Chapter 8: Thanksgiving Throatpie
The silence in Sara’s car after leaving Richard’s house had been a physical thing, a thick blanket she wore all the way home. For three days, she moved through her own life like a ghost. She designed logos, laughed with Charly over dinner, fucked him with a frenetic energy that felt more like exorcism than intimacy. All the while, her phone was a live grenade on the countertop. I’ll text you.
It came on Wednesday evening, as she was loading the dishwasher. A single line, devoid of salutation or context: Be at the house tomorrow at 4 for Thanksgiving setup. Wear something appropriate. You’ll change.
Her stomach dropped. Thanksgiving. Charly. His father. A family event woven through with this new, filthy thread. She showed Charly the message, her voice carefully casual. “Your dad’s commandeering me for prep duty. Trying to make peace after all our arguments, I guess.”
Charly, wiping down a saucepan, smiled. “Maybe he’s mellowing. Or he recognizes superior talent. Just don’t let him put you to work peeling potatoes for four hours.”
If only that were the task, she thought, her skin already humming with a traitorous anticipation.
The grand dining room of Richard’s mansion was a museum of tradition. Heavy burgundy drapes, a table that could seat twenty, the air rich with sage and roasting bird. Sara moved through it in a demure cream sweater dress, feeling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She kissed Charly’s cheek, exchanged stiff pleasantries with Richard, who gave her a look that stripped the sweater dress right off her.
“Sara, you’re with me,” he announced as the family settled. He directed the seating with a general’s precision, placing her between himself and Charly. The symbolism was not lost on her; she was the contested borderland.
Throughout the soup course, his leg pressed against hers. A constant, warm pressure. During the political debate between Richard’s brother and a cousin—a predictable roar about degeneracy and traditional values—his hand dropped to her knee under the tablecloth. She froze, a forkful of sweet potato halfway to her lips. Charly, engaged in the argument on the other side of her, didn’t notice.
Richard’s hand slid higher, inch by torturous inch, as he pontificated about fiscal responsibility. His thumb stroked the inner seam of her tights. Sara’s breath hitched. She took a gulp of wine, the chatter of the room receding to a dull roar. His finger found the hem of her dress, then slipped beneath it, onto bare skin. He traced idle circles high on her thigh, his touch burning through the sheer nylon.
“You agree, don’t you, Sara?” Richard’s voice cut through her haze.
She jerked her head toward him. “What?”
“That the core unit of a strong society is a disciplined family. A man leading. A woman supporting.” His eyes held hers, his finger dipping perilously close to the dampening crotch of her tights.
“I… think it’s more complex than that,” she managed, her voice tight.
He gave a humorless smile, his finger pressing hard against her core through the fabric. She jumped. “Naive. But we’ll educate you.” He withdrew his hand, leaving her throbbing and exposed. “Charles, help your mother with the platter. Sara, come with me. We need more wine from the cellar. The good Burgundy.”
It was a command, not a request. She stood on unsteady legs, avoiding Charly’s glance. “Sure.”
He led her not toward the cellar door, but down a back hallway lined with closed doors, past the kitchen’s swinging door. The sounds of the family faded. He opened a door to a utilitarian laundry room, white shelves stacked with detergent, a deep stainless steel sink against one wall. He pulled her in and locked the door.
The click of the lock was final.
“Appropriate,” he said, turning to her. His hands went to the neckline of her sweater dress. “But not what I asked for.” He didn’t undress her gently. He pulled, the soft fabric stretching, then ripping at the shoulder seam with a soft tear. He bared her breasts, then pushed the dress down to her waist, trapping her arms. “The tights. Ruin them.”
Hands trembling, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the tights and ripped them apart, the nylon shredding with a satisfying sigh. She stood before him, half-dressed, exposed from the waist down, her breasts cold in the air.
“Over the sink.”
She bent forward, her palms flat on the cold, damp stainless steel. The position arched her back, presenting herself completely. She heard his belt buckle, the zip of his trousers.
“You made a scene at the table,” he said, his voice close behind her. “Disagreeing with me. We need to clear that contrary little head of yours.” The broad head of his cock nudged at her lips, not entering, just tapping. “Open. This is your purpose. To take what you’re given. To swallow what you’re told.”
She opened her mouth. He pushed in, not into her throat, but just past her lips, resting heavily on her tongue. “Repeat after me. ‘A woman’s place…’”
The words were muffled by his flesh. “A wuh-man’s… place…”
“Is on her knees.” He thrust deeper, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, eyes watering.
“Is… on her knees,” she choked out around him.
“Louder.”
“IS ON HER KNEES!” she screamed, the vibration around his cock making him grunt.
“Good. ‘Her mind…’ Go on.”
“Her mind…” she gasped as he pulled out, then shoved back in, a brutal rhythm starting.
“…is an empty vessel,” he finished for her, fucking her mouth with short, punishing strokes. “Say it!”
“An empty vessel!” she cried, tears streaking her cheeks, spit slicking her chin.
“And her body…” He was pounding now, his hands gripping her head, his hips a piston. She could barely breathe, each thrust a minor suffocation. “…is a man’s property. Say it!”
“A man’s property!” The words were torn from her, raw and guttural. A strange, dark pride flared in his eyes. He was carving his beliefs into her with his cock.
“You belong to me. Say it.”
“I belong to you!”
“You take my cum like a good bitch. Say it.”
“I TAKE IT!” she sobbed, the humiliation complete, the arousal a fever in her veins.
With a final, deep grind against her face, he held himself there. “Open your throat,” he commanded, his voice thick. She willed her muscles to relax, a skill she knew well, but never under such duress. He groaned, a low, animal sound, and erupted. He gave her no choice, holding her head immobile as he pumped his release directly down her throat in hot, bitter pulses. She had to swallow, rapidly, desperately, to keep from choking. It was the most degrading act of obedience he could have demanded.
When he was spent, he pulled out slowly. She stayed bent over, coughing, strings of saliva and semen dripping from her lips into the stainless steel sink. He tucked himself away, zipped up. He ran a hand over her hair, almost paternally.
“Clean yourself up. There’s a robe on the hook. Put it on. Your dress is torn. You’ll tell Charly you spilled wine on it and borrowed it. The tights went in the trash. You have five minutes.”
He unlocked the door and left, the scent of bleach and sex hanging in the air.
Sara stared at her reflection in the chrome faucet—distorted, watery, a mess of smeared makeup and violation. She rinsed her mouth, wiped her face with a paper towel. Her hands shook. The white terrycloth robe was thick, hiding everything. She balled up the ruined dress and tights, shoved them deep into the trash bin under used dryer sheets.
When she emerged, her face carefully wiped clean, the robe cinched tight, she found Charly in the hallway looking for her.
“Whoa, what happened?” he asked, concern in his eyes.
“Clumsy,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Reached for the wine, knocked the bottle. Red, everywhere. Your dad found me this.” She plucked at the robe.
Charly pulled her into a hug. “It’s just a dress. You okay? You seem… shaken.”
She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling his familiar, safe scent. It clashed violently with the taste still lingering in her mouth. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Just a long day.”
Over his shoulder, down the hall, she saw Richard watching them from the doorway to the dining room. He held a fresh bottle of Burgundy. He raised his glass to her, a tiny, private toast, his expression one of pure, undisputed ownership.