Chapter 5

My daughter was home and we fucked like minks – the tone was set as she walked in the door, her clothes were hitting the floor all around her. I held her face down atop her wet and slightly smelly underwear while I plowed her from behind, holding on to her hip with my other hand - the constant stream of "thank you Daddy" and "fuck me Daddy" had me coming deep inside her far faster than I'd wanted, so I'd pulled out my spent cock and fisted her until she was incoherent.

Christie watched the whole show with amusement – and given how her legs were twitching, rubbing her thighs together – no small degree of excitement. When I was through I had Christie help Meredith to bed. I served my daughter her supper in bed, my cock growing heavier and harder as the meal went along. Once I was through, I looked at Christie.

"You have a choice – I can fuck your face while you get yourself off, or I can fuck you while you eat Meredith into incoherence again."

Christie's face was between my daughter's legs before another ten seconds had passed and her attention to my daughter's needs was wet and sloppy – just like her cunt as I slid into her from behind.

Since I'd come relatively recently, Christie got a good, long fucking – long enough that she'd achieved my daughter's insensibility quite a while before I was through. She spent the last twenty minutes or so of our time together with her face resting on Meredith's cunt, her arms wrapped around my daughter's waist.

The next several days, I might have qualified as somewhat sane – I daily added to the brand pattern on Trash, and there was the obligatory rapine, performed by either me or Meredith, who had great fun ramming her biggest, roughest dildo into Trash's cunt.

But otherwise, I left her care to Christie and I fucked my little girl anywhere there was a flat surface – and plenty of places there wasn't. It violated my idea of myself as a disciplined person, a Dom ... but the lust between Meredith and I, sweetened and deepened by the love between us, was intoxicating, and I could take my vengeance on Trash any time I wanted. I and my cock had the most beautiful and shiniest new toy to play with – everything else went into maintenance mode.

In the short periods I did spend with my ex-daughter-in-law, it was evident that the sleep deprivation was taking its toll – she was pretty much a gibbering idiot by the second day – by the third she was coherent again, but speaking to people who weren't there. By the fourth day, my prisoner was insensate – she barely came to when she was being branded, slept through her rape and only occasionally would open her eyes wide while screaming incoherently.

It was at that point that I dialed things back a notch, letting her sleep with no interruptions.

As small bedsores had appeared – another issue I'd failed to take into account – Christie had to turn Trash regularly, and my enjoyment of her body was tinged with the smells of antibiotic cream.

After a quick search online, we found plans for a passive stander, which would allow Trash to be supported in an upright position, and a short session in the Tool Shed produced one that fit our needs perfectly.

I strongly considered testing a theory I'd developed – the standard stereotype of prisoners/slaves hanging from shackles would – it seemed to me – create bedsore-like pressure wounds on the wrists, necessitating either some kind of relief from the their suspension, or full-blown ulcerations of the skin, leading to gangrene and amputation. I had the perfect test-subject at hand ... but the thought of Christie's reaction stayed my hand. Still, if Trash at any point became troublesome, I planned to send Christie on a lovely vacation and see if my suppositions were correct.

Most nightmares begin - not surprisingly - at night, but mine began in the afternoon, in the middle of drilling my daughter's beautiful ass, when the phone rang.

An ashen-faced Christie came to get me – one look at her and I had pulled out of my daughter and was running to the phone.

"M-m-master..." Sophie sobbed on the other end of the line.

"Calm down – tell me what happened."

"Your s-son ... he came home from work early t-today ... and shot ... he shot himself in the head."

Time stopped – I remember dust motes in the air, hanging motionless in the sunlight coming through the windows, fragmented into shafts by the trees outside. Christie was standing next to me, eternally held in the horror of that moment. She had grown to care for Johnny while he stayed with us, to think of him almost as a step-son, although they were the same age – the devastation she felt was impossible to hide, even if she'd cared to try. My daughter was running out of the bedroom towards Christie and I –beautiful, graceful, frozen in mid-stride like a gazelle.

"He's still ... he's still alive – he's in surgery – but the doctors ... they say you'd better come."

Time started itself again, moving into hyper-speed as Meredith and I showered, threw on clothes and drove to the city, violating every traffic law in existence, and miraculously avoided killing ourselves or others.

