Chapter 4
As it turned out, three more weeks were to pass before Dwight-aided by Noreen-was able to implement even the most vestigial strategems attendant to his seduction of Sirri Stenson. Miserable, tormenting weeks at that, for the Sunday morning seances during which he furtively ogled Sirri were something akin to Inquisitional torture. To be so close to the beautiful object of his desire, and yet so far ... Needless to say, Dwight Adair's attendance record at St. Alban's went unblemished during those weeks, with Father Wilkinson even being so gauche as to comment on his revived religiosity. One Sunday morning disaster struck, and Harry and Doris Stenson arriving without Sirri, the total impact of the child's hold on him was brought home with devastating force; Dwight suffered a debilitating despair throughout the entire service.
And yet the disappointment was not without its merits. His sexual anomaly being what it was, he was able to romanticize the setback, relegate it to symbolic punishment and suffering, infinitesimal token of what he would willingly endure at Sirri's hands in the name of their love. In addition to this mendicant posturing on his part, there were unexpected side-effects conferred by the church atmosphere, and Dwight found it inexplicably thrilling to sit in God's holy house beside his inamorata-to-be, to think all his filthy thoughts about her, formulate disgusting plans for their future. While, all about him, the religious mumbo-jumbo went on just as if the world wasn't coming down about his ears. To sit through the sermon while imagining himself divesting Sirri of her white silk panties (he had unalterably decided that it should be white), while imagining himself burrowing his face into her aromatic, virgin cunt, imagining her jejune sighs and squeaks of pleasure as his tongue curled itself around her baby clitoris, was an almost wholly sexual experience in itself, and it seemed that Satan himself intervened, that an internecine struggle between good and evil was being fought right then and there, with Satan, sad to say, usually emerging as victor. It gave Dwight the most exquisitely filthy feeling to steal stealthy passes at his silk-swatched genitals at those moments of extreme agitation, to find his prick stone hard, stretched to its fullest dimensions inside his pants. Even as his fingers furtively caressed its expanding head through his clothes, he made painfully aware of the fact that his thigh was awash with slippery discharge, the frustrated tears of his over-anticipatory-organ.
How far reaching the intervention of Holy Church in the prosecution of his nefarious affairs was to be, Dwight Adair couldn't have begun to imagine in a hundred years. For it was through the altogether innocent guise of the annual St. Alban's Fall Bazaar that Dwight finally managed to lure Sirri into the symbolic spider-web which would gradully influence, dazzle and lure the superficial child into her eventual downfall. And Noreen blithely announcing her plan that evening in mid-June, it seemed the most perfect scheme imaginable; neither could conceive of why they hadn't thought of same sooner. "I'll just ask Doris Stenson to serve on the committee with me, that's all," Noreen smirked, ulterior purposes burning like beacons in her eyes. "And what with Sirri at loose ends this summer, won't it be the most natural thing in the world for her to come along with her mother, help out. She's a dutiful child; I know she'll join in. If you can't ingratiate yourself with Sirri that way, then I'm afraid there's no help for you."
Of course, it was the answer to Dwight's prayers, and he immediately set to work to formulate long range strategies concerning Sirri. This was to be the grandest scheme of his career, his masterpiece, so to speak, and no loose ends must be allowed to frustrate his corrupt aims. From the very first time Doris Stenson brought her ravishing daughter to his house there must be a logical progression of sequences; nothing must be left to chance. He must not let eagerness betray him into a too-early expo sure of his carnal intents, either to Doris or Sirri. All his previous conquests had been child's play compared to the master tactics involved in conquering Sirri.
It was with the greatest of frustration that Dwight forcibly kept himself from the house on that first Wednesday afternoon the committee fathered to plan for the bazaar. All that afternoon at the office, knowing that Sirri was in his house, he fretted and stewed, thought of a hundred excuses for going home early, looking in on the hen-clutch, passing pleasantries with the half-dozen females present. So great had his sexual excitement been that he'd been forced, in the end, to summon Jessica Hill-a previous secretarial conquest whom he'd debauched systematically, leaving her a broken hulk whose only ambilition in life was to one day be reinstituted into his favors-into his office. Whence he'd commanded her to strip in salacious manner for him, had administered a rousing bout of mortarand-pestle to her on a convenient davenport immediately afterwards. Even this not enough, he'd resummoned Jessica later in the afternoon, had contented himself with mauling her pulled-from-the-dress tits while she'd knelt between his legs, had lovingly sucked his prick to a second, gushing ejaculation. At last, once the happily-servile pig had sucked his tool to pristine cleanliness, his lust was assuaged.
