0 comments/ 104359 views/ 8 favorites Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 1 By: TheScribe I write exclusively for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of other, mature adults of like minds. If you are a minor, fogidaboudit, close the file and move on, for this material is not for your consumption. I hope you, dear mature reader, find the imagery to follow to be to your liking; if so, feel free to heap your praises on my humble head. Otherwise, for you budding critics out there, unless you know what the hell you’re talking about and have some really meaningful, learned criticism that I can put to work making me a better wordsmith, thanks anyway for the thought. Enjoy, TheScribe. * * * * * Chapter 1: The Encounter It's eight o'clock, Sunday morning. I'm in my office to dictate my notes on an encounter with a potential client that I had a few nights earlier. I have the entire city to myself. Nothing moves on the street; the office is empty. The phone certainly isn't going to ring; it is the perfect time to work without interruption. Now, I'm not enthusiastic about working on Sunday, but, like most lawyers, I do like to get my recollections down and recorded while they are still hot in my mind, and these thoughts certainly fit that description. I open the unlabeled manila folder on my desk, and, extracting the legal sized canary yellow papers we lawyers are fond of using, begin trying to decipher my nearly illegible script. I read slowly, underlining particularly significant passages, marking others with asterisks, sometimes jotting down additional notes in the margins. Finally, an hour later, I drop the last page onto the pile on my desk and stand to stretch. Whew, I think, that's some story. It's gonna take me all day to get it dictated. Picking up the microphone, I switch on the Dictaphone and begin: "OK, Shawna, these are some of those notes you love to transcribe for me, darlin. These are so hot you're going to need to hose off the computer every twenty minutes or it'll bust out in flames. Ha, ha. Just do the usual, double space, don't worry too much about punctuation or spelling, nobody but me's going to see them. My notes are in the folder the tape's attached to. Feel free to use them to help you through the dictation. I tried to follow them straight through except for the part in the middle which I'm going to start with." I turn off the machine and sit back in my chair, collecting my thoughts before beginning the dictation. Images of the meeting begin to resurface. It was a rainy evening. It had been a dry summer and the rain was welcome. I was at my desk, working late to research a particularly knotty problem. It was well past six, and sheets of rain were flailing against the office windows. There was a soft, almost hesitant, knock on the outer door, which I nearly missed. Who in the world could it be, I wondered, walking through Shawna's office and the anteroom to unlock the door. You see, my law practice is located in a second floor office with a public entrance on the street downstairs. A long, steep flight of stairs directly connects the office to the street. That's by design, you know. There's an axiom among country lawyers, from whose stock I was bred, that "the steeper the climb, the stronger the case." I've found that to be true, by and large, over the years. I opened the door cautiously and stepped back immediately, shocked at the sight of the disheveled, miserable figure in the doorway. He was unshaven and unkempt. His clothes were rumpled and soaked, and he was shaking as though chilled clear through. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, and the air about him was thick with the unmistakable smell of alcohol. His hands were trembling, and, I judged him to be in a state of near panic. I asked what business he had with me, and he replied that he needed desperately to talk with someone. I asked it he was in legal trouble and needed a lawyer, or just someone to talk to about his obvious distress. He replied that he was in more trouble than anyone could possibly imagine and needed the best lawyer he could find. I suggested he go home, sleep it off and call me in the morning, if he still felt like talking, but he refused. He said darkly that it was now or never; he had been drinking all afternoon to get up the nerve to come in and he wouldn’t do it again. I relented, of course, or there would be no story to tell, and told him he could have fifteen minutes of my undivided attention. He sank into a chair by my desk and began to talk, hesitantly in the beginning, but becoming more confident as I listened quietly, speaking only to nudge him along when he lapsed into silence or to clarify an uncertainty in his story. He talked and minutes stretched into hours. It was four in the morning when we finally locked up and descended the stairs to the street. We parted there for good, because I declined the representation. You see I am of the old school and don't take cases in which I have no faith. His story, though titillating in many respects and certainly moving in many others, was so repugnant and vile to me that in the end I was left with no choice but to send him elsewhere. Though I look back now with some regret and no small sense of responsibility, I am afraid that I sent him away with the warning that along with many of the laws of Man, he had also violated the laws of God and of Nature, and that no defense which I could muster would prove adequate to shield him from the judgments which inevitably were to follow those transgressions. I directed him to an acquaintance who operates a psychiatric sanatorium for the hopelessly addicted, and suggested, somewhat harshly I fear, that what he most required was a sturdy defense of his soul. I am a compassionate man and, as a man, I felt true sympathy for his plight, but as a father I was revulsed. I understand now, having reviewed my notes and having had time to reflect on the matter, how it is that a good and decent man can fall from Grace, as he did. It need not begin with an evil purpose or intent, but with weakness and a series of lapses of conscience with unforeseen but compounding consequences. As a rule, a good man does not walk to the line and deliberately step across; events conspire to blur the line, or his vision of it. He takes a series of small steps, some forward, others back, none seemingly of great consequence, yet, there comes a time when he looks back whence he came and sees the line clearly and discovers that he is lost. Sometimes it is the path he takes that dictates the result, and one seemingly innocent step leads to another less innocent step, and so on until the path becomes a swamp and he is caught in the quagmire up to his chin. So it was with my visitor, as you shall see. He began with steps which, in the beginning, were innocent enough to appear innocuous, but those steps brought unforeseen consequences, and, before long, forces over which he had no control were drawing him along. It was his fatal flaw that he wasn't strong enough to stop when it became obvious that he must. He yearned for something, some compensation for his psyche, but had no direction and no compass. Ultimately, he tasted of the forbidden fruit, no, that's wrong; he feasted on it. He became addicted to it and, so strong was it's hold upon him, will likely remain so forever, I suspect. Picking up the microphone again, I begin: "Shawna, I’m going to digress here for a moment. You know I usually like to tell a client's story exactly as they tell it to me, but in the middle of the night this guy made a rather extraordinary revelation, the significance of which I've no clue. It was one of those moments like when someone lights a match in a dark room and then blows it out before your eyes adjust to the light and you can figure out where everything is. For continuity's sake, I think it belongs at the top of the notes. I guess he was a little reluctant start his story at this point, especially since we had just met. If you need to, you can find it at about page twenty of my hand written notes. Anyway, here goes. When you're done you can have the rest of the day off and take a cold shower or whatever floats your boat. Sorry about the pun, you'll see what I mean as you transcribe. Enjoy." The dictaphone hums quietly in the background as I begin to recount the events: "I recall that in the early morning hours, as his story progressed toward climax, my visitor became increasingly agitated and distressed. He paced the floor, ringing his hands nervously and shaking his head and muttering, sometimes unintelligibly. He eventually came to an uneasy rest by the window and remarked that the rain had finally stopped. He asked if he might have a drink, as the effects of his earlier libations had worn off, and he felt his courage lapsing. I consented, reluctantly, and directed him to the credenza in the corner, from which he proceeded to pour himself a tall tumbler of scotch, which he immediately gulped down. Replenishing his glass, he walked again to the window and stood, silently, looking into the night and sipping. After some considerable interlude, I presume to allow the alcohol to produce the desired effect, without turning his head, he began to speak. "My mother...." he began haltingly only to stop in mid-sentence, his words trailing off. "What about your mother," I inquired, some what startled at this abrupt change of direction, for we had established early in the interview that he had left home at the age of fifteen and had had no contact with any of his immediate family since that time. He had been taken in, literally plucked off the streets of Miami, by a Catholic priest with whose assistance and encouragement he managed to complete a college degree. He took another draught of scotch and inhaled deeply, as though gathering himself for some great effort. "I was remembering the day of my father's funeral." "Yes, yes," I replied somewhat impatiently at this apparent meander into irrelevancy, "I'm sure that was quite traumatic for you." He spoke softly, almost inaudibly, and with a hollow voice, devoid of inflection or animation. "Yes, it was. I was eleven at the time. It was a winter day, nothing at all like today, rain alternated with snow, and the wind drove ice crystals like splinters into exposed flesh. My father had died suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a complete shock to everyone, especially my mother. He was buried in the afternoon during a heavy snow. We rode to the cemetery, my mother and I, in one of those black limousines. She held my hand, stroking it with her black gloved hand, and telling me everything would be alright, but I knew nothing was ever going to be the same. Later that afternoon we returned home and after the last of the mourners had left, the house seemed cavernous and empty. Silent sadness gathered in the gloomy corners like cobwebs, smothering out any remembrance of the laughter that previously had brightened those rooms. My father was a musician, you see, a cellist, who played with the symphony, and he had many, many friends. Acquaintances, friends, awe struck admirers and some insatiable partygoers were constantly dropping by with flowers and champagne, or their instruments, or just wistful looks of adoration, and the house was constantly filled with music, gaiety and the electricity of excited conversation. Those voices were stilled, and I wondered if they would ever return. My mother, her composure steadfast, sat silently, watching the fire burn out in the front parlor grate. I sat opposite, observing her, remaining still as death myself, afraid to move lest some unforeseen act on my part might cause her to die suddenly and take her from me also. As the daylight failed and the mantle clock began to toll, she turned from the fire and spoke to me, "Come Donald, let us give you a bath and see to some supper, young man." She was an imperious woman, tall and commanding in appearance, though not at all unpleasant to look at. She had a manner, particularly in times of stress or anxiety, of speaking in a theatrical tone, stretching out the pronunciation of my name to two or three times what would ordinarily be required to gain my attention. I suppose there are those who would explain this behavior as the taking on of "airs." "Donnnnnnaaald?" she repeated, "are you listening to me?" "Yes, ma'am." "Well, then, come on." And, with that, she stood and extended her hand expectantly for mine. She led me upstairs to the bath, where she directed me to undress, while she changed her clothes. She returned wearing a dressing gown and filled the great tub with steaming water. She instructed me to get in, and, after I had done so, she began, wordlessly, washing me from head to toe. She spent rather longer at this task than I thought the accumulation of soil at my father's funeral required, but eventually she was satisfied that I was clean, and she directed me to dry off, put on the terry robe hanging on the door and come to her room which adjoined the bath. I did as she directed, and upon entering her room found her sitting at her dressing table admiring herself in her mirror and slowly brushing her long hair. The only illumination came from two candles on her dressing table. Her face, freshly made up with rouge, and lipstick, eye shadow, mascara and eyeliner, looked to me to be remarkably beautiful in that low, flickering light. Observing my reflection in the mirror, she turned and bade me approach. She reached and took my hands into her own and drew me closer to her, pulling me between her knees. Her dressing gown parted somewhat to reveal her black lace brassiere and matching panties. I was struck by the contrast of her milky white belly and thighs with the darkness of her undergarments, as I had never seen her in such a state of undress. Her lack of modesty was disturbing and made me uneasy. She placed her hands on either side of my face and drew me close to her. I could smell her perfume and see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, which her makeup had failed to conceal. Her lips were a deep crimson with lipstick applied so thickly that no hint of crevice or induration appeared. She spoke slowly, making her voice heavy with the gravity of the occasion, all the while pinching my face between her hands. "Dooonnnnaallld, my darling, it is just you and me now. We have suffered a grievous loss that is most painful to bear, but we must bear it, Dooonnnallld. We must go on from here. From this day, you will be the man of this house; you will be my little man, Doonnalld, and you will take the place of your father.” Her words poured like honey from a jar, slow and thick with promise