WARNING: this piece contains themes of incest, humiliation, and rape. Please use your best judgement in deciding whether to read on.

• • • • •

Across the evenly raked gravel, Irina emerged from the car and stood, with attempted primness, before the manor house she would now call home. It was much as it had been when she was there last – a girl of fourteen, enchanted with the old world grandeur, – with, perhaps, a few more tendrils of wisteria edging the brickwork and twisting around the windows, as the gardener had directed. The sun was low in the sky and milky pale through the clouds, but still it seemed to blossom on the house, to create a vision of beauty, of new horizons. She breathed, knowing how clichéd her current existence might be, but still sighing into her happiness, careless of how she appeared.

She made to retrieve her luggage from the boot of the car, but was waved away by the crusty driver, who was already setting her bags down upon the gravel. She thanked him and noted how it seemed to annoy him.

At a loss, she turned back to the house, trying to ignore the momentary imperfection of the exchange.

Still, she thought, I am here now.

As her eyes scanned the building, wondering where within it’s halls she would be put, a figure appeared in the doorway. He was nothing much; dark hair flecked with grey, and large hands to tuck large shirts over his paunch. His face was wrinkled from a lifetime of cares and carelessness. But it was not this she noticed. She rather watched, touched with confusion, as he looked at her and let his face fall from expectation to disinterest. The glance was momentary. And then a smile passed across his face and they both walked to meet one another with familial warmth. Still, she let the thought linger that perhaps all the smiles after that moment were more customary than genuine. But it didn’t do to dwell.

They went inside, and he gestured for his assistant to take Irina’s bags upstairs, before he led his niece into the parlour. She smiled at the words he used; parlour, study, pantry. With old houses come old phrases, old descriptions. Irina was comforted by how little had changed. Her uncle, John, was as he ever had been; smiles hiding a deep weariness he would never admit. She, on the other hand, couldn’t help feel, quite poignantly, the changes in her appearance. At fourteen she had been slim and lithe, flat-chested still where her classmates were blossoming into adulthood. She had been a child. And now, at twenty, she couldn’t help but retain something apologetic about how drastically her body had grown. She wasn’t shy or lacking confidence, but self-aware enough to understand people’s surprise when they gazed at her body; her breasts were large and, when naked, hung as droplets, which her mother envied. But Irina herself disliked their gravity, feeling far too carnal in the rawness of her nude appearance. Meanwhile curves and folds had appeared elsewhere. She was no longer the skinny maiden that had played tennis in the garden six summers before. And she couldn’t help but fear that perhaps the change was not favoured by her uncle. As an inhabitant of his household did she now hold a responsibility to maintain a certain appearance?

It didn’t come up, of course, as they discussed the circumstances that brought Irina to John’s home, to live, indefinitely. Situated out in the country, far from towns and cities, it certainly wasn’t a place convenient to any work or education, nor was it a social sphere. No. It was very simple and a little sad. Her mother, John’s sister, was ill. And one by one her children were moving away from home to allow their ailing parent to recover in peace and quiet. Irina was unlike her siblings in that at twenty she was still lost and searching for direction; therefore it had been decided that she would be sent to a relative in the country, so that prized living quarters in the city could be delegated to her more successful siblings. It was a phenomenon of her generation that no one under twenty-five could afford to live on their own. Nevertheless, she wasn’t unhappy about her new home, still retaining some of the enchantment she had felt as a child there.

The evening wore on and uncle and niece passed it in cheerful conversation, slipping easily back into their ever enjoyable repartee. They ate, drank, talked, and when Irina finally claimed exhaustion and John led her upstairs to her bedroom, he hugged her warmly, comforting her that she might be away from her parents but she would not want for unconditional love.

Irina slept soundly.

And so it continued, all week, John making sure his new roommate was comfortable and settling in, and when he was working, that Irina never lacked entertainment and occupation. But as the time passed it became increasingly difficult to ignore their separate needs. No wrongful intentions were laid on the table, nor did either make any moves that might have been considered inappropriate, but there was an undeniable increase in closeness. Over the first month proximity grew smaller on the sofa in the evening, and Irina, excited purely by her age and appetite, marked where each goodnight kiss fell upon her cheek, and slept with a broader smile the closer his lips came to hers.

