Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Lash. Moan. Stroke.
Everything about this was wrong, but the man couldn’t help himself. For years he had done his best to bury this sickness inside of him, this need to taint everything and everyone in his life with depravity.
But he could no longer help himself.
Even knowing he was destroying everything with this one single act, hurting the one innocent person in his life – the one person who still thought the world of him –
It was too late.
Lash. Moan. Stroke.
With every instance the cycle repeated, the air became thicker with lust and all things that were vile and immoral...and it was liberating. With every second that passed, it was as if the burden of decency was being lifted off him—-
Lash. Moan. Stroke.
“I’m coming,” the woman sobbed. “Oh God, I’m coming.”
And so she did, and he came with her, their spiraling descent culminating into a shared orgasm. Cum started spewing everywhere – the carpet, the edge of the bed, the legs of the chair –
It was one gloriously repulsive mess, and even knowing that he had to be irredeemably sick to allow such a thing to happen, the man couldn’t help shuddering in delirious pleasure at the sight.
Almost half an hour passed by the time the man was finally spent, and he reluctantly let go of his limp dick. Walking towards the chained woman, he kissed her on the mouth, whispering against her lips, “Brava ragazza.” Good girl.
His wife only trembled against him, and looking over her shoulder, the man saw that the boy was still there.
And so it was done, the man thought.
The boy was half-naked, with his pajama bottoms pooled around his ankles and his dick hanging out. He, too, had spent himself.
The man searched inside of himself for regret but found he had none – and that he liked it that way. His lips widened into a smile. “Bravo ragazzo.” He went to ruffle his son’s head but stopped when the boy flinched at his approach. The man laughed. “Don’t be like that. Don’t you see you’re exactly like me?”
The boy didn't say anything as he slowly pulled his pajama bottoms back up.
When his son started walking towards the door, the man shook his head, muttering, “You should be glad I’m starting you early.”
The boy kept walking.
The man growled, “Dove vai?” Where are you going?
The boy stilled, his hand on the doorknob. “Dormire, Papa.”
“Look at me when you’re talking. Have we not taught you better?”
The boy turned...and wished he hadn’t.
The man laughed at the expression on his son’s face. He turned his wife around, exposing her body completely to her son even as he continued stroking her folds. She moaned, the sound a mixture of agony and arousal, and yet her pussy didn’t stop quivering under his fingers.
“Why leave now? The fun has just started, mio figlio.”
The boy shook his head. “I’m tired, Papa.” His voice shook. “May I g-go now?”
The man dismissed him with a scathing wave of his hand.
And as the boy turned away, he heard his father mutter under his breath.
Go to hell, you fucking faggot.
The words didn’t quite make sense to the boy’s sheltered eight-year-old mind, but he was also smart enough to know that the words weren’t any good—-
Just like what his father had forced him to do.
The boy’s legs started trembling the moment he stepped out to the hallway, and by the time he made it to his bedroom, his heart was pounding so hard and fear was clawing painfully at his guts.
After clumsily locking the door, he dashed to the en-suite bathroom and threw up on the sink, chest heaving hard. Any moment, he expected his father or mother to come after him—-
But there was just silence.
And darkness.
Too much darkness, outside and inside of him, and the boy wondered numbly if it were something he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
The boy swayed on his feet when his stomach finally settled down. He badly wanted to cry, but he could not. He had lost count of the number of times he had received a thrashing every time he made the mistake of shedding tears in front of his father.
Pale, tense, and dry-eyed, the boy walked back to his bedroom and reached for the phone.
The call to the emergency hotline connected immediately, and the boy said shakily in Italian, “My name is Marcus Ravelli.”
The woman at the other end of the line gasped, recognizing the famous surname. When the boy finished providing his address, the woman asked carefully, “What would you like to report?”
The boy didn’t answer right away.
What should he report?
That his father told him he would become a man if he touched himself – and that he would be very angry with Marcus if he didn’t?
That at first he didn’t understand why his parents were naked, and his mother bound in chains?