Accidental Harem

Author's Introduction

This story details episodes of three-way psychological warfare among a man and two women. A house burns down, a marriage goes badly wrong, and a man somehow winds up with a harem of two sisters. There is some penetrative sex later in the story, but if you're looking for a quick stroke-story, your time might be better spent elsewhere.

Those who know something about the Law will remark that I have played fast-and-loose with elements of Civil and Criminal Procedure. Mea culpa.

Trigger warnings: there is Consensual Non-Consent, coercion/dubcon, anal sex, and a little sister-sister incest.

Oh, and this is a fantasy, not a guide for successful relationships.

Les Evans

Background

I'm Dex Cooper, a 30-something guy, living in a small, rural town. Though I am not the focus of this story, a few words about myself will give context to what happens.

I inherited the house and the "family fortune" from my parents, and I pay the bills by managing the investments I inherited. It's not glamorous employment, but most years I keep ahead of inflation. It's a full-time job, though, with its own forms of stress: whoever called it "unearned income" didn't try it himself. I've been successful enough at it to maintain the family fortune, which has incidentally made me the Richest Man In Town (RMIT), though that's not a very high bar to clear, because it's a small town in a farming economy.

The house? You may be familiar with the cartoon Addams Family house. The house is like that, but more gloomy. I sometimes think of the place, with some self-conscious sarcasm, as "Castle Cooper."

On the weekends I try to give back to the town with volunteer work, picking up trash from the roadsides, painting the bleachers at the high school athletic field, working the food bank, that sort of thing. It gets me out from behind the computer, gives me a chance to get a little exercise, and gives me a chance to meet human beings.

I've lived alone for the last decade or so, if you don't count the steady stream of gold-diggers who were attracted to the idea of being a trophy wife for the RMIT. Their tactics were unvarying, hoping to rope me in with a paternity suit. A number of such suits had been tried, and they all failed. Somehow the court records never mentioned the vasectomy I'd had years earlier. One wonders how the candidates got pregnant. And still they came.

In any case, after a decade of living alone, it seemed like it might be time to ditch the gold-diggers and marry. For various reasons, my attention fell on Constance (Connie), the 19-year-old eldest daughter of Alan Springer, the Second Richest Man In Town. Springer lived in a house similar to mine on the other side of town, and paid his bills the same way I paid mine. I didn't care for his politics, or for his approach to investing/speculating, but we were civil enough, and I wasn't planning to marry him anyhow. Connie and her 18-year-old sister Bonnie occasionally showed up at the volunteer events, which is how I made their acquaintance.

Connie and Bonnie were not twins, of course, but were of similar-enough build that they could raid each-other's wardrobes if they were on speaking terms, which was often not the case. Their quarrels were the stuff of local legend.

After a courtship just long enough to be dignified, Connie and I were married and she moved in. I saw Bonnie quietly crying in the reception line after the wedding. Perhaps I should have paid more attention, but I kind of figured that women cry at weddings, right? <Old joke: Why do the mothers of brides cry at weddings? Because girls tend to marry men who are like their fathers.>

Connie brought her clothes and a substantial trust fund set up by her father as a kind of dowry. I got her set up with her own credit card and the password to what I call the "household account," where I put the money needed to pay impending bills, so she could take over some of the household management. As it happened, the account had considerably more cash in it than usual, because there were big bills coming up for a new roof and some foundation repairs on the house.

The marital sex was satisfactory. She was apparently not a virgin, but that wasn't in the contract anyhow. She knew where the noses went, and while she wasn't inventive, she didn't have a long list of "wont's." And it was so nice to have a woman around the house.

Ashes to Ashes

A few weeks after the wedding, the story started to get complicated.

Connie and I were enjoying a sundowner in rocking chairs on the front porch when the fire truck of the local Volunteer Fire Department went tearing down the street toward a pillar of smoke on the horizon. Connie and I exchanged glances and dove for the car.

By the time we got to the other side of town, the show was pretty much over. Springer's house had collapsed in a shower of sparks and embers. Bonnie was sobbing at one side of the crowd, wrapped in a blanket, and Springer's body was being bagged up and carted away by the Coroner's team.

