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45
“One more thing,” he said; but she knew he was really saying, ‘One last thing.’ “Where’s your father’s office?”
…
Dr. James--never ‘Jim’, not even to Elaine, his wife of almost thirty-five years--Litchfield finished his second cup of coffee while watching the news on CNN, kissed Elaine routinely goodbye, and, after reminding her that he had a late operation and would not be home until at least 9:00, left ostensibly for his Newport Beach office. However, he turned the Mercedes south onto the coastal highway instead of north, drove two miles, turned inland for five blocks, and parked in a visitor space at a four unit townhouse. Selecting one of the many keys on his keyring, he unlocked the front door of an end unit, passed through a living room and entered a darkened bedroom in which a sleeping form was outlined beneath rumbled covers.
“Hmm. I was hoping you’d stop by.”
Dr. Litchfield sat on the edge of the bed while he undressed, then rolled under the covers and encountered soft, warm flesh. His already hard cock bumped pleasantly against a curved surface. She was on her side, facing away from him. He reached around and cupped a full breast. A nipple became erect beneath his fingers.
“That’s nice.”
He pushed the sheet and bedspread down.
Sunlight through closed curtains dimly illuminated narrow waist, flare of hips, long legs. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that it was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as his daughter, Carol, who was coming by his office later that morning; almost the same age; almost the same lush body. Dr. James Litchfield knew that it was not coincidence that most of the young women with whom over the years he’d had affairs resembled Carol, who had twenty years ago disturbingly become the most beautiful girl, the most desirable female, he had ever seen.
His right hand withdrew from right breast, lightly traced a line down and back, over ass, between legs and into a wet crack.
Two fingers moved slowly in and out. Wetness increased. One explored until it found clitoris. Naked shoulders moved. Breathing became louder.
“You know I’m ready. What are you waiting for?”
He withdrew his hand. Lifted one cheek, thrust his hips forward. His cock knew the way and easily entered.
“I love your cock. It is just the right size.”
The words became moans as he moved with a slow, gradually increasing pace, his groin touching then moving away, then touching her again. His hand reaching around again and enclosed a breast. Lovely anonymous back, hips, legs. This could be Carol. This must be Ross sees. What other lucky men had seen. He often wondered how many. He didn’t think the number was large. Elaine told him that she hadn’t asked for birth control pills until she went to Stanford. She hadn’t dated many boys before she met Ross. He had never known what she saw in him. Ross was decent enough looking in a corporate sort of way, but not even close to being her equal in looks or brains.
“Ohh.” Plaintively as he withdrew and rolled the form onto her back. Knees came up and separated. Was it the oldest position? If so, it was still beautiful. A woman opening herself, becoming so vulnerable. He wanted to see her face. He slid back in.
Her eyes were open looking up into his, then as he moved in and out, closed with pleasure. In his mind the face was transformed, became Carol’s. James Litchfield did not know if other father’s had such fantasies about their daughters; but then other father’s did not have such a daughter. And he knew the difference between imagination and action. He never had and never would actually do anything about it. Yet he liked to believe he was watching Carol’s face contorted with lust; her face he was watching as she came. And sometimes her lips wrapped around his cock as he filled her mouth with come.
He moved faster, harder. Bodies slapping together. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” they chanted together, and with a rush came together. And afterwards lay for a few minutes panting together.
“That was nice.”
“Nice?”
“You know what I mean. I’m so glad you stopped by this morning.”
He got up and went into the bathroom to take his second shower of the morning.
She was still in the bed when he returned and started to get dressed.
“You’re working this afternoon?”
“Yes. When’s your surgery scheduled?”
“5:00.”
“Hip replacement?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you at the hospital then.”
…
Diane von Furstenberg is credited with popularizing the wrap dress, and Carol Edwards, née Litchfield, was wearing an original that looked like a fragment of a Mondrian painting. Horizontal and vertical black lines formed rectangles and squares of varying sizes on a white background. Randomly two of the rectangles were red; two blue; and one small square was yellow. Of a knitted jersey fabric, it clung rather than fell to mid-thigh and had close fitting long sleeves to her wrists. Matched by three inch stilettos, each half white, half black, had her body not been like those on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swim suit issue, Carol Edwards could have stepped from the cover of VOGUE.
She wore no jewelry, visible or otherwise. No nose ring; no helix.
We survive as a species not because we are intelligent--one has only to look at our political leaders and so-called economic systems to know that we aren’t. We survive because we are aggressive, like to reproduce, will eat almost anything, have a great capacity to endure suffering, and are adaptable. This last might be thought a sign of intelligence, but usually is just a matter of short memory.