of things I could not imagine. I looked into her eyes, liquid pools of brown, whites reddened by the day's many tears, her pupils dilated, nearly absorbing completely the surrounding irises, but she returned my gaze blankly and I could not discern her meaning or intent. "You will do that for me, won't you Donald?" she continued. Without waiting for a response, because she knew I could refuse her nothing, she turned to the table and picked up an eyebrow pencil. Cupping my chin in her hand she lifted my face, tilting it up toward hers, and said, "Look at me, darling, and be still," and, continuing to no one in particular, "I must make my little man as beautiful as possible, mustn't I?" She applied eye liner and eye shadow deftly, with a practiced hand, followed by blush and lipstick, which she put on with a thin tipped brush, accentuating the cupid's bow of my upper lip in crimson. She paused from time to time to admire her work, and the transformation of a boy into a woman. Indeed, she smiled and said that I was becoming ever more beautiful with every stroke of the brush, and that she had made me up to be as pretty as any girl my age. Her breathing became slightly labored as the effects of the transformation emerged. Her lips parted slightly; she leaned back to examine her handiwork, and, nodding with satisfaction at the result, licked her lips wetly. Her hands, empty for the moment, reached to my shoulders and pushed the robe down, over my arms, letting it drop in a pool at my feet. I was only mildly discomfited by my nudity; modesty was not a virtue or vice which I was yet old enough to embrace. Her eyes traversed the length of my body, examining every crook and cranny with an almost preoccupied air of indifference. My thin arms hung loosely by my side; my narrow chest dropped straight away to equally narrow hips supported on spindly legs, which, I suppose in retrospect, actually looked to be fragile. My tiny penis hung limply from a hairless groin. There was no hint of hair any where on my body except, of course, for my head where there grew a longish mop of shoulder length brown hair, which mother had stubbornly refused to allow me to have cut in the current fashion. She dipped a brush into a flat container of rouge and brought it to my nipple. With her strokes carefully staying within the lines, she darkened the skin of the aureole with the cosmetic. I stared down in shocked curiosity, while she applied rouge to my other nipple and, picking up her lipstick brush, applied a coating of ruby lipstick to the tiny knots of my nipples. My mind was a welter of confused thoughts and emotions. Bewildered, yet not entirely displeased by the rather pleasant, though unfamiliar, sensations these ministrations were producing, I looked at her inquiringly, but her mind and gaze are elsewhere, and I was rebuffed without uttering the question. Her hand descended to grasp my limp penis. She took it into her hand like a somnolent mouse, laying it across her cupped fingers and stroking its length with her thumb. I jerked involuntarily at her unexpected touch, but she said nothing and continued. Her tongue swept her upper lip. She took my member between her thumb and forefinger, pulling the head up to look directly into the tiny eye at the tip. Holding me thus, she turned the attention of her lipstick brush to the tiny glans and with tantalizingly slow strokes began to coat the head of my member with crimson. My little cock twitched and began a slow rise to my inaugural erection. Frightened, dumbfounded and confused at the turn of events, I squealed, "Mother!" He was standing, framed in the window, as the shriek, Mother, exploded from his lips. His head dropped forward, his chin falling onto his chest like that of a firing squad victim upon receiving the volley. His shoulders rolled inward and his back sagged; he was visibly diminished. I thought for a moment that he had fainted and was about to fall, but was stayed from moving to his assistance when I notice his hands were clenched and shaking. Settling back in my chair, I watched as the sobbing wretch struggled with what must have been unspeakable images and memories. At length he regained his composure and turned toward me to ask in an emotion choked, voice, "Where was I?" "You were telling me of your mother..." I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand, saying, "No, no, I mean before that." After that, no amount of coaxing could induce him to return to the subject of his mother and the events on the day of his father's funeral, but eventually he recovered sufficiently to resume telling of the sequence of events which precipitated his visit to me. "OK, Shawna, you still with me? Now that we have that admittedly opaque prologue out of the way, let's get on with the rest of the story. You know me, darlin, I tell it exactly like it was told to me, without judgment, embellishment or expurgation. So cinch up your girdle, hon. I think you'll agree that it reveals the irresistibly seductive power of carnal lust and the insidious manner by which it asserts itself over the unwary. Sure hope you're not one of the unwary ones." To Be Continued... Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 2 Chapter 2: Daddy Plans a Heist It was a hot, sunny summer day, not long after the lunch hour, as Don Richey stepped into the elevator outside his office for the twenty-three-floor descent to the parking garage. Just as he reached to press the button, a voice called out, "Hold it, Don, please." His heart skipped a dozen or so beats, his palms, already moist, begin to sweat. He recoiled into the interior of the elevator, praying for the door to close quickly. A disembodied hand reached in and restrained the door, followed immediately by a breathless young woman, about twenty-eight, who threw herself across the threshold and into the car. "Sorry, Nancy, I didn't know it was you, or I would have held it for you," he said barely able to conceal his relief. "Thanks, Don, that's OK," she panted, and, eyeing his briefcase, she continued with a conspiratorial smile, "Sneaking out for an early start on the weekend, I see." "Yeah," he replied, as casually as his still racing heart allowed, "I'm taking my daughter, Laura, and some of her friends to spend the weekend on the houseboat; gonna beat the traffic if I can." "Sounds a lot better than my weekend, Don, how about taking me with you," she grinned. He let his eyes rove blatantly over the lush curves her navy business suit did little to conceal, lingering pointedly at her full chest before dropping to her shapely, nylon clad legs. Boy, he thought wolfishly, now there's a thought, but not this weekend. "Sure, hon, be glad to have you. You can ride herd on the teeny boppers for me while I fish," he responded jokingly. "Well, on second thought, maybe it does sound a little crowded. I'll take a raincheck. How 'bout that?" she replied, blushing mildly in response to his appreciative inspection. "Sure. Anytime you want to go, darlin, all you got to do is ask," he answered flirtatiously. She blushed again and turned to watch the lights counting down the descent of the elevator, muttering, "Maybe I'll just do that sometime." The remainder of the ride passed in silence, and his thoughts turned to the contents of his briefcase. Well, it's done. I finally did it. I'm a thief now and a rich one. I never doubted it wouldn't be easy, he congratulated himself smugly for his cunning, feeling the considerable heft of the bearer bonds filling his briefcase. Just taking a few here and a few there, always from different folders, he had managed to accumulate in the last few hours nearly a million and a half dollars worth of fully negotiable, untraceable bearer bonds. It was more than enough to sustain him in comfort in Aruba, Tahiti or Belize or any of a hundred other island or third world countries having no extradition treaty with the United States. Careful planning and cunning, he chortled inwardly, and, of course, THEIR stupidity had helped. So many times he had rehearsed for this day, never really thinking it would come. How often, he tried to recollect as the elevator plummeted, speeding him toward fortune and infamy, in the three years since being promoted to senior account manager at Secured Investments, Limited, had he practiced pilfering those folders? Fifty, a hundred, probably more? Who could remember? How many Wednesdays had there been in that time? Each rehearsal had been a meticulous ritual. Speak casually to the guard at the desk in the anteroom, then enter the vault and unlock one, two, or, if he was feeling particularly bold, three lock boxes containing Old Reliance's portfolios. Extracting the bonds, he would slip them into an empty folder, under his shirt or into the inner pocket of his jacket. He was always careful not to take his briefcase into the vault, as that would immediately arouse suspicion. With the bonds safely tucked away, he would casually exit past the unsuspecting guard, exchange the usual pleasantries, and proceed nonchalantly down the hall to his office. Six trips to the vault is all that his plan required, provided of course he didn't get greedy, and he was far too smart to let that happen. He practiced every week spreading his thefts out over the course of two or three days and, since his raids were commingled with legitimate visits to the vault, they were not in the least likely to attract attention. Secured Investments handled accounts for hundreds of clients and had thousands of folders in the vault, each of which required a certain degree of attention. Eventually, the guard had become so attuned to the routine of his comings and goings, that he ceased taking notice, and the minute that happened, Don knew the bonds were his for the taking. Today had been the day. Immediately after Nyquist left, he put his plan into action. Six trips to the vault had turned to eight because he was interrupted twice, but by the time the lunch crowd started returning, he had the bonds safely tucked away in his briefcase and was checking the traffic report on the radio to be sure his getaway route was still clear. He glanced nostalgically toward the photos of his kids, which had been collecting on his desk over the years, and decided against taking them along. He had to leave them so it would appear that he was expecting to return; nothing would arouse suspicions quicker than to clean off his desk, he calculated. Oh, they were stupid and lax, all right, and that made it easy, but it was their rigid consistency, the unwavering adherence to schedule, that was the final key that made it all work. Without the certainty that his victim would follow the same pattern, all his superior cleverness and cunning would be worthless. He chuckled audibly at the recollection of his parting conversation with the guard in the lobby, and Nancy glanced toward him inquiringly, but he let her wonder. He had been nervous as he approached the guard at the main entrance, of course, almost sweating with fear, and his hand was gripping the handle of his briefcase so tightly, he figured his fingerprints would be permanently embossed on it. He was praying the guard wouldn't notice his hand shaking as he bent to sign out. It was company policy to search briefcases leaving the premises, but he knew that in practice, that only rarely occurred. "Leavin' a little early, aren't you, Mr. Richey?" the old fellow in his dark blue, rent-a-cop uniform asked pleasantly enough without looking at the briefcase in his hand. Don swallowed twice to push his heart down his throat far enough to get a response out. "Yeah, I am, Walter. Gonna take a little vacation." "Lucky you," Walter grunted. "How long you going to be gone?" he continued off-handedly as he retrieved the clipboard and sign-out sheet and noted the time beside Don's scrawled signature. "Just a week. I've got to be back Wednesday morning for Old Reliance's weekly lock box audit," he lied as convincingly as he could, and he edged toward the door. "Why so soon?" Walter questioned loquaciously; it was, like most Wednesdays, a slow afternoon and he intended to take advantage of the opportunity to pass some of the time. "I thought all you executive types took month long vacations." "You've got me confused with the senior vice-presidents, Walter," he answered trying to smile, but his imagination was operating in overdrive, and he could just see his briefcase clasps failing and the stolen bonds spilling out all over the lobby. "You know the rules; us peon account managers have to be here when Nyquist counts Old Reliance's bonds or it's hell to pay." "Nyquist!" Walter snorted derisively. "I could sure teach that old bag of wind something about security." He was referring, of course, to Harold Nyquist, the venerable corporate auditor for Old Reliance, who, for as far back as anybody could remember, had been showing up at precisely 7:00 o'clock every Wednesday morning to count his employer's bearer bonds on deposit in the vault. Next Wednesday, Don sneered to himself, old mister green eye shade himself and Secured Investments are going to get the shock of their lives. "How's that?" Don responded, trying to sound preoccupied in hopes of abbreviating the conversation, all the while backing toward the exit door. "Hell, he's too predictable, Mr. Richey. He's been doing the same thing, exactly the same way, for what, twenty years or better? First thing they taught me as a rookie patrol officer was to tell the people on my beat to change things up and not fall into a routine. Predictability is a thief's best friend." "Really?" Don answered gravely, trying his best to sound impressed and surprised. "Have you told anybody about your concerns, Walter?" "What? Me?" the old man shrugged. "Who'd listen to a washed up old copper, who's just trying to add a little something to a piddling pension?" "Well, I sure would, for one," Don responded as he groped behind his back for the doorknob. "Tell you what, Walter, soon as I get back next Wednesday, I'll mention it to Mr. Nyquist myself." He backed out of the door without waiting for Walter's response, and forced himself to walk casually toward the elevators. Just as he reached to push the button, the doors to his offices banged open and Walter appeared in the doorway. Ominously, his hand was resting on the grip of his service revolver. "Hold up there, Richey," the old man yelled sharply as he advanced. Oh, shit, Don thought, and a cold chill of dread ran up his spine. His eyes darted to the stairwell down the hall, and he quickly began calculating the odds against a successful dash for the door. Fear melted his knees and held him rooted in place. He watched the advancing indicator