Press Play and Obey

Author's Note : This is an entry to the HALLOWEEN 2026 contest, so please vote.

Press Play and Obey

Chapter One

"Casey! Open the door. Something weird is happening, I feel..."

A hiss of static made the panicked blonde glance over her shoulder at the dense blizzard of black-and-white dots on the television set. It cast a cold, eerie light that chilled her bones. She shivered, despite the warm summer night, and pulled her torn blouse over her petite breasts.

"Casey? I'm not angry. Please let me in."

She pressed her ear to the door. She could hear him breathing, ragged and fast, and something else. The unmistakable fapping of a thick, wet cock.

"Casey?"

"Go away, Ellie!"

The fapping grew louder, faster, and she pictured it in his hand. Something was happening to her too, between her legs, something hot and delicious and wet.

"I'm scared, Casey. We shouldn't have watched it."

"You need to... stay away... from me!"

To her surprise, the handle turned at her touch. She cracked the door open and it hit her like a wall; the thick, intoxicating aroma of sex. She inhaled deeply, breathing it in, tasting it, tasting him, and the dampness between her legs spread, saturating her panties, trickling down her inner thighs.

"Casey?"

Her brother was on the bed. The clothes he'd worn only minutes before were in a heap beside it. One of his hands was wrapped around the angriest, most swollen erection she'd ever seen, pumping it like his life depended on it.

"Go away, Ellie! Before... before we do something we regret."

But Ellie couldn't leave. Some force impelled her onwards, driving her across the room, to her brother's bedside. Unthinkingly, she reached out and laid her hand on his, slowing his jerking until finally they held his tumescent member together.

"Ellie... you need to... leave..."

Part of her knew he was right. But that part was small and getting smaller by the second. She deftly climbed onto the bed and straddled his waist, her lidded eyes fixed on the pulsing spear beneath her.

"Ellie..."

"I want... I want it..."

With her free hand, she hooked a finger into the soaked gusset of her panties and peeled it aside. Any fear she felt had gone, replaced by a burning desire, a compulsion, for her brother's cock. Dropping lower, she guided his bulging tip into her folds and sighed as it began to stretch her open.

"Oh fuck, Ellie... this is wrong..."

Despite his protest, her brother thrust up to meet her as she dropped down, screaming as she took him all the way, burying every inch in her wet ecstasy.

In the adjoining room, the static flared to fill the television screen with a brilliant white glow and then narrowed to a slim beam of light, which blazed one last time, before dying to nothing. Below the blank, black screen, a VCR player whirred and ejected the tape that had started it all.

—

By eight-fifteen, Detective Randy Cummings was at his desk, washing down aspirin with black coffee, ready to start work. He wondered if this was what all forty-five-year-olds' Friday mornings were like.

He was early because he was on probation. And he was on probation because he was often late. Between the divorce hearings and raising a teenage daughter, something had to give. Whiskey helped take the edge off, until it didn't, and then he needed the aspirin.

He liked his work. Or at least, he liked that he was good at his work. He liked orderly things - a neatly typed interview transcript, an alphabetically arranged bookshelf, a desk where every item was in its place. He liked the thoughts of his analytical and rational mind. His ex-wife did not.

She'd told him he was just like his father. She'd meant it as an insult, but he knew he probably was. His father had been a detective, and Randy had adored him, so, of course, he'd become a detective too.

By eight-twenty, Detective Cummings was on his second cup of coffee, thinking about a time when he was just a cop, and before that, when he was newly, happily married, when his daughter didn't hate him, a time when he was just plain old Randy.

—

"Cummings! We've got a doozy for you in interview room four."

Randy decided against finishing his coffee - his heart could do with the break - and followed Duke through the bullpen and into the corridor that led through the processing and detention area, where a middle-aged woman was quietly sobbing into a handkerchief, then on to the interview rooms.

"What's her story?" Randy asked, with a sideways glance at the weeping lady.

"That's the Mom."

Randy took a deep breath. Today was going to be one of those days. Duke was going to make him work for it. "Whose mom, Duke?"

"Heck, catch up, Cummings. The kids in room four! It's a doozy, alright. Ain't seen one like it in a while." Duke waddled on with a low whistle and slow shake of his head. "I blame the parents."

Duke barged through two swinging doors and Randy had to skip a step to get through before they slammed back in his face. "Where's the father?"

"Had to book him. No choice. Liable to hurt himself, if he didn't hurt the kid first." Duke stopped suddenly and turned to face Randy, so close that Randy could see the perspiration on his upper lip and smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "Ain't seen one like it since the Barton case."

Randy flinched at the mention of the cold case. It was his first, and only, unsolved investigation. A blot on his copybook that still haunted him to that day. Haunted. That's what the papers had said at the time. Nonsense, obviously. So why had he thought of it now?

Randy sidestepped around Duke's bulk and continued past the row of doors leading to the interview rooms, each with a small glass window set at eye level. "Room four, you said?"

"That's where we've got the sister. Figured you'd want to speak to her first." There was a sadistic pleasure in Duke's tone that gave Randy the creeps.

"Why's that?"

"See for y'self." Duke answered cryptically.

The girl sitting in interview room four couldn't have been much older his daughter. Nineteen, he guessed. Twenty at a push. Young, whichever way you cut it, to be in her third trimester. Randy was no expert, but he'd pin her at eight months gone. He shook his head sadly and wondered where his daughter was right then and who she was with. He'd ask tonight, when he got home, if she was still up. He doubted he'd get more than a dismissive grunt. But at least he'd ask.

Duke crowded into his personal space to peer through the glass at the teen mom. "The brother is next door."

"Uh-huh," Randy grunted. "Who's the father?"

"Take that cotton out of your ears, boy. I said, he's next door."

Randy took a step back and braced himself against the wall. His legs felt suddenly weak and his head was spinning. He wondered briefly if he was having a heart attack and was glad he'd not finished his coffee. "You better not be screwing with me, Duke. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm telling it straight. Parents dragged them in, just like that old Barton case." Randy didn't know if it was the morbid grin on Duke's face or the mention of that painful memory, but he felt a sudden wave of nausea and tasted bile in his mouth. "See for y'self."

—

"... I told all this to the other officer," the girl sniffed into her sleeve. Her eyes were red and puffy but she'd stopped crying and now Randy could see the family resemblance to the lady in the processing area.

"I know this is difficult but I need you to go over it one more time. If your brother made you do something you didn't want to do—"

"He didn't!" The girl cut in sharply.

"Okay, okay." Randy pinched the bridge of his nose. The throbbing had started behind his eyes. It was going to be a long day. "But sometimes people think they know what they're doing and it's only later, when they look at it through someone else's eyes that—"

"Casey didn't rape me." The force of the girl's assertion took Randy by surprise. "He tried to stop it. It wasn't his fault. It was..."

Randy counted to ten slowly, waiting for the girl to finish her sentence, but she folded her arms over her swollen breasts and clammed up. He decided to change tack. "Can I get you anything, Ellie? Glass of water?"

The diminutive blonde gave Randy the kind of look that could peel a banana. "I don't want anything. I want my brother."

