“I take it she’s dead then,” said Sergei Ivanovich without emotion. Anna said nothing; her mouth was full of her father’s erection, and she was praying for death. “Took the whore long enough; I thought I was never going to be able to come back home. Lucky chance she went before I showed up tonight. That ungrateful prick of a son of mine was driving me insane with his possessiveness. I brought him into the world, by God, and what is his should rightfully be mine, but he won’t let me share that pretty young wife of his. Claims that I’ve got you all to myself, so I shouldn’t get greedy.” Her father laughed harshly, then put a hand on her head to force himself deeper into her mouth. “I would trade you to him in a second if I thought he’d take you. That bitch of his still has the fear in her, makes her squeal like a stuck pig. But you’re a better fuck, Anna my darling.” Anna said nothing, and Sergei Ivanovich laughed again. “Obedient little bitch, just like your mother. It’s too bad she died; I never got a chance to make the two of you have at it. That would have livened up our lives, now wouldn’t it, little Anna? But still, I’ll get my amusement out of you yet. Fuck, it’s getting me off just thinking about it.”
So saying, he grabbed Anna by the hair began pumping his hard shaft down her throat, ignoring her feeble moans and choking. “Nice of you to greet me with no kit on too,” he grunted, thrusting. “That’s the way a father wants to be met at the door. St. Pavel, get ready for it girl!” He pulled her back and pumped his fist on his cock, spewing a fountain of white jism over Anna’s face and breasts. “Ah, that hits the spot,” he said finally as the spurting slowed. “Clean it off, there’s a good girl.”
Anna obediently licked her father’s rapidly deflating cock clean, then without being told, she gathered up the spunk from her face and breasts with her fingers and swallowed it as well.
“May I get dressed now, father,” she asked, eyes down, still kneeling.
“Shit girl, what do I care?” he said offhandedly. “Put some food on the table too; I’m starved.”
With Anna’s mother dead and Noor disappeared, Anna was alone in the house with her father. By day she did chores, more chores than ever before, and naked so she wouldn’t dirty any clothes. Her father had business in town many days, which Anna prayed for, but when he was home he seemed more insatiable than before. He demanded to be awakened each day with an orgasm, although he generally settled for Anna’s oral ministrations to make that happen. Then if he was at home during the day, he would seek her out every few hours, bend her over a rail or haul her up onto a stool, and take her quickly, mostly in her cunt but sometimes in her ass for a change of pace. At night, Anna had moved into the master bedroom and slept in the corner, where she could be wakened once or twice and made to satisfy whatever urges Sergei Ivanovich had that night.
Then Anna’s bleeding began in earnest. When it first began, she thought that it was because she had been injured inside from all the penetration, but her father laughed cruelly and told her it was nothing. Anna had bled before, each month, but only a little bit, whereas now she seemed to have truly become a woman. Her father began avoiding her during her periods, leaving her to walk around the farm naked, occasionally squatting to piss and feeling the redness ooze out. “I only want your mouth when you bleed,” he explained to her. “Don’t want to get Little Sergei dirty, now do we?” Anna looked forward to these times because it gave her a chance to heal. She knew that now she was in even greater danger of getting pregnant every time a man came inside her, and this explained to her why her father began fucking her cunt less frequently and pulling out of her to cum when he did tire of her ass.
In the summer, Ilona became pregnant, and Sergei Ivanovich sent Anna to town every week to help her brother. Vladimir seemed uninterested in Anna; it was almost like she didn’t exist to him. He called her, “girl,” and, “Anna,” but never sister. Anna didn’t care; she was glad to get out of her house, for whatever reason.
One day, as she opened the door to her house after returning home very late, she was confronted by her father.
“Sit down, little Anna,” he said, in a low tone which seemed menacing even as it was soft. She wordlessly obeyed, sitting on a stool by the table. He joined her. “Your brother… has he been… using you when he has you alone?” he asked, seeming strangely unable to say the words.
“No father, he doesn’t seem interested in me at all. Ilona says he has lovers and that he takes her every day at least once…”
“I thought so, I thought so,” said Sergei Ivanovich coldly. “He thinks he’s better than me. He cheats on his wife and won’t let me share her, his own father. That’s gratitude for you.” He almost seemed to have forgotten Anna existed. “And now he’ll have an heir, a boy, I just know it. He’ll lord his success over me. He’s young and successful and has a son and all the women he can handle, and meanwhile I’m stuck with my own daughter. The nerve of him!”
