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Seduction, Inc. (part 3)

Incest
2011-04-24

Part 1: http://www. sexstoriespost. com/stories/story/213018/

Part 2:  http://www. sexstoriespost. com/stories/story/212528/

 

Previously on Seduction, Inc. : A brothe suspects his little sister Cristy of having an affair with their dad. Jealous, he seduces her with the help of sex pills from an obscure source. During one of her drug-induced ruts, Cristy has had sex with a stranger named Roger Edwards, whose bad conscience the narrator now sets out to exploit. . .

 

 

I called Roger Edwards the next morning and blackmailed him into giving me two hundred bucks in cash every month, beginning today, "to cover the extra therapy costs for my sister". He obliged, I should almost say happily. I intended to save most of the money for when things got really ugly, which I was convinced they would.

And oh, they did. When I came home from school no more than two days later, there were two policemen in the living room, waiting for me. I almost panicked and considered running, but desperation hit me before I could do anything stupid.

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   It was over, I thought. Cristy had told the police, or maybe her stupid best friend did, and it was all over. Now I had to face my punishment for what I'd done, and seriously, at that moment I was so awash with guilt that I was ready to confess it all. What use was there in lying?

Some, as it turned out. When I stepped closer, my face probably burning with shame and anxiety, I noticed that they made no move to grab me, push my face into the carpet or anything like that. Instead, they invited me to sit down with them like the most civil and benevolent social workers, talking softly and closing the door behind me with some reassuring words to my mother, who had waited with them and now stepped outside with a slight tremble in her movements. She touched my arm as she went out, something she hadn't done in a long time, at least not like this. Not with the same significance: 'Don't worry, it'll be alright. '

It took me some time to figure out what exactly had happened from the policemen's careful questions and measured replies. Apparently they had found "potentially incriminating evidence" implying that my father might have "abused his parental authority" or something; when I finally got behind the flowery rhetoric and realized that they wanted me to tell them whether I had noticed any signs that my father had been fucking my sister, my heart felt like it stopped beating for more seconds than was healthy. With a strained voice which they probably ascribed to my shock at the idea, I asked them why they thought that. The one with the moustache sighed softly and started to explain.

It started with what he called a "probably unrelated incident". A pool attendant in a spa had called security because he thought a rape was going on inside one of the changing cubicles. He was right: A middle-aged man had been fucking "a minor" he'd apparently picked up in the spa and seduced.

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   He was arrested, and that should have been it. Only that a few day later, two teens were found fucking in the same spa, in another cubicle, and the attendants reported ever-increasing cases of sexual harrassment on the premises. As a result, police closed down the spa and started an investigation. And they found. . .

Well, you probably got it earlier than I did, but then I was scared shitless and very inappropriately horny at the same time, leaving not much blood to feed my brain. They found the comic, the one I had drawn of Daddy fucking Cristy and moaning her name as he jerked off into her mouth. The spa, as I've probably mentioned, was attached to the school we both attended, so they went to the student list in search of a Cristy, and well, they found my sister. She was "in a safe place now", they said, undergoing therapy and probably answering questions from dumb policemen. For the second time that afternoon, my blood turned to ice in my veins. If she was undergoing therapy AND questioning, there was no way our little secret would remain a such. No way.
No, I said, rather realistically agitated, I had never noticed anything that pointed towards our father behaving in any untowards way towards my sister. I couldn't imagine anything like that, never, and I'd always been there with them whenever they were together, so there was no chance, even physically, that there'd been anything even remotely resembling sexual abuse.

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   Never.

They nodded politely. Moustache man even started making excuses, saying that of course there might be nothing to it, that the name might have been a coincidence or the whole thing a prank pulled on my father and Cristy by some obsessed jerk (me), so I please shouldn't worry, it would all be alright, they just couldn't look away when there was even a remote chance that something like this was going on in a family and I'd surely understand that. Yes, I nodded, yes, yes, go on with your good work keeping little girls from getting raped. When they left, a squishy handshake from each, we were all worried moral consensus. "Don't worry", they told my mother, too. "It's gonna be alright. "

I locked myself into the loo and tried to jack off to relieve the pressure. It didn't work. I had to find out everything. I had to get to Cristy. I needed to stop her from selling me out, ruining it all, ending it all. But I couldn't; there was no way. All I could do was wait.

When I finally came out of the loo, Cristy was home.

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   She was talking with my mother in the kitchen, stopping suddenly when she noticed me and continuing in hushed tones while I paced through the living room, angsting like hell. After a few minutes she went to her room without looking at me and was about to lock the door, but this time I was faster and pushed inside before she could. She glowered at me, but didn't scream; apparently she'd accepted the fact that we needed to talk.

"I didn't tell them anything" she said, sitting down on her bed, her eyes downcast. "This time. " With that, she suddenly looked me in the eye and I could see that she had cried. I winced. "But if you do that again, ever. . . "

"Do what?", I asked in a last desperate attempt at feigning innocence.

