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Subject: {ASSM} Story of Orestes(MF snuff violent inc nc) by Orestes
Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 21:10:21 -0400
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" Story of Orestes"
Story codes: MF snuff violent inc nc

By Orestes

orestes007@hotmail.com
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Orestes

***
 This work is copyright (c) 2000 by Orestes. You may  download and keep
copies for your personal use as long as the author's byline and e-mail
address and this paragraph remain on the copies. Please do not post
this story to any web site without permission from the author. All
other rights reserved. No alteration of the contents is permitted.
***

   Some say I have a twisted mind. I'll grant, my imagination explores
some of the darker themes. Whether this is a result of some family
genetic trait, or of my upbringing, I couldn't tell you. There's
certainly reason to suspect both in my story.

   Over the years, I've even come across people who fear me a little
because they've heard rumours. Dark rumours. I don't usually try to set
them straight, but I'll do it now; I've wrestled my personal demons,
and finally come to a peaceful place in my life. You might not suspect
it from my writings, but I'm actually a gentle soul these days.

   You probably don't know me. Not my real name, certainly. But if
there are those who read this and recognize a part of the story, you
may know of me. Maybe you've never heard the story quite this way, and
if not, then I hope it is worth the reading.

   Some people carry around conspiracy theories. They believe that a
small handful of individuals control the political processes of the
world. It sounds pretty x-files, right ? The truth is out there, but
they'll never know it. They're wrapped in some fantasy of a smoky
conference room where seven white males decide what scandal will break
in any given week, or nudge third world countries into revolution with
a simple phone call.

   Reality is much more mundane. Those who control real political power
actually number in the dozens, if not hundreds, and their control is
much less than complete. It's not like you receive a membership card
one day in the mail. For me, it was just a gradual realization that
most of my old school friends are federal judges, politicians, or
corporate CEO's, and that when I talk to them at social gatherings,
they never interrupt me before I finish my thoughts.

   And perhaps like lords of ancient city states, fate can take a hand
at any turn. Even the most influential of men and women can fall so
very easily, and by unexpected means.

   No one anticipated my father's fall, and his influence was perhaps
greater than my own, if only in his willingness to take advantage of
it. This I learned second-hand. If this isn't too contradictory, I knew
him very well, but knew very little *about* him. The man I knew as a
father seemed kind and gentle, and could carry the world on his
shoulders.

   He was killed when I was still a boy, and I had no time to learn his
faults. All I knew was that I loved him.

   Everything else, I learned from Ella.

   Ella was older than me when father was killed. She protected me from
the rumours surrounding his death, and convinced my mother to have me
enrolled early in a private school. When she wrote to me later, I
learned that my sister knew much more of the story than anyone could
guess.

   ' I love you so much that I have to tell you this, ' she would begin
most letters, and then reveal a new truth about our sordid family
history. Yes, it all stayed between the two of us, a family secret so
dirty that it could only exist in hand-written love-letters that I kept
under my bed with my pictures of Ella.

   My father was away for a long time before that final night of his
life, when he returned to us. At the time, I had no idea about his role
in the world, but I knew that it was a big deal when he came back from
Hong Kong. The phone wouldn't stop ringing, as friends and associates
called to welcome him back.

   It was an economic mission, Ella later revealed to me. In those
days, the Asian economies were booming, taking a larger and larger
share of the North American economy. Their strength came from
technology stolen from the west, for the most part. My father could see
how easily these 'Asian Tigers' could damage his interests. His
response, as always, was aggressive.

   He went overseas, to fight the battle on foreign soil. This I
learned later still, when I took over his business dealings. Instead of
competing with the foreign corporations head on, my father brought the
fight into their corridors of power. Using every bit of influence at
his disposal, he bullied, manipulated and cheated his way into some of
the most successful foreign corporations. Whatever the cost, my father
was determined to take the spoils of war from these foreign shores.

   One of the many costs were his marriage. No, there was no divorce.
My father never would have agreed. Nor would my mother have asked, for
that matter. But the marriage was over nonetheless. Ella was there that
night that my mother had her miscarriage. The doctors blamed it on
stress.

   My father didn't come home. He didn't even return mother's messages.
It was like he had already forgotten the daughter who never was.

   ' When the tears finally stopped, there was only coldness, ' wrote
Ella. ' It's so hard for me to remember the way she was before it
happened. That's when she was our mother. In those days, I remember
following her out to the garden, and putting on my little gloves so
that we could dig weeds together. Everything about her was warmth and
love. '

   ' After she lost the baby, I didn't follow her anymore. I was just a
young girl, but I think I understood it even then. One day, she quietly
took down the pictures of our father from the hallway. I don't think
she could stand to look at him anymore. And sometimes, when she looked
at you, so much your father's son, I could see a flash of coldness in
her eyes. That scared me. '

   The letters didn't come all at once. Ella gave me a little insight
here. A little there. We both remembered the night he came home, but I
had no idea of the things that came before.