Carol hadn’t been pierced that long, but already she had become accustomed to her cunt being closed, and to have the lips open felt strange. Once in Brad’s new car, she had reached below her dress and separated them. She was wet and the air made them tingle. She was always wet. She could almost feel her father’s cock there, and wondered if she soon would. The great thing about a wrap dress is how easily it unwraps. Her’s by a single hidden hook.
Brad Tomalin had sold the Corvette. He’d fulfilled that boy-hood fantasy and there was no reason to keep a car he really didn’t like and that did not suit the man he liked to think he had made himself. He and Carol were sitting in its replacement, a 525 horsepower Audi R8, in the parking lot next to her father’s Newport Beach office. Sons of poor farmers in the Imperial Valley did not dream of Audi R8s. Probably none had ever even heard of them. More distance between his present and his past. The car was custom painted burgundy. The dealer had tried to sell him one in the standard “Brilliant Red”, which was really Ferrari red. He told the man that If he had wanted a Ferrari, he would have bought a Ferrari.
Brad was holding a Blackberry in his hand. The email was composed.
“What floor is your father’s office on?”
“Fifth.”
“I’ll send it five minutes after you go through the door. Don’t want him to see it early.”
They both felt the excitement of risking the unknown.
“All right.” And she opened the door.
Brad admiringly watched her walk across the lot to the entrance of the steel and glass building. She might be gone a few minutes; she might be gone much longer. It was an experiment.
…
“Wow! You look even more spectacular than usual. What a fantastic dress!” The enthusiasm came from Monica, her father’s receptionist, a pretty blond about her own age. “Where did you get it?”
“A gift. I think it came from Neiman’s.”
“Truly original and stunning.” Then speaking into the intercom, “Dr. Litchfield, Carol is here.”
Office doors had become portals to sex. Rik’s. Brad’s. The despicable Dr. Sedwick. Many, many others. And now her father’s.
He stood and came around his desk as she entered.
He is an attractive man, Carol thought. Not just for his age, but seriously attractive. Tall, slim, fit. He made regular use of the swimming pool and tennis court at home and took pride in weighing exactly what he had in med school, and having the same size waist.
Age had made few inroads. His hair was finally thinning and graying, and his mustache was almost white; but the face was still chiseled, the jaw firm, and his manner that of a confident surgeon.
He met her halfway for a paternal hug, which unexpectedly and disconcertingly became something else, when Carol threw her arms around him and plastered her body against his, breasts flattening against chest, pubis against cock, which she felt stir, thigh against thigh. And lingered, while planting a long, wet kiss on his cheek.
Unaccustomedly flustered, her father finally broke away. “Well! Such enthusiasm. Are you all right?”
“Never better, Daddy.”
He leaned back against his desk, and she sat in a patient’s chair opposite, noticing that his eyes involuntarily darted to her thighs as she crossed her legs and let her dress ride higher.
“A lovely dress. It’s new?”
“Yes. A gift.”
“From Ross? Is he back?”
“We’re divorced.”
“What? When?”
“It was final a month ago.”
He started to speak, but she interrupted.
“No need to worry. It was as painless as these things ever can be. And probably inevitable. Once he went to Singapore, our lives drifted apart.”
“Still…”
“No, really. Ross is history. We have some indirect contact. He looks in on me from time to time.”
“Looks in? Is he back in San Diego then?”
“No. Check your email. I’ll show you.”
Moving back around his desk, her father said, “I don’t understand.”
Carol followed him, and leaned over his shoulder while he sat and opened the lid of his laptop. He was very aware of her breast resting on his shoulder.
“There,” she said. “The top one.”
“The new me?” he questioned, reading the subject line.
“Well. Maybe new. Maybe always the old me. Whatever. Click on that link first.” Pointing at www.rossedwardswife.net.”
“I thought you said you are divorced.”
“We are. It was set up while we were married. No need to change.”
“Is that your living room?”
“It’s a live feed. 24-7. That’s how Ross looks in on me. At least he did. I expect he still does. You should too. It’s best at 8:30 p.m.”
“Best?”
Her belly and pussy contracted. This was the irreversible moment.
“Click the other link and you’ll see.”
Dr. James Litchfield did and saw the photo that had traumatized Ross Edwards a year earlier: a man in an expensive suit in an office chair, much like his own, smiling into the camera. The back of a naked woman on her knees between tasseled shiny black shoes. Her head buried in the man’s lap. Her face was not visible. But Dr. Litchfield knew who it must be. He wasn’t traumatized; but he was shocked.