"Drug me!", she snarled. "And rape me, okay?"

"I didn't. . .

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  " I caught myself glancing around nervously to make sure that our mother hadn't heard her. "You. . . "

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Cristy grabbed my arm and dug her fingernails into it; it hurt like mad, but I didn't even think of pulling back. I knew that I deserved it, and much more than that. "I know there was something you put into my water, or my food or whatever. I don't just get horny by chance, and certainly not so horny that I let a strange man fuck my on his couch. . . which you shoved me towards!" Her eyes were icy now and burning with rage at the same time, and her little finger had drawn blood. "That's rape! Or actually, it's even worse than rape, making me want something I'd never, ever, want or do or even think about in real life!" Her hand dropped from my arm and suddenly she was sobbing. A wave of compassion mixed with guilt washed over me and I wanted to kneel down and comfort her, hold her, dry her tears. . .

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   "I. . . I'm sorry", I stuttered, almost crying myself now, but she just waved me away with an angry motion of her hand. "Just go!", she cried, and after another moment's hesitation I complied.

It was only then that I fully realized how deeply I had hurt her. Of course I should have known it all along, had even known it in a way, but every time I could have thought about it I had just jacked off, enjoying the dirty thrill, the perverse pleasure of toying with her and the danger of it all. But now she was a broken wreck, and I could see no chance of ever making up for what I'd done; and I sat in my room wondering if it had really been worth it. Did I really have to fuck my little sister when I could always have an orgasm simply by jacking off and thinking about her? Or why hadn't I simply tried to get a girlfriend, simple as that, and start having something like a grown-up sex life? But no, I had to hold on to my craziest dreams and destroy her, fuck her right into the ground with no chance of ever picking her up again.

Of course, when I thought "fucking her right into the ground" I got a hard-on again and fell asleep stroking it. I dreamt of picking up a random little girl at the school spa and whispering something into her ear to make her come with me into the dressing cubicle, peeling the swimsuit off her and kissing her barely developed breasts tasting of chlorine. I dreamt of tying Cristy to my father's bed while he was out and raping her to death, so the police would think he did it, after all my sperm and his would be similar enough so they would never suspect me, seeing as they already had my father on their watchlist. In the morning, the last thing I wanted was get up and look Cristy in the eye, so I feigned a migraine and made my mother pity me for all the angst the questioning and all had caused me. Cristy went to school like a good girl.

I had the whole day to think, and in the evening I had reached something like a conclusion.

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   So there had been a series of rapes and sexual assaults in the school spa, and of course one might think that my comic had something to do with it, making a man horny and wanting to fuck a little girl, but that couldn't be all there was to it. People watched porn all the time, and men were horny all the time, especially when they were around blossoming teenagers in tight swimsuits, so I didn't believe for a moment that my comic should have been the thing that drove them over the edge. But what if, for example, somebody had put something in the water. . .

That was the piece of information the police didn't have; and because I had it, and because I was entangled in the whole affair in many more ways than I'd have liked, it would be my responsibility to do something about it. To follow the leads that only I had, to substantiate the suspicion only I could have.
So I snuck out of my room in the night, grabbed a flashlight, a small toolkit and my darkest coat and sidled out. The night was warm, and I felt like Dick Tracy. Whoever that was, I guess he wore a coat. Like some finally tragic anti-hero from a stylish film noir. I was on my own against the whole word, on the trail of something big and sinister. I had a hard-on, too.

The school spa was on the top floor of an old office building, the lower levels of which hadn't been used for years, the windows all boarded up and the garden between the two-metre fence and the building itself grown into a wilderness. The school was right next to it, and a little closed walkway jutting out from its back wall connected it to the neighboring house, providing direct access to the spa from the 4rth floor of the school.

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Of course there was no way I could get into the school and into the spa from there at this time of the night, even without the police seals. So I walked along the fence, trying to look innocent just in case somebody came by, until I reached the little door leading to the fire stairs. They'd had to be renovated only recently for safety reasons, so there would be a quick way out of the spa if for some reason it should catch fire, what with all the water in it, and accordingly the little door in the fence had to be left open at all times. I grinned with relief and some silly excitement when I found that the police hadn't thought of closing it as well when they closed down the spa. Looking around quickly to see nobody was watching, I climbed up as quickly as I could.
The fire exit itself could not be opened from the outside, and even if it had it would probably have triggered some kind of alarm; so I was hoping for some better way to get in through the roof. I had to climb up the drainage pipes for that last bit, but eventually I was up there.

And I was not alone.

At first I thought I was just being paranoid and what I was looking at was just some sort of chimney or antenna; but it moved and turned around, and it was actually a person, a small shadow of a little person sitting at the far edge of the roof, his or her feet probably dangling over the edge. I swallowed a curse; some romantic teenager with suicidal fantasies was just what I'd been missing.


