For a while, I really believed I fancied Emma. At least, I thought I liked her enough that I would want to date her. I’d lay awake at night, thinking of her and the way she giggled softly at my jokes, never seeming to appreciate them much or find them really funny. Nevertheless, humoring me and trying to please, just like she did with everyone else. I would close my eyes and picture her small, delicate hand tucking a long streak of blond hair behind the ear, her forehead frowning in puzzlement or dismay. She has had the softest of voices, often prompting her conversationalist either to lean closer as it was barely audible or ask her to repeat herself.
She lived in an old Victorian house across the street from our family home. The house was owned by my father and was filled with the students from the nearby college. The rent was fairly steep, but the house was big and beautiful, allowing seven students to practically have their own flats, sharing only a big kitchen. If something were amiss my father would send me over to fix it for them.
At first I hated the job. I had no time to mess around someone else’s living quarters, being a student myself and needing every spare moment for the studies. But once Emma moved in, I didn’t mind it much anymore. She was kind and gentle girl, always a bit of a loner, not really making friends with anybody who lived in the house, not even me. Always courteous, she would make certain there was distance between her and the rest of the world, devoting all her time to the books and her little Chihuahua dog, Angelique.
From time to time I would bump into her at college and she would smile and greet me warmly, only to hurry away, preventing me to involve her in conversation beyond “Hello, how are you?”
I asked her to a party once and she heatedly declined, using the all too transparent of an excuse of having to study. A few weeks later I drove past her on my way home from a class and offered her a ride, but she refused that, too.
Slowly, my liking of her turned into annoyance. She appeared to be a snob, believing nobody was good enough for her, or so I thought. I had girlfriends aplenty, but it was her I really wanted and she clearly didn’t like what I had to offer. To her, I was probably nothing more than a janitor, someone who desperately tried to attract her attention, and for whom she didn’t have a minute to spare.
Christmas time came and I knew that everyone in the rented house had left to visit his or her family. Everyone that is, but Emma. She and her blasted dog were the only ones left, and I was more than pissed off when I had to walk over there on one particularly bitterly cold evening to fix the furnace in the cellar. I was late for a party and didn’t feel like dirtying myself with ashes.
High and mighty Emma didn’t even have the decency to come down and tell me what was wrong. She simply explained everything to my dad over the phone and I was instructed on what to do. I saw to it that she had heat in the house and just as I was about to leave the cellar, an idea came over me, something I’ve never entertained before, not even in my wildest sexual fantasies late at night, when I lay in my bed, wanking off furiously, thinking of Emma or some other girl that took my fancy.
I decided to return to the house late at night after the party and just watch her sleep. Even though I was furious, she was a beautiful girl and despite having lost all hope of ever dating her, I still enjoyed looking at her face. I read somewhere that a sleeping person is at its most innocent, or maybe it was vulnerable. Whatever the case may be, I wanted to see her when she wasn’t hiding her true self from me. I walked over to the small window in the corner of the cellar, which was big enough to allow a person to enter from the backyard and quickly checked the cellar door, making sure Emma was nowhere near to spot me. I unlocked the window, opened it and then closed it again, leaving it unbolted.
“All done, Emma!” I yelled up the stairs as I had finally left the cellar. I waited for a minute and after a few uncomfortable moments, she finally replied, thanking me for my trouble and bidding me goodnight.
I was still shaking my head as I exited the house. She proved to be more and more bitchy by the day. Now, years later, I can understand her reluctance to make friends with the world, but at the time, I was young and foolish, all I knew was that there was fun to be had and parties to attend to. I never cared enough to find out why she kept isolating herself from everybody.
The party that I went to proved to be somewhat of a disappointment. Very few of my friends showed up and I was in a pissy mood all evening. I had a few beers but even that didn’t satisfy me and unlike other times I stopped drinking before I got intoxicated. I kept thinking of Emma and how I would avoid her being alarmed by the inevitable barking of her pet rat. Truth to be told, that dog didn’t make much noise, but one never knows with animals. When least expected, they could make a ruckus and spoil one’s plans, to say the least.