There they were again. They'd been going round in circles for over an hour. The denials, the vague hints, the petulant demands for her brother. If she were his daughter... but no. Morgan got away with speaking to him worse than this, much worse. She could be a brat at the best of times. And at the worst times, well, it wasn't worth thinking about.

The thought of his bratty daughter irked Randy. His already paper-thin patience snapped. Randy turned off the audio recording device on the table between them and leaned towards the girl. "This is serious, Ellie. Incest is a crime. Do you understand that? Your brother is old enough to go to prison for this. And you don't want to know what they do to boys like him in prison. So, let's go over this one last time, from the beginning. And this time, don't leave out anything."

For a moment, Randy thought he'd pushed her too far. Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes welled with tears. Then she sagged back into the chair and cradled her bulging stomach. "It all started with the VCR..."

—

"... interview terminated at thirteen hundred hours."

The heavy silence in the room was punctuated by the mechanical click of the playback tape coming to an end. Randy stared impassively ahead, wondering what Chief was thinking. The stiff leather creaked beneath Chief's frame as he spun his chair to face him. "The boy?"

"Corroborates the story. Clearly they coordinated this ahead of time, but why they didn't settle on a more believable yarn? Well, it beats me."

Chief's face didn't betray anything. He was like a wall. No, a mirror. When you looked at him, you saw your own faults staring back at you. A bead of sweat trickled down Randy's spine. "And the tape?"

"Sir?"

"The VCR. Where is it?"

Randy began to smile, only to realise, half a second too late, that that Chief wasn't joking. He cleared his throat anxiously before continuing. "Obviously it doesn't exist, sir. It's a cock-and-bull story. The kind of urban myth kids tell each other at sleepovers."

The throb in his skull had built to an incessant pounding. Randy pictured the packet of aspirin in his desk and the bottle of whiskey below it. He wished Chief would hurry up and dismiss him. He had better things to do than waste his time on...

"Didn't the Barton case involve a VCR?"

Randy shivered. Trust Chief to remember every detail of every case. Especially that case. "Yes, sir. But—"

"Follow it up," Chief interrupted. "Sweat the leads. Find the tape."

"But—"

"Report to me first thing Monday."

"But, sir, I've got my daughter this weekend. I—"

"Monday morning, Cummings," Chief repeated, in the kind of tone that brokered no argument. "First thing."

—

The house was still and dark. Randy stood in the hallway listening for signs of life - disturbed air, the odour of perfume, the low hum of human activity - but there was none.

That wasn't unusual. Morgan ignored her curfew more nights than not, these days. He'd reprimand her when she got home. Maybe ground her. Not that it would make much difference.

"I want my brother!"

Randy winced and wondered why his frazzled brain had leapt from his daughter to the messed-up kid who was in love with her brother. Not for the first time, he was grateful Morgan was a single child. One was more than enough trouble.

He dragged his tired ass upstairs as his neurons pulsed with restless energy, weaving connections in unexpected places, leaping from the incestuous teen mom, to his rebellious daughter, to the Barton case.

The Barton case. It was his albatross. He didn't need Chief to remind him of the details of that sordid affair. You never forget the first time you see a body. If he closed his eyes he could still see the chalk outlines, taste iron, hear the static on the television set.

Not on the television set. In his house.

Randy froze, listening to low hum. Up ahead, Morgan's bedroom door was ajar. A cold, white glow seeped through the crack, accompanied by a buzz that released a flood of adrenaline into his fraught system. He took a step towards the door, reaching instinctively for the gun that was stowed in his station locker. "Morgan?"

He could hear her now. A low whimpering. She sounded like she was in pain. Every muscle in his body tensed as he knocked on his daughter's bedroom door. "Morgan? It's me. Dad."

Randy knew better than to enter his daughter's bedroom without invitation. Morgan was fiercely protective of her space. But another choking whimper made up his mind. "I'm coming in."

The door swung open at his touch and he saw her, in a way no father should see his daughter, all at once. The only light in the room came from the laptop on Morgan's bed, illuminating her as she sat against the headboard. She was wearing a pair of headphones and nothing else. The buzz that Randy had mistaken for static came from the pink sex toy she was holding against her pussy.

His daughter's pussy. He could see her neat folds, lips thick with arousal, the wet sheen they'd deposited on the tip of the silicon toy. He dragged his eyes away, up her soft, shuddering body, over breasts so full and so perfectly shaped, so womanly, that Randy barely recognised as belonging to his daughter, his little girl. Upwards, to her face, her cute button nose, her fiery auburn hair, her mouth open in a frozen gasp, her eyes heavy and lidded, eyes that lifted from the laptop screen towards the man paralysed in her doorway.

Time seemed to freeze. Only the continued hum of the vibrator informed Randy that the world hadn't stopped turning. There was shock in her eyes, panic, and something else. Arousal, smouldering with an intensity that frightened Randy and made him think, inexplicably, of the teen mom he'd interviewed hours before.

"What the fuck!" The spell was broken. Torn between a dozen reactions at once, Morgan failed in all of them. As she scrabbled to cover herself with a sheet, her vibrator tumbled off the bed and skittered across the floor towards Randy. Instinctively, he trapped it under his foot and picked it up.

Randy gazed, dumbfounded, at the object that had been pressed to his little girl's sex only moments before. It was eight inches long and ribbed. He could see her wetness on it, smell her arousal, sweet and rich. "Get the fuck out!"

He could still hear her cursing as he walked away. It wasn't until he was in his own room, sitting in a stupor on the edge of his bed, that he realised the toy was still buzzing away in his hand. He dropped it onto the sheets, where it vibrated slowly across the bed, leaving a damp trail, as the image of his naked daughter replayed over and over in his mind.

His little girl was masturbating. Of course she was masturbating. Heck, wasn't that what all kids her age did? He sure as hell had, just about every chance he got. And, to his surprise, he was feeling the urge right then.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the stolen glimpse of his daughter. He just needed to take the edge off a tough day. The lingering scent of her arousal didn't come into it. He was frustrated, that was all. How long had it been since he'd got laid? Six months? A year? It wasn't the sex toy purring away beside him, stained with his little girl's juices, that made him finish so fast. Was it?

—

Chapter Two

Tyler wasn't sure when exactly the film had finished. His attention was on his sister's hand, straying further and further up his thigh, slipping beneath his shorts and skirting closer to the pole tenting them.

He knew he should stop her. But her body felt so good, snuggled against his, her breasts soft against his arm, her breath hot against his neck. As her fingertips grazed his full, aching balls, he realised he didn't want her to stop.

And then the phone rang.

"I'll get it!" Tyler cried, near enough leaping off the couch and turning his back on his little sister so she wouldn't see the effect she'd had on him.

"Ty..." Lexi whined. "Leave it."

"It... it might be important..."

He held the landline to his ear and tried to listen over the hiss of the static coming from the television set. "Hello?"

There was no reply. Tyler looked back at Lexi. She was kneeling on the couch, her oversized T-shirt riding so high he could almost see what lay beneath it. Or, to be precise, what didn't lie beneath it. "Tyler, come back."

Tyler turned away. He didn't trust himself. An hour ago they'd been brother and sister like any other. But something had changed.

Their mom's voice cut through his thoughts. "... Tyler? Can you hear me?"

