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.
Reviewing my stories, I noticed that the surname for my male lead in this story, "Cooper," is the same as that in my several-years-earlier story "Levirate Customs." The coincidence is accidental, and there is no familial relation between the two men.
Oh, and this is a fantasy, not a guide for successful relationships.
A house burns, a marriage goes wrong, & a man gets a harem
Tags: <bdsm> cnc ffm mdom sisters investing prison shock-collar curtsy maids redemption / f-f incest
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) Springer, 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 who 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 ("$crewHim420") 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.