lights above the elevator door, nearly hopping from foot to foot, hoping the elevator would hurry, but Walter beat it by a good minute. Walter approached, extending his hand. Something glittered between his fingers, and the dark edges of a dead faint began pressing in on Don's reeling brain. "Here, Mr. Richey; you forgot your pen," the guard said innocuously, thrusting the gold, Waterford pen toward him. Don looked down at the pen uncomprehendingly, then up at Walter's face for a split-second, and then back down at the pen. His eyes, he knew, conveyed his terror like the eyes of a mouse flushed out of a closet, but his reaction was beyond his control. "You OK, Richey?" the old man asked looking at him oddly. "You forgot your fancy pen." "Oh, yeah, thanks," he muttered awkwardly, and he reached for the pen. "I'm just running late; traffic's gonna get me if I don't get going, and I'll miss my flight." "Traffic's a bitch, alright," Walter commiserated. "Where ya headed?" "Headed?" "Yeah, your vacation, remember?" "Oh, uh, uh, Algiers," he stammered, blurting out the first name that came to mind. "Algiers, huh? Never had much interest in the Orient, myself; too many Orientals, if you ask me," Walter volunteered. "It's a sex tour, Walter," he replied, recovering himself a little. "American Express put it together. What can I say? Oriental women give the best blow jobs of anybody." "No shit?" Walter gulped with unconcealed prurient interest, and, after he glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder toward the Secured Investments' entrance, he whispered confidentially, "Look, Richey, I gotta get back to my post before they notice I'm gone, but do you think you could bring me some of them pictures when you come back? You know the ones that show everything?" "Hard core, Walter," Don grinned as a warm wave of relief swept over him like a Bimini beach breeze. "No problemo; I'll bring you a briefcase full," he smiled, patting his valise with a conspiratorial wink. "Thanks, Richey, I owe you one," the old man called out as he hurried back to the sanctuary of his guard post. The elevator arrived just as Walter disappeared into the Secured Investments offices and, as Nancy approached unnoticed from the opposite direction, Don dove into the gap between the opening doors long before the bell announcing the elevator's arrival had sounded. The elevator hurtled toward the basement and a vision of his wife, Miriam, lying beside him on the beach in Belize shouldered its way into his thoughts. He shuddered involuntarily. Not this time, you bitch, he thought, you're the reason I'm leaving; I have you to thank for what I'm doing. Drove me to it sure. Another fight just the other night, angry words shouted in heat and a broken lamp in the bedroom. "That's not all that's broken in our bedroom," he recalled her screaming at him furiously. Refused me again. Wouldn't even consider it, the bitch. How long's it been? Six months, maybe more. His sex life, the mainstay of his twenty-year marriage, had disappeared. Nothing, no amount of coaxing, pleading or demanding could persuade Miriam to change her mind. The fight had been the last straw. Sure, he had seen a divorce coming for some time, but he had never allowed himself to think that he actually could walk out of the office with the stolen bonds. That had just been a sort of a game with him; just play-acting. Yeah, he'd take some bonds to his office and lock them in his desk drawer. And, when he reached a million and a half, he'd chicken out, reverse the process, and put them back, all returned in perfect. Even the hyperly observant Nyquist had never noticed anything awry. His play thievery had been pretty much risk free, since he could always come up with some plausible excuse for having the bonds in his office. But once he walked out of the door with them, though, he was totally committed. Well, I've done it now, you bitch, he thought bitterly, not knowing whether to hate his wife for driving him to take the plunge into criminality or to thank her. Isn't it odd how coincidences work to advantage, he thought. Miriam had her little outing planned for weeks. Going to a convention, she said, alone. That announcement sewed the seed to put his plan into action. Hell, he had been rehearsing for years with no intention of ever actually carrying through on it. It had all been just for fun, to show himself how easily it could be done. But that episode with her Tuesday night finally made him turn serious. She had raged at him in a fury, throwing her clothes around the room, and screaming that he wasn't anything but a sick pervert and the very thought of going to bed with him to do his sick thing was enough to make her nauseous. He knew she was tired, didn't he, she had yelled, complaining that she had to start working day and night selling real estate to supplement his crummy income. Well, he knew the part about his crummy salary was dead wrong, because he made a very substantial income, although not enough to keep pace with her spending, since she had a capacity for shopping that would give Bill Gates night sweats. Was it her fault, she bitched, that she came home nights exhausted from showing tacky houses to picky prospects all day and didn't want to hop into the sack and start all that perverted crap with him? He hated those confrontations with all of Miriam's loathing ridicule and resentment, and he had thought seriously about walking out on her many times, but consideration of the kids had always come first. But, this time, some how, the timing was, well, just right. He could get his hands on the bonds easily enough, and, with Miriam out of the picture, he could have a little quality time with the kids before the clock ran out and he had to leave for good. Of course, he would ask them to come with him, promise them anything they want that money could buy, but he didn't expect them to accept. At the least, he calculated, he could use the next four or five days to try to persuade them. Moments later, Don cautiously exited the parking garage taking great effort to control the insistent urge to bolt and with a huge sigh of relief maneuvered his car into the afternoon traffic. Two blocks further, he turned onto the ramp to the expressway and expertly merged with the southbound flow. His briefcase lay in the seat beside him and he patted it to reassure himself of its reality. Confident, at last, in the success of his getaway, he settled into the routine of his commute. Inevitably, lulled by the monotony of the traffic, his mind wandered. His mind wandered a lot, actually; even if the police had been hot on his trail, his mind would be wandering. It passed the time and relieved his tension, sometimes. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 3 Chapter 3: Inappropriate Fantasies God, he prayed as he cruised toward his house in the suburbs, maybe with Miriam out of the picture for good, the nightmares will stop. Wonder if she has anything to do with them, he thought; I doubt it. The nightmares, "The Dream," he had begun collectively calling them, were always identical, and in the last six weeks they had been occurring not only every night in his sleep, but also even in his daydreams. They could occur anywhere and anytime; at home, at work, hell, even mowing the grass. "The Dream" was a sickly perverted dream that simultaneously aroused and disgusted him. It was a technicolor atrocity of forbidden lust which both repelled and enticed him, forcing him to wrestle with the yen and yang of his sensuality; compelling him to struggle impotently for control of his sexual energy. Memories of "The Dream" welled up from his subconscious even as he sped toward a new life free of Miriam and responsibility, and so powerful was its hold on him that all thought of his recent crime dissipated. He drove on autopilot as the terrible images flooded into his mind, filling it like a movie on a screen, bright, clear and fully focused. It was Laura, his baby, his gorgeous teenage daughter, with her long blonde hair, flashing blue green eyes and soft, gentle laughter. In "The Dream," they are always together, alone, in the ski boat. The sun is high in the sky and it's uncommonly hot. She is wearing a daring bikini, which seductively and inappropriately exposes her ripening body. Even in "The Dream," his face would burn with shame as the sight of her unselfconsciously moving about the boat produced unwanted erotic sensations. She says she wants to ski, but he says no; they don't have anyone to spot for her while he drives the boat and it's too dangerous to let her ski without a lookout. She pouts and stamps her feet petulantly. Just like her mother in some ways, he thinks, but her bouncing breasts are twice the size of Miriam's. Then, she smiles coyly at him and runs her fingernail down his chest to his belly, while looking into his eyes with a look that's sultry enough to steam crabs; a look that even now, existing only as a pale memory of "The Dream," causes his pulse to quicken. "Please, daddy, just for a little while; I'll be careful, I promise," she pleads as her fingertip teases the knotted string at the waist of his trunks. I wonder what that finger will do, if I say no, he muses, as the words to refuse her form on his lips, but they die unuttered. He has not the will to deny her. "OK, darlin, but just a little while," he relents, ruefully looking down at her hovering finger. The lake is crowded. He aims for empty water and advances the throttle, accelerating to pull her up. She rises expertly on a single ski and gains her balance quickly. He eases back the throttle back. The bow drops slightly as the boat reaches planing speed. His eyes scan the crowded water ahead to avoid the other boats. He glances back quickly and sees her skiing smoothly over the choppy water. She throws up a hand in a wave with the flat of her hand facing him; the signal to put on speed. She's a speed lover that one, he thinks, easing the throttle toward wide open. They hurtle toward the opposite shore. Closing rapidly with the shoreline, he begins a wide turn to reverse course. Laura, hair flying, swings out in a wide arc, jumping his wake and throwing up a rooster-tail of spray. He returns his eyes to the front just in time to see another boat cut directly across his bow. He spins the wheel evasively, hard to starboard. The shape of a boat flashes past, a narrow miss, and he frantically spins the wheel to resume course. Instantly, he feels the boat lurch forward as though kicked from behind. Throttling back, he looks to the stern and sees a few feet of slack ski rope trailing a frayed, broken end just behind the boat and, receding in the distance, Laura, ensnared in whipping ski-rope, crashing into the water at high speed. Desperate, he turns the boat around and speeds to his child. She is hopelessly tangled in rope and struggling to extricate herself. The rope is pinning her arms to her sides. Her bikini top has been torn off by the impact and she looks frightened and dazed. As he approaches, she slips beneath the surface, with her eyes looking at him helplessly. He frantically stops the motor and dives over the side, swimming deep, guessing at the direction of her descent and praying to intercept her. In the murky darkness he finds her, struggling feebly to escape the encircling rope. He gathers her in his arms and, with a Herculean kick, propels them both toward the surface. They break into the sunlight, gasping for air, several yards from the drifting boat. "It's OK, honey, you're safe now, so let's get that rope off of you and get back in the boat," he says reassuringly. He begins trying to untangle her, and finds it easier to unwind the rope by simply turning her around in the water. Slowly, helping her turn with one hand and pulling rope with the other, he begins to disentangle the frightened girl. She spins slowly in his arms heedless of her nakedness. With each pass, her pert young breasts, full, yet immature, rotate toward him. Round, perfectly shaped, with light pink aureoles surrounding the small hard buds of her darker nipples, her breasts lift proudly and heave with the exertion of her experience. Occasionally, as her back turns toward him, his hand inadvertently brushes across those swelling breasts. He feels the resilience of her fullness against his hand and marvels at the firm texture of her flesh,. Finally, she is freed, and he positions her with her back toward him once more. He pulls her tight against his chest in a classic lifesaving embrace and speaks to her calmly. "Sweetheart, we've got to swim to the boat. It's not far and you don't have to do anything, just lie back and let me tow you. Can you do that, honey?" "Yes, daddy, just give me a minute to get my breath back, OK?" she answers. "Sure, baby," he answers and pulls her closer. His arm holding her against him passes just beneath her breasts. He feels their weight upon his arm, and a flush of urgency courses through him. He pulls her tighter, fighting the rising sensations, but that just causes the slippery flesh of her bosoms to press harder against his arm. She lies passively in his arms, lightly gasping for breath, enjoying the comforting embrace. The smooth skin of her back presses hard against the firmness of his chest. His feet churn, treading water. Her taut, thong clad buttocks unexpectedly press against his loins, and he feels a surge like a bolt of electricity rippling through his body. Oh, my God, he thinks desperately, oh no. The pressure of her full, rounded buttocks pressing him is overpowering. His cock twitches, shudders like a sleeper waking from a deep sleep, and begins to grow. It rises urgently to press along the cleavage of her cheeks seeking to follow the thin string of her thong into the crevise. Jesus, he cries to himself, don't do that; it's your daughter. But his flesh has its own mind, and a will that resists restraint. In spite of his feeble protestations, his erection strengthens. Laura's gasping diminishes. He whispers hoarsely, a hint of desperation in his voice, "Are you feeling better?" She nods affirmatively, but responds, "Just give me another minute or two." He groans inwardly. His cock is approaching full erection; it is pressing her like an iron bar. Surely, she feels it; she must know what is happening here, he groans with inward despair. Almost as if responding to his unspoken fears, she shifts slightly in his arms, and the movement causes her breasts to caress his forearm. The hard points of her nipples drag hotly across his skin; her buttocks undulate suggestively against the bulge in his trunks. His cock jerks reflexively, and an involuntary gasp slips from his lips. Wantonly, she presses her full