"Mom?" Tyler listened to his mom's voice down the line and tried not to think about his little sister. When she hung up, he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to subdue the arousal throbbing between his thighs.

Tyler replaced the handset but still didn't turn back to Lexi. The fuzz of static suddenly died and then there was silence.

"Tyler? Who was it?"

"It was... it was Mom. Her flight was delayed. She just landed. She's gunna be late."

"Oh."

"Listen, Lexi..." The words died in his mouth as he turned to face her. The oversized tee lay in a heap on the floor beside the couch. He drank in her body, every curve, every dimple, every forbidden inch of it. Her pretty little B cups. Her taut pink nipples. God, she was beautiful. Like a painting. Like a model.

The force of his desire drew him to her. Their lips met, tentatively at first, then passionately, needily, as her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts and finally found the thing she'd been skirting around all evening.

Her touch was like velvet, massaging and coaxing him, urging him towards his release as she pulled down his shorts and ducked her head towards his pulsing member, taking it in her hot, wet mouth, while he watched their reflection in the black screen of the television set. Below it, the VCR player whirred and ejected the tape that had started it all.

—

At eight-fifteen, Detective Randy Cummings was still at his desk, pouring whiskey into his coffee, ready to finish work. He wondered if this was what all forty-five-year-olds' Fridays nights were like.

He was still at work because he had two dozen interviews to comb over. Not that it would get him anywhere. A week of work and nothing to show for it. Every one of the incestuous siblings' friends pled ignorance.

"VCR? What even is a VCR?"

Randy knew when he was being bullshitted. But what could he do? There was no law against watching a videotape. The kids were both of age. And despite what their parents thought, they seemed to be consenting.

And yet... something didn't fit. His mind seized on the inconsistencies. By all accounts, the siblings had had a hostile relationship at best, up until eight months ago. What had changed? If, like they claimed, it started with the videotape, why couldn't they explain where it was now? Their friends' unconvincing denials only muddied the waters further.

By eight-twenty, Cummings was on his second cup of Irish coffee, thinking, yet again, about the similarities with the Barton case, when Duke hollered from across the bullpen. "Look sharp, Cottonlugs. We got a 10-100 on Jefferson and Union."

The train of thought slipped away from Randy. He scowled at Duke, hoping some of his venom would penetrate his colleague's thick hide. "A civil disturbance? Heck, Duke, send a patrol car."

Duke smiled smugly, enjoying the little power trip he got from knowing more than Randy. "Figured you might want to see this one for yourself."

Randy was already reaching for his coat. "Is it the sibling case? Have we got something?"

"Not exactly," Duke drawled cryptically, testing Randy's patience to his limits.

"Get to the point, Duke. This is not the week to fuck with me."

"Relax, Cottonlugs. I'm coming to it." Duke made a show of scratching his considerable ass. "Concerned citizen called in about a couple of kids screwing around in a parking lot."

Randy relaxed. "That's it? Heck, Duke, ain't like we never fucked around. Tell the nearest patrol to flash the blues; that should move them along."

"Already did. Nate and Doug are on the scene."

"So what are you bothering me for?"

"The kids didn't move along. Guess they were otherwise engaged, if you catch my meaning."

The throbbing had started behind his eyes again. Duke had that effect on him. "And?"

"Nate broke up the party. I told him, kids will be kids, I said. Ain't like we never fucked around." Duke's grin widened as he echoed Randy's words back at him. "But Nate figured the parents should be informed."

"So inform the parents," Randy sighed.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Randy stared dumbly at Duke's big, shit-eating grin. "It's Morgan."

—

The parking lot was empty save for a beaten-up sedan with steamy windows and the patrol car. The patrolmen, Nate and Doug, were standing either side of their rear passenger door, which was wide open, keeping a sharp eye on the two boys lingering beside the sedan.

He saw her through the open passenger door. You never want to see your daughter in the back of a cop car, even if you're pals with the officers. Especially if you're pals with the officers. Word gets round.

She was wearing a pair of denim hot pants, ones he hadn't seen before. He knew that, because if he had, he would have made her take them right back to whatever dive she got them from. She was damn near spilling out of the top she was wearing. He could see the rounded points of her nipples through the thin cotton. God damn. "What's going on here?"

"We found her in the backseat with those two—"

Randy silenced Nate with a raised hand and leaned into the open rear door. "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to her."

"Evening, officer." If Morgan was embarrassed, she didn't show it. Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she looked up through her brow at her dad. "What seems to be the problem?"

It was more than they'd said to each other since he'd burst in on her masturbating. They'd been doing everything they could to avoid each other all week. Partly he was relieved they were talking again. But mostly, he was raging at her disrespect. He rapped out a rhythm on the top of the patrol car, fast and tense, then dismissed his colleagues with a glance. "Why don't you go check on their I. D's?"

"Already done—" Doug began, before Nate cut him off with a cough loud enough to make his point. "Yeah, we can do that."

When they were alone, Randy held the door open and stepped aside. "Get out of the car. I want to talk to you."

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse. He didn't want to have to manhandle in front of his colleagues but if it came to that, he would. Something in his tone must have told her that, because she eventually climbed out with a huff.

They glared into each other's eyes. Randy realised, with a pang of guilt, that he wanted to slap her. Maybe that would knock some sense into her. But he wasn't a violent man and he loved his daughter, whatever she thought. "Morgan, you can't do this. I can't be worrying about you, I'm on a case right now."

Morgan crossed her arms defensively over her chest, forcing her ample breasts to strain against the inadequate top. "You're not even going to ask if I'm okay?"

Something in Randy snapped. He slammed the car door shut. "No I'm not going to ask if you're okay! You're supposed to be at home right now! You're breaking curfew, making out with some slickers in the back of their fucking car, almost getting raped in the street!"

Morgan's face softened, almost like she wanted him to be angry, like this was what she'd needed from him all along. But Randy was too far gone to stop, the words tumbled out of him, spittle spraying in his daughter's face as he yelled. "Goddamn it, do you have any idea what your mom is going to say about me?"

"Oh fuck you!" Morgan turned her back on Randy. The sight of his little girl's peachy ass swallowing up the skintight denim only fuelled his rage. "Fucking wannabe. I've been looking at the back of your head for eighteen years, Dad! You never said congratulations, good job, you never said shit. I'm going to college and I can't wait to stay with other people. I'd rather live with strangers than live with you!"

There was a sensuality to the way her hips swayed as she strode to his car and opened up the rear door. It seemed only yesterday she'd been into ponies and mall trips. How had he missed her growing up?

Her glare had enough venom to bring down an elephant as she turned back to him. "And it's only rape if you don't want it, officer. Now take me home."

The weight of the week settled over him. His eyelids burned and even standing felt like an effort. His anger slipped through his fingers. He just felt tired.

Right then, the radio in Nate and Doug's patrol car crackled to life. "Domestic disturbance at 273 Main Street. Patrol car five, please respond."

Doug and Nate were still spooking the two slickers, too far away to hear the call. Randy's training kicked in and he reached for the radio handpiece. "This is patrol car five."

"Cottonlugs?" Too late, he recognised Duke's maddeningly unhurried drawl. "Hell, ain't that a thing! Hope you ain't got dinner plans, 'cus you're gunna want eyes on this one."

