for Cynara

Gordon screamed as the disembodied hand ran over his body, as it kept moving. He could not remember ever being so frightened. Goddamn his mother, goddamn this fucking con job, goddamn these freaks.

Goddamn the hand, the hand that couldn't be, the hand which had perched on his chest and was now moving, still moving, skimming up under his robe.

He twisted as it wrapped around his dick, long strong fingers slick with God-knows-what.

He twisted his own fingers in the dusty sheets.

The hand rubbed a thumb over the head of his dick, making it twitch. Oh fuck--despite the weirdness, despite the sickness--that felt good, so damn good, good like his own hand never felt.

He kept screaming. It was something to do, something sane in this mad house, this mad family, this mad mad thing with a zombie hand on his dick and his back arching and his hips trembling.

He came all over the hand, and felt his breath choke out into sobs. The hand walked sticky fingers down his leg and out, then back up the leg--over the robe this time.

It slipped the fingers--sticky, salty, musky--into his mouth, stroked them over his tongue. Then it slid them out and tripped up to the headboard of the bed.

It began to tap. Morse code--Mother had made him learn Morse code.

..-. . ... - . .-. .-.-.- / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-

Fester. Love you.

The End