Chapter 1
Big Tom Johnston would screw anything that was lying down, standing up, or bending over. He'd always been that way and even on the night they brought him home on a slab, he still had a hard-on from several of the ladies down at the cathouse on Canker Beach working him over. That's what gave him the fatal heart attack, and even the heavy gray ambulance blankets couldn't decently shroud what was still the biggest and hardest cock in the county.
He'd always done everything in a big way. The house he built was the grandest in town, sitting high on a hill overlooking the sea. His wife had been the loveliest woman anyone in Placid, Massachusetts, had ever set eyes on, and when she died so suddenly-some said mysteriously-in her early thirties, little Catharine quickly blossomed into an even greater beauty than her mother.
They say that truly beautiful women are damned in this life and the next. They are tormented on earth by the lust of men and the envy of women. The world forces vanity upon them, teaches them to love themselves, and cheers when the beauty begins to crumble into the cold and lonely abyss beneath the surface.
Laura Johnston had seemed contented enough, tending her beauty like a sacred trust, ignoring Tom's wild and raunchy life outside the mansion, filling her days with shopping and fittings and beauty treatments and her nights with elegant dinner parties where she shone like a rare jewel in the setting Tom had provided for her. And she was raising her enchanting daughter Catharine to be much like herself. Tom adored them both, everyone said.
Gossip and rumor are the gas and oil that keep a small town running, and the Johnstons provided plenty of crude ore for the gushers. There were some who said that Laura had just upped and run away one night, not died at all. It had been so sudden, and not even her best friends knew a thing about it until after the quick private funeral. But that was silly gossip, and anyway, if she had run away why would she leave all her jewels behind?
Catharine had been only twelve when Laura died-or disappeared-but she soon filled her mother's place as the ravishing beauty and hostess at Tom's dinners. The big house continued to be filled with people, and Catharine never did seem to go through the adolescent stage that ordinary girls do. She sat at the opposite end of the lavish table from her father, and even when she was still a child, many a proper New England gentleman had to cope with a sudden rise in his trousers when she unexpectedly threw a glance his way.
She was so beautiful that everyone always said she should have been a movie star, or married a president or a prince. But she infuriated every other young girl in Placid by staying right there. At eighteen, she married the town's most eligible young man, Richard Burgess, and after the brief honeymoon she brought him back to her daddy's house to live. Life seemed to go on exactly as before, although the gossip didn't even slow down.
Richard was a handsome enough fellow, although of course he faded into bland whenever Tom was around. And then, of course, there had been the extraordinary scene at the wedding. No one could ever forget the sight of the bride's father carrying her across the threshold while the young groom trailed behind-and had the door locked in his face!
It had been the most lavish and gala affair ever. Tents and a bandstand were set up on the rolling green lawn that sloped for a mile from the house down to the inlet, past rose gardens and cherry-tree arbors and the croquet lawn and the swimming pool, past the stables to the boathouse. Lanterns were strung in the shade trees and manicured hedges, imported champagne poured freely from noon past midnight, whole new beds of tropical flowers had been planted for the occasion (they would die before the week was out), and the orchestra played, over and over, "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World."
Tom had stopped the music and was making a speech about giving his little girl away. He stood with his arm around Catharine, and the two of them were so beautiful, tall and sun-dappled under the poplar trees, that more than a few eyes misted at the sight. Tom had a catch in his booming voice, and Catharine looked like a rare museum piece fashioned out of translucent china.
Something he said-no one knew what it was, exactly-shattered the illusion as suddenly as if a knife had slashed through a masterpiece canvas. Catharine collapsed without warning against her father's broad chest, and sobbed as if her heart was broken.
Tom swept his daughter up in his arms and carried her through the stunned crowd of guests, up the hill to the house. Her wedding train billowed out behind them as he crossed the brightly lit terrace and disappeared through the French doors that led to his private study. The guests watched the young bridegroom follow after, alone and awkward, trying to catch up. They saw him knock at the glass panes, then they saw him try the door, and they stood in silent embarrassment as he went around, finally, to the front of the house, to be admitted finally by Tom's servant, Abel.
The happy couple did not reappear that day, but Tom came out later and the party went on almost as if nothing had happened. He kissed all the women, patted a few choice bottoms, and made everybody happy with the dancing and jokes and champagne.
Catharine hid herself upstairs the whole nine months of her pregnancy. Her friends never even got the pleasure of seeing her swollen and off-balance. Once, after Karen Makepeace had tried to see her and been turned away by the maid, a rumor started in town that even Catharine's own father wasn't allowed to see her in her present condition. It was true that the roadhouses and whorehouses all up and down the coast rang with Tom's great gusty spirits night after night, and the country club was never so filled with women outdoing themselves in finery and flirting, and the best homes welcomed Tom Johnston, drunk or sober, invited or not. There were more than a few people in town who were delighted that Catharine's pregnancy kept her daddy out of the house.
