TAGS: BEHEADING, INCEST, SEMI-CONSENSUAL, F SOLO, F/F, NECROPHILIA, DEATHGASMS

1 - Becky and Ben, and the things that have been

Becky's palm stung, but the sudden realization that she should not have slapped her little brother stung a little more. She overbalanced and stumbled, and while Ben stood there unfazed but for the hand to his cheek, she somehow felt as though he had got the better of her.

"A slap isn't an argument, Becky. If you want to have one after you calm down, I'll be in the barn."

He left, just like that.

Heat rushed through Becky's arms. Fury still burned in her heart. Guilt fought with it, and shame now, too. Partly because she had snapped and used violence during an argument. It was not the first time she had hit him, but it felt bad because that violence was exactly what she hated her father for. Unlike his, however, hers was comically ineffective. That was infuriating.

Ben could have slapped her right back and been perfectly justified, and it would have knocked her down like she had wanted to do to him. She had wanted, so badly, to feel power over him, to disturb that calm self-assurance he had developed out of nowhere somewhere in the middle of high school.

"It wasn't Mom's fault, you chud! Incel! Loser! Virgin!"

She shouted fruitlessly after him, but those words had long since lost their effect, and she knew it. They had worked so well for a few years, effortlessly shaming him or provoking him into some reaction that she wanted. And then ... nothing.

What else did she have to throw at him? Accusations? He had never raised a hand against her. False accusations? No, that would effectively prove his entire point. "Like mother, like daughter," he would say, and knowing him, he would find some way to get the court to believe him.

Becky stewed.

She went first to her mom, who was in the master bedroom, but found the spitting image of herself in fifteen more years chatting with her newest boyfriend on the phone with a playful, teasing tone. She almost slipped away to give her mom some privacy, but did not. She tuned out the flirtations and distracted herself by carefully observing her mom’s movements. A slight sway as she spoke. Rhythmic, like her days as a ballet dancer. Leaning back as she laughed, green eyes delighted, letting her large breasts strain hard against her camisole. A peek of her midriff, which she carefully kept in shape at the gym. Hunching over and glancing around as she started describing something lurid and sexy. A finger playing in her brown hair, which she had let down for the evening.

She really was Becky plus fifteen years. Only Becky did Tik Tok dances instead of ballet, and Becky didn’t need to put in nearly the same effort to keep her figure.

And Ben called her a liar.

What of those movements marked her out as a liar? She was perfectly genuine. Every word, every movement, was full of genuine passion. There was not a hint of deception on her mom’s lips. She would never lie about something as serious as domestic abuse.

She believed her mother.

The court believed her mother.

Ben alone believed his father.

How could he argue with the judge and the entire jury? Had he just zoned out through all the court cases? She had listened to every word. She remembered them perfectly.

Becky's mom slipped a hand beneath her camisole, and Becky finally broke away and found herself walking toward the barn. Maybe she would confront Ben about his pigheaded disbelief in justice. Maybe she would let it slide for today and talk to him about something else. They would pick up the argument again. They always did.

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