"I'm off the clock," Randy said through gritted teeth, with a glance back at his daughter waiting impatiently in the back of his car. "Doug and Nate will be there shortly."

Randy put the receiver back in its holder but Doug's self-satisfied tones crackled out of it. "Suit yourself. But it's a doozy. Siblings, don't you know. Parent caught 'em red-handed."

Randy snatched the receiver back. "You better not be fucking with me, Duke."

"No word of a lie. Mom called it in. She found 'em going heels to Jesus."

Nate strolled over and lifted an eyebrow questioningly. "Trouble?"

He knew what he should have done. He should have left it to the patrolmen. He should have taken his daughter home, tried to talk some sense into her, repaired their damaged relationship. But this was too weird to be a coincidence. It was a lead. The kind of lead he'd been searching for all week. A live one.

"Can you run Morgan back to my place? See she gets in okay?"

"Sure, but..." Nate rubbed the back of his neck and avoided Randy's eye. "I think, maybe, she needs her pops right now."

Randy seethed. How dare Nate lecture him how to raise his daughter. His jaw tensed and the throbbing behind his eyes flared up with vengeance. "She needs some discipline, that's what she needs. Take her home."

Nate raised his hands defensively. "Whatever you say, boss. She's your kid." The patrolman threw his thumb back at the sheepish boys. "What about those two?"

"Fuck do I care," Randy growled, already halfway back to his car. He yanked open the rear door and pulled Morgan out roughly. "Nate's taking you home. You better be there when I get back."

Morgan watched, disbelievingly, as he climbed into the car and turned the ignition. She was still standing there, exactly where he'd left her, when he glanced back into the rearview mirror. She was hugging herself and seemed smaller, more vulnerable, than he'd seen her in years. He felt a pang of regret as she receded into the distance, but he pushed that down, locked it away.

Morgan can wait, he told himself. I've got a case to solve.

—

The videotape was the first thing he saw. He froze in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the tape protruding from the VCR player, and a single thought ran through his head.

It exists.

Then all hell broke loose. The woman who threw herself at Randy was the image of despair. Tears streaked down her cheeks, leaving rivers of mascara in their wake. She clung to him, wailing incomprehensibly, while Randy's training kicked in. He catalogued the room in an instant, every scent, sight, and sound registered by his highly attuned senses.

Sex. His nostrils flared as he recognised the smell. It made him think of his daughter's vibrator, glistening with her wetness, her odour so rich her could almost taste it. He banished the memory from his mind and continued his survey of the room.

Facing the television was a couch. A dark stain marked one of the cream cushions. Some kind of fluid had seeped into the seat. Two heaps of clothes were discarded on the floor beside it. A threadbare, extra-large T-shirt, like the kind Morgan wore to bed. Randy recognised the colours of a sports franchise on the vest bundled three feet away, on top of a dark pair of baggy shorts.

His gaze swept back to the television, the black screen reflecting and warping the room, and below it, the VCR player and the unmarked tape. He was drawn to it. It represented answers, a promise to administer some kind of reason on all the irrational details of the case, a rejection of chaos and a return to order.

But first he had to address the sounds coming from the open doorway at the far side of the room. Someone was in trouble. There was a struggle. Choking. Randy pried the woman off him and pushed her to one side. He moved without hesitation, his training carrying him forward as his pulse steadied.

His fingers clasped the fibreglass and epoxy composite grip of his service pistol, smoothly retracting it from it's leather holster, as he stepped into an open-plan kitchen, alert to every detail, identifying and prioritising targets subconsciously.

And then, for the second time that night, he stopped dead. Because he was staring directly between the spread legs of a woman lying on her back on the marble countertop of the kitchen island.

No, not a woman, he thought, reevaluating her nubile frame, her petite breasts, her tight flower. A girl. No older than Morgan.

Her feet were on the countertop, her knees akimbo, one hand strumming across the puffy, pink folds of a pussy that dripped with a creamy white fluid. Her other hand reached up over her head, clawing at the hip of the young man thrusting - fucking - his vastly swollen cock into her mouth. The girl's chest convulsed each time he bottomed out in her gullet, his laden balls mashing into her face, but she wasn't pushing him away. She was pulling him closer, urging him to impale every inch inside her maidenly throat.

"Police! Hands in the air!"

The young man slowly raised his head and blinked once, before dropping his unfocused gaze back to the girl gasping and gagging around his shaft.

"Step away from the girl! Police!"

If the young man heard Randy, he made no sign of understanding him. He took the girl's head in his hands and fucked her with renewed vigour. From her gurgled moans and curled toes, it appeared she approved.

"It's no use," Randy hadn't heard the woman approach. He let her guide his aim downward, from the rutting pair, to the floor. She choked back a sob before continuing. "They... they won't listen."

Randy couldn't tear his eyes away. They were rushing towards a crisis point, that much was clear. The girl's fingers were buried in her dripping hole, furiously frigging herself as she encouraged the young man's violent jugular bashing. "What's... what's wrong with them?"

"They're... cursed."

Randy wanted to tell her that curses didn't exist. She was being hysterical. There would be a logical explanation for this. There had to be. But at that moment, the young man roared. Randy could see the shape of his cock through the thin skin her neck, stared as it jumped and pulsed, listened as her throat worked to greedily swallow his ejaculation. He watched her writhing on the countertop, her own climax gushing onto the marble beneath her trembling ass, and doubted, for the first time in his life, his carefully constructed worldview based on rationality, logic, and fact.

Because how else could he explain what he was seeing? He couldn't believe that any siblings would do this in front of their mother. He couldn't let that possibility take root in his mind. That way, darkness lay.

And when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Cursed.

—

By the time Randy reached his driveway, midnight was behind him. He didn't remember the journey home and the throbbing behind his eyes was back. He needed a drink. It was the rhythmic ticking of the cooling engine that finally reminded him: the videotape was still in the evidence bag on the passenger seat.

How had that got there?

He carried it inside, holding it away from his body like it was contaminated, like it was cursed. There was that word again. The single syllable kept repeating in his mind, like a stuck tape, beating in time with the pounding in his head. He really needed that drink.

But first he had to check on Morgan. The memory needled him: her face in the rear-view mirror, dwindling behind him. Small. Vulnerable. Alone. There was still a light on in her room, seeping under the door into the darkened hallway.

"Morgan? Are you in there?"

"Go to hell."

That was about as much as he'd expected. She was home though, where he could keep an eye on her. Not that it had made much difference so far. But that was tomorrow's problem. Right then, all that mattered was the amber liquid waiting for him in the cabinet downstairs.

The first sip was like slipping into a warm bath. He dropped onto the couch and loosened his tie. The evidence bag was still there, right beside him, and inside, the VCR tape that he'd been hunting since the Barton case. He should have driven back to the station. He should have checked it in. But he was already on his second tumbler. He'd do it in the morning.

And the longer it sat beside him, the more insistent that itch grew inside him. He needed to understand it, dissect it, fit it into some category that would let him move on. He needed to watch it.

The VCR player whirled to life as he pressed the tape into its slot. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the screen exploded into hissing static.

"Shit!" Randy exclaimed, lunging for the television remote and killing the volume until the fizz was merely a whisper. He couldn't explain the sudden urge for discretion. It was stupid, he was in the privacy of his own home, but he felt a creeping shame.

