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I slammed into her hard and fast.“Fuck,” Dad groaned. “Oh, Fuck, that’s good. Yes, yes, you little slut. I want to feel that pussy cumming.”“You heard my dad!” I gasped, my fingers sliding up her big boobs. I grasped her fat nipples. Twisted them. “Cum!”Her asshole clamped down on my thrusting futa-dick. “Yes!” she howled. “Oh, god, yes!”I buried into her bowels. Her hot sheath went wild about my futa-dick. Her velvety flesh spasmed and writhed. She sucked at me as I drew back. Pleasure squealed from her while Dad grunted out his pleasure.“Fuck, your cunt’s hot, whore!”“So’s your cum firing into me, Sir!” she howled.I slammed to the hilt in her writhing bowels. The pressure built in my balls smacking into her flesh. Then it erupted out of me. Hot cum jetted into her bowels. My cunt went wild, juices gushing down my thighs.“Take my cum, whore!” I gasped.“I am!” she moaned. “Oh, yes, yes, I am. This is amazing. This is the best. Oh, I love it!”The pleasure blazed across my thoughts.. Lana's spell held, but there were sparks and crackles as the magical energies clashed around me. I ran through a laundry room and into the main hall.I reached the door that led to his magical lab. More kicks, this time two, and the door crashed down. Another warding triggered, more flashes and pops, but Lana's spell still held.Mr. Woodhouse was not within, and from a quick glance, I noticed that the jars of my blood were gone too, but the door to the basement was still there. When I tried its latch, it was unlocked. The dark stairs led down.I listened and from below I heard nothing. I left the door open for Lana. I turned back. As I emerged into the hallway, she was just arriving."The door to the basement is open. Good luck," I said.She gave me a quick kiss and headed in. I walked down the hall into the house to find Mr. Woodhouse – and Renee.The main hall led to the foyer with its patterned floor and its warded stairs. I might climb the stairs, I thought, and pit its warding against.
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Quietly, calmly, she closed the door and took me in her arms. I cried again then, the same whole body crying that leaves you drained, exhausted. She said nothing, just held me for, it seemed, hours, until there were no tears left. She led me through to my kitchen, sat me on the Windsor chair with a padded cushion that stood in one corner. She said nothing but put the kettle on in the time-honoured English tradition that, whenever something dreadful happens, the first recourse is to make tea. Between the duties of tea-making, she squatted beside me and held me, stroked my face, my arms and softly kissed me.I held the hot mug of tea to my breast as if it were a protection.“Tell me,” I said that I couldn’t. “Yes, yes you can. I won't judge you, or blame you. Just tell me.”Standing, I put the tea down on the kitchen table I went through to my little home-office and took the notebook from the desk drawer; the notebook in which I had written everything. Despite my conclusion that Clemency.

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