Locating Accurate Lust: Extreme Taboo Incest Erotica E-Book

Chantel Wakefield

• Herausgeber: Palimpsest Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The thought didn't cross his mind at the time, but, again in the light of later experience, he knew that Julia was no virgin. She was already behaving less like the daughter of the family than like its pet tomcat, disappearing for days or weeks at a time and turning up again, without explanation, when it suited her. Their mother was outraged, of course, but she found the subject too unpleasant to speak about. Upon Julia's return, she would twist her chalky fingers together and choke something about "unclean ... tramps...." and then take to her bed for a couple of days with a headache; after that, she would act as if nothing unusual had taken place. Their father, if he was present on Julia's return would murmur what sounded like an amiable greeting, then grow dim around the edges and disappear. Teddy supposed that Julia had acquired a tremendous amount of experience on those junkets.
Teddy wasn't wondering then who had preceded him into the depths of his sister's lovely body. He only knew that her cunt fit him with a smooth, soft clasp that surprised him when he remembered how tiny her hole had seemed. His progress had been so smooth, so easy, that he doubted for a moment that he was really inside her. He groped with his fingers at the junction of their loins and was surprised to find that his cock had disappeared completely. He ran his fingers over his balls and discovered that they were all that remained outside.
 

Leseprobe

Locating Accurate Lust

Chantel Wakefield

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Frank had lost more than a Job. His whole way of life had come to an end. For ten years, he'd been the Press's bureau chief in Wesley Grove, N.J., a seashore resort. The job had been undemanding, to say the least. He'd fallen into the habit of coming to work at ten, rewriting a few publicity releases, and going out for a two-hour lunch. In the afternoons, he would rewrite a news story from one of the local weeklies, updating it with a few phone calls.

Periodically, someone in the main office would notice what a shoddy job he was doing and send him a rocket He would receive a sarcastic memo or an invitation to lunch with the State Editor. A few days' activity would smooth over the trouble because Frank, when he applied himself, was a pretty good newspaperman. But he had always lapsed back into his old habits until the next memo came.

The paper was grossly overstaffed, and nobody really gave a damn what anybody did. "Cover your own ass" was the motto of every employee, from copy boy to managing editor. Frank's laziness got him in trouble only when it embarrassed one of his equally lazy superiors.

For nearly fifty years, the paper had been owned by the eccentric Sculthorpe family. They knew little about business and less about journalism. Teddy Sculthorpe, the publisher, had been more interested in running a junkyard on his palatial estate in Riverview Township than he had been in the day-to-day details of putting out a paper. Nevertheless, the profits rolled in. More than a quarter of a million people read the Press through habit, and they probably would have continued to buy it if it had been printed in Chinese. Advertisers were attracted by the size of the readership and not the quality of the product.

Under the Sculthorpe ownership, nobody ever got fired. Although they paid slave wages, nobody kept accurate track of expense accounts or overtime. Frank had curled up in his comfortable niche at the seashore, expecting it to be permanent; but it wasn't.

Without warning, the Sculthorpes sold out to a conglomerate. The new management trimmed the staff to the bone-Frank had avoided that trimming because of hair-thin seniority-cut expenses, and ran the paper for a year on a strict austerity policy before selling it to its competition, the Sun-Journal. This morning, the new owners had announced that publication of the Press would be terminated. The Sun-Journal, owned by a newspaper chain, had only a skeleton staff. It depended heavily on wire service copy and canned features. It wouldn't absorb the staff of the Press.

So, at age thirty-three, with two kids and a mortgage to support, Frank Weston was faced with the bleak prospect of finding a real job for the first time: a job that would probably require forty hours' work for forty hours' pay. He wasn't entirely sure he could do it.

After receiving the memo on the teletype, Frank had pinned it to the bulletin board and gone for a walk on the boardwalk. He'd stopped at a couple of bars, drinking only beer; but at the third bar, and then at the fourth, he'd added shots of rye to the beer.

He was feeling no less bitter, and slightly aggressive, when he came to the Venezia Theater, just off the boardwalk. Wesley Grove had four other movie-houses, and films hadn't been shown at the Venezia for years. During the summer, it was sometimes used by revivalists.

When Frank saw the posters outside the theater, he thought a revivalist must be using it now: THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION said the biggest print on the signs. That stopped him. He'd heard about the Sexual Revolution, but he hadn't gotten any of it. Not long after he'd been safely married at the age of twenty-one, girls had started taking the Pill and stopped wearing bras. His extramarital experience had been limited to a few clumsy and hurtful affairs that had smacked of the pre-liberated era. He chuckled bitterly.

He came closer to the entrance of the theater. The posters bore a picture of a woman who could only be described as stunning. She had golden hair, and her lips were parted and her eyes half-closed as if she were in the grip of an orgasm. Frank wondered briefly if the Venezia had taken to showing X-rated movies, but he saw that the posters were advertising a lecture, not a film.