Connie and I took Bonnie back to our house, got her some clothes from Connie's wardrobe, and set her up in a spare bedroom.

The story unfolded in all its ugly complexity over the next few weeks as facts came to light. Springer had experienced a run of poor decisions in his investments, or bad luck in his speculating, that had exhausted his capital. In desperation, he had illicitly drained his daughters' trust funds, both of them, for another try, and lost that, too. Finally, it seems, he planned to burn the house down to collect the insurance, and fell victim to his own arson.

After a couple of weeks of emotional healing, Bonnie seemed determined to "land on her feet," and, not to be a burden, began making the rounds of the town looking for work. Given the economy in place and the small size of the town, it was not surprising that, at the end of the week, she was still empty-handed.

I was ready with a proposal. The Cooper manse was large enough to be a handful to maintain. I had survived the decade by myself by just closing off many of the rooms, but now that I had a wife, it seemed appropriate to open the place up again, and a maid would be a great help.

The terms were these: Bonnie would be employed as a maid, helping with general cleaning, laundry, meal preparation, etc., managed and directed by Connie. She would work eight hours a day, six days a week, and would be paid with room and board, clothing, and medical. The spare bedroom she was in, with its own bathroom and shower, would be the "maid's room." If she got a better offer, she was free to take it.

Bonnie was surprisingly grateful for the offer, given how meager it was. I turned matters over to Connie to fill in the details.

I mentioned to Connie that I was skeptical of Bonnie's skills as a maid, so it seemed to me that she should at least be "decorative." Connie grinned and immediately set about putting together a uniform for her sister. As completed, it was a slightly-modernized version of the cosplay French Maid's outfit. From the bottom to the top: 4" black stiletto heels, black crotchless fishnet pantyhose, a black miniskirt, tiny white apron, black "shelf bra" which left the nipples uncovered, sheer black blouse, and the de rigueur white lacy hairband.

When Bonnie first tried the uniform on, I was in the next room and overheard the conversation. Bonnie was predictably embarrassed by the costume, the short skirt, the sheer blouse, but the real surprise was to come, when she complained that the package did not include panties.

"You don't need 'em," said Connie.

"But sis!"

"Let's get this straight, missy! You address me as 'Ma'am', and my husband as 'Sir' or 'Mr. Cooper.'"

A long pause as she digested that. "Yes, Ma'am. But no panties?!"

"You don't need 'em. Or are you one of those sluts that gets so wet it runs down her thighs?"

A longer pause, then in a tiny voice, "Sometimes, Ma'am."

"Then keep another rag in your cleaning caddy to clean yourself up. Can't have you leaving snail trails around on the furniture, can we? And Bonnie, I think I prefer to call you 'Bunny.' Deal with it."

Did I mention that the girls sometimes didn't get along so well?

"And when you enter or leave a room where Mr. Cooper or I is present, you will face us and curtsy."

It was fascinating. I had read about the psychological phenomenon of "enclothed cognition," that one's perceptions of one's clothing had a significant effect on one's mental processes (look it up). This was the first time I was aware of being present when it was in action, and hearing a reasonably self-reliant teenager shrink into the identity of a submissive domestic servant was impressive.

The uniform certainly seemed to be "decorative" enough. Connie pulled me aside a moment later. "Just remember, hubby, it's 'Look, but don't touch.'"

The only diplomatic response available was "Yes, dear."

To The Slammer

Things began to settle into the new order of things in the household. Connie assumed her role as the "lady of the house." Bonnie/Bunny became more effective as a maid than I expected, and was certainly quite decorative. She never quite gave up on trying to tug down the hem of her skirt, the futility of which was entertaining in its own right.

Something was not right, though, with Connie. Nothing I could put my finger on, mind you, but something was "off."

The catalyst for action came when I noticed a small transaction, immediately reversed, in the household account. After scratching my head over it for some time, I finally overcame denial and, taking advantage of Connie's afternoon nap, dropped some spyware on her laptop.