    Still, there was no way to get away from this now. I held up a hand in greeting like the other person did and slowly strolled towards it, trying to look cool, as if I was just another tourist here for the view. "Hey", I said softly as I approached. "Nice night, huh?"

    At last I could make out something of the face and shape of the person, and I must confess that some rather naughty thoughts crossed my mind when I saw that it was a girl somewhere around Cristy's age, with jet black hair and equally dark eyes that stared at me in a mixture of sadness, fascination and irritation at being disturbed.

    "Everything alright?", I asked, suddenly selfconscious and half wanting to just run away.

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       This was going to be difficult, I could already see as much. The girl shook her head slowly: "No. Nothing's alright. "
    Well, that was something of a prompt; so what could I do but sit down beside her like a good guy and ask her what was up, invite her to tell me all her sorrows so she'd feel understood, a teenage dream come true: meet a stranger in the night to hear your whole confession. Well, I thought, I might as well begin to atone for what I'd done to my sister by doing something good for another girl.

    "What's wrong, then?", I asked.

    She didn't answer for a few deep breaths, but I could see that her hesitation was more for dramatic effect than because she was deciding whether or not she wanted to tell me. "I am wrong", she said finally, staring down into the darkling wilderness. She knew how to place her lines, I had to give her credit for that. "Yeah, well, aren't we all, kind of", I offered, trying to defuse the pathos some, but she wouldn't accept that. "Not as wrong as I am", she said. "I'm. . . " She sounded like she wanted to cry, but she couldn't.

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       "Can I tell you?", she asked.

    "Please", I said.

    "I would tell you not to tell anyone, but it's not important. You can tell it to whoever you like, it's not gonna matter anymore. " She took a deep breath, still looking down into the abyss, before facing me. "Did you hear of what happened here?", she asked.

    "Here, in the spa, you mean?" I nodded after a moment's hesitation. "I've heard some things, why?"

    "I was the girl who was raped", she replied.

    My heart stopped for a moment and my brain bristled. "Wait a moment", I said. "Wouldn't you be in therapy or something? I mean, I'm sure they wouldn't let you. . . "

    "I ran away. "

    "Oh.

     

      " I was rather tensed up now; this was just about the last thing I had hoped for. Besides, I still had a hard-on, and when I looked at her I had to work hard to keep myself from imagining her naked, still wet from the pool, getting fucked in the changing cubicle. I swallowed, hard.

    "Can I tell you?", she asked again after waiting for my visible agitation to subside. I nodded again, and she sighed again.

    "Only I wasn't raped", she said quietly after a pause, the eery calmness of her voice probably standing in for a world-shattering cry. "I was crazy. I lost control. I don't know why I did it, I don't know what's the matter with me. " For a few heartbeats, she looked at me again, then turned her gaze back down the wall and left it there. "I practically dragged that man into the changing cubicle. I showed. . . " She swallowed, probably close to tears, then continued quickly with new resolve.

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       "I took off my bra in the hallway when we were alone. He stared at me, and I showed him to follow me. I got naked as soon as he had closed the door behind us. " Her voice was ragged now, her breath coming in quick gasps. "I begged him to f. . . to rape me. I don't know why. I don't know why I wanted it, but I wanted it, I wanted him to do it so badly, even though it hurt, and I don't know, I just don't know how I could ever want such a thing. " Her whole body shuddered in revolt and she looked at me for another heartbeat, her eyes pleading me to believe her, to understand her even though she didn't understand herself. "I think I'm crazy", she added more silently after another pause. "Something's wrong with me. I'm wrong, I'm totally gone wrong. "

    "I don't know", I ventured, my voice breaking a little in the weak attempt.

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       "Everybody has their streak of madness every now and then, especially in puberty. . . And it's not like sex is something evil. . . "

    "But I didn't want it!", she cried, making me wince so hard I almost fell off the roof. "I mean, I don't want it, and I didn't want it then, but I had to, it was like something inside me force me to. . . " She broke off and sobbed again, her body tilting dangerously forward so that I reached out instinctively and grabbed her shoulder to keep her from losing balance. "But. . . ", I said, not knowing how to continue.

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       She turned to me, her eyes red and swollen, and said while she stared at me: "And when they broke into the cubicle and dragged him away and they tried to make me dress and I wanted to, standing naked before everybody, policemen and pool attendant and people, but I couldn't, I was so mad at them and cursed like mad and they tried to keep my hands off me but I had to do it. . . " She turned away again and motioned rubbing herself between the legs with both hands, panting. A last, sudden sob broke out of her at the recollection, then she tilted forward and fell down before I could even lift my hand to hold her.

    Her fall was eerily silent, and her body made no more than a soft "thud" when it hit the overgrown floor five stories below. I stared at the little little spot of brightness in the bushes in shock for some minutes, looking for some movement, some sign of life, but no luck. I had no doubts that she had wanted this: she had come back to the scene of her rape, of the destruction of her self-image, to die. She had confessed and died, and I had been her priest.

     

    (To be continued - with more sex, promise!).

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