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My heartfelt thanks go to ChloeTzang for reading, commenting, pushing me, and taking the time to assist me whenever she could; without her help and advice I’d still be sucking my pencil and wondering where to go next!
This story contains themes of consensual incestuous sex and relationships, if you find this offensive then please feel free to move on and find material to read that is more appropriate to your tastes and inclinations. All characters indulging in sexual encounters are over 18.
No real person, living or dead is represented herein, nor implied, and all characters are fictional, in fictional situations and places entirely of the author’s creation, and no reality should be implied or attributed to anything herein; it’s just a story, in a place of my own creation, with realities that may or may not converge with the real world, where things happen the way they do because I want them to, not because they actually would or do.
It began, as most life-changing events do, completely out of the blue, late one Saturday night. I was working alone in my project house, and I was only there because the weather was expected to turn rainy and damp in a few days, so I had to rush on getting some plastering and rendering work finished before that happened. I was renovating my house, a Regency property I’d bought for a song after I’d left the army, to prove to myself and others I didn’t need the family’s money to get by. It needed an absolute shit-load of renovation and rectification before it could be considered fit to be condemned, but I’d persisted, so the local council had decided if I was daft enough to throw my money at that wreck, who were they to argue, withdrawn their Compulsory Purchase Order, and given me a year to bring it up to a habitable, or at least not actually unsafe, standard. After that I could think about finding a buyer
They put me under starters-orders, because I knew if I hadn’t met their deadline and shown a massive improvement in the place by that date, the CPO would go back in, they’d declare the building structurally unsafe, demolish it, and put the site up for redevelopment offer. So I worked like slave every possible moment I could spare, working my way through every aspect of the renovation, and bringing in experts to do the things that were beyond me, like joists and floorboards, framing and shuttering carpentry, plastering, stonework renovation, roofing, electrical, gas, water, and sewerage.
One of the main reasons the local council had balked at renovating the place was that it was a Grade 2 Listed structure, meaning it could be regarded as being of historical or architectural interest, and they didn’t want the headache of having that kind of expensive white elephant on their hands.
In England, a Listed building is protected by law from being changed in any material way from the original construction, as it’s deemed to be of significant historic, cultural, or architectural importance. Any external renovations have to be carried out sympathetically exactly as the original builder would have completed them, using the same materials and construction methods, and with absolutely no structural changes other than those that maintained the continued safe use of the building.
These restrictions meant potential commercial (and some private) developers were saddled with these caveats, which usually scared them away. On the other hand, if it had just conveniently fallen down, they could redevelop the site with a clear conscience.
Silly me, coming along and falling in love with the faded grandeur of the place and put a spanner in their works, hence the one-year deadline to get it right, or get out. Hopefully, once it was fully restored back to its original splendour, with no further work required, a buyer would appear who wanted the cachet/snob value of living in an elegant historic building.
I was in the back room, happily getting ready to mix-up a new batch of lime-putty render with the radio keeping me company, when I realised that tapping sound I was hearing wasn’t coming from the paint and plaster-splashed site-radio; someone was knocking on the door at, I looked at my watch, three in the morning. WTF? I had no near neighbours, there were no shops or all-night eateries out this way, no-one had any reason to be around and about out here at this time of night, so I debated whether or not to answer the knock, decided I’d go see who it was, and took a handy pry bar along for company.
Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to see my younger sister Georgina standing there, looking more than a little tear-stained and dishevelled. As I pulled her into the light, my eyes narrowed at the bruise purpling her left cheekbone, and the visible split in her swollen lower lip. Georgy is a tall, pretty, lively girl, with huge, dove-grey eyes and long, natural, movie-star lashes, and masses of jet-black hair in a curly cascade of soft ringlets bahis firmaları around her shoulders, and loud and fun-loving. I automatically find myself using the word ‘vivacious’, which is a bit Fifties-movie magazine when you think about it, but I never came up with a better word when I think of her, but now she looked like she had been crying.
“Georgy, what… who…?” I stuttered, staring at her injured face.