The spyware yielded immediate results. Digging through her browsing history, I found that she had opened a bank account in a town at the other end of the state, and had researched driving directions from here to there. After a day or two, the keylogger provided the account ID and password ("screwhim420") to the bank account, and I was able to confirm that the small transaction I had noticed had indeed gone to that bank account.

The conclusion seemed unavoidable that a heist was being planned, so I called the local Chief of Police (being the RMIT gives access) and we put together a plan.

After dinner a couple of evenings later, I moved to the parlor/living room to maybe watch some football. Connie brought in my evening drink, which was a bit unusual, since that had become one of Bunny's tasks. I pretended to nibble at the drink and thanked her, then waited until her back was turned to empty the drink into a zip-lock baggie which I hid in the folds of the couch. A few minutes later I complained of being sleepy and headed off to the bedroom.

Things moved rapidly from then on. My phone "dinged" in text notification of a bank withdrawal. I heard the garage door go up. I heard the car start, and from the bedroom window I watched the officers close in.

I will cut short the story of the courtroom proceedings. Given the evidence, the Public Defender threw up his hands and shifted to getting the best plea-bargain he could for Connie, which turned out to be not very good. We had the theft from the bank account plus the attempted Grand Theft Auto. The toxicology on the drink I had emptied into the baggie showed enough sleeping-pill content to fell an ox. With one thing and another, and with sentences to run consecutively, she was off to the Big House for 10 years.

It suddenly occurred to me: had she always been just another gold-digger?

And that was that.

Except--maybe not. I made it known that I would like to speak with the Prosecutor, the Public Defender, and the Judge, and a conference was arranged, the outcome of which was satisfactory to me.

Of course, I changed the password on the household account, canceled her credit card, and reversed the withdrawal from the household account. Connie's clothing went to donations, and her laptop was nuked.

The Offer

A week later I drove several towns away, to the Emma Snodgrass Institute for the Correction of Difficult Women.

A guard seated me on one side of the visitors' partition, and another guard went to fetch Connie from the cell block.

She arrived on the other side of the partition. The transformation was remarkable. She had a magnificent black eye. One of her fellow inmates had apparently delivered a terrific right-cross. Given how stiffly she moved, I suspected that the orange prison jumpsuit covered multiple bruises. It looked as though she had wasted no time getting crosswise with the inmate power structure.

She gave me a surly look: "Yeah, what?"

"There are two items of business between us. First, as of today, you're no longer my wife."

"Then I guess we're done." She made to get out of her chair.

"Second, I can get you out of here."

She sank back into the chair, and winced.

"What's the deal?"

"Four things, and you agree to all four or there's no deal. First, you'll be re-sentenced to house arrest. That means, with rare exception, you don't leave the house for the remainder of your sentence."

She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the cell block. "Compared to this--what's not to like?"

"Second, if I'm dissatisfied with your behavior, you come back here, and the offer will not be renewed."

She winced again. "And?"

"Third, you'll be employed as a maid, under the same terms as your sister."

"And?"

"Fourth, I will use you for sex when and as it amuses me to do so."

Her lip curled in a sneer. It looked as though she didn't rate me as "The last of the red-hot lovers." Surprise!

"So, I'll be a sex-slave for 10 years."

"That's certainly a perception you could adopt. If you look down the tunnel of 10 years with that perception, it seems likely to lead to you being pretty miserable."

"Or?"

"Or you could try on the idea of being a maid gunning for promotion to, say, concubine. That might lead to a more hopeful outlook, which might lead to better behavior, which might lead to a better outcome.

"Do you accept?"

Her hand rose to touch her black eye. "Yeah, I accept."

I stood up. "You can expect things to move rather quickly. I'll see you in a week."

The guard on her side of the partition led her back into the cell block, and the guard on my side took me to see the Warden.

I gave the Warden the letter from the Judge. She scanned the letter, said "We can make that happen," and showed me out the door.

The agenda called for Connie to be immediately transferred to solitary confinement, which should stop the abuse and give her some time to heal. After a few days, she was to undergo testing for STIs. Somewhat surprisingly, with the abuse of her past week, the test turned out clean.

