Black Sheep Ch. 01

Hi Litsters,

I guess most of you in this category will be first time readers of my work. I hope to get some fans with this series. It's a satire on the post-modern family.

Even though it is under Humour and Satire, through the course of the entire story, there will be brief instances of masturbation, S&M, bisexuality, group sex, exhibitionism, voyeur and more.

Thanks to my editors KatieTay and NaokoSmith and my friends for inspiring some of the characters.

* *

Hello there, my name is Damien Chandler. This story is about my family, my friends, me and ... everyone I know. Actually, it's more about them than me because my life reads like an extraordinarily boring and short journal. My family and friends on the other hand... well that's why we're all here, right?

The glare of the sunlight was oppressive. All I wanted was to sleep a bit more, but the morning sun seemed determined to get me out of my comfortable bed. I swear, I can literally feel myself sinking inside the mattress at times. I resisted the sun for a few more minutes, until it was joined in its conspiracy by my rogue alarm clock. The insufferable combination finally got my body to rise out of my bed's comforting embrace.

My head hurt. It just physically hurt. Why the hell did that bloody alarm have to ring on a Sunday? What's more, I have an electronic alarm mat. It only shuts off if I stand on it. So my choices were between getting out of bed and standing on that infernal contraption or enduring a sound akin to a jackal being tortured on an infinitely repeating loop.

The sound stopped. I took a second to enjoy the solitude of my surroundings. This room is my haven, my personal sanctuary. I closed my eyes and pictured the whitewashed walls, replete with tributes to my geekdom. Lightsabers, posters from games and fantasy novels; not to mention the ludicrous number of gadgets.

Finally my recalcitrant eyelids opened, letting in blinding light. I blinked and my pupils adjusted to the harsh reality of being awake. They scanned across the room and a deep sense of shame washed over me; it was the knowledge that I was still Damien Chandler.

"Mister Chandler, would you like to see the news?"

Right on cue, Ramona the housekeeper, was by my side. She stood, Nexus in hand, to usher me into the new day. My left hand woke up and reached out to take the tablet from her. I sat on the edge of the bed and casually perused the latest happenings in the world around me. I heaved a condescending sigh seeing Lady Gaga's new tattoo trending more than an important bill due in the Senate.

"Troglodytes," I muttered. "All of humanity."

I shook my head one last time, dismissing the final remnants of sleep and trudged to the bathroom to begin my day in earnest.

Twenty minutes later, I sat down at the expansive dining table for breakfast. A platter was laid out with a delectable array of dishes. I didn't serve myself, but waited instead for the rest of my family. Sunday breakfast is a ritual, a family affair if you will. I chuckled inwardly, thinking of the sheer irony of my family having any family values.

"You're up early, sport."

The cheery booming voice reverberated off the stone walls making the crystal goblets vibrate. My eyes lifted off my plate and fixed on my father. Standing at just under six feet and built like a line-backer, he carries a certain machismo in his stride. Also in his voice.

"Yeah," I replied disinterestedly. "We have to return that alarm mat."

"Nonsense," he said in his gruff voice. "Family should eat together."

"They should also abstain from fucking whomever they want," I said, slightly louder than intended. He sat down at the head of the table and looked straight into my eyes.

"Young man," he began deeply. "Don't judge our lifestyle without understanding it. I love your mother very much and would not do anything if it were truly against her wishes. Open marriage is something we agreed upon before you were even born."

"It scares me just a little about my paternity."

"I admit, I was unsure as well," he said, lifting some bacon onto his plate. "We had a paternity test carried out and it turned out, you are indeed my pride and joy."

"Woohoo! Lucky me."

The next few minutes passed in silence. My father, Chandler family patriarch, Alan Chandler, helped himself to toast. He placed a slice of ham and bacon between the layers of bread and waited patiently for the rest of his family to show up. My eyes drifted to the ornate chandelier hanging above.

"What do you know about MySQL clusters?"

"Excuse me?" I said, gaping over at him.

"MySQL clusters," Alan repeated. "Something my Head of Engineering mentioned the other day. You know about them?"

"Yes," I said. "It makes databases much faster and query processing easier."

"Is it something I should invest in?"

"It would make the site faster, I guess," I shrugged, twirling my fork aimlessly. This sham of a family ritual was getting more torturous by the second. "And you could store more profiles than on the cloud."

