Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

“It feels funny,” he whispers.

“C’mere.” I pull him to me. He doesn’t move away again. I open my blouse with my free hand, lead his fingers to my breasts, my nipples. He stops kissing me to look down, to gaze at my body. His erection has already returned and he’s tugging at it, making odd whimpering sounds. I take his hand, stop him, whisper into his ear, “Let me do it, Connor,” and I do. This time when he comes he does it with more of a groan than a shriek. I carefully aim him away from me and he shoots it mostly onto the spare blanket at the foot of the bed.

He kneads at my breasts then, sucks my nipples, whimpers again, until finally his movements slow and stop. I realize that, cheek against my breast, lips on my nipple, he’s fallen asleep.

I cuddle him for a time. My hands move between my legs, press, stroke for a while, not very long, and I come gently, gently but overwhelmingly, a huge wave cresting over me. I hold him, gasp, my hips quiver. But I don’t wake him. He sleeps through it, like a baby. After a time I sleep too, sweetly, peacefully, my perfect darling boy in my arms.

Later I jostle him, push his shoulder gently. “Hey Connor, wake up,” I whisper, kissing his temple.

It takes him a long time to come to consciousness. He’s bleary-eyed, vague.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” I say. “Up and at ’em.”

He looks at me, then at himself. It’s probably the first time he’s ever awakened naked in his life. He nestles again my breasts. “I don’t want to get up,” he mumbles.

“You have to, baby. You have to put your clothes on. You need to go soon.”

“I don’t want to go.”

I laugh a little. “I don’t want you to go either. But you have to.”

“Why?” His fingers toy with my nipple.

“Well, I have to pick up Gracie, for one thing.”

He hugs me suddenly. His grip is strong, tight. I stroke his back, his bottom. Then, reluctantly, I start to pull gently away from him.

“C’mon, Connor,” I say. “Time to start moving.”

“I want to stay here forever.”

“I’ll bet you do. But you can’t.”

“Can we do it again?” Sure enough, his erection is starting to grow. He pulls my hand down to it.

“No.” I pull back, take both his hands in my own, look seriously at him.

“Just once more?” he whines.

“Connor, come on. We need to get you dressed.” He looks at me and his face grows petulant, but he moves away finally with a sleepy smile and reclines on the sheets. He stretches and then kicks his feet up into the air playfully. For a moment he looks exactly like a baby. It’s all I can do to not leap atop him, kiss him deeply, let him do anything he wants to do with me. Instead I stand, all business now. “Your clothes should be done.” I reach over, slap him on the hip. “I’ll get them for you.”

I walk out of the room and into another world, as any world is another world now when Connor isn’t in it. The moment I’m away from him reality comes smashing into me. My mouth goes pasty. I’m clumsy as I head to the dryer, bark my shin hard against the coffee table. If I can get him out of here, I think. If I can get him out of here and no one has seen us then it’s all right. If I can wash the bed things and clean the bathroom then there will be no evidence. I’ll have done nothing wrong because there’ll be no evidence I’ve done anything at all. He could talk, of course. Connor could go to school and tell his friends all about me, about us. But Connor has no friends, I realize. He doesn’t even talk to Douglas Peterson anymore. And his father? Would he tell Mr. Blue? Preposterous. I pull his clothes from the dryer, shake them out. He wouldn’t tell his gruff, possibly abusive father a thing about this. Mr. Blue is the last one on earth he’d tell. And even if he did, the man would probably be proud. Connor’s a boy, after all. It’s not like it would be with a girl. Somebody would call me sexist for thinking that but it’s true, it’s not like it would be if it were some grown man with a little girl. No, it’s all right. Everything is all right. There’s nothing wrong.

I return to the guest bedroom and, grinning at him, toss the hot laundry onto his belly.

“Feels nice,” he says, running his hands through it.

“Good?” I ask, sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead, put ’em on.”

He grins. “Make me.”

“Connor, I’m serious.” I note the clock on the wall: it’s nearly time to go pick up Gracie. I can’t believe how long we’ve been here together. It’s felt like only seconds, sweet seconds. “You have to get dressed now.”

“I never want to get dressed again. I want to be naked forever.”

I laugh, shake my head, pick up one of his socks and toss it in his face. He throws it back at me and suddenly it’s a laundry fight, his shirt and socks and shorts and pants flying between us as we shriek and giggle. Finally I grab his arms, pin them to his sides.

“Okay, mister,” I say breathlessly, “now it really is time.”

“Don’t want to!”

“Oh, yeah?” I lean down and blow a huge raspberry on his belly. He laughs and kicks hysterically, tries to fight me, but I’m stronger and hold him fast.

After a while we settle again and I loosen my grip on his arms. He’s splayed out on the bed panting, his clothes every which way across it. His erection is impossible not to see. I’m amazed at how resilient his young body is. Are all boys like this? I look at the clock again, realize I’m going to be late to pick up Gracie. But I can’t leave him this way. I smile wryly at him, roll my eyes, shake my head, reach to him. In a minute or two he’s finished again, breathing hard, semen splattered all over his legs and groin and stomach.

“Well,” I say, using a Kleenex from a box on the bedside table to wipe my hand, “you wasted that shower you took, mister.”

“I love you,” he says.

That stops me cold. I look down at him for a long time. He meets my gaze, doesn’t look away.

Finally he says it again: “I love you, Ms. Straw.”

I laugh a little. “Sort of funny that you call me ‘Ms. Straw.’ Now.”

“What should I call you? Your first name’s Mona… right?”

“That’s right.”

“Mona. Mo-na .” He grins, shakes his head. “It sounds weird when I say it.”

“Connor…” I hesitate. I pull more Kleenex from the box and start to clean him methodically. “Connor, you know that this is a secret, right? Us? This?”

“I know.”

“You understand that it’s very important you not tell anyone, right?”

“I know, Ms. Straw. Mo-na.”

“It’s—it’s really important, Connor. If anybody finds out we wouldn’t be able to see each other again.”

“I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’m not stupid.”

I smile. “No, you’re not. But maybe… you know, you’re hanging around with your friends, you start talking…”

“You’d get fired,” he says, looking at me.

I return the look. He understands, all right. “Yes. I would.” Arrested, too, almost certainly. As I look down at this sweet boy with his clear, innocent gaze—somehow even more innocent now, after what we’ve done together, not less—I realize suddenly how much power he now has over me. This eleven-year-old holds my life in his hands. But looking at Connor, at the adoration in his eyes, I know he’ll never tell. He means it. He does love me.

I toss the tissues into the waste basket, knowing I’ll retrieve them once he’s gone and burn them or flush them down the toilet. No evidence, I think. No evidence and it’s all right. No evidence and it never happened.