The Last Handful of Clover

Chapter 1.41: The Well

Book One — The Hereafter

NOTE: This chapter is available in audiobook format on the TLHOC Podcast.
Access previous chapters of the book on the Table of Contents page.

June 6, 3:00 pm

It started in his right hand.

As Howard’s soul deflated, his fingers were no longer his. It was as if his own fingers were withering within the shell of his hand, yet the glove of flesh he left behind stayed whole. The spirit part of his hand curled in on itself like a withering flower and withdrew up his arm. The rupture spread to his other hand, and then his feet, and then with terrifying rapidity, his whole soul fell in on itself like a collapsing star, and he felt himself falling away from his own body the way a rotten apple would fall from a tree.

This was not the first time he had experienced possession. But it was no less terrifying for that.

When his soul struck the bottom of the black pit, it uncurled itself and he felt almost like himself again. But now he was alone, and only dimly aware that he had left his flesh behind. The body that was left, the one he now controlled, he instinctively knew, was just a construct of his mind. His real body was distant, far above him.

And yet it was still his body. He could feel everything. He could feel the hard cot under his ass, the cold metal his fingers squeezed, and even the stale, industrial smell of the air in his cell. He felt it all, but he could control nothing.

His eyes popped open, but it was not Howard Gunderson who demanded that they open. He could see everything. They were his eyes, but not his eyes. He was still locked in his cell, and yet he was now also at the bottom of a well. It was a dark stone pit that was wet and cold, with unclean creatures crawling on the dank walls and the sound of vermin writhing near his feet. The world he had left behind was somewhere way up there, in that circle of light far beyond his reach.

His mind wanted to rebel at this dual awareness. How could he see and feel everything in the body he had left behind, and yet also be here, confined and locked away in this dark place? He reached out his spirit hand and felt the cold wall in front of him, and the moisture and filth under his fingers.

He tried to reach out his other hand, his actual hand of flesh and blood, to touch the cot, or the far wall of the prison cell, but it refused to obey his command.

Instead, he felt his hand moving at the command of something, someone, else. Then he felt that hand touching his face. The touch felt repulsive, like the unwelcome hand of a stranger. It explored his cheeks. The hand forced open his mouth and put a finger on his tongue. He tasted the stale salt and sweat and wanted to bite it, to force it away. But all he could do was flail at the dark walls of the pit.

And then the hand crept lower. He felt the hand reach through the gap under his orange shirt and caress his naked belly, reaching higher to toy with his nipples, which sent an icy shiver through Howard’s soul. Then the hand went lower, sliding down, and finally under the band of his white jockey shorts.

When the hand grabbed his cock, he at first felt familiar pleasure, but then pain as the hand squeezed. And then the violation of it overwhelmed him. He tried to recoil away from the touch, tried to force the hand out of his pants. But it just squeezed and stroked him until he was hard, his body defying his mind and responding to the touch. Then the hand continued lower, over his balls, alternately stroking and squeezing, which caused waves of pain and pleasure to flow over Howard, deep in his well.

When the hand went deeper, and then slid a finger into his ass, he thought he might go mad.

But then he heard a voice.

It wasn’t his voice. His voice would have been screaming and protesting. And yet it was his voice. He recognized the sound, and knew the voice was speaking aloud in the cell, using his own mouth, his own breath. The voice was calm, quiet, and despite the strangeness of it, the voice quelled his panic long enough to listen.

“Shhhh….” said the voice. “It will be easier for us both if you don’t fight.”

Howard swallowed his fear and croaked out a word.


The voice became softer, and thankfully, Howard felt the finger withdraw from his anus. The presence that was controlling him removed the hand from his pants, just long enough to bring his finger to his nose, and then his mouth. Howard smelled the fear sweat from his own crotch on that finger and then tasted his own dank musk. He almost gagged, but then the hand was back in his pants, back on his cock, stroking. He was almost thankful that it stopped there, and no longer tried to penetrate him.

The hand continued to stroke, and he felt his own body responding, involuntarily. His cock was hard now, and the hand eased his pants down, never ceasing the gentle, firm, stroking motion. Even in his terror, Howard at first feared that a guard would look into the cell. Then he prayed for it. Anything to make this violation stop.

I’m going mad, he thought. That is the only possible explanation…

This wasn’t the first time that he had felt this presence. It was the same presence that took control of him just before he was picked up by his friends. It was the same presence that forced him to take the gun out of his father’s cabinet. It was the same presence that he fought all the way into the Avenues, and it was the same presence he watched, helplessly, as it fired a gun into Richard Pratt’s head.