There were other pictures on the page. And his daughter’s face was visible in many of them. Everything was visible. Everything he had imagined. And far, far more. Far, far worse.
She was surrounded by men. Cocks in every hole. Her face lust crazed. Glazed in come. Men. Women. Dildos. Fists. There she was knelling with her mouth open to a stream of piss. There her face buried in a fat ass. There her head in a toilet.
He sensed motion beside him, and glanced up. Carol’s dress gaped open. There were those perfect breasts. She was cupping them with her hands. Offering dark nipples to him. His eyes moved down. She was shaved.
“You know you want it, Daddy. You want to do to me what all those other men have done. You can. It’s just a cock in a cunt. I want you to.”
She fell to her knees and unzipped his pants, freed his throbbing hard cock from underwear. “See. Your cock doesn’t care who I am. Go ahead look at the rest. There’s more.” And she lowered her warm mouth. Her full, red lips stretched around him, just as he had fantasized a few hours earlier. And, sliding up and down, felt so good.
He turned his head back to the computer. She was in a mirrored room. Tied at full stretch, arms pulled toward the ceiling, toes inches off the floor. The long black line of a whip wound around her body. She was on the floor, her flesh crisscrossed with angry red stripes, sucking on a plastic tube that ran from her anus.
Fists in both her ass and cunt simultaneously. A look on her face of agony or ecstasy. Or both. In her living room floor surrounded by half a dozen black ghetto kids standing masturbating on her. Her own wrist disappearing into her cunt. Her ass. Suspended in the air by purple breasts that looked about to burst. Pushing a needle through her nipple. Kneeling with a long tail trailing from her ass. “Not a dog,” he croaked. Then, “Dogs.” Then, “Licking up dog come!” The warm, wet, sucking mouth moved faster. “What’s this?” A gold spiral in her labia. “A ring in your nose!” Ah, God! He was about to come. To come in his daughter’s mouth. As he had imagined doing for twenty years. But it was wrong. “No! No!” He pushed her away just as semen exploded from his purple engorged cock. She fell onto her back, raised and opened her legs, reached down and spread her cunt. Red, glistening, flowing with juices, ready.
He hadn’t come this hard for years. Sperm arched out and fell onto her body, some landing on her open cunt.
“You know you want to fuck me, Daddy. You can. Anyway you want. Any hole. Every hole. My mouth. My cunt. My ass. I’m a slut. I want you to.”
Reaching down with an elegant hand, she rubbed his come into her cunt, then raised red-nailed fingers to her mouth and sucked on them. “Hmm. You taste good.”
Dr. Litchfield fell back in his chair. Small spurts of come were still shooting from his cock, running down it, onto his underwear and trousers. “You’ve gone mad. You’re insane. What has happened to you? You need help.”
Carol got back onto her knees and crawled toward him. Tantalizing dark nippled breasts swaying. “I can help you, Daddy. Get you hard again. So you can fuck me.”
“No! No! Absolutely not.” He fumbled with his cock, pushed it back, managed to close his zipper.
“Really, Daddy?” Carol got to her feet, held the sides of the wrap dress open wide. “You really don’t want this? Everyone else does. Everyone else has. You’ve seen the photos. Or watch the live feed from my living room. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
And she closed the dress, fastened the catch, and walked from her father’s office, from her father’s presence, for the last time.
…
Carol’s mother was easier. Although afterwards they both agreed that she had not been as drunk as she seemed.
As they approached the house on a hilltop, it seemed to be floating on water. A single story of wood and glass almost completely surrounded by an amorphous moat, which when he was inside, Brad saw blended into the distant ocean.
“A beautiful house,” he said as they were getting out of the Audi. “You designed it?”
Carol smiled her gratitude. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Something about it is you, has your style. Sensual elegance.”
“I didn’t do houses professionally. Hospitals. Research centers. Corporate headquarters. This was an assignment at Stanford. When my parents saw the drawings, they liked it so much, they tore down the house I grew up in--California ranch--and built it.”
She had told him what happened in her father’s office on the short drive to the house. She was still flushed with sex and energy.
“Mother?’ she called a bit too loudly.
“You’re early. I’m back here, by the pool.”
A door opened and closed. They met halfway, and Carol gave her mother a full body hug almost as suggestive as she had given her father.
When they broke apart, she said, “Mother, this is Brad. Brad, my mother, Elaine.”
