Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mother, Son, Brother, Sister, Father, Daughter, Aunt, Torture, Snuff, .
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This isn't about Vincente Giovanni Amato. If it were, he would be somewhere between the movie titles, consigliere and capo. Rather, the focus is on his 8-year old daughter, Allegra Angelina Amato. Nicknamed Triple-A by a wiseacre nurse. Trip was quiet, thoughtful, strong. Far stronger than her beautiful mother, Francesca. And what about Trip's 6-year old brother, Santino? He could speak, but never did. The North Shore of Long Island whispered about the Amato family, understandably so.
The North Shore of Long Island isn’t the Hamptons -- glitzy mansions for the 1%. Bordering Long Island Sound, the North Shore is mostly quiet money, old money. Easy access to the City. If you don’t have a helicopter and it’s your chauffeur’s day off, you could even (gasp) take the LIRR.
Vincente Giovanni Amato bought one of the most secluded estates in one of the quietest unincorporated hamlets in Oyster Bay. While he was a large, imposing man, he was mostly respected, and mostly feared, for what he could do. Or could have done for him.
Vincente was an attorney with one client -- Mr. Montano. Mr. Montano didn’t look like a mountain, more like a toad actually. Not that anyone mentioned his appearance. Or anything else about him. Curiosity was not encouraged, not about that particular man.
Vincente might meet with Mr. Montano once a month or so. In Mr. Montano’s neighboring estate in a neighboring unincorporated hamlet. In a room that was swept for bugs three times a day. All of the windows were treated so surveillance equipment couldn’t pick up anything from even the slightest of vibrations.
Or, depending on circumstances, Vincente might move into a guest room at Mr. Montano’s mansion for weeks at a time.
At home, Vincente never talked about his work, and his gorgeous wife, Francesca knew better than to ask. As did Francesca’s extended family of three brothers and three sisters.
Vincente had been gone for over two weeks when faint voices coming from downstairs awakened Francesca. It was about 3 in the morning and she threw on a robe, gave her hair a quick brushing and hastened down.
Vincente was sitting in his usual club chair in front of the fireplace in his study. His children were on the sofa facing him. The fire was the only light in the darkened room.
Francesca looked from her husband to her daughter, Allegra Angelina Amato -- Triple-A. The child was a good barometer, an excellent interpreter, of Vincente’s moods, even at 8-years old. Francesca saw that Triple-A had a solemn expression on her face, not a good sign.
Her six year old son, Santino also looked serious, but then he always did.
Francesca kissed her husband on his cheek, “How did it go, darling?”
“Oh dear.” As she usually did, she reverted to her strength. She let her robe slide to the floor and tried to smile, “Would some pussy help?”
Francesca was built. A little over 5’ 8” with a full bust and a tight butt. Her pink nipples seemed to be perpetually aroused. She trimmed her pubic patch into a tight triangle. Vincente didn’t like the bald look. At least not on her.
He gave her a small smile, “Not tonight.”
“How about Elena?” Her younger sister.
“Gina?” Even younger sister.
“Lisa?” The youngest sister.
Santino glanced at his sister. Their father’s turning down pussy was unusual. Definitely not a good sign.
Triple-A touched the back of her mother’s hand, “Go to bed, Franny, we’ll talk in the morning.”
Francesca’s shoulders slumped, but she turned and headed for the stairs. Triple-A noticed Santino watching their naked mother. When she was out of sight, he leaned close, cupped his little hands around his sister’s ear and whispered something.
Santino could talk, but never did. Never had. Not to anyone. Except for whispering to Triple-A once in a while.
Trip listened, nodded and patted his knee. She was holding back a smile.
Vincente was used to his unique children and paid little attention. He had things on his mind.
Trip knew her father as well as anyone did. Better than her mother did. By some considerable margin.
She stood, walked silently over to his gun safe, tapped in the code and opened the door. She tilted her head slightly to the side as she considered her options. She took out a thick towel and spread if over a small table. Added cleaning agents and tools.
She arranged them carefully in the order in which they would be used. Lastly, she decided on two nine-millimeter Glocks. Her father found the cleaning ritual soothing and did his best thinking while performing the mindless action.