He had almost convinced himself that the entire memory of that night was just a nightmare, or some kind of psychotic break. And of course he had never spoken of it, especially to Detective Grayson. But now, here was the presence, back again. And this time, it was speaking to him.

It hadn’t spoken before.

“I need you to calm down, Howard. Doesn’t this feel good?” He felt his hand squeeze his balls, harder than he would have ever done himself, and he cried out in pain, there in the dark well.

“Oh, you don’t like that? I’m sorry, I’ll be gentler,” the voice said. “At least for now.”

Who the fuck are you? Howard screamed. But more agony cut off his scream, as the pressure increased on his balls.

“Shhhh…. I told you that you have to stay calm. Just concentrate on the feeling. Concentrate on that hand on your cock. I don’t imagine you get a lot of hand jobs here in jail.” The voice laughed. “Or maybe you do. Maybe one of the guards comes into your cell at night? Doesn’t it feel wonderful?”

Please stop

“It’s the first time I’ve felt this. I mean, really felt it, in more than twenty years. I’d forgotten how good it felt to have a new, soft cock in my hand.” The voice laughed. “Although, not so soft now, huh?”

Who are you? What do you want with me?

“Hello, Howard, my name is Justin. It’s very nice to meet you. I think you and I are going to be great friends.”

Howard sank down against the cold wall of the well. He both felt the sour, rancid moss against his back, and the firm prison cot under his ass. He felt both the dank air of the well on his face, and the warm, firm hand on his cock. He whimpered, and tried to roll away from the feeling, but no matter how he turned or writhed there in the well, the feeling of that hand on him was always there. His body was not his own. His real body was still in a cell, far above. And his body was being used by…

By someone named “Justin.”

Why… are you doing this? Howard whimpered, struggling mightily to keep his mind from snapping. Why, why why….

That last was a long moan that echoed off the cold stone walls.

“This? I’m doing this because I’ve worked up twenty fucking years of horniness, Howard.” He felt his body recline backwards against the wall. The hand on his cock was moving furiously now, the dry hand chaffing and tearing at the tender skin on the underside of his cock. The warring feelings of pleasure and revulsion were so strong that he thought he might lose consciousness. “I’ll explain everything to you eventually, my love. After all, we have a long life ahead of us. I can’t stay yet, but soon I’ll be back. And soon I’ll stay forever. Every time I am inside you, I feel myself getting stronger. Eventually, I’ll stay here forever. And then you and I will have plenty of time to talk. But for now, I just want you to come for me. I want to feel you blow your load across your own face.”

Get out of my body, you psycho

The voice was breathless now, as he felt Justin’s orgasm nearing. “Oh, you and I are… going to have a lot of fun… with this body… I can’t wait… to use it… I can’t wait to explore it… to use it… to explore others So many bodies… Women… Men… Oh Howard, my dear… You’re as beautiful as I was, once… A long time ago….”

Howard tried to stop the inevitable. Who are you?

The presence laughed, and for the first time, Howard could tell. This was not a man. This was just a boy. A boy younger even than him. He could hear it in the voice.

“Let’s just say… that God sent me…” The voice laughed again, and the echo of it on the stone walls made Howard want to clasp his hands over his ears. He felt the orgasm building in him, and it disgusted him and terrified him at the same time.

“So this is… for God… Let’s blow a load… all over God’s… fucking… FACE!

He felt the semen explode from his cock, and the rush of the orgasm was so intense that he thought he might lose consciousness. The eyes he no longer controlled saw it shoot across his belly, and he felt it splash against his cheeks and into his open mouth.

It burned like hot coals on his tongue.

Wess Mongo Jolley

Wess Mongo Jolley is Utah native, who is now an expatriate American novelist, editor, poet and poetry promoter, living in Montreal. He is Founder and Director of the Performance Poetry Preservation Project, and is most well known for hosting the IndieFeed Performance Poetry Channel podcast for more than ten years. His poems and short stories have appeared or journals such as Off The Coast, PANK, The New Verse News, and Danse Macabre, Apparition Literary Journal, Grain, and in collections such as the Write Bloody Press book The Good Things About America. He loves hearing from readers, and can be contacted through his website, at If you are enjoying this story, please drop him a line, and consider supporting his work as a novelist at All of the trilogy's over 207 chapters are available there for subscribers, and new poems, short stories, and other content is posted there every Friday.

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