Sunday Bloody Sunday
Copyright© 2026 by Streaky_1
Chapter 1
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When Rebecca turns eighteen, a summer-long secret threatens to tear her family apart. But neighbour Vern knows the truth, and he has a price for his silence.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Fan Fiction Farming Cheating Sharing Incest Brother Father Rough Group Sex Cream Pie First AI Generated
The kitchen was hot by nine, every window open and not one of them doing a thing. Rebecca came down in Dean’s old shirt and found the table laid: pancakes going cold on a plate, a card standing up against the salt shaker with her name in his blocky capitals. Inside, under the printed Happy Birthday, he’d written Eighteen. Nothing else. She stood barefoot on the linoleum and read it four times while the floor fan pushed the smell of syrup around the room.
He came in from the yard at noon with his shirt over one shoulder and the screen door banging shut behind him. “You eat those pancakes?”
“You made me pancakes.”
“I asked if you ate them.”
“I ate them.” Two of them, standing at the counter, the rest left for the flies. He nodded, went to the sink, bent, and drank straight from the tap with his hand cupped under the stream. She saw the muscle slide under his shoulder blade. She’d seen that her whole life. It wasn’t the same seeing now. She’d been eighteen since four minutes past six that morning and the house had been rebuilt around her overnight — every plank and doorframe in the same place, all of it loaded now, everything about to go off.
“Cole called,” he said, drying his hands down his jeans. “Job’s running over. Tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like your mother.” She let that sit. He didn’t usually bring her up. Outside, the neighbor’s dog started up at nothing and quit again. She showered and put on the yellow sundress with the thin ties at the shoulders, the one she’d bought in town with her own money, and came down at six to find a cake on the counter and Dean standing over it with his arms loose at his sides, looking at it the way he studied a broken pump.
It was from the grocery. White frosting, pink sugar roses, a curl of hardened chocolate that said Happy Birthday in a script too small for the space. “I didn’t know what kind,” he said.
“It’s perfect.”
“It’s a kid’s cake.”
“Dean.” She cut two slabs, wide ones, and pushed the bigger onto his plate. “It’s perfect.” He poured whiskey into two glasses and they took it out to the porch, and the cicadas were going so loud it was a texture in the air, a hiss off the fields. She sat on the rail with her feet up, heels hooked on the wood, and the whiskey went down hot and sweet and made her feel like someone with a job and a car and a plan.
He sat in the chair with his elbows on his knees, glass hanging from two fingers, and he was quiet in the way that meant he was chewing on something. “Say it,” she said.
“Say what.”
“Whatever you’ve been chewing on since noon.”
He looked out at the field for a while. The light was going orange and dragging long shadows up the furrows. “You’re grown,” he said.
“I am.”
“You’re gonna leave.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.” She drank. The whiskey was making her bold and she liked it. “You want me to stay?” He looked at her then, straight on, and his face did something she’d never seen it do, and she felt it drop through her like a swallowed stone. The cicadas went on screaming. She swung her feet down off the rail so she was sitting square, knees apart, dress pulled tight across her thighs.
“Dean.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.” He set the glass down on the boards, slow and careful, like it might break if he hurried. “I’ve been sitting here since six o’clock trying to figure out how to get through one night without—” He stopped himself ... She stood up. Her heart was going like something trapped, and her hands had gone cold, she came across the porch and stood in front of him where his knees were.
“Without what,” she said. His hand came up and closed around her ankle. Just that. Wide, hot, callused at the base of the fingers from twenty years of pipe and rope and wrench, and his thumb pressed into the bone there and she felt it go all the way up her leg and settle between her legs, low and heavy, a pulse.
“You know what you’re asking me,” he said.
“I’m not asking.” Her voice came out strange, low. “You’re the one holding my ankle.” He laughed — one breath of it, no humor in it at all — and then he pulled, and she came down onto his lap with her knees on either side of him, and the chair took the weight with a creak, and his face was right there, weathered and sweat-shined and near enough that she could see the gray coming in at his temple.
“Tell me out loud,” he said. “Because I’m not going to guess and get it wrong.”
“I want you to fuck me.” Saying it made her dizzy, her own mouth making those words at him. “I’ve wanted it. I won’t pretend I haven’t.”
He kissed her. His mouth was hot and tasted of whiskey, and the kiss was like a hard decision, and his hand came up the curve of her neck into her wet hair and held her there; she made a sound into his mouth she’d never made before. Then he stood up with her still wrapped around him, one arm under her ass, and carried her in through the screen door and up the stairs like she weighed nothing at all.
Her room was blue-dark and hot. He set her on the edge of the bed — the bed he’d built her when she was nine, sanded the headboard down twice because she’d kept getting splinters — and knelt at the bedside, and pulled the ties at her shoulders loose one at a time. The dress fell to her waist. His hands were rough over her ribs, every ridge of them. “Lie back.”
