Horace could almost read “guilty” in her forehead.“Pumpkin, are you okay?”“I'm fuh... I'm fine!”, she tried to smile.“I see. Is there so...ething you'd like to tell me?”, he inquired, looking at the computer. It had all it's lights on, but the monitor was off. It doesn't require a “Sherlock Holmes” to realize she was at the computer when he knocked.“I'm so busted”, Clarice thought. “No... uh... the computer is still on because I'm waiting for Paul's e-mail, about that documentary we're supposed. I want to fuck my daughter. I’m dreaming about fucking my daughter. No, not my daughter, but my wife, but my daughter’s face keeps appearing like? Maybe I do just want to fuck my daughter? The princess in the mirror laughs and advances and reaches out and my balls flop over the edge of the sink and I’m tugging at my dick and I’m imagining the sun on her flat back, her hips buckling against me as I take her on the edge of a pool. Her arse is high in the air and my hand is on her head tearing her. More

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