Incest Hotel Ch. 01

***I am conscious of the fact that most of my stories so far, have tended to be a little on the long side. I don't really make any apologies for that, I like a tale that has a little meat on its bones, but variety is the spice of life. Incest Hotel is intended to be an anthology series. It will be a collection of shorter, self-contained stories, featuring a myriad of different characters. But all of them will be indulging in glorious, glorious incest. Certain individuals may reappear in different stories, but you will be able to read each tale in isolation. At least that's the plan.

As always, any character involved in any sexual activity is at least eighteen years old.***

1

If Vernon Copeland was a monster – and all the available evidence suggests he was – he couldn't be held entirely responsible for that fact. His father – Jefferson Copeland – had been a monster too. He was a bully, a drunkard, a womaniser and a source of unending terror and fear for his family. Vernon had regularly witnessed him beat his mother and his older sister. He had been on the receiving end of various whippings too, throughout his childhood and early teens.

Perhaps, if he had been a stronger man – a better man – Vernon would have reacted to his father's unrelenting abuse with greater moral clarity. He would have been determined to learn and grow. He would have treated men and women with respect and compassion. He would have endeavoured to be all the things his father was not.

But Vernon was not a strong man. He was weak. And he was to become, in so many ways, his father's son. He was victim to the same vices. He was guilty of the same sins. Vernon shared his taste for liquor. Vernon shared his taste for easy women.

When he was seventeen years old, his father suddenly dropped dead. It happened in church, of all places. Jefferson Copeland was nothing if not a man who understood the importance of keeping up appearances. If he had ever believed in the Good Lord above, he had abandoned his faith many years earlier; but each week, the Copeland family would be found in the pews of their local church. All in their Sunday best, the very model of piety and sobriety.

Appearances can certainly be deceptive.

The Reverend Elijah B Havelock was right in the middle of a particularly fiery sermon about the vital importance of resisting the weakness of the flesh, when the weakness of Jefferson Copeland's flesh finally caught up with him. He suddenly stood up, muttered a few words of quiet apology, and then promptly collapsed. He was dead before his body hit the ground. A rudimentary autopsy revealed almost as many arterial blockages as there were months in the year. His heart, what there was of it, had practically exploded.

Vernon was suitably shocked by his father's sudden – and very public – demise, but he wasn't remotely upset. By this stage in his life, he hated the man who had sired him with a finely honed passion, and was delighted to no longer have his metaphorical – and sometimes, literal – shadow hanging over him. No one in the Copeland family really grieved for this man – his death was nothing but a relief – but they made sure to put on a good show for any interested parties.

As his only son and heir, Vernon duly inherited his father's estate and business interests. And, somewhat to the surprise of everyone who knew him, he made a reasonable fist of running – and even expanding – those interests. It was under Vernon that the company his father had established, originally specialising in the trade of dry goods, diversified by moving into the world of hotels. He started off by investing a small amount of money in a couple of guest houses; but by the end of the Great War, he was running a regional chain of ever larger hostelries.

If his professional life was advancing, even thriving, so too was his private life. At the age of 23 he married. His wife was quite the catch. She was a creature of rare beauty called Rose Dufresne. If Vernon was well on his way to becoming a monster, she was more akin to an angel, both in looks and temperament.

The Dufresne family had once been rather grand, much grander than the Copelands, who had worked their way up from relative poverty. Pierre Dufresne was rumoured to be related to French royalty. But he was a gambler and, much like Jefferson Copeland, rather too fond of the sauce. By the time he had reached his mid 40s, his wealth had been frittered away on the racecourses and roulette tables of the county; while his looks had been sacrificed on the altar of hard liquor. The only asset he really possessed was his daughter.

But she was quite the asset.

Even from the earliest days of her childhood, it was patently obvious that Rose Dufresne was going to be something special. She was the most stunning of children, with her long blonde hair, her big blue eyes and her cherubic face. She was a southern belle par excellence. By the time she was a teenager, her body had matured and grown. She was slim and slender, but had all the curves any young woman might aspire to. Her disposition was as fair and as sweet as her appearance. Her kindness and her consideration for others was noted by all who knew her. She was much admired and much loved.

Not long after her eighteenth birthday, she was introduced to a young man called Vernon. Her father told her he was to be her husband. This revelation both surprised and excited her. She was, in so many ways, still a child; but it was not that unusual for girls her age to be married off. Not then. Not in the South. If she had her doubts, she hid them well. She was an obedient and biddable creature. And in truth, she was rather taken with the dashing Vernon Copeland. Although, in the years that were to follow, his looks would fade, as his waistline expanded and his hairline receded; as a younger man he was really quite handsome.

She was seduced too by the idea of marriage. She wanted to be the beautiful princess, dressed all in white, a tall dark prince by her side. So, she readily agreed to the pairing, and, a few months later they were wed in the very same church where Jefferson Copeland breathed his last.

If Rose Dufresne – now Rose Copeland – had been in possession of any illusions about the institute of marriage and the man who was now her husband; those illusions were shattered faster than the discarded glassware of her wedding reception. On their first night together as a married couple, Vernon basically raped her. He was not an attentive or compassionate lover, he cared only for his base needs, and he took little time to cater to the concerns of a young woman being forced into adulthood far sooner than was wise or advisable.