“Max, that… creepy fucker, he tried it on me, Mum was passed-out on the couch, that pudgy fuck was still drinking when I got in, next thing I know he’s got his arm around me and trying to kiss me, all that ‘your mother won’t ever know, it’ll be our secret, try it, it’ll be fun’ creeper bullshit; Christ, he’s a repulsive little shit, he wouldn’t stop pawing at me, so I gave him the knee, next thing I know, he’s lashing out at me. Will, I think he’s been hitting Mum, too; she looked… different, too much concealer, he’s acting like the house, all our things, the cars, they’re his, he’s lording it over the place, Will, you’ve got to come home and sort him out, this is bad!”
Too fucking right this was bad; the day Mum introduced me to her new so-called business manager I got a bad vibe from the creepy little scrotum; he felt too much at home in my father’s house, MY house; he was making too free with my family’s wine cellar and cars. Mum seemed besotted by the little stain, but all I wanted to do was drag him out of the doors and shove my foot up his arse. But Mum seemed so happy to have the creepy little fuck there I held off; he actually seemed to have her best interests at heart, at least at first, at least she seemed to think so. The changes that moved him from employee to master of the household came so slowly, so subtly none of us were really aware of the pace of change.
I wasn’t really too concerned at first; Mum was a tough, hard-nosed product of her generation, trying to pull the wool over her eyes usually got your hand bitten off, so I wasn’t too worried, and she really seemed to like Max. She was still a handsome woman, maybe Max and she…? Creeped-out as I felt at the thought, she was a grown-up, well able to handle matters, if this was what it was, it was her choice, so I let sleeping dogs lie.
I was first alerted to the regime-change when the housekeeper, who was more than just an employee, she was a family member called me to let me know she’d been dismissed. I found that hard to understand, or even believe; Mrs. Kinnison, always known to Georgy and me as “Aunt Kay” had been Housekeeper since my father was a boy, she’d helped raise my father, and she was there to welcome her the day my father brought his new bride home, and helped raise me, too. When mother had lost my father Aunt Kay was her main support, and when mum had remarried when I was just a toddler, she’d welcomed her new husband, my step-dad, into the family.
She and Mum had been fast friends for over thirty years, so letting her go made no sense at all.
Now, apparently, Max had decided they didn’t need her, so she was gone, and I couldn’t understand how Mum could have allowed that: Aunt Kay was as devoted to Mum as she had been to my father and step-father, and an important part of the family, not just some random employee.
I’d braced Max about it, reminding him that he wasn’t the head of the household, he was an employee, just like the man who cleaned the gutters and shovelled up the shit in the stables, and if he didn’t like the staff, who’d been there since long before his flabby gut and ugly mug had mooched in the door, he was welcome to leave, there was the door, don’t let it hit him where God split him. He went crying to Mum, and she overrode me, while Max smirked at me.
I also didn’t like the way he greased and smarmed his way around Georgy. She had only just left university, graduating from Roehampton with a good 2.1 degree in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics just as I’d resigned my commission after serving four years with my regiment. She was living with a friend, taking a year out to breathe and party a little and enjoy being young before seeking work. It seemed Max was always around her when she went home, always ready to start conversations with her, touching her arm, her shoulder, placing his hand in the small of her back when he spoke with her, ‘charming’ her with his wit and worldliness, and it creeped her out.
I was seriously considering risking my mother’s ire and just pile-driving the bastard into the portico steps and hosing what was left of him down the stairs and into the gutter, but Georgy assured me she could handle a stunted fat creeper like him blindfolded.
At the same time, Mum’s drinking, never more than social, and certainly never noticeable before, suddenly seemed to be escalating; every time I spoke with her she seemed out of it, and when she’d start telling me about life at home, suddenly Max would be relieving her of the phone, and after a few curt words, he’d hang-up.
At kaçak iddaa first I thought Mum would deal with him her way; she was formidable in full flight, almost a force of nature, and people who crossed her very soon came to wish they’d shut up and stayed home that day.
Now she was almost invisible, a mere shadow of her former self; she seemed to be completely in thrall to that sidewinder. In fact, I’d just about decided to deal with that slimy tub of lard once and for all, and then came that late-night knock and my darling baby sister with bruises on her face, put there by that stunted dickwad.