Temporarily, at least. For that night, Noreen describing in minute detail everything that Sirri had said that afternoon, describing what she wore, how she looked, Dwight became aroused all over again.
Merely imagining Noreen conducting a semi-private tour of the house for Sirri and her mother (the other ladies having departed, Noreen making point of becoming overly chummy with the social-climbing Doris Stenson), imagining Sirri bemusedly inventorying the opulence of their exotic bedroom, was more than enough to inflame the most libidinous furies in his psyche, and-as was to become tireless trademark of the weeks building up to Sirri's conquest-he had to have Noreen's most amenable body then and there. A thing which Noreen had counted on, a fee almost, for her part in her husband's scheme. She cultivated those toll-takings zealously, borrowing on Sirri's image in her husband's brain. The subtle substitution resulting turned Dwight into a madman, and he fucked Noreen tirelessly, inventively, as if tomorrow had been irrevocably called off. Knowing that she would lose Dwight once he toppled Sirri, she thought to make the most of her situation. There were even those nights when Dwight was so insatiable, his reserves so undepletable that she was forced to ring in Ardyce on their events. Working as a team-Ardyce sucking him while he sucked Noreen; Noreen being sucked while Ardyce posted upon his ceiling-sweeping prick; both heads busy, both mouths gluttonous in that stronghold of his sexuality, with Noreen sucking his rod, Ardyce mouthing his testicles-they managed to finally put his rampaging lust to rest for another night. But generally, greedily jealous as she was, Noreen kept him to herself. The fear of old age exerting as strong effect upon her as upon Dwight, she didn't know when she might pass this way again. Thus:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a flying.
According to Dwight's painstakingly-ordered plan, Noreen more and more became confidante of Doris Stenson, and more and more she and Doris (and Sirri also, of course) chose to work on the bazaar projects as a trio. The other ladies on the committee, their handwork delegated, came less and less to the Adair home. Which, as Dwight had correctly diagnosed Doris Stenson's aggrandizing makeup, was perfectly all right with the professional do gooder. Her husband, a soft-wear salesman, perpetually on the road, she had filled the vacuum with church and civil activities; she thus found nothing awry in the quick rush the sought-after Mrs. Dwight Adair had instituted; she fawned upon Noreen's every word, lived for those days when she was summoned to the palatial, Mt. Pleasant residence.
Gradually Dwight commenced returning home early, engaging the three females in casual, bantering talk before it was time for mother and daughter to return home. A thing which, though he brought it off with fantastic aplomb, charming both Stensons completely, was incredible torture for him. Seeing Sirri in this familiar setting, in his own private world, as it were, seeing her dark curls so prettily disheveled, her face smudged from their gluing and sewing and stuffing, seeing her piquant breasts poking through cute dresses, blouses and sweaters, was an agonizing thing, and he fought eternal battle to keep his murderous lust from registering on his face. All he could think, as he forced inane chatter, was of how beautiful, how eminently desirable Sirri looked. He longed to draw her apart from the female gabble; he longed to touch and caress her, to praise her extravagantly and endlessly, telling her of her beauty, of his deathless love for her. If only the rest of the wolrd would go away, leave them be.
At first he made his look-in visits brief. Then, gradually, he lingered longer and longer, chaffed and laughed with the females, was delighted that Sirri looked upon him favorably, could be amused by his antics. There were times when she smiled quite directly at him, something vaguely admiring and wistful (a longing after the missing father image in her life perhaps?) in her expression. Those times there came a great soaring in Dwight's chest, and it was all he could to to keep from drawing her tiny, frail form into his arms, burying his lips in her glorious mane, sliding them in her velvety throat. If only I could keep her, an insane fury thundered within, if only I could protect her, take care of her, give her all the luxuries life has to offer. Needless to say, wisely safeguarding his plan, he abruptly absented himself from their company at such nearmaudlin moments.
Next on the agenda were the impromptu dinners that commenced, gala events when, Harry Stenson not in town anyway, Doris and Sirri remained to have dinner with them. Either that or Dwight generously treated at some fabulous Benton Falls restaurant. These incidences occurring at least once a week, sometimes twice, there was time for cocktails, even more frivolous conversation, and it soon be came evident that both Doris and Sirri trusted him implicitly, no inkling of his darkest motives had, as yet, penetrated. Doris gloried in his courtly attentions to her, while Sirri was thrilled that Dwight treated her as a near-equal, elicited her opinions on current events, mores, music and the like. "I like to keep abreast of what the younger generation's thinking," he explained these departures. And still another facet of his appeal to Sirri; "Come now, Doris. Don't be such a prude. Surely you don't think Sirri hasn't had a drink behind your back? A small Manhattan for her? A small glass of sherry then? You know how young people are about things which are forbidden to them?"
