Chapter 8
In Fort Sill, Oklahoma, three teen-age boys sat in the living room of a frame house after school one afternoon. Two of them were arguing about last Friday's football game, debating whether they couldn't have won it if the coach hadn't taken out Steve Gladstone and if the referee hadn't made a bad call. The third boy, who had already made up his mind about the game, picked up an issue of Newstvord magazine from the coffee table and began to thumb through it. After reading about some of last Sunday's pro football action, his eyes paused on a page where there was a picture of a girl with her legs crossed. He stared at her raptly-realizing that he could see the beginnings of her buttocks and that she wasn't wearing any underpants. He wished the picture had been taken when she'd crossed her legs, because she'd undoubtedly uncrossed them sometime, but he knew that then they wouldn't have published the picture. Then he read the headline and he realized that this pair of legs was from his home state.
"Look at this!" he cried after a minute. "Holy Jesus! You remember Cassie-she was in our eighth grade class?"
"She in there?" one asked. "What'd she do?"
"Her old man probably shot her," the other said, then giggled.
"She's a movie star," he said.
"Let me see!"
"She had blond hair on her snatch."
"Timmy Jones sat in front of her, and he used to drop his pencil five times a day or more so he could look up her skirt."
"It says 'lustful proclivities,'" one read. " 'Photogenic and exceedingly well-photographed orgasms.' "
"Christ, I wish she'd of had an orgasm then."
"Didn't we ever tell you about, her?" one of them said to the third. "Christ, one day Richard and I and Steve went over to her place after school and got her to play strip poker." He giggled.
"Did you get her to take anything off?"
"Hell, yes. We used a stacked deck."
"That wasn't all that was stacked, either," the second said, giggling.
"We had a rule that we got to tickle anyone who took anything off-we wanted to do it to a count of one hundred, but she said only to a count of thirty."
"But then when she took off her bra we claimed we each got to play with each tit for a count of thirty."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, but she counted real fast."
"But when she took off her underpants and let us tickle her cunt...."
"Man, you've never touched such a gooey cunt."
"... she started counting real slow."
"Yeah, she'd start off fast, but once you started rubbing her pussy, she'd stop counting for a minute and take a deep breath like she was real excited, and then she'd forget where she was and start in again at the wrong place."
"She went back to sixteen five times when Steve was feeling her."
"Yeah, and then when she finished and opened her eyes and pushed his hand away, he said, 'You skipped twenty-three and twenty-four,' and made her start over."
"She almost never finished, that time."
"Yeah, he was rubbing his finger up and down in her pussy a mile a minute, and she spread her legs until we thought she was gonna split."
"Christ, I've never seen anything like it."
"Shit, we all three had our heads right down there looking at her cunt."
"We were gonna fuck her when she lost another hand of poker."
"What happened?"
"Aw, her old man came home."
"Catch you?"
"Well, she picked up her clothes and ran into the bathroom, but he acted like he caught us doing it or something. He screamed at us to get out and not come back."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, we looked back and saw him standing at the door with a shotgun."
"Jesus. Why didn't you ever go back?"
"We were scared for a while. Then they moved."
"Yeah, and he actually took a shot at some guy one night."
"Get him?"
"Yeah, right in the ass."
"Jesus."
Old Ned was dozing when he heard a car roll up, the stop outside. He never had visitors, and looked out the window just as two kids stuck their heads out the window while a third sat behind the wheel, gunning the engine.
"How's your daughter's expressive body?" one yelled.
"Know what she's doing with it now?"
"She's fucking in the movies!"
"Yeah, and she has a real talent for it, we understand."
"They got some real good pictures of her orgasms."
"She writhes convincingly."
"She's a porny superstar," one yelled, waving something out the car window.
"She's a supercunt is what they mean."
"Yeah, who you gonna shoot now?"
"Goddamn shotgun didn't do you any good, did it?"
Ned had just about fixed his mind to go get his shotgun when they threw something out of the car, saying, "Here, read about her for yourselfshe's famous now!" and drove off, giving him the finger, laughing raucously.
After a few minutes the old man stepped out of the trailer and walked over to pick up the magazine they'd thrown out, dusting it off on his leg before looking at it. He squinted and studied the picture. Yup, that was his Cassie, all right. She'd let her hair go straight, but there she was-that was her-she was showin' off her legs, just like a plain ordinary whore.
For a long time after reading the article, Ned sat still at the kitchen table. He sat still and silent and his eyes stared vacantly out the window into the prairie. His two reactions were stunned disbelief and righteous outrage. The disbelief settled in the back of his brain, and he sat without moving, knowing no movement was going to do him any good, knowing that as soon as the disbelief settled a little more there wasn't going to be anything he could do to contain the inexpressable outrage. Thus, he sat there steeling himself against the outrage, not wanting it to kill him when it hit.
