I wasn't some death-seeking warlock intent on ruling the world or hurting people for ever more demonic power. I just thought the fantasy was intoxicating. Live like a king from the Bronze Age, a harem of women, people bowing down to you like a god when you can stretch out your hand and make your will manifest by letting infernal magic taint your body. I'd tease my older sister about staring into her eyes and making her my slave, and she'd throw a pillow or something at my head. Mom would step in and separate us, but it was all in good fun. I was a teenage kid then, and I think most of us have dreams of that sort at that age.The problem is when those dreams and ideas don't really go away, and nag at the back of your mind. When you stop being a kid and still close your eyes, and see the image of your mother on her knees, long black hair draped down across her naked shoulders and back, hands on her breasts, begging up at you to bless her with your cock, calling you "master". When you. No stress.”I went there in the morning, but not expecting a massage. I didn’t know what to expect, of her or of myself. She was in the kitchen when I arrived, making coffee, wearing a white t-shirt and a denim skirt just above the knee. We sat at the kitchen table.“Are you happy?” she asked, staring into her cup, then flicking her gaze up to see my reaction.“Yes,” I replied. “Things are okay. Got some work and the house is okay. How about you?”“Oh, all that is okay,” she said. “I mean do you feel good or… is life passing you?”“Sounds like you need to talk, not me,” I said gently, and sat back to let her compose her thoughts.“I don’t know,” she began. “We happy enough, Gilberto and me. But is no, you know, excitement.”“How long have you been married?” I asked.“Seventeen years.”“And you have been bringing up your boys and trying to make a living and looking for a country to stay in because your homeland is such a mess,” I said, hoping to sound empathetic. She and Gilberto had told me.
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