"You know all that makes no sense to me, right?" he replied with a wink. "I'll consider it tomorrow with the board."

"How many profiles are there on DSNet?"

"Fast closing in on a hundred million," Alan beamed. "Isn't that great?"

"A hundred million perverted deviants."

Alan took a deep breath. "Damien, I put up with a lot, but that doesn't give you the right to speak that way. I've created a social network for people to come and talk about their deepest, most private fantasies. They are not sick deviants or pedophiles like you imply. They are everyday people all around you -- lawyers, doctors, business professionals, even teachers."

"If you say so," I shrugged it off brusquely.

"Damien, I..." he began.

"What is going on here?" said a melodic voice from the door. I turned my head to see a mass of blonde curls cascading down past the shoulders of my mother.

"Breakfast," Alan said. She came over and pecked him lightly on the lips.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, tying her hair behind her head. "Andre wouldn't let me leave without my sucking on his dick one last time. He likes having one for the road."

"MOM! Really? Over breakfast?"

"I'm sorry," she giggled. "Didn't see you there. Let me kiss you."

My mother swooped over and embraced her darling. Her lips came close to my cheek, before I turned to look at her.

"You're not kissing me with those lips," I said, taking an omelette onto my plate.

She pouted and took her seat, adjacent to Alan.

My mother Marilyn Chandler is a remarkably beautiful woman, a perfect example of graceful ageing. Notwithstanding the occasional infusion of botox. She is voluptuous and curvy, much to my father's delight.

"What were you two arguing about?" she asked, pouring herself some tea.

"Your son was being a prude, as always," Alan sighed.

"Alan," she said, with a glare. "No need to label my baby. He's just a little more conservative than we are."

"Conservative?" was the guffawed reply. "Any more of a prude and he would run off to a seminary. I still don't get how our son turned out like that."

"We did make sure he was our son, right?" she said, reaching over the table.

"Yes, Marilyn," Alan said, leaning towards her, arousing my suspicion. He whispered something into her ear and she broke into a silly smile. I turned my attention back to my plate, my ears unable to block out the sounds coming from the other side of the table. The low moaning escaping my mother's throat was not nearly low enough for my liking.

"Mom!" I blurted out unceremoniously. "If you must get off during breakfast, could you at least have the decency to use one of the many toys your company makes? That way I don't have to be worried about shaking hands with my father afterwards."

"Oh isn't that sweet? He wants to shake your hand, Alan. Looks like he's finally ready to make peace with you," said Marilyn. My father was no doubt tickling her clit with a practised dexterity. Judging by the sudden jerking of her shoulders, she had delicately pushed her hips forward under the table to give him better access.

I turned my frustration back to my omelette. That poor beaten egg was no match for my rage as I cut into it with my knife and fork, all the while acutely aware of the happenings on the other side of the table.

These were my parents, Alan and Marilyn Chandler. High on wealth and high on life, living every day as if it was their last. They had an open marriage and experimented in almost every sexual way imaginable. I'm sure they would only be too happy to share those secrets with me, but I place too much of a premium on my sanity to broach the topic.

A throaty sigh told me my mother was finally sated. Alan took his fingers out from under the table and had his wife lick each of them individually. Their hedonism knew no bounds.

"So tell me, Damien," Mom asked once her panting subsided. "Do you have a girlfriend yet?"

"No," I said curtly.

"Why not?" asked Alan, sipping on his herbal tea.

"Because I haven't found anyone I really like yet," was the reply.

"I don't mean someone long term, Damien," interjected Marilyn. "While you're waiting for Mrs Right, there's no harm in going after Mrs Right Now." Alan nodded in agreement.

"Mrs Right Now?" I asked incredulously.

"You know, a short fling with someone you fancy," she said with a light laugh. "All this long romance is boring stuff we parents are supposed to harp on about, but you ought to go out there and grab some ass. I remember when I was your age, I..."

"If you love me, Mom, you will not finish that sentence."

"Don't evade the issue, Damien," she said, pointing her fork in my direction. "You're eighteen, so that flimsy legal age thing is covered as well. Hell, you're old enough to have sex and write about it on Literotica for God's sake!"

"Write about it where?"

"Literotica. It's a free site for erotic stories," she said, digging into a sausage. "You should try reading those stories sometime. It definitely would broaden your horizons."