The world was small in the house. No matter it’s grandeur, the truth of their relation to each other seemed to disappear within the confines of their home. Still everything remained as it should; attentive uncle and doting niece. And Irina felt certain, and secure in the fact that her excitement was nothing beyond latent adolescent flirting, and that her uncle would never do a thing to break the innocence of their friendship. In fact there was something undeniably fraternal about the way John escourted her to her bedroom every night. An action which might have been so suggestive in fact cemented her belief that all thoughts of infatuation were on her side only. By taking her to her room and never coming in, he created a strong barrier at the door.

And so, Irina slept soundly, dreaming of secure happiness.

She took on a role of femininity in the house, standing by John’s side, not as a partner, but to balance his gender. A woman’s touch to attend on guests. And so it was when John’s business partner came, bringing with him his eighteen year old daughter. Andrew and Nicole were as most fathers and daughters were; close and conflicted. She rolled her eyes, but was proud when he spoke clearly and firmly about his business. The intentions of the men, namely that whilst they discussed project plans and finances the girls would have company in each other, did not go as planned. Nicole seemed caught up in some inner angst, whilst Irina wanted to stand by her uncle and prove herself beyond adolescence.

When business was done and the girls were finally released from the prison-like tension they held between them, Andrew looked at his daughter with all the pride a father should hold, glancing from her shiny – too shiny, thought mousy-haired Irina – blonde hair, to the tips of her heeled feet, noting every moment of style between the two. Beside her Irina was easily ignored. She knew how to present herself, but in this world of quiet subtlety, her physique, her expressions, all were too large, too loud, and seemed to clash with the sophistication the two men attempted to maintain. John cleared his throat and Irina couldn’t help but notice the look. Indifference. Just as it passed across his face on the day of her arrival. She felt her body bristle, and this time knew what it was.

Andrew and Nicole left late, after dinner, and Irina begged tiredness early and was escourted upstairs and given the briefest of hugs from her introverted uncle.

Sliding between the cold sheets, Irina was grateful for the four glasses of wine that lulled her to sleep before her ticking mind could distract her from comfort. She slept soundly. For a while.

Although it had taken a few weeks, Irina could now happily sleep through the chimes of the grandfather clock that stood in the hall a little way from her bedroom. And certainly, in her alcohol infused sleep, it was nothing more than a lull to aid her dreams. Nevertheless, something was different, something unbeknownst to her.

The handle of her bedroom door turned, slicing air and he stepped inside. His eyes were lowered, focusing on each moment as it happened, pressing his palm gently against the flat of the door as he closed it silently. Inside there was no sound but the softness of her breathing, and as a man who knows his whereabouts better without his eyes, he walked to her bed. There was enough light from the moon streaming through a gap in the curtains for him to look down into the face of the girl who was once his beautiful niece. He watched her for a moment, feeling his indifference curl the edges of his lips until, when he sat, allowing his generous weight to sag into the mattress, it was inches from a sneer. She stirred but did not wake.

John reached his hands – pale and flecked with hair, looking almost monster-like and grotesque in the silver light – up to peel back the covers, lowering them to her knees. She wore a perversely innocent nightdress. White, buttoned to her chin, and coming to just above her dimpled knees. He didn’t touch her flesh yet, but delicately taking hold of the hem of her nightdress, he raised it, glad that the material was generous enough, even around her large figure, to be pulled right up to her chin, exposing the roundness and folds of her stomach, and the soft flesh of her breasts, without disturbing her sleep. Her nipples were large too. And flat. He felt his face crumple in dislike, looking at the ruined body of his niece. A girl who showed so much promise in her youthful beauty, now no more than Rubenesque where she lay. For a while he simply looked at her, forcing himself to face what she had become, so deeply disappointed by her demise into plainness.

But he couldn’t hold back for long, couldn’t sit on his hands. Her laziness, her refusal to make something better of herself had been so painfully obvious as she stood beside beautiful, waifish Nicole. And it fired him. It angered him to see girls throw away what they had. And her especially. This pretty face that had held his desires for so long, unspoken. And finally she was here, and nothing of what he wanted. Reaching into his pocket he procured a wooden peg, and leaning over her in the dark, roughly grabbed her left nipple between pincerlike nails, pulling it from it’s flat slumber, into a painful nub. And, opening the peg’s jaws, slipped it around her nipple, before releasing. She moaned deeply and began to wake, her face crumpled in confusion at the pain. He moved fast to affix another peg to her right. And then she was awake and fumbling for the lamp. It flicked on, and she gasped, unable to scream for the shock of seeing him above her. And little by little it dawned on her. She felt her nakedness, knew the source of the pain and looked down at her soft body and the wooden pegs which seemed to stick out at awkward angles as they clasped around her sensitive, unaroused nipples. Her breathing grew shorter, panting, her brow furrowed. Finally she tore her eyes away from her own body, and looked up at him with desperation on her face.

