Chapter 8
"Lovely, Daddy-just lovely!" Barbara pranced beside her father as they hurried to where the car was parked.
"Yes," Neil admitted, "it was a good show, all right." He unlocked the car door, got in, then opened the other door for Barbara. She switched on the radio, changed stations while Neil was picking his way out of the flock of cars. By the time they were clear of traffic, she had found the kind of music she wanted and was humming in tune with it, her eyes dreamily closed.
Neil glanced at her, smiled. Sweet kid! It made him feel good to see Barbara so happy, to know that she had enjoyed the show, appreciated it. Appreciated him taking her, too. That was one of the nice things about his Barbara-puss.
As though she were sharing his thoughts, she murmured: "Thanks, Daddy, thanks a lot." She reached over and stroked his hand gently as he gripped the wheel.
"All right, Barbara-puss," he said huskily, glancing sideways at her and smiling. Then he stared ahead of them. "Soon be home, now," he sighed, added: "Wonder if Grant came."
Barbara shrugged uninterestedly. "I wonder." She seemed more interested in the music coming from the radio.
"Don't you care at all?" asked Neil.
"What?" Barbara looked at Neil blankly.
"Don't you care about Grant at all?" he asked her again.
She shrugged. "I guess so." She moved her shoulders in tune with the music, hummed a few bars, then added: "Maybe-like who knows?"
The downstairs lights were blazing but there was no one around when Barbara and Neil entered the house.
Barbara stared at her father curiously, then said: "Mommy must be asleep."
"Or drunk," Neil muttered as he moved to the stairs to find out. The bedroom door was unlocked and Neil opened it gently and stepped in.
Harriette was sprawled on top of the covers, naked, save for the twisted garter belt and tightly stretched hose.
Neil moved closer and heard the heavy breathing. Was she drunk? The thick pubic hairs were sweating and tangled in lewd knots. Her thighs were parted grotesquely, and the tip of one slim finger was touching the edge of her vagina. Neil frowned, then leaned his head close to Harriette's face. He could smell the gin as he whispered, "Harriette!" then more loudly, "Are you all right, Harriette?"
She stirred but didn't open her eyes. "Lemme sleep," she slurred. "I wanna sleep." She turned, moved her hand up under her cheek and her breathing became deeper.
Neil stood up straight, then scowled his disapproval. Drunk! what a way for Barbara's mother to behave! With Barbara in mind, Neil reached down to draw up a cover over Harriette's body. He wouldn't want his Barbara-puss to see her mother like that!
His hand touched Harriette's as he dragged up the sheet and the contact half aroused her. "No," she mumbled. "No-I wanna sleep, just sleep." She wriggled herself under the cool sheet and Neil noticed the small smile on her lips as she drawled sleepily, "Later-maybe later..."
A puzzled look or frown poised between Neil's eyes, then he shook his head, turned and moved to the bedroom door. Talking in her sleep and dreaming, he thought. Then he wondered- What was she dreaming about?
"Mommy?" asked Barbara in a small, anxious voice when Neil came back downstairs.
He shook his head, then: "Your mother's asleep," he said, then added: "Maybe she drank a little too much."
Barbara giggled. "Just maybe, Daddy." She tripped across the room on her tiptoes as though she were doing her own private ballet. "I called Grant." She hummed a few bars of the song she'd been listening to on the car radio. "He was here." She hummed some more.
"Was?" Neil paused in the act of pouring himself a drink.
"Uh-huh, Mom told him I'd gone to the water ballet with you."
Neil finished pouring his drink. "Was Harriette-" he hesitated, then: "Was your mother all right-I mean was she drunk or anything?"
Barbara gave a smothered giggle. "I didn't ask Grant that!" She danced in front of her father. "Can I have a drink, Dad?"
He pretended to frown. "Just a Coke."
"Okay," Barbara smiled, "a Coke's fine." She spun her way to the kitchen, the fridge and an ice-cold drink.
"What d'you think of Grant, Daddy?" she asked when she came back into the living room with the glass in her hand.
"Well," Neil sank into his armchair, "I guess he's all right," and he sipped his drink, "he's always seemed a pretty decent young feller." He glanced up. "Why, Barbara?"
"Nothin'," Barbara smiled at her father, dragged her feet onto the chair underneath her. "He sounded-well, kinda funny on the phone... different." She blinked her eyes seriously.