Trip touched the back of her brother’s hand and he stood silently and went upstairs to his bedroom. Trip sat beside her father and handed him whatever he needed, just as the need arose. Like a nurse assisting a surgeon. Vincente had no idea how his daughter had learned the safe’s combination. Triple-A just knew things.
The two of them didn’t speak, she understood he had a lot on his mind.
When Francesca came back downstairs in the morning, her husband and daughter were back by the fireplace, not talking, just sitting.
Francesca talked to her sisters -- Elena, Gina and Lisa -- every day. Several times a day. Francesca was 21, Elena, 16, Gina 13, Lisa 12.
All four sisters thought Francesca’s children to be odd, although they only discussed that among themselves, never with outsiders.
Francesca told them, “Triple-A ... it’s like she decided to skip childhood. She’s ... I don’t know, witchy.”
She didn’t mean a witch who wore a pointy hat and rode a broom. Francesca knew Triple-A had an eerie insight into life. Into life and people. When she spoke, it was in a quiet, yet sure tone. She didn’t have much to say, but when she said it, people, even grownups, had learned to listen.
It wasn’t like Triple-A had a storybook evil eye to cast spells, nothing like that. It was just that she ... knew things. Concrete facts and ... what not to say ... and what to do and not do.
It used to bother Francesca that her husband trusted Triple-A more than herself. And confided in her. These days Francesca no longer thought about it, it was just the way it was.
As for Santino? Well, what can you say about a boy who never speaks? Who occasionally whispers to his sister, but communicates more through a glance, a touch, a posture.
Francesca and her sisters mostly left both children alone, the kids seemed to prefer it that way. Triple-A loved her father deeply and it was reciprocated. But when Vincente wasn’t home it was like the center of power had gravitated to Triple-A. Not overnight, but so gradually that it now felt natural to Francesca to defer to her daughter on any matter of import.
Like her husband’s upcoming 30th birthday. Francesca said, “Trip, I’m thinking we should go into the City. Masa, you know how much he loves sushi.”
Trip, as she did everything, considered her mother’s suggestion. “That’s a good idea, but not for his birthday. Invite Mr. Montano over. We’ll grill hamburgers in back. Just simple stuff.”
Francesca frowned, “Mr. Montano hates me.”
“He hates everyone. Except maybe Vincente.”
“Will you clear it with your father?”
Trip told Cook, “Plan for 15 guests. I don’t know how many ... associates Mr. Montano will bring.” The grizzled old man, well into his 80s, rarely left his house. And never without his trusted entourage. Vincente would have his own people strategically positioned.
The crisp fall evening was invigorating -- sweater weather.
They sat at a small grouping under a canopy. Comfortable chairs, smart tablecloth. Rustic red wine in a Target decanter. Mr. Montano didn’t do fancy.
Vincente sat across from the guest of honor. Francesca was to Mr. Montano’s left, Trip to his right. Santino, as always, sat next to Trip.
Mr. Montano was Yale educated, but wore his crudeness proudly. He nodded at Francesca and asked Vincente, “That’s one fine piece of ass. She as good a fuck as she looks?”
Vincente smiled, “Better.”
Francesca blushed with pleasure and sat up straighter.
Mr. Montano squeezed Francesca’s left breast with his gnarled hand, “If I were younger...”
Vincente said, “Any time.”
Mr. Montano nodded toward Trip, “What about the little cunt? She putting out yet?”
Vincente smiled more broadly, “Ask her.”
Trip smiled sweetly, “Baciami il culo, succhiacazzi” in accent-free Italian. Kiss my ass, cocksucker.
The exchange didn’t make Francesca nervous, not in the least. For some reason Mr. Montano adored Triple-A. Was impressed that she stood up to him, that she was, essentially, fearless.
Santino cupped his little hands around his sister’s ear and whispered. Trip listened, nodded.
As Mr. Montano was driven home, Francesca smiled at her husband, “How about some birthday pussy?”
“Want any of my sisters too?”
“Not until morning. Lisa.”
“I’ll have her here by 7.”
