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I am but mad north-northwest. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Hamlet, Act II, Scene ii.

Donald Clarke sat behind the wheel of his car and stared at his house. The car engine idled fitfully, coughed and died. The evening chorus was holding forth from the elms lining the street. He suspected his children wouldn’t have bothered waiting for him before eating the dinner left by their housekeeper.

Don heaved a sigh and pulled the keys from the ignition. Life had changed since his wife had left, not least that family dinners were now limited to birthdays and Christmas. Hauling himself out of the car, he snagged his briefcase from the backseat and began trudging up the path. Stop acting like you’re on death row, heading for the chair, he told himself, these are your kids, your flesh and blood, your only family now.

But no number of motivational pep talks could fool the habitually clear-sighted man. His children had become strangers to him. They barely spoke to each other and never did anything together.

It was time for Don to face the truth. His ex-wife had raised the children as Don had worked long hours, building his practice as a civil architect. And he had turned around one day and instead of seeing two pink cheeked kids, there were two young adults staring coolly back at him.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he ate the cold steak pie left out for him, not really tasting it and washing it down with a beer. Tossing his fork onto the empty plate, Don contemplated his empty bottle. Fuck it, he deserved another. Savouring the bitey pilsner and the warmth it was slowly lighting in his belly, he walked into the lounge.

“Hi Dad,” his eldest child said, not looking up from the laptop balanced on her knees. On the muted TV a plastic-faced newsreader was nodding vigorously. A glass of red wine sat within reach on a side table. Emily was twenty and in her third year of college. Almost preternatally self-possessed as a child, she had grown into a graceful and confident young woman. Thomas had heard through parents of other students that she was heavily involved in college politics.

“Hello. Have a good day?”

“Fine, thanks.”

Looking at her profile lit by the computer’s glow, Don considered the absurd impression he was somehow intruding. Lately, he had begun to feel not like his children’s father, but rather, their uncool housemate. He should be in his room, playing online war games, wearing hobbit feet and masturbating over a bootleg copy of Sperminator 3 – The Cumming, he thought. He forced himself to sit beside Emily on the couch, instead. She moved over, unfolding long, slim legs to cross them beneath herself.

“Is your brother in?”

“Uhuh, in his room, I think.”

Picking up the remote control, he gestured at the TV. “Are you -?”

“No, go ahead.”

Flicking through the channels, Don found some European soccer and took another pull of his beer. Emily continued to tap at the keyboard, taking occasional sips of wine.

“School ok?”

She didn’t bother answering, merely quirking her lips. Soft and plush, they were slightly wine-stained and swollen from being bitten as Emily concentrated on her work.

Turning back to the TV slowly, he stared down at the remote in confusion for a second. Coming back to himself abruptly, he started to channel surf and paused when he caught a glimpse of a waggling moustache. It was a Marx brothers movie but which –

“Monkey Business!” Emily exclaimed, delight lighting her face. He had nearly forgotten her love of the cheeky comedians. For her eighth birthday they had taken her to a marathon of their movies at an old Cineplex in town – she had been so excited that she couldn’t sleep the night before and could barely stay awake in the cinema.

“Want to watch it?”

Emily shrugged but couldn’t stop herself giggling at a particularly hard pratfall. Don grinned and settled back to watch the movie.

The movie’s credit’s were starting to roll when his son walked in. Luke had just turned eighteen, and was enrolled at the same college as his sister. Judging from the amount of kit regularly left strewn about the house, he was continuing the active sporting career begun in high school.

Grunting in response to Don’s hello, Luke addressed his sister.

“You going to Ethan’s party tonight?”

She shook her head and resumed typing, leaving Luke to grimace and turn away. Surprising himself, Don spoke. “Why, do you need a lift?”

Is this what it’s come to? he thought, so desperate for contact with your kids that you volunteer to be their chauffeur?

Luke shrugged and shook the hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess, if you want.” He folded his arms across his chest. Thomas noted that although Luke was not yet as broad as himself, all that rowing and track had laid a lean layer of muscle on his youthful frame.

“I’m gonna get my license, you know,” Luke muttered. casino şirketleri Knowing that the best way to soothe a defensive teenager was simply to agree with whatever they said, Thomas nodded and went to fetch his keys.

Inside the car, sliding through the suburb’s backstreets, father and son sat in silence. Don racked his brain for something to say.

“How are your classes?”

“Alright.”

