Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.
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The well-aged house, one that sat at the very center of one of New York's most prestigious and desired neighborhoods, was pristine, beautiful, and decorated in every way that a home could be decorated for the joyous December season. It was, in its lights and displays - pomp and circumstance, an absolute testament to how much planning and thought had been devoted to this day — to Christmas Day in the Budreau household.
Despite that attention to even the most minute of details and exiguous of minutia, the list of those things mother Budreau forgot to buy for this year's legendary Christmas dinner, was... well... legendary.
Each item shouted in panic by mama, as around her rushed cousins and uncles - nephews and nieces. Each of them coming up with their own plan for the best way to get all that was needed. They, in a cacophony of unquestioned certainty and unchecked dismissiveness, squabbled in the pettiest of ways, about who should go and where - whose car should be taken, and whose black Master Card used.
To an outsider, the madness and manic of the conversation would have seemed like the summation of every terrible family event they had ever lived in real life, seen on TV, or watched on the big screen. A veritable swirl of words and wagers — offers and counters, that only ended when each and all of the spoiled and starving family Budreau ran out from their beautiful family home. The mass of them splitting up and heading to their own cars on exit. Each intending to get the brand they preferred, in the amounts they estimated, from the store they swore by, at a price they found appropriately expensive and unattainable by most. No compromise allowed. No compromise even considered.
In their exodus and haste, only two persons were left in their gleaming and glimmering home. Two women who had never met in person, or communicated in anything other than projected silence from the other side of other's phone calls and family group texts. Two women who were known by all to dislike each other, though dislike is far too soft a word and caring a conjuration of language.
No, a better term would be hated. LOATHED. Each bristling at the very thought of being in the same house as the other, even amongst so many. And yet, at that moment, as every other soul poured out into the cold New York day to find what was forgotten, there they sat. In luxurious armchairs, painfully aimed to face one another. That positioning was only tolerable because each had been surrounded by family, with their views of one another not just obscured but blocked in its entirety.
But as moments passed painfully, in a silence only filled with the crackling of the nearby gold-gated fire in place, Victoria and Armanda sat. Each of the two thick, busty girls acutely focused on the presence of the other, even though they each pretended not to be.
Their eyes averted, and yet still affixed.
Their heeled feet extended and crossed over their own ankle, only inches from the other's pair. Both the brunette wife of the eldest Budreau son and the raven-haired sister of the same, claiming the space between them, without engaging. Without touching. The frost-hearted sister-in-laws hoping, that just by refusing to withdraw their own powerful and skirt-exposed legs, the other would be forced to do just that. Neither willing to give the other even the slightest victory, even in a contest as petty and imagined as who controlled the space between their chairs, in a living room neither owned.
Well... neither owned, yet. That distinction being at the very heart of the two women's feud. For though both mama and papa Budreau lived, they were both old. Both failing. Evidenced by all that had been forgotten by mama for that Christmas day's dinner. A year prior, there was no controversy as to who would own. Not the house. Not the cars. Not the jewelry. Not the money, in its deep, deep reserves.
For all of it - every line in the ledger, would have gone to Victoria. For though she was only the second born, the first, Amil Budreau, had fallen. To drugs. To gambling. Into the gutter. And by the wayside.
That is until she found him. Until Armanda laid her hands on the lost Budreau and healed the addictions that plagued him. Not with magic or religion - medicine or machination, but with the brutally effective whip and yoke of sexual prowess. A tool she wielded well. Her impressive, and drool-worthy breasts dragging Amil back to his feet. And her round and powerful lower-half keeping him in line and on track. Back to work. Back to the family. And most importantly, back into the will. Not just as a bit player, but as one receiving one of two halves. One going to Victoria, and the other to Amil, or in reality, Armanda, as Victoria suspected.
Suspicions though they were at first and technically, Victoria was right. Armanda was in control. Full, unabated control of Amil. And though she did love him, and did plan on staying with him, even when his kindly old parents died, she would be taking charge of the money but of the family business. At least, the 50% she and her husband owned. The other half, being the inheritance of Victoria.
Facts, in line and together that slowly tugged at Victoria's soul. Pushing and pulling the black-haired Budreau's gaze to move from the stunning 15 foot Christmas tree to the red velvet couch, then to rows of Encyclopedias lining the shelves of a master-carved Chestmont oak bookshelf, and then finally, to the arm of Armanda's chair. It was there Victoria saw the hand of the woman who had cost her millions. A Latina woman whose outstretched fingernails flashed with Christmas-themed glory, the designs of which were laced with silver and gold paint, more expensive than most could afford - save for Victoria. Each of the two inheritors already receiving sizeable monthly stipends meant to prepare them for life at the top of the ladder.
But as infuriating as those nails and what they represented were, as Victoria's gaze continued to move across her rival's body, it only got worse. For apart from their separation of purpose and division of interest, Armanda's body could not be more alike her husband's only sister than it was. A parity of beauty and frame each had recognized and stewed over every time they had seen each other in family photos or videos. Images, both moving and still, which were posted to Facebook with such regularity, that each was convinced the other had shared them and taken them, just to drive they, in particular, insane.
