Kenton Barr - Lot - Or the righteous man's guide to incest

The girl's shoulders fell against the wall of the hut with a crash. For a moment, the man looked up from between her legs, wondering if he'd hurt her; wondering if he should care. On her face an angry glare. Get on with it.

In a moment, the sides of her robe spread apart. He bent now to the slick cunt, sopping wet. Looking up, he smiled at her before pushing in his face between the lips, drinking from her. She moaned. The tongue lapped at her insides with ferocity, first one side, the other, widening, loosening, then the darting appendage rose up. There.

There.

She clawed her hands into the back of his long hair. The man lapped on, slowly now; then faster, her legs undulating, wrapping themselves against his shoulders as she slid up and down the wall.

He gripped her ass. Held her as the tongue bore down with more force. “Uhhhhhhhhhh!” she moaned. He continued. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” she shrieked, finally, in a cry the entire city heard. Let them hear it. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” again. The tongue became unbearable.

She squeezed against his head with her thighs. Nothing could stop that relentless tongue.

“Fuck me!” she whispered.

He did not hear.

“Fuck me!” she shrieked again, bearing down on his forehead with the vise of her thighs. Finally the boy pulled away. His trousers fell to the filthy straw of this room. A stable, was it? A sty? Resting place of goats? She didn't care as he flopped her to the ground and mounted in an instant.

So huge, the boy. His thing smashed through her walls like a brick. He bludgeoned her. She cried out with joy and shame. “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop! It's tearing me apart.” He grinned at her pleas, ramming her again, cruelly. She cried with joy and pain, tears down her cheeks as the spasms racked her.

His constant thrusts forced them towards the middle of the hut. Finally, her head almost an inch into the dirt, he held, and her insides thrilled with the gush of his sperm.

“That all?” she said, slapping his face as he collapsed exhausted over her breast. “I haven't seen you in weeks…”

He grunted and rolled off. Men. Useless, the lot of them. She lay on her back, sighing. A face caught her eye near the window. She drew back in shock. Then began laughing.

“What?” asked her beau. “Was something funny?” He didn't understand it. This bitch would never be happy. He knew that. But nothing about their afternoon together deserved laughter.

She slapped at him again, pointed.

“What-who?”

“That-that old man.”

“Who is that?”

“It's Lot. The righteous wine-seller.”

“Who?”

“You hear him all the time. Telling us what horrible miserable creatures we are. For not listening to the god of his uncle.”

“His uncle? A powerful man?”

“A shepherd. I guess a rich one. Maybe he gets on with his sheep to make them multiply.”

“I've felt like a sheep without you.”

“Oh, alone there? In the desert?” She reached over.

“Yes.”

“So lonely.”

“With nary an old man watching myself.”

“Are you sure? There are always old men watching.” She had him now. Rubbed the bits of froth that dripped down below the head.

“Are there?”

“Yes. That's why we have to be even more deviant.” She bent to it, taking the whole of him in her mouth, pulling out, licking her lips at the combined taste of their juices, then pushing the boy down.

They never knew when the old man went away.

The old man stood with his jars of fig wine near the walls of the city. So little sold, even amid the debauchery. What was wrong with these people? Did they not know the value of the product he carried? Did they not know the worth of a thing? Righteous drink, from a righteous man. Perfect way to pass an evening. Some… a little vinegary to the taste, yes. But none the worse for it.

The crowd just passed him by, off to their inns, their alehouses, their pleasure quarters. And so debased, the whole city.

Just look at that pair. Over there, in the corner, she with her arms draped around him, her skirts worn too high, the robe opening up to reveal her secret treasure. Shameful! Was there no decency left in this city? Had she no father, then? Or had it all been lost, amid the joys of commerce, the money that flowed through from the sea, across the plains. The great traders, who sold all?

Horrible.

And her eyes, as she looked upon the man. A young man. A young girl. Eyes, brown beneath dark hair, copper-complected, but the skin perfect in its olive sheen. She could be his daughter. His daughter, with so much seen.

Shameful.

In other cities, such conduct was not tolerated. Righteous cities. This behavior would be dealt with in its proper manner. In the central square. With rocks as the Lord intended. The stones hurled by the righteous upon the sinner. Not to see them, so brazen, the hair shimmering down, waved back with a laugh as she bent to receive the kiss of her paramour.

From the side, the old man saw straight through her robe. Beneath, nothing, save the sheerest gown. Horrible. Harlot. Whore. That was it. Yet so like his daughter. How could it-where?

The pair approached. He saw them now. Saw the imprint of sex on both of them. She with her lips flushed, he with a look on his face. Impossible. The shame of it. He could imagine them, alone in a hut somewhere. Perhaps a tent on the outskirts of the city. More likely beside his own humble place. Where so many prostitutes gathered.

Was she one? Did she spread her tender thighs wide for any man who paid her price? He could imagine it, the pair of them, she on the flaxen mat, nude, waiting. The flush and the heat between her legs. He above her, astride, ready to slip it in. The two moaning now with their passion, their dark forbidden lusts.

“A bottle, old man.”

“What?”

“I said, we would like a bottle of your finest-” the young man looked down. She her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, dared to meet Lot's gaze. Dared! ”-it's a fig wine, then.”

“Yes. The finest of the-”

“Surely. Yes, excellent vintage. The one that doesn't taste like vinegar. Tastes the least like it.”

She laughed harder now. Lot saw as the flesh pressed against her robe as her chest convulsed slightly. Pressed forward. Back. So like “If you could look at me, sir. Look at me, please. I seek a bottle of wine without the taste of vinegar.”

“Or camel dung,” added the girl.

“Or camel dung,” echoed the young man, smiling. He held up two shekels.

“Camel-camel dung-”

“Do you want our business, then?”

Lot looked below for his staff, sought to drive them away as he did the beggars who came by so very often, as he did the unrighteous. At his side, his purse tingled slightly. So slightly. How many had he sold today? Was there not a 10-shekel piece? He shook his purse slyly with a trained wag of the hips. No, no sound of a 10-shekel coin. Barely 10 shekels at all. A good sale. For a righteous businessman.

“Oh, of course. Of course. For you both. Here, hold on, I do have something-you're a discerning man, aren't you? Nothing but the finest, then. Oh, oh, the absolute finest I say. Here, then, have a taste first? This-yes?”

Both stepped forward to drink. A lady-girl; child-whore, who drank in public. Lot barely stopped himself. Had to make this sale. This last sale of the day.

The man sipped of his best wine; then the woman.

“Oh, forget it,” said the girl. “Let's just get some grapes to cool ourselves in this heat. Wine like this would make me too sleepy.”

Lot reached for his staff. He'd gotten too far away from it. The man was between him and his counter. But they'd turned away. They'd be 20 feet before he could grab his stick. An old man, grabbing his stick. At their regular walking pace, they'd far outdistance him. He'd be flushed. Exhausted. A fool. The object of mockery again.