Santino glanced at Trip. He knew it was a good sign whenever his father accepted pussy.
Vincente didn’t stand out. This was on purpose. He could have been at or near the top of his law school, but he floated comfortably along in the middle of the pack.
He as tall -- 6’ 3” with wide shoulders. His brute strength was masked by a slender build. Until people who knew about these things looked at his thick, powerful wrists. Those people immediately reevaluated Vincente’s prowess.
Not that he was a fighter, certainly not a brawler. He didn’t have to be, having been groomed since prep school to work for Mr. Montano.
Vincente’s face was ordinary, almost plain looking. Until he smiled -- that transformed him into another league. Those white, white teeth contrasted with his smooth olive complexion. His skin was the exact same shade as Francesca’s. In that respect they looked like brother and sister.
Unlike many successful Italian men, Vincente wasn’t the least bit prudish. Trip could never remember a time when she hadn’t seen her father naked at least once a week.
Early mornings were his and Trip’s favorite time of day. Before the others woke up. Vincente showered, swam laps in the pool, always in the nude no matter what the temperature was. Another shower, then a vigorous 15-minute workout in his gym.
Another shower, his third of the morning and then a 30-minute massage from his Korean masseur.
Vincente walked downstairs, out to the pool, up to the gym, sometimes into the sauna -- nude. He didn’t care, literally didn’t care who saw him. Maids, Cook, drivers, landscapers, bodyguards.
Depending on her schedule, Trip might accompany her father on some of his early morning rounds. That was when they did their best talking. Well, Trip listened for the most part.
Trip hadn’t thought about the size of her father’s cock, had no one but Santino to compare him to. Naturally a little boy would be smaller. It wasn’t until one Saturday when she and Santino were having breakfast with Francesca and her sister, Lisa, that Trip heard something that gave her some perspective.
Lisa spoke conversationally to Francesca, “He did me three times last night. I’ve never felt so fucking full.”
Francesca grinned and nodded, “I overheard Marci at the club. She said Vincente has the biggest cock on the North Shore.”
Santino whispered into his sister’s ear. She winked at him.
That her husband fucked all three of her sisters was no surprise to Francesca. Vincente had fucked them long before he married her, why would she expect him to stop?
In fact, he pretty much fucked whoever he wanted to. Francesca had never bothered to keep track of how many other women he had. She and her sisters were his favorites, if for no other reason than he could do them here, not have to have his entourage take him to a hotel.
Allegra Angelina Amato had been two years old when her brother, Santino, had been born. She had been fascinated by the little bundle and was his constant companion. Talking to him, whispering to him, singing to him ... she was imprinted on Santino’s brain almost from birth.
The nanny quickly became more of an observer than anything else.
When Santino had outgrown his crib and was toddling about on his own, Trip sometimes let him sleep with her. Not very often, she wanted him to learn the same independence that she had developed. But even now, she sometimes woke up to find Santino, in his comfortable pajamas, nestled next to her.
Santino listened politely to his mother, but if he had any questions about her instructions, he turned to Trip. After a while Francesca realized that he was a good boy, didn’t get himself in trouble. So she left him alone. Other than motherly hugs now and then.
For the most part, Trip didn’t have to tell him what to do either. But, sometimes she had to step in.
One morning in the school hallway, a much older boy, Preston Whitfield, slapped the back of Santino’s head, “Hey dummy, cat got your tongue?”
With his pals watching, Whitfield pushed Santino’s backpack so hard that he fell face down on the tile. Trip saw that he had broken his fall with his hands and wasn’t hurt that much.
She helped her little brother to his feet without even glancing at Whitfield.
Three weeks later, Trip walked a mile and a half to an Ace Hardware outlet. She purchased a ball-peen hammer, the smallest size they carried. At another store the next day she bought the smallest pair of plastic gloves she could find.
Trip had learned the value of patience from her father. She had spent the past three weeks discretely learning Whitfield’s routine. Trip determined the safest place to ambush him was after he had parted with the last of his buddies and entered the little pedestrian door in the gate that gave access to the long curving driveway which lead to his house.