As she lay there weeping on the marital bed, her wedding dress torn, her skin bruised and scratched, her husband's seed mixing with the blood of her torn maidenhead, Rose prayed to her Lord and Saviour for the strength and resilience to survive this bitter and harsh trial. She wanted to love her husband. She wanted to obey him. And she was determined to be as good a wife as she could be.

Like so many women of her generation and her background, she endured. She learned to live with her burden. She learned to live with her cold, distant – and sometimes violent – husband. She learned to live with the harsh reality that was her life, rather than the juvenile fantasy she had hoped for as an innocent youth. She did this in the way many women in her situation might do, through the love and adoration she had for her children.

Rose became a mother three weeks before her nineteenth birthday, giving birth to twins. A baby girl they named Esther, and a little boy who was never going to be called anything other than Vernon Junior. They were the only children she would ever have. She got pregnant again a couple of years later, but after a particularly savage beating that Vernon administered one night, when he was steaming drunk, she miscarried. She thought perhaps she would no longer be able to carry a baby, the damage her husband had wrought had been too severe, but she would discover some years later, to her surprise and joy, that this was not the case.

If you were to witness Rose and her children together, you would have seen a young mother who seemingly doted on her babies. This was true, without a doubt. She loved them both. But she loved one of them just that little bit more. Vernon Junior – known by almost everyone as Little Vern – was the apple of Rose's eye. He was a handsome boy, a sweet child, and he worshipped his mother.

His twin sister Esther, however, was always a little more difficult to love. She had been rather sickly as a baby, forever afflicted by ailments and maladies. Her sleep was often punctuated by coughing fits and howling tears. Rose was regularly kept up late into the night, trying to soothe her. Little Vern meanwhile slept right through, almost from the start.

There was a connection between mother and son that Esther could never hope to emulate, or ever be part of. She was always somewhat akin to the fifth wheel, a little unwanted, a little unloved. It's not as if she was particularly close to her father, either. Vernon – or Big Vern as he increasingly became known – was almost entirely disinterested in his children. They were little more than an irritation, as far as he was concerned. They steered clear of him most of the time; both of them had been the victim of one of his beatings. They knew of his temper.

Esther, by virtue of necessity more than anything else, became a somewhat solitary child. She was self sufficient and often played alone. If she resented the favouritism her mother showed towards her brother, she never displayed that emotion. She was really rather fond of him, to be honest. It was almost impossible not to like Vernon Junior. Everyone adored him, and she was no different.

So, this was their life. An angry, bitter father and husband. A frightened, neglected wife and mother. And two children who knew of no other existence than their own. For some in this family, there were occasional moments of happiness and even joy. For others, there was nothing but misery and despair. Everything depended on the mood of Big Vern. That was the key. None of them could hope for him to be happy or ebullient – that was an impossibility – but they all yearned for a certain sullen indifference.

As the children grew older, their parents' marriage became ever more fractious and traumatic. As Big Vern drank more and more, he became increasingly angry and violent towards his wife. If Rose was lucky, he would simply pass out somewhere in the house and wouldn't awake till dawn. But often she was unlucky, and the bruises she wore were ever harder to disguise.

These were desperate years for Rose. Desperate times. She had considered leaving her husband. Running away, fleeing this monster she had become saddled to. But where would she go? How would she even start to plan such a move? And what would happen to her children if she did? She couldn't leave them behind – not with their father – but how could she survive as a single woman with two youngsters on her own? In that day and age, that would have been an impossibility.

She took comfort in her children, particularly her son. And over time, she realised he was not a child anymore. He was a man. A dashing, handsome man. She was so proud of him and she loved him so much. He was there for her when she was tearful and upset. He soothed her, he supported her. Rose was still so innocent in many ways, still yearning for the romantic love she had desired as a young girl.

The kind of love her husband had never been able to provide.

The kind of love, she was soon to discover, that her son most certainly could.

The twins eighteenth birthday was marked by a small family meal. Rose had suggested throwing a huge party, but her husband had dismissed the idea as being too expensive. So, the four of them sat in the dining room and ate in silence. Then a cake was brought in, covered in candles. After a cursory rendition of Happy Birthday, brother and sister blew them out, and their father disappeared without uttering another word.

Later that evening, Rose was sat on the verandah, the last glimmer of dusk fading on the horizon, gas lamps now illuminating the scene. She was busy with some embroidery, stitching a Biblical scene, showing Christ on the cross. She heard the screen door open and looked up to see her son standing over her.

My, he is so handsome, she thought to herself.

Little Vern sat next to her and clasped her hands in his. He leant forward and kissed her softly on the lips.

"Thank you, Momma. Thank you for such a lovely evening." He said, earnestly.

"Don't be foolish, my darling boy. There was nothing to it. It was simply a meal, like so many other meals we have eaten in this accursed house."

"But you were there, Momma. You made it special."

