The Spider's Sticky Web

Nobody ever visited there and the rusting front gates were usually padlocked. Occasionally, a dark sedan would glide silently out of the garage, down the weed covered drive, out through the gates, turn right and then vanish from sight, but there were rarely other scenes of life.

The enormous neglected house sat there brooding amidst the fetid yard. It loomed menacingly over the entire suburb it was situated in - a fading monolith with grubby exterior walls and a roof in desperate need of a coat of paint and repairs. One could see the facade of the house as one passed by the high wall running around the property line or when one peered through the ornate gates.

The place was in decline. The evidence was everywhere to be seen: faded creaking wooden decking, a pool with mouldy walls and murky water, the back patio covered in dust and leaves and the small garden at the bottom of the stairs all tangled and choked with weeds and overgrown grass.

The whole place had been overcome by the elements much more quickly than expected. One could blame the sea air, pointing to the salt swirling about in the twilight sky, as the waves crashed and thundered against the shore or blasted into the sea wall. One could hold the howling wind accountable, as it tore through the yard, hammered the dirty windows and caused them to rattle during the night. One could judge the constant storms responsible. Or, one could, in the end, point to the three strange inhabitants who all lived together inside that enormous crumbling house and then draw the correct conclusion.

The three of them had followed through on their plan. They had slowly withdrawn from sight, hoping no one would notice them gone or grow suspicious. They disappeared behind their high walls and padlocked gates. Most of their friends just drifted away, when the three of them refused to take anymore phone calls and decided not to make any either. The very few acquaintances, who didn't get the memo, who didn't get the hint, were treated quite rudely. In the end, everybody was gone. They didn't need anybody else besides themselves.

They locked themselves away behind closed doors and opaque windows. They became so dependent on each other. They were so deeply in love and connected together. They could read each other's minds, conducting entire conversations by just looking at each other.

They created a whole world together inside that enormous house - it was their own private reality. There was no need to work. There was no need to worry about the world outside. There was no need to find out who the president was, or who was fighting who, in some other part of the world. It was all irrelevant. Their love reigned supreme.

There was no need to worry about what others thought. There was no need to keep up appearances for the moral majorities benefit. There was no need to hold back any longer - no one was there to judge.

And it was a dark addictive family love they shared together, out of sight, behind closed doors and faded black curtains. It was claustrophobic and sticky. It was obsessive and deep. Their desire for more and more love was quenched again and again, but it always came roaring back. All three of them were absorbed in each other. A pall of lust hung over everything. It hung in the still stuffy air like the dust did.

Old family photos situated, behind dirty glass, inside grimy frames on mantelpieces and ornate glass topped tables. Strange faces caught in black and white, from years before, now sitting crowded amongst other family photos. The beautiful, but worn furniture held by the family for years, and the treasured bits and pieces, and the knick knacks, and the family heirlooms. Everything the family owned was stuffed inside the house, put away in every nook and cranny. One could spend years trying to examine it all.

Family meant everything. There was no other reality. Incestuous love meant everything, because it was family love. It fuelled their desire and their pleasure. All the accumulated things they had inherited and acquired over the years only reminded them more sharply of their blood ties and hence supercharged their need for each other.

There were, of course, so many special moments for Tim: he loved watching Joan and Helen emerge from the surface of the indoor spa bath, rise up between his open legs, their dark hair streaming with water, the tips and shape of their breasts clearly visible through the sheer singlet tops they were wearing. He loved to deeply kiss each woman in turn as their hands ran slowly up his thighs and came to rest on his rock hard cock.

He loved to squirt hot semen inside his mother and his aunt. It was his greatest pleasure. But he also loved to shower them in it. He loved to explode all over their bodies. Neither woman objected to wearing it. He would have loved to have seen his mother and aunt bathing in his semen. He wanted to watch them swimming in an ocean of his semen.

He enjoyed making hot love with Joan. He liked to follow his aunt into the shower, bend her over in the steamy space and roughly penetrate her from behind, or he liked to follow Joan into the kitchen and nail her there, while she stood at the sink. She could never get away from him some days, when he was in one of his moods - he would follow her all around the house, without any clothes on. He was always trying to fuck Joan on those days, or he was screwing her in some part of the house.

He loved to see Joan cum. He was at it with her every hour in the bedroom and he loved to hear the sounds of her wails drifting out the open door, along the hall and down the stairs. He could never get enough of Joan and sometimes he made himself sick from all his efforts and exertions with her.

And then there was Helen and Tim, and their relationship with each other.

Helen stepped in and took complete control of Tim's entire life, just like he and she desperately wanted. Helen gave free reign to her irrepressible desire to dominate Tim without any restrictions at all. He cried with relief when her even more comprehensive and detailed set of rules was introduced. He cried with joy when Helen put him over her knee and thrashed him for any slight misdemeanour, no matter how small. She enjoyed inflicting pain and he relished being on the receiving end of her severe spankings.

Tim worshipped his mother. He adored her for hours on end, as she sat back naked in her dark lounge chair by candlelight and read.

She liked to watch him down on his knees, his head lowered, gently cradling Helen's beautiful foot in his hands, trembling, while kissing her toes and running his tongue from her heel, along the instep and over the ball.

He loved to hold Helen in his arms while she sat back, ignored him, read her soppy romances and picked at a cherry. He loved to kiss and nuzzle his mother's breasts or explore her shoulders and neck with his lips, as she carefully turned the page and adjusted her golden horn rimmed glasses.

He loved to kiss Helen's belly tenderly and stroke her body with his hands. He marvelled at her and obsessed over every little freckle, or mark, or blemish on her beautiful body, while she nibbled her fruit and read about some damsel being swept off her feet by some swashbuckler.

Tim loved to go down on Helen. He loved to sink down slowly between her legs and drop his head. And she would continue eating her cherries and reading her book, but only for a short period of time. Soon enough she would drop a cherry seed into the bowl, close her book and put it down beside her.

Helen would put her hand on the back of her son's head, close her eyes and sigh. And Tim, her hopelessly devoted Tim, would keep going and going until his mother was shaking, and growing red in the face, and her jaw was dropping. Then she would cum. She would fill the left downstairs wing of the huge house with her cries.

"I love you mommy," Tim would whisper up at her earnestly, from between her open legs afterwards, as she stroked the side of his face. "You're my Goddess."

"And your Goddess loves you too my darling," she would reply with a blissful smile. "Now let's see how quickly you can make me cum again."

And he would grin like a silly boy and she would direct his head back down between her legs. And then Tim would be at it again, doing what he did best, doing what he had been carefully trained to do, and Helen would sigh, stretch out, close her eyes and smile contentedly.