“I’m sorry father…”
“Quiet bitch, I wasn’t talking to you!” her father snapped. He brooded for a while. “And now you’ve got to go over there to look after his house, while I starve and have to do all your chores. He’s got me no matter which way I turn.” He paused. “And to top it all off, every day that little vixen Ilona gets prettier. There’s something about the glow of motherhood in a young girl. I should farm you out just to get you with child; that would make you pretty again.” He stopped and looked at Anna appraisingly. She didn’t like his look. There was silence for a long time.
“Well, bitch, don’t sit there all night, there’s food to be made and my nightcap to prepare,” Sergei Ivanovich said finally, breaking from his thoughts. Anna hustled to obey, and that night’s “nightcap” was, to her chagrin, a double helping.
Anna was awakened the next morning by her father shaking her, and she gasped and prayed that he wasn’t angry. But to the contrary, he seemed almost gleeful. “I’ve figured it out, little Anna,” he said with a grin and a sloppy kiss. “How I can make that whore-son of mine pay and get my jollies too.” She rose dutifully and followed him into the main room, where she could see that he’d already eaten breakfast. She was both amazed and frightened; amazed that he’d done his own cooking and was not beating her, frightened because she didn’t know what it meant.
“How, father?” she asked, because obviously he wanted her to.
“Well, you know I’ve toyed with the idea of selling you out, to make a bit of money from that young body of yours,” Sergei Ivanovich said, discussing whoring his own daughter out as if it was a business deal. “But I never wanted to share you, plus I have my good name to consider. That kind of thing gets around. Plus I did hope that one day I might be rid of you to some wealthy man, although I don’t guess that’s likely to happen now.” He laughed harshly. “Didn’t want you to get knocked up; a slut is so much harder to marry off. But then I got to thinking; with the whore gone, you’re all I’ve got, and there are no women in town who’d have me. I need some insurance in my old age, and you’re it, since that no-good son of mine doesn’t seem to care about me. So then I thought I’d do like I said, farm you out and get you with child so I could keep you here instead of sending you off to mind Vladimir’s house, that two-faced son of a whore. He can get someone else to mind his business.”
Anna didn’t like the way this was going. She could picture it now, a line of desperate men paying her father to have their way with her until she became pregnant, then raising a baby all by herself in this hellhole of a house.
“But why should I share you? My seed is just as good as any other man’s, and God knows how you like having me spunk in your belly. So from now on, you’re going to have my child. My child of my child; has a ring to it, doesn’t it, little mother?”
Anna’s face was blank, and inside her being was screaming. To have her own father’s child, and bring it up in his house where he would no doubt begin raping it as soon as he was able, or turn it against her and then both use her up and leave her to die. There was no way out.
“Well come on, we’ll show that ungrateful son of mine that he’s not the only one who can sire a little of little bastards,” said Sergei Ivanovich, cackling. “From now on, little mother, you’re on easy street.”
Easy street meant that Anna stayed home and indoors, “to keep from being adversely affected by outside air,” her father said. She stayed naked too, but not being outside, this was easier to take. And she spent much of her time in bed on her back, because Sergei Ivanovich claimed that she would bear a son that way.
Her father kept track of her cycle, and when the week before her bleeding came, Anna was horrified to learn that her father would be staying home all week. “No time to lose,” he laughed that first morning, pulling her up onto his bed and spreadeagling her. “Are you ready, little mother,” he said, looking down at her naked body with a grin. Then he took his hard cock in hand and guided it into her cuntal opening. He seemed in a hurry, pumping away at her pelvis like a maniac, and quite quickly she felt him stiffen, and realized with horror that this might be the last time she would ever have any hope. Each splash of semen into her womb felt like a dagger in her heart, and it didn’t help matters that her father stayed atop her, his bulk between her legs, letting his body rest heavily on hers. After ten minutes, which seemed like a lifetime to Anna, his heavy cock had slipped from her wet folds, and he rose. “You stay like that until I get back,” he said harshly, then left the room.