“But why…?” The words were ragged and afraid. She twisted, but with his hands on either side of her body, she found there was very little room for her to move.

“Because you deserve it.” Her uncle raised a hand and slapped her left breast, sending the vibrations through her nipples, letting her feel so poignantly where the pain was. She cried out. “You disgust me,” He growled. “What man would want tits like this on his little niece?”

His fingers clasped her pegged nipples and he pulled them out from her body, stretching her breasts unnaturally. She bit her lip and could do no more than whimper through the pain of his abuse. Loosening his grip, he moved his hands down, clasping the flesh of her stomach until she could feel the pressure of bruises yet to bloom. Still she only whimpered, knowing, somewhere in her unconscious instinct, the futility of wasting energy on screams.

Her uncle sat back, looking down at her terrified body. He ran his eyes over her curves, disgust clearly written on his face. Jerking his chin suddenly, sharply, he spoke again. “Take off your panties.”

She trembled, unable to move for a moment, her fingers dug into the sheets.

“Did you hear me little girl?” He hissed through gritted teeth, “Take off your fucking panties.”

Scared by his tone, she moved automatic fingers to her waist and slipped her knickers down, over her thick thighs and down the unnecessary curves of her calves. Lying back she felt exposed, kicking her underwear from her feet.

“Oh my God,” His face twisted further into disgust, and Irina felt the tears welling in her eyes as he looked between the tops of her thighs – which were pressed tightly together. “You don’t even fucking shave.”

She trembled, shaking, trying to shake her head, but finding her whole body tense and ridden with spasms of discomfort. Each inch of flesh tense all on it’s own, and jostling to find peace amongst a thousand other discomforts.

Her uncle ran coarse fingers through the dark curls at the top of her thighs, raking them, and pulling at the hair there, making her wince. “I can’t believe you don’t even fucking shave. What makes you think any man wants to see his niece’s cunt like this? You need a razor. I want to see your cunt bare and pink, the way it’s supposed to be. Little girls should not have hair on their cunts.”

Every word that passed his lips seemed to find and dig at her tiny insecurities. And yet, at the same time she could feel the sexual attention exciting her; that haunted her. Could she really be so hungry for lust that this abuse, this humiliation was arousing her? It was horrifying. And yet, he was there. He was touching her, his fingers on her pubic mound. And somehow his expression, this action of touching with sick fascination that which repulsed him, sent waves of conflicted desire through her tender body.

“Open your legs.”

These three words set Irina buzzing. To expose herself, to part her thighs and show her sex to her uncle, the idea triggered memories of sinful dreams she had sunk into on her first few nights at the house. But not like this. Never with such revulsion and disgust. Still, breathing deeply and deciding to meet his eyes evenly, she raised her knees and slowly peeled apart her soft thighs to display to her uncle the hair-flecked lips of her cunt.

She heard his breath draw in like gravel in his throat as he looked at her. And not a minute later his fingers were peeling apart the full lips of her sex, peering at the pinkness therein, and growling breaths over her body. He used her pubic hair, between talon-nails, to hold open her cunt. There was a silence, a stillness between them as he just looked, and she felt her mind racing to understand what he was doing, why he was doing it.

“Your pussy might be pretty if you could see it. Your lips are too big, and the hair is disgusting.” Still he looked, and she had no words to explain what she felt. Her vocabulary failed her and she just lay there, allowing him this intrusion.

Her nipples ached as she shifted, but the pain bit with a strange specificity.

And suddenly the slow, strung out sensations between uncle and niece changed as he removed his hands from her body, and stood to unbuckle his belt, to undo his trousers, and release his cock. Irina half saw him in the dim light before he was crawling over her on the bed.

“Spread your fucking legs.” She did, and immediately felt the press of his dick forcing the lips of her cunt open. She breathed deeply but touched the edges of arousal as she prepared herself for his intrusion. And so it came, with utter self-satisfaction. He didn’t need to say it. This was punishment. No, this was her place. No use to anyone with true desire, she was, in her unwantable body, good for no more than the raw, rough use of man’s lust. And so she didn’t resist as he pushed his cock inside her. He didn’t reach deep, but she felt her thighs ache with his thickness, stretching her delicate, moist cunt. “Lie still slut.”

