Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Fiction: RABBIT BURNS by Jaap Boekestein

Fiction by Jaap Boekestein

“Are you Vietnamese?” asked the ginger haired girl with the white rabbit tattoo on her thigh.
“Do you want to make some money?” was her second question. She sounded Yankee, East coast something. Welcome to Houston, sweetie.
I said yes to both.
“Sam, from Samantha,” she introduced herself.
“Sam, from Samurai Girl,” I answered. We both laughed.
“That there is my Daddy,” Samantha said. She nodded in the direction of a guy sitting at the bar. Deep dark skin, gray hair. Ancient but he still had muscles like a whole forest of oak trees. He was looking at us, completely at ease. But there was a hunger in his eyes, I could sense it.
For the uninitiated, you bland vanillas, in my scene 'Daddy' isn't a blood relative. Your Daddy takes care of you, protects you, fucks your brain out, spanks your ass, or sometimes you spank his. Which isn't the usual deal, but it happens. Not everyone has or needs a Daddy --I don't-- but you see your share of Daddy's and Mommy's.
Samantha's Daddy was called Michael. Mike.
Okay, it was a general bdsm-play party and I wasn't supposed to conduct any business, but shit never swims upstream and if sweet ginger girls and big black Daddy's offered me money for my services, I at least would hear them out.
How good was my Vietnamese? Good enough the swear.
May an long dai cham mui!
We reached an agreement and went with them to their rented apartment after the party.

Daddy Mike had been in Nam, at the end. He left almost at the same time my granddad was evacuated with the whole family. A bunch of names and things I only knew from stories. Ancient past.
Mike had returned to that past, or maybe he never left. Or it never let him go. Whatever.
Drink, smoke, snort, nice little pills. Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies. We were having a sweet party.
And Mike needed to get in the mood. He took his Viagra with some Jack Daniels.
He got in the mood. Sweating, eyes like little saucers. Samantha and I were sitting on the couch, we wore the same outfits as in the club. Body hugging latex for Yankee girl, leather for me. My bitch look, because, hey I was a bitch. And I looked great in a corset and boots.
“Only talk Vietnamese from now on,” Samantha whispered in my ear.
“Bằng lòng,” I answered, which meant something like 'Okay'.
Lights were killed, a bunch of candles were lighted, cinnamon incense was burned. The music was turned way up. Sixties and early seventies stuff, I guess. From the war? Yes.
Mike got naked and we tied him up. Big leather straps, he looked like he needed it. He lay face down on a mattress on a low sturdy table. Back and ass exposed, feet and hands strapped to the table.
Alternately I talked Vietnamese like a Boom-Boom Girl (“You wanna fuck, big boy. Cheap fuck. Good fuck.”) and an evil female Viet Cong Security Service officer (“Confess, you dirty dog. State your war crimes.”). I slapped his face, kicked his balls, spit on him.
Mike grunted, drooled. He was wandering around in ghost country.
Weird shit. So was I, somehow. This wasn't some apartment in Hustle-town anymore, this was the jungle. Sweaty, dark, nasty. I was all those women I should not want to be: an abused whore looking for her next customer, a sadistic torturer taking revenge.
I liked being them.
I loved being them.
I seduced and begged and swore and inflicted pain.
A strange mix of inherited fact and fiction ran through my head, took possession of me. The music, the smell of sweat and incense, the heavy oppressive heat.
Ghosts. Mike had enough ghosts to spare.
He fought his straps, to no avail.
I laughed and cackled insults and taunts in Vietnamese. I hurt him.
Samantha was a quiet ghost, watching us from the sideline in silence. She knew her Daddy needed this, but it hurt her to see him like this. But she wouldn't leave.
Which was a good thing, because Mike was far away, and so was I.
A whip, a short single tail. Not mine, but I used it nonetheless.
Exposed back and ass, remember?
That was what I was paid for. That was what I liked.
Daddy Mike grunted, grinding his teeth.
Samantha cried silently.
I laughed and used the whip. Fuck, I was so high.
The big black body in front of me shone silver like a river in moonlight. Sweat mingled with blood, just like all those years ago. Young guys fighting an old war they never really understood. A country ravaged by the game of superpowers.
Yeah, fuck. I just liked hurting him. Hurting him real bad. Let him beg. Feel the power.
“White rabbit,” Mike moaned. “White rabbit.”
I blinked the sweat from my eyes. My arm wielding the whip felt heavy. I paused for a moment. White rabbit? It meant something. We had talked about white rabbits, the Yankee girl, the huge quân Mỹ-Nguỵ and I.
Samantha pushed a button on the sound system. 'White Rabbit' came on. Not the original though, but some beefed up version with a lot more beat to it. She turned towards us. The strap-on hung between her legs.
Ah. My foggy brain remembered what we talked about. Down the rabbit hole.
She walked up to him. I threw the whip aside and moved over to Mike's head. Sweat and snot and drool and tears on his big old face. His eyes looked glassy, but he was breathing heavy.
I released the buckles of my corset and buried his face between my boobs while Samantha started to do her thing.
On the radio some girl sang about eating head. Or something.
Rabbit girl dug her hole and I stroked Mike's sweaty hair.
In my mind I heard the choppers taking us home.

Jaap Boekestein (1968) is an award winning Dutch writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers and whatever takes his fancy. He usually writes his stories in trains, coffeehouses and in the 16th century taverns of his native The Hague, the Netherlands. Over the years he has made his living as a bouncer, working for a detective agency and as an editor. Currently he works for the Dutch Ministry of Security and Justice. His English publications include stories in: Cyäegha, Nonbianary Review, Strange Shifters, Lovecraft after Dark, Surreal Nightmares, Urban Temples of Cthulhu, Sirens Call, Mystery Weekly Magazine, Double Feature Magazine, After The Happily Ever After, Cliterature, No Safe Word, Sex & Sorcery 3 and Brave Boy World: A Transman Anthology.

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