And in the morning the tired old man who hadn't slept all night got up and packed his suitcase. He just packed the essentials: two changes of underwear, his toothbrush, and his shotgun, which he dismantled and wrapped in a towel to place it catercornered in his bag.
And that same old man in his nondescript dirt farmer's denim workpants and a stubble of grey beard went into the bank in Fort Sill that morning. No one took a second look at him when he withdrew two hundred and fifty dollars and left the bank, or when he parked his battered pickup on a side street near the Greyhound depot.
"I want one ticket goin' to San Francisco," he said, "and I want two tickets comin' back." It was as if he was announcing intentions of some kind, but after taking one look at his face the clerk quickly looked back down at his charts without asking who he was going to bring back with him. No one in the bus depot or aboard the express bus took a second look at the old dirt farmer's face, which, set in an attitude of grim ugly determination, he pointed out the window, his eyeballs vacant as he stared unseeing at countryside he'd never seen before, his mind and body frozen in barely contained outrage.
Those eyelids closed and he slept, and then those eyelids opened again and he hadn't moved. It was as if not one pleasant memory and not one dream had stirred or fluttered in the ice of his mind. Twice a day, he shoveled bus depot food into his mouth without noticing what he ate. The expression on his face didn't change when he moved his bowels.
The marquee of the Sockittome Art Film Theater read "SF's Superstar Guarantees an Aesthetic Lift. See Casse in Frontier Rape." And in smaller letters: "Cassie's new film coming soon-Make the Squealer Squeal."
There are certain activities which any father might be disturbed to watch his daughter engage in. If that father has a closed mind and is the victim of stringent pre-set social attitudes, and thinks those activities ought not to be engaged in by his daughter at all-certainly not in broad daylight and certainly not with any show of enthusiasm-then his disturbance will be that much greater. When his lingering disbelief, balanced ever so delicately in the back on his brain, left Ned completely, how would that affect his barely contained rage?
When Ned saw Cassie faint as the Indian assaulted her, he almost believed for a moment that she was his own virtuous little girl, as virtuous as any man could want, but he stirred uncomfortably as a trace of a smile formed on her lips when the savage sucked on her tits. He saw her legs and her buttocks tremble as she became excited, and he saw her move and twist as she fucked the savage. He saw that she actually enjoyed sucking Big John's cock-she had enjoyed something that he, Ned, had never asked his wife to do in thirty-five years of marriage, enjoyed it so much and got so hot while she did it that she leaned back and played with her own cunt!
Ned saw much more, all of it in Technicolor and larger than life on the screen. When they played the previews for Make the Squealer Squeal, he saw his daughter's cunt twelve feet high, up there on the screen, all surrounded by her yellow hair, thumbs holding it spread while it twitched and juiced, unbelievably vivid, the contracting hole of her vagin's entrance large enough to admit a man's hand.
While disbelief died, something new entered Old Ned's mind-something new and almost forgotten entered his psyche, something he couldn't relegate to the back of his mind, or shake off in any way. While he watched his daughter in sexual excitement, something stirred in his loins and he got an erection, his first erection in fourteen or fifteen years. His cock grew rock-hard and throbbed as one with his seething rage.
When Ned left the theater, he looked up a name in the local telephone directory. He didn't have to check the folded magazine page in his pocket to see that he had it right.
Anyone would have thought Jerry and Cassie asleep. They lay naked atop the bed; she was curled fetus-style, and he was curled around her. But Jerry stirred, yawned, and then slowly wormed his limp penis from the girl's rectum, her pink anus puckered tightly around it. "Time for me to go," he whispered.
"Don't," she said.
"Got to. You're hauling them in so, we have to pick the money up twice a day."
She smiled slightly, watching him dress and leave. Jerry seemed devoted to her and affectionate in a way he hadn't been before. She sometimes wondered if the fact that she was making a lot of money for him had anything to do with it, but her wonder did not become fear; it didn't gnaw at her. She knew that men were attracted to her. She liked Jerry, but if he didn't treat her nice, someone else would: she had become a star!
When the doorbell rang, she pranced into the living room to press the button, releasing the downstairs door. Then, as if on second thought, she pranced back into the bedroom and threw on a bathrobe, holding it about her without tying the cord.
