Slamming his fist into the open palm of his hand, he mentally cursed himself. It was all wrong! he thought for the ten-thousandth time since the night Wendy had come home and all but raped him. True, he had managed to restrain himself from plowing her pussy. But sticking a dick in his own daughter – no matter where it went in, or how hard he beat her before and after the incestuous act – was against everything he'd ever been taught to believe.
It had to stop! he told himself. Even if he had to break her sweet neck, lock her up in the cellar, and beat her ass raw. He'd torture her if necessary: beat her and make her bleed and beg for mercy. Because what they were doing, what Wendy and Cynthia were doing behind his back, and what he knew she was doing with the boy who'd taken her out, was wrong and had to stop somewhere.
He set his square jaw. Turning, he strode to the living room, where Cynthia sat reading on the sofa. She glanced up at him from the magazine. He knew, Goddammit! She thought she was putting one over on him, but he was as certain of it as he was of his own name. Cynthia – the prude, the stinking cunt who gave him a quickie screw once a week – was having sex with the girl; she was rubbing her hot pussy against the silky red hair between Wendy's creamy young thighs, girl-fucking her, perhaps sucking her off, too. He wanted to slap her face, to make her admit it, to stop it before things went completely haywire. But how to go about it? he wondered. He had no actual proof. He had only as much on her as she had on him.
"Is something bothering you, Sam?" Cynthia rearranged her long legs. The cloudy, pale blue nightgown she wore was semi-transparent. It clung to her belly, and her crotch; her black bush showed through. She saw him ogling, and reddened. Her blue eyes flashed.
"It's ah… it's after midnight." He flopped on the cushion beside her, and tried to remember the last time they'd fucked in the living room, fucked anywhere except in bed. His hand dropped to her full thigh. "Two hours past curfew. Where the hell is she?" he added, fingers moving along the tender inner flesh a whisper away from her pussy.
Scowling, Cynthia smacked his roaming hand away. "Wendy can take care of herself," she snapped. "And if you have any ideas about me…!"
Fury bubbled up inside him. His hand shot to her crotch, his fingers digging in until she yelped and twisted away. Their gazes locked – Cynthia's defiant, his threatening. He wanted to hurt her, to whip off his belt and beat her ass red, as he'd done to Wendy's delectable backside almost every night since her release from the State Home for Girls. But the germ of an idea, like the sudden glare of a flashbulb, lit up inside his head. What he needed was proof of what was going on. He'd give her enough rope to hang herself, he decided.
He yawned, stretched. "Well," he sighed, forcing a smile, "if both my girls can take care of themselves, I'm going to bed."
He rose from the sofa, bent and kissed her forehead. She eyed him suspiciously. Without a backward glance, he strode to the master bedroom. He hadn't yet thought it out, but he knew if he could once catch them together – mother and daughter committing a perverted act – he'd be the boss. He wasn't at all sure what being the "boss" meant; he wasn't at all sure of anything any more. He knew only that he had to climb into the bed, to pretend to be sleeping when Wendy came in and found her mother waiting.
Nor did he know why the thought of catching the two in a heated lesbian embrace, instead of making him angry, gave him a hardon. Or why he placed the coiled belt within reach on the nightstand, slipped between the cool sheets, closed his eyes, and imagined the two naked rumps – one wide and soft and fully mature, the other still girlish, small enough to sit perfectly in the open palms of his hands – grinding together on the sofa in the next room.
He groaned, forcing the provocative images to the back of his mind. It had to stop! he told himself. It had to end before… before he didn't know what!
He dozed, dreaming. He was inside a little red pussy, and there was a judge – the same gray-haired man who'd sent Wendy away – and he was banging his gavel and shouting, Order! Order! The courtroom was crowded with young girls from the State Home. One by one they approached the bench and made accusations: Wendy screwed Crazy Inez… Wendy sucked out Mrs. Hamilton's twat… Wendy stole my Coke bottle, my cock… Wendy… Wendy! All the things the girl had told him, the perverted gets, the degradation and shame, were repeated. The old judge looked sternly down from the bench. Then he grinned and stood, lifted his black judicial robe, and displayed a mighty, stiff prick. "I sentence your daughter to fuck everyone in this courtroom," he bellowed. "Starting with me!"
Sam awoke in a sweat. Jesus! he thought, what couldn't a shrink, especially someone like Wendy's friend Doctor Bruce, do with a Freudian nightmare like that? The girl was making him crazy with guilt and desire.
He listened intently, frowning. Was that Wendy he heard in the living room? Now he noticed that the lights were out, and he recalled the half-formed scheme to catch the girls doing what he suspected they did each day after he left the house. Quietly he slipped from the bed and padded to the next room.
"Don't do it, Mummy," gasped Wendy. "You know – oh! OH! That – um! Oh, that horrible thing! Mummy! Eeeeeeeeeeee! Mummy, Mummy, you know I don't like it this way!"
"Shhh!" cautioned Cynthia in a gravelly voice. "You'll wake your father."
Sam remained hidden in the deep shadow at the open bedroom door. In the shaft of moonlight slicing across the room from the front picture window, he could see the blurred forms, mother and daughter, locked tightly together. But what were they doing? he wondered.
"Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!" wailed the girl in a strangled voice barely above a whisper. She sat astride her mother's full thighs, facing away from the older woman and bent far forward – as if Cynthia's lap were an uncomfortable shitbowl, and Wendy, her face squinched up like a prune about to cry, was struggling with constipation.
"Hold still, babylove. For Mummy. Be a good… um! Ummm! Be a good little honey for Mummy." Cynthia wrapped her arms tight around the girl's trim waist. Hands cupped at her daughter's breasts, she began to hump – as if she owned a stiff cock inside of a tiny love bud.
The dirty cunt! thought Sam, squinting to see what it was his wife was fucking into the girl doggy style. His hand gripped his own stiffening cock, and squeezed it. He groaned. Despite the fact that he'd made up his mind to stop it, to end the family perversion, the girl's struggles and protests made him pant… made him want to stick his hard dick up a hot pussy, any pussy. The four lovely white thighs bathed in moonlight made him all but forget the coiled leather he'd placed on the nightstand. Almost, but not quite! Restraining himself, commanding his insatiable rod to behave, he returned to the bedroom as silently as he'd emerged.
He'd show them! he thought, ignoring his own excitement. He'd put the belt to their asses and stop it once and for all!
Moments later he was back with the leather dangling from his clenched fist. He gawked. Now the girl was kneeling, and Cynthia – eyes tightly closed, oblivious to all but the thing strapped to her pistoning loins – was on her knees close behind her daughter's little round bottom.
Sam stared at the long, glistening thing sliding in and out of Wendy's widespread cunthole. It was a dildo, he realized. A fake cock! He'd seen such things advertised – knew there was an unseen end up Cynthia's cunthole, and each time she humped, fucking it into the girl, she was stabbing it in and out of her own juicy niche, too.
The fury he'd felt earlier, when Cynthia – fucking queer Cynthia – smacked his hand away, now returned, making the blood pound like native drums at his temple. He stepped forward, raised the belt high, and brought it down with all the strength in his arm.
"OH!" Cynthia bucked like a wild bronco at the first bite of the spurs. She looked back over her shoulder, the fake rod popping free of its sheath, bobbing insanely. She opened her mouth, as if to protest. Again the leather licked her wide, trembling backside, silencing the cry, making her roll away and clutch disbelievingly at her burning buttocks as Sam reached for the dildo, tore it free, and pushed her back against the foot of the sofa.