I left early, telling my best friend Brian that I had a late night date, trying to make an alibi for myself should the trouble ensue and I found myself in a tight spot. I drove through the countryside, avoiding the pubs that were my usual haunts, finally arriving in Reading well after midnight. I noticed that I was trembling all over and it wasn’t just due to the cold. I was nervous and excited both at the same time.
Why I thought seeing her asleep was such a good idea, I couldn’t tell. Not then, not now. I believe I just wanted to be close to her when she wasn’t on guard, seeing her like she most certainly wouldn’t want me to see her. It would be my personal revenge, I thought. At the same time, I tried to come up with an excuse in case she did catch me in the house and the best I could think of was that I came to make sure the furnace was still in a working order. Even now, I still break out into a sweat just thinking of how foolish I had been and what sorts of trouble I could have gotten myself into had the things gone wrong. Even though I wasn’t truly drunk, I think the little alcohol that was in my system had boosted my courage, as I seriously doubted I would have gone through with the spying thing if I were stone cold sober.
I parked the car at the end of the street, making certain that she couldn’t have heard or seen me coming home. Ever so quietly, I slipped into the alley behind the house and quickly checked to see if there were any signs of life in my own home. Apart from the small light above the front door, it seemed my parents were sound asleep and I was grateful for that. Now, I only had to worry about Emma and her dog.
The light in Emma’s room appeared to be off as well and I knew she always went to bed quite early. I sincerely hoped that this was the case on that particular night, too.
I opened the unlocked window at the back and slipped inside the house, softly landing on a small, thick rug that I had placed in the cellar earlier in the evening just for that reason. I held my breath and slowly closed the window, silently grateful that the hinges didn’t creak.
I turned towards the door and a high-pitched sound coming from behind the big cardboard box that housed an old washing machine almost made me jump out of my skin. For a moment I thought it was the rats, although we’ve never encountered that problem before. If it were the little buggers, I wouldn’t be the one dealing with them. They creeped the living daylights out of me even when simply watching them on the television, I wouldn’t want to bump into them in real life.
Then the sound changed into whining and slowly and ever so carefully I walked over to the box, peeping behind it. To my great amazement, the doggie crate that Emma used for her pooch stood there and through the metal bars Angelique’s sad face looked at me.
I stood as if bolted to the floor for a moment, expecting the dog to burst out into a mad barking session. The dog, however, appeared to have recognized me, her whining becoming slightly louder, but still nothing to alarm Emma.
I couldn’t understand why she would put the dog in the cold cellar in the middle of the night. She loved that blasted Chihuahua more than anything I could’ve thought of and this was certainly out of the ordinary.
“It’s okay, Ang.” I said and poked my finger through the bars, letting her get my scent, which I hoped would pacify her. Her cold nose touched my finger and she gave it a few quick licks, without making any additional noise. Satisfied that the dog would not give me away, I left her where she was and slowly crept up the concrete stairs, grateful that Emma left the cellar door open.
The minute I stepped into the ground floor hall, I had a feeling something was not quite right. I could hear noises upstairs, but they didn’t sound like a television program, or so I believed. There was more than one voice, I was certain of that.
I took off my shoes and very slowly crept up the carpeted stairs towards the first floor. The noise was becoming louder now, although still somewhat muffled and for a moment I thought someone was clapping.
A cacophony of sounds, which in one instant became recognizable, hit my brain and I froze. It was not the clapping I heard, it was flesh smacking against flesh. Clearly, the puritanical Emma was having sex. The other thing, which stunned me even more, was the other voice that I heard. It belonged to someone that I knew very well. It was the voice I heard every day. Sometimes that voice would praise me, more often than not, it would scold me. My father was up there with her. My own dad!
For a moment I was going to turn around and flee the house, grabbing my shoes and bolting through the front door, not caring if the couple upstairs heard me.