Pulling up at a stop sign, Don leaned forward to peer past Luke, checking for oncoming traffic.

“You’re ok on this side,” Luke told him.

“Playing this weekend?”

“Yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye, Don saw Luke glance over before turning back to the window. “Why, do you wanna come? ‘Cause you don’t have to, none of the other dads will.”

Swallowing the pleased “Sure” that had been on the tip of his tongue, Don ignored his disappointment and turned on the radio.

“Like a bat outta hell, I’ll be gone when the morning comes…” Whooping, Don cranked up the volume, grinning at Luke’s groan.

“Dad, come on, Meatloaf? He’s so lame,” Luke complained.

“Hey, no dissing the ‘Loaf, he’s a legend, none of that gangsta stuff, 20 Cents or Ridiculous or whatever, yo yo, wassup.”

Rolling his eyes, Luke snorted but he was trying not to smile. As the rock song built to its climax, Luke began to nod along to the heavy guitar riffs and by the time Meatloaf and Don were screaming out the final lines, he was screaming along with them.

“Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven, I’ll come crawling on back to you!”

Dropping their voices, they crooned the repeat and listened appreciatively to the motorbike revs closing out the tune.

“That’s not a motorbike you know, they did it on a guitar ’cause the producer didn’t want to let a bike in the studio,” Luke said suddenly.

Don stared at him in amazement before returning his eyes to the road. “I didn’t know that.” He couldn’t remember the last time his son had said something to him that wasn’t in answer to a question.

“Yeah, well.” Fidgeting in his seat, Luke’s face settled into its usual expression of sullen disdain.

A couple of minutes later, they began to pass teenagers on the sidewalk, grouped in ones and twos. They seemed to be drifting in the same direction and Don thought they were probably headed to the party.

“Let me out here.”

Luke added a grudging “please” when Don raised unimpressed eyebrows. He flicked the radio off as he pulled the car into the kerb.

“How are you planning to get home?” he asked Luke’s back as it exited the car. It shrugged.

“I’ll get a ride, whatever.”

Shutting the door, he walked around the front of the car to cross the road. The car’s headlights threw the bones of Luke’s cheeks into sharp relief under the shadow of his shaggy fringe and Don realised that he was staring at a young version of his own father, even down to the bump on the bridge of Luke’s nose. Humming the Meatloaf tune absently, his eyes traced the lines of his son’s body, limned in summer evening air made phosphorescent. Glazed eyes slipped over strong forearms, revealed by roughly rolled up sleeves, and lingered on slim hips encased in snug denim. A passing car honked and Don started.

Seeing Luke lope across the road and head towards a pair of smiling girls in very short skirts, he cracked open the window and called after him.

“Hey! Don’t get too drunk tonight, I’ll take you out tomorrow to practice your driving.”

Luke spun around and frowned, before shrugging and making a flip A-ok gesture. Turning back to the girls, he said something that made one laugh and the other roll her eyes. Trying to remember the last time he’d met one of his son’s girlfriends, Don started for home. Rolling the window the rest of the way down, he steered with a nonchalant hand. The night wind whipped at his hair, carrying whiffs of exhaust and cut grass. Rolled out pulses of yellow light from the streetlights flooded the car’s cabin, an irregular heartbeat rising from the road and tossing his world from day to night.

Don thought about the next day’s driving lesson and hummed to himself. Luke had inherited his mother’s temper so Don would have to be careful if he wanted to avoid the lesson ending in a shouting match . Happily, Luke was a fast learner but there was no sense in making it anymore difficult than it needed to be. There was a deserted industrial park just north of town, they could practice the basics there without having to worry about other cars. It was exactly where his own Mom had taken him to practice his own driving, although the park had not been deserted then. Don would borrow his father’s old pick-up truck – another dent or three wouldn’t faze his Dad.

As the logistics of the lesson worked themselves out in his head, Don’s right hand crept from his thigh until it rested softly on the bulge between his legs. His hand squeezed and a muscle beneath his right eye jerked. Harder, it squeezed again. Rolling and pressing, the heel of casino firmaları his hand worked the thickening length. Grunts began to jerk at the melody riding his breath..

Another turn and the haze in his head was fleeing before the familiar sight of his front yard. Climbing out of the car, he sent his crotch a surprised glance. What the…? Jesus, where had that come from, he wondered, reaching down to rearrange the erection tenting his pants. Judging by the dampness he could feel and the tightness of his balls, he was close to coming too. Must have been the sight of those sweet young things with Luke, he thought. Chuckling over his sudden graduation to dirty ol’ perv, he tossed the car keys onto the hall. He bent to pull off his boots, grimacing at the shot of pain as his rigid cock went one way and his balls the other.

