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Goddess Altar
Writ Small


The working title of this story was Skanks Giving.

The last light of the November sun gleamed across the marble platform of hate, the place where the patriarchy suffered its first wound in its long, much deserved fall from false grace. The thought that she had benefitted from the suffering of untold generations of poor, naked, innocent, children of the continent that gave birth to all humanity only to be pillaged of its innocent millions by the evil men who raped her grandmother after raping some innocent ebony child of grace…

The tears that dripped from her pallid, softly-rounded cheeks moistened the white roses in her hand, before she placed them on the marble dais of white privilege. The sweet LGBT person at the florist shop on Charles Street had offered to clip the thorns from the stems—but no, that cruel metaphor would not be left in the hands of world-pillaging Christianity.

The dark shadows kissed her like hope waiting eternal for the strident boot of the white patriarchy to retract from the neck of Mother Earth…

And there he was, the man of her dreams, a tall, ebony dream of dark mystery in hooded sweatshirt, for which some damned cop would probably suspect him of a crime. Her eyes wandered to his crotch, seeking the pleasure giving bulge that surely nestled there and her world spun, her glasses sliding across the marble, her back breaking over the stony edge.

There were two of them, she heard them speak to one another, using the N—word, the hood going up on the good-looking one’s head as he looked around and the big blubbery hands of the massive one tore her jeans from her hips. She had come to Baltimore when her scholarship would have taken her elsewhere, had long dreamed of being penetrated by a big, black cock, had fantasized about going down on her professor for the past two months—but not like this!

The big belly flopped against her as she was dryly sundered and his snoring gurgle of a grunted pleasure turned to a gravelly voice, “Here yo white privilege, BITCH!”

“No, please," she heard the squeak come from her lips.

The slapping hand knocked her head to the side and then she was hoisted and flipped and he was trying to sodomize her.

“No,” she squeaked and her face was smashed into the marble as the rose thorns pricked her little breasts through her Kashmir sweater and his large penis was jammed against her tailbone, the gravelly voice behind her grumbling, “Shea, bro, dis bitch tighta’ den a muvafuca!”

She then heard the snap of metal and saw the slight shimmer of a steel blade as the dreamy man shoved his hand in her mouth and she heard the man behind her grunt, “Righteous!”

And her broken teeth bit into the gloved hand that was being driven by stages into her mouth and deeper as she felt a shiver of fire-traced agony trace from her sacred Goddess place to her tailbone and the world thankfully escaped her…

Reverent Chandler: The Saga of Fend

https://www.amazon.com/Reverent-Chandler-Saga-James-LaFond/dp/1519779925/ref=sr_1_57?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1468354470&sr=1-57&keywords=james+lafond

http://jameslafond.blogspot.com/

Add Comment
MescalineFranklinNovember 18, 2017 8:38 PM UTC

I was expecting the ghost of Jackson to come and save her at the last minute, showing her the error of her ways.

Darn this realistic gritty urban fiction you write!
Tony CoxNovember 18, 2017 10:54 AM UTC

I thought that was done very tastefully.