As far as I was concerned, he wasn’t going to be hitting any more women, not after tonight.
Georgy looked at me, and grabbed my arm.
“No Will, it’s after three, deal with it in the morning, my face hurts, and I really don’t want to go back there right now…”
I gently took her hand off my arm.
“No, Georgy; strike while the iron’s hot, that’s what dad always told us; that bastard’s sitting there all fat and satisfied, stoking up on MY father’s vintage reserve scotch with not a care in the world, in MY house, doing God knows what to MY mum, I don’t fucking think so!”
Georgy stared at me for long seconds, then nodded.
“OK, let’s go, I want to see this!”
Max Preece was feeling very satisfied with himself; just a few more steps and Julia Wilmot’s investment accounts, offshore holdings, and the trust properties would be his; drugging the old bitch and keeping her topped up with gin and illegally-obtained Oxycodone meant she was completely tractable and just about ready to sign anything he put in front of her; her dimwit, army-minded oaf of a son wasting money on that derelict hovel was too stupid to work out what was going on, all he cared about was trying to turn that sow’s ear into a silk purse, and that hottie daughter of hers? He was going to fuck her whether she wanted it or not; there was more Oxycodone on tap, and he didn’t care how much he fed the hot little bitch as long as it kept her quiet while he fucked the shit out of her.
Dreaming pleasant dream like these, in a warm haze of self-praise and fine scotch, he was rudely awakened when he was grabbed by his sweaty throat and hauled upright, his eyes slamming open to look into the rage-filled eyes of Tyler Wilmot, Julia’s huge, “army-minded oaf” of a son, and he suddenly didn’t look at all simple or dim-witted, he looked tooled-up and scary…
Getting into the house was easy; I’d worked out routes to sneak unseen in and out of the house by the time I was twelve; doing it quietly so as not to tip off that little slimebag was a little harder, but at the end of the day it’s my house, left to me in my father’s will, part of the Wilmot legacy, and if I wanted to burst in there with a Mardi Gras parade, a clown car and a brass band I had every right to, but right then I wanted to give that slime the scare of his life.
Obviously that creepy little fuck had forgotten it was my house, not his, to judge by the happy look of placid joy on his toady little face as he made himself free with MY furniture. When I slammed him upright and shocked him out of his little world, I actually think he shit himself…
“Hello Max!” I grinned, watching fear turn to terror as he saw Georgy and her incipient black eye and split lip.
“I hear you like hitting women,” I purred; “Georgy says you hit her, and I just wiped a ton of concealer off my mother’s face, and guess what? Someone’s been hitting her too. Do you know who it was? Come on Maxie, you can be honest with me, do you know who repeatedly punched my drugged mother in the face?”
He opened his mouth, and I assumed he was going to lie, so I hauled off and slammed a right into his left eye, snapping his head back. I work out, I weighed at least forty pounds more than that slobbering gut-bucket, all heft, not an ounce of spare fat anywhere, and I’m fit, military fit, not gym-fit, and not at all soft and paunchy and blubbery and disgustingly out of shape.
Being stiff-armed by me, with all my weight and anger behind it, must have felt like he’d been sledge-hammered. He literally went out of focus. I swear I hit him so hard it momentarily separated his astral body from his real one as he squealed like a stuck hog.
“Shall we try again, Maxie?” I gritted, and when he opened his mouth I just assumed he was going to lie again, so I punched him again, this time a stiff shot to his bulging belly, hauled him back upright by his lank hair, and stood back and kicked him in the balls just as hard as I could, like a soccer forward taking a penalty, my instep driving my builder’s boot up into his crotch and pulverising his nuts. His shriek of agony as he stretched up on his toes was music to my ears, but I wasn’t finished; I hadn’t even got started yet…
I grabbed him by his throat and held him upright against his buckling knees.
“You’re a thief, and a prick, and a woman-beater, kaçak bahis and a crooked, lying, spineless, creepy little dog-fart, Maxie, and I’m taking my family back, have you got that, Maxie?”
