Jenny's breath hitched as she stared down, her eyes widening in a mixture of awe and dread. "Ahh… it's so big…" The words tumbled out, barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon something she wasn't ready to face. Her voice trembled, caught somewhere between curiosity and fear.
But Jack was already lost, his mind a fog of primal hunger. He didn't hear her—or if he did, the words were swallowed by the roaring in his ears, the pounding of his blood. His hands gripped her hips with a possessiveness that bordered on desperation, his movements sharp, almost mechanical, as though driven by something far older and darker than mere desire.
When he pushed forward, Jenny's gasp was sharp, her fingers clawing at his back as if searching for something to anchor her. Her chest heaved, struggling to draw air, her body arching instinctively against the overwhelming pressure. It was too much—too big, too intense—and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, she felt as though she might be torn apart, split cleanly down the middle by the sheer force of him.
Her mind raced, a chaotic swirl of sensations and fragmented thoughts. Was this pleasure? Pain? Something else entirely? The line blurred, and she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
The old grandfather clock groaned in the corner, its pendulum slicing the minutes like a butcher's knife. Outside, the Maine woods whispered secrets through cracked windows, but neither Jack nor Jenny heard them. The air was thick, feverish, the kind of heat that clings to the skin like a curse. Jenny's voice slithered through the dim, her words jagged and raw, syllables dripping with something darker than desire. "Keep going, Jack—fuck—keep going—" Her laugh was a broken thing, sharp as shattered glass, and it dug into Jack's spine like a hook.
He moved, yes, but not like a man. Something primal had shouldered its way into his bones, something that gnawed and clawed and didn't give a damn about the blood ties that ought to have mattered. The room stank of sweat and secrets, the bedsprings screaming with every thrust. Five hours? Ten? Time had unraveled, swallowed by the yawning void between 'right' and 'wrong'. Midnight loomed, its presence a cold hand on the back of Jack's neck. Each tick of the clock echoed the word he wouldn't let himself think: 'Sin. Sin. Sin.'
Jenny's moans twisted into giggles now, high and unhinged, a sound that made the shadows pulse like living things. Her nails raked his back, drawing lines that burned like hellfire. Jack's breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring at the edges—or was it the room itself 'blurring'? The wallpaper, once a faded floral, seemed to bleed dark veins, creeping inward. A cold draft licked his ankles, though the windows were shut.
They were commiting a taboo, this was incest, but in the moment of heat they didn't care all they cared for was to satisfy their urges.
The first thing Jack noticed when he woke was the weight. It pressed down on his chest like a stone, heavy and unyielding, as if the air itself had turned to lead. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the invisible force pinning him to the bed. His eyelids fluttered open, sticky with sleep, and the dim light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a sickly gray hue.
He blinked, his vision swimming, and then he saw it.
Her.
Jenny.
Her pale skin glowed faintly in the half-light, her body sprawled across his, naked and still. Her head rested on his chest, her dark hair fanned out like a spider's web, strands of it clinging to his skin. Her breath was warm against his flesh, steady and slow, as if she were in the deepest of sleeps. But Jack wasn't sleeping anymore. His heart began to pound, a drumbeat of dread that echoed in his ears.
Memories of the night before came flooding back, unbidden and unwelcome. The way the firelight had danced in her eyes. The way she had looked at him—not like a mother, but like something else. Something hungry. He had tried to push the thoughts away, tried to tell himself it was just the alcohol, just the loneliness, just the way the shadows played tricks on his mind. But now, in the cold light of morning, there was no denying it.
He had crossed a line. A line that could never be uncrossed.
A shudder ran through him, cold and sharp, like a blade sliding between his ribs. He wanted to move, to push her off, to run as far and as fast as he could. But he couldn't. His body was frozen, paralyzed by a fear he couldn't name. It wasn't just the weight of her body that held him down—it was the weight of what they had done. The weight of what it meant.
Jenny's eyes snapped open, wide and unblinking, like a deer caught in the glare of headlights. For a moment, she didn't move. She just stared at him, her breath shallow, her pupils dilated with something that looked like fear—or maybe recognition. Then it hit her. The realization. The horror.
A shudder rippled through her body, violent and uncontrollable, as if her very soul were trying to escape the confines of her skin. Jack felt it too, the tremor that passed from her body to his, a current of electricity that left him numb. Her heart thumped against his chest, frantic and erratic, like a trapped animal pounding against the bars of its cage.
And then she moved.
She jerked away from him as if his touch burned, scrambling off the bed with a speed that belied her age. Her naked form was a blur of pale skin and dark shadows as she bolted for the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't look back. She didn't stop to grab a sheet, a robe, anything to cover herself. She just ran, her footsteps echoing down the hallway like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Jack lay there, frozen, his body still tingling from the sudden absence of her weight. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but the pieces wouldn't fit. All he could see was the look on her face as she'd fled—the shame, the raw, unvarnished shame that had twisted her features into something unrecognizable. It wasn't just embarrassment. It was deeper than that. It was the kind of shame that burrowed into your bones and stayed there, festering, rotting you from the inside out.
He could still see her face, etched into his mind like a brand. The way her lips had trembled, the way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears. She had looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was something monstrous.
And maybe he was.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He rolled onto his side, curling into himself, trying to block out the images that flashed behind his closed eyelids. But they were there, waiting for him, relentless and unyielding. The memories of the night before, the way her hands had felt on his skin, the way her voice had whispered his name—not as a mother, but as something else. Something wrong.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair out, to claw at his skin until it bled, to do anything to make the guilt go away. But it was no use. The guilt was part of him now, seeping into his veins, poisoning him from within.
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Jack flinched, his body jerking involuntarily. He knew she was gone, that she had locked herself away, trying to escape what they had done. But there was no escape. Not for her. Not for him.
They were bound together now, not by love or blood, but by something darker. Something that would never let them go.
Jack sat up slowly, his muscles stiff and uncooperative, as if his body were resisting the reality of the morning. The room felt colder now, the air heavy with a silence that pressed against his eardrums. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. The wood was icy beneath his soles, sending a shiver up his spine.
His clothes were scattered across the room, a trail of fabric that told a story he didn't want to remember. He moved mechanically, picking up his shirt, his pants, his socks, each piece of clothing feeling like a weight in his hands. Dressing felt like an act of defiance, as if by covering his body he could somehow erase what had happened. But he knew better. The memories were etched into his skin, into his mind, and no amount of fabric could hide them.
Once dressed, he stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, as if the walls of the room were closing in on him. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, the sharp pain grounding him in the present. But it wasn't enough. His heart still raced, his thoughts still spiraled, and the weight of what he had to do pressed down on him like a boulder.
'I have to go talk to her.'
The thought sent a fresh wave of dread crashing over him. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness of the room. Just the idea of facing her, of looking into her eyes and acknowledging what had happened, made his stomach churn. What would he even say? How could he possibly explain the unexplainable?