Her mother was perplexed, but did not let that interfere with good manners.
“Let’s go back out to the patio. It’s too early for lunch. We can go out to eat, or I have things here.”
“Early for a drink, too,” added Carol. “We brought some wine, but let’s make a pitcher of margaritas to take out with us.”
The flag-stone patio, like the water surrounding the house, had a form of irregular curves, contrasting with the linear house and the over size swimming pool. A tennis court stood beyond it.
When they were seated, first round of margaritas poured, Elaine Litchfield said, “Are you all right? You seem, forgive me for saying this, but almost high.”
“I’m fine. Fine. Not high. Just excited to see Daddy and you.”
Elaine Litchfield was wearing a long yellow and white sundress, sleeveless, scoop neck, with buttons down the front, and flat sandals. As she and Carol chatted, Brad observed her. She must be in her late fifties and was a good looking woman. A golden tan. Fingernails and toenails painted coral pink. Good ankles. Carol’s fine bones. Considering her husband’s profession, she’d probably had some surgery, at least a face lift, but if so, it was the best.
“And you, Brad?”
“What? I’m sorry. I didn’t want to intrude on your and Carol’s conversation and wasn’t following.”
“Ross and I are divorced, Mother. It’s not what you think.”
“Divorced? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I just did.”
Pleasantries, inconsequential conversation, and margaritas flowed.
Brad listened poured, and sipped. Carol and Elaine chatted and drank.
Elaine Litchfield’s words began to slur just as the sun reached the patio.
“It’s going to get too hot out here,” said Carol. “Let’s go inside.”
They moved to the living room. Elaine Litchfield and Carol arm in arm. Brad holding the door for them, then following.
The room was spacious. The furnishings modern.
The women ended up sitting together on one part of a beige sectional. Brad on the other part at a right angle to them.
Carol’s hand reached out and touched her mother’s shoulder, then slid beneath her hair. Both of them were now expensively natural appearing blondes. Carol’s a lightening of light brown; Elaine’s covering encroaching gray. Fingers caressed the nape of neck. Affectionately. Seductively.
Elaine Litchfield’s eyes closed. “That feels good. You are a dear.”
“You seem tense, Mother.”
A second hand followed and massaged, caressed. Then moved around to the front. A finger lightly traced cheek, forehead, over closed eye-lids, beside nose, to mouth. Outlined lips. Chin, Throat. Collarbone. Undid a button. And as it moved lower, Carol Edwards leaned over and kissed her mother on the mouth. Lightly at first. Lips just brushing lips. Then lips pressed harder against lips, as fingers slid inside a bra and found a nipple.
Eyes opened. Head pulled back. “What are you doing to me?”
“Making you feel good. It does feel good, doesn’t it?”
Fingers continued to caress a hardening nipple.
“Yes. But…” Elaine Litchfield’s eyes settled on Brad Tomalin.
“Brad doesn’t mind. He’s seen women make love before. He’s seen me make love with women. No, he’s seen me have sex with women.”
Fingers which had caressed, now enclosed breast and squeezed more firmly. Elaine Litchfield’s sigh ended in her daughter’s open mouth. Tongues touched. Carol’s left hand behind her mother’s head forced them together. Her right left her mother’s breast, quickly reached down, pulled up her dress, and rubbed through green lace panties.
“Oh. OH. OH!” Elaine panted with the strokes.
When she was certain of her mother’s arousal, Carol stopped.
“No. Don’t stop.”
“I can make it even better.”
Buttons undone. Dresses pulled off. Green bra and panties flung aside.
Elaine Litchfield found herself on her back naked. A beautiful hot naked body on top of her. Full length. Soft breast against soft breast. Legs mingled. Hands in hair. Lips kissing.
Carol’s head moved down. She sucked her mother’s nipples. The wicked thought came that she must have done this thirty-three years ago. She wondered what her mother felt then. Lower. Hands parted thighs. A surprise. Her mother was partially shaven. Hair above, but none on the sides or the crack of her ass. Good for mother. Carol pulled labia wide apart. It did not seem possible that she had entered this world through that shiny red tunnel. And now that she was about to leave it, she returned. She buried her face. Buried her tongue. Savored. As she had savored the other part of the equation: her father’s come.
Her mother began to convulse. “Oh God. Oh God. That feels so good. Soo...god...damn...good!”
And Carol Edwards, née Litchfield, discovered after all these years that her mother was a squirter.
When her mother had calmed, Carol stood and taking her by the arms, helped her move, dazed from sex and, perhaps, drink, from the sectional to the carpeted floor.