Once again I just naturally assumed the bubbling, whining noises were him lying to me, so he got another shot in his blubbery gut that came from down near my knees and a looping right hook to the side of his face that caved in his cheekbone and sent him flying, just missing the open fire, which was more by luck than judgement, I have to admit, but he wasn’t paying attention.
I think he’d just realised what happens to people who lay hands on the women in my family, and the spreading stain on the front of his Armani suit trousers, paid for, I have no doubt, with my mother’s money, gave testimony to his state of mind at that point.
As he was lying there I reasoned ‘why not?’ and kicked his short ribs hard enough to snap them and make them float free. His scream of agony was music to my ears.
Grabbing him and hauling him upright once again by his lank hair, in agony be damned, until he faced me, I slapped him (none too gently, I have to admit) to focus him on my words.
“Hey, don’t fall down, you little monkey’s tit, we’re not finished yet; you’ve been hurting my family, living it up in MY house, making free with MY possessions, drinking MY father’s very valuable vintage scotch, which, by the way, is much too good for a slimy little shit-goblin like you, spending MY mother’s money willy-nilly, throwing your weight around with MY family, and generally acting like lord of the fucking manor. Uh-uh, big no-no; this is MY manor, and I don’t like that, Maxie, I don’t like that at all; in fact, it offends me deeply, and do you know what I do to things that offend me deeply, Maxie?”
He stared at me with his watery, streaming eyes like a deer in the headlights, agony writ large all over his pasty, doughy face.
“I erase them, you worthless little turd, so what I’m going to do, I’m going to call the police, and you’ll sit your fat, flabby arse there on the ground, not stinking-up my furniture, or I’ll snap your worthless neck and call it an accident. When the law gets here Georgy’s going to swear up and down you assaulted her and tried to rape her. They’ll see and take pictures of her injuries, and my mother’s injuries, which I know weren’t there two days ago, find the drugs you’ve been feeding her, put two and two together, and beat the shit out of you in a locked cell somewhere no-one can hear you beg. When you’ve finished confessing to everything they can throw at you, and you WILL, you’ll go to jail for a long, long time, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, you disgusting, arse-crawling, scabby little dog’s turd.”
Max stared at me in horror as I told him what came next.
“Some of my men went into the Prison Service and some of them went into the police when they came out of the army, they tell me stuff, like what goes on inside the cells when the lights go off, especially to poxy little vermin like you, and guess what? I’m going to have them keep a very special eye out for you, just so they know what to do with you when you show up, and arrange for the very best people to welcome you. My men know and like my mum, they respect her and what she stands for, most of them have sat at that table right there and had dinner with her at one time or another, and they’re not going to like what you did to her one little bit.”
Max’s eyes bugged out as my grip around his flabby throat tightened.
“They tell me sweaty little fat fucks like you are a favourite late-night treat in the lockup, did you know that? They like all that blubber to hang on to while they jam you like a blow-up doll; I just know you’re going to be belle of the ball, Maxie. They’re going to love gang-banging the crap out of you, oh you’ll be so popular, and best of all, no-one will lift a finger to stop it; they’ll be queuing up for their turn.”
I loved the look of horror in his eyes, but wait: it was going to get better.
“By the time they’re done with you they’ll be able to slide a fucking howitzer up your sloppy arsehole. Isn’t that a comforting thought, Maxie? Just think, you’ll finally be popular; so many wonderful people are going to want to be your friend, then fuck the shit out of you, isn’t that nice? I hear they smack you in the face so hard your lips swell up, because that looks so hot when you’re sucking their cocks, and make you wear lipstick made from boiled Tango so you’re pretty enough to fuck like a Saigon whore.
Before I call the police, though, I might just beat the cowboy shit out of you; call it a going-away present from the family…”
I knew the court would hand him a relatively light sentence in some cupcake white-collar holiday resort masquerading as a prison, and that he’d probably only serve a third of it anyway, so I wanted to impress on him that retribution comes in many forms, and my way was a lot more painful and memorable than the law allowed for.
Now he knew I also had ways of keeping track of him, and anything I didn’t like, or if I felt it was time to ratchet-it up a notch or two, well, we’d be having another conversation…
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