He was about to eject the tape when a picture suddenly flickered to life on the screen. The grainy footage was shaky and had the washed-out colours of a home recording from a decade ago. Maybe longer.

The camera settled and focus pulled to a leather bench in the middle of a room with vaulted ceilings. Straps hung from the bench. Randy's stomach tightened. He'd seen that room before, seen that bench.

"Is it on, Daddy?" The girl's voice was breathless with excitement. A moment later, she appeared on screen, shuffling slowly towards the bench. She wore a simple shift that clung to her petite frame, hugging the subtle curve of her breasts and rise of her ass. Tied around her face was a blindfold.

Her outstretched hands found the bench and she hesitated. "Daddy? What is it?"

"A new toy for you, darling." The frame was momentarily blocked by the broad torso of a man. He crossed to the girl and took her hands in his, guiding her into a belly-down position on the bench before fastening the straps around her back, wrists, and ankles.

The footage infected Randy with a creeping dread. It wasn't just the sordid actions of the man circling behind the bound and blindfolded teenager. The tape itself seemed corrupted, the very film it was printed on defiled by something... cursed.

"There's no such thing as curses," Randy growled out loud, jabbing at his remote control and ejecting the videotape. A ghostly image remained on the screen - the man gazing down at the helpless girl with a wicked grin - and then it faded to black.

Randy let the darkness envelop him. He remembered that face—the sinister grin frozen forever in place. How could he forget? It had been there when he arrived at the crime scene, carved into a terrible death mask. Old Man Barton, murdered by his scorned wife before she turned the gun on herself. And the daughter? The girl bound to the bench? Vanished.

—

Sleep took him. A restless sleep, troubled by memories that floated up from the depths of his subconscious like bloated corpses to mire his dreams. He heard the teen mom begging for her baby-daddy brother. He saw the siblings rutting on the kitchen island. The memories blended with the grainy footage on the videotape, horrifying Randy, as much by the incestuous coupling as the effect the visions had on his body.

The waking part of his brain knew he was aroused. He could sense the pulsing throb of his member. Feel the pressure building in his heavy testicles. That part of his mind tried to extinguish the flame of his arousal but the baser part of his psyche was in control, conjuring the image of the spread-eagle sister and then, suddenly, his daughter, sprawled on her bed, the vibrator buzzing against her beautiful flower.

He flinched in his sleep and called out her name, "Morgan!"

"Dad..."

Her voice penetrated the morass, summoning more memories of that night: her slick wetness on the toy; her gasping moan; the scent of her excitement. It was all so vivid, a waking dream, spurring his excitement.

"Dad..."

It couldn't be real. She hadn't called him that in years. It was Randy, if they weren't fighting. And if they were? Something worse.

"Fuck... Dad..."

He was awake in an instant. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the television set. The videotape was playing. The man had lifted the shift over his restrained daughter's ass and was thrusting into her, his sadistic grin stretching as she struggled against her binds.

"Oh god... Dad..."

Randy saw Morgan at last. She was standing off to his right, the television remote held limply at her side, as she gawked, google-eyed, at the screen. He lunged for the remote but her fingers seized tight around it, surprising him with her strength and speed. "Morgan, let go!"

The remote slipped through her grip and into his hand. Randy turned off the television, killing the thin, muffled moans coming from the set. Morgan shuddered, as though waking suddenly from a dream of her own. "What... what was that?"

"You shouldn't have seen that," Randy said. He had become aware of a tightness in his suit pants and reached for a pillow to hide the pronounced lump in them. "Go to bed, Morgan."

To his surprise, she complied without questioning him further. "Yes, Daddy."

Daddy? Morgan had never called him that. He swivelled to watch her walk obediently out of the room, wary of a trap. But Morgan followed his command dutifully. He listened to her tread softly up the stairs, heard her bedroom door close - not slammed this time - and made out the faint squeal of mattress springs as she climbed into her bed.

The radical change in Morgan's demeanour was impossible to miss, but he was too tired to pick at the edges of it. Randy retrieved the videotape from the VCR player and sealed it back inside the evidence bag. He carried it with him to his bedroom and locked it inside the safe in his dresser. Then he collapsed onto his bed, fully dressed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

—

Chapter Three

At eight-fifteen, Detective Randy Cummings woke to the smell of bacon and a woman singing. He wondered if he was dreaming, and if this was how other forty-five-year-old's Saturdays began.

But he wasn't dreaming. He was late for work. Late, though it was Saturday, because of the drama of the previous night. It all came crashing back to him in an instant. Morgan in the parking lot. The domestic disturbance. The videotape.

There it was, in his safe, exactly where he had left it. It seemed to exude a chill that sent a shiver down Randy's spine. He snatched it up and made for the door. He had a fresh shirt at the station, that would have to do. But first, bacon.

"Oh, hey, Dad." Morgan threw a smile over her shoulder as he entered the kitchen. "I wasn't sure if you'd want breakfast, you were working so late."

"Ummm... yeah. Sorry about that, I got tied up at the station. I've got to go back now, actually." Randy watched, bemused, as his daughter bounced around the kitchen. She was wearing a sheer robe that clung tantalisingly to her body, reminding him of his stolen glimpse of what lay beneath it. "Morgan? Is everything okay?"

He dragged his eyes away from his little girl's chest, realising too late that she'd caught him staring. Had he imagined the blush on her dimpled cheeks as she passed him a bacon sandwich. "I just wanted to apologise, I guess. For the way I behaved."

Morgan reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently on his stubbled cheek. "It won't happen again, I promise, Daddy."

"Oh... right... uh, good," he stammered, before regaining his composure. "Listen, about that tape you saw last night—"

"You can watch what you like, Daddy. It's your house, after all." Morgan's eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. "You make the rules."

Randy was too stunned to interrogate Morgan's peculiar meekness. Glad to put the awkward moment behind them, he changed the subject swiftly. "What are you doing today?"

"What would you like me to do today?"

The question stumped him. "Uh, well, the house could do with a clean."

"Consider it done," Morgan smiled brightly.

"And... and the laundry needs washing," he continued, warming to his daughter's newfound deference.

"Yes, Daddy. Anything else?"

"No... no that's all. The rest of the day is yours but I want you home before curfew."

"Of course," Morgan agreed without a hint of protest. "Have a great day, Daddy."

—

Randy was at the station before he realised the videotape wasn't with him. Which was odd, because he could have sworn he took it out of the safe. But he was tired and, as his old man used to say, tired people make mistakes.

"And detectives can't afford mistakes," he'd conclude.

"Yeah, well, you never had to raise a daughter," Randy muttered to the spectre of his father.

"Yapping to yourself, Cottonlugs?" Duke's voice grated on him like a file against metal. Already irritated at the thought of having to drive back for the evidence, Randy felt the first dull throb begin behind his eyes.

"How are the kids I brought in last night?"

"Hell should I know?" Duke grunted. Randy could smell booze on his breath, beneath the stale tobacco, and knew it was pointless expecting help from Duke that day.

"I'll interview the sister first."

Duke dropped his half-jacket shades over his bloodshot eyes and slouched back in his chair. "Suit yourself."