The police report was far more detailed than the heavily censored article in the local paper. Whitfield had a broken jaw and a concussion. And the business end of the bloody hammer was forced up the butt of the naked boy.
Some suspected Trip. Why not, given how odd she was? And what her father did for a living. But those were mere speculative rumors, no police investigation went anywhere near her.
Santino didn’t have any more bully problems that year.
In a perhaps-fitting coda, the Whitfields sold their estate which had been in the family since the 1790s. It was far grander than most North Shore properties. Family money had come from timber, agriculture, fishing, arms manufacturing, import-export. When it was profitable they closed factories and moved operations to third world countries.
Vincente bought the Whitfield estate at the asking price. He had sensed an opportunity in what was -- for the North Shore -- a panic sell. He would never move his family into the mansion -- it was far larger than Mr. Montano’s spread. That would show disrespect.
However, he knew he could rent it out for more than $30,000 a month. Let it appreciate for a few years, then sell it.
Francesca knew she was a beautiful woman. Vincente would never have given her a glance otherwise. She worked out religiously. Every single morning after the kids were off to school and Vincente was in his office doing Vincente things.
Also, Francesca was a woman with needs, physical needs. Her sex drive was high, it seemed her body was almost constantly humming. Vincente, when he wanted her, was the best lover she’d ever had. With the biggest cock. Which he never mentioned. Vincente didn’t talk much, talked about himself even less.
But he had Francesca and her sisters. And other women. If Vincente had one weakness, it was little girls. Francesca didn’t worry about them, to her it was a harmless quirk. She certainly didn’t worry about laws, about the girls’ parents. Her husband would know how to avoid even a whisper of trouble.
Nor did she worry about the girls themselves. Francesca had grown up knowing that females were put on earth to be fucked. If it pleased her husband to start them far earlier than society approved ... well, fuck society.
Vincente trusted Allegra Angelina Amato as he did no one else on earth. When it was necessary, after a girl had been brought to him, Vincente would have Trip clean things up.
Trip would look at the girl to determine if she needed to bring Maria in to see to the damage. Maria was in in her 60s, the head of housekeeping. And a nurse.
Often Trip would just calm the girl, bathe her, get her dressed and put her in a car for the driver to take her wherever he took her. Trip didn’t know where they came from nor where they went after her father was finished. And wasn’t curious enough to ask.
So it wasn’t her father’s sex life that bothered Trip. It was her mother. When Trip was 5, her father told her, “Your mother is a robust woman with a high sex drive. She has her needs.”
Trip nodded gravely, wise beyond her years.
Vincente said, “Talk to her. Tell her I understand. But when she takes a lover, it must be no one we know. And never around here. Only in the City.”
Francesca wasn’t the least surprised that it was Trip who laid out the ground rules. Even back then, the solemn little girl seemed to soak up complex ideas, categorize them and never forget a thing.
Still, Trip felt responsible for her mother. If Francesca got careless, fucked up, no telling what her father might do.
So Trip worked out a compromise, a contract of sorts. When Francesca was planning a trip to the City, the conversation might go like this:
“Who is he, Franny?”
Her mother would give Trip everything she needed to know -- name, age, occupation, address.
Then Trip would ask, “The Carlyle?”
It would be ‘yes’ or the name of another hotel.
“When will you be back?”
It would be that night or three days from now. Vincente never questioned his wife on her absences. And Trip always explained to Santino where their mother was going, who she would be fucking, and how long she would be gone.
Another question that Trip had learned to ask her mother was “Anyone else?”
Trip had learned that her mother sometimes met with two or three men at a time. Trip didn’t care how many fucked Francesca, she just had to make sure they met the guidelines that Vincente had laid out.
When Trip first started tracking the men her mother fucked, and Trip was 5 at the time, she said, “Franny, before you go into the City, you need to clear it with Vincente first.”
Francesca blinked, her cheeks reddened a little, “Would you mind... ?”
So Trip would say to her father, “Franny wants to go to the City Tuesday and Wednesday. Back Thursday morning.”
Usually Vincente just nodded or said, “Fine.” Once in a while he wanted to fuck his wife on the designated day and would tell Triple-A, “No.”
