Primal Scream (Box Set #1, Taboo Sex + AFF) (16 page)

“
Amy,” said her nametag. She sure looked like Aimee, with the chocolate brown hair and caramel highlights, about the same age and height as Deryk’s 21-year-old only stepdaughter, who he sometimes thought of as his daughter, since they shared a close bond. He had to look twice, to make sure it wasn’t Aimee at her second job. The cocktail waitress had killer tits that were busting out of her tight, white top. If she could, she’d be showing off her perky ass and matching tight pussy too.

Deryk was in New York to show his support for Aimee—she’d made it through the auditions for Fashion Icon, where would-be designers would compete for the chance to showcase their collection at NY Fashion Week, with the first place winner walking away with $100,000 to use as seed money to start their own fashion line.

Aimee Wolf,
she always said she’d call it. Just like
Deryk Wolf Photography.

He walked into the casino to gamble away the images in his mind. Everything seemed to happen in that past week. It seemed like he hadn’t been living all this while, only existing in a bubble he didn’t even know he was trapped in.

* * *

[ 3 Days Earlier ]

Deryk had gone into Aimee’s room to borrow her PC, since the other PC’s printer had run out of ink, and he had an invoice to print out.

He thought of her everyday while she was at NYC. The house seemed rather quiet without Aimee around. A little less vibrant, missing the energy and life she carried around with her.

Deryk snuck a peek at her blue Pilates floor mat, feeling the blood rush to his groin. The items were always so strategically placed—surely Aimee was aware? The mat before the full-length mirror—lacy underwear, in shades of hot pink, white, and black—always either in a clump nearby, or neatly hanging at the edge of the tabletop, like she’d just washed them and put them out to dry.

Her last drawer was sticking out a little. Deryk crouched down to push it back in. He paused, when he saw a dark violet velvet case, and drew back. He went into the kitchen to get a cold glass of ice water.

“
Meg,” he called out to his wife, who he’d been married to for several years. “Honey! Shall we…”

Watch one of the DVDs we borrowed?
he wanted to say, as he walked to the hallway, looking at the driveway to see if she’d gone out. He’d print the invoice tomorrow, at work. He felt like he had just sinned, by unintentionally snooping around one of his children’s bedrooms.

Deryk saw the car in the spacious two-car garage. He saw that Meg was in there, with Tomás, his 19-year-old son. Tomás was a college sophomore who worked some days with Meg at the Village Market, where they had colleagues ranging from college students to people 70-plus.

Deryk went forward to the front door, and lost his footing when he saw what Meg and Tomás were up to. They had moved right into the corner, almost completely hidden by the second garage door, which wasn’t open. The glass of water nearly slipped out of Deryk’s grip. He stayed behind the edge of the window, still able to spy on and catch a glimpse of Meg and Tomás.

Tomás’ neck and head were at ease and slightly rolled back, the lower half of his body slowly rocking in sync with Meg, whose mouth and hand were enclosed around the head and shaft of Tomás’ penis. She was stroking and massaging and playing with his well-groomed balls, letting her lips firmly travel up and down the shaft with a lusty fervor Deryk hadn’t witnessed in almost forever. She was sucking it like a pro porn star, giving Tomás a slobbery, smiling, nasty bitch of a blowjob, wiggling her skanky ass like a perfect little dirty whore in bed.

Deryk took a step back, like a knife had gone right through his chest and ripped his heart out, a cut of absolute betrayal and humiliating insult.

For a moment, he considered taking up one of the blades from the assortment of knives and choppers in the kitchen, and going over to the both of them, demanding for an explanation, for some answers.

How long had this been going on? Was it Tomás or Meg who had made the first move? What had he done wrong? How had he failed her? Was Deryk such an abomination, that Meg was determined to live her deprived and dissatisfied sexual life through her son?

Deryk stared at Tomás’ body, which looked like Deryk’s, when he was about Tomás’ age.

He went back up to Aimee’s room, stunned and in devastatingly low spirits. Her room was now a kind of sanctuary, which offered some solace from his newfound knowledge of Meg’s blighted soul.

Aimee had never come on to him—and neither did he, to her. But he’d always liked it when she’d sit on his lap, and give him a hug around the neck, even as a teenager. Not in public or in the company of others, though—gone were the days when a teenage girl could sit on her daddy’s lap, without child protective services being called in for “abuse charges.” It was a twisted world and society, where parents couldn’t touch their children and teachers couldn’t touch their students, because some pedophile had abused the position. Then again, Meg was obviously a fan of i-n-c-e-s-t. Deryk had never been aware of her kink and twisted mental state.

Meg was just like him: youthful-looking for a 46-year-old, trim, and fit. They’d both taken care of their bodies, and looked younger than most of their peers, some of whom were feeling the effects of a lifetime of beer guzzling, bad eating habits, and an overall neglect for one’s health.

Mother giving stepson a blowjob, mother giving stepson a blowjob,
he kept seeing in his mind. So that was why Meg was never around, whenever Aimee and Deryk spent any time together. Father and stepdaughter spent a lot of time together, as they both shared a passion for creative pursuits—that’s where Aimee got her artistic talents from anyhow. Aimee had the fiery ambition and vision Deryk had. Tomás, not so.

Deryk was proud of both his children—but had always had higher hopes for Aimee, who was the more driven and purposeful of the two stepsiblings.

Deryk slipped a hand into the bottom drawer, running a hand along the small, velvet drawstring case. He pulled the opening of bag back a little bit—just as he thought—a ribbed, handcrafted glass dildo, wonderful to look at, with beautifully colored red and blue little studs. A person who didn’t know what it was would’ve easily mistaken it for a glass sculpture of some sort.

