Hillary_Flesh and Blood

by Angel Gelique

  Hillary:

  Flesh and Blood

  Book Two

  Angel Gelique

  Hillary: Flesh and Blood

  Angel Gelique

  Copyright © 2013 Angel Gelique

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express, written permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  *******

  eBook Edition License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or transferred unless a separate copy has been purchased. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  DEDICATION

  This book is lovingly dedicated to…

  …my dear friend Coralie, who encouraged me to write this book

  when I was ready to give up on Hillary. Thank you for

  your amazing words of kindness and wisdom….

  …my sister Regina, for whom this trilogy is written. Because of you,

  I think everyone should be blessed with a sister….

  …my husband Keith, for his patience and support. I’m so sorry I neglected

  you so much while I was writing this book. I’ll make it up to you!

  Thank you for being my biggest fan!

  www.AngelGelique.com

  Join me on Goodreads at:

  http://www.goodreads.com/angelgelique

  PROLOGUE

  Everything was quiet in the big, beautiful house on Woodbridge Road in rural Maple Trails, South Carolina. It was nearly two in the morning. Snug in her warm, soft bed, thirteen-year-old Hillary Greyson was fast asleep, dreaming of a boy in her class. A thin smile formed on her face and she involuntarily sighed, a soft, innocent sound.

  Her father hovered at the foot of her bed, unbeknownst to the sleeping child.

  God, she’s so beautiful, so beautiful, he thought. His right hand was shoved down into the waistband of his flannel pajama pants.

  Michael Greyson had been visiting his daughter’s bedroom with increasing frequency for the past three months. He didn’t know why, just that he had grown obsessed with her. She was the most gorgeous girl he had ever seen.

  At first, he thought he was experiencing a natural paternal adoration, pride in his amazingly beautiful daughter. But with his increased heart rate, sweaty palms, flushed face and growing erection—especially the growing erection—Michael knew his attraction to his daughter was anything but natural. It disturbed him deeply.

  Why was he feeing this way? He had never been attracted to young girls; he thought pedophiles should be put to death. And here he was, lusting after his own child. Not only did that make him a pedophile, but an incestuous one. Maybe all men experienced this with their adolescent daughters—sort of an unspoken taboo—and they just had to suppress their urges.

  He began ignoring Hillary. If he couldn’t see her, if she wasn’t around, he wouldn’t feel so abnormally attracted to her. It worked...for a whole forty-one hours. In his bed, beside his wife, his groin ached for her. The more he fought to keep her out of his thoughts, the more thoughts of her—explicitly inappropriate thoughts of her—invaded his mind. He couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t take it any longer.

  The first time Michael crept out of bed and walked down the hall to Hillary’s bedroom, he hated himself. He was ashamed of himself not only for being sickly perverted, but also for being so weak, for his lack of willpower. Hillary worshipped the ground he walked on. She had always been his princess, his little girl. How could he betray her this way?

  Still, tiptoeing to her bedroom, he felt an oddly gratifying sense of purpose. As he peered down at his sleeping beauty, he felt little guilt. She was his. She was the fruit of his loins. He made her. And if he made her, he could do with her as he wished. He reached out to stroke her soft blonde hair. She shifted in her bed and he quickly withdrew his hand and hurried out of her room.

  His heart racing, he crawled back into bed, unintentionally waking his wife.

  “You okay?” Kathy Greyson asked groggily, yawning.

  “Just a bad dream,” he replied, turned away from her and went to sleep.

  Michael repeated his attempt three nights later. This time he pulled Hillary’s blanket down to her waist. She was sleeping on her side with her back to him. He reached over and touched her breast. She didn’t move. He wanted to pull up her nightshirt, fondle those soft, fledgling breasts in his hand, but he didn’t dare...not tonight. He had made some progress, had touched her. In time, he would gain the courage to do more. With his erection straining against his pajama pants, he walked back to his bedroom. He didn’t want to wake Kathy. He lay in bed quietly, thinking of his beautiful daughter as he touched himself.

  His nighttime ritual continued for several weeks, occurring every few days or so. Each time, his confidence grew, as did his sense of entitlement. Hillary belonged to him. He deserved her. One night he had slowly gotten her nightshirt up above her budding breasts. He ran his finger underneath, tracing their shape. Then he touched her hardening nipples. He wanted to put his mouth to them, but that would take some more courage. Maybe next week, he told himself. He was satisfied to finally touch her bare skin, to gaze upon her wholesome beauty. She stirred. He quickly pulled his hand away and ducked down beside the bed. She turned to her side and covered herself up, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  Michael cursed under his breath. So close...so close. He’d wanted to masturbate over those enticing little mounds. Next time, he promised himself. There’s always next time.

  He breathed heavily as he stood up and turned to leave. He stopped short just before the door. Hillary’s hamper was full. He grinned as he reached in and searched for her panties. When he found what he was looking for, he held it within his tightly closed fist and walked back to his bedroom.

  “Where were you?” Kathy asked as he approached the bed.

