Chapter 10: Confrontation

Owen sat on the edge of his bed, his body a wire pulled taut. The sounds from the living room were a brutal symphony—his mother’s whimpers, Mia’s high-pitched cries, the rhythmic creak of the couch, Dom’s guttural grunts.

His phone buzzed.

“I’m here. At the side entrance. – Dad.”

Owen’s chest tightened. The thought of his father witnessing this depravity filled him with a profound dread. He crept to his door and peered into the hallway. The living room door was closed, but the sounds from within were unmistakable. He moved like a ghost down the hall.

He cracked the side door open. Lester stood there, his face gaunt and eyes shadowed by exhaustion. His scrawny frame, clad in a rumpled shirt, seemed achingly frail against the memory of Dom’s imposing bulk.

“Dad,” Owen whispered, his voice trembling.

Lester’s eyes swept over his son, taking in the sunken cheeks, the thin frame, the haunted look in his eyes. “God, Owen,” he murmured, his voice thick. “What’s happened to you?”

Owen couldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s ... it’s Dom. He’s been—” A loud, sharp cry from the living room cut him off. Lester’s head snapped toward the sound, his expression shifting from concern to dark suspicion.

“What the hell is that?” he demanded, his voice low and sharp.

“Dad, you don’t want to—”

But Lester was already moving, striding down the hallway with a purpose Owen had never seen, fists clenched. Owen hurried after him, heart hammering against his ribs.

Lester didn’t hesitate. He shoved the living room door open with such force it slammed against the wall. The scene inside froze him mid-step.

The air was thick, choked with the pungent, metallic smell of sweat and the cloying, sweet-musk of recent sex.

Dom stood naked beside the couch. At the sound of the door, his head snapped around. The moment his eyes landed on Lester, Dom’s face broke into a slow, deep grin of absolute victory. His chest still rose and fell rapidly, his skin sheening with sweat under the dim light. And in that moment, Lester’s horrified gaze was dragged past him to the couch.

To Mia. His daughter.

She was sprawled on the leather, her naked body flushed a deep, feverish red and gleaming with a fine sweat. Her chest heaved with ragged, shuddering breaths that made the taut, rounded dome of her belly rise and fall. Her legs were thrown wide in a brutal, open V, knees bent and fallen outward in a complete and utter surrender. Between them, her sex was a swollen, glistening ruin, the lips puffed and dark crimson from hard use. A fresh, thick stream of pearlescent semen oozed from her deeply stretched opening, dripping steadily to join the glutinous pool already soaking the cushion beneath her hips. More of it was smeared in slick, milky streaks across the inside of her trembling thighs.

And there, standing over her, was the source. Dom’s cock, still fully erect and viciously thick, was gleaming and wet, slick with a viscous mixture of his own release and Mia’s juices. A final, thick drop of cum clung to the tip before falling to the floor.

Mia’s face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glassy with a dazed, fucked-out emptiness. But the moment her gaze locked with her father’s, that emptiness shattered into pure, wide-eyed horror.

“Dad...” Mia’s voice was a choked broken whisper. She tried to pull her legs together, hands fumbling to cover herself, her movements sluggish with shame. “Don’t look at me,” she sobbed. “I’m ... ruined. I’m disgusting.”

He rushed to her, dropping to his knees. He moved instinctively to block Dom’s view of her nakedness, placing his own body between them as he reached for her. “No, sweetheart, you’re not,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Mia hesitated, then collapsed against him, her naked form pressing close. He felt the hard curve of her pregnancy, the fullness of her breasts, and the slick, clammy smear of Dom’s cum on her thigh as it pressed against his pants. He held her tight, ignoring the stain soaking through the fabric.

It was only as he held Mia that his peripheral vision registered the other figure in the room. Tessa. She sat slumped in an armchair, her nightgown pushed up to her waist, revealing the swell of her own pregnancy. Her thighs were glistening, her sex wet and used, fresh cum dripping onto the fabric of the chair. Her face was streaked with tears, eyes hollow and fixed on the floor, unable to meet his gaze. The sickening ease of their movements, the way they avoided his eyes in unison—this was a practiced ritual of shame.