   ' I love you so much that I have to tell you this, ' she wrote me on
my fourteenth birthday. ' There was another man in the house the night
that father was killed. '

   When I read this, my hands began to shake. Somehow, I had known
this, but had always denied it to myself.

   ' He had been her lover for months before father returned. I could
sometimes see them together, when mother was careless with her bedroom
door. I would stand in the darkness of the hallway for hours at a time,
watching as they had angry, passionate sex, and then slept on opposite
sides of the bed. '

   ' I wanted to tell you, Orestes, but I couldn't bring myself to do
it. You were so young. I felt like I should shield you from knowing
this. Maybe I was wrong. I don't know. '

   I could never bring myself to blame Ella. Through my lonely years in
school, she was my only family. I read her letters and looked at her
pictures in bed, and dreamt that she was beside me, sleeping with her
arm around me, like we had as children.

   The next part of the letter was crueller still.

   ' The day that father came home, you must remember the excitement in
the air. It was late in the evening, and you were already in bed, when
the phone calls finally stopped. I was awake in my bed, too scared to
sleep. '

   ' I could hear them talking softly in the next room. Her voice was
sweet and seductive. She coaxed him into bed, and then there was
silence. I crept to my door, unable to breath, and peaked out into the
hallway. As I did so, I saw her lover coming up the stairs. Mother
greeted him through her doorway, and invited him in. '

   As irrational as it may seem, as I read this, I feared for Ella.
What if she were seen ? My poor, sweet Ella, only a child herself at
the time... how could she be witness to this ? I read on.

   ' When they were inside, I could no longer hold myself back. I crept
to the doorway of mother's room, and from the darkness of the hallway,
I saw father. He was tied face up on the bed, with a pair of mother's
underwear pushed into his mouth, and held there by a bra tied around
the back of his head. "

   " You thought that I would be true, did you ?, " mother taunted. "
After the rumours about you and Cassandra ? After the way you abandoned
your family ? No, Aggie. I'm not that stupid. I've taken Jason as my
lover. He will, no doubt, replace you quite easily. "

   ' I swear it, Orestes, I didn't know what they were planning. I was
frozen there, at the door. I would give anything to take that moment
back. To sneak to a phone, and dial the police. Anything. Instead, I
watched. My body trembled as I watched mother and Jason kissing each
other in front of father. "

   ' They did more than kiss. Like that had many nights, while I
watched from the hallway, they explored each other's bodies. Father was
helpless to prevent it. They teased him as they made love. Mother took
him into her mouth to make him hard, only to taunt him for being a
cuckold. '

   ' In the meantime, Jason pushed into her from behind, a sneer of
superiority on his face. He was enjoying this victory over his
employer. He slapped mother in the rear as he rode her, and mauled her
breasts roughly. The message was written in his body language. " I've
taken your wife, Aggie. She's mine now. " '

   ' Finally, brother, he finished within her. Mother was still
aroused, her nipples hard with excitement. She climbed up onto the bed
as her lover sat down in a chair to watch. They exchanged glances, and
smiled. This would be their final victory. '

   ' Father couldn't help but be aroused. She kept him hard with her
hand as she positioned her body above his face. His chest heaved with
effort as he breathed through his nose. Slowly, she lowered herself
onto his face, her knees aside his chest, and facing her lover. '

   My hands were trembling as I read this part of the letter. I set it
down on my mattress, and paused to catch my breath.

   ' It was the worst thing I've ever seen, Orestes. She just had this
smile on her face as she rubbed herself, leaking over his face. Then
she pressed her weight downwards, covering his nose with her ass.
Father struggled against the ropes, his body jerking with desperation.
Then she pulled off of his face, and let him breathe for a moment. '

   ' Twice more, she did this, while he moaned into the panties that
filled his mouth. Finally, she spoke to him. '

   " Would you like to breathe ? I'll take out the panties, Aggie. All
you have to do is lick me. "

   ' He shook his head in revulsion, Orestes. Our father was a proud
man. But after she brought herself down on his face twice more, he
finally nodded his consent. '

   " This is for the child you sacrificed, Aggie. You didn't even think
about her, did you ? Your little battles were too important. I could
never compete with your hunger for power. It was always too seductive
for me to hold you against. Now I give you a taste of something else,
Aggie, and you'll lick it well if you want to live. "

   ' Orestes - my brother, I don't tell you this to hurt you. I want
you to remember our father as a proud man. I want you to remember the
gentle dignity he had when he would carry you to my bed at night,
frightened from a nightmare, and tuck us in together. I only tell you
this so that you will know the depth of her cruelty.'