hips against him; he feels her cheeks spreading slightly to accommodate his length. She looks back at him over her shoulder and smiles; a smile which he cannot reliably distinguish between seductive and sweet. Almost imperceptibly her buttocks wriggle in a subtle caress of the protruding flesh of his cock. Confusion, dread and desire swirl in his mind like the flames of an out-of-control conflagration. Good God, he thinks, she can't be encouraging me; this can't be happening. But his fully aroused cock responds to the implicit invitation with another involuntary jerk. Oh my God, I know she felt that, he moans pitifully, just as she turns her face toward him and says huskily, "OK, daddy, I'm ready." He immediately begins to swim toward the boat, propelled by an uncertain urgency. His powerful strokes bring them quickly to stern and the hanging ladder. He helps her gain a purchase on the slippery rungs and watches as she ascends to the gunnel. She climbs gracefully, her nude breasts bobbling enticingly. At the top, she hops into the boat and turns to watch him climb the ladder. Embarrassed by his obvious arousal, he clings to the bottom rung using the murky water to conceal himself. "Daddy?" she pleads imploringly, "Come up here and get in the boat, please." Blushing with crimson embarrassment that's hot enough to boil the water he's hiding in, he lifts himself onto the ladder and reluctantly begins to climb. He bends at the waist, trying as best he can to conceal his state from her inquiring gaze. She's waiting for him, watching expectantly, and she extends her hand to help him over the stern. His eyes meet hers as he reaches the top of the ladder. A sultry warmth has replaced the wild, fearful look in her eyes. He takes her proffered hand and steps from the ladder to the slippery gunnel of the rocking boat. Her eyes drop instantly to the bulge in his swimsuit. The wet fabric clings transparently to the rigid length of his cock, outlining it perfectly and leaving nothing to her imagination. Seductively, a smile flickers at the corners of her mouth, and her pink tongue sweeps suggestively across her lips. "My, my, daddy, just look at you," she whispers, and her fingers tighten their grip on his hand. His mind swirls, excitement and revulsion writhe in mortal combat in that instant, and he loses concentration. His bare foot slips wildly on the wet gunnel. Balance lost, he totters for an instant at the top of the ladder, half in the boat and half out. Instinctively, she yanks his hand, jerking him toward her, into the boat. Lurching forward, he falls into the girl, knocking her to the floor, and sprawls across her body in a confused tangle of arms and legs in the bottom of the boat. Stunned, he lays still for a minute, collecting himself. He is instantly aware that the girl's lithe body is beneath him. Her firm breasts rise to meet the full weight of his chest; her nipples press hard into his skin like a pair of white-hot rivits. Her smooth, flat belly rises and falls beneath him with the steady rhythm of her breathing. She has spread her legs to receive the weight of his hips, cradling him with the soft saddle of her loins. The length of his rigid cock, throbbing with forbidden desire, presses into the resilient, nearly nude mons of her pussy. Oh Lord, his mind reels, struggling against the rising tide of his lust. His resistance begins to ebb, eroded by the certain knowledge that nothing but the flimsiest of cloth separates him from the Nirvana of her warm, wet sheath. Wantonly, she lifts her hips beneath him, rubbing herself against his maleness, and she looks directly into his eyes with lustful anticipation. His heart lodges in his throat; his pulse pounds wildly at his temples. He is breathless and faint, almost giddy with arousal. The movement of her mons upon his penis triggers exquisite sensation. His cock throbs in reaction, causing her eyes to blaze with delight. Immediately, she lifts her hips again to caress his hardness, and elicits an audible groan from his slightly parted lips. I've got to stop this right now, he thinks, nearly frantic with mounting confusion, and he tries to summons the will to resist his passion. He fights the present with the past attempting to recall the voluptuous girl writhing passionately beneath him as a toddler, but the hardening points of her breasts pierce his thoughts and block the attempt. With dwindling conviction he struggles to lifts his head, lips parting in protest, and tries to break free of her embrace. She counters by throwing her arm over his neck, and, in a throaty voice that is heavy with sexual promise, she utters the single command, "Stay." "Uuuuh," he groans, as his breath rushes out of his lungs like a man punched in the stomach. Startled and stunned, he hesitates on the narrow ledge of his sanity, off balance and uncertain, and, in that instant, he is lost. Her lush, candied lips touch his. Softly, they caress his mouth, and he tastes the incredible sweetness of her youth. Eagerly, her lips awaken, moving aggressively against his passivity. Her tongue slips past his last defenses to sweep into the warm cavern of his mouth like a swallow fluttering in a summer breeze. Blood pounds in his head. Her tongue, a sweet serpent of cunning desire, flicks sensuously at the corners of his lips and delves into the darkest recesses of his lust, fanning the flames of his emotion. She kisses him with an eager, unrestrained passion the like of which he has never known, didn't dream existed, and pulls him closer to her eager mouth. Still, he resists her and the swelling storm surge of his arousal. "Baby, baby," he mouths in protest, puffing weakly against her moving lips, "We mus..." "Shhhhh, daddy, it's OK," she interrupts, and her mons caresses his length once more to quell his fear. With surprising strength she pulls his mouth tightly to her lips silencing further protests. Her tongue delves erotically, swirling, sweeping his hard surfaces and cajoling him to abandon hesitation. Crumbling, he yields to her. His tongue responds, meeting hers, cautiously at first, then with growing abandon, entwining, dancing in an urgent, unchoreographed minuet of moist passion. His hands embrace her face; his fingers entwine in the damp tendrils of her hair to hold her gently as his lips churn against hers. Sensing surrender, she purrs and spreads her thighs, hunching again, but more wantonly than before. She strokes the length of his cock with her pussy and gurgles her lust against his mouth, leaving him no doubt of her intentions. Capitulating totally to his forbidden lust, he answers with a ferocious thrust wedges the tiny triangle of fabric cloth between her pussy lips. His hardness rides her cleft, splaying her lips like a plow breaking the earth. She shudders under him and mews as his cock scrapes the sensitive bud of her clitoris. "Mmmmmm. That's nice, daddy," she gasps, the words breaking heavily around the taut spike of his tongue. He groans and sends his cock on another intoxicating slide along the sweet heaven of her parted lips. Her hand, featherlike, dances down his body, weaving a trail of goosebumps on his bare flesh. Her fingertips pause for the space of an expectant gasp or two at the band of his trunks. Holding him close and kissing him deeply, she slips her fingers under his trunks and seizes his throbbing prick in her hand. "Ohhh, baby!" he gasps as her cool fingers encircle his red-hot cock. Her fingers tighten. She moves her hand on his pulsing shaft. Down, then up, then back down again, her fingers caress his heated flesh. She holds him against her body, jacking him off, and she directs his taut cock head to her clit, rubbing herself with him through the thin fabric of their swimsuits. He shudders at the exquisite stimulation; his cock twitches uncontrollably in her tantalizing grasp. "Oooo, daddy, your cock's so big and hard; I've been wondering what it would feel like to jack you off," she whispers heatedly, and her hand slithered up and down his shaft eagerly. Her lewd words ignite a cataclysm in his mind. "Argh," he screams through clenched teeth. His back arches, and his muscles go rigid. She bites the tip of his tongue, moaning as her fist tightens on his swelling flesh, "Cum for me, daddy. I want to feel it gush out of your prick." "Laura, baby," he wails helplessly as he begins viciously slamming his cock through the girl's tightly encircling fingers and his cum, white hot and thick, erupts from the tip. Goddamm, he thought, waking from his daydream and glancing at the speedometer. He was rocketing down the freeway at 84 miles an hour and nearly oblivious to everything but the pounding erection in his pants. Lifting his foot off the accelerator, he looked down at his lap and noticed a spreading stain on his trousers. Sweating hands griped the wheel tensely. Goddamm. Always the same; every time. He fights his emotions, really fights, but he can't resist his awful urges and he capitulates; too weak, too spineless to protect his daughter from her own father. And, in the moment of his greatest failing, as he surrenders to the irresistible beast in his loins, she touches him, coaxing him to cum for her, and he shoots his cum into his pants. "The Dream" always ends like that, whether he's asleep or awake, and he wakens from it to find his body soaked in sweat and his cock gushing cum into his shorts. What in the hell is the matter with me, he agonized, wheeling the car past the imposing stone pillars at the entrance to his subdivision. Why am I having dreams that involve my own daughter, he interrogated himself relentlessly. Hell, we don't even kiss good night any more, and I sure haven't seen her naked in years and years. Bewildered, he shook his head and temporized. Well, sure, I know what she looks like now that she's grown. Swim suits and padding around the house in bra and panties took care of that. Sure, I've noticed that her breasts have filled out, and her hips have widened nicely. And, of course, I'm aware she has the body of an athlete. Hell, she is an athlete, lettered in soccer and basketball in high school and studied dance for years and years. Modern dance, jazz, tap, ballet, you name it, she excelled at it. Sure, I've watched her dance at recitals, moving with the grace of a cat across the floor, spotlighted, her shapely legs flashing. Sure, some of it was pretty exotic, but I never looked at her like that, not really. Why, she's just a little girl; my baby. Not like that, never, I couldn't. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 4 Chapter 4: The Calm before the Storms "Whew," he gulped, pulling into the driveway. "I need a change of scene." Entering the house, he threw his keys on the kitchen table, next to a pile of unopened bills, and called out to Laura. He found her in the den, watching TV and painting her toenails. "Hey, baby, you ready to go?" he asked. "Will be in a minute," she answered. Her chin was resting on her knee and she was concentrating on the nail painting. "Where's Barb and Bonnie?" he asked, looking around the den and seeing no evidence of the presence of the twins who were supposed to accompany them to the lake. "Oh, they're not coming. Something came up with their mom, and they had to cancel," Laura answered without looking up. "Darn," he replied. Disappointment was evident in his voice. "That's a shame. You want to cancel too, then, I guess? Won't be near as much fun with just ole dad to hang with." "Heck no, I don't want to cancel. I've been looking forward to spending the weekend with you; I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said emphatically like she had expected something of the sort and had already ruled it out. He grinned in mild relief, recalling that the trip had actually been her idea; something she had cooked up for them to do together after Miriam announced that she was going to the convention alone. "You sure you won't be bored to death with just me out there? Maybe they'll be free tomorrow; we can wait and go then, if you want." "It's OK, Dad," she reassured him. "They're tied up all weekend. And besides, you're plenty of fun by yourself and those two are totally psycho. All they do is talk about boys and plot about how to hookup with each other's boyfriend. They're really sketchy, Dad. I'm actually relieved they aren't going." "Hey, that's great; I mean that you still want to go with me, but I didn't know that about them; I always thought you were really tight with Heckle and Jeckle," he replied, smiling at the memory of how the twins' manner of turning their heads to jabber at each other earned them their nicknames. Well, that, plus their coal black hair and dark eyes, too. "We're tight enough, I just won't miss them this weekend. You and I will just have to find something to keep each other entertained, I guess," she smiled at him evenly. "Well, all right," he exclaimed happily. "I’ll accept that challenge. Let's get outa here and get there early, so we don't lose our favorite spot.” "Sure, Dad. I'm packed already; won't take me a second to get ready.” "By the way, are you and Lance speaking these days?" he inquired cautiously. Sibling rivalry had been taking a toll on what remained of the family’s tranquility, and he had frequently noticed her pointedly ignoring her brother. "Kinda. Why?" She asked warily. "Just wondered if you talked to him about coming with us, like I suggested?" he answered trying to sound casual about it. "I left him a note Monday. I told him we were going, and he was welcome to come along, if he wanted." "Bet he was thrilled at that," he replied sardonically. "What'd he say?" "He can't go; has rugby practice every day this weekend and he’s going backpacking next week. Said he probably won't be back till about the time mom's due back from Chicago." "Probably just an excuse. You tell him Heckle and Jeckle might be there?" he asked, remembering how attractive the twins were. "Nope, last thing I need is to be stuck with them on a boat so far back in the middle of nowhere the phones don’t work and them "Oohing" and "Aahing" all over Lance for three days. I'd sooner stay home myself as to go through that crap." "Well, I guess I can see what you mean," he replied softly, trying not to rile her further. "Did you believe the bit about rugby practice and backpacking?" "I dunno. With Lance you never can be sure what he's really up to, but his backpack and sleeping bag aren't in his closet. You can go check for yourself, if you want." "His closet? I don't think so. You know how your mother is about allowing you guys to have your privacy and your space." "Oh, yeah, Dad, I know all about Mom," she replied with a hint of exasperation. "But, if you ask me, if