Carol sat on her mother’s breasts, feeling them against her ass.
“Now, me,” she said, raising her hips and lowering them on her mother’s face.
From the sectional, Brad Tomalin watched. He did not recall that he had ever seen a mother and daughter have sex. It was quite a sight. Particularly these two. The daughter incomparable, but the mother desirable too. Smaller breasts, but still a doable body.
He stood and took his cock out and walked over and put it in Carol’s face. Without a word, her mouth opened and took him in. He let her suck for a while, then withdrew. He did not want her distracted when her mother made her come. He watched her face. Blue eyes locked on his, and, unaware of her hands clenched in her mother’s hair, she gave him her shuttering orgasm.
The moment Carol toppled slowly to one side, Brad knelt and shoved his cock into Elaine Litchfield’s gasping mouth. Deep. She gagged. He pulled out just far enough for her to take a breath, then shoved in again. Fucked her mouth. In. Out. In. Out. Pulled out. Spun around, pulled her legs apart. Cock slid easily into flooded cunt. Her bare feet above his shoulders, pushed back near her ears until she was almost bent double. Fully dressed except for his cock, his weight on the tips of his shoes and his knuckles, he fucked her as hard and as fast as he could. Her eyes, also blue, stared up in shock and amazement and drooling desire. She came so convulsively she almost threw him off. He continuing fucking. And when she felt him start to fill her with come, she came again.
They left her that way, sprawled naked on the living room floor, her daughter’s juices drying on her face, a stranger’s come oozing from her cunt into a puddle on the carpet.
It was fortunate that Dr. Litchfield had a late surgery that day.
…
“What’s that music?” Carol asked as they drove south.
“Arvo Pärt. An Estonian. ‘Spiegle im Spiegle’. Translated as ‘mirror in mirrors.’”
The room at Ooni’s, she thought. “It’s beautiful. Where did you learn about music?”
“Like everything else, I taught myself.”
As the gentle notes from piano and violin filled the car, she remembered Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous novel, YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN.
He had no idea.
46
At 8:25 that evening Carol Edwards, naked except for nose ring and gold helix, stood facing directly into the webcam for a few moments before assuming her customary position, head down, arms
outstretched, palms flat, knees apart, ass and cunt toward the door, which soon opened.
“Well if it isn’t our favorite pig slut.”
Laughter.
She did not have to look up. She recognized the voice. There would be four of them, among the crudest Brad let use her. She should have known.
They would make her dance and put on a show for them. They would slap her around. Watch her crawl and beg for it. Fists as well as cocks would be far up her ass. Spit on her face. And her tongue would spend much of the evening in assholes. One of their favorite routines was to put her on her back, one fucking her ass, one sitting on her face after throat fucking her, the man in her ass eventually moving to her throat and face, while another fucked her ass, in a seemingly endless round robin.
And she would drink piss.
They didn’t even bother to go back to one of the bathrooms any more, but pissed on her there, making her lick from the hardwood floor any she failed to swallow directly.
A hand cracked against her ass. Another lifted her head by the hair. A finger from a third hooked the nose ring.
“Glad to see us, piggy?”
“She not a pig. She’s a bitch. Remember? Even sluts have principles. She doesn’t do pigs. She only fucks and sucks dogs. At least I don’t think she does pigs. Have you ever had sex with a pig? Other than us, of course?”
They all laughed.
Carol Edwards wondered if her father was watching. Ross didn’t even cross her mind.
47
“Pick up the phone, Carol. I can see you. I know you are there.”
“If you can see me, then you can hear me. What do you want?”
It was 6:30 p.m. She was sitting naked on the sofa, drinking a martini. The voice over the answering machine was her father’s. There was a slight time lag.
“I’m coming down there Saturday.”
She laughed. “To fuck me? Last night’s performance must have excited you enough to change your mind.” She spread her legs and put one foot up on the sofa. “How do you like my jewelry? Unfortunately as you can see, you missed your chance at my cunt.”
“I did see part of last night. Not in real time. I was still in surgery. I set my computer to record. I saw enough.
“And I’m not coming to have sex with you. I’m bringing a colleague I want you to talk to.”
“Let me guess: a psychiatrist?”
Breath audibly exhaled. “Yes.”
“Don’t waste your time. I won’t be here.”
“Carol, please. This is for your own good.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I have other plans.”
…
A speed dial number touched.
“Hello.”
“I’m ready. Do it. Now. As soon as possible. Before the weekend.”
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