "Been an age since we last had a family meal."

Doris halts bringing her fork to her mouth.

"What do you mean?" she asks coldly, "Have 'em every night. Right now in fact."

She pops her mouthful of steak in her mouth, eyes narrowed as she chews.

"Mean the whole family," Hoyt presses on, much to her fury, "Luda Mae n' Monty n' Tommy. Aunty Dora n' Henrietta maybe. Have a nice lil get together."

"You were thinking this, or your mama?"

Hoyt grimaces.

"She just misses us, Dottie."

Doris huffs,

"Sees us almost every day."

Hoyt's jaw stiffens.

"Would it hurt to get her off our backs?" he says wheedingly, "Having supper at the farm. Used to do it all the time."

Doris pushes her plate away.

"I'm not going back there," she folds her arms, "Made it perfectly clear."

Hoyt sighs,

"You have it to let it go sometime, honey. My mama had a lotta babies pass n' she..."

"I am NOT your mama!" Doris seethes, "I'm your wife. Should take my side over hers!"

"I want to go back!" Hoyt matches her pitch, "It's my family's land, Dottie. Rather be there even if it is a pig sty."

His lip curls in distaste. Doris remains silent, stewing in her own fury.

"But you n' I can fix that," Hoyt switches from harsh to cajoling, "You wanna renovate, you got plenty of opportunity there. Don't even have to move back into our room. We can close it up. Take mama's room. She can move into daddy's."

"With his corpse?" Doris sneers.

Hoyt shrugs,

"Or not. 'Bout time we got rid of that thing."

Thing. Calls his daddy's preserved corpse a thing. Like it can be discarded as easily as a broken lamp. All the lamps at the farm are made from human skin. Doris doesn't know why the hell Hoyt wants to move back into that depravity. Corpses and flesh lampshades.

Things Tommy gifted her. Crib made from femors. A mobile dangling finger bones. Skin-covered rattle filled with teeth. Kept presenting them to her, one after the after. Smiled and accepted them at the time. Found his enthusiam oddly sweet. Sweet when it was monstrous.

But that was the spell of the farm. Messed with your head. Made you think depraved was the norm. Doesn't want to be lost in that again. 

"I don't want to move into your mama's room."

"Monty's then. Point is we got options to make it easy for you."

"I'm not going. You want to, be my guest. But I'm staying here."

"Not having my wife live under a different roof."

"Then stay here," she pleads, exasperated.

Hoyt's palms slap the surface on the table, making everything jump. 

"I don't want to stay here! Land sake, woman, this your dead husband's house. Was supposed to be a temporary measure while you recovered. But it's been almost a year."

"Year without my little girl."

"Our little girl! I lost her too Dottie. Think I'm so heartless I ain't think about her?"

He breathes heavily, pain in Doris' eyes mirrored back at her. But then he composes himself with shuddery intake. Draws himself up straight.

"She's gone, Dottie," he speaks in that horribly calm preacher's voice, "Can't change it. The farm's mine, by birthright. It's tradition. Eldest son passes it to eldest..."

"Monty's the eldest son," Doris interrupts, "Your granddaddy was the eldest. Monty's his only livin' son."

Watches red spread over her husband's face.

"Monty's an invalid n' a runt. Ain't fit for shit! Family needs leadership. Can't be leader if I'm playing house across town."

"Playing house?" Doris repeats coldly, "Didn't realize what we were doing was a game."

Hoyt winces.

"I didn't... Don't twist my words! I'm your husband. Suppose to follow my lead, no questions. If you're gonna leave with me no choice..."

"You'll what, Hoyt?" she snarls, jumping to her feet, "Drag me back there like I'm your prisoner again. Cuff me to the bed. Put that goddamn bell around my neck."

Her venom seems to startle him. Takes him a split second to muster back his rage.

"If that's what it takes for you to see reason! The fuck are you going!" he shouts as Doris storms towards bedroom, "Dottie!"

She slams the door. Locks it. Waits for the inevitable banging, demands for her to open up, we ain't finished! They don't come. There's a smash of a plate breaking in the kitchen. Maybe Hoyt thinks if he breaks the crockery, they'll be forced to move back to the farm out of necessity. 

Or maybe he has been fooling around on her. Hoyt usually didn't retreat from an arguement. He'd bust the door down, make her submit to him. Unless something was holding him back. Something he felt guilty about. Her tongue pries at a bit of steak caught between her teeth. Girl steak. Girl he mighta got handsy with. 

Sucker for tits, her husband. 

Doris slides down the door to her knees, hugs them to her chest. Hears Hoyt turn up the radio in the kitchen. Imagines him slumping back down at the table with his moonshine. 

After a few songs, the radio clicks off. Hears bootsteps on the floorboards. Tenses as Hoyt comes to stand on the other side of the door. He taps - not with his hand but with his boot. Knows boot is more persuasive. Boot makes her shiver, lost track of how many times she's rode that leather.

"Open the door, private," his voice is a little slurred but commanding.

Doris considers telling him to fuck off. Instead she rises and does what she's told. Opens the door to see Hoyt looming in the doorway, clenching their dinner candle.