"I think I'll pass," I said. "I don't why you guys are so obsessed with sex anyway."

"I don't get why you're not," replied Alan between mouthfuls.

"Because I think there is more to life than sex."

"No no, you're wrong, hun," said Marilyn sweetly. "Everything has to do with sex. How else do you think we have this much money?"

"Leave him alone," said an all too familiar voice. My eyes turned to the doorway to see the irrepressible Lucy Chandler, leaning against the door.

"You took your time, young lady," said Alan sharply. "What was so important that you were late for our family breakfast?"

"My agent called," she said, nonchalantly ruffling her dense blonde tresses. "I have to do this horrible book signing thing in Strand tomorrow and I have to push out a new chapter for his Lordship, my editor, in that time as well. I swear, I am this close to writing a long and detailed scene where both get anally violated by a pack of rabid werewolves."

"Oh that sounds so hot," gasped Marilyn. "Please tell me that new werewolf character gets it on early in this book?"

"You're worse than those annoying teen girls who send me fan mail," she said, sitting down near me. "I think I'll lay off werewolves for a while and work on some human erotica after this book."

"That would be nice too. Maybe you can even get your brother to read it."

Lucy looked sideways at me curiously before cracking into a grin.

"Him? Read erotica?" she smiled. "Let him come out of the closet first."

Exasperated, I put my fork and spoon down and sighed.

"For the last time, Lucy, I'm not gay."

"Sure you aren't," she said, ruffling my hair.

"I really am not," I said, knowing I was only making the situation worse.

"Damien," my sister started in her most comforting tone. "It's the 21^st century. Everybody accepts it now. It's even legal here in New York to marry another man. Moreover, I will always support you and so will Mom and Dad."

"Yes, Damien," said Marilyn. "If you truly are gay, there is no shame in coming out. We are here by your side."

"That's all fine, but I'M NOT GAY!"

"Really?" said Lucy, smirking. "Girls of all kinds throw themselves at you and you keep turning them down and you're not gay?"

"Yes," I defended myself. "I'm just waiting for Mrs Right, as Mom says."

"You mean Mr Right," she said with a devious chuckle.

"Can we move on?" I implored.

"What about the evening party?" said Alan. "Have we finalized who's coming?"

"Yes, dear" said Marilyn. "All the usual suspects except your friend, Derek. He is going to LA for plastic surgery and the next time we see him, he will be considerably better endowed. Maybe then we can try that voyeur scene again with you watching."

"Wow, I need to get that surgery done as well," said Alan, his eyes lighting up.

"No, dear. I love your penis exactly how it is," Marilyn cooed, kissing her husband on the lips. "Do you think we should introduce our guests to that new room in the basement?"

"The party might get out of hand if we shifted it downstairs," Alan said slyly.

"You talk as if that would be a bad thing," she whispered seductively in reply.

"Mom, Dad, children in the room," I reminded them.

"I don't mind," Lucy said, taking some custard.

And so with Lucy's blessing, the happy couple continued talking about the plans for their evening of debauchery with friends.

Most would call such a situation awkward. Some would call it a nightmare. I call it "breakfast".

Alan Chandler, 48, CEO of DSNet, the largest social network for people who are enthusiasts in any kind of BDSM, fetishes and kinks. Lives an openly debauched and sybaritic life, unabashed by the world's morality. Uses his vast wealth to fund his proclivities and keep the authorities at bay.

Marilyn Chandler, 45, Chairwoman of The GSpot, a massive company specializing in the manufacture and sale of all kinds of sex toys and BDSM implements. Recently invested in a chain of sexually themed nightclubs in New York. Married to Alan Chandler for twenty seven years.

Lucy Chandler, 26, acclaimed erotic author who took erotica out of the dark shadows and made it a mainstream genre with several wildly popular series. Has millions of copies sold worldwide and fans galore. Known as much for her fluent writing style, biting wit and raw emotion as she is for her detailed and steamy sex scenes. Daughter to Alan and Marilyn Chandler.

And me... Damien Chandler, 18, geek. Likes to work on computers and play with gadgets. Top of my class, debate team captain, avid tennis player. Unusually shy, considered enigmatic by my class. Still a virgin and have not so much as been kissed by a girl. Son to Alan and Marilyn Chandler.