But he could just imagine Aimee, kneeling in front of her mirror, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, the glass dildo to her lips—just like her soft, pink lips would enclose the head of a hard cock, before she started bobbing her head back and forth.

Deryk would usually put such thoughts of Aimee aside. But that would sometimes lead him to dream of her, touching herself in her room, long legs sprawled out and over her head, as she pleasured herself with a dildo or her fingers.

Sometimes, he’d wake up and think about whether he was really dreaming, or recalling a scene from real life. Sometimes, he thought he was losing his mind.

“
An online order…” he heard Aimee’s sweet, angelic voice, as he recalled the time he’d given her a quite-large rectangular box that had come in the mail a few months ago, addressed to “Ms. Aimee Wolf.” He’d correctly guessed what it was—an “adult toy” of some sort—from the semi-suspicious way Aimee dashed up to her room with the package, right after he’d handed it over to her.

Deryk went over to Aimee’s PC, rage, desire, and dejection all swarming around him in equal intensity. He didn’t want to kill Tomás. If his mother looked and dressed like Meg, he’d desire her and do anything to get a blowjob from her too. Deryk was more disappointed in Meg, who he thought he could always be open with.

Better to get sex from your loving mother, than from the street,
Deryk reasoned.

He clicked around on Aimee’s computer, locating the right printer drive.

He clicked on the ‘My Pictures’ folder, to see if there was a photo of Aimee he could print out. He’d keep it in his wallet, the only one in the family who he hoped wasn’t whoring out behind his back.

There were two folders: ‘Nikon Transfer’, and ‘Aimee’.

He opened the second—the little thumbnails on each folder loaded, when he saw a range of close-up shots of a firm, perky set of breasts. For a second, he looked at the pictures, before realizing they were actually pictures of Aimee masturbating.

Did she want someone to find those pictures, or was she dumb enough to think no one could find them?

They were high-quality photos. Deryk was pleased to note she had his photographic eye, with an intrinsic understanding of lighting and angles of view. She’d been listening, and had applied his photography tips. The shots showed off her toned curves, and smashing pair of breasts begging for attention, screaming to be touched and sucked.

Strange how a woman could bare all, except her nipples and pubic hair/region. Strange how that little bit of flesh could be deemed supremely erotic and supremely offensive, all at the same time.

Deryk almost jerked his dick off his body, as he savored the eclectic range of nude photos—there must have been at least a hundred shots, lined up in perfect view for whoever it was that was viewing them. Like an adult model’s portfolio of still shots.

There were even a couple of videos in the folder of Aimee, with her ballet-trained legs and thighs splayed out to the side behind her, as she rode and came on the hard floor, her camera capturing her wiggling jiggling juicy tight round “smack that” ass, as she slid and grinded her way to the booty-bodilicious-earthshattering cum dripping Big O caught on video.

Deryk thought his heart was going to explode when he was done.

He switched Aimee’s computer off, completely forgetting about the invoice. He grabbed a roll of toilet paper nearby—
what’s that doing on Aimee’s tabletop?
—to clean up, careful not to drop his cum anywhere where she might see it. Save for a spot on one of her hot pink sex kitten panties, hanging on display like she was announcing to everyone who stepped into her room her pride at indulging in turning herself on.

It made Deryk want to see his daughter all the more—Tomás had “an important football game” on Sunday, and Meg had to be there for support, and “only one family member needed to be present anyway (Meg’s words),” so the TV network had said, when the Wolf family had received the official letter from Fashion Icon about a special episode, where the contestants would have a day off from competing in challenges, to sightsee NYC with a family member. They were told not to mention the episode to any of the contestants, so none of the contestants would have any idea.

“
Happy 21
^st
Birthday, Aimee!” Deryk read the text across a huge red album cover, on the open cabinet of her PC table. One of the presents Deryk, Meg, and Tomás had gotten for her birthday was a scrapbook, a collection of her photos from the time she was a newborn baby, to the time she turned 21.

Deryk picked up the album, flipping through some of the photos. Over the years, he’d rocked Aimee to sleep, taken care of her, clothed her, fed her.

There was a photo of her as a toddler, stretched out on the deck of a swimming pool. He thought of the time she ran up to him when she was four, after Meg struck her across the face for refusing too many times to take in a spoonful of baby food. He’d been in another room, before he heard a scream from Aimee.

“
What happened?” he asked Meg, who said Aimee was being “difficult.”

“
I hit her by accident,” Meg added, looking tired and upset. “I won’t do it again.”

Deryk took Aimee on his lap, sitting in the TV room. He would never hit his children. He thought hitting a child was bad parenting.

He flipped to another page in the photo album, of Aimee looking particularly gangly and long-legged, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, when she was just about to hit her teens. He remembered half-looking away when she bared her torso at him, as an eleven-year-old tween, to check on some rash on her chest. Her very, very young and small breasts were just beginning to develop at the time. It was the last time she’d ever showed him her bare chest. That was the precise moment that he felt shattered the illusion of her childhood.

Aimee was a late bloomer—she hadn’t show up overnight like some of her friends. She had matured very slowly, but steadily—she was at the start of her best years in life, at age 21. The last photo in the album showed her bright-eyed and cheery, with a smile that could take on anything the world might have to throw at her. Deryk was happy she was going after her goals in life, which didn’t consist of popping babies out from different fathers, being unemployed and living on food stamps, which was the situation some of her ex-classmates were content to stay in.

Deryk went to bed early and alone that night, envisioning Aimee as purity and perfection, and Meg and Tomás as depravity and betrayal.

“
I’m not feeling too well,” he replied, when Meg asked why he was sleeping so early. He didn’t draw back when she laid a hand on his shoulder—too obvious. He just received her touch out of obligation. He kept his back to Meg, pretending to be asleep, when she lay down on the bed beside him.