Anna spent that day lying with her legs spread on her father’s bed. After an hour, then after a few more, then again until she lost count, her father would return, pull his trousers off, climb between her legs, and take her quickly and forcefully, each time spending himself deep in his daughter’s cunt. She could feel the semen drip from her abused opening as she lay there, thinking of Noor, wondering where she might be. Night fell and her father brought her a bowl of porridge, which he fed to her as she lay there. “The longer you spend on your back, the better the chances,” he said, feeding her a last spoonful and then positioning himself atop her again. After his last orgasm, which took longer to come, he fell asleep atop her, his harsh breathing in her ear, the stench of his sweat in her nostrils.
For the rest of the week she endured this treatment, then when her bleeding began her father kicked her out of his room completely. “I don’t want to see you until you stop,” he said, shoving her roughly away. “And I won’t be enjoying myself either, little mother, in case you’re wondering. I vow not to spunk unless it’s in your little baby-maker.” He laughed and slapped her on the ass as he turned and left.
After she stopped bleeding, Anna returned to a normal routine, cooking and cleaning inside the house and servicing her father whenever he demanded it. True to his word, Sergei Ivanovich became a man obsessed, cumming in her pussy whenever possible. On the weeks before her bleeding she had to endure the torture of days on end in bed, but a large part of her mind had shut down, and now all she was was her father’s servant in all ways.
After several months of this, Sergei Ivanovich was becoming increasingly impatient. “Don’t tell me you’re barren, you little slut,” he said after seeing the bleeding begin again, regular as clockwork. He slapped her face in anger. “If that cow of a wife of my son can bear him a bastard, why the fuck can’t you?” He stormed off, and she didn’t see him for several days.
When he returned, it was with an ancient woman. Anna had heard of her; her name was Peshka and she was said to be a witch. “The little slut won’t bear,” he said angrily as he walked through the door.
“Let me look at her,” said the crone with a shrug. Sergei Ivanovich grabbed his daughter by the hair and pulled her over so Peshka could take a closer look. “She is young, yes?”
“No younger than she should be,” scowled Sergei Ivanovich.
“She bleeds then.” It was not a question. “Bend over, child,” she said to Anna, not unkindly but in a totally clinical manner. Anna obeyed, bending at the waist and touching her toes before the crone. “Her holes are well-used,” said Peshka with a slight smirk. “Where did you find her?”
Anna realized with a start that Peshka didn’t know what was going on; she thought Anna was simply a young girl that Sergei Ivanovich wanted to impregnate. “Oh, I knew her father, and he gave her to me,” said Sergei Ivanovich evasively. This, of course, was the truth, as far as it went.
“You were her first?”
“No, my son had her first.”
“Ah.” Anna couldn’t tell what that meant, but she imagined that neither would her father. “How have you been mounting her?”
“On her back, like the wives tales say.”
“Ah.” Anna could feel the crone’s face draw closer to her pubis. Then she felt the witch slowly run a finger over her vaginal lips. “They are firm, still quite healthy, tastes of a young woman,” said the crone finally. “She smells ready too. I will have to see you mount her.”
Anna was astonished, and her father seemed a little surprised himself. “What, here?”
“Come come, you want my help, I must see what you are doing wrong.”
“Very well.” Anna felt herself being pulled up and then hoisted over Sergei Ivanovich’s shoulder. He dropped her roughly to the bed in the next room.
“Before you mount her, let me see your manhood,” Peshka said suddenly. Sergei Ivanovich haltingly pulled down his trousers to expose his member, quite soft and unready. Anna saw Peshka kneel before her father and cup both her hands around his crotch.
“Witch, I didn’t ask you here…” began Sergei Ivanovich testily, but Peshka shushed him. Amazingly, she began stroking his shaft, slowly at first, then faster as it began to grow of its own accord.
“Yes, it still works, eh?” she cackled, then squeezed his balls sharply, making him cry out. Her tongue darted out and flicked the head of his cock, then withdrew, and she knelt there for a moment, as if puzzling something out. Then she stood. “Your seed is old,” she said finally. “It may take special measures for you to sire a child with this one.”
“My seed! There’s nothing wrong…”
“Tut tut, do not argue,” Peshka said reprovingly. “It is old but old is not bad, just old. The harmonies may not be properly aligned between one so old and one so young. And you both taste of each other; perhaps that is why she is not with child. But enough of this. Let me see you mount her and rut her, and then we shall see what can be done.”