The baby was a girl, and they named her Jennifer. Tom said she looked exactly like Catharine had when she was born. Now the house filled with guests again, and Tom presided at the dinner table, with Catharine at his side, more radiant than ever.
Richard's pride in fatherhood knew no bounds. The beautiful baby was always brought down to be admired by the guests. The house seemed filled with love.
Tom died when Jennifer was six years old. The night they brought him home from Mary's cathouse, dead except for the part of him that refused to lie down, Catharine locked herself in her room again. She was inconsolable.
Richard would speak to her through the door.
"Darling, please let me come in. I want to comfort you. I know how you must be feeling. Please let me in."
"I'm all puffy from crying," came Catharine's sad little voice from within.
"But I love you. It doesn't matter how you look. You look beautiful to me."
"No," she wailed softly, and he could hear her collapse into tears of grief again.
Waiting for his wife to recover from her father's death, Richard found it not unpleasant to dine alone with his adorable little daughter. Jennifer at six was already aware of her power to enchant, and she loved dressing up to have dinner alone with her daddy at the big table that had too often been filled with grownup dinner parties which excluded her. Now she and her daddy sat together in the candlelight, just the two of them, and she could make him smile and laugh by tilting her head just so, or imitating her mother's gestures and conversation. After dinner, she would cajole him to give her her bath, instead of handing her over to Lisa, and sometimes he would. Then he would tuck her in and hug her and she would snuggle down deep inside the covers so as not to hear what happened next.
Her daddy would stand outside her mother's room, down the big hall, and talk softly to her through the locked door. Jennifer covered her ears and hummed to herself so she couldn't hear their voices.
Richard spent his evenings locked in his late father-in-law's study. He would sit in the big leather chair behind Tom Johnston's desk, and plan. He planned how he would have the house redecorated, get rid of the antiques, and fill the rooms with furnishings of his own taste. He planned how he would take over the responsibilities of Johnston Enterprises, maybe even change the name to Burgess Estates. He planned how his private life with his wife would be different, now, without the forceful and all-powerful presence of her father everywhere. He thought about Catharine lying upstairs prostrate with grief, her lithe legs spread unheedingly apart, her orifices moist with soft surrender, her skin pale and satiny against the velvet cushions of her chaise lounge. He would begin to stroke himself until it became necessary and urgent to open his fly and finish himself off. Then he would open the catalogues of modern furniture firms in Boston and Philadelphia and plan some more, until it was time for him to go upstairs to his solitary bed.
Little by little, Catharine recovered from her grief. Richard's nightly pleading outside her door was the praise, the flattery, the love she needed to bring her back to life. She began to look cautiously into her mirror again, brush her hair, and refrain from more tears so that her eyes would not be permanently damaged. Finally, after about six weeks, she allowed her husband in to see her. They sat together on the love seat and he told her how he had missed her, how lovely she looked. He touched her cool skin and soft bright hair with adoring fingers, he kissed her sweetly behind her ears and upon her eyelids. He swore over and over that he would make her happy again.
Worship of her beauty was her aphrodisiac, and she responded. The throbbing bulge in his pants brought pity to her generous heart, and she could not hold out long against what he promised. Their love-making had never been much good to her, but she knew that this was her own secret. She had read in psychology books that actual sexual experience is a disappointment to many girls, after all the romantic fantasies. At night, sometimes, lying awake in the silent darkness, she knew it was something else-a stirring that had been awakened in her once, never fulfilled. Because one special man had touched her-a man bigger than any who had ever lived-no ordinary man could ever satisfy her. But such dark thoughts were quickly smothered with a sleeping pill, and she would appease her terrible longings alone, with her long, slim fingers, as he had shown her how to, her phantom lover, her demon, and her damnation.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she thought she heard him coming to her, unexpectedly, down the long, silent, carpeted hallway. But he never came, and Catharine did not wait any more. She was grown-up now, a married woman with a daughter of her own.
She sighed as Richard caressed her, and her body responded to his flattery and his touch.
"My eyes are puffy from crying," she murmured.
"No, darling. Your eyes are lovely."
"I don't want to come downstairs, in the light."
"I'll tell Abel to have nothing but candles everywhere, tonight. Won't you come down to dinner?"
Catharine finally nodded. "All right, dear. Tell Lisa I'll be coming down, and tell Jennifer."
"She's missed you terribly, you know."
Catharine's smile was wan and brave. "Has she? Poor baby."
She wore a black dress unadorned by jewels. At the dinner table, her full breasts pressed against the silk and she saw that Richard could not take his eyes off them. She smiled across the table at him, trying not to look at her daddy's empty chair.
"Daddy, you're not listening to me!" Jennifer said, pouting.