Most of the station staff were off for the weekend. Randy prepared the interview room, then retrieved Lexi from the cell. She'd been issued standard-issue grey jumpsuit when he'd brought her in. The oversized uniform made her look small and fragile, so different from the sex-obsessed loon he'd dragged off her brother.

"Let's start with the videotape."

"When can I see my brother?" Lexi sulked, pulling her heels to her butt on the chair and hugging her knees to her chest.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now, do you?" Lexi stuck her chin out and stayed silent. "Where did you get the videotape?"

Lexi glared at Randy. He settled in for a long wait. He could be patient. He had all day. Eventually, she glanced away. "Someone gave it to us at a party."

"What party? Who?"

"I don't know. Some fucking guy. It was just a party."

"Think, Lexi. The people on that tape were involved in a serious crime ten years ago. It might be evidence in that case. Anything you know about it could be important."

A change came over the girl. She seemed to shrink and clung to her knees desperately. "So it's true?"

Randy waited. Sometimes the best policy was to let them talk. It was one of those times. Her voice trembled with barely contained emotion. "I thought it was an urban myth. A stupid story. I never thought it would really... oh my god... it's real."

Randy took the bait. "What's real, Lexi?"

She stared at him for a long moment before answering in a hushed whisper. "We'd heard about the Bartons. Everybody had. There was a rumour that they made a videotape and that the videotape was... cursed."

The throbbing in Randy's head flared up. He winced and spoke through gritted teeth. "Cursed?"

Lexi nodded. "They told us that, if two relatives watched the tape, they'd... they'd be cursed to the same fate the Bartons suffered. Incest." The final word was little more than a breath of air.

"The Bartons were... sick." Randy said, as much to himself as the girl cowering across from him. "There's no such thing as curses."

"If that's true, why did we... oh god..." Lexi sobbed into her knees. "I want... I want to see Tyler... I want my brother."

Randy couldn't get anything else out of the broken teenager. She kept repeating those four words, over and over, five syllables, and nothing more. Randy sighed, turning off the audio recorder. "Interview terminated at eleven forty-five."

Lexi kept sobbing all the way back to her cell, snuffling out her desperate mantra until the bolt drove home on the cell door. "I want my brother... I want my brother..."

—

The house was warm and bright. Randy stood in the hallway listening to the signs of life - disturbed air, the odour of freshly cooked food, the low hum of music - and found it disquieting.

It was unusual. Most nights it was a microwave dinner eaten alone in the armchair he'd fall asleep in, waiting for Morgan to come home. But that night she was exactly where he'd left her that morning. She smiled brightly as he entered the kitchen and his sense of unease increased.

"Daddy!" She was still wearing the sheer robe that she'd been in that morning. It moulded to her body like a second skin, revealing every shift and jiggle of her curves as she bounced over to kiss him on the cheek. "Are you hungry? I made pasta. Or would you like to wash first? Your laundry is on your bed, if you want to change. I—"

"Food sounds good," Randy said cautiously, cutting across Morgan's excitable rambling.

"Sure thing, Daddy. Why don't you take a load off in the den, I'll bring it through."

Randy studied his daughter, wary of her changed behaviour, but too tired to interrogate it any further. Snatches of the siblings' testimony still looped through his fatigued mind, monopolising his attention. What little was left was absorbed by his daughter's bronzed thighs, the sculpted shape of them revealed to his gaze as she bent over the stove, the robe rising higher, almost to the crease of her spectacular ass.

"I want my brother..."

Randy shuddered and tore his eyes away from his daughter. How had it fallen on him to unravel the mysteries of teenage girls? He'd worried enough about Morgan and Lexi and Ellie. At that moment, he needed to feel numb. He poured himself a large whiskey and slumped onto his couch.

Randy barely recognised the reflection staring back at him in the blank television screen. He looked older. He looked tired. He looked like his father did, when he thought of his father. Below the screen, an unmarked tape protruded from the VCR player. He could have sworn he put it back in the evidence bag the previous night. But he was tired. Bone tired. And tired men make mistakes.

He thought about retrieving it but the effort was too much. His body was sinking into the cushions, his eyes drooping, his head lolling forward. By the time Morgan entered with a steaming bowl of pasta, he was already dreaming.

They were dreams of the time he was just a cop, when he didn't have to unpick the mysteries of horny teenagers and forbidden trysts, when he still understood his daughter. Sweet dreams of a time when he was just plain old Randy.

"I want..."

Randy twitched as a cloud passed over his dreams. He was in a hallway. His hallway. He could hear choking gasps coming from an open doorway. He was drawn to the guttural retching, fearing what he would find but floating towards it helplessly.

"I want..."

He recognised that voice. It filled him with dread. He longed to flee but some magnetic force drew him to the threshold of the room, through the doorway, to the foot of the bed. Morgan's bed.

"I want my daughter..."

Randy was looking at himself. He was resting against the headboard of his daughter's bed. Morgan was kneeling between his legs, her head bobbing over his groin. Her tumble of auburn hair disguised her face but he knew what she was doing. He could feel it. Her throat constricting around his swollen tip, her drool pooling over his crotch and soaking into his tightly cropped pubic hair, her soft, puffy lips dragging against his iron shaft.

It was all so real. So vivid. Her tongue dancing around his cock, lapping at the fluid pouring forth from his tip, her gurgled moans, the vibration of them reverberating all the way to his straining balls. He knew with utter certainty that he was going to cum, in the dream and in the den, yet he fought against it, tightening his pelvic floor muscles as his conscious mind sought to surface from the depths of his dream.

There was light above him, like sunlight through water, but it was too far away. He rose towards it but the pressure in his cock rose faster, then pulsed, pulsed in time with his racing heart, like a drum, as Morgan's hair fell away from her face and he saw her, his little girl, taking every inch of his cock as it began to spew deep inside her throat.

"Morgan!" He was awake. He was cumming. But the warm embrace of a mouth around his pulsing penis was still there. Morgan was sucking him, for real, swallowing frantically as he sprayed a month's worth of baby-batter into her mouth. "Fuck, Morgan!"

Randy shoved his daughter backwards. His cock slipped free of her lips with a slick pop as she fell onto her heels. His cream oozed from the corner of her mouth and another heavy spurt of the stuff lashed across her face, marking her from forehead to chin with a streak of spunk.

"Jesus, fuck! What the... ugh." Randy hunched forward, shielding his daughter from his last involuntary tremors, which stained the front of his shirt. When it was over, when he was certain he wasn't still dreaming some awful dream, he looked up from between his knees.

Morgan hadn't moved an inch. She was smiling brightly, too brightly, given what was dripping down her face. Her robe had loosened, revealing the deep valley of her cleavage, which glistened with dewy drops of milky fluid. He saw his daughter as he had seen her the night he'd walked in on her, no longer his little girl, but a grown woman, a woman hungry for cock, his cock. His wilting cock throbbed at the realisation as he stuffed it hastily into his pants. "Jesus fucking Christ, Morgan! What the heck are you doing?"

A flicker of distress unsettled Morgan's mask of delight. "Didn't you like it, Daddy? Did I do it wrong?"