you and mom give Lance much more space, he's gonna take over the place." "Come on, baby, don't be so judgmental," he urged gently. He was cognizant of the burdens that birth order places on the last born. "He's just having a little difficulty finding himself; you know, growing up." "It could be, Dad, he's a lot more grown up than you know," she answered sharply. "Well, I hope so for his sake," he replied pensively, recollecting the escapades of the boy’s younger years. Rugby and backpacking sure are preferable to his former activities. Turned seventeen and wanted to pose for Playgirl. Miriam squelched that; not that he didn't have the body and the looks for it. Had looks like Michelangelo chiseled him from solid stone himself. Tall, proportioned, strong as an ox and fast as lightning. Played tailback till he dislocated his shoulder in a rappelling accident. Turned eighteen and wanted to leave home with a couple of friends and try out for the Chippendales. Miriam squelched that one too, but Don had figured he might as well get paid for what he was gonna do anyway. Had so many girls after him they were driving all the rest of the household nuts. What was going on in his room behind the closed door, he didn't even want to know. Anyway, it did seem that, since he turned twenty, ole Lance had grown up a lot. Shoot, he wasn't even dating very often anymore, and he'd even been working with Miriam some. She'd started taking him along on her open houses quite a bit of late, and he'd been a huge success with all her clients. Well, it's a good thing he's growing up, Don thought guiltily, because he's sure going to have a lot to handle in a few days, when the cops show up looking for his daddy. Doesn't much look like I'll get the chance to talk to him and invite him to come along, but I really didn't have any illusions that he would want to. Nope, ole Lance’s become just a little too independent to want to tag along with a Dad on the lam from the law. "There, that's done," Laura said, finishing her nails and bouncing up from the couch. He hadn't paid much attention to her attire previously. Whew, he thought, eyeballing her dangerously short cutoffs and skimpy top. It was the top that really caught his attention. It was one of those little bands of flimsy fabric about six inches wide that hangs loosely from the shoulders by a couple of spaghetti straps. It barely covered her breasts and her midriff was bare. Laura turned to face him, her bronzed, flat tummy and long legs bare; her pert breasts thrust the top out a good four or five inches from her belly. The straps had slipped from her shoulders and hung uselessly down her arms. Gawd, he thought, realizing that the only thing keeping her top from falling off was the fact that it was snagged on her nipples, the points of which protruded prominently just below top seam of the garment. An accident looking for a place to happen, he thought; if she steps off a curb, that thing's gonna wind up around her ankles. She stepped toward him, and he watched her closely. The verges of her nipples, just where the golden tan of her breasts changed to darker brown, peeked out above her top. "You think maybe you need to change? I've got to stop at the liquor store on the way," he asked with a look that was less disapproving than dubious. "I'm OK, I'll just wait in the car while you go in," she answered brightly, quickly dismissing his concerns. "That's what I'm afraid of, baby. You might get abducted looking like that." "I ain't skeered," she laughed. "I got you to protect me, don't I?" "You sure do, darlin, but you're expectin a little much of your dad, if you're thinkin I can fight off twenty or thirty of 'em at a time. "Well, daddy," she said giggling suggestively as she wriggled up the stairs toward her room. "If it comes to that, we'll just have to think of something other than fighting to handle them, won't we?" It took only a few minutes to load the car and lower the convertible top for the hour drive to the lake. The trip to the liquor store wasn't nearly as eventful as he had feared, though the line did get a little long because the clerk got distracted and kept staring out the window at Laura. The hour-long trip from there to the lake was a breeze, almost no traffic except for an occasional trucker, most of who honked and waved. Heck, they usually honked at Miriam, too. At first, he thought, it must be the convertible, but then he noticed that the wind was causing Laura's top to billow out whenever they passed an eighteen wheeler. It didn't do much from his prospective, but it must be quite a view from eight feet above them. Laura just laughed and waved back as they sped past. Their houseboat wasn't not bad as houseboats go; about forty-five feet long, with a flying bridge and sundeck on top, a master state room and bath in the bow below and a pilot's station, a kitchen and eating/sitting area amid ship and aft. The seats in the sitting area can be made into beds, so six or so can sleep comfortably. They loaded the supplies quickly, and Laura untied the mooring lines, while he started the dual inboard diesels. "You want to drag the ski boat along, daddy?" she called up to him, shouting over the noise of the engines. Guiltily recalling images from "The Dream," he glanced in the direction of the boat moored along side the houseboat and shook his head. "Naw, we better not since there's just the two of us; that OK with you?" "Sure," she called back, hopping onto the gently rocking deck of the houseboat. "We can always come back later and get it, if we want." They had the lake practically to themselves as they motored out to their favorite anchorage. It was located in a deep, narrow cove, which followed the bed of an old stream that had been drowned by the lake. Rocky bluffs rose along the sides of the cove, reaching upward in some places more than seventy feet above the water. The cove ended, after several sharp turns, in a narrow gorge with a softly singing waterfall at the head. The sheer walls of the gorge pressed so closely that there was barely room enough to maneuver the boat. High above and nearly horizontal to the water, on the rim of the gorge, an old oak tree that had been pushed over in a thunderstorm, reached out across the empty space above the cove with leafy arms extended. An old rope, badly frayed and gray from exposure to the elements, dangled from the oak and hung, like a noose from a giblet, almost to the water right in the center of the cove. Ledges and narrow crevices scored the precipitous walls, and provided scant lodgment for a few adventurous scrub trees and bushes. At nightfall, the lights from the boat could only illuminate the lower reaches of the rock faces, and above the light, the rock would soar onward into the darkness like the great walls of an ancient gothic cathedral. A star-filled sky formed a glorious domed ceiling for the chamber that had no rival on the earth, they thought, save, possibly, the dome of the Sistine chapel. At the cove’s head, the waterfall descended from the upper reaches of the wall in a series of uneven, broken steps, before dropping the final fifteen or twenty feet in a frothy curtain some ten feet wide. The sound of cascading water, amplified by the confining rock walls, filled the cove and enhanced the sense of tranquility and peace. For years the cove had been their paradise on earth; a sanctuary of towering rocky spires and serenely singing waters. It was the place they came to worship the sun and perform the Bacchanalian rites of spring. They had spent countless days and nights in total seclusion there, and in earlier, happier times, when the kids were little, he and Miriam would put them to bed and go skinny dipping in the dark. They had discovered a broad ledge under the waterfall, where they could lie naked and make love while the cool water beat gently on their heated bodies. The kids loved it there, too, swinging by the rope from the sundeck to drop into the cool, clear water below, spending endless hours floating on tubes and rafts, fishing and climbing the waterfall to explore the vast empty forest above. He was relieved to find the cove empty on that afternoon, since it was well known and very popular, especially for the privacy it offered. Once moored at the head of the cove, none of the boat would be visible from the lake, and, in fact, someone would have to come within just a few yards of the boat to know they were there. After tying off the boat, they changed into swimsuits and climbed the ladder to the sundeck. He slipped off his shirt, stretched out on a cushioned bench at the end of the deck and positioned an umbrella to shield his face from the sun. We'll in the shadows pretty soon, since the cove only gets about five or six hours of direct sunlight a day, he thought, as he picked up his book to begin reading. Laura, meanwhile, had spread a beach towel on the deck and was laying face down on it. Reaching behind her, she unsnapped the clasp of her bikini top and let the band fall to the deck. He squinted at her briefly, wondering if he recognized the bikini as being from his dream. It looked vaguely familiar, but he quickly pushed that thought out of his mind, annoyed with himself for impure thoughts, and looked away, but not before noticing the fullness of her breast pushing out under the weight of her body and the fact that she had no tan lines. Ashamed of himself, he fought off the image of the fullness of her naked breast and it's crowning nipple, and turned to his book. Time passed quickly. Before long, the shadow of the west cliff had crossed the cove and was well on its way up the east wall. A cool gust of wind blowing off the lake had negotiated the approaches to the cove and was replacing the heavier, heated air surrounding the boat with a refreshing breeze. He put down his book, looking in Laura's direction. "Hey, Laura, the sun's about gone and I'm dying of thirst. How about going down and getting your old man one of those beers?" "Sure, Dad," she replied rubbing her eyes and reaching behind her to refasten her top. "The sun felt so good, I fell asleep; what time is it anyway?" "Nearly five, baby, cocktail hour." "Wow, that late?" she replied, jumping to her feet, "I'll be right back with your beer." In a couple of minutes, she returned, climbing the ladder with two beers in her hand. "I thought I’d join you, Dad. It wouldn’t do having you drinking alone up here, would it?" she said grinning brazenly. "Well," he began uncertainly, finding it difficult to imagine life without having to account to Miriam. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, baby. You know that if your mother finds, she'd have a fit and probably wouldn't ever let you come up again without her." She laughed, stepping onto the deck and extending an open bottle to him. "Daddy," she scolded, cocking her head and putting her hand on her hip for emphasis, "Mother is not going to hear one word about this trip from me, and besides, I seriously doubt she would want me to come with her if she ever does come up here." "Why do you say that, sweetheart?" he answered curiously, taking the beer from her. "She didn't want me with her in Chicago, did she?" "It's not that she didn't want to be with you, honey," he said, recalling Miriam's emphatic rejection of his idea that she take Laura with her and make a mother-daughter thing of the trip. "She was just afraid you would be bored with her being in meetings all day and hanging out with her real estate buddies at night. You know how she loves to network." "Oh, daddy, sometimes you..." she began, looking at him oddly. "Sometimes I what?" he responded, soliciting a conclusion to the observation. "Oh nothing," she replied evasively. "I just wish you were right." He pondered that unresponsive remark briefly before bringing the cold bottle to his lips. What's that mean, he wondered, but he shrugged it off, preferring to savor the flavor of the cold liquid flowing into his mouth. "OK, I guess one won't hurt you. Much." "Hasn't so far," she chirped back cheerfully and settling into a lawn chair by his side. I'll let that one pass, he thought wisely, and changed the subject. They sat, talking quietly while the light faded. From time to time, over the next hour or so, she replenished his beer from the cooler in the galley below, and he would drink while their conversation ranged far and wide. They talked of boyfriends, or the lack thereof, college expectations, career aspirations, the manner of things of which fathers speak to daughters on the infrequent occasions when they are alone together. He marveled at how she had grown intellectually, her mind keeping pace with her obvious physical development. Her insights and depth of understanding suggested wisdom beyond her years. Her self-confidence and assurance manifested itself repeatedly in the openness and directness of her questions to him. No guile in this girl, he thought, as she fired salvo after salvo directly across his bow: "Daddy, are you and Mom going to get a divorce?" she asked him pointedly. "Good Lord, what makes you ask a question like that?" he gulped uncomfortably. "Oh, I dunno. I guess cause you two fight so much." "It's not as bad as all that, is it?" "Sure sounds bad to me." "What do you mean?" "All that shouting and yelling, doors slamming, things breaking. You know." "People argue, baby, but it doesn't mean anything. Just letting off steam is all. It sure doesn't mean they're going to get a divorce," he answered guardedly, suppressing the urge to blurt out the truth. "Lance figures if she starts making any money in this real estate thing, she'll take off." "Is that what you think?" he asked, masking his surprise. "I dunno. I think she's got it made. Does what she wants, when she wants. Anything she doesn't want to do, she just leaves for you. I think she'd be a fool to leave and have to start taking care of herself for a change." He laughed a little, mostly self-consciously, at this dead-on portrayal of his gutless approach to division of responsibility. He again resisted the impulse to divulge his plans; the time's not right for that, he thought. "Honey, I wouldn't worry too much about what Lance thinks. He's hardly around enough to know what's going on." "He's around more than you think; you're just at work. Besides, he and Mom talk about stuff all the time." Her words were sharp and he could feel her eyes on him. "Well, honey, even so, I don't imagine she's discussing that kind of thing with him, do you? Really?" "I don't know what they talk about, daddy," she answered darkly, like she wasn’t telling everything she knew. "What does that mean?" he said trying to draw her out. "I mean they don't talk when I'm around. It's, like, weird. They stop talking whenever I'm there, like I'm interrupting something." "Oh, honey, you're just imagining things," he responded, protectively putting an innocuous face to the behavior. "I'm not making that up." "That's not what I'm saying. It's just that there's probably a good explanation for it, that's all. She's probably just protecting his privacy and doesn't want to discuss his business in front of you." "Thanks, Dad. That's sweet," she sighed patting his arm. "Sweet?" "Yeah, trying to make me feel better." "I meant it, baby, I wasn't just trying to make you feel better," he lied unconvincingly; they both knew Miriam had always been excessively partial to Lance. That gives me an edge at least, he thought deviously. If she's pissed enough at her mother, maybe she'll jump at the chance to come with me. Might actually work out, he pondered, his affect brightening at the prospect. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 4 "Yeah, right," she replied. Sarcasm dripped from her words. He leaned forward, puffed up, winding up his courage to speak. His mind churned with indecision. He was inclined toward telling her about the bonds and his plans and asking her right then to run away with him. His mouth opened, and she looked at him expectantly, but his indecisiveness choked off the words in his throat. No, not now. It's too soon. She's not ready; I'm not ready. Plenty of time. Let it rest. You'll know when it's time. Deflated, he slumped back in his seat, and took a gulp of beer. "Daddy?" she resumed after that inexplicable interlude. "Yes?" he answered distantly. "Did you ever fool around on mom?" The question was delivered so matter of factly that for an instant he thought he had misunderstood her. "Whaaa?" "Did you ever fool around on mom, you know, with other women?" she repeated, the casualness of her tone belying the intensity of her interest in his reaction to the question. She watched closely as he squirmed for a suitable response. "Laura! I, uh, I, uh," he began, stammering in protest, as his face turned red instantly. "I, no, no, of course not, never." He mentally kicked himself for that unconvincing denial. Jeez, I failed that one, he groaned inwardly. Hook me up to a polygraph and the needle would be off the page. Talk about stress under interrogation. She smiled at him with a knowing, “Me thinks he doth protest too much” kind of smile, and replied as though to justify the asking, "I didn't know, not for sure anyway." "What do you mean?" he yelped at the implicit accusation. "I thought maybe you had, is all," she said, continuing to study him carefully. "For Christ's sake. With whom?" He kicked himself again for the artlessness of his denial. "Sarah Miller, for one," she responded without hesitation, as if she had carried the name on her tongue for days just biding her time till the right moment to lay it on the table. "Barb and Bonnie's mother?" he protested with a shocked gasp. "What on earth gave you that idea?" "Oh, just the way the two of you look at each other when she comes over to the house. You know, like, the way she’s always touching you, putting her hands on you. Stuff like that." He blushed crimson. Sarah was lonely; widowed by an insensitive lout of a husband who was more enamoured with fishing and golfing than with her. Beautiful, sexy and lonesome, a compelling combination, he had to admit. Jet black hair, flashing dark eyes and an hourglass figure with no one at home to appreciate it. He had introduced her to cunnilingus, which she quickly came to believe was a gift from the gods and she had convinced herself that the sex gods had placed him on the earth for the express purpose of presenting her with that gift, as often as she needed. His pulse quickened as he remembered the velvet softness of her inner thighs, spreading in invitation and the lovely contrast of black hair on milk-white skin with a bisecting pink exclamation mark. "Laura!" he protested, washing the image of Sarah from his mind with a gulp of beer. "You're imagining things. Mrs. Miller's just a little more extroverted that we are; a little more touchy-feely. You're taking that all wrong." Pretty lame, he chided himself, not convincing at all. Wonder if she'll buy it, he asked himself, but, before he could rationalize an answer, he was jolted by the recollection of the incident involving the slamming of Sarah's kitchen door. God, he remembered in vivid detail, we never did figure out who that was. They had been at Sarah's house, just the two of them; thought it was empty. They had been there before under similar circumstances and felt secure. Jim was fishing, and the girls were away somewhere. It had all been so spontaneous. He had dropped by with some clothes the girls had left at his house after a swim party. Sarah was wearing a bathrobe and nothing else. She asked him to stay for a drink, and he agreed. They talked and drank and after a while her robe came undone, exposing the full, rounded curves of her breasts to him. He kissed her and lifted her onto the counter top of the island, which separated the kitchen from the den. She laid back and spread her legs wide for him. He knelt before her and ran his tongue along the soft skin of her inner thighs, teasingly, at first, avoiding contact with her black bush. She wriggled and cried out, and then, she grabbed his hair with both hands and directed his mouth to cover her. His tongue flashed into her depths, licking and tasting her the hot, sweet wetness of her essence. He licked her trembling lips and inserted his tongue between them, and her moisture flowed like water into his mouth. She cried out with pleasure when his mouth found, then closed over her clitoris, and it was at that moment, when she screamed the words, "Oh yes, suck my clit, Don," that they heard the kitchen door slam behind them. Of course, they leapt up and tried to make themselves presentable as quickly as possible. At first, they were relieved to find no one in the kitchen, but they became alarmed when they ran to the door and found no one there. He searched outside the house, while Sarah looked inside, although they were fairly certain that, occupied though they were at the time, no one could have slipped into the house and past them unseen. No, it had to have been someone who opened the door and then slammed it shut without coming in; but whom? What had they seen? Why did they leave without coming in? They never found out, and for days after the incident they walked on eggshells in fear of the repercussions of being exposed. They relaxed somewhat, when, after some weeks, they could detect no obvious change in anybody's attitude toward them, but the experience made them skittish, and, for a while, less inclined to contrive to get together. She watched his expression while his memories played themselves out across his face, and a smile curled at the corners of her mouth as though she was reading his mind. "Yeah, I guess you're right, Dad," she answered gently, yielding the point all too easily to give him comfort. "Laura, I..." he began, attempting to buttress his answer with a more coherent denial. She stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. "It's OK, Dad. I was wrong. Sorry I brought it up; just forget about it, OK? How about another beer?" He quickly nodded his ascent, grateful that she appeared to accept his denial at face value. Odd that she’d bring up that subject, now, he thought scratching his head reflectively while the lithe figured girl disappeared over the side. Could she possibly know anything? Surely it wasn't possible that she was the person at the door that afternoon. But, after all, his house was only a few blocks from the Miller's, and it was close enough that the kids walked back and forth all the time. Oh, of course not, he reassured himself. Hadn't he rushed home immediately, tires squealing on the corners, only to find Laura in the den, stretched out on the couch and absorbed in a TV show? No way she could have covered that distance and beat him home. And, he remembered thinking at the time; she wasn't even breathing hard and acted surprised to see him. Nope, if she had seen anything in Sarah's kitchen, he would have known it. As for the question? Probably just a lucky guess, he rationalized, although he did have to admit that Sarah sure liked to put her hands on him when they were talking. Laura hit that nail on the head, he conceded, remembering even then, as the cool of the evening settled around him, the feeling of the soft pressure of Sarah's hand on his arm. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand lightly as they talked. Her hip, flank and thigh pressed invitingly against his, as they leaned against the bar in his den, sipping scotch, neat, without ice. Whew, she sure had the ability to hold a man's attention with that touch, he remembered. She could say more with a couple of fingers in a half a second than most women could in an hour of nonstop talking. Had a way of looking into a man's eyes with a direct, unwavering look that penetrated right into his soul when she touched him. It was like she was reading his mind through her eyes and fingertips, or, more often, planting ideas, suggestions, which would lay so hard on him he couldn't resist them even if he had wanted to. And, in the instant of recalling that touch, her image came to him anew. She was kneeling beside him, holding a flashlight for him while he probed her swimming pool filter searching for a blockage. She had called him in a panic one Saturday evening, when Miriam and the kids were out. Jim was on a golf trip for the weekend and the pool pump was clogged; water was flooding the yard and beginning to run into the garage. She hated to bother him but could he come over and help her. Of course, he replied immediately, so, there he was, ten minutes later, in shorts and a tee shirt, kneeling on her cool deck with his arm up to the shoulder in pool muck trying to clear the filter. She was wearing shorts and a bikini top, which did little to conceal her breasts. She knelt beside him holding the light, their heads together so closely they were nearly touching, peering into the black depths of the filter housing. Her shoulder pressed against his; her hip and thigh rested along side his. He could feel the heat of her body. She smelled of musk and anise. He groped in the dark water for the obstruction, and she held the light steadily. His mind was not on pool filters at the moment, but he succeeded anyway. "Hurray," he exclaimed, raising into the air a crumpled bathing cap and waving it over his head, triumphantly, like warrior brandishing a scalp. "My hero," she said, laughing at his antics, and she brought them drinks to the pool. They settled on a lounge chair next to the pool. Only the lights from the house windows reflecting on the water lit the yard. He could see her features clearly in the soft light and was moved by her loveliness. She thanked "Her Hero" for helping her, for coming to her rescue, and he said it was nothing. She turned her face toward him; her eyes, lit from within by the despair of her loneliness, sought his, and her hand touched his bare thigh. He sat motionless, feeling the heat of her hand on his thigh. She held him by the gentle depth of her gaze while his heart beat accelerated. She spoke softly, almost tearfully, of the emptiness of her life and of her solitude. She spoke of the hardship of caring for the children and the burden of managing a house without any help. She moved closer to him and the heat of her made his head swim. Her lips, almost as black as her hair in the darkness, moved in a nearly inaudible whisper, as she spoke longingly of the fulfillment which was denied her and of her unmet needs. As the suggestion of her words reached the pathways of his mind, her hand slipped down from the top of his leg to a more intimate contact with his inner thigh. She stroked her fingertips across his skin in a wanton affirmation of her invitation. He put his arm around her, drawing her toward him and kissed her softly on the lips. She moaned at the contact and immediately her mouth moved against his in a fury of frustrated desire. Her fingers dug urgently into the flesh of his thigh, driving him to hurry. His hands clutched at her full breasts through the cloth of her top, feeling her nipples, already tightened, stiffen to his touch. He ripped the cloth from her body, stripping her to the waist with one violent sweep of his hand. He cupped a breast, thumbing her taut nipple for a moment before bringing it to his mouth. She gasped with pleasure when his mouth opened to receive her, and she felt the wet warmth of his tongue caress her hardened flesh. Her hand moved eagerly on his thigh, and her fingers closed on his bulging manhood. He tore off his tee shirt and flung it on the grass nearby. Turning, he took her in his arms and felt the hot tips of her breasts burning into his chest. They kissed in delirious exploration, tongues delving and dipping, twisting and entwining, and their breaths quickened. His fingers sought the clasp of her shorts and released it. They stood together, and he took her into his arms, while his hands hastily pushed her shorts over the naked bulge of her buttocks. The garment fell to her ankles, and she stepped out of it without breaking the contact of their lips. Her nudity moved against him, and he cupped the firm, full globes of her ass in his hands, luxuriating in the incredible softness of her milk white skin. She clung to him hungrily, reveling in long deferred sensations, and letting her passion soar to his touches. Then, he laid her back upon the lounge and knelt between her open legs. His fingers parted her velvet lips to expose her moist, pink inner flesh. The tip of his index finger traced her open furrow, and she writhed under his wetted caress. He found the hard stalk of her clitoris, hooded and hidden in her moistened folds and stroked it gently with his fingertip. She quivered and begged him to put his fingers inside her. He complied, entering her with two fingers, and he marveled at the flow of her juices. She drew her legs apart lewdly and implored him to fuck her with his fingers. He inserted a third finger, and used his free hand to separate her slippery folds to expose her clitoris. He bent to her waiting body and sucked her clit into his mouth, tonguing it and rolling it between his tongue and teeth. She shrieked and pressed his head into her crotch with both hands, panting and begging him not to stop. Her hips heaved on the cushions, battering his lips with her groin. He felt her heat, smelled the musky wetness of her arousal, and drove his tongue frantically against her throbbing