Chelsea Rising Ch. 04

She nodded, the candlelight catching highlights in her hair. "Me too, Ben. Do you remember last week, when we went to see Dad? You'd only fucked me an hour before, and I could feel you leaking out of me the whole time. I sat there during dinner and wondered what he would say if he knew his son's sperm was dribbling into my pants."

Ben laughed. "If I know Dad, his sperm was probably trickling out of Melanie at the same time." He regarded her for a moment. "You've got a delicious slutty streak in you, Chelsea...I love it."

She feigned indignation. "Just because I love the feeling of my brother's spunk in my pussy, you think I'm a slut?"

"Yep."

"Well, Mr. High-And-Mighty Rogers, how about this for sluttishness?" She reached down and scooped some of his sperm from her vulva, bringing it to her lips and sucking her fingers.

Ben looked at her shining wet lips and felt his cock harden. "Nice," he whispered. "That would be an eight on the slutto-meter."

Chelsea looked at him. "Well, what about this..." she rolled over and thrust her buttocks up, opening them with her hands so that her wet pussy was exposed.

"That's not very slutty."

She laughed, a low throaty chuckle. "It will be if you fuck me where I want you to."

Ben looked at her ass, and the tiny puckered hole nestling there. He remembered the last time he had slid his cock in there on the first day in the little beach chalet, and how tight it had been. He moved quickly so that he was kneeling behind her, and he moistened the thick red head of his knob with his spit before placing it against her anus and pressing forward. He watched her flesh distending, resisting his entry, and then there was sudden give and the head popped into her body. He heard her grunt with surprise.

"That's a ten," he said, as he sank deep into the searing heat of her bowels.

*

Dirk sat on the back step of his mother's house, idly hitting a broom stick he had found against the metal railings. He was uneasy about the situation he found himself in, and he was thinking what to do about it. His mother had moved in with her new husband, taking Sarah with her, and there was only himself and Cielle in the house now. Much to his surprise she had not made any effort to get away too - it was true that Jim only had one spare bedroom, but he knew that she could have gone if she had pressed the matter. He frowned as he thought about it - it was uncharacteristic, to say the least.

He remembered how he had gone to Cielle's room early last night, finding her reading in bed. She laid down the book and had actually smiled at him, holding the bedclothes aside to allow him to slide in beside her. That was uncharacteristic, too, and it left him feeling uneasy. He wanted fear and oppression, not warmth and cooperation, and he was suspicious about her motives.

As a result he'd been rougher than usual last night, and Cielle had cried out as he pounded his cock into her body. That made him feel better...the feeling of domination, of control and power, watching her bouncing underneath him, her little face strained as it stared up at him. And then he'd felt her legs wrap around his back and she moved with him, her hands on his shoulders as he fucked her. Her acquiescence drove him to greater ferocity, and he'd hammered into her, the mattress twanging and the bed posts thumping against the wall. His efforts at subjugation carried him to new heights and his climax had been spectacular - higher than any before, a tight spiral of pleasure that swept him upwards, soaring above the bed, looking down on himself as he writhed on top of his sister and spurted long, thick jets of searing cum into her slim body.

And in the white-hot heat of his orgasm he heard her shrieking too, and supposed at first it was pain at the way he was pounding into her, but then he'd felt the spurt of wetness around his balls and he realised in amazement that she'd come too. Dirk frowned as he thought about it. What the fuck was going on? She wasn't supposed to enjoy what he was doing. He sat and considered the consequences. If she took a liking to him, it would remove fear - the one weapon in his armoury. She might even think that Sarah deserved a piece of this pleasure pie, and that avenue of control would be removed as well.

He scowled as he thought about it, and then noticed his mother's cat walking towards him, intent on entering the house. It was cautious, moving carefully towards him before sitting a couple of feet away out of the range of his feet. It knew from past experience that he was likely to give it a spurious kick, and it was ready to flee.

Dirk laughed. He slowly drew the stick back, at the same time extending his left hand, fingers beckoning. "Here, Sooty." He clicked his fingers. "Here, kitty...come on."