There had been nothing the matter with her technique, as far as Randy could tell. He was soaking in the warm glow of the best orgasm he'd had in months. Hell, years. But that wasn't the point. "Like it? How could I like that? Fuck, Morgan, you're my... what were you thinking?"

"You were so tired, Daddy. You've been working so hard and I've been nothing but trouble, trouble you don't need." Morgan's lower lip began to quiver and her eyes misted up with tears. "I just wanted to help you relax."

"You thought that would relax me?" Randy asked, aghast. "Holy heck, Morgan. Cover yourself up and clean that... that stuff of your face."

Morgan's tongue darted out of the corner of her mouth and captured the cum trickling down her chin. For a moment, he simply watched, dumbfounded, as his little girl scooped more of his seed into her mouth. She hummed contentedly, "You taste good."

"I didn't mean... for fuck's sake, Morgan, go to your room. Now!"

Morgan rose unquestioningly and padded wordlessly out of the den, but not before Randy saw the wetness marking her inner thighs. By the time her footsteps had faded, he was rock hard again. Staring through the place that she'd been, breathing in the sweet aroma of the nectar dripping between her legs, he saw it.

The videotape. The pieces fell into place all at once. She'd watched it. And she'd changed. Changed the same way the siblings had. She was cursed.

But if that was true, everything he'd ever believed fell apart. He'd traded his marriage for the badge. His father had dedicated a lifetime to it. Both of them chasing the same promise—that every monster had a motive, every crime a logic. Strip that away, and what remained? Chaos. And if there was only chaos, what chance did justice ever have?

Randy wrenched the videotape from the VCR player. He'd destroy it. Banish the sick, twisted footage to the memories of those who had seen it, to fade, and eventually be forgotten.

But then he'd never know for certain. He hesitated, and in that hesitation, a thought crept in. He could watch it.

If he watched it, then he could exorcise the supernatural bullshit, bring order to the madness, and understand the mystery of the Bartons once and for all.

The VCR player whirred as it swallowed the videotape. Randy slumped backwards against the couch as the screen flared to life, displaying the vaulted room with the leather bench. His body spasmed as the girl wandered into the frame but he forced back his repulsion. This time he'd see it through. This time he'd get the answers he needed.

—

She sat up as he entered, her bare legs folded beneath her, the robe hanging off one shoulder to reveal the fullness of her breast. "Daddy?"

There was something different about him. There was something dark in his eyes. He was still, but there was an energy simmering just beneath the surface. Then she saw it and her heart skipped a beat.

"I... I forgot I had still had this." Randy extended his arm towards her, the pink toy pointing at his little girl like an accusation. It had been under his pillow since the night he'd accidentally discovered her masturbating. He couldn't remember why he'd retrieved it then, he couldn't remember much of anything, now that he was looking at his nearly-naked daughter. "Do you want... it?"

There was a shyness to Morgan's response, a timid nod, her eyes wide, eager but uncertain. For a moment, they remained connected by the length of silicon, neither willing to let go, as though an invisible current ran between them. Morgan gazed into Randy's eyes and saw the darkness grow.

"Do you know what you've done?" Randy growled, holding fast to the toy. "Do you know what the fuck you've done?"

"Daddy—!" she cried out as a bracelet of cold steel snapped shut around the wrist holding the toy. She hadn't even seen him move. Then he was dragging her backwards, throwing her onto her back, fastening the handcuffs to her headboard.

The robe slipped free of Morgan's other shoulder and fell open across her body. He glared down at her, watching her breasts tremble as she struggled against her bonds, the hard points of her nipples betraying her excitement. And then he knew - he knew how it was going to end.

Don't do this!

But it was too late. He was hard again, straining against his pants, smouldering with a heat he hadn't known in years. "You were right, Morgan. I have neglected you. But you've got my full attention now, sweetheart. And now I want..."

Randy hesitated. What did he want? His mind was clouded by lust. He couldn't remember how they'd got there. "I want..."

"Daddy—" she pleaded, her body squirming beneath his gaze. "Please—"

The soft flesh of her inner thighs bruised as he forced her legs open, parting her, exposing her, making her vulnerable to his touch, slipping over the molten honey smeared across skin, finding the source, cupping it, holding it like he owned it — like he owned her.

Morgan froze, her legs clamping around the hand gripping her sex, paralysed because in that moment she'd known it too - known how it would end - and realised she wanted that, deep down, she'd always wanted that.

"I want to teach you a lesson," his voice was so low it was barely a whisper. Then he was slipping inside her - oh god - slipping inside his daughter's dripping pussy, so wet, so willing, clutching at his fingers as they pushed inside.

"Daddy!" She screamed as his fingers moved inside her, circling, stroking, hitting that beautiful little spot that was so elusive to her, but he knew instinctively, like he was more familiar with her body than she was.

She was struggling again, twisting and wriggling against the bed, her body flexing and shuddering, struggling not to escape him, Randy knew, but to accept him. She was impatient, needily humping against his hand, trapping him between her quivering thighs in her petulance.

"Enough!" Randy ripped his hand free of her. Her wetness shone on his fingers, catching in the dawn light streaming into the room. He couldn't say what made him press the wet pads of his fingertips against her lips. It was like his body was no longer his to control.

For a second, she clamped shut. Then her lips parted and he pressed his fingers inside her again, taking another orifice, forcing her to confront her desire, to taste the proof of it. Her eyes closed and her tongue swirling around his digits. With his free hand he unbuckled his belt and by the time the taste had faded and her eyes were open once more, his cock was looming over her.

It was an easy thing to swap his fingers for his thick, hard cock. Morgan didn't even miss a beat. One second she was sucking on his fingers, the next she was greedily slurping on the solid length of daddy-dick between her lips.

For the second time that night, Randy revelled in the warmth of a wet mouth around his cock. His daughter's mouth. He bucked into her, wrapping his hand around her auburn locks and pulling her face onto his cock, as his other hand explored her body, mauling her breasts, twisting her thick nipples.

He was aware that each moment that passed, he slipped further into the depths of hell. He was grunting like an animal, fucking his daughter's heaving throat with a violence that made her whole chest convulse. He took the pink vibrator that had fallen onto the bed and unceremoniously plunged all eight inches of it into Morgan's cunt.

He could feel her screaming around his cock with each slick shove that drove the toy into her spasming depths, he could see the panic in her eyes as the sudden intrusion drove her to the edge. He was snarling, slamming into her at both ends, her nose smashing against his pubic bone as he drilled into her throat.

There was wetness on his hand, a great gush of it, and her whole body thrashed against the bed, each spasm precipitating another squirt of viscous juice that coated her twitching legs and soaked the sheets beneath her ass.

He wrenched out of her at both ends simultaneously and she gasped - choking, pleading, sobbing - as a great jet of squirt arced out of her. She didn't want him to stop, she couldn't take any more. She didn't know if she was pissing or squirting, she'd never orgasmed like it, and it made her burn with shame. Shame for what they'd done, shame that she wanted more, shame that her daddy was still throbbing and hard and needing release.

"Please..." she sobbed, "Daddy, please, I want it..."

Randy climbed between her legs, her heels pulling at his butt, urging him closer, as the bed squelched beneath him. "Jesus fucking Christ, Morgan. Look at the mess you've made."