clit. He withdrew his fingers and felt her wetness flooding her thighs, lubricating her legs, belly and the tight crack of her ass. Her fluid, viscous, wet, shimmering in the reflected light, pungent with the scent of her passion, poured from the thick, swollen lips of her slit and down her clenched cheeks to the cushion. His tongue replaced his fingers, plunging into her steaming depths, and he tasted the sea foam flavor of her overpowering need. Her fingers, moving under his lips, frantically sought the core of her lust. Her fingers swam through the wet mat of her pubic hair and his open mouth, to find and claw apart her throbbing lips in urgent welcome to his tongue. He licked and lapped, and drank of her essence without stopping until his breath was gone. He drew back, and she protested. He said, "Roll over." In an instant she complied, and he positioned her on the cushion, on her knees and elbows with the milky white globes of her buttocks lifting toward the starry sky like newly risen moons. Her head rested on her hands, and she looked at him hungrily as he stripped off his shorts, flinging them after his tee shirt. She reached for him, but he backed away and told her to be patient. She groaned and complained that she had been patient long enough. He laughed again and knelt behind her, moving her knees apart to the opposing edges of the cushion. Her mounds and the dark cleft below were presented to him like melons on a plate. His hands caressed the firm columns of her thighs, stroking through her wet, matted pubic hair, dipping briefly into the hot wetness of her pussy, before slipping caressingly over the quivering mounds of her ass. She held her breath expectantly, not knowing exactly the course his lust would take to resolution. His thumbs dug into her cheeks where the dark furrow divided her white globes, and she thrust back invitingly. He forced her cheeks to separate, and she opened for him willingly. The tiny rose of her anus glimmered wetly, oiled by the effluent of her excitement. She moaned enticingly and instinctively pushed against the pressure of his hands on her mounds. His lips moved to engage the rise of her hips, and his tongue, slipping out in advance, touched lightly upon her wrinkled little rosebud. "Oh Don," she gasped breathlessly, as the initial contact sent spasms of delight rushing through her loins. Her head tossed against the cushion as she writhed in sexual delirium. Her voice rose and fell as she lost, then gained, then lost again control of the passions coursing through her body. "Oh Don," she began in a hoarse whisper only to have her voice rise in crescendo, "Oh, Yessss," as his tongue thrust through the tight ring of her anus and probed deeply between her heaving cheeks. She gripped his tongue with a ferocity borne of unbridled passion. His fingers slid up her thigh, slipping through a torrent of fluid toward her steaming lips... Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 5 Chapter 5: Dance Recital/b> "Here you go, dad," a voice called out to him from far away. He ignored it; his fingers encountered the puffy lips of Sarah's pussy, distended and engorged with passion, flowing with her essence... "Daaaaad?" the voice returned insistently, accompanied by a hand shaking his shoulder. "Huh, whaaa?" he stammered in response, his mind caught astraddle the barbed wire fence which separates past from present. He looked up, startled, eyes struggling to regain focus. He shook his head to throw off the memories as a dog shakes off water. "Are you OK?" she asked sounding worried. "Yeah, yeah, baby, I'm fine. Just got lost in thought there for a minute." "I hope you weren't thinking about Mrs. Miller and what I said about you two earlier," she said, extending a beer to him. "No, no, nothing like that," he lied, and taking the beer, he added, "My mind was just wandering, that's all." She eyed him shrewdly, weighing his veracity, before continuing. "I brought me another one. That OK with you?" He responded with a wave of his hand, almost vacantly; his mind was loath to relinquish the vision of Sarah Miller ass trembling under the caress of his tongue and fingers. He was swimming in murky waters, trying to regain his focus. She waggled her bottle under his nose to gain his attention, eyebrows arching expectantly, as though she was anticipating a cogent response. "Oh, yeah, sure, baby. Have as many as you want," he answered with a shrug. Why the hell should I care what Miriam thinks, he figured, I ain't never gonna see the bitch again anyway. She laughed happily, although he could detect no hint of relief, and settled back into her chair at his side. "You know, Dad," she resumed, taking their conversation in a new direction, "there was a time when I thought I would become a dancer." "I always thought you would," he replied reflectively, relieved to have his thoughts diverted from the stimulation of Sarah Miller. "You did it so well, I thought you were born to it." "Yeah, I know you liked it a lot, daddy." "I sure did, especially the recitals, with the costumes and lights, that huge performance hall with the cameras set up in the aisles. Watching you dance at those recitals really got to me, baby." "I remember recital. Miss Tina made a huge deal out of them." "She should have. She was a first rate choreographer and every one of your routines was spectacular. And, you, young lady, were spectacular, too. "Thanks, Dad, but you know, it just went on too long. I guess I started too young and finally just out grew it. It's like the things you do when you're really young, after a while, seem to be too babyish to keep doing, even if they aren't. Do you know what I mean?" Sure I do, honey, and I respect your decision to quit. I respected it then and I still do, I just miss getting to watching you dance, that's all. Shoot, I even got a kick out of watching practice." "Well, maybe I can fix that a little, if you'd like," she whispered softly. "How?" he asked skeptically. "Well, I could dance for you tonight, if you want me to." "Here? Now? How are you going to do that, baby? No lights, no music; it wouldn't work." "What was your favorite dance piece, daddy?" "You know my favorite; `Prelude to Midnight.' Damn near brought tears to my eyes every time I saw you do it," he answered thickly, his voice growing raspy with longing at the recollection of her last performance. " I have it," she told him calmly. "What do you mean, you have it?" he answered incredulously. "I have it. I have `Prelude" here with me, right now, on my practice tape. It's in my backpack. And, my stereo's down there, too." "Well, I'll be damned; I figured you had thrown all that stuff out when you quit taking dance. You are full of surprises, tonight, but there's still no light. You can't dance in the dark, baby." "That won't matter. The moon'll be up by the time I'm ready, and it's nearly full," she reminded him reassuringly. "That won't be enough to see you dance, will it?" he fretted, thinking of spotlights and footlights and her dazzling performances. "It'll be enough for me, daddy. Maybe in the dark you won't notice how rusty I've become." "I doubt I'd notice that in any light, darlin, but you don't have your costume in your backpack, too, do you? It won't be the same without your costume." For reasons he was unable to confront, subconsciously he was intent on discouraging her. "Oh, daddy, don't be so negative. Stop worrying and drink your beer. I'll find something to wear that you'll like, I promise." "Shoot, get your game on then, baby; I can hardly wait. It's been a long, long time," he relented against better judgment. Rising from her chair, she leaned to kiss him softly on the cheek and whispered inscrutably, "You've been waiting a long, long time for a lot of things, haven't you, daddy?" Without waiting for his response, she turned and disappeared down the ladder, leaving him mildly bemused and puzzled, but eagerly anticipating her performance. He leaned back against the railing and gazed up at the vast array of stars overhead. His head swam slightly from the effects of the beers, but not enough to suggest to him that he was becoming drunk. Just a little more relaxed, he thought thankfully. He heard her happily humming through the open windows below, and, occasionally, as she moved about he saw her shadow dancing on the water. After a few minutes, she called out, "Hey, Dad, I'm going to take a quick shower, want a beer before I do?" He pondered momentarily the wisdom of another beer, but before he could answer, her head popped over the edge of the deck and she handed up a small cooler. "Here" she said gaily. "These ought to hold you for a while, all this running up and down is going to have me so worn out I won't be able to dance a step." He returned to his seat with the cooler and extracting a beer, leaned back to resume his contemplations. A shooting star flashed across the open roof of his cathedral and he smiled. I get a wish, so what do I wish for? He laughed aloud at the realization that the million and a half in bearer bonds stashed in the closet down below was enough to make just about any wish come true. A good omen indeed; the gift of a wish and the means to make it happen. Minutes passed and he became restless. He opened another beer and glanced toward the ladder anxiously. What is keeping her, he wondered? He heard the shower stop running ages ago. It can't take that long to put on a costume and get up here. Calm down, he counseled himself. Don't get so excited, buster. She's probably gonna come up here in jeans and a sweatshirt to hop around for five or ten minutes, and then she'll tell you she's starved for dinner. Damn, dinner, he remembered guiltily. Hell, we should have eaten hours ago. Just then, he heard the generator shut down and realized that she had switched to battery so it wouldn't be so noisy. Lights in the interior cabin blinked out and the cove, lit only by starlight and the pale glow of the rising moon, darkened perceptibly. His eyes quickly adjusted to the diminished light sufficiently for him to make out her figure ascending the ladder. "Here, Dad, would you take the stereo for me?" she asked, sliding the box across the Astroturf surface toward him. He retrieved the boom box and stood uncertainly in the center of the deck. "Just put it on the floor over there in front of the bench," she said, pointing in the direction of the cushion locker across the deck from his seat, "and sit down, I'll be up in a second." Following her instructions dutifully, he took his seat and waited expectantly. His hands were perspiring slightly. The moon had risen and it surprised him with its brilliance. It illuminated the deck and the details of the surrounding cove with remarkable clarity. He rubbed his palms against his shorts to dry them, wondering why he was so nervous. He crossed and uncrossed, then recrossed his bare feet, almost squirming in his seat. He took a strong pull on his beer, thinking that opening night of recital had never been so nerve-wracking. Another deep pull on the bottle, and his butterflies began to settle. Where was she anyway? What was keeping her? Suddenly, she was there, climbing the ladder to the sundeck. He rubbed his eyes before looking again to be sure she was really there. She climbed slowly, deliberately, her eyes never wavering from his. Rising one rung at a time, her head and torso gradually emerged into his view. A shiver ran through him as the vision of her ascending another ladder flickered briefly in his memory. She stepped onto the deck, and with a quick kick step sprang to the center, where she spun in a graceful pirouette. "Ta Da," she laughed softly, as she turned slowly, allowing him to take full measure of her costume. "You like?" He was stunned; more accurately, shocked and astounded. His breath caught in his constricting chest. He gasped. His fingers gripped at the cloth of his shorts. He fought the urge to gape. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and the sight of her took his breath completely. His heart leapt into his throat and began beating wildly. His blood, laden with alcohol, pounded in his ears with dizzying effect. She had applied the heavy theatrical makeup she used in recital. Her flowing blonde hair was gathered and braided into an exquisite French braid and coiled into a bun in the back. Her face, chiseled chin, straight nose, high cheekbones and full, arching red lips were framed in a halo of plaited hair. But Jesus, his senses screamed at him, she was nearly naked, and it was the gown that she wore that had taken his breath away and sent his mind reeling. It was nothing but a negligee; sleeveless and sheer. Sheer enough, in fact, to be transparent. Not practically or nearly transparent, but completely transparent. It was one of those intimate garments that was intended to entice and seduce; to be worn for minutes, at most, before achieving its intended purpose, and then, to be discarded in a hasty heap at the foot of the bed or tossed over a lampshade. It was tied in front at the neck with a satin bow. The full swell of her breasts, rising and falling slowly, was clearly visible under that thin veil. The ruby tips of her nipples pointing through the fabric were as clearly exposed as if she was wearing nothing at all. One hand held the garment together just below her breasts, while the other was positioned jauntily on her cocked hip. The gown was far too short. As a result the ruffled hem barely concealed the upper half of her buttocks in the back, and in the front... Oh my God, he gasped silently, wiping his mouth with his wet palm, she's not wearing any panties, either. In front, the ruffle terminated just above the golden triangle where her thighs came together. Her long shapely, tapered legs with her soccer-player thighs flashed in the moonlight. Her bare feet, nails freshly painted just that afternoon, were positioned in a classic dancer's pose. "Well, Dad, do you like it?" she asked with a voice as sweet as the smell of honeysuckle. He gasped for air, desperately seeking a breath to bring him back to his senses, but it eluded him. "Whaa? Where did you get that?" he croaked breathlessly. Jeez, he thought in self-rebuke, of all the stupid things to say. Tell her to get dressed, stupid. "Oh, this?" she answered coyly, and lifting a front corner to indicate the gown, exposed even more of herself. "I found it in mom's dresser, down below." He leaned forward, straining for a closer look, and the scent of her perfume washed over him. He blinked; his palms were sweating freely. "Here? On the boat?" he wheezed in disbelief. "It looks just like the one your mother bought for our wedding anniversary about five years