Generally Doris capitulated, and it was at these crucial moments, Sirri slightly tipsy, that Noreen usually found some ruse whereby she might spirit the mother from the living room for an extended period, gave Dwight and Sirri private moments in which to get to know each other better. Using these intervals to good advantage (only coming close to groping for Sirri once), Dwight skillfully brought the conversation around to her romantic aspirations, teased and probed as regards her sexual experience, her current swains and all. Once he said, "I pray, Sirri, that you won't make the mistake of getting involved early in your life. There's so much time, you've got your entire life before you. When I think of an exquisite girl like you ... a jewel among women ... marrying an immature, callous boy, a boy who wouldn't be able to bring you to the fullest realization of the potential involved in the married state, a boy who wouldn't be able to provide you with the pretty clothes, the furs, the jewelry, the rich setting a lovely girl like you deserves...." His voice became shattery with emotion and he cautioned himself to restraint.
"Mr. Adair...." she flushed prettily. "Really, you shouldn't. Such a beautiful thing to say. You can't mean those things."
"But I do," he persisted. "You don't realize, my dear, what you possess, what you are. The world, Sirri; the world wrapped in shiny paper. You can have it. If you wait. If you're wise. A house like this, fancy cars, travel, luxuries unlimited ... they can all be yours."
"Oh, Mr. Adair ... but how?"
"By waiting, Sirri. By taking stock of yourself. By knowing what you want out of life, placing a price tag on yourself, so to speak. There are men who can give you this ... older men, perhaps less physically attractive men ... but that's all part of the taking stock I mentioned. These men would worship and cherish you, spend their every waking hour thinking of ways to make your life the dream existence it should be. Men who...."
Summarily he'd caught himself in mid-sentence, and realizing how close he'd come to exposing himself, he'd switched the subject. But not before he'd glanced up, seen the long, speculative stare Sirri sent him, a flickering venality and hardness glimmering just before her face went innocently blank again.
Another time, due to some mix-up with the Stenson family car, mother and daughter were left stranded at the Adair house, a crisis Dwight solved by allowing them to take one of the Jags, he further maneuvering it so that Sirri herself was obliged to drive the sporty auto home. "Keep it for a few days if you like," he said pointedly to Sirri, knowing full well that the impressionable kid would nag her mother until she could do just that, and would use the extra time to tool the machine around, show off to her juvenile friends. Later, during a private moment, he mentioned the car, asked if she would like to have one like it. "A girl as pretty as you should drive in nothing less. Cadillacs, Continentals, DualGhias ... they were made for the beautiful people. People like you. Or perhaps you'd like a little Mustang, a Fiat. It shouldn't be hard to arrange. If a girl gets wise to herself."
Otherwise there were little gifts which he gave to Sirri-expensive gloves, scarves, a bracelet, a pinitems small enough for her to smuggle into the house without her mother's knowledge. "I just happened to see this pin in a store; I thought how pretty it would go with that green dress of yours. I couldn't resist it. You do deserve such pretty things, you know." By the very acceptance of the tokens, the matter of hiding them from her mother, a web of complicity was woven, and unwittingly, guilelessly, the avaricious child walked into his trap. If there were doubts in Dwight's mind as to the efficacy of his campaign, they were soon erased by the manner in which Sirri seldom appeared in pick-up costume any more, no matter how messy the bazaar project they worked on that day; she dressed as alluringly as she dared. There was always some excuse so she might be near Dwight when he was present, remain behind when private words might be exchanged. He noticed that she soaked up flattery shamelessly, her adolescent soul virtually flowering as he once more launched into lavish rhapsodies as to what glittering goodnesses life should hold for a princess such as she.
Yet, all of these was still in the realms of circumstance; certainly there was no proof that he had propositioned her. The gifts, the praises of her beauty, they were the most random of actions and thoughts. Until one night in early August, positive of Sirri's susceptibility, an electric something charging the atmosphere, he decided to make his move. There was a shower for a girl friend. And while Doris and Noreen made paper flowers for decorations, Dwight volunteered to drive her into the city. It was as he drove through the gathering dusk, that he decided. "You know, Sirri," he said with a dramatic catch in his throat, "I'm going to hate to see this church bazaar thing come off. It'll mean the end of our friendship. I've enjoyed this. More than you can ever know. Talking to you, being with you ... it's like I've experienced a rebirth. I feel almost young again; I'm not an old man any more."