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Daddy. I couldn't help it. I... oh fuck!" Randy's bulging tip slipped through her folds, flicking over her clit, before resting against her distended opening. She tried to thrust towards him but the handcuffs held her fast and Randy was unmoving, like a statue, as he teetered on the precipice of this final atrocity.

And in that moment, he nearly broke out of the spell. What was he doing? She was his daughter. His little girl. And he could feel her pussy sucking at his cock, desperately goading him to take it, to claim it. It was madness. He pulled back, breaking the contact between them.

"Please, Daddy! I promise... I promise I'll never be a bitch to you again." There were tears in Morgan's eyes as gaze met. "I'll be a good daughter. I won't leave home. I won't even go to college. I'll... I'll be yours. I want that. I want you. Please, Daddy. Please fuck me."

She didn't need to say it. He could see how badly she needed him, her cunt was bright red, swollen, trickling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her pussy was perfect. He tilted forwards and his cock kissed that soaked little hole once again.

"Yes," Morgan moaned, a moan that stretched to an unbroken hiss as he sunk inexorably inside, forcing the head of his dick through her until it jammed against her cervix, causing her an exquisite pain that she'd rarely felt before. He was huge, a monster, he was stretching her in ways she'd never been stretched before, and she was loving it, because... "I'm yours, Daddy. I'm yours."

Two simple words that made Randy's cock throb. He slid his cock all the way out, the thick ridge of the head dragging through her, catching on that bundle of nerves, stroking her rippling innards. Together they gawped at their union, father and daughter, a crime committed in flesh. He could feel each spasm of her body through her sex, could feel her heartbeat on his cock, merging with his, the boundary between them dissolving as he drove back inside her.

He'd become the thing he despised; he was as bad as the Bartons, but he didn't care. He only cared about the body beneath him. He reached above her head and released the handcuffs. In an instant her hands were tearing at him, ripping the shirt from his back, clawing at his firm ass as he drove into her over and over again.

"Yes... Da... Daddy... Daddy, yes!" Morgan wailed, her cunt milking the steely cock inside her. "I want you, I want to feel you, do it! Fucking fill me up, please, do it!"

Randy felt her cumming again, the hot spray of it erupting around his cock, and the knowledge that he'd caused it, caused his little girl to orgasm on his dick, spurred him towards his own release. "Fuck, Morgan, I want... I want to... fuck..."

"D... do it, Daddy!" She was crying out, sobbing and gasping. "I want you to... to fill me... I want... your cum!"

It coursed through him, boiling up, hot, sticky, thick and potent, pulsing inside his daughter, the force of it so strong that she could feel the splatter as it ricocheted against her womb, filling her, splashing against her insides, triggering another soul-shaking climax as he collapsed atop her.

They clung to each other, fucking through their orgasms, semen flowing from him to her. Both were keenly aware of their lack of protection, and all the more aroused because of it. She was thanking him, whispering sweet gratitudes in his ear, caressing him as his jizz filled her to the brim, then over it, running down her ass to mix with the puddle of her own ejaculate beneath her.

Randy hadn't felt so close to his daughter in years. To anyone, for that matter. They went limp in each other's arms, melting into each other, as he softened inside her. Eventually he slipped free of her steaming tunnel. A great flood of their combined fluids followed and Morgan shivered beneath him.

There was so much of it. So much semen. It dripped from the folds of her pussy. He could feel it coating his cock and he knew. He thought of Ellie, cradling her swollen stomach, protecting her brother's child. Bile rose in his mouth. The horror of what they'd done broke the spell of his daughter's body.

Randy rolled off his daughter and they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling as the first rays of morning sun warmed the room, casting a clear, unflinching light on their transgression. Morgan was the first to break the silence growing between them. In a quiet, almost stunned voice, she asked, "Would you like some breakfast, Daddy?"

It was so mundane in contrast to what had just happened that it caught Randy off guard. "That... that would be nice."

He turned his head to watch his daughter as she stood on unsteady legs, her body glowing with a post orgasmic flush. He felt another pang of nausea as he took in the creamy fluid dripping from her pussy. "I'm sorry about the mess. I'll wash the sheets while you're eating, Daddy."

"Okay," Randy said dumbly, watching her pull on her crumpled robe and pad out of the room. He followed her, transfixed by the change that had come over his teenage daughter.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, observing her as she prepared his breakfast. Or, to be precise, observing the full curve of her ass as she bent over the worktop, thrusting her spectacular rump back in his direction, mesmerising him and coaxing him to full mast yet again.

She stiffened when he lifted the robe over her round orbs, waiting for his next move. He palmed her cheeks, spreading them, gaping the tight hole staring back at him. He knew he was damned. So what was one more crime?

Because when he'd watched the videotape, he'd discovered the truth; it was nothing more than a smutty homemade flick. Depraved, sure. But cursed? Of course not. Curses didn't exist. Everything that had happened, everything they'd all done, they'd done because they wanted to. That was the Bartons' secret, the secret of the siblings, and his daughter's secret too.

"What do you want, Daddy?"

Randy lined his cock up with Morgan's cunt. His own cum dripped out onto his tip, lubricating them as he pressed the tip inside her. What did he want? What he had wanted all along.

"I want my daughter."

—

Epilogue

By eight-fifteen, Desk Sergeant Duke was at his desk, chewing thoughtfully on his second doughnut, wondering if Detective Cummings had finally packed it in.

Cottonlugs was late. Again. Which meant Chief had to be informed. Duke took no small amount of pleasure in that task.

"Send Nate and Doug over to his place."

Duke hadn't been expecting Chief to order a home visit. A home visit was serious. Duke hid his toothy grin behind another doughnut. "You got it, Chief."

It's going to be a good day, he mused. He had no idea how good.

—

"Cummings? Yo, Randy! You home?" Doug shared a worried glance with Nate then pushed the front door open with the toe of his shoe. It had been ajar when they'd arrived but there was no sign of forced entry. They stepped into the house together, guns drawn, listening for signs of life. "Randy?"

Doug saw it first. He tapped Nate on the arm and pointed at the VCR player. They'd heard about the Barton case. Hell, everyone had. They knew how deeply Cummings was involved.

"Who the fuck uses VCR anymore?" Nate whispered.

"Can you hear that?" Doug hissed, tilting his head towards the sound that had captured his attention.

The sounds coming from the open doorway at the far side of the room. Someone was in trouble. There was a struggle. Moans of pain. Doug and Nate moved in unison, without hesitation, their training carrying them forward as their pulses steadied.

But nothing in their training could have prepared them for what they discovered through that doorway. Not even close.

Nate spun away, retching, but Doug was transfixed. "M... Morgan?"

The naked girl turned her head lazily towards his voice. If she was embarrassed by her undress, she didn't show it. She didn't even stop riding the man beneath her. Doug's jaw hit the floor when he realised it was her asshole clinging to the thick slab of dick beneath her.

She dropped back on the cock, burying its full length in her guts, and let out a deep moan. "I want..."

Somehow, Doug already knew. But he had to be sure. He had to see it with his own eyes. He circled the teen, her cock-drunk gaze following him, until he could see past her, to the man lying on the kitchen floor. It was Randy Cummings.

"... I want my Daddy."