"Daddy?" she whispered in fright as she saw the gaunt, accusing apparition. A timid little smile of welcome was wiped from her face as his arm snaked in through the partly open door, grabbing a handful of hair on top her head and twisting it. She fell off balance as the rest of him bulled in the door, kicking it shut after himself. She fell to one knee and struggled to get up. He helped pull her up, by her hair, and slapped her hard across the face. Hard with the palm of his hand, then hard with the back of his hand-thunk! crack! thunk! crack!-he yanked her head back and forth, slapping her cheeks, slapping her until her knees went weak and her housecoat flew open as she reached in panic for anything to hold onto. He knead her in the pit of the stomach and let go her hair to watch her body slump to the floor, her breasts bouncing when she landed on her back, legs spread.
He retrieved his suitcase from the hallway and sat patiently until she came to. She sat up and felt her jaw, which had begun to swell.
"Superwhore!" he spat.
She said nothing, but rose to her feet, closing her housecoat.
"Get dressed," he said. "We're taking the next bus back home."
She went in to run cold water on her face, and when she came out, he said, "Girl, I said get dressed!"
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"You want more, huh?" he menaced. "You want some more of what you just got? You'll get some more, but I was planning on saving it till we got home. You'll get more for a long time to come."
"Daddy," she said calmly, "the only way you'll ever get me back to Oklahoma is to kill me and take me home in a coffin."
"Well, girl," he said, shrugging, "if that's the way you want it, that's the way it'll have to be."
Cassie watched in horror as her father unlatched his suitcase, unwrapped his shotgun and put it together, then drew two big red shells from his pocket to put in the barrel before snapping it shut and pointing it at her.
"No!" she said, half in disbelief.
"You'd rather die than give up your whoring ways. That it, girl? Maybe I'd be doing you a favor then, killing you."
She threw open her housecoat, holding it wide like wings, and said, "Daddy! What do you have against my body? Why do you hate it? Why do you hate me? Everyone else likes me and likes my body."
Old Ned looked at her body in silence, watching her breasts thrust red-nippled as she dropped her arms to let her housecoat fall behind her. "Daddy! Daddy! There's nothing wrong with my body. It's a nice body. People like it. It makes them happy." She advanced on him, holding her breasts in the palms of her hands as if in offering, their nipples swollen and pointed, while trepidation beat in Ned's heart, fear rising in his chest as he became conscious of the ache, the long-lost throbbing ache in his cock.
He raised his gun for a moment as if he might shoot her, but lusting after her breathing trembling body, he couldn't accept just then the image of her lying dead on the floor. He held his hand out to halt her advance like a cop stopping traffic, while his other hand fought to undo his belt.
Cassie dropped her breasts, and her hands fell to her sides. She looked at the floor. Was this, then, how it was to be with him forever? Without mercy? Her father?
She had been standing with most of her weight on one leg, her other leg extended on tiptoe, pointing out slightly. The first blow-the tip of the belt, which had been snapped rather than swung-hit her just beneath where her yellow fleece was thickest, where her outer lips joined. Stunned, Cassie reached for her crotch with both hands to protect herself. Holding herself tightly, she stared at him in wide-eyed horror as he snapped her bunched-together breasts three or four times in rapid succession before the dazed girl could throw one protective arm across them and turn away from him. He stepped back to snap her buttocks until they quivered red, broken capillaries showing in half a dozen places. She dropped to her knees and began crawling away, half scooting and limping on one hand, her arm holding and protecting her breasts.
He tapped her shoulder with the toe of his boot and pointed. She looked and saw the ottoman, a large padded footstool onto which she flopped, kneeling face down, her hips higher than her head even with her legs spread. The full cheeks of her ass were spread, out of the center of which puffed the tender ridges of her rubied inner lips, moisture glistening between them.
Ned raised his arm, panting heavily, then dropped it, letting the belt slide from his hand as he fell to his own knees. He tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes, but his bicep was twitching and he couldn't lift his arm. He lowered his head to wipe the sweat onto his shoulders before he began to slap her ass with his other hand, back and forth with a "Thunk! crack!" Finally, his hand came to rest on her upthrusting hips, a hand which slid to her pussy lips, feeling their soft moist imprint in his palm.
After a moment, Cassie opened her eyes, surprised that the hand just stayed there, that rather than seeking to hurt her it pressed softly. She squirmed reflexively, pressing her wet cunt lips more tightly into her father's hand. She dared look back at him, to see him panting heavily, staring at the floor, and she noticed for the first time the gigantic bulge at the fly of her father's pants.
Cassie was shocked. She had never thought of her father that way, having one of those! His cupping hand dropped to the floor when she turned to trace the outline of her father's erection with her fingertips. Eagerly then, wanting to please him, she undid his pants to allow his cock to stand. In contrast to the rest of his body, which sagged with fatigue, his prick stood upright, surprisingly large. She dipped her head, peeling back its foreskin to reveal its tip, red and velvety. She ran the tip of her tongue over it and Ned groaned. Her father had rocked back on his heels, and she squatted over him, rubbing his glans on her soft cuntal lips before centering herself on it. Cassie paused to offer him her breasts, the stubble of his beard tickling her nipples as she rubbed them on his cheeks. When he dipped his head to catch one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking it long and deliciously, she began to lower herself onto him, wiggling her pussy and rocking her hips as she felt his glans force apart her hot pussy and slide within. She sighed and said, "Please fuck me, Daddy."