She lay back. He got the dress off over her hips and dropped it, and then his gaze moved over her, and it went through her hot and terrible, being seen like that, her tits bare, her underwear the plain grey ones with the worn elastic because she hadn’t considered any of this happening tonight. “Cute,” he said, hooking his finger in the waistband.
“Shut up.”
He pulled them down her legs and put his mouth on the inside of her knee, and then higher, his breath hot on the inside of her thigh, she said his name and he said, “Say it again,” and she did.
His mouth was on her pussy and she stopped being able to think in sentences. His tongue went flat and slow up the whole length of her and her hips came off the bed and he pushed them back down with one hand spread across her belly. He found her clit with his tongue and worked it, steady, patient, the way he did everything, and she was so wet she could hear it, her own slick under his mouth, and she got a fist in the sheets and pulled and made noises at the ceiling she didn’t recognize. When he pushed two fingers in her she clenched on them and shook and came, hard, her thighs closing on his ears, and he held her hips down and didn’t let up until she was pushing at his head to make him stop.
He came up over her, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. His belt made a sound coming loose. “Roll onto your side.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not going to feel good from the front the first time. Trust me.” She turned onto her side and he came down behind her, still half dressed, jeans open, and she felt the head of his cock slide through the wet between her legs, thick and blunt, and every part of her drew tight.
“Breathe out,” he said. “All the way out.” She breathed out. He pushed in. It was too much. She made a hurt noise and grabbed at his forearm and he stopped, all the way stopped, breathing hot against her nape.
“Half of it,” he said. “That’s all. That’s all that’s in.”
“It’s not—”
“I know it’s not.” His hand slid around her hip, down, two fingers finding her clit and pressing, circling, while his cock sat in her like a fist. “Give it a minute. It changes.”
It changed. She didn’t know how, but the ache broke open and underneath it was something else, a spreading heat, and she pushed her ass back against him without deciding to and he groaned like it had been pulled out of him and slid in deeper. The last of it went and she felt full in a way she had no words for and her eyes stung and she laughed, once, wetly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
He moved. Slow at first, long strokes, his hand on her hip keeping her where he wanted her, and it got slippery, then loud — the wet of it, the bed ticking. When he went faster she put her face in the pillow and he took her jaw and turned it back. “No,” he said. “I want to hear you.”
So she let him hear her. It built up again, that rising pressure, and his fingers left her hip and went back between her legs and she came on his cock with her mouth open and nothing coming out, just shaking, her whole body wringing on him.
He pulled out. She felt the loss of it, the cool air, and then his hand at her hip turning her onto her back, and he knelt up over her and finished across her belly and her tits, hot and thick, one stripe hitting her collarbone. He stayed there a second with his head down, breathing like he’d been running. Then he sat back on his heels and looked at her, and something crossed his face that she couldn’t read — not regret, not quite.
“Cole doesn’t need to hear about this,” he said. Rebecca lay still, her thighs wet, her belly cooling in the fan’s draft. Outside, a cicada stopped mid-note, and the quiet that rushed in after it was enormous.
By the time the screen door banged downstairs, Rebecca had already wiped her belly with the sheet and was pulling on her shirt, and she knew from the way he went still beside her that Cole was home early. Dean’s belt hung open. He got the buckle through the leather in one pull and stood up, and he didn’t look at her, which was worse than if he had. “Stay up here,” he said.
“Dean—”
“Give me a minute with him.” Boots on the stairs already, that heavy flat slap of Cole coming up two at a time the way he always did. Dean went out onto the landing, pulling her door mostly shut behind him. The two of them talked out there in voices too low to make out — Cole’s a run of short, hard words, Dean’s one long one. Then Cole’s boots went past her door and down the hall. The bathroom door shut. A minute later, the pipes knocked.
She got her shorts on. She put her hair back with both hands and looked at the bed — the sheet bunched and damp, the corner pulled loose from the ticking — and pulled it straight-ish, and the smell came up off it and her stomach went hot all over again. Under the bed her grey underwear sat where it had landed. She shoved it back further with her toe.
[IMAGE: the yellow sundress and plain grey underwear, unworn, pooled on the bathroom floor, fogged mirror behind]
The kitchen smelled of cake going stale and the whiskey left out. Cole was at the fridge with the door open, letting the cold out, his shirt stuck to his back in a wet wedge. Dust up to his knees. A red burn across the bridge of his nose that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Job’s done?” she said.
“Job’s done.” He took a beer, thumbed the cap off on the edge of the counter Dean was always telling him not to use. “Truck went hot outside Ashford. Cole stays two days, the manifold’s shot.” He drank. “So.”
