On hands and knees, Wendy tried to scramble away. But he was toe fast for her. The belt wrapped itself around her soft upper thighs. "Daddy, oh Daddy!" she screamed.
He couldn't stop. He wasn't sure any more why he was beating them: whether it was a sudden revitalization of morals, or a need to punish, to hear a woman moan and beg. There was an echo chamber inside his head, the sound of the leather smacking against tender flesh, raising stripes, reverberating. He lashed out again and again, and sent the whimpering girl sprawling on her belly beside Cynthia. His gaze darted hungrily from the black bush between his wife's fleshy thighs, to the hem of the knit dress high on his daughter's waist, and her bright pink bottom. He whipped the belt from one to the other, his cock rock-hard, protruding from the open fly of the shorts.
But the more he whipped, the harder he panted and the stiffer his joint got. Almost as if the stories the girl had told him – the brutalization she'd undergone at the home, the forced sex – had wrought a subtle change in him too. Almost as if he were no longer her father, but a rapist, a man who derived satisfaction from mauling his victims.
He continued to strike, not caring why, but telling himself over and over that it was for their own good, that he was doing it for Wendy – Wendy and Cindy.
Cindy! He hadn't called his wife that, hadn't thought of her in that special way, in more years than he could remember. He brought the belt down across her thick mother-thighs. The tip licked her loose cunt slit. She yelled, tremors racing through her gyrating loins. He raised the belt high overhead, made it sing through the air before connecting with Wendy's quivering buttocks. Over and over. Heart thumping. Nuts throbbing toward orgasm.
He kept whipping until the buttocks and thighs thrashing about at his feet were raw with his madness. Until Cynthia clutched at one leg, Wendy the other, and brought him tumbling to the floor amidst the mass of hot woman flesh.
For a moment they said nothing – the sound of labored breathing and an occasional sob the only noise in the dark room. Was it real? Sam wondered. Was this actually happening to him, in his own house, on his own living room floor?
No! he decided. It was the stuff novelists wrote about. Things that never, but never, happened to real people, a family, in everyday life. Yet there they were: mother and father and daughter, a dildo slick with cunt juice, a cruel leather belt. It was like something out of an X-rated movie.
Wendy spoke first. "You're horrid, Daddy," she yelped, gingerly rubbing her backside. There were tears in the big green eyes staring accusingly down at him. He watched them roll like morning dewdrops down her face, and drip onto his chest. "Horrid!" she reiterated.
Sam almost laughed at the ridiculousness, the incongruity of the scene. But there was nothing funny about the wet, black pussy rubbing, rubbing, rubbing incessantly against him. He looked at Cynthia. She lay on her side, one leg over his, grinding her big, sloppy gash into the coarse hair on his firm upper thigh. Her eyelids drooped, her gaze riveted to his stiff jerking cock. Her fingernails grated slowly, suggestively through the wiry mat of hair on his chest.
He'd won! he thought, recalling how it was way back when he and Cindy first met; the same hungry look in her smoky blue eyes, the eager fingernails telling him she wanted a dick in her belly. Somehow he'd triggered a hidden well of desire in the woman he'd married – married, he now recalled, because she was stacked and lovely, and had once been the absolute best fucking pussy and asshole in town.
Abruptly he pushed Wendy away, and stood. "Go to your room," he snapped.
The girl hesitated, sniffling. She stared up at him with eyes full of confusion. She was such a little thing, thought Sam. So helpless. He watched her wipe her dripping nose with the back of one tiny hand. His dick emitted a pearl drop of hot goo and leaped. Her gaze settled upon it.
"Goddammit!" he roared, yanking her up from the floor and smacking the backside he'd tenderized with the belt. He didn't care that his prick was so hard, so big and stiff, that the role of an outraged parent was almost amusing. He didn't care that he'd fucked out her hot little asshole more times than he liked to remember. It was over. Done!
"There'll be no more of this shit," he told the weeping, trembling girl. He glanced significantly at Cynthia. "Especially between you two," he added, smacking her plump ass again. "Now git!"
Hands on hips, cock standing straight out from the fly of his shorts, he waited for her to obey, waited for her to disappear into the dark, a frightened child once more, and silently close the bedroom door. He turned back to Cynthia – his Cindy once more. He offered a hand, helped her up from the floor. His gaze swept her lush, mature body. "As for you…!"
He crushed her to him, gripped the wide, welted ass, and kissed her as they hadn't kissed in years. Their tongues intertwined. He'd won more than a mere victory over his incestuous desires, he thought… He didn't yet quite know what it was, didn't know how long it would last, or if it really mattered. The only really important thing was…
He set the bloated knob of his prick against her fat mother-pussy. Twisting a finger up her hot asshole, making her wiggle and moan, he pumped once, twice, three times – embedding half the length in her loose, juicy cunthole. He eased her back, and fell with her onto the sofa without breaking the kiss or the union. Nothing – not Wendy, not what he'd caught them doing – mattered any more. The only important thing was the body straining to take the rest of his stiffness, the thighs closing tight at his waist, the hot, hairy hole already sucking the cum up from his bouncing sacs.
"Fuck me, lover," cooed Cynthia into his mouth. Her fingernails dug into his back, and her toes curled. "Fuck me everywhere," she added, her sopping wet gash sucking his stiff prick.
Sam groaned, stiffened, and pissed thick gobs of cum into her belly. He'd won! he thought, slipping the shaft from cunt to asshole, and humping, humping, humping it up between the jiggly halves of her ass, humping it into the slippery confines of her tight rectum.
He didn't hear Wendy crying in the bedroom, weeping as if her little heart would break. He was beyond hearing; beyond caring about anything except the hot, stinking asshole grinding another load up the inside of his rapidly stoking cock.
He fucked. He gripped the heavy lobes of Cynthia's ass, grunted and strained, and forgot all about the small, lovely girl he'd subjected to still another shameful experience: the girl who was at that very moment staring at the bedroom window, chewing her lip as she threw clothes into a suitcase.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She didn't know where she was going, or how she'd live once she got there. She knew only that Daddy was mean, as mean as could be, and she'd had enough of being belted around. She could imagine the guilt-ridden look on his face when he discovered the loss. No more Wendy! No more late-night-sneak-in-the-bedroom-fucking-her-cute-little-ass! It served him right!
She thought first of Larry. He belonged to a club, she knew, a gang of football roughnecks from school. But she couldn't go there. She supposed the boys at the point were members too, and she knew what to expect if she went looking for help there.
"Oh, darn them all," she sobbed at the starlit sky. She was only fourteen, after all. And now she was frightened all over again – almost as scared as she was the first day at the home.