Richard immediately took his eyes off his wife and grinned at his little girl. "I heard every word you said," he told her.
"What did I say, then?"
"If you stop spoiling that beautiful face with a frown, I'll tell you."
Jennifer's face instantly beamed with a smile which she already knew (at the age of six!) would make everyone smile back. She lights up the whole room, Catharine thought. She's very much like me.
"You said that Laurie Whittaker spit at you in school today," Richard said.
He was listening, Catharine thought in surprise. He was wanting me, my breasts, my body, but he was listening to what the child was saying all the time.
"I hate her," Jennifer said. Abel was passing the serving tray, and the little girl helped herself to a large portion of roast beef as she spoke.
"You mustn't hate anyone," Richard said. "It would make your pretty mouth turn sour. You have to understand that other children don't have all the blessings you do. And besides, Laurie doesn't even have a daddy, any more. You should be extra nice to her."
Jennifer's soft baby eyes filled with tears. "Her daddy moved away," she said sadly.
Catharine felt her own eyes welling up. Her daddy was gone, too. She looked at the empty chair at the head of the table.
Richard reached over to cover her hand with his. "Darling, if you don't eat, you'll begin to get too thin," he said, and Catharine obediently stopped toying with her food and forced herself to eat.
When Abel brought in the coffee, Lisa came in behind him to claim Jennifer for her bath and bedtime.
"Aren't you going to put me to bed tonight, Daddy?" She broke from Lisa's grip to thrust herself against Richard's arm.
"Not tonight, Princess," he said. He leaned down to kiss her soundly on the mouth. His hand caressed her slim little back and came to rest cupped around her baby rump. "Good night, now."
"Good night, Daddy," she sighed, hugging him tightly. She skipped over to Catharine and delivered a big wet kiss. "Good night, Mommy."
"Good night, darling."
Jennifer put her hand in Lisa's and they started out of the dining room. "Hey," Richard called after them, "who's the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world?"
Jennifer laughed with delight. "Me!" she shouted.
After the child had left the room, Catharine looked at Richard sadly. "My daddy used to say the same thing to me," she said.
"You, my dear, are the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world!"
"Am I?"
"You know you are."
"Richard ... I need to be told that. Isn't it silly? Sometimes it frightens me, that I can never get enough of being told. My daddy used to..."
He interrupted her impatiently. "I'll do better than telling you," he said. "I'll show you..." He rose from his chair and helped her to her feet. They left the dining room with their arms around each other and started slowly up the wide circular staircase.
She leaned against him and his hand brushed her breast. She felt it swelling to his touch, and she felt the old renewal of hope that this time...
They went to his room. Hers, still virginal and ruffled white with her childhood things, made him uncomfortable. As they passed by her door, Richard said, "Catharine, I've been thinking about the house. About a lot of things. I want to make some changes..."
"Shh, not now!" she murmured, moving her body against his.
"Oh, God, Catharine, you're so beautiful!" he cried out.
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, yes, yes..."
He picked her up in his arms (he was not nearly so strong as her daddy had been) and carried her through his door. He laid her yielding body on the bed, and stepped back to struggle out of his jacket, tie, and shirt. He sat down on the bedside chair to take off his shoes and socks, and then stood, unfastening his belt. She lay still, staring at the swelling under the dark flannel of his trousers, and then, as he unzipped his fly, against the white of his shorts, finally, there it was.
Catharine gasped with anticipation to see it rise toward her, huge and hungry and glistening with moisture to match her own. She lay as still as she could on the bed, her stark black mourning dress against the white sheet outlining her perfectly proportioned hips and full luscious breasts, her delicately curved waist, her long slender legs in shiny nylon sheaths, and the black silk pumps that arched her slim feet so that the ankles appeared like finely etched portals waiting to be thrust apart.
He would undress her slowly, admire her body, her lips, her love offering. He would pet her and slowly, slowly make her know how much she was loved, and then she, would move wildly, involuntarily, toward him because she couldn't stand waiting for it another second. She waited to be transported beyond reason, to feel the juices of being wanted rise inside her and flood them both with pleasure.
But Richard had worshiped at her altar too long already. With a moan of impatience, he fell across her body and hungrily began to lift her skirt, to wrinkle the elegant dress in his eagerness to get at what was underneath. He pulled at her pantyhose and left them wrapped in a binding and ugly shrivel around her ankles. Her shoes were still on, her dress crumpled. He thrust himself deep inside her. Yes, she was ready, despite herself. She had wanted it too, for so long, for her whole life. His hardness filled her with a moment's stupendously satisfying fullness. But then he groaned loudly, grunted and clutched at her, and it was over. He lay limply across her for a moment. Then his fingers began, wearily, to seek her secret place, to give her relief, dutifully.