It regarded him with its golden eyes, unmoving. He leaned forward, his wiggling his fingers to distract it. "Here, com'on, kitty." And then he struck, the stick whirring over his head and cracking down hard on the creature's skull with a sound like a baseball bat socking leather. Its limbs flew outwards with the impact and its head split open, and it sprawled in the dust, twitching.

Dirk prodded its corpse with the end of the stick and laughed again, suddenly feeling better. "Fucking useless piece of shit," he murmured. He regarded it for a while and then stood up and picked it up by the tail, and carried it carefully into the house. Perhaps the day hadn't been wasted, after all.

*

Jim Rogers folded his morning newspaper and regarded his new wife. They were sat on the terrace of his townhouse, enjoying breakfast in the morning sun. He could hear the muted sound of traffic on the freeway to the east, and somewhere close by a Kookaburra was rendering the morning with its raucous cry. He waited until it was finished, and then spoke.

"Mel, we need to talk about what's been happening to us."

She looked up from her magazine, and shrugged slightly. "What is there to talk about?"

"Well, it just seems to me that there's been a string of things in the last few weeks, and that it's becoming more than just a coincidence or misfortune." He looked at her to make sure that she was paying attention. "Let's go through them." He ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke. "There's your car, the attempted use of your credit card, the internet accounts, and the computer virus." He held up his hands with his fingers extended. "That's four things, Mel, all in the sake of a few weeks."

"That's life in a modern city, Jim. It's full of people who've got nothing better to do."

He shook his head. "I thought that for the first couple of things, but its getting beyond a joke...it's almost as if someone is targeting us."

"That's absurd, Jim," she said. "Who would want to do that?"

"That's the question, I guess. I'm tempted to call the police."

"And tell them what? That you've got a suspicion that someone doesn't like us? That you're paranoid about misfortune?" She shook her head. "They've got more important things to worry about, Jim."

He sighed. "I know, I know. It's just that...well, I've got an uneasy feeling about this, honey. What if I'm right? What if someone out there is stalking us?"

She reached over and put her hand on his arm. "Then we'll deal with it when we know for sure we have a problem."

"It might be too late by then," he grumbled. "If I'm right this could get nasty quite quickly." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Look, I'd like you to keep your eyes open, Mel - I mean really open. Be alert to things...you know, people following you, unusual events, any more incidents - that sort of thing."

Mel smiled at his intensity. "All right, I will."

"And tell me if you see anything - or even if you suspect -"

"I promise." She patted her lips delicately with the table napkin and stood up. "I've got to go, honey. I'm dropping Sarah off at her -" she broke off as the door bell sounded. "Hmmm, that's a little early for someone to visit." She leaned over and kissed him. "I'll get that on the way out...its probably Janine from next door."

She picked up her car keys from the hall table and opened the front door. There was a parcel resting on the mat, about as big as a shoebox, and she picked it up and carried it back to the patio.

"This was on the doorstep, Jim," she said. "Were you expecting anything?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

She bent over it and cut the tape with a table knife, peeling back the paper and opening the lid. Jim saw her stagger and her face went deathly pale, and she sank back onto the chair with her fingers over her mouth. He leaned forward in alarm. "What is it, honey?"

She gestured weakly and he leaned over further to peer into the box. Her cat lay inside it, packed with newspaper so that it was lying on its back, its eyes glazed with dust and blood, and its lips sewn back into a snarl, the stitching crude and angry. It was wearing a pair of women's panties bunched around its hindquarters, and Jim could see the crutch was heavily stained with a crusty whiteness.

He recoiled in horror, staring down at it for a moment. There was a piece of paper wedged under the elastic and he picked it up by the corner, laying it on the table and opening it with a fork. He regarded the words on it, written in childish capitals, and he moved over and put his arms around his wife.

"What did it say?" she whispered.

He shook his head, and she leaned forward to read it:

'THIS IS THE FIRST OF YOUR PUSSIES I'M GONNA FUCK.'

She turned her face to her husband. "Who would do this to us, Jim," she whispered. "Who would do such an evil thing?"

He shook his head, gripping her hand. "I don't know, honey," he said, "but we'll find out."

*

Inspector Malone of the New South Wales Police Force regarded the couple sitting at his desk. He could see that they were upset, and he hoped that he would be able to help them - but his desk was piled with other work and this was a relatively minor matter in the grand order of things.

