Clarence
Copyright© 2024 by P. Tango
Chapter 8
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 8 - When his father died, he went to live with his mother and sister... and their Master.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Fa/ft Consensual Slavery Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter DomSub
The next night, Clarence was in the kitchen reading a very boring math book when his mother found him.
She didn’t call his name. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply appeared at the doorway, hands folded, posture exact.
“Come with me,” Evelyn said.
He knew better than to ask why. The house never explained consequences in advance. Explanation came afterward, if at all.
They walked in silence. Clarence noticed that she didn’t touch him, didn’t guide him with a hand at his back.
They ended in front of Anastasia’s bedroom. The door stood ajar, the hinge creaking as Evelyn pushed it wider. The curtains were drawn. The lamps were lit, but low. The bed had been moved back, the chair positioned in a corner of the room. Clarence’s breath hitched before his brain fully processed the scene: Anastasia suspended from the ceiling, wrists bound above her head, rope biting into her skin. She was naked except for the sheen of sweat along her collarbones, her breathing steady but shallow. He looked at her face. She looked calm. Pale, but composed.
She met Clarence’s eyes and shook her head once, almost imperceptibly.
Don’t speak.
Evelyn closed the door behind them and then turned to Clarence, who was watching the scene with his mouth open in surprise. “Sit and keep silent,” she ordered, pointing to the chair.
She approached Anastasia.
“Stand straight,” Evelyn said, taking the riding crop from the bedside table with practiced ease. “Twenty strikes,” she announced, as casually as if reciting a grocery list, the crop tapping lightly against her own palm—once, twice. “You were given a simple task, and you failed.” Her gaze flicked to Clarence, who stiffened.
His stomach twisted. “What task?” His voice cracked, eyes darting between Anastasia’s serene expression and the cruel gleam of the crop in Evelyn’s hand.
Evelyn paused mid-step, tilting her head as though he’d asked why the sky was blue. “To seduce you, Clarence.” She tapped the crop against Anastasia’s breast.
He lurched forward. “Stop. I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t—”
“SIT DOWN!” Evelyn ordered. Clarence sat, his heart pounding.
Evelyn’s crop sliced the air an inch from his chest. “You had your chance.” She smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Orders are orders.”
“I tried,” Anastasia said.
The crop cracked against the table beside her, making Clarence jerk. “Try harder next time.”
Next time. The words lodged in Clarence’s throat. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to step forward, to—what? Stop this? This was the first time he had witnessed this side of her mother. He also looked at his sister. Anastasia’s eyes stared at the floor—not out of submission, but focus.
Evelyn lifted the crop, testing its weight. “Start counting.”
“Wait—” Clarence started, but Evelyn was already swinging, the first strike leaving an angry red line diagonally across the first. Anastasia’s knees buckled for half a second before she locked them straight again, her breath hissing between clenched teeth. Her breath hitched, but her voice was clear when she spoke:
“One.”
The crack of the crop made Clarence flinch harder than Anastasia did. For a horrifying second, Clarence wasn’t in this bedroom with its silk-draped windows and perfume-soaked air. He was ten years old again, pressed face-first into the scratchy wool of Mrs. Hargrove’s living room carpet while the belt came down—thwack—across his shoulder blades. “Ungrateful,” she’d hissed, her breath smelling of onions and gin, “filthy little liar.” He’d bitten his tongue so hard the copper taste flooded his mouth, refusing to cry. Just like Anastasia was doing now.
Clarence moved without thinking, grabbing Evelyn’s wrist mid-swing. “Stop. Please.”
“Remove your hand.” Evelyn’s voice snapped him back to the present. Her eyes were flat, unreadable—not angry, just efficient.
Anastasia twisted her head, just enough to look at him.
“Clarence,” she said, sharply now. “Do not take this from me.”
He froze.
“This is what responsibility looks like here,” she continued. Her breath was controlled, even. “If you interfere, you make it meaningless. And you make it worse.” He looked at her, incredulous. “I earned this.” Evelyn twisted her wrist free and delivered the second and third strikes, these ones lower, right above the swell of Anastasia’s ass.
Anastasia’s fingers were white-knuckled against the rope now, but her posture hadn’t broken. Evelyn swung again—methodical, almost clinical—and Clarence’s stomach twisted. He knew that rhythm. Knew the way the welts would rise later, hot and throbbing under chilled linens.
Clarence clenched his hands so hard his nails bit into his palms. He tasted metal.
This is my fault. This is my fault. This is—
The thought broke apart when he realized something worse.
If he had accepted, this wouldn’t be happening. He started to move again.
“Stay where you are,” Evelyn said without turning. The fourth strike landed diagonally across the first three, a practiced cruelty Clarence recognized too well. Anastasia gasped this time, her spine arching involuntarily before she forced herself flat again. “F-four.”
Clarence’s hands curled uselessly at his sides. He could still feel Mrs. Hargrove’s bony fingers digging into his chin as she’d forced him to watch his own blood drip onto the carpet. He looked at the way Anastasia’s dark hair stuck to her neck with sweat—had his own face looked that pale? That rigid with suppressed pain?
“Five.” Anastasia’s voice wavered. Blood started to seep where the crop had split skin. Clarence moved again, interposing between Evelyn and his sister. “She’s bleeding!”
Evelyn’s eyes flashed, a mixture of anger and regret. “And whose fault is that?” Clarence was about to say something, but Anastasia—breath ragged now—spoke before he could do it.
“Clarence.” His name came out again, half-grunt, half-plea. “Don’t.” Her dark eyes locked onto his, furious and lucid despite the pain. “This isn’t your shame to carry.” Clarence stood back.
The sixth strike came harder, faster. Anastasia’s whole body jerked, but when she shouted “Six!” it wasn’t a sob—it was a challenge. Evelyn paused, nostrils flaring. Then, inexplicably, the ghost of a smile touched her lips. She adjusted her grip on the crop, rolling her shoulder like a duelist preparing for the next pass.
Clarence tasted copper where his teeth had cut his cheek. The orphanage rustled in his memory, but beneath that thought, another, quieter one came: She’s not breaking. She’s bending back.