Then, the anger as well as curiosity got the better of me and I simply had to see what was going on. I remained standing on the stairs for a while longer, trying to control my breathing and hoping that the loud hammering of my heart was indeed only heard by me.
Step by painful step I climbed the stairs, approaching Emma’s bedroom at the top of the landing, its door wide open, a flimsy and flickering light of a candle pouring out into the hall. She must have had her shutters drawn or I would have noticed the light when I was standing outside the house.
As I got closer to the bedroom, the words began taking shapes and every once in a while I would clearly hear what they were saying, or rather gasping.
She said: … Peter (my father’s name)… darling (I felt like someone punched me in the stomach)…hurting me…oh yes…oh no…please, faster…
He said: …my little tart…tight cunny…fuck uncle Peter (the feeling of nausea hit me hard this time)…that’s it…that’s it…fuck your uncle Peter, sweetheart…
I stood still for what seemed like forever. Finally, I managed to gather enough courage and strength – by now, my legs were dangerously wobbly – and crept the last few stairs up, kneeling on the floor and ever so carefully looked around the corner into Emma’s room.
The first thing I saw was my father’s big, milky white and hairy arse moving in the rhythm of fucking. Ever since I can remember, my dad has been quite overweight and the sight of him naked only added to the feeling of disgust. I couldn’t see much of Emma as they were standing with their backs against the door, but her long and lanky legs were visible, one on each side of him. She was standing on tiptoes, leaning against something, probably a chair, clearly struggling not to fall over. My father’s back shined with sweat and he kept his white socks on, something I always found distasteful on a man having sex. The skin on his arms and legs was flapping, reminding me of a walrus making his way across the icy ground. There were roles of fat around his waist, wobbling with the rest of him with each movement.
The loud smacking of his stomach against her arse cheeks and his huge balls waving between his legs were hardly an arousing factor but I felt myself going slowly hard. My jeans were suddenly too tight and kneeling on the floor, I didn’t quite dare unzip myself and take my cock out, but I did rub myself through the thick material as if attempting to pacify the growing hardness. Again, I do believe this boldness was a direct consequence of a slight intoxication, which I was not even aware of.
She gasped each time he rammed inside her, which was accompanied by his grunt, making him sound like a hard laborer. I remembered those grunts from when he would be doing things around the house, picking up heavy objects or moving furniture. The disgust I felt over my dad was indescribable.
“Not so hard, please!” she said all of a sudden and it had struck me as funny that even in the moments of heated passion, which she had obviously been feeling, she would manage to word her sentences politely.
Ignoring her, my dad seemed to speed up the pace and fuck just as hard as he did before if not harder. She began whimpering and her gasps have turned into muffled screams.
“You like that, don’t you, baby girl?” grunted my father. “You like uncle Peter to fuck you hard!”
The flesh against flesh slapping was loud, to me it sounded as if the whole street could hear them. She must have been squeezing like he told her to, as in a few seconds he grunted hard again: “That’s it! That’s it!” I couldn’t figure out what was up with that ‘uncle Peter’ thing.
Suddenly he pulled out and straightened up, his hands reaching for her and I could see her head as she was turning around. In panic I withdrew behind the wall, afraid that I might have been to slow. To my great relief no scream of horror followed, only a muffled hard breathing that I presumed belonged to Emma.
I chanced another glance and now, I could see Emma’s delicate hands resting on my father’s arse cheeks, her fingernails digging deep into his flesh. As if on cue, he sidestepped a bit, trying to keep his balance, slightly turning them both so that I could see her mouth wrapped around his cock, taking it in deep.
As nauseated as the entire scene made me, I was fascinated, too. Her long hair was in ponytails, her face was clear of make up and she looked much younger than her nineteen years. She had beautiful, round breasts, which were now showing the traces of fingers where my dad had been squeezing them. My father had obviously had secret fantasies of the forbidden kind and I thought of my mum, a devoted housewife, pretty in her own delicate way, who believed that matching the color of one’s shoes and tops was the peak of sophistication. I felt sorry for my mum and at the same time I was angry with both of them; all three in fact. They were doing (or not) things that clearly affected me, as well, even if they were not aware of it.