"Mrs. Rogers," he said, "do you know of anyone who would do this to you? Anyone who has shown animosity to you in recent months, or you've had an argument with?"

She shook her head. "I - I don't think so."

"Any quarrels in shops, or with tradesmen?"

"No."

"How about other incidents - arguments with neighbours, or perhaps over car parking or a minor traffic accident?" he persisted.

"Nothing that I can think of, Inspector."

He leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Have there been any other incidents where you felt someone was trying to target you?"

She shifted in her chair and glanced at her husband. "There have been a few things in the last weeks," she said. "I didn't think much of them...you know, I thought perhaps that it was just the way things were, but now this has happened perhaps -"

"What were they?"

She looked at her husband again. "My car has been vandalized twice, once with a key on the paintwork and more recently someone threw paint over it." She paused. "We've also had someone try and use our credit card, and had to cancel it and get a new one, and our internet banking was compromised."

"In what way?"

"Someone was trying to access it and locked it out. We had to reactivate with a new password."

"Anything else?"

She shrugged slightly. "A computer virus...but we can't be sure that it was maliciously targeted at us."

He smiled. "They are all malicious, but I understand your point. Has anyone threatened you?"

"No."

"Do you feel safe?"

"I did until this arrived - " she gestured at the box containing the dead cat. "That makes it very personal."

He nodded. "I understand. It does tell us a lot about who might have done this, though."

"How?"

He steepled his fingers. "Well, the newspaper in which it was wrapped was a local paper several weeks old. That suggests the person lives locally and used an old paper they had in the house. There may well also be fingerprints on it." He stopped suddenly. "Do you buy the local paper, Mrs. Rogers?"

"Not any more. I used to, before we were married."

"I see. Well, the um - underclothes in the box might also give us information - I'll have the Lab look at them. I don't suppose you recognise them, do you?"

Melanie shook her head. "They're my size, Inspector, but I couldn't say if they were mine. They could be."

"How do you mean?"

"Well," she coloured slightly under his gaze, aware that the panties were very skimpy. "They're my style, if you understand."

He nodded. "Ah, yes...well. Perhaps there will be DNA samples on them. We'll also test the note and the wrapping for fingerprints, and I'll let you know what comes of that." He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Please don't hesitate to ring me if you are concerned, or if other things happen, Mrs. Rogers." He turned to Jim. "Would you have a moment, Mr. Rogers? Perhaps I can talk to you alone?"

Jim nodded and waited until Mel had left the office. "What can I do for you?"

The Inspector regarded him for a moment. "We had a letter arrive this morning," he said carefully, "that directly concerns you. It was anonymous. We normally don't pay too much attention to these things, but in view of your wife's circumstances I'd like to discuss it with you."

"What did it say?"

The Inspector opened his desk drawer and drew out a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve. "Please tell me what you think."

Jim read the brief note. It was written in capital letters with a ball point pen and said:

'Dear Police,

I want you to know that Mr Jim Rogers of 18 Horseshoe Parade is a pervert. He's been fucking his daugter Chelsea for many years, since she was 8. He does terrible things to her and shes to frigtened to say.

I can't say who I am as he nows me.'

Jim looked up and saw the policeman's eyes on his. "This is disgusting and preposterous," he said.

"How many daughters do you have, Mr. Rogers?"

"Just one - Chelsea, but she is not at home. She has a flat in Cronulla."

"What address?" He jotted it down on the pad in front of him, and then laid the pen down.

"Is there any truth to this accusation, Mr. Rogers?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Would you have any objection to us speaking to your daughter?"

"None at all. I think it's important that you do, so we can put this ridiculous slander to bed."

Malone nodded, and pushed the note forward again. "Do you recognise this handwriting?"

Jim looked at it again. "No."

"There are similarities with the note with the cat."

"So the same person wrote both? Doesn't that tell you that this note is malicious?"

"We will see, Mr. Rogers." The Inspector looked hard at the older man. "You'll understand my concern - we get a surprising number of reports of ...um - molesting, and we do take them seriously....even in circumstances like this."