"Wanda Fleurette," said the caption under the beautiful girl's picture, "a student of Wilhelm Reich."

Frank frowned. He'd heard of Reich. He was a psychiatrist who'd believed that frequent and uninhibited sexual activity, starting before puberty, was necessary for mental health. He'd become interested in cancer-cures involving boxes full of vegetable matter that radiated invisible energy, and he'd eventually been judged insane. The Food and Drug Administration had seized and burned his books, ostensibly to stamp out medical quackery. Some people saw the book-burning as a government effort to stamp out his sexual and political ideas.

Slightly muddled by his drinking, Frank still believed that Wanda Fleurette must be some kind of Bible-belting evangelist, speaking against the sexual revolution. Then, in small print at the bottom of the poster, he saw the words: "Let Wanda Fleurette show you how to liberate your repressed sexual impulses." In even smaller print, so small he had to bend close to read it, were the words: "Free yourself by fucking."

Frank snorted with amused shock as he straightened up. The sexual revolution had bypassed Wesley Grove. Movies could still be busted here; songs with "suggestive" lyrics were banned by the local radio station; and just the other day, the cops had arrested a bunch of kids on the boardwalk for wearing T-shirts inscribed: "69-Breakfast of Champions!" If the cops ever got around to reading the small print on this sign, Wanda Fleurette would be ridden out of town on a rail.

The sign noted that a lecture would be given at two o'clock, and it was now two-eighteen, yet the ticket booth was empty. Frank went back to check the poster and saw that admission was free. He went into the theater.

The dismal interior smelled of urine and stale cigarettes and moldy upholstery that had been rotting too long in the sea air, but Frank didn't notice it. The minute he walked in, his attention was gripped by the girl standing in the glow of a spotlight behind a lectern.

Frank knew that any woman looked good when he was drunk enough, but no amount of drinking could have accounted for the impact that Wanda Fleurette had on him. Despite her picture and despite the message on the posters, he'd half-expected a grim-lipped lesbian who carried a spring-loaded dildo and a tear gas canister in her handbag: some kind of liberated womanoid with an axe to grind. At very least, he'd expected her to be about twenty years older than the stunning girl on the poster. But neither expectation was correct.

"Why don't you take a seat?" asked the faintly husky, musical voice that had been enrapturing him.

It took Frank a moment to grasp that this vision, this angel come to earth, was addressing him personally. He realized that he was standing in the center aisle and staring at her with his jaw agape. Flustered, he looked around for a seat and saw that the theater was almost empty. He slid quickly into the nearest seat.

He knew that he should make allowances for stage lighting and makeup, but he couldn't believe that Wanda Fleurette was much older than twenty; and he was sitting close enough to realize that she didn't seem to be wearing any makeup at all. She wore a simple white gown that might have been modeled from an ancient Greek vase. It bared her arms, and it was cut drastically to the waist in front, revealing most of her big, firm breasts. Her skin glowed a honey-golden shade and her waist-long blonde hair was like spun sunshine.

She stood straight and proud as an empress, but there was a glow of warmth in her husky voice. He couldn't shake the idea that she was addressing all her words directly to him-which didn't seem that unlikely, considering the sparsity of the audience.

It was getting sparser, too. During the course of her speech, a few people got up and walked out, making enough noise to suggest they were demonstrating their disapproval. One woman even shouted: "You're nothing but a dirty whore!"

Frank could understand these reactions. Wanda's speech seemed intelligent, well-reasoned, and persuasive: but every other word, it seemed, was "fuck." She never said "sexual intercourse," or "making love," when another speaker might have; she said "fuck." He'd never heard anything quite like it.

"We have tried to convince ourselves that we are not animals, but gods," Wanda said. "This is wrong and dangerous. It has forced us out of touch with ourselves, out of touch with the cycles and rhythms of the universe. The only way remaining open to us to achieve oneness with Nature is by fucking. When everyone subscribes to the heresy that we are not animals, it becomes a religious obligation to fuck, with as much passion and intensity and frequency as we can muster."

Frank chuckled, wondering what his wife Mary would think of that position. Once a week was, her speed.

"The world might be compared to a burning building that we are all trapped in," Wanda said. "We cannot escape. Some of us will be consumed sooner than others, but all of us will die. The best and noblest thing we can do is to reach out to as many of the other victims as we can and touch them, with love and understanding, with the only communications system available to us: the cock and the cunt."

"Yeah," Frank shouted. "Hear, hear!"

Wanda paused, staring at him. Her eyes were green, deep green. He could drown in them. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and muttered: "Sorry."

She smiled slightly and went on. Frank realized that something odd was happening to him. Not since high school had he experienced the blend of physical symptoms that came with falling in love: the inner emptiness, the foot-tangling clumsiness, the lightheaded dizziness. He hadn't thought he was capable any longer of experiencing such adolescent symptoms. But he was feeling them now. He was falling in love with Wanda Fleurette.