She smiled at him, temporarily struck dumb by her son's tender words. Before she knew what she was doing, she had wrapped her arms round his neck and was kissing him deeply on the mouth.

After a moment or two, she gasped. She pulled back, staring at him intently. He smiled at her, and eventually she smiled back.

"I think your mother got a little carried away." She whispered.

"It was a lovely present. The loveliest present I could ever have hoped for."

"Hush now, young Vernon. Leave me be."

He stood up and walked back into the house. She sat there, her heart fluttering, her blood coursing through her veins. She felt a strange mixture of unease and excitement. She felt arousal too, almost an alien concept after so many years in a loveless marriage. She giggled to herself, and returned to her embroidery.

The next night, she returned to the verandah and waited for him. Eventually he joined her, and before too long they were kissing again. The first occasion could have been dismissed as an unusual, one off occurrence; but there was no disguising their intent this time. For a long, long time they sat together, kissing like newlyweds. Both of them burning with desire, and yet restrained at the same time. Eventually, she told him to leave, but they agreed to meet again the next day.

And that's how their incestuous affair began. For a while, all they did was kiss, like a courting couple, desperate to maintain their modesty. But soon, one thing led to another. She began to sneak into his room, where they would sit on his bed and she would wrap her hand round his exposed member. She would masturbate him to orgasm, and then leave him to clean himself up.

After a while, her hand would be replaced by her mouth. She would kneel in front of him, sucking her son's cock with an enthusiasm and passion she had never shown with his father.

Then, as days became weeks, and after ever more fervent requests, she would take to stripping herself naked for him. She would put her body on display, a fascinating biological exhibition for a horny young man. She let him touch her breasts, her hips, her buttocks. Eventually, she allowed him to slip his fingers inside her. Then his tongue. He could feel her heat and her moisture, the excitement she felt at his touch.

There was only one destination for the pair of them, and that was the final consummation of their forbidden passion. Before too long, they were making love each day. She would lie on his bed, spreading her legs apart; and he would tower over her, his dick in his hand. He would take the head of his penis and line it up with her lips. Then he would push himself inside her, both of them gasping as he did so.

These were two people who shared an intimate bond no one else could really understand. Forged in the fires of their shared terror, they were connected in a way that was both profound and eternal. Mother and son loved each other beyond all reason and beyond all doubt. They were soulmates now, and would be until the day they died.

Which, sadly, wasn't to be all that far off in the distance.

Their lovemaking was strangely sweet and tender, almost innocent, at least to begin with. Little Vern had no real knowledge of women, his mother would be his first and only lover, and Rose's personal experience of sex had been confined to the nasty, brutish and short encounters she had been forced to endure with Big Vern.

Lovemaking with her son would prove to be a revelation. An awakening. A rebirth. Rose would come to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh in a way she had never done before; utterly at odds with the theological teachings of Reverend Havelock. She opened herself up to her son in all possible ways, emotionally, physically, spiritually; letting him have full access to her pretty much whenever he wanted. And Little Vern wanted her a lot. She revelled in it all, discovering an appetite for hard, nasty sex she had never known existed.

What began as awkward and rather clumsy, soon became accomplished and well-practised. These were two people who loved to fuck and crucially, they loved to fuck each other. Rose had no doubts and felt no guilt. Whatever faith she had enjoyed as a younger woman had ebbed away during the long, brutal years of her marriage. How could her relationship with her little boy be so wrong, when it felt so right? The only time she would fall to her knees now, was when she was sucking her son's cock.

The affair was passionate and powerful. They would ride off together during the day, finding a secluded spot where they could strip naked and make love. Rose would be on her hands and knees, her son pounding away at her from behind, his cock sawing through her scalding hot gash. Little Vern's dick would erupt inside her, shooting his fertile seed, which would splash against the walls of her vagina.

These were the happiest days of Rose's life. The only time she ever felt truly loved. The connection the two of them shared was so strong, it was almost frightening.

Rose had never even considered the possibility of her becoming pregnant. Following that brutal beating her husband had administered years earlier, when she had lost her third child, she had assumed any further pregnancies were impossible. But clearly that was not the case. Her mensies had always been as regular as clockwork, so when she realised she was late, it was clear what the cause was.

She was carrying her son's baby.

Little Vern had been shocked when she told him the news, but he soon came round to the idea. He was as committed to her as she was committed to him, so fathering a child seemed an inevitable course of events, even if he were to do so with his own mother.

It was at this point that the two of them hatched a plan to run away together. They had talked of it many times. Disappearing into the night, starting a new life somewhere far away. Away from their troubles. Away from their heartache. Away from him.

They planned carefully, over the weeks and months. Big Vern granted both of them a small weekly allowance, and they began to pool their monies, accruing a reasonable lump sum that they would use to facilitate their escape. A date was chosen, a plan was hatched.

But a moment of rashness ended all their schemes.

Big Vern was out for the evening. He was visiting business acquaintances for a game of cards. He did so every Friday, without fail. He wasn't all that much of a player, and gambling held little interest for him, but he saw a purpose to these events. It was a way to strengthen professional relationships, build contacts and further his ambitions. So, he would go and make nice with other powerful individuals in the area.