"Yes, girl," he said, hoarsely, as he leaned her back against the ottoman and shoved her onto it. The small of her back rested on the edge of it, and her hips hung over. When he went to his knees and humped his back to nuzzle her upthrusting breasts, an almost-forgotten reflexive movement began in his spine and he began thrusting-thrusting like a teen-ager burns rubber from a new car, taking off with a wild squeal-burning up his daughter's pussy with his animal lust. Cassie, poking her swollen sensitive nipples into his eyes and mouth with side-to-side thrusts of her back, reached behind herself to hang onto the sides of the ottoman. Her feet were on the floor and her legs spread to their utmost and she began to snap her pelvis on her father's cock, crying, "Daddy! Daddy! It's so nice!"
Old Ned began to come. His elbows planted on either side of Cassie, Ned squeezed her breasts with both hands as if hanging on for dear life when the spasms took over. His wild eyes focused on his daughter, who had begun to whip her head from side to side; she squeezed him with her legs and arched her tummy high against his when she felt his come boiling into her. She jerked her hips as she clenched him with her cunt to milk it all out of him, crying "Yes, Daddy. Yes, Daddy. Oh, I love you so much, Daddy."
Something seized his chest inside, his heart beat a mile a minute, and a pain shot into his left arm. Ned slumped to the floor. Cassie looked down at him in surprise for a moment. She knew he must be tired. She had forgotten her own swollen cheeks and stinging bruises. This was only the second time in her life she could remember her father being nice to her. She scooted to the floor to take her father's still stiff prick into her mouth, holding it with one hand to lick its last dribble of sperm before pressing her lips into a ring and sucking it in to her tonsils, gobbling at it with her tongue, oddly pleased to find on it her own smell, her own scented slickness.
Old Ned began to breathe easier, and before Cassie knew it his prick was rock-hard again. An old man's last sexual stirrings do not easily leave him. Cassie straddled him and lowered herself onto his renewed cock, moaning as it entered her, then raising and lowering herself so fast her breasts bounced; a slow-motion camera would have shown that she snapped her hips forward when she went down and back when she came up, but she moved ever faster and her breasts began to flap.
Presently, she slowed down, thinking her father might never be nice to her again, and wanting to prolong it. She leaned forward to unbutton his shirt, baring his chest with its matted gray hair; then she moved first one leg and then the other between his. She lay forward to press her breasts to him and locked her knees to feel his rock-hard cock burning deep within her, clutching it tightly as she rocked back and forth, her buttocks clenching as she ground tightly onto it, rolling her breasts on him as she began to whimper. "Love me, Daddy. Please love me, Daddy. Please say you love me, Daddy. Please say it."
"I love you girl," he said. "I might not a showed it, but everything I done, I done for your own good. I love you."
He planted his feet on the floor, lifted his hips high and pushed on her shoulders, wanting that tight warm pussy as firmly on him as possible as he began to shudder, a physical reflexive shuddering that would continue in his mind long after he'd left her. Cassie, stiffening her back as she began to convulse, used her crotch as a pivot to rock gently back and forth until she'd milked his old testicles of every last drop of semen, of their very last drop.
In a rented motel room, Ned lifted the window shade to stare out into the cold foggy dawn. He had wanted to do right by his daughter and he'd failed. He'd wanted to teach her the ways of Right. Now, shuddering at the memory of his own lust, he admitted to himself that he'd forsaken whatever claim he might have had to setting her a firm example; he had forsaken his right even to correct her when she strayed into wantonness. It was out of his hands now, but he could do one last thing for her. He laid his shotgun back down on the table and picked up the telephone.
He dialed the phone, and had to dial again, and waited and talked to one man before he had to say it all over again to someone else. A cop is never there when you want him.
"I don't know what your laws is in this state," he said. "But they been making movies-real dirty movies-about this girl, Cassie Smith. Know of her? Yeah, well she's only fifteen years old. That's right. She's only fifteen. How do I know? I'm her father, that's how. Can I prove it? Well, her birth certificate, it's on file at the county courthouse in Fort Sill, Oklahoma. She was born March 12,1955. Something oughta be done to those people that's led her down the wrong path."
Laying down the phone, Ned picked up his shotgun, breathed deeply, and blew off the top of his head.