Those weren't the only effects she produced in him. It was impossible to hear her talk about fucking so freely and openly without thinking of fucking her. He pictured her with all her honey-golden skin bared to his hands, with her thighs circling his back as he probed deep into her pussy. As he thought, his cock got stiffer, until it pressed painfully against his trousers and tried to burst out and reach her.

"Desires must be gratified," Wanda was saying. "Repression is sickness and death. If you want to fuck someone, want to fuck them with all your heart and soul, if you know it deep in the tingling of your body-then do it, even if it means raping them."

"Jesus Christ," Frank murmured, shifting to ease the aching pressure of his prick. He doubted that the police would consider her speech an excuse of his behavior, if he acted on what she said and raped her.

"I'm not preaching violence," Wanda said. "I'm not suggesting that you should lurk in alleys and knock women over the head. But all of you men have known instances where a girl said 'no' without much conviction, when she resisted-without much force, when all your instincts told you that she really wanted to fuck, but she was being held back by indecision and fear and the scars of her upbringing. On such occasions, go ahead! We are all parts of the universal Whole. No one has an inalienable right to physical privacy, a right to withhold pleasure from another. Pleasure is life."

Something in the back of Frank's mind told him that her ideas were bullshit, but he willfully suspended his disbelief in what she said. She had the power to convince people-to convince him, anyway. He would have accepted almost anything she said, simply because she was saying it. Her beauty was like an ache in his soul, and she seemed to get more beautiful by the minute.

He realized that she had finished. Her face was lowered, mostly hidden by the veil of her hair as she sorted her notes at the lectern. There had been no applause, no reaction whatever. He turned to scan the theater. It was empty. Perhaps ten or twelve people had been present when he'd entered, but they'd all walked out on her speech. He turned back to her and began clapping loudly.

"Bravo!" he shouted.

She glanced up with a wry smile. Then she looked back at her notes. She'd apparently mistaken his reaction for sarcasm. He rose, and surreptitiously slipped his hand into his pocket to minimize the thrusting bulge of his cock. Then he walked down to the stage and stood beneath her.

"I meant that," he said. "I thought you were great"

"You're in a minority," she murmured, not even glancing at him.

Maybe he wouldn't have said it if he hadn't been drinking, but he would have wanted to say it. Now it just tumbled out: "Do you practice what you preach?"

She glanced at him again. She'd put on round, rimless glasses to sort her notes. Now she removed them and tossed back her hair with a gesture that took his breath away. He wanted her as he'd never wanted any woman before.

"Are you a cop?"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"Come off it," she said, and her smile was slightly mocking. "You're big and strong-looking, you're reasonably young. Everybody else in my afternoon audiences is on Social Security. You have a short haircut. You're wearing a tie and a jacket, and you're probably the only man on the boardwalk who is. Besides, you look Irish."

"Don't you fuck cops? You should have mentioned that in your speech." '

She sighed. "Sometimes I have no choice. They feel free to take liberties with a woman who talks dirty. When the choice is up to me, though, I tell them to fuck off. So, do it, unless this is a bust."

"I think you're a hypocrite," he said. "Aren't cops animals, too?"

She laughed, but she didn't look at him. She put her glasses back on.

"I'm not, honest. I'm a newspaperman. I have to dress funny, to earn the confidence of politicians. And cops."

"They're just as bad," she murmured. "Are you going to write me up?"

"I would, except that the paper went out of business this morning. I wish it had lasted another day. It would have been fun trying to suggest what you said for a family newspaper."

"It's been tried. You can look at my press clippings, if you want to."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I forget what it was."

"I asked you if you practiced what you preach."

She removed her glasses again and tapped her notes, written on index cards, into a neat stack. She looked at him for a moment before smiling and saying: "Yes, I do."

"Well," he said, and he found it impossible to force out the words he wanted to say. He was afraid that this all might turn out to be some kind of joke at his expense. "How about it?"

"Mr.--?"

"Weston. Please call me Frank."

"Please be frank," she laughed. "If you listened to my speech at all, you must realize what I think of pussyfooting and hypocrisy."

"All right," he sighed. "Can I fuck you?"

"Sure," she said. "Come on back to my dressing room."

Frank stood where he was, momentarily flabbergasted. Without a backward glance, Wanda turned and walked offstage. He followed her golden shoulders with his eyes, the firm, shapely ripple of her delicious ass, outlined by the flow of her gown.

He was alone in the dingy old theater for a moment, and he would almost have been willing to believe that he'd hallucinated the whole experience. It seemed impossible.

And then, from the wings, he heard her husky, sexy voice: "Frank? Aren't you coming?"

Without another thought, he sprang up onto the stage and followed her into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

"Let me suck on it first," said Wanda, kneeling on the bed between Frank's legs and wrapping her fingers gently around the throbbing thickness of his cock. "I want to kiss it and see what it tastes like before you fuck me."