"Old man?" She smiled coquettishly. "Everyone should be such an old man. You're not old at all. Mature, perhaps. Charming, certainly. But not old. I'm going to miss it too, you know. Mom also. She thinks you're wonderful; she talks about you all the time." Her eyes twinkled. "If you want to know the truth, I think she's got a crush on you."
"That's encouraging. There's hope for me yet. And our lovely Sirri? Does she care? Is there a twinge when she thinks of next week? Or will she be glad to be rid of her meddling old geazer?"
There was a short pause. "Please, Mr. Adair...."
"Dwight. I thought we had an understanding." ... "Dwight. Anyway, stop talking about yourself like that. You're still a very attractive man, a very...." She searched for words. "I'm going to hate to see this end, Dwight. You've taught me to look at myself in an entirely different way, I...."
"It needn't end, you know, my dear. Surely you've given some thought to the things I've said."
"Please, Dwight. Don't say things like that. It's impossible."
"Oh, you have thought about them, then? What I said about a car? You're leaving for college in October, as I understand. A car could be delivered there. A new Cougar. Would you like that?" His voice became blurry. "I can afford to be very generous, Sirri. If you can ... for once in your life ... be honest with yourself...."
Suddenly he was trembling uncontrollably, and slowing the car somewhat, he boldly dropped his right hand onto her knee. Where-the sensation of touching her for the first time electric, heart-stoppingly thrilling-he caressed her hot, silken flesh gently. For the briefest moment Sirri permitted his touch, her body tense, her eyes focused straight ahead. Then her grasp firm, yet gentle, she dropped her hand upon his, removed it from her leg.
Terror that he'd ruined everything convulsively gripping him, Dwight froze, managed to stammer: "I'm sorry, Sirri. I didn't mean ... You will think about my offer?"
"Yes...." she breathed tonelessly. "I will." They said no more about it as they entered the city.
But a week later, as they stole a private moment in the living room, Doris and Noreen occupied elsewhere, the question was reiterated. Once more he summoned up the courage to caress Sirri's knee. "Have you...?" he choked.
"I ... I have."
"And...?" His breath seared his throat as he waited for her reply, so positive was he of refusal.
When Sirri said nothing, he turned toward her, saw the panic, intermixed with an amoral resolution, in her gaze. A crooked, uncertain grin twisted her lips. Now she dropped her hand on his, and slowly, deliberately, knowing full well what she was doing, she guided his spasming hand even higher on her glossy leg.
Thus was the news carried to Ghent. Here was the answer of stunningly definitive, unmistakable sort.
Dwight-the roof of the world blown off for him at that moment-was just toying with the bare flesh of her inner thigh, leaning to embrace and kiss her, when he heard Doris and Noreen returning. He and Sirri were not given benison of a moment alone for the rest of that evening.
Later, aroused to fever pitch, Dwight couldn't help but celebrate his victory in a most depraved way. Almost before the Stensons had cleared the drive, he herded Noreen upstairs, to the safety of their erotic sanctuary. In a totally dominating mood at that moment, there was no time for slavish worship. Instead, Noreen still wearing her prescribed fetishist garb, there was aggressive, brutal sport. And Noreen dazzled, completely submissive before his whirl-wind attack, lay in brassiere, garter-belt, hosiery and high heels on the bed. Face down, two fat pillows bunched beneath her stomach, holding her buttocks high in the air, she allowed her husband to transfer lubricant from the end of his drooling prick, work it into the portals of her anus. She moaned helplessly as he corkscrewed his finger into her, prepared her for that ultimate digit.
Shortly, as he slowly, painfully cleaved his swollen, reaming cock into her ass, she was transported to a limbo of sexual excess. One hand beneath her belly, he masturbated her while he jagged his organ in and out of that miserly mouth. To which a filth-hazed Noreen exhorted: "In, oh shove it in! Shove that beautiful pole right through me. Ow, ow, oh owww! Don't stop. Don't ever stop. Fuck me! Fuck Noreen's ass. Gorgeous, gorgeous! It hurts and it doesn't hurt. Deep, oh deep! Until it comes up my goddamned throat! Baby?"
"What, Noreen?"
"Will you do this to Sirri too? Will you teach her? You must you know. Even if she doesn't think she wants it. Afterwards she will. No woman's complete without this. Rub, darling, rub. Harder now, faster!"
And after another moment's pause to better savor the vilification: "I'm almost sorry, darling. Sorry it's over. This has been so wonderful. Having you again. The little bitch! Why did she have to cave in so easy?" She thrashed more insanely. "Oooh, you baby stallion. Fuck! Oh, fuck Noreen's bottom!"