ago, when we went to Cancun. But, she hated it and said she took it back as soon as we got home." Idiot, he screamed silently at himself, where are you going with this? Who the hell cares where it came from or whose it is; just tell her to take the damn thing off, right now. "Well, I don't know about that, daddy," she responded with a calculating look. "I found it in the back of a drawer just a while ago. Do I look OK in it?" "Darling, you look wonderful, but..." he began earnestly, abandoning the inane interrogation. "Thanks, Dad," she interrupted brightly. "I wasn't sure you'd like it, especially since it was mom's." "No, no, baby, you look beautiful in it, absolutely wonderful, but..." he resumed, attempting to renew his protest. You goddamn fool, he raged within, either chastise or complement, but don't do both in the same sentence. You either want her naked or you don't, make up your mind. "I know it doesn't fit exactly right; I am a little taller than Mom. And, somehow the second set of ties got torn off, so I can't tie it in the middle," she said apologetically, pointing to the gaping opening at her midriff. "But that's OK, isn't it daddy. I mean it's pretty dark out here and all. It's not like you can really see anything, is it?" Don was gasping for air like a fish in stagnant water. Fit right? Torn? Won't stay closed? Her breasts were swaying under that fabric with every word, every gesture. Dark? Hell, he thought, with this light I could read a newspaper in her hand, if she held it still for me. Her full breasts lifted the fabric, bronzed globes firmed by countless hours of exercise rose from her chest with barely a hint of a crease. Her nipples, hard, engorged, pointed defiantly at him, tracing little circles on the cloth with each rise and fall of her breath. Too short? My Gawd. The hem fell just across the top of her pubic triangle. Her privates are hanging in my face and all she says is the thing's too short. "Baby," he croaked, attempting to collect himself, trying to reestablish some control over the situation by concealing his indecision. "Baby, don't you think that gown's too revealing?" She regarded him coolly; her eyes shining in the pale light were unflinching, calculating, sizing him up and measuring the strength of his resolve. Her eyes narrowed and she gave a low, throaty laugh. Her hands, beginning a slow, deliberately teasing descent, slid from her shoulders, over the bulge of her breasts to the flat plane of her stomach, finally coming to rest on her thighs, smoothing the fabric with her palms as they passed over it. She smiled, watching him unconsciously lick his lips as his eyes followed her hands down the length of her body. Her voice, husky and thick, floated vaguely toward his mind like nuns and buoys emerging from a dense fog. "Why, daddy. I thought you knew that I'm not that modest. I just love dancing in the nude, especially to "Prelude"; it's sort of my interpretation of the piece. You don't really mind too much, do you?" It was a declarative statement, not an interrogatory, and it extended no invitation for reply. He squirmed in his seat and took another long pull on the bottle, emptying it. He couldn't tear his eyes from her body. They roved openly from her face to her bust to her flared hips and well-turned legs and up again. She watched silently, expectantly. Sweat beaded on his face and neck as he struggled to avert his gaze. His heart pounded wildly, beating his words to froth on his lips. "Baby, I just don't..." "Daddy," she interrupted sharply. Confidently, she advanced toward him, placing one foot directly in front of the other like a model on a runway, until she was standing directly in front of him, inches away; she was so close the heavy wash from his labored breath caused her negligee to sway. He squirmed, fidgeting, while anxiously trying to hold his wind in his lungs. She leaned forward and put both her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers gripped his flesh tightly. His muscles tensed in her grasp. Her eyes held his, locking his mind to hers and bending him to her will. Her voice lowered, became thick and sultry. "Daddy, it will be alright. All you have to do is relax and enjoy the show. I'm going to do this for you." He gaped at her heavy breasts that were hanging pendulously just inches from his mouth. Saliva nearly choked him as he swallowed, gulping. His tongue thrashed against his lips wetting them nervously. Her grip tightened on his shoulders as though driving the force of her will into him through her nails. Her breasts moved under the gossamer fabric, her nipples tantalizing close to his quivering lips. Below the valley of her breasts, he could see her golden triangle, and the scintillating scent of her awakening womanhood rose toward his flared nostrils. "And, besides, there's no one here but you and me. This dance is just for you, daddy. No one need ever know what we do tonight, cause I sure won't be telling them and neither will you." His eyes widened, his pulse beat quickened at her conspiratorial suggestion. Conflicting thoughts and emotions raged in his mind. Push her away, stand up and tell her to put on some clothes, his inner voice raged at him, but he remained motionless, pinioned against the ropes circling the deck, unable to move or resist. Don, you fool, put an end to this, the voice screamed in his ear. He shuffled his feet ineffectually. With great effort he lifted his hand to extricate himself from her grip, but his aim was erratic and the back of his hand brushed against her breast. He jerked his hand away as though touched by fire; the contact seared his flesh. Another voice, less strident, more soothing and seductive, spoke within his mind in admiration of the smooth texture of the girl's flesh, the remarkable resilience of her breast and it's firmness. Those voices; sometimes one or two, sometimes many; voices pushing him there, pulling him here, always in contention in his mind. Sometimes there was such a cacophony of conflicting voices shrieking at him in confused babble that he sought refuge by curling under his desk and stuffing his shirttails into his ears. The voices never permitting him to do that which he needs to do or to enjoy the things he does. The soft voice spoke to him soothingly; it's only one dance, Don, after all. Come on, man, be reasonable; the kid's got her heart set on it and you're gonna spoil it for her. And, she is so, so beautiful; look at those breasts and her legs. And what about that ass of hers, fella; ever seen a better ass than that? Don't you want to look, just a little? No harm in just looking, is there? What's the worry? Nobody's here to see, anyway. Just one dance and then it'll be over. You can jump in the lake and cool off afterward, buddy. Just one dance. How long will that take, two minutes, three, tops? Actually, eight and a half, he thought in rejoinder, remembering with uncanny accuracy the duration of the performance to be eight and a half minutes on the dot. At the touch of his hand on her breast, she looked at him more closely; the quick flash of her smile acknowledged the contact and signaled her acceptance of it. Her fingertips felt the tension in his shoulders; she sensed his struggle and his confusion. He shook his head feebly, but she knew that she had won the battle. His resistance slackened. She held his gaze, feeling the tension ebb from his muscles as he slumped in unspoken capitulation. Her father's crumbling resistance emboldened her. She expected he would resist allowing her to dance in such dishabille, but she knew with certainty that he lacked the strength or the desire to actually prevent it. Hadn't she been aware of him looking at her, watching her while he pretended to be doing something else, like read the paper? And, didn't she catch him staring down her dress at Brooke's wedding reception last Spring, and, when he looked up and saw her watching him, didn't he nearly have a stroke? And, since then, since realizing his growing interest in her body, hadn't she been secretly testing him by not wearing a bra, sometimes, or even panties, and carelessly exposing herself to him when they were unobserved? Isn't it cute how he gets all confused and nervous, and the longer she lets him look, the worse he gets. Like just the other day, when they were in the den together watching TV and she pretended she had lost an earring in the couch. She was wearing a mini skirt and had slipped off her panties, when she realized they were alone in the house. She had made a big production of searching among the cushions, even putting one knee on the edge, while she leaned far over to reach into the deep crevice under the back cushion. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 5 That had the effect of spreading her legs wide and exposing her full bottom to him. She felt herself open and the rush of cool air on her secret places, and it made her feel hot and powerful to know his eyes were glued to her. She maintained the pose until she knew she was pushing the envelope of credibility, and when she turned holding the "found" earring up triumphantly, the poor man's face was so red and perspiration soaked that she immediately went and fetched him a beer without his asking. Oh, yes, she had tested him and she knew her subject well. He wants to see me; he wants to look so bad it makes him sweat, even if that's tough for him to admit. Yes, she thought, her confidence coming to full flower, oh yes, in deed, this man wants me to dance for him like this; he needs to see me dance for him naked. All he needs is a little help from me to accept it. And, she remembered smugly how, just moments earlier, when she was checking her costume in the mirror and trying to decide whether to put on the panties she was holding, she had realized with absolute certainty that he really wouldn't want her to wear them. Now, feeling his opposition fade, she felt the surge of elation that always follows the confirmation of a well-made choice, and she glowed with the assurance of her seductive power. Her grip on his shoulders relaxed, and she released him. She reached into the cooler, without speaking and extracted another beer. First, taking a sip, she handed the bottle to her father and moved to switch on the stereo. A faint hiss emanated from the speakers as blank tape advanced, and she took her position in the center of the deck. She assumed a classic ballet pose, standing on toe points even though barefooted, with her arms extended above her head, palms pressed together as she waited for the music to begin. He watched transfixed and gulped beer. My Gawd, raising her arms like that lifts the hem of her gown above her navel he marveled. He struggled without success to restrict his observations to her face. Her eyes were closed in anticipation of the music, perhaps running through the routine a last time before the performance. His eyes roamed the length and breadth of her, reveling in her spectacular beauty. Her calve muscles were sharply cut by the extension of her ankles and toes; her thigh muscles rippled with effort. He stared eagerly at the wide flare of her hips, the flat plane of her belly and the sweet tangle of pubic hairs sprouting between her powerful legs. The rigors of the gigantic mental struggle he had just endured were a swiftly fading memory. The music began, and she moved easily with it, slowly at first, then gathering in intensity. She danced with leaps and spins, turns and bows, with toes sharply pointed, bending at the waist, her arms extended above her head. Plies and pirouettes, port de bras and countless other leaps, turns and movements, the names of which had long since left him, and she flowed through them all flawlessly. Her grace was impeccable. She moved across and around the close space, utilizing every inch to maximum advantage. At times she was near, so close her legs brushed his, at others less close, but never far. The negligee, a wisp of nothingness, floated like the very air about her as she danced, and she reveled in the sublime beauty of her nudity. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her body, and she glistened as though iridescent in the pale light. The air was infused with the scents of perfume and milled soap, which mingled intoxicatingly with her sweat and the musky scent of her essence. She danced and danced as the music filled the close air of cove with magical sound. At length, she twirled near to him, her negligee flaring about her shoulders like a cape. She placed her hands on the deck at his feet and kicking her feet into the air, moved into a brief handstand, before lowering her legs in opposite directions until they were parallel to the floor. Her gown fell away, covering nothing but her face. He gaped, gasping. Scarcely inches from his face, her leveled legs exposed her mons and the firm spheres of her buttocks. He leaned forward, not even pretending to attempt resistance of the urge to look. The lips of her vagina, engorged, wet and slightly parted, shimmered in the light under his eyes. His hand moved to his own lips, fingers stroking as if to replicate in his mind the sensation of touching her there. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, dancing away, leaving him with the salty taste of his fingertips on his lips and sweat pouring from his forehead. The effect of her dance upon him was not in the least extraordinary. She had anticipated it perfectly, if, in deed, she had not intentionally orchestrated it. On his side of the deck, he feared it, even shrank from it, but in the end he quickly and eagerly yielded to it, succumbing to the one voice he could not still. He watched totally absorbed in her motion. He had loved her dancing always and treasured the memories, but this was astounding, transcending anything he had experienced. Her supple grace combined with her dazzling nudity was riveting. He could not take his eyes off of her. There was not a move or gesture, no matter how subtle, which his eye failed to detect and the effect was overwhelming. She translated the delicate, refined movements of the ballet into an undulating, nearly wanton blur of hips, thighs and breasts. She whirled near only to back away swiftly, trailing arms with fingers waggling in invitation, and he found himself half rising to follow. She pirouetted with head held stationary, eyes fixed on him, watching his tongue flap wetly against his lips each time her breasts swung into his view. He gulped his beer, turning his head so as not to obstruct his view of her with the bottle and relished the feeling of the cold liquid flowing into his belly and the warming rebound rising through his body. His mind raced, but the voices were quelled, stