The weeks after the lake house melted into a slow, aching void. The kind of hunger that burrowed into your bones and stayed there, cold as Michigan dawn but burning with the memory of sweat-slick skin and thick loads still leaking out hours later. Candace flew back east the morning after we finally collapsed at first light, the commercial flight’s recycled air doing nothing to quiet the phantom pulse between her thighs or the way every shift in her seat ground the faint purple fingerprints Hank had left on her hips against the thin cushion. She landed at Logan under a low, slate-gray sky, rented a car, and drove south on Route 3 with the window cracked just enough to let the sharp salt tang of Boston Harbor flood the cabin. Quincy Bay curved into view on her left, familiar and mocking, like an old lover who knew exactly how wet she still was.

Her second-floor walk-up off Hancock Street smelled the same as always: stale coffee grounds rotting in the sink, metallic traffic hum bleeding through the walls like distant thunder, faint musty carpet and bay dampness hanging in the air. She kicked the door shut, the slam echoing in the narrow hallway, and peeled off her clothes right there. The cool hardwood bit into her bare feet, raising gooseflesh up her calves and thighs. She stepped in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, the glass fogged from humid spring air pressing against it.

Her reflection looked back wrecked and beautiful: faint red handprints still visible on the swell of her hips from Hank’s last grip during that final breeding round, small purple bruises scattered across her inner thighs like dark stars from knees and teeth and relentless pounding, her pussy lips swollen and darkened to a deep, bruised rose. The outer folds still glistened with remnants of loads that had leaked out on the plane—creamy trails dried to flaky crust along her skin. When she parted herself with two fingers the sharp, salty-tangy scent rose immediately, raw and animal: musk, semen, her own cream, the faint ammonia bite leftover from Gloria straddling her face and letting go in hot golden streams. She brought her fingers to her nose first, inhaled deep, then slid them between her lips. Bitter-salt flooded her tongue, thick and viscous. A low, throaty moan vibrated in her chest. “Fuck ... I can still feel every inch of you stretching me open, flooding me until it spilled out.”

She collapsed onto the unmade bed, sheets still holding the ghost of her pre-trip scent—laundry soap and faint arousal—and spread her legs wide. Fingers plunged back into the slick mess between her thighs. The wet squelch filled the quiet room as she fucked herself slow, recreating the rhythm of my thrusts at the lake house, her other hand pinching a nipple until it burned, the sharp sting blending with the heat coiling low in her belly. She came hard and sudden—body arching off the mattress, cream gushing around her fingers in thick slippery waves that soaked the sheets beneath her ass, the musky flood carrying that unmistakable scent of family sin. Breath ragged, she grabbed her phone and recorded a voice note right after, voice wrecked and husky: “Just came thinking about you breeding me again. Pussy’s still leaking your cum from the weekend. Hurry back east.”

I got back to my place near Toledo that same day, the drive from the airport long and quiet, the faint musk of sex—Candace’s tangy cream, Tiffany’s perfume-sweat mix from a quick airport bathroom handjob before takeoff—clinging stubbornly under my fresh shirt. Club nights picked up right where they left off: bass thumping through my chest like a second heartbeat, strobe lights slicing the haze of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor, dancers grinding in my lap during private sets, their oiled skin sliding hot and slick against mine, perfume cloying and sweet undercut by the sharp tang of arousal. Tiffany stepped into Candace’s absence with predatory ease. Mid-shift texts lit up my phone: “VIP after close. New spinner wants to taste what the boss likes. Bring the 8-ball.” We’d end up in the back office or one of the old arcade haunts near the highway—snorting fat lines off each other’s bodies, the powder’s chemical burn racing up nostrils like glass shards, skin prickling electric and alive—then feeding quarters into booths, the metallic clink echoing in dim hallways thick with bleach, stale cum, and the sharp amyl popper vapor guys huffed from brown bottles to loosen themselves for deeper play.

Tiffany deepthroated me with that same merciless devotion, throat bulging visibly under pale skin, spit stringing in long glistening ropes from her chin to her small bouncing tits, whispering around my shaft in wet gurgles: “Miss your sister’s greedy mouth on you, but I’ll keep you drained till she’s back east.” Ryan and Emily drove up from Toledo twice; Emily had become more than a play partner. She was my live-in girlfriend now, the kind of open relationship where jealousy never had a chance to take root. She moved in a few weeks later, her petite blonde frame and innocent face hiding a wildness that drew crowds at the club. I taught her the business—how to read a room, manage the drama, count cash with a quick eye. She was wise beyond her years, learned fast, absorbed everything like she was born for it, but she always knew her place: to obey, to submit, to please me in ways that made her glow from the inside.

“Tell me what you want tonight,” she’d murmur after dropping to her knees in the office, taking me deep without flinching, her throat constricting around me until I came down it, eyes watering but gleaming with satisfaction. Pleasing me pleased her; it was our rhythm, open and unapologetic. When the mood struck, she’d kneel for me on the couch while Ryan watched from the corner, stroking himself slowly. “Can I watch?” he’d ask quietly. Sometimes I let him—his cock sliding into her from behind while she sucked me, her moans muffled around my shaft, the wet slap of flesh filling the room. Other times I’d send him out with one of the strippers, a fresh-faced new girl who’d ride him in the VIP while Emily stayed with me, her tongue tracing slow circles on my balls, whispering, “I love being yours. Only yours when it matters.”

Emily got into porn because of the club connections. I introduced her to a couple producers who shot discreet scenes for private collectors, and she took to it like she was born for the lens—wise enough to negotiate her rates, submissive enough to follow every direction, loyal enough to come home to me afterward and kneel again. She never hid it; she’d show me the footage on her phone, curled against my side, asking softly if I liked watching her get used. “It’s hot,” she’d say, “but it’s just work. This—” she’d slide her hand down to grip me—”this is home.”

Candace and I never let the connection fade. Late-night voice notes arrived like clockwork—hers breathy and urgent from her car in the dealership lot, engine idling, fingers still slick with the manager’s fresh load as she rubbed slow circles over her swollen clit: “He bent me over the parts counter again tonight ... no rubber, filled me up while his buddy watched from the doorway and jerked off, splattering the concrete in thick ropes. Every thrust made me think of your thick shaft owning me deeper, flooding me with real family cum until it leaked down my thighs.” I’d send back live clips—me pounding Tiffany doggy in the club storage room, her ass rippling with each brutal slam, another dancer kneeling beneath to tongue my heavy balls, the wet slurps and muffled moans carrying through the speaker while Candace came hard just listening, her ragged breaths turning to whimpers: “God ... keep using her like you use me ... I’m dripping again, fingers buried knuckle-deep.”

The cousin conversation started quietly, almost tenderly. Candace found Gianna on FetLife a week after the lake house. The profile picture showed dark hair cascading over olive shoulders, heavy D-cups spilling from a low-cut black top that strained against their soft, jiggling weight, full lips painted deep crimson, bio blunt and unapologetic: “18. Half-Italian firecracker. Real blood taboo only. Lounge singer with a voice like velvet smoke. Coke-addicted submissive. Craves older men who take control. Watersports welcome. Creams messy and hard when I cum.” Candace messaged first—casual family catch-up masking the deeper probe: “Hey cuz, long time since the funeral. Your profile is wild ... love the kink overlap.” I joined the chat later, dropping careful hints about Toledo gloryholes, Michigan swinger parties, the lake house breeding games, never overwhelming her. Gianna replied fast, voice notes raspy and smoke-laced like she’d just stepped off stage: “Always fantasized about crossing lines with blood. You two sound like you’ve gone all the way. Tell me everything—the dirtier the better.”