There's a ripple of sensation between her legs. Tries to ignore it as she gives him a hard look.

"I don't want to..."

She's silenced by Hoyt's hand on her throat.

"We ain't. Talking," he squeezes her windpipe and her heart flutters with excitement. Heat floods her loins as Hoyt's thumb sweeps her pulse.

He uses his hold on her throat to barrel her towards the bed. Shoves her down. Can hear her own breath, angry but excited. Hoyt sets the candle on the bedside table. Undresses. His breath is like hers, bullish, agitated. His cock mirrors it, red, engorged. He rips her slip up over her belly. Doris hears a tearing sound as he does. Stitching coming undone. Have to fix it again. 

Hoyt seizes her thighs, drags her closer to his looming frame. His cockhead drags in her dripping sex, sinks in viciously. She breathes through the stretch, painful and delicious all at once. His hands jump to her hips, uses his grip to fuck her body on his cock, face flushed and growling. Angers her, him thinking of his own pleasure. Grips the sheet to stop her clawing at his eyes. 

She reaches to rub her clit. Hoyt snarls and knocks her hand away. She glowers at him. He glowers back raggedly, cock moving in and out of her body, red and glistening. She reaches again. This time he slaps her face. The sting spreads over her cheek, rage and arousal flooding her body. Her heart pounds, breath hissing through her teeth. She squirms, he slaps her again, so hard she feels dizzy. 

Still she moans. Arches as his hand falls on her throat. Curls around her neck, uses it for purchase like he did her hips, fucks her more deeply. Heady bliss entwines with rage. His head ducks to her breasts, tongues the lace and nipple. Grazes her with his teeth. She arches again, body heaving, flesh of her exposed belly wobbling. Sweat beads on her neck and forehead. 
 
She's frustrated. He's toying with her. Toying with her but his strained scowling face seems equally irritated. Realizes suddenly this is hate sex. They hate each other right now. Can't fucking stand each other. Yet they can't break away, literally glued together, his cock in her pussy. 

Snug in her depths, he swipes for the candle. Holds it above her rippling belly. Sneers at her. Doris sneers back, goading him. Hoyt tips the candle, globs of wax dribbling down, hits her flesh with a fiery smack. Intensifies as more splatter. She cries, fighting through the pain. Bucks her hips. Hoyt groans, still lodged. 

Grits his teeth and keeps dripping the wax. Down one side of her belly then across, wax splattering into her belly button. Then down the other side. 

By then she's sobbing. It's agony but it's beautiful. Hot, pulsing adrenalin. Tears spill down her face. Sight that makes Hoyt cave. Moans in delight. He blows the candle out, the smell acrid in her nose as he discards it. He leans over her shuddering body. 

"Oh baby," he groans, thumbing her clit in reward, "Did so good fer me. Such pretty tears."

He kisses her sloppily. Doris grits her teeth against his mouth, still weeping. She doesn't want kisses. Doesn't want sweetness. She's still angry, like her skin burnt by the wax. 

Hoyt seems to notice her unwillingness. He pulls back, expression cold. Keeps rubbing her clit but he keeps changing his pace, slow then quick, drawing out her peak until she's a shivering, furious wreck. 

"Needtacum!" Her stomach burns, her loins ache with desperation, "Please, please!" 

She squeezes him with her inner muscles, squeezes and squeezes like she's trying to strangle his dick. It works. She feels his body seizing, overcome. He snarls, thumb pressing hard on her clit, brings on her climax as he floods her pussy with his seed. 

They rock together, shuddering bodies and panting breath until they still. Despite their orgasms, tension remains. Hangs thick in the stuffy air.

There's a petulance to the way Hoyt smothers kisses on her face. Same with his usually puppyish "love yous". Could easily be "fuck yous". Doesn't pull her to his chest as soon as he rolls off her. 

Lies there in his own space. Doris curls on her side, puts her back to him. Hears Hoyt exhale irritably, balls herself tighter. Her belly throbs from the wax but she ignores it. Wasn't as bad as labour pain. All that pain for... 

Grace's sleeping doll face, little snub nose, tuft of fine hair, tiny lifeless fingers...

"I'm not going back to the farm," she says aloud.

Hoyt groans.

"Damn it, Dottie. Enough. Talk about it another time."

Doris turns over and sits up, 

"No other time. My answer isn't changin'. You think me doing this is bad?" 

She holds up her arm.

"You drag me back there, where my lil girl died. I'll take myself to the barn, do what my daddy did."

Hoyt stares at her wide-eyed. But then he shakes his head.

"You wouldn't kill yourself, dumplin'."

Doris narrows her eyes.

"Thing I've learnt meetin' you, don't know what I'm capable of 'til I'm pushed," she leans forward, teeth bared and Hoyt actually flinches, "I ain't going back."

She leaps up to stalk into the bathroom. Shuts the door. Scrubs her belly. Stares at the fiery imprint the wax has left on her skin. Connects the splotches to see it forms a crude H. 

H for Hewitt or Hoyt, she has no idea. 

Supposes it's all one in the same.