Jack Victor - The professor_s rape games

Donna bucked her hips up into her sister's face a little longer, and then she, too, collapsed.

The two beautiful, angelic-looking little girls lay entwined for a few moments, their tits heaving passionately as they strove to normalize their breathing.

Debrah looked over her shoulders at her sister. She almost looked as if she were asleep but Debrah knew better. She squirmed around until she was face to face with her sister again, and they embraced.

"Do you think we're perverted?" Debrah asked.

"Lord, no! We've discussed this before."

"I know, but still it makes me feel bad, sometimes."

"Why, don't I do it good enough for you?"

"Oh, no, Donna, it's not that at all. I just wonder. I mean, well, here we are, the two of us, playing with each other, having sex with each other, and we both have the hots for our father."

"Well, you have to admit he's the most super father in the world," Donna said, softly.

"I know. I can't find a boy I like better. Molly says she doesn't care who pops her cherry, but I'd rather Daddy did it to me."

"But he loves Mommy."

"He loves us, too."

There was silence, while the two girls contemplated their dilemma. And then they fell asleep in each other's arms, burrowing under the covers, until only their golden heads showed.

Hill was unusually quiet that night. Helen noticed and said nothing.

She wasn't someone to pry into the private lives of anyone, not her husband's or her children's. She knew in all good time that he would tell her, if he wanted her to know.

The two of them kept that respect for each other's, privacy. Helen knew there were times when she appreciated it.

They had rinsed off, and then put on bathrobes, and gone downstairs for a drink. Their conversation was minimal, but it wasn't strained.

Helen's pussy was purring, and she was aware of the throbbing bulge which could be seen in her husband's crotch. She knew there was more love-making, and that suited Helen just fine.

Hill was still finding it hard to believe that he had done what he had done. He kept going back in his mind to the lake, the soft breeze of early autumn, the golden-haired little Molly, her hand a blur of motion in the moonlight, frigging herself.

And the feel of the young girl's cunt, as he popped her cherry!

That, and/or his wife, and he wasn't sure, because his thoughts were so vague, kept his cock throbbing with lusty blood. He stared straight ahead at the oaken paneling of the family sitting room, where they were sitting.

He was also worrying. What if he had hurt the little girl? He was pretty sure he hadn't, and she had come like gangbusters. His cock lurched at the thought of the girl's pussy muscles gripping wildly at his cock as he lunged in and out of her.

It was not uncommon for Hill to take a pipe and go out wandering on the lawn for awhile, before going to bed.

He, looked down at his wife, around whose shoulders he had draped an arm. She was snuggled into the crook of his arm, quite content to remain silent. Occasionally she took a sip of her drink, and Hill would hear the chink of the ice in the glass, a nice, peaceful, homey sound.

He squeezed her shoulder and then kissed her on her forehead, hotly.

"Go to bed," he said, in a gruff voice. "I'm going to have a pipe and I'll be right up."

"Yes, Hill," Helen said, sweetly. The glow in her eyes, as she gazed up at her husband, went through him like a knife. It was so loving, so trusting, so happy! His wife didn't know she was looking at a child rapist.

Hill took his pipe, filled it, lit it, and then took his drink and went out onto the lawn. The night was quiet, and more chilly. He shivered slightly in the cool air, feeling the light wind pry into the folds of his bathrobe, and caress his hard-on.

He walked in leisurely fashion to the edge of the woods, and then went quietly through them until he came to the fringes of the lake. His heart was pounding.

This was a good way to get caught, he suddenly realized. And then the awful fact dawned on him, that indeed, what he had done was a matter for the police. He looked where he had seen Molly.

She was gone. He found nothing there to indicate that she had even been there. He went to the tree where she had been sitting. Nothing!

She could have been found and carried away, in which case, Hill was sure he would have seen the marks of other footprints. As it was, there was very little disturbance of the grass.

Hill wandered around the area, in gradually widening circles. He became pretty sure that she had picked herself up and walked away.

He still found it difficult to believe that he had done it. Not only that, he felt few qualms beyond some concern for her well-being. But then, he thought to himself, if he were truly concerned about her well-being, he wouldn't have done what he had done.

He walked back to his own home, and into the warm kitchen, locking the door after him.

In Sylvan Hills, doors were only locked at night.

But Sylvan Hills was now housing a rapist, in the form of one of its most respectable citizens.

Hill couldn't wait to get to the seminary the next day, to find out what, if anything, had been reported about Molly.

In the meantime, his wife, his beautiful, loving, faithful, trusting wife, was upstairs in their bedroom, waiting for him. And he knew before he walked into her room, that he would look in on his two beautiful teenaged daughters, for whom he entertained such a heinous lust, and they would be kissed and tucked in by a loving father who had raped a child no older than they!

The thing that bothered Hill was the lack of intensity of his feelings. He remembered all the great novels of his youth, which talked of the tortures of those who had committed crimes and had to pay for them, the agonies they endured when they felt the full weight of their guilt upon them.

Hill didn't feel any of this. He merely thought it.

Perhaps, he thought, committing a crime is like sustaining a severe wound. The trauma numbs you for a moment before the feeling comes.

Although he was distinctly edgy as he walked up the stairs to his room, he could not say he was afraid.

He peered into his daughters' bedroom.

They were, as usual, sharing a bed, their arms thrown around each other, their golden hair splashing on the pillow like a halo of molten gold.

He walked in and straightened out the covers, and kissed them softly on their sleep-warm, dewy soft cheeks, and his cock throbbed painfully, as he smelled the sleep-warm bodies, fragrant with soap and young childhood, and heard their soft breathing.

He walked out, looking at them for a long, long moment before he closed the door. The distance between his daughters' bedroom and the master bedroom was a matter of some twenty feet.

For Hill, thinking intensely, it felt like twenty miles.

He was a man who had betrayed every principle by which he lived. What he couldn't figure out was if he had been a hypocrite all his life, or if he were mentally deranged.

He had a beautiful wife, and two gorgeous daughters. He had lusted after them since they were six or seven, and the lust had grown until it was almost unbearable.

He really didn't know what to do about it.

The crime had really been so easy to commit. The little girl had been so readily seduced.

Granted, he had caught her in the act of frigging herself. She was aroused, and ready.

The other thing that bothered Hill was, would he do it again?

Hill was, to all intents and purposes, a menace to society.

He thought of his daughters, and wondered if they masturbated, if they gasped in the heat of their lust that they wanted to be fucked as little Molly Carpenter had.

And then he thought with a pang of her mother and father. What would they say when they found out? How would they react?