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‘You don’t have to worry, I couldn’t get your mother pregnant, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. We don’t need to use protection,’ I lie.
Valerie would be absolutely, beautifully livid if her teenage daughter got pregnant. I chuckle under my breath.It would be my wife’s worst nightmare come true.
‘Are you sure?’ Cara asks, wide-eyed.
‘Positive. You trust me, don’t you?’ She nods and I hide my smirk.
I sit back on my heels. My cock slips out. Grabbing Cara’s knees, I push them back and roll her pelvis up.
This is what I would have done with Valerie, if she’d agreed to my pleading to try for a baby, back when we’d just married. I would have held her hips high using gravity to help my sperm reach their target.
Back then, I had thought Valerie shared my dream of a big family. Her lustful cries of ‘Come deep inside me, fill me up with your cum, breed me!’ was nothing but a cruel ploy to make me marry her. It wasn’t long after the wedding that I realised she didn’t want more children. It became plain as day that she had no maternal instinct – she never cooed over newborns or shared baby stories about Cara. No, instead she used every opportunity she had to proclaim that children were an unwanted burden. Valerie would scoff at tired parents and scrunch up her nose at drooling toddlers with sticky hands and noisy squeals.‘God, you would think parents had better sense than to bring children out in public. Don’t they know they are ruining everyone else’s day? Thank god, I don’t have to deal with that crap anymore,’she would say, disgust written all over her face.
Once, Valerie said that if I put her name on the deeds for the estate, she would stop taking the pill. I had learned her true nature by then and didn’t fall for her trick.
I spread Cara’s legs wide. The pussy lips part and her abused, wet hole opens up to me.I’m going to make Cara give me what her mother denied me.I lean down and lick up her slit. The sweet taste of her cum mixed with mine makes me hum and a strange contentment blooms through my chest. Or perhaps this is what evil feels like, I muse as I force my tongue deeper in between Cara’s swollen lips. She shudders underneath me.
Cara gets increasingly louder the more I devour her young pussy. She whimpers when I suck her clit, her hips jerking. I stick my tongue into her hole, tasting more of myself in her. Tasting my cum deep in her cunt. I rub her swollen clit with my thumb, while I gently fuck her with my tongue. She comes against my face while pulling my hair and screaming for me, her daddy.
Then I fuck her again.
Without protection.
4
Chapter 4
I nurse a lukewarm beer while watchingSports Roundupwhen I hear the crunch of gravel under tires. It’s past one in the morning, only a few embers still glow in the fireplace that has kept me warm this chilly summer’s night. After I fucked Cara the second time, I spent most of the afternoon cutting grass along some overgrown right-of-way paths. When I came back in, among the usual mess in the kitchen, there was a plate of dinner set out for me. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. But Cara spent the evening in her bedroom, as she always does if she’s not out with friends. Her god-awful music has been played at max volume and could be heard in every room of the house.
Still, that music is preferable over Valerie’s hysteric laughter that is followed by the closing of a car door. I sigh. Through trial and error, I know it’s better to still be awake when she comes home drunk than it is being woken up by her. Awake, I’m more prepared for her aggressive, argumentative behaviour.
The beer tastes bitter as the front door slams shut. Valerie’s staggering figure appears as I place the empty bottle on the coffee table, the leather of the old sofa groaning with my movement – just like it did when I fucked Cara on it earlier.
‘Christ, you’re so pathetic, Kyle.’ My wife’s chuckle is mocking, evil. ‘You’re not even forty, but here you sit, all alone on a Saturday night.’
I didn’t foresee lonely nights when we married – I had hoped for a house full of kids and company in general, as well as help with all the chores around the estate. Had I really thought that Valerie would allow dirt underneath her synthetic nails? Or that she would ruin her perfect figure with another pregnancy?
She may not allow dirt under her nails, but I have no doubt she’s been down and dirty tonight – she reeks of aftershave and her make-up is all smeared. I wish I had proof of her infidelity, that way I could divorce her, and she wouldn’t get a penny off me. But without proof, my hands are tied. I need my whole salary from the council office to pay for the many outgoings of Kilpatrick Estate, and there’s no chance in hell I’ll divorce her and continue paying spousal maintenance income. She had a full-time job when we married, but after one of our many heated arguments about putting her name on the house deeds, she declared she had cut down to part-time. ‘Why would I bust my ass to pay for anything to do with an estate that’s not even mine!’ were her words. I never asked her to pay for outgoings with the estate. Up until then, the only thing she had paid for was half the electricity and heating oil. Now, half the groceries are all she chips in for, the rest of her income goes to her own grooming, shoes, handbags and her very frequent days and nights out.
‘I think we both know who the pathetic one is, Valerie.’ I grimace. ‘The state of you.’
‘At least, I still know how to live,’ she slurs, then gestures to her tall and toned body. ‘The guys are queuing up for a bit of this. Men, Kyle,realmen, want a piece of me. But you, impotent thirty-five-year-old man, couldn’t get it up if you tried.’
I want to laugh in her face but I have to play my cards very carefully. If Valerie had a better relationship with her daughter, then my wife would now have the ammunition she needs to get half, if not more, of my assets, and without me getting the outcome that I want.
A child. An heir.
Valerie stumbles over to sit down on the sofa. I quickly stand and turn the TV off. The bickering will go on all night unless I get her to bed. She follows me down the hallway and up the squeaky stairs – not because she wants to go to bed, but she can’t let go of the argument.
‘Did I hit a sore spot, Kyle? You only get it up with your right hand and porn! I don’t know why the fuck I ever married a loser like you.’
‘You married me for my money.’
‘You don’t fucking have any money,’ she screams. ‘It’s all tied into this fucking house!’
It’s true, the house and its land are worth a small fortune, and Valerie married me thinking that owning an estate meant I had money in the bank. She saw the big ornate three-storey brick house and massive grounds, not understanding that old country houses are expensive to keep. Its Grade II listing means the insurance alone can make you weep, and I’ve learned the hard way that even changing windows is subject to strict – and expensive – regulations. Any alterations or building work needs consent from the authorities. Valerie couldn’t knock down walls and turn this into a slick cocktail-hour-pool-house-and-garden-party mansion, like she had dreamed up when we first met.
Back then, I had wanted to surprise Valerie by selling off a bit of the land on the north-east side and let her renovate the house with the profit – within reason and the right planning permissions, of course. The second floor is almost uninhabitable due to draft and dampness, and the four – yes, four – reception rooms are all small and dark – two of them haven’t been used in years. I haven’t spent any time in the turret tower since I was a child as the floors are unsafe. I’d love to restore and secure its family and historic significance.