Trip would tell her mother, “Reschedule.”
Santino was going through a stage. He would slide into wherever his mother was -- bedroom, bath, wherever. He watched her undress, try on different outfits. He watched her shower before her bubble bath, then shower afterwards.
Francesca complained to Trip, “I don’t have any fucking privacy.”
“Let him watch. He’s just curious. But tell me if he tries anything.”
“What will you do?”
“Depends on what Santino does to you.”
Francesca dropped it. She knew that was as much of an answer as Trip would be giving her.
When Trip turned 9, her father started letting her know which girl he wanted to fuck. When he was in the mood for his wife, he just told Trip, “Tell Francesca to get herself ready.”
Trip would wander into the kitchen or wherever her mother was and say, “Franny, his majesty awaits.”
Francesca would grin and hurry upstairs to shower.
When Vincente wanted one of his sisters-in-law, he would tell Trip, “Elena.” Or, “Gina.” But most often it was the youngest sister, “Lisa.”
“Just one night.”
Vincente found himself giving more and more responsibility to Trip. It was a simple and effective solution. She had always cared for Santino and had gradually taken over most of the household decision making from Francesca.
Eventually Vincente gave Trip a phone number along with a cloned cell to be used to call only that specific number. Thus, Triple-A began booking the young girls for Account # 747898. So far as she could tell, her father didn’t order a girl any more often or any less often now that Trip was calling for him.
When Santino wasn’t studying his mother’s body, he was beside Trip. Sitting, standing, walking. Except for when they were separated by different classes at school, he didn’t like to be apart from his adored sister.
When she sent him in to shower, Santino returned as quickly as he could, dripping water, toweling himself off. Trip no longer checked to see that he had cleaned himself properly, he was a good boy and did as she told him to.
At age 10, Triple-A began looking at the household budget. She discerned that Maria, the nurse who headed up housekeeping was skimming 5% to 7% of her monthly budget. Trip decided, without talking it over with her father, to let the practice continue.
But she did sit Marie down to let her know she wasn’t getting away without anyone being aware. As always, Trip spoke in a quiet, calm, sure voice, “It’s fine with me, Maria. You’re worth it to help with Vincente’s little girls. But keep it at that level and no one else will need to know.”
Cook was also skimming, but the amount was so paltry that Trip didn’t bother to mention it.
Gradually, employee by employee, Triple-A learned who the most efficient ones were, who were taking advantage by coasting a lot of the day. She took her time, she was in no hurry.
Then one Monday morning, she called in four of the staff, one at a time. Handed them a month’s severance in cash and a decent, but not glowing, reference from a form she downloaded.
She printed out a summary to show Vincente that night, but he just smiled, “I don’t need to see petty shit like that, Allegra. You’re in charge, do what you need to do.”
As Vincente had known, this compliment pleased Trip enormously. Her father trusted her, trusted her judgement in adult matters.
Neither Trip nor her father thought to say anything to Francesca. This wasn’t something to bother her about.
Trip spent a couple weeks interviewing applicants that the service sent over and ended up hiring two to replace the four departed ones.
The only staff that Trip didn’t examine were the ones hired directly by her father. She knew that they’d been thoroughly vetted. And tested at the highest levels.
Trip, at age 10, decided to pay herself $1,000 a month for, basically, running the household. She didn’t clear it with Vincente, no need to.
Francesca hissed, “Trip! It’s Santino. He’s touching me. My pussy. Have him stop.”
Trip regarded her mother calmly, “He’s just curious, let him explore.”
“Why don’t you let him explore your pussy?”
“If he wants to, he can.”
By the time Trip had turned 14, she was running the household seamlessly. And going to school. And nurturing Santino. Vincente was sharing much of his own business dealings with his precocious daughter. Trip listened carefully, never wrote anything down, never forgot a thing.
Francesca, now 26, was so used to Trip being in charge that it wouldn’t occur to her that it could be any other way. Trip still let her go to the City as often as she wanted. Just so long as Trip was sure she knew everyone her mother would be fucking. And Vincente didn’t want her that day.