It went on. Irina’s uncle pounded into her, holding her down, holding her in place, just so, as he fucked her. She read his face as he watched her body shake under the impact, and wondered how it was that his disgust registered in his cock with increasing hardness, increasing pressure. His expression was nothing but revulsion and yet she felt more stretched, more pain as he used her. She knew it wouldn’t last. Could see in his arousal and his lustful expression that this was not intended as tenderness, or hours of passion; this was carnal urge at it’s most primal. And sure enough, before long, he tensed above her, and growled, and pulled his cock from between her thighs, to come, in spurts and jerking need, over her cunt, his cum sticking her pubic hair to her flesh. As he groaned through his orgasm he reached up and ripped the pegs from her nipples.

And then she screamed. At the shock. At the pain. At the terror. At the blatant disregard of his actions.

Her uncle collapsed over her for a moment, panting to regain strength as his cock leaked the last of his liquid lust between the lips of her cunt. He didn’t stay long. As soon as he was breathing steady he raised himself up and stood over her. Irina made to get up, to shower him from her flesh was all she wanted. But he frowned and held up his hand.

“No. Go to sleep.”

She didn’t dare refuse and lay back, tugging her nightdress down awkwardly over her so seen body, pulling the duvet to her chin. And with no more than a weary glance over the shape of her between the sheets, he left her to her unsafe darkness.

This entry was posted in Dark, Fiction, Incest, Non-Consent, Rough. Bookmark the permalink.

20 Responses to Reside

  1. Newswriter22 says:

    As I have mentioned in the past, I love when you write longer pieces. You have a delightful ability to build character and detail without just throwing it out there. Without giving away details for the sake of adding words, you can build a connection to characters without giving sharing their inner-most thoughts. Or your own.
    Your ability to build suspense, tension, and certainly arousal, are what makes these pieces such an enjoyable read. The biggest compliment I can think to leave, with this story and A Transient Fault before it, I want to read more.
    I want… need… to know what comes next.

    • LadyGrinSoul says:

      Wow… that is quite a compliment. Thank you! From time to time I’ll pick up with a story more than once and extend it, but I’m afraid that in this case I don’t think these characters have anything left to tell me. What comes after is… open to your imagination. Enjoy!

  2. W says:

    I’m not a big fan of incest or rape stories, but I read this putting that aside and treating it as a non-incest relationship.
    I read almost the entire story with a bulge in my trousers.
    It is a wonderfully written piece; the imagery, the characters, the passion – they all add to complete the feeling of the story. I particularly like the use of ‘harder’ words – cunt, fucking, disgust, slut – they really crisp up the story. They add something that cuts a bit deeper.
    There wasn’t a feeling of a traditional rape story here; it felt like a ‘force’ tale in a somewhat existing relationship. I preferred that – it felt less like a taboo.
    Well written, passionate, good imagery, arousing. Good story!

    • LadyGrinSoul says:

      Wow! That is quite a compliment! Thank you so much.

      I completely agree about the ‘harder’ words; they are absolutely what gets me off when I read.

      I also agree; this isn’t really a traditional ‘rape story’, and I usually put “themes of non-consent” (or I have done when the lines are a little blurred); not sure why I put “rape” on this one. Perhaps because it’s a harder word and I wanted to give fair warning.

      Anyway! Thank you for your comment. Much appreciated.

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  17. Penny says:


    I began reading your blog today, and I found myself immediately drawn to your darker works, starting with Teddy Teddy, then The Cheshire Cat, eventually landing on this story. With this one and the rest, I felt drawn into the story, pulled by the well-written prose describing dark scenes in such a realistic way.

    At first I felt at a loss at what to say in this comment, thinking something like “I loved this story” would obviously sound too positive given the subject matter, and at first I considered not commenting at all to avoid any misinterpretation or assumption that I condone non-consent or incest in real life, which of course I don’t.

    But I did like the story; I did like the way it made me feel uncomfortable yet reading on. It left me pondering myself and why I would be drawn to such darkness. I sometimes feel afraid of my “darker” side and admire your courage at tackling it through writing and sharing. You’ve left me wanting to keep writing and to keep thinking about these questions you’ve planted. Thanks and keep up the amazing work.


    • Harper Eliot says:

      Wow… that is quite a comment. I’m glad it had such a profound effect on you; this kind of response is exactly what I want…

      Darkness is sure to continue, so come back any time…

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