  Hearing her voice break the silence, he jumped. He hid his hand behind his back.

  “Bathroom,” he lied, “why are you up?”

  Kathy shrugged.

  “You woke me when you got out of bed.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered monotonously, “go back to sleep.”

  He crawled into bed and turned away from her. Seconds later he felt her turn toward him. He could feel her large sagging breasts against his back. She put her arm over him and ran her fingers over his bare chest. He knew what she wanted. She ran her hand down to his rapidly softening erection. He shifted away from her.

  “Go to sleep,” he repeated dryly.

  “I just...I—”

  “Not tonight,” Michael snapped, agitated.

  Hurt and dejected, she turned away. Silent tears rolled down her eyes. She quietly cried herself to sleep while her husband held their daughter’s panty to his nose and masturbated.

  As the days went by, Michael’s lust for Hillary intensified. Instead of visiting her bedside every three to five nights, he started going every two to three nights. When that proved insufficient to satisfy his prurient appetite, he would go to her just about every night.

  Tonight was special. Tonight would be different. Tonight was the night he would show her how much she meant to him. After months of slowly building up his courage, he was ready to take action. He couldn’t wait another night longer.

  So, so beautiful, he thought, as he stroked his hardened penis. He pulled down his pajama pants, kicking them off, exposing himself. Before he had a chance to change his mind or lose his nerve, he pulled down Hillary’s blanket
and climbed onto the bed, pressing his body to her. She had her back to him and shifted but did not wake.

  Michael could hardly contain himself. Here he was, in bed with the most gorgeous girl alive. He reached over and fondled her breasts, squeezed her nipples gently. It was too much to take. He was on the verge of ejaculating. He had to withdraw his hand. He didn’t want that to happen too soon. No, tonight was special. Tonight he would pleasure himself inside his daughter.

  Hillary stirred beside him, turned to face him. Her eyes slowly fluttered open. She looked confused but said nothing.

  What? She thought. Why is my dad in my room? In my bed? Am I dreaming?

  Before another thought crossed her mind, Michael’s hand found its way to the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up, all the way up to Hillary’s shoulder. Hillary’s eyes welled with tears. Her heart raced and it became difficult for her to breathe.

  My dad’s drunk, she thought. He’s just drunk...or, or, maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s sleepwalking or crazy or—

  Hillary suppressed a gasp as she felt her father’s hand grip the waistband of her underwear. He tugged it down, all the way down to her ankles. She closed her eyes, pretended to be asleep. She didn’t want her father to feel bad if he snapped out of it and realized what he was doing.

  Michael climbed atop his daughter—his daughter, with whom he had every right to do whatever he pleased. It was a thrilling moment for him, a moment he had been waiting all too patiently for. He would savor every satisfying second.

  Michael gently rolled Hillary onto her back. He parted her legs and touched her soft, warm crotch. Unlike Kathy’s thick spread of coarse wiry pubic hairs, Hillary’s single-layer patch was soft, like down feathers.

  No, oh God, no...this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, Hillary cried to herself.

  It took all of Hillary’s concentration to keep still and quiet when she felt her father’s finger enter her and explore her most intimate spot. She wanted to scream out, jump out of bed, run far away. Instead, she lay there powerless, eyes closed, desperately fighting back her tears.

  Michael didn’t question why his daughter hadn’t awakened. He was too caught up in the moment, the moment that had finally come. He positioned himself over her and gently invited himself in.

  Hillary had never felt such a sharp pain in that area. She wanted to cry out but forced herself to stay silent. Her father moaned as he penetrated her even deeper, grinding into her rhythmically until he cried out in ecstasy. He pulled himself out and spewed his slimy, milky ejaculation onto Hillary’s lower abdomen. Breathing heavily, he stared in wonder at his daughter’s nakedness. He fondled her breasts again, once more, before leaving her bed. He picked up his pajama pants from the floor, pulled them on quickly and left the room.

  Even after he had gone, Hillary didn’t dare open her eyes or move. She was too traumatized. Feeling dirty and disgusted, she suppressed her outrage and the hatred she felt toward her father for violating her that way. There had to be an explanation. There had to be some valid reason for what he had done. She would go to sleep and forget it ever happened. She would never tell anyone about it, she wouldn’t even think about it. She would erase it from her mind and live her life as if it had never happened in the first place. With tears in her eyes, she drifted off to sleep an hour later.

  The next morning, as her eyes slowly opened, the horrors of the night before invaded Hillary’s thoughts. Was it only a dream? Maybe it was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. She shifted in bed then sat up. Her nightgown was still pulled up, now bunched around her waist. She grimaced as it seemed less and less likely that she had only been dreaming. Trembling slightly, she stepped out of bed. She turned to look at her sheets—her pink, childish Hello Kitty sheets—now soiled with her blood and whatever dripped out of her from her father’s desecration.

  Long tears flowed down Hillary’s face as she stared in disbelief at the spot on her bed—confirmation that her father had indeed raped her. She felt dirty, disgusting. She had sex with her father. Her virginity was lost to her father. Her stomach turned and she ran to the bathroom, barely making it on time to throw up. When she was done, she slumped down beside the toilet and sobbed.

