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Chuck was hurled off the bed by her foot. He slammed into the floor and yelled.
"What did I do?"
"What kind of faggot are you?" Dorothy tugged the manly robe around her and bounced off the bed. She stood over her son like a titan. "No son of mine is going to hump his old man!"
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Epilogue
Chuck Hughes scrubbed at a jelly stain on the kitchen table. He had tried everything, but the wooden top refused to give up the last bit of discoloration. He began to cry. Chuck was not a strong man. Pain coursed through every nerve in his body. The skin on his back and face and arms were accustomed to beatings. Purple bruises seldom returned to a color lighter than yellow. His finger and toe nails were smashed to bleeding stumps. Tape and cord and alligator clips bound his permanently flaccid penis to his balls, cutting fresh tears in his crotch whenever he moved too quickly. If he wasn't prompt, his 'father' smacked his asscheeks with a power cord. Whenever Chuck really screwed up, a sandpaper dildo was fucked in and out of his asshole until all color drained from his face. It was only removed after he had fainted. The strain of his childhood had left him a husk of a personality.
THE END