   ' He struggled to please her, his body shaking with anger and
revulsion. Jason watched from his chair, pleased to see his employer
drinking his seed from the body of his own wife. Mother teased father,
keeping him hard with her hand as he completed his revolting task. '

   ' Then, with a cruelty I'll never be able to describe, she filled
his mouth with her orgasm, and continued to press herself over his
mouth and nose until he was no longer shaking. Until he was no longer
anything. I hope you can give me the forgiveness I've never been able
to give myself. The image will stay with me forever. '

   Beautiful Ella. How can I tell you about the love I felt for her at
that moment ? So often, I had cried because of my distance from home.
My distance from her. Now I knew the reason why she had kept me away.
She sheltered me, from hundreds of miles away, from my mother's
cruelty.

   And despite the images of my father's death, this is what angered me
the most. That I should be separated from her love this long, to
protect me from the sins of my mother. Beautiful Ella.

   This letter took its place with the others, beneath my mattress. It
was different, though. The words captured my mind. It was like a play
without an ending. It begged for attention.

   It begged for anger. It was this anger that surfaced when I read
Hamlet in school. The play mocked me. It was a play within a play
within a story that could have been written thousands of years earlier.
It toyed with my reality so cruelly.

   " How could he be such a coward ? " I demanded of the class, with a
passion that no other student in the room could muster for the words of
the Danish prince. I slammed the book closed, determined to not let his
weakness infect my soul.

   Nothing could distract me. Some evenings, I would go to town with my
closest friend, Paul, who's family had taken me in on weekends and
holidays. He was like a brother. We would make sport of the local
girls, sharing our prizes in the gardener's shed at the back of his
property.

   Even then, when thrusting myself into the innocence of a young girl
who thought we had some sort of future together, my mind was at home
with Ella. I imagined the feelings that coursed through her body as she
watched the brutal sex play of mother and her new husband. I could
almost feel the mixture of anger and arousal in her heart.

   When I finished, it was always the warmth of my sister's embrace I
craved for, instead of the inexperienced squirming of some dumb girl
I'd met at a party.

   Paul knew that something was wrong. He could see it in the roughness
and anger I gave to these girls in return for their affection.

   A true friend, he never turned away. He waited, without an impatient
word, for over a year. When I finally showed him the letter, he could
see the lust for revenge in my eyes.

   " I'll borrow a car for the weekend, " he told me. "We can go
together. "

   Together in my alibi. In my cover story. In truth, I couldn't be
anything but alone in this. Even nature seemed silent on the evening
when I returned to my home.

   I cut the telephone line before I entered.

   Ella saw me first. Her eyes went to mine, and then dropped to the
knife in my hand. If I had seen anything other than excitement in her
face, I would have turned around. I would have walked away.

   Instead, she stood in the door to her room, wearing these wonderful
cotton pyjamas that seemed like they would have better fit the young
girl I knew when I last left this place than the woman she was now. She
just watched excited eyes as I entered my mother's room.

   I don't know if she was watching through the doorway when I killed
them. If she was, she would have seen me kill my step-father first. He
gurgled his death through the holes in his chest as I turned my wrath
upon my mother.

  Her face was frozen. Maybe she was trying to scream, but my eyes
silenced her. I thrust into her belly with a steady rhythm. Each time
the blade tore into her, the task became easier. With a final push, I
twisted the blade under her ribs, and she convulsed in a final deadly
dance.

   " Ella, " I called out, and she was behind me. I prayed silently
that she would understand.

   " It was an intruder. No one will know that you were here. "

   I took her to the floor with one violent motion. She understood.
There must be a struggle. She must be a victim of this violence too. It
would save both of us from suspicion.

   Ella bit her lip to control the pain as I held the tip of the knife
to her throat, just firmly enough to draw blood.

   She would be blameless in this, the victim of a horrible crime.
Beaten and raped by the same intruder who broke into her home and
killed her parents.

   With one bloody hand, I stripped away the cotton top to her pyjamas.
I kissed her gently on the lips as I roughly mauled her breasts. The
bruises would show her struggle. Her lips pulled at mine, hungry for
the comfort of her brother's gentle touch.

   In another moment, I had torn away the little blue pyjama shorts
from her lean body. My sister was a woman now, her sweet body revealed
to me. I wished I could be gentle with her, and hold her the way I had
dreamt of so often. Instead, I kept her in place with the weight of my
body as the blood from my clothing smeared across her porcelain flesh.

   I broke our kiss, and paused in this position, my body poised above
hers.