By the time we arrived, Johnny was out of surgery – no cause for celebration as the only thing keeping him alive was the plethora of machines surrounding him. There were conversations with doctors that I don't remember, Meredith and Sophie were huddled together in communal misery, and I was led to see my son – gone in all the ways that counted, all the ways that mattered.

There are words you never want to hear, words like "your son signed a non-resuscitation order" and "we were only waiting until you arrived" and "would you like some time alone with him before..."

"Can it wait a little longer, until his ... stepmother ... can get here to say good-bye?"

I didn't recognize the voice, didn't know it for my own. Some stranger, infinitely better-suited to handle the moment than I, was in charge.

A woman in a lab coat said "Certainly" and the stranger pulled out my cell, called Christie and told her to come.

She told the stranger that she had taken care of a few things and was already on her way.

We were a strange family unit, gathered around my son's bed. Me, his stepmother-in-all-but-name whom I'd trained as a slut, his wife-in-all-but-name whom I'd trained, and his sister – my lover – my wife.

We all said our goodbyes, Meredith and I each holding one of his hands, and someone came in, respectfully and quietly, and asked "Are you ready?"

I nodded and the woman in the lab coat started flipping switches.

Click.

Snap.

Click.

There was a pause, I don't remember how long, although it couldn't have been too lengthy – I was holding my breath the entire time.

The heart monitor gave out its solid tone, flat green line running across the screen.

My son was at rest.

I made it to the hall before I collapsed.

I lay curled up on his bed, while Sophie and Meredith packed Sophie's things. She'd be coming home with us – for how long, no one knew and no one cared. After that they would tackle Johnny's things – there wasn't much – the whole thing with Trash had left him uninterested in possessions. There were some books, some CDs, some clothes that would be donated to Goodwill.

Randy appeared at some point, lying down behind me, wrapping his arms around me. The tranquilizers were very good and very strong and I slept.

I awoke at some point – I remember it was dark - needing to go pee, and found Meredith on my left, Randy on my right – I was held so tightly I could barely move, so I had to slide off the bottom of the bed.

When I was done, I wandered into the kitchen and found Sophie and Christie talking at the kitchen table. I wanted to sit down with them, but before I could say anything, the two of them were up and shuttling me back to bed. Another tranquilizer and a glass of water later, they'd woken Randy and with his help, put me back in bed beside Meredith, where he cuddled up on my other side again.

I didn't order them to leave me be – I didn't care where I was or if I was awake or not – everything was ugly and everything hurt and my son was dead and there was nothing I could do that would change that.

When I next woke up, the sun was high in the sky and I was stiff and sore. My mouth tasted like a chemical waste dump.

I used my son's toothbrush and mouthwash to remedy that and was somewhat ready to face the world again. Christie had gone back home to check on Trash, Meredith had made the arrangements for Johnny's service and cremation, the apartment was packed ... for the first time in my life, I felt my years, I felt old and tired – but I knew just the thing to put a spring back in my step.

As soon as my son was put to rest, I would go back home and give Trash a session she'd never forget.

"How long have I been out?" I asked Sophie and Meredith.

"Thirty-six hours, give or take," Meredith replied. "The memorial service is tomorrow morning; the coroner released the body just a few hours ago. He didn't leave a will so..."

"Not that Natalie left him anything anyway," Sophie added. "I've already told apartment management that we'll be out by tomorrow night. They tried to squawk about breaking the lease, but after Meredith came down and explained things to them, they backed off."

I hugged the two of them and let Sophie serve me coffee.

Randy had returned to Francesca – I called and thanked her for sending him.

"As if I could stop him – as if I would stop him. He wanted to make sure you didn't do anything crazy – we all know how much Johnny meant to you. We will see you at the memorial service."

I don't remember a lot of the intervening hours between waking up, going back to sleep that night, and then waking again to find Christie was back and had brought fresh clothes for she and Meredith and I, suitable for a funeral service.

As we were dressing, I said, "Meredith ... I don't know what I'm going to say – I don't know what I could say without losing it completely..."

"Dad, don't worry," Meredith said, putting her hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to say anything. Sophie is going to speak and I'm going to say a few words – it turns out Johnny and Sophie had joined a small non-denominational church. The pastor is going to officiate – I've talked with him, he's very nice. If you don't feel up to speaking, don't worry about it. I've reserved you some time in the service, but if you don't or can't use it, I can have one of Johnny's favorite songs played. It's okay, whatever you decide."