“So.”
He turned around then. She had forgotten, somehow, that he was the one in the family who could look at you like a door being opened. “Happy birthday,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Eighteen.” He said it the way Dean had written it on the card. “Guess that’s a big one.” She got herself a glass of water and her hands were behaving and her voice was, too, and she sat down at the table in the chair where she could keep the table between them, and the wood against her was a raw, bright hurt she had to keep her face still for.
Dean came in from the porch with a screwdriver in his hand and no particular reason for it. “Hinge was pulling.”
“Which hinge.”
“The screen.” Cole looked at the screen door. Then at his father. Then at the two whiskey glasses still out on the boards and the plate with the cake knife across it and the card propped against the salt shaker.
“Right,” Cole said. Dean set the screwdriver down on the counter, exactly, the way he set everything down. Cole cut himself a slab of the cake and stood eating it over the sink with the fork loose in his fist. Nobody said anything. Out in the field the cicadas had gone to whatever they did after the heat broke, and the dog down the road started up and quit and started again.
“You want to know what I think happened,” Cole said, to the sink.
“Cole,” Dean said.
“I’m asking the question first. That’s fair.” He put the fork in the sink and it rang. “I could smell it on the stairs.” He wiped his mouth. “Whole hall smells like it. Me walking in off a two-day with my boots on and I know what I’m walking into before I get to the top step. That’s some way to find out my sister’s all grown.”
The word sister sat in the room and took up all the air in it. Rebecca’s ears were roaring. She looked at the cake, at the pink sugar roses, at the curl of chocolate going soft now in the heat. Dean said, very low, “Say the rest of it, then, if you’re going to say it.”
Cole laughed, just the one breath of it, and came and stood at the end of the table with his arms crossed and his neck gone red, and he wasn’t looking at Dean at all. “I won’t say it in her hearing,” he said. “I want her to walk me through it.”
Cole pulled the chair out with his boot heel and sat down across from her, forearms flat on the wood, and waited. Between them lay the knife, frosting gone gray on the blade. The fan turned. Cake and whiskey soured the air, nobody having thought to put either away. “Start at the porch,” he said.
Her throat wouldn’t open. Dean shifted his weight off the counter and Cole’s hand came up flat, palm down, no hurry in it at all. “No. Let her.” So she told it. Pared down, flat — the whiskey, the card, her ankle in his hand — and the whole time Cole watched her mouth and not her eyes, like a word he didn’t trust yet. When she got as far as the stairs she stopped and drank her water and the ice knocked her teeth.
“Keep going.”
“You know the rest.”
“I want the words out of your mouth. Not his.” He turned his glass a quarter turn on the wood. “Did he have you on the bed.”
“Yes.”
“Was it your idea or his.”
“Mine.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected and that steadier thing scared her more than shaking would have. “I said it out loud. He made me say it out loud first.”
Something went across Cole’s face and got put away. He sat back and the chair complained and he dragged his palm down his jaw, and the burn across his nose looked angrier under the kitchen light than it had out in the yard. “Twenty-two years,” he said. “I been the one carrying your books home from the bus. Now I come up my own stairs and the hall smells like a whorehouse and it’s my father’s come in it.”
“Cole.” Dean’s voice had a floor under it now.
“I’m not finished.” Cole stood, and he came around the end of the table slow, and he stopped behind her chair and put both hands on her shoulders. Warm. Dust still in the creases of his knuckles. “You sore?” She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I’m sore.”
“From him.” His thumbs pressed in at the base of her neck, working, almost kind. “And you liked it.”
“Yes.”
“Say the whole thing.”
“I liked it.” Her ears were roaring and her eyes stung and her hands lay flat and still on the wood. She would not take them off it. “I liked him in me. I came on him. Twice.”
Cole’s breath went out of him in a rush and his hands tightened, and then he pulled her chair back from the table with her still in it, wood shrieking on the linoleum, and he got a fist in her hair — not hard, just enough — and tipped her head back against his hip so she was looking up the length of him, his jaw, the wet wedge of his shirt.
“Tell you what I figure,” he said, and this time it wasn’t the sink he was talking to. “I think you been padding through this house all summer with nothing on under your clothes and you knew exactly what it was doing to him. I think he held out longer than most.”
“Cole.” Dean had come off the counter. “That’s enough now.”
“Is it?” Cole’s thumb moved along the edge of her jaw. “Then tell me to put her down and I’ll put her down and we’ll go back to pancakes and birthdays and I’ll pretend I believe it.” The fan turned. The cicadas had stopped, the field gone quiet as held breath, and she could hear the fridge humming and her own blood in her ears. Dean didn’t say it.