Jim regarded him with steady eyes. "I love my daughter, Inspector. I would never do anything to hurt her now, nor have I in the past. The whole notion is disgusting."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Rogers. We'll have a talk with your daughter and I'll be in touch. At this time we regard this as a malicious prank."

After Jim had left, the Inspector picked up the phone. "Can you get me a number, please," he said. "Ms. Chelsea Rogers." He read out her address and then returned the phone gently to the cradle.

*

Chelsea opened the door to find a middle aged man in a worn grey suit standing on the doorstep. There was a younger woman behind him with thin lips and hard eyes. "Can I help you?" Chelsea said.

The man raised his hand and she could see he was holding an identity card. "Inspector Brian Malone and Constable Ashley of CID," he said brusquely. "Are you Chelsea Rogers?"

"Yes, I am. What is it? Has something happened to Ben?"

He looked at her for a moment. "No, Ms. Rogers, nothing's happened to anyone you know. I'm sorry if I worried you."

"Then what is it?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Would you mind if we came in, Ms. Rogers? I need to speak to you for a moment and it's probably not a matter to be discussed on the doorstep."

She fumbled with the lock on the screen door. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Please come in."

They sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa and he refused a cup of tea. "Thank you, Ms. Rogers. I just -"

She smiled at him. "Why don't you call me Chelsea?"

"Oh, right, well... Constable Ashley and I are from the local CID region and we are investigating a letter that we've received at the Cronulla Police Station. It's a somewhat delicate subject and I hope that you won't be offended if I speak plainly."

"Try me."

The Inspector nodded. "Last week we received an anonymous letter suggesting that you had been involved in a long-term incestuous relationship. We are looking into the matter to see if there is any basis of truth to the accusation, or whether it is just a prank." He regarded her for a moment. "Quite often these reports are from people who have a grudge to bear, or have nothing better to do," he added, "but occasionally there is a grain of truth to them so we must always investigate the allegation."

Chelsea stared at him. The room seemed to have suddenly grown very still, and she was aware of the policewoman's eyes on her face. She forced herself to speak normally. "I don't understand," she said. "Just what is it that I'm being accused of?"

"Oh, no, Ms Rogers, nobody is accusing you of anything - rather, someone has suggested that you are the victim of incest."

"That's absurd."

"Is it? If you prefer I can leave the room and you can speak quietly to the Constable."

"Inspector, I think I would know if someone in the family was porking me without my consent."

The policeman blinked at the directness of her response. "This isn't a matter of consent, Ms. Rogers. Consensual incest is still a crime."

"Well, that's what I meant. Nobody in the family is bothering me."

"Have they ever done so?"

"No."

"Is there any reason why someone in the community should think that you have been the victim of incest?"

Chelsea thought quickly. "No, Inspector, there's no good reason why anyone should think that - but you know as well as I do that there are always ratbags who want to cause trouble, or think its clever to start vile rumours about people."

"Does your family have any particular enemies?"

"None."

"Any arguments or disputes that you are aware of?"

"No."

"So you have never been the subject of incest or any other form of sexual assault?"

She looked him in the eye. "No, I have not."

The Inspector got to his feet. "Well, that's all I need to ask you," he said. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Rogers...we'll see ourselves out, if you like."

Chelsea shut the door behind them and sank back onto the sofa, her mind in turmoil. She had been so confident that nobody would ever find out. She felt sick, not only because someone knew about her and Ben, but also because the police were now involved. She had felt the policewoman's eyes on her face as hard as shards of glass, and she felt as if her lies had been stripped open, like gutted fish on a fisherman's slab. After a time, she took her mobile phone out of her handbag and dialed Ben's number.

Malone started the patrol car and headed west, back towards the city. "What did you think of that?" he asked the woman beside him.

The constable glanced across at him. "She was lying."

"Yes," he said. "I rather think so too. It's funny how things turn out, isn't it...but it seems that Mr. James Rogers might have some explaining to do. It's such a shame, too, because she seems to be a nice girl."

*

Ben Rogers poured two whiskeys, his hand trembling slightly as the amber liquid splashed into the cut crystal glasses. He added a little ice and then took them to the sofa, handing one to Chelsea. She sipped it and a little colour returned to her cheeks.