“Open up wide!” my dad commanded and grabbed a ponytail in each hand. She did as she was told and he slid his cock deep inside her mouth, probably halfway down her throat, at the same time pulling her onto him, making her gag and her eyes water. I looked up in his face, noticing that the sweat beads were gathering at the end of his thick beard and every time he would move, they would break off and land on his chest. His black hair was slicked back, looking wet just like the rest of him.
Surely, I thought, she would stop this maddens at any given moment, but to my great surprise she didn’t. Her eyes were closed tight, tears slowly finding their way down the side of her cheeks and it seemed that he was manhandling her head so strongly she had no control over it. The sight was pathetic and brutal, yet very arousing.
Only then did I notice an array of sex toys strewn about the floor. A rather large butt plug, a dildo, a vibrator, a number of smaller butt plugs, all in hot pink, clearly bought as a set. ‘You kinky little bitch’, I thought.
“Emma…” my dad gasped and she half opened her eyes. “I’m about to cum!” he said between his grunts and one of her hands slipped off his arse and found its way between his legs, her fingers rubbing his crack and to my great horror, I could see what I thought one of them digging inside his arse hole.
His grunts turned into half screams and she began retching from the force of his ramming inside her throat. I knew he was cumming, just as I knew that this was my last chance to clear out of there before being spotted. If I waited until they were done, I was bound to get caught.
I crept down the stairs and put on my shoes. I couldn’t be bothered with climbing through the cellar window. If they were this careless then they should get something to be worried about. His grunts turned into very loud “Ah…ah…” gasps and I could hear Emma gagging and moaning at the same time. I stepped out into the street and deliberately slammed the door, hoping that I ruined the ultimate moment for my dad, at least this once. Obviously, the night I had seen them together was not the first time they had been fucking behind my mum’s back, Emma had known him too well. He told her he was cumming and she knew exactly what to do. I felt sick.
I slipped back into the shadows of the alley behind the house and walked through the narrow passages that formed a labyrinth of sorts, surrounded by the backyards, quietly entering my own home. I was deeply disappointed in my dad and Emma. At least, I found out that she was a hot-blooded woman, which I began doubting a while ago.
A plan began forming in my head of which I was only half-conscious. I would find a way to make them both pay! How, I didn’t quite know yet, but I would manage it somehow.
I found my way around the house and into my bedroom in darkness and minutes after I had taken off my clothes and slipped under the bed covers, I heard a quiet opening and closing of the front door. My father’s heavy footsteps rushed up the stairs and I could sense rather then hear him opening my bedroom door.
“Milosh?” he whispered? He would only call me that when he was extremely annoyed and I was in trouble. At other times he would use Milo like everyone else. “Milosh?” he repeated again and I continued pretending that I was deep inside the oblivion of dreams.
He grunted softly and a flashback of him standing over Emma, grunting his way deep inside her pussy almost made me cough. My bedroom door closed quietly and I sighed in relief. He wasn’t certain it was I in the house on the other side of the street, although I believed he had a pretty good idea. I also believed that he was too much of a coward to confront me with it, and if he was to kick up any fuss, all I needed to do was to tell on him to my mum. Not that she would believe me, of course. Lost in her own world of gossip and trivial pursuits of antiques and books, her head was usually high up in the clouds somewhere.
But not yet, I thought. I won’t tell her yet. First, I will have my revenge and afterwards, we’ll see what happens. Slowly I drifted off into an uneasy sleep, conscious of the hardness between my legs, deliberately ignoring it. I would not wank off on account of my own father’s infidelity. That would have been an ultimate betrayal, I felt. I will think about what to do tomorrow I decided satisfactorily.