J. Bradley: Raped by brother

Whit hadn't come home yet, either. He was supposed to be back at sundown. Maybe he'd known their grandfather would be busy and might not notice that he wasn't home on time, and he'd taken advantage of it. It would be just like Whit to do that.

In a moment of satiny sensation, Monica let out a small cry and stripped naked in the dimness of her bedroom. She stood in front of the window and let the breeze play over her skin until there were little bumps all over it.

She hugged her sensitive tits with her arms and shivered. She ran her hands softly down her belly. She felt the dried flakes of Burke's cum on her skin, and she nearly swooned when she remembered the sight and the feel of his spurting prick against her pussy.

She curled her fingers around her naked twat and clamped her thighs tightly, squeezing and fondling her soft lips. She felt them swell as the sensations began again.

She twisted and fell gently onto her back on the bed and let her fingertips roam up and down the slippery gap between her lips, moaning and remembering.

Experimentally, she pressed the tip of her finger into the soft, slippery folds of her pussy mouth and let it slip just inside. She felt the thin barrier of her cherry, and a quick stab went through her, reminding her of the pain there must be in fucking.

She wished fucking didn't hurt. It would have to be wonderful. It would have to be the most wonderful thing in the world, to feel a big cock go inside her body and jerk and spurt wads of sperm there.

She heard a sound out in the hallway. She lifted her head and listened, her hand clamped protectively around her pussy. It had sounded a little like a giggle. A feminine giggle.

She listened harder. That would be impossible. The only other woman in the house was Christine, and she wouldn't be in the upstairs at this time of night.

She rolled silently from the bed and slipped back into her clothing, a pair of dark stretch pants and a jersey pullover. She went to her door in the darkness and put her ear to it, still listening.

There was a clump. It sounded as if it had come from Whit's bedroom, down the hall. Then the talking and laughing of the men downstairs blotted out any other sound there might have been as they got ready to leave.

"Chester, see that these gentlemen get through the gate," she heard her grandfather say, his deep, strong voice coming up the stairwell to her.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Sanderhoff."

"Good night, Galt, and thank you for the excellent dinner. That woman's a marvel in the kitchen, I swear she is."

Galt laughed richly. "You can't have her, Mel. Christine's been cooking for me for thirty years, and I'm not giving her up now."

"I'll get that memo off first thing in the morning, Mr. Sanderhoff," the other one said. "I think it's going to work out well for you."

"Fine, Pres, fine. Good night. Oh, Chester, I want to talk to you for a moment after you've let them out."

"Yes, sir."

Monica heard the door open and close. She did not hear her grandfather walk from the foyer, and she could picture him standing there, his body lean and fit and deeply tanned, his hair silver, his face lined with character instead of age.

The door opened again, and it was Chester. "Sir?" he asked. His voice was firm. Muscles bulged from a sturdy body under the white butlering jacket he wore when he didn't have his black chauffering jacket on.

"Is Whitfield home yet, Chester?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did he get home?"

"I didn't notice, Mr. Sanderhoff."

"Damn it, Chester," he said mildly, "stop covering for him. I'm a little worried about that twat he's taken up with – what's her name?"

"Carla, sir. She's – well, you know. He's at the age where he needs a girl's company now and then."

Galt sighed heavily. "I suppose so, Chester. Still, I wish Whit weren't so damn impulsive. More like his sister – steady. It's unbelievable that Ardelle could have born such entirely different children, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"God, I miss my daughter at times like this. Raising her was tough enough. But I'm too damn old and cranky to be farting around raising her kids too. That Whit – takes after that son of a bitch she stupidly married."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't want it to happen again, Chester. One scoundrel in the family was enough. Have you finished checking her out yet?"

"Very nearly, Mr. Sanderhoff. Would you like me to get my notes on her?"

"In the morning, Chester. I'm a little tired after all that business talk. Nothing to be particularly wary of?"

"Not that my contacts have been able to determine yet, sir. But they're still checking."

"Well, let him dip his randy dick in her, then. I guess you're right – he does need a piece at his age. Oh, before you go, what about Monica and that fellow?"

"Burke Hammond, sir. His father was a stock broker. Good position with a good firm."

"Was?"

"He quit, sir. Apparently, he just wanted a change in his life style. He became a forest ranger after divorcing his wife. She runs a fashion store in Miami and does adequately with it. The boy appears pleasant and well-liked."

"Just quit? Bullshit."

"We can't find anything, Mr. Sanderhoff. No woman, no other man for his wife. He has a modest savings. They urged him to stay on, and we can find nothing out of the ordinary."

"Keep looking, Chester. A guy doesn't quit a job like that and go off in the woods for no reason."

"Apparently, he did, sir."

"I didn't get where I am by accepting appearances, Chester," Galt said levelly. "Look closer into Hammond's wife. You've missed something there, old friend, I'll guarantee it. A man runs to the woods to escape, not to start over."

"Yes, sir."

"What about Monica and the boy?"

"They seem – friendly – Mr. Sanderhoff. I think it won't be long, now."

Another heavy sigh came up the stairwell. "God… it can't happen again, Chester. It just can't."

"I hope not, sir. She's a lovely girl. Every bit as lovely as her mother was. I'm doing my best to keep track…"

"Well, do it faster, Chester," Galt said with a gravelly tone, not really reprimanding him. "Something's going to happen again. I can feel it. I can smell it the way an old bull smells wolf piss. There's a stench in the air that's getting stronger and stronger. Don't believe me, huh? You've got your contacts and network, Chester, and they do a good job, but I've got a nose that beats your contacts all to hell and back."

"I questioned that only once, Mr. Sanderhoff, a long, long time ago. I've never questioned it since. I'll check everything over again."

"What about their father? Is the bastard still in Colombia where he ought to be?"

There was a pause that made Monica hold her breath and strain to hear harder. Then Chester spoke hesitantly.

"We – uh – he seems to have left Bogota, Mr. Sanderhoff. The last check was returned by the bank. We think he's gone to Baranquilla."

"What! The port city? God damn it! Get on it, Chester – fast! The son of a bitch is coming back. Twelve years of taking my money to stay the hell away, and he's coming back to do it again. Herb Lobocky," he grated, as if swearing vilely. "I should have killed him then, Chester."

"There was never any proof, Mr. Sanderhoff," Chester said defensively.

"He gave my daughter two children, Chester. And then he took up with that slut, and I ran him off when they bungled that attempt to blackmail Ardelle. They were the ones who had her kidnapped, Chester. Proof! Hell, I don't need your Goddamn proof. My nose tells me it was him! Half a million I paid for her. And I got her back dead."

"Please, sir, it's best if you don't get worked up again," Chester said gently. "We're checking thoroughly. Indications are that Lobocky is dead. There was a drug thing last month. The Colombian soldiers shot up quite a few of them. We think Lobocky was one of them."