"No," she sighed. She didn't want it now. She took his hand and held it. They lay silently. When his breathing became regular, she slipped out from under his sweaty body. She pulled up her pantyhose and tried to straighten the wrinkles in her dress. She looked at him, sprawled on his stomach across her daddy's bed. And her mother's.
Catharine pulled the sheet over her sleeping husband, over his feet, his legs, his bare ass, his back, his shoulders. She pulled it over his head, as they do to corpses. And then she left the room.
His come was running down her leg, making the nylon sticky against her skin. She pressed her vaginal lips tightly as she walked down the hall, trying to keep it in, mingled with her own wetness. No one was awake in the house. She walked the last few steps to her room with her hand holding herself there. It comforted, a little.
In the bathroom, she carefully peeled the pantyhose down, feeling with her sensitive fingers the sensual contrast of nylon against soft, smooth, warm flesh. Her legs were smooth, never needing shaving. Her feet were perfect, free from any blemishes or bumps. She ran her long slim fingers caressingly over her well-shaped toes, idly wondering what it would be like to be married to a foot fetishist ... or at the very least, someone who noticed such delicious details as pale pink toes that had their cuticles softened once a week.
As the water ran into the deep marble tub, she lifted the somber black silk dress over her head, losing her reflection in the mirrored wall only for a second as the whispering fabric covered her eyes. All her movements were leisurely, slow-motion, ritualistic. As her golden head emerged from the folds of the dress, she saw that her stretching body, arms high, looked like a statue in a fine Roman garden. White alabaster skin, no imperfections anywhere. Taut muscles and flat stomach, full upright breasts tilting their straining nipples toward the mirror, a long slim neck with a young girl's vulnerability about it, the perfect face with full mouth and delicately flared nose, high patrician cheekbones, and wide-set eyes of pure violet. And the glorious hair, purest gold, silky and fine, but thick enough to brush into any shape that caught her imagine. She let it down now, loosened the black ribbon that held it, and murmured aloud in pleasure as the soft curls placed themselves in a frame for her face. One hand reached up to touch the golden shower, the other reached down to touch the soft matching gold that curled below her flat, smooth belly.
They were wrong, she thought, those jealous friends of mine. I didn't get fat, I didn't get marks, I am still my daddy's beautiful princess. Beautiful, the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. I still am. And I'm ripe now, ready for the pleasures I deserve.
Her hands moved languidly in her hair, one above the other. Her breath began to come in slow deep gasps. Her fingers reached down along the sleek damp skin of her inner thigh.
Not too fast, there's all the time in the world...
She opened her mouth to her own image and ran her tongue sensuously around her lips. She turned away and let the hand that was on her head move down to the gold faucets of the tub. She turned off the water, tested it, and, with her other hand still touching the fine soft pubic hairs that curled round her moist lips, she poured oil from a silver decanter into the water.
She turned back to the mirrored closet door and reached inside to take her douche bag from its hanger. She stared for a long moment at the sparkling array of glass and silver and cut-crystal bottles and jars. She selected one. Closing the closet door, she took a long moment to look at herself, standing nude as if caught by surprise, holding the red rubber bag and the pale blue jar against her white skin. Then she turned and crossed the mirrored marble room to her sink. She held the bag under the water until it swelled like a living thing, bursting to ejaculate its warm sudsy contents. She turned oft the water, and opened the lid of the jar. It was half filled with lovely-scented cream. She stuck the long hard nozzle of the douche bag into the goop, playing with it fondly and rubbing it until it was thickly coated and slippery.
Catharine carried the bag to the toilet. She spread her legs wide and sat down. Teasing herself first with a finger, then the tip of the cream-covered phallus, letting it spurt a bit of its warm water on her, then just barely inside her, then stopping the flow and massaging herself with the business end of the nozzle, she began to squirm and moan with pleasure.
She watched herself reflected on all sides, but soon her eyes glazed over and she shut them tightly as the sensation propelled her, willingly, over the edge. She never heard herself cry out.
Reality faded back slowly, adrift on a cloud of languid peacefulness. She withdrew the creamy nozzle from her secret mouth, no longer hungry. Yawning, she rose from the commode and tossed the equipment into the sink. She stepped over the low rim of the big tub, admiring her graceful body in profile ... was that a ripple on her thigh? She stepped out, backed to the mirror, and examined herself closely.
No. It must have been a trick of her eyes, so sleepy. She let her breath out, not aware that she had been holding it. She stepped into the warm oiled water and sat down, the fragrance of lilies of the valley rising subtly to her nostrils.
Her nipples floated like small ripe plums on the water. She smiled down at them and cupped her hands with the liquid, pouring it over herself and watching the rivulets caress her fullness. It was like an absolution. She dipped her head to let her face slide under the water for a second, and then shook her head, laughing aloud.