Inside the kitchen, Emily was bent over, rooting in the fridge. The red shorts she was wearing rode high on her thighs and hugged her firm butt. Standing in the doorway, Don scrubbed a faintly trembling hand over his mouth as he stared at his daughter’s ass. Sweet and perfectly curved, it was an upside down heart-shaped exclamation mark to the long moan of her thighs. The muscle in his cheek jumped and a weird chuff rumbled from his throat.

“Jesus, Dad!” Emily whirled to face her father, clutching a carton of juice in startlement. Don watched juice spurt from the open spout as if in slow motion, to splash against her neck and chest, before the carton slipped from her fingers and hit the flagstone floor.

“Eww,” she winced, dancing out of the way of the spreading juice and shaking orange droplets from her fingertips. Apologising profusely, he passed over a dishcloth and went hunting for a mop. Returning empty-handed a couple of minutes later, he found Emily on her hands and knees, wiping up the spilled juice with paper towels. She pulled back to kneel in front of him, holding up the used towels.

“Get me a couple more, please?” she asked. Nodding, Don squeezed by where she knelt, dropping a careless hand to muss her hair. Humming, he ripped a handful of squares from the roll. Turning back around, he found her at his feet, staring up at him with glassy eyes.

“Here you go.”

She made no move to take the towels from his outstretched hand. Instead, she braced herself on her arms and leant back, splaying her knees wide.

“I’m sorry for spilling the juice, Daddy,” she murmured. Toneless.

Tucking her feet underneath herself, she settled onto a heel. Don watched as his daughter posed like a ten dollar whore, eager for her pimp boyfriend’s cock. As if weighted, his eyes drifted to her crotch. Emily’s heel was jammed into the slit between her legs, yanking the cotton-blend fabric tight over her pussy. The material separated the plump lips of her cunt, squeezing them lewdly forward. A tiny shake of her hips pulled the shorts further away. A sliver of pearly smooth pussy peeped up at the silent man.

The paper towels floated to the floor as Don’s fist relaxed and smoothly, Emily’s hand came up to clasp his forearm. Reflexively, he gripped hers, her flesh silky and warm under his palm.

Emily’s eyes were huge and glazed, staring sightlessly at the cupboard . Shifting his weight, Don pulled her up a couple of inches, then dropped her. She grunted as her body pushed her pussy back down onto her heel. Head lolling to the side, she tilted her hips to mash her clit against her shin. Again, he lifted her and dropped her. Faster and faster, her grunts becoming broken pants then soft yips, Don masturbated his daughter as she squatted on the kitchen floor.

“It’s ok, Emmy,” he answered, his eyes vacant.

Reaching down, he slipped his other hand into her juice-stained top, squeezing the firm young tit he found. He massaged his palm over and over its pebbled nipple, before tugging the engorged berry between his fingers. Emily squealed, her body nearly unbalancing as Don mauled her breast.

“I hope it won’t stain the grouting,” Don said. A tiny bubble of spit collected in the corner of his lips. He groped at her other tit, fondling and rubbing around her swollen nipple before grasping it between his finger and thumb and pinching.

“Daddy, I’m sorry! Daddy!” Emily cried. Throwing her head back, her entire body convulsed as she came, shuddering, working her sopping cunt against her cream-slick heel. Demented eyes glistening, Don raked his finger nails over the hard nipple, drawing a scream from his daughter. She ground her breast against her father’s hand, hanging from his grip and rode the waves of her orgasm.

Releasing Emily’s breast and hand, he slid his hands into her hair and stroked her absently, tucking a loose curl behind an ear. As if the strings holding her up had been cut by his caress, Emily moaned and pitched forward to crash into Don’s legs, her forehead slamming into his left thigh. Rebounding too fast for Don to catch her, she sprawled onto the floor and narrowly avoiding smacking her head against a table leg. Rolling güvenilir casino onto her side, the shaking girl lay there, her mauled breasts heaving. Her thighs twitched as cream oozed from the sodden wad of shorts and panty fabric crammed up into her pussy. Their harsh panted breaths sawed at the kitchen’s quiet air.