Interlude - Bunny

That afternoon, after driving back to the house, I summoned Bunny to the parlor/living room. She dipped a curtsy as she entered, and set her ever-present cleaning caddy down to one side. I sat down with her to try to plot out a way forward. It didn't seem that being a maid was the best use of her life, and I told her I wanted to see what we could come up with.

"Based on your high school grades, it looks like we could get you into College in River City, or at least Junior College, on a scholarship, and..."

"Nooooo!" To my astonishment she threw herself at my feet, wrapped her arms around my ankles, and burst into tears.

"Please don't send me away again!"

Huh?

"OK, look. Give me a clue, here."

She wiped her eyes.

"Listen, you idiot, uh, Sir! I love you! I loved you since we first met. You were so unlike Dad--he was always 'me, me, me' and 'money, money, money.' When I met you doing some of those volunteer things, it was the first time I'd met an adult who lifted a finger to help others, and it was a revelation. I wanted you, to be yours, to be with you, more than anything else I'd ever known.

"When you married Connie instead of me, it was as if you were grinding the heel of your shoe on my heart."

So that was why she was crying at the wedding! And watching me walk away with her rival must have felt like I was sending her (Bonnie) away. And it maybe explained why she was so willing to take the effectively unpaid job as a maid.

"For the last few weeks, I've been living under the same roof with you. But being physically closer made the pain of the emotional distance even worse. Please don't send me away."

I told her I needed a drink, which she made appear in a twinkling. The brief delay gave me a chance to reset.

"OK, let's start over. You aren't the same girl you were when you lived with your father. You aren't the same girl you were five minutes ago, before this conversation. Rather than drifting from one identity to another, let's try to invent the next 'you' with some forethought. Who are you going to be? What self-perception will give some framework, some logic, to how you act, to what you experience, to how you see yourself, how you want to see yourself, how others will see you?"

She thought for a minute.

"I am a penniless orphan."

Which, I thought, was strictly true, given that her father had drained her trust fund.

"I am an indentured servant in the home of a rich, lecherous man. He constantly leers at me, which gives me the creeps. Now that his wife is out of the way, it's only a matter of time before he starts to grope me, and only a little time later before he finally rapes me. And there will be nothing in the world I can do about it.

"It's really important that he start using me for sex, though, and lots, and soon, because I love him and I don't want him to send me away. He doesn't love me, and he doesn't know I love him. He doesn't need a maid, not really, so sex is the only real reason for him to keep me around. I know him well enough to love him, but not well enough to please him, and that scares me to death.

"But the most important thing is that he must never guess how much I love him, how my struggles are meant only to incite him. If it ever crosses his mind how much I want him, he'll use that hold to require even more degrading things from me. And I will do them, because doing them might mean that he keeps me a little longer."

Well, no one ever said that a fantasy had to be self-consistent. A little double-think can help some people maintain their sanity.

I told her the plan for Connie's house arrest, and she surprised me by saying "Me, too? Please?"

"Explain."

"Sir, when she comes back, she's going to hate you, already does, because you outsmarted her. She'll probably hate me as well. Whatever I can do to show her that she's not alone, that I am having the same experience as she is, might help build a bridge."

I allowed that it was worth a try.

Homecoming

Mid-week I had Connie's uniform delivered to the prison, minus the apron and hairband. The elements were identical to the uniform Bunny was wearing.

A few days later I drove back to the Snodgrass Institute to pick her up. A guard brought her out through the heavy gate, wearing her maid's clothing but also wearing handcuffs, ankle cuffs, and a restraining chain in between. Hoots and catcalls followed her out from the cell block. Her shiner had started to change colors, to blues and greens. The bruises that had been covered by the jumpsuit were evident. The guard slapped the key to the manacles into my palm and said, with a smile, "Compliments of the House." I thanked her and helped Connie down the stairs and into the car.

"When do these come off?"

"When we get to the house."

And that was the extent of the conversation for the drive.

When we got back to the house, Bunny was kneeling just in front of and to the right of my chair in the parlor/living room. I did the old high-school bully's trick of bumping the backs of Connie's knees. She went to the floor with a thump and suddenly found herself kneeling just to the left of my chair.