Mr. Montano had turned 90, but didn’t look any worse than normal. Didn’t look any better either. Depending on the topic of discussion, Vincente occasionally took Trip with him to Mr. Montano’s home. That was one measure of how much the two men trusted her.
One morning Mr. Montano asked her, “Did you think about killing that Whitfield boy?”
Trip wasn’t the least surprised that he knew about that. He knew almost everything worth knowing in this part of the state. Her father looked at her with interest, they had never discussed the incident.
Trip said, “No, not at all. If he had really hurt Santino, I would have considered it. But I wasn’t filled with blood lust, nothing like that.”
Mr. Montano and Vincente exchanged a glance and moved on to another topic.
Santino, now 12, still didn’t talk to anyone. Other than whispering to his sister. But for the first time, he wanted to be alone once in a while. Trip was relieved and fully approved. Masturbation was a very healthy sign.
His mother and his three aunts had long ago become accustomed to Santino’s curiosity about their bodies. Since Trip allowed it, there was nothing they could have done about it anyway. Actually, they thought it cute. Harmless and cute.
Allegra Angelina Amato had been sexually active for a long time. She hadn’t discussed it with anyone, not even Vincente. Since both her mother and father had prodigious sex drives, Trip wasn’t surprised at her own.
She went about finding her first lover as she did everything -- slowly, carefully, meticulously. Rob was 32, married, a stockbroker who took the train to the City.
Trip would later realize that he wasn’t that proficient a lover, but she had wanted experience. Because of Trip’s age, he was torn between nervousness and excitement. Trip actually ended up calming him down the first time they were alone in a hotel room.
Since then she had enjoyed a steady stream of lovers, mostly men. She insisted that all of the men and even the few women she took to bed be married. And, after Rob, she never fucked anyone who lived on Long Island. Like her mother, she took the train to the City.
Trip rarely masturbated, she was too busy. When the urge became great enough, she was her usual brisk, efficient self. Trip smiled inwardly, remembering that day when Santino whispered in her ear, “Francesca masturbates forever.”
Trip told him, “Let her. Don’t say anything, don’t tease her. It’s her business.”
“Of course, everyone does. But for me, it’s not often and not for long.”
Santino cupped his little hands around Trip’s ear and whispered, “Can I jack off while I watch her?”
Trip sighed and he could tell she was disappointed in him. She held both his hands and looked him in the eye, “Santino, you know you don’t have to ask me about that. Of course you jack off any time you want. Just don’t spoil Francesca’s orgasms. If you want to spurt on her, wait until she cums.”
By the time Santino was 14, Trip no longer bothered to watch him fuck the whores she had delivered for him. She had taught him the basics and so long as he was enjoying himself, Trip didn’t care whether the whores had a good time.
Francesca and her sisters had long since not bothered to comment as they watched Santino lead whore after whore up to his suite. Only when a granny was especially old, or a little boy or little girl especially young, did they even pay attention.
One Saturday morning when Santino was upstairs fucking a little boy, Trip turned, smiling, to Francesca, “Go up and encourage Santino, Franny. He’s still not comfortable enough doing other boys.”
By now, it had been years since Francesca questioned anything her 16-year old daughter told her to do. Not any more than she did her husband. She grinned and scurried up to cheerlead her son. Trip called to her, “Lose the robe.”
Francesca tossed it on a bannister for one of the maids to see to.
Watching Francesca’s taut ass as she took the stairs two at a time, Allegra Angelina Amato decided then and there to have Santino fuck their mother the next day. It was more out of curiosity on how both would react, and then behave, than anything else.
Trip knew that Francesca would do it without hesitating. Depending on the results, Trip would probably give him their aunts to fuck too. Might be a confidence booster.
Trip was already sending her mother some of her lovers once she dropped them. However, she didn’t, and wouldn’t fuck any of Francesca’s current nor discarded men.
Francesca was pleased that Trip cared enough for her, thought that highly of her, to share. Trip wondered idly what her former lovers had to say about her. Might be worth having Francesca’s hotel rooms bugged. Then Trip decided she wasn’t that interested and forgot about it.