The light in the kitchen seemed to dim and flare. Emily stirred. Don blinked and looked down at her.

“Whoa, Emmy, you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ok, just slipped on the juice I think.” Emily carefully got to her feet and looked down at herself in disgust and smiling. “Yeuch, I’ve got it all over me now.”

“Yeah, this floor is slippery when it’s wet. Go have a shower, I’ll finish cleaning up.”

Emily bent down and grabbed up a crumpled pile of paper towel from the floor and handed it to him. “OK, thanks.” She walked out stiffly, rubbing at the red mark on her forehead.

Frowning, Don thought back – had she hit her head on the table? He’d ask her about it later. Squatting, Don began to mop up the rest of the spilled juice, grimacing as he did so. There it was again, the spontaneous hard-on, smearing pre-cum down his leg and dragging at the skin of his belly. Since when had mopping up spilled juice become a turn on? Never mind, it was nearly 11pm anyway; a quic in the shower and an early night meant he could get up first thing and go for a run. He might even stop into that little bakery on the other side of the park for some pastries for the kids’ breakfast. Looking forward to the weekend in a way he hadn’t for years, Don tossed the crumpled paper in the trash and headed for the shower.

Chapter Two

“OK, check your mirrors… indicator…”

Luke grunted, his forehead creased in concentration as he eased the truck into a u-turn.

“A little more gas, more gas-“

Don suppressed a groan as the engine coughed and stalled for the seventh time that day.

“Fuck!”

Luke swore again, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Dan sat silent. Should he be encouraging him to keep trying? Telling him to calm down or ignoring it? Deciding discretion really was the better part of valour, he folded his arms and examined the derelict warehouses surrounding them. The industrial park had been built in the early 1960’s, a testament to the town’s booming post-war years and an eventual victim of the 80’s crash and burn. Now the factories and warehouses were crumbling, once tidy grass verges turning into crackly jungles of weeds and trash, broken windows catching the eye like a splinter underfoot.

It was as deserted as he had expected. The community housing built adjacent to the park to house its workers had been torn down a few years ago and the park was too far out of town to tempt the homeless into using the buildings themselves for shelter. Now, the midday sun baked cracked sidewalks that hadn’t felt footfall in years. A stray dog barked in the distance, the sound melting into the thin air so quickly, it was hard to know whether the sound had been heard or imagined.

After a minute, Luke still hadn’t restarted the car. Before he knew he was going to, Don reached over and gave Luke’s shoulder a rough shake.

“You’re doing fine, buddy.”

“Yeah, right,” came the annoyed reply.

“Lookit, it’s all about being able to hear, or feel, when the engine needs more power. Try it again.” Don released Luke’s shoulder, undid his seatbelt and scooted over to lay his hand on his son’s knee.

“I’ll squeeze when you need to give it more, ok?”

Luke stared down at his dad’s hand, his expression blank. Feeling suddenly awkward, Don pulled back, only to have his wrist caught in strong fingers.

“Ok.”

“Ok,” Don affirmed. The warmth of the teenager’s leg seemed to burn through the denim of his jeans, searing Don’s palm. It seeped up his arm and the back of his neck, glazing his brain in a honeyed heat. Flicking his tongue out to moisten dry lips, he nodded at the keys.

“Start her up and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Moving slowly, Luke reached forward and started the old truck.

“Now, bring your foot off the clutch, slowly… keep going… slowly… there!” Don squeezed his son’s leg as the engine’s grumble changed pitch, signalling the clutch’s bite-point. Luke rammed his foot onto the gas pedal but it was too late to stop the truck stalling.

“Fuck!”

Seeing Luke struggle with his frustration, Don frowned in sympathy, rubbing his hand over the teenager’s thigh soothingly . Dropping his chin to his chest, Luke watched his father’s hand through half-lidded eyes.

“Try again. C’mon, you can do this.”

Shifting in his seat, Luke sat still for a few seconds before he wrenched the keys around to cough the old truck into life. This time, Don couldn’t even squeeze a warning before the engine stalled.

Luke’s face was wooden, his eyes focused on the road outside.

“Fuck. I’ll never learn how to do it. Fuck.” Lean muscle clenched beneath Don’s hand and he began to rub once more.

“Don’t be mad, buddy.”

“I’m really pissed, Dad. Fuck. Fuck.” Luke said. Scooting forward on the leather seat, he widened his thighs. His cock was a thick bulge down his right leg, a bare inch from Don’s fingers.

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