   " You have to do it, Orestes, " her hot breath delivered to my ear.
" It's time. "

   Her legs wrapped around me in encouragement as I pushed myself into
her. Even through the tightness of the condom, I could feel her heat
and wetness welcoming me. I tried to keep my anger and my passion
alive, and give her the same roughness I had treated my earlier
conquests with. My love for her held me back.

   Ella knew what I needed. She began to struggle now, forcing me to
fight to keep her in position.

   The smell of death was in the air as our bodies struggled against
each other. There would be bruises on her wrists. Her thighs.

   " I should stop, " I whispered to her. "It's enough. "

   Her lips came to mine again, and her tongue pushed into my mouth. I
never intended to finish within her, but now, with the blood of our
mother hot on our lips, I couldn't hold back my passion. She twisted
and whimpered beneath me as my body jerked violently forward.

   Just one more, and I'll quit, I told myself. One more. One more. One
more.

   We were together at last, and in that moment of orgasm, every lonely
night away from my sister's arms flew away from my memory.

   " I'm sorry, " I told her. She smiled at me breathlessly, savouring
the feeling of her own climax. In this horrible scene, we were finally
together, and no sort of guilt could remain between us.

*****

   Paul and I had been out camping that weekend. It wasn't until Monday
that I heard the news. I flew home for the funeral. No one questioned
me there. Not yet.

   It wasn't until a month later that I was visited by a woman from the
police.

   And it's strange. I never thought anyone would know. I lost that
confidence when I looked in her eyes. She seemed to know everything.
Maybe it was just rumours about my father's death, still lingering in
the corridors of power. The perfection of the crime fell away before
her gaze.

   It wasn't anything she said, really. It was more the way she looked
at me.

   Gods above, she knew.

   Maybe it was just paranoia. At least, until I ran away. Then the
police really took an interest. There's no use trying to explain to you
the panic and the madness that filled my soul as I fled everything I
knew. I ran to keep the rumours away from my ears.

   I took drugs to kill the irony of it. In my panicked flight, I
exiled myself from the arms of my sister, who I had fought so hard to
be reunited with. The thought that I might not see her again was
killing me.

   And I could tell you tales of my time on the street, afraid at every
turn that I would be found. I could tell you about my brief contacts
with Paul, who would bring my letters to Ella. I could tell you about
the time I spent prostituting myself or money. But the heart of this
story remains with my crimes, and with justice delayed.

   It would be over a year before I was brought home, after being found
with a drug overdose in a church parking lot in Los Angeles. I was
convinced that I would be held accountable for my mother's death.

   Then I was set free, but not because I was innocent.

   It was a negotiated justice, if there was any justice at all.

   " Listen here, Miss, " my lawyer told the D.A., in a southern drawl
that I later came to know he often used for dramatic effect. " The fact
that my client ran away by no means makes your case. The poor boy was
just traumatized by the death of his only remaining parent. "

   The smartly dressed woman shook her head, but he kept right on
talking, not skipping a beat in his expensive southern drawl.

   " Whatever evidence you *think* you have is entirely crap, my dear.
Off the record, mind you, even if you could place my client at the
scene of the crime - which I don't think you can - you'll never convict
him of spitting in a public place. Both you an I know the circumstances
surrounding his father's death have been... shall we say... overlooked.
"

   " Wait a minute..." she tried to interrupt.

   " Don't take offence, miss. I'm not trying to imply that you
intentionally overlooked the facts of the case. Nonetheless, there is a
lot of political pressure brought to bear in a case with such a
prominent family, and I'll contend that justice was never served. "

   " And if that's the case, and I can bring those facts forward,
there's not a jury in the land that would convict my client. He's still
a boy, for goodness sake. "

   The prosecutor finally forced in an argument of her own. " Not
necessarily. I could easily argue to have him raised to adult court.
Given the facts of the crime..."

   " And I would oppose the motion. Listen, miss, we can sit her all
day comparing notes about what strategy we could use in court... and
where the sympathies of the jury would fall... but we both know it's a
waste of time. My client is no danger to anyone. "

   " If justice was denied in the case of his father, I ask you to
trust me that justice has now been served. Perhaps not by the fury of
the law, but it's still justice. This has to end somewhere. Let it end
here. "

   It happened as quickly as that. Through some sort of plea agreement
that I have no desire to understand, I was set free from it all. In the
years to follow, free of the burden of drugs, and the fear of
retribution, I've tried to balance my life.

   And your judgement is as good as mine about my success.

   I used to think there was a curse on me. Or on my family. Or
something. Like the fates were weaving my life around me in a pattern
that could only bring despair.

   If there ever was a curse, I know it's been lifted now. I can feel
it. That, above anything else in this story, is something worth writing
about.

***

Comments can be forwarded to: orestes007@hotmail.com
All of my stories can be found at: www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Orestes

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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