Clarence
Copyright© 2024 by P. Tango
Chapter 9
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 9 - 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
Clarence woke to the feeling that something had already ended.
The house was quiet, but not cautiously so. It had the calm of routine restored, the kind that came after a problem had been addressed and filed away. Nothing lingered in the air. No tension. No unease. Just the precise, indifferent order of a house that had already moved on.
He lay still for a while, listening for footsteps, for whispers, for any sign that might tell him which reaction was appropriate. When he finally sat up, the room looked exactly as it had the night before. No trace remained. The moment had passed, and the house had absorbed it without a ripple, making him wonder if he’d imagined its significance.
He dressed and stepped into the corridor, half-expecting to be confronted, half-hoping to be ignored.
No one stopped him.
Breakfast was laid out as usual. Mrs. Rosewood greeted him with the same warm smile she always wore, already talking about the bread before he’d even sat down.
Anastasia’s chair was empty.
Clarence sat, his knife scraping too loudly against the china. He wanted to ask where she was, but feared both the answer and what asking would reveal about him. His thoughts circled back, not to the punishment itself, but to his own inaction—his complicity.
He focused on what he knew.
The room.
It had been ready. Furniture pushed aside, cloths folded nearby, ointment already uncapped. The crop where it was supposed to be.
Clarence chewed slowly, staring at nothing.
What bothered him wasn’t the punishment itself. It was how little of it had felt improvised. No one had rushed. No one had argued. Everyone had known where to stand.
He’d thought he was there to watch.
But thinking back, no one had treated him like someone who didn’t matter.
His mother had spoken through the whole thing, but rarely to him. Her voice had been for Anastasia—quiet, steady, almost gentle. When she addressed Clarence, it had been brief. Come. Sit. Enough. Leave.
It had been Anastasia who talked to him. Anastasia who tried to explain, who told him to stop, who asked him to let it happen.
That stayed with him.
He didn’t know what it meant yet. Only that if his presence hadn’t mattered, it wouldn’t have unfolded that way.
A memory surfaced, unwanted yet insistent.
He was standing against the wall when it happened. Not because he’d done anything. Because Mrs. Halpern had told him to wait there.
“Stay,” she’d said. Not sharply. Not angrily. Like it was obvious.
The chair had already been turned sideways. The door was open. Someone had laid a folded towel on the desk. Clarence’s stomach had knotted—he’d wanted to leave, to protest, to do something—but his feet remained rooted to the floor.
The boy was smaller than Clarence. New. Crying too loudly. Part of Clarence had wanted to comfort him; another part had been relieved it wasn’t himself.
Mrs. Halpern talked the whole time, but not to Clarence. Her voice was calm, almost tired. Most of it was for the boy. Clarence had alternated between staring at the floor and forcing himself to watch, ashamed of both impulses.
When she spoke to Clarence, it was only a word or two. Don’t move. Look here.
It was the other boy who kept glancing at him. Like Clarence was the one who mattered. Each glance had felt like an accusation and a plea simultaneously.
Clarence remembered thinking—without knowing why—that if he wasn’t meant to see it, he wouldn’t still be standing there. Yet he’d hated himself for not walking out anyway.
When it was over, Mrs. Halpern told him he could go.
No explanation. No warning.
He didn’t understand what the boy had done wrong.
But he understood why he had been there, and that understanding made him both sick and strangely powerful.
————————————————————- Later that morning, his mother asked him to walk with her.
They took the garden path, side by side, gravel shifting underfoot. The hedges were clipped into neat curves, leaves glossy and unmoving. Clarence kept his eyes forward.
“Anastasia is resting,” Evelyn said softly.
Clarence nodded, but the word caught. Resting could mean anything here.
“Is she—” He stopped, then tried again. “Is she hurt?”
Evelyn’s reply came after a pause so absolute Clarence wondered if she weighed every syllable. “She will recover.”
That wasn’t what he’d asked.
He saw it again, uninvited—the way Anastasia had been left hanging in the middle of the room, arms bound, her body forced still. He pushed the image down, hard.
Evelyn tilted her head. “And you? How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
She slowed her step until they halted. “You understand why this happened.”
Clarence frowned. “I understand that I didn’t obey.”
She nodded, like that was enough.
“And that disobedience has consequences,” she said.
Clarence swallowed. The word consequences floated somewhere above the thing he couldn’t stop seeing.
“Yes,” he said.
They moved on. The path underfoot sounded hollow.
“You weren’t ordered,” Evelyn continued, voice cool. “And you weren’t punished.”