"How?"
"Well, he said-'Was the water ballet good?' And I said, 'Yes, it was a good show.' Then he laughed and I asked him what was so funny? And he said: 'Guess I saw a good show, too.' Then he hung up!"
Neil frowned at Barbara, then shook his head.
"Maybe he went to the drive-in by himself," Barbara said, then giggled.
Neil didn't laugh with her. "Grant's okay," he said ponderously, "but I never thought he was particularly bright!" He watched Barbara's face anxiously, as though he were afraid he might have said something wrong, something to worry her. But he need not have been concerned.
She blinked her eyes, giggled, then squiggled on her chair. "Me neither," she bubbled, "I never thought he was very bright, either!"
They stared at each other, the father and the daughter, then they both started laughing-as though they shared a delightfully funny secret. Finally, Neil stopped laughing, took a deep breath and said: "Maybe you can have just one very small drink after all."
Barbara erupted from her chair. "Dad! You're a dear." Then she was fixing herself a weird concoction at the cocktail cabinet. Her eyes laughed at him as she danced her way to his chair. She kissed him lightly, on the forehead, then stood back and held up her glass. "Cheers!" she said softly.
Neil clinked his glass against Barbara's, then drained it. He sank back in his chair, glanced up at Barbara, admired the delicious morsel that was his daughter. "It was a nice evening," he said with a certain nostalgia, as though it was something that had happened a long time ago or wouldn't happen again.
Barbara sensed his tone. "There'll be more," she said gently, "so many, many more."
Neil swallowed. "I hope so, Barbara," he said, then managed a smile as he added: "Barbara-puss!"
"Sure," she said, lifting her glass, sipping, then draining it. "Sure," her voice sounded deeper the second time she said it.
He noticed the dimples in her cheeks, which didn't seem to match the feverish light in her eyes, when she smiled down at him and said: "Bed-I'm going up to bed."
"Yes," he said, "of course."
She leaned close to kiss him good night, and he smelled the ever-sweet freshness of her body. Her lips brushed his cheek and she seemed to press hard against him before she turned and ran lightly up the stairs. He stared up after her, sensing a dull pain in his heart.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, turned and blew him a kiss-then she moved towards the room she called her own.
"Sweet dreams, Barbara-honey," he whispered, watching her until she passed out of his sight.
Neil stood there just staring at nothing, but the image of his daughter's wiggling ass walking away from him still remained in his brain. "What in hell is happening to me!" he whispered to himself.
Although he concentrated on fighting it, he could feel the guilty erection rising stiffly inside his pants. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, gathering new determination to put this from his mind. God, what did it all mean?... and why did his balls ache with the very sight of his very own daughter!
Barbara closed her bedroom door behind her, clicked the key in the lock; she didn't want to be disturbed tonight. She leaned with her back against the door for a breathless moment. Her breasts heaved and she pressed back hard with her buttocks. Barbara closed her eyes and bit her lip. Oh, my God! She seemed to get worse every day!
Suddenly, her hands began to tremble and she hurried to her dresser. It was not because she was tired that she had come to her room so soon after their return. She snatched the bottle of vodka from the drawer, poured a tumblerful of it with shaking hands, lifted the glass, drank half then sank onto her bed with a shuddering sigh.
As soon as Neil had gone upstairs to check on his wife, Barbara had taken the bottle from the liquor cabinet, hurried to her bedroom and hid it. She knew that she would need it. It was too easy to arouse her, she thought, finishing the drink she'd poured. The glistening flesh at the water show, so smooth, wet shimmering-that had caused the smallest flicker to tingle through her body. Then the position of two participants, so innocently posed in a routine, had reminded her of Vincent and a different kind of position for a so-different kind of routine-and the tingle had grown stronger.
She moved to her dresser with short, jerky steps, poured out another glass of the liquor, took out a cigarette, lit it, then slithered off her clothes. Oh, Vincent! she mouthed soundlessly, as she sank her buttocks, nakedly, into the mattress. An innocent good-night kiss to her father, with an inadvertent pressure against him, had made her aware of his empathy; his hardness had reminded her of her own ever-increasing demands.
She drank more liquor greedily. And liquor strengthened her desire! She'd discovered that with Vincent. She remembered how frightened he had been the first time. She had told Vincent: "It intensifies it!" And his eyes had changed, become frightened.