  She probably would have spent the entire morning there on the floor of the bathroom had her sister not knocked on the door, startling her out of her mournful daze.

  “What are you doing in there?” she demanded angrily, “I’ve been waiting a half an hour for you!”

  Without responding, Hillary slowly stood up, wiped the sticky mess off her stomach, flushed the toilet, washed her hands and fled the bathroom quickly. She couldn’t look at her sister. She was too ashamed. She hurried to her room, pulled the sheets off her bed and stuffed them into her garbage can. She was shaking. She could hardly concentrate on what had to be done. She had to hide the evidence, get rid of it altogether. She examined her blanket for any trace of blood or slime. It looked clean so she left it on the bed along with her pillow.

  Moments later there was a knock at her door. Without waiting for a response, the knocker opened her door. It was her mother. Hillary stood by her bedside, trembling, unable to meet her mother’s gaze.

  “Caleigh said you—” Mrs. Greyson stopped speaking when she noticed how visibly upset her daughter was. She looked hurt and frightened all at once.

  “My God, what happened to you?” she asked nervously, stepping closer toward Hillary.

  Hillary took a step back, not wanting her mother to touch her or look closely at her.

  “N-nothing,” she stammered.

  “What happened to your sheets?” Mrs. Greyson eyed the stripped mattress. She frowned, wondering if perhaps her daughter had wet the bed—something she hadn’t done since she was five. It seemed highly unlikely.

  “I...I stained them....” Hillary replied, her eyes still downcast.

  “Stained them? How on earth—oh, it’s that time of the month, huh?”

  Mrs. Greyson smiled. It all made sense. It was that kind of accident. Hillary was just embarrassed about it. She had only just begun menstruating a few months ago.

  “Uh-huh,” Hillary agreed quietly, hoping her mother would just leave her room.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. These things happen.”

  Mrs. Greyson reached out to hug Hillary. Hillary flinched at her touch and pulled away.

  “Really, Hilly Bee, it’s no big deal. Where are your sheets? I’ll wash them for—”

  “No!” Hillary shouted.

  This time Mrs. Greyson jumped. Hillary was acting incredibly weird. She never yelled. Why was she so upset? She didn’t even freak out like this at the onset of her menstrual cycle.

  “I just—”

  “No,” she interrupted her mother again sharply, still without looking her in the eyes. She began whimpering.

  “I don’t want those sheets. I’m too old for Hello Kitty,” she sobbed.

  “Oh. I guess. Okay, don’t cry. I’ll bring you another set.”

  Wow, those hormones are really out of whack, Mrs. Greyson thought as she turned and left Hillary’s room.

  Hillary stood there trembling, her arms tightly folded across her chest embracing herself. Did her mother know? Did she suspect? Hillary felt guilty and ashamed. What would her mother think of her?

  A few minutes later her mother emerged once more, entering her room without bothering to knock. Hillary could not meet her gaze but felt her mother’s stare.

  “You’re trembling,” Mrs. Greyson said softly, dropping the clean flannel sheet set onto Hillary’s bed and placing the back of her hand to Hillary’s forehead. Hillary didn’t move. She stared down at her pink rug.

  “You don’t have a fever,” her mother continued, knowing that something more than soiled sheets was upsetting Hillary.

  “Do you wanna talk about it?”

  Hillary shook her head slowly.

  Please just go, she begged her mother in her head but said nothing o
ut loud. She didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings. She just wanted to be left alone.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Greyson replied, grabbing a hold of Hillary’s hand and squeezing it gently, “I’m all ears if you change your mind.”

  She smiled down at her distressed child. She looked so small and frail. She wasn’t quite a little girl anymore, but still a long way from being a woman.

  It has to be boy troubles, Mrs. Greyson reasoned, recalling her long-gone days of teen angst.

  “Come on down for breakfast, I made your favorite...apple pancakes.”

  Hillary shook her head, her eyes still downcast, staring catatonically at the rug that was becoming blurred by her newly surfacing tears.

  “You’ll feel better when you eat,” her mother said sternly.

  Hillary knew better than to argue with her about breakfast. She had heard her mother ramble on for years about how breakfast was “the most important meal of the day.” Absent a stomach bug, she would never be permitted to skip breakfast. She nodded slowly, to her mother’s satisfaction.

  “Good,” Mrs. Greyson said, “it’ll give you the strength to deal with whatever’s bugging you.”

  She planted a kiss on her daughter’s moist cheek then began making Hillary’s bed with the new sheets. Hillary stood frozen in place, staring blankly at her rug as long tears slid down her face and dropped to her feet.

  Her pain tugged at her mother’s heart but there was nothing Mrs. Greyson could do. She figured Hillary would get over her heartbreak in time or, if it was something really troubling, she’d approach her when she was ready to open up about it. For now, she would give Hillary a little space.

  “The pancakes are getting cold,” she reminded Hillary just before exiting the room.