The apple didn't just fall far from the tree, it fell on a different planet.

* *

"Damien, the guests are here. You should come out and meet them," Marilyn said, popping her head into my room.

"Do I have to?" I whined, putting down my book.

"Your Uncle Brent and Aunt Hannah are here already. You haven't seen them since your birthday."

"Are they still nudists?" I asked warily, cringing inwardly at the memory of their last visit.

"Yes," she said. "I told them to wear something this time. Although, you're the only one that seems to mind it. How about you go meet them now?"

"I guess I can go if they are dressed."

I slipped out of bed and walked to Mom. She was wearing a svelte red dress. The lack of sleeves or straps showed her fair complexion down her neck and shoulders. The hem of the dress went to her knees. By her usual standards, this dress was positively saintly.

Then I heard that awful, all too familiar voice.

"Damien, sweetie. It's been too long!"

I immediately closed my eyes and tried to remove that last sequence of sounds from my memory. My Aunt Hannah's voice has the tenor and pitch of an orgasmic banshee. In all fairness, it does suit her figure. She stands tall and slender with a pale complexion bordering on anaemic. No one in their right minds would imagine that she is remotely related to my mother. These weird sisters look as alike as night and day.

"Hi, Aunt Hannah," I said as she enveloped me in a hug and kissed me on either cheek.

Uncle Brent was seated on the plush recliner on the other side of the room. He is, as perverted as the term sounds, a trophy husband. In layman's terms, my venerable aunt took the role of cradle snatcher under the guise of holy matrimony. Her definition of "husband" has no mention of exclusivity on her part and merely guarantees that this man-child has a tri-weekly obligation to make her orgasm. In exchange for his efforts, Brent gets to spend her vast income.

"Wow, my nephew is the most handsome guy in the world," Hannah squealed in her shrill voice.

"Yeah well, remember he is your nephew," I said with a wry smile.

"That's a shame," Hannah sighed dramatically. "There is so much fun we could have had if not for that little detail. By the way, I am scouting for some fresh faces for my next production. Would you be interested?"

"Would I have a role bigger than having sex with a battalion of girls in front of a camera?"

"Oh Damien!" she said mirthfully. "You make it sound like I make porn for a living. Erotic movies are not porn, sweetie. They are art."

"Art with a lot of naked people," I corrected. "Wouldn't it be awkward filming your own nephew having sex?"

"Nonsense, dear," she waved this trifling matter off. "It's all for the sake of art and what I wouldn't do to have someone with your blue eyes on my set. You would have all my female viewers hot and bothered beyond belief."

"Hate to break it to you, auntie," I quipped back. "But most of your viewers are horny dudes."

"This one's more geared towards the ladies with the amount of gay sex I have planned," she winked. "We ladies find the idea of two ruggedly handsome young men getting together delectable."

"And you thought I would want to be part of this movie?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"Well," she began defensively. "Lucy did tell me you were closer to coming out of the closet now. I guess I asked too soon."

I turned and scanned the crowd to see Lucy standing near the bar with a martini in hand. Her eyes met mine and she winked and raised her glass to me. I mouthed an unspeakable expletive in her direction before moving on to mingle with some other guests.

"Mrs Pritchard, a pleasure to see you again."

"Congratulations on your engagement, Bart."

"How is your startup doing, Meg?"

"Mrs Fremont, I believe you are old enough to be my grandmother and, given our age difference, your hand is in a highly inappropriate place."

"No, I'm not dating anyone at the moment... No, I don't want to come with you for a weekend getaway to Key West."

"No, Carol, I have not measured myself recently."

"I don't care what my sister has told you, Kurt. I'm not gay and I'm not going on a date with you."

The party was going as usual. Food and drinks made their way out to the mob. I bided my time, pretending to be on my phone frequently, before I finally made it back to my room and slumped down on the bed.

After twisting and turning hopelessly for a few minutes, I fired up my laptop and got started on a math assignment due the next day. It was a college level assignment I needed to finish for an AP credit and would need some serious concentration. I was far enough from the madding crowd to work in peace.

The assignment took much longer than I anticipated and it was past midnight when I finally managed to finish it to my satisfaction. I was so caught up in the sordid business of second order differential equations that I forgot about dinner. I prayed that the depraved festivities of the evening had ceased as I ventured forth in search of a snack.