Barbara gave a small moan, snuffed out her cigarette with a fierce movement, then immediately lit another and bit at the tip viciously. A capsule! Barbara clenched her teeth at the thought. She didn't have one, she didn't have Vincent, she didn't have anyone who could appease the torment that was starting to expand so intolerably.
She drained her fresh drink, leaned back with an effort, then screwed her eyes shut and remembered, remembered the first time she'd taken a capsule with Vincent. It seemed such a long time ago. Barbara had been working at Erickson's for three months before she found out about the capsules that Vincent had been taking. He had been standing beside his desk, looking at her with a hungry expression in his eyes when she had asked: "What are those?" pointing to the small vial of capsules that he had placed on the desk top.
It had been after regular office hours, one of the nights when she stayed late. "Just something," Vincent had muttered, stripping off his clothes and watching her face as he did it.
She shook a capsule into her hand, examined it curiously, smelled it. "It's like nothin'," she said.
He smiled at her, dragged off his shorts, and she saw that his penis was limp, flaccid. Vincent walked to his cabinet, poured out a Coke and brought the glass back to the desk. He took the capsule from Barbara's hand, swallowed it with a drink.
"So?" she asked, staring at him.
He grinned again, flipped his penis with a finger. "It's supposed to make it stand up," he said.
Barbara pursed her lips in a big, round O. "It needs somethin'," she said, staring at his crotch, sneering with her eyes at his limpness. "Your thing's creepy, Vincent," she said. "Horrible thing," she added for no reason.
Vincent moved closer to her. She did something to him! Something he didn't understand, but it was there.
Suddenly, she leaned back in his executive chair. "My, it's growing," she said softly, not sneering.
His penis was swelling. Whether it was the capsule or Barbara looking at it, Vincent didn't know. But he could feel it beginning to throb. He glanced down-it was big now, real big. He stared into her face again with something like triumph in his eyes this time.
She shook her head. "Gee, Vincent-you need special cigarettes, special capsules." She sighed. "What kind of a man are you?"
He looked at her in silence for a long time. At last, he asked: "What kind of a girl are you?"
"I don't know," she said, then added quickly, "would that capsule work on me?
"You, Barbara!"
Vincent stared at her with something like horror in his eyes. "You don't need it! You have enough." Too much, he mumbled quietly under his breath, just too damned much!
"No," she said quietly, taking a fresh capsule out of the vial, "I never have enough, Vincent, never!"
He leaned forward and she shrank away from his weaving penis. "Don't take it," he told her, grabbing her hand with the capsule in it. "Barbara, please," he pleaded. Then he bent down, kissed her on the lips. "Let me," he began before she stopped him.
"No, Vincent! No and no!"
"Let me-screw you!" He said it.
She slapped his face, a mean, vicious, hurting slash that burned his cheek and tore his flesh where a deliberate fingernail had raked it.
Vincent touched the cut, more wonderingly than angrily. "Blood," he muttered, looking at the redness on his hand.
Barbara's face was turned up; he saw her eyes dilated, her tongue flicking out and touching her lips pinkly, with quick, excited licks. "You liked it!" he said accusingly. "You like to hurt, to make pain. It excites you!"
Barbara didn't answer but her face was flushed and her eyes were flickering now. He saw her hand tremble as she thrust it inside her open blouse and caressed a breast with jerky, urgent motions of her fingers.
He took a step back as though he was afraid. Her hand moved up to her mouth and she swallowed, half gagged, then swallowed again and said: "I took it." Her eyes mocked him. "The capsule."
The breath came from his throat in a whistle. "You shouldn't!" His voice was hoarse. "You shouldn't have done that, Barbara."
"I did," she said with satisfaction. "Now give me a drink."
He hesitated, irresolute for a second, then he hurried to his liquor cabinet. Took out a half-full Coke bottle, then locked the cabinet door and hid the key in the palm of his hand. "Here," he said, passing her the bottle.
She didn't touch it. "A drink, I said," she told him, "give me a drink!"
"No!"
Barbara's eyes flashed and she moved close to Vincent. "Give me a drink." She gritted the words from between her teeth.
"No," he said again, backing against his desk. "You can't take a drink after one of those capsules. I don't know what it'd do!"
"I wanna find out," she spewed into his face.
He drew back, sliding sideways round his desk, the key still clenched in his fist. "No," he said, but his voice sounded weaker.
Suddenly, Barbara seemed to calm down. She slid open the small drawer at the side of his desk, took out his spare key, then slithered across to the liquor cabinet and opened it. Vincent watched as though he was turned to stone. She had known the key was there all the time! She was like a cat who teased a mouse. Vincent shivered. Teased? Tortured, more like.
She held up the bottle, tilted it to her lips, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed. There wasn't anything he could do now! Vincent stared at her in fascination. She panted for air, keeping her eyes on his face, watching his reaction, then she lifted the bottle to her lips again and drank some more. The blood seemed to be draining from Vincent's face. How many ounces had she drunk? And the capsule!
Carefully, Barbara had walked back towards the desk and stopped when she was close to Vincent. His eyes fastened on her body as her clothes slid off, and the muscles in his limbs seemed to tense. He watched the cluster of hairs appear as she slid down her briefs: they looked sweating, wet, hungry. He glanced up-her face looked the same way!
"All right, Vincent," she said, smiling at him, her eyes overbright, "all right." Her lips moved; her breasts seemed to swell and she thrust her hips, her pelvis forward. "All right," she said again.
Was it the capsule? The drink? Was she really going to let him do what he wanted? What he'd been craving ever since that first day when he had kissed her, sucked her and licked her until she came?
"Barbara!" he said hoarsely, looking into her young, innocent face. She smiled up at him. Was she going to let him screw her? He had never touched her with his penis. The closest he had ever gotten was when she seized his penis to hurt him, to torture him so she could get more pleasure, intensify her own sensation out of his pain!
When he had kissed the hungry lips of her vagina, licked her clitoris, sucked her until she came, he'd had his own involuntary ejaculation, jamming his penis against the edge of the couch as he eyed Barbara's spasmodically opening and closing lips. And she'd watched him; stared at his face and his penis as he orgasmed with a sympathetic reaction to her frenzied climax. Then her eyes would become cold, disinterested almost, and she'd then reach for her drink or cigarette as though he didn't matter anymore.
Would it be different this time?
She turned her face up to be kissed and he kissed her. Her hand slid down to his crotch and her fingers encircled his penis, held it, squeezed it-then twisted it excruciatingly, viciously until he pulled back with a scream choking his throat. Barbara stepped back quickly, laughing at him. Her eyes flickering, excited, eager as the scream bubbled to his lips.
"You bitch, you," he moaned. "You filthy little bitch!"
"No!" she snapped, her mouth still worked with emotion and excitement. She licked dry lips with a nervous tongue. But she was angry. "Don't call me that!"
Vincent panted from pain and bitter anger. "Just a nice girl!" He spoke the words ironically, bitingly. "Is that how Daddy's little girl acts?" He sneered, then mouthed with a bitter-sweet flavor: "So pure-so good-so honey-sweet!" The words seemed to hang in the air and Vincent waited for the reaction.
Barbara cringed. A muscle began to quiver on her thigh and she covered her crotch with her fingers as though, she thought, she were trying to hold something inside her vulva. "Now, Vincent." Her voice pierced high. She ran to the couch and climbed onto it with jerky, frantic movements. "Now, Vincent, now!" She stretched her legs apart, opened the wet lips with her fingers, undulated her hips up and down on the padded couch and spewed: "Suck it-suck, suck, suck!" As though he was a dog whose only way was to obey, Vincent went down over her, onto her, and slid his tongue into her.
Barbara squirmed on her lonely bed, remembering. She could recall how she had felt-and she knew how Vincent had felt, too. His face had mirrored his emotions so nakedly. Poor Vincent! She felt a faint flicker of pity for him. It was possible for her to consider his feelings now. Lying alone on her own bed, it was possible. But at the time, the moment when the urges were racing through her flesh, making their intensified demands upon her body-and the instrument, the man, who was appeasing the raging passion-then all she could think of was herself, her own flesh and the satiation of her frenzied desires.
The memory made her shake and she poured more vodka, then rocked on her bed again.
Finally, as though she couldn't stand it any longer, she took two of the pills-the sleeping pills that her mother and father didn't dream that she possessed-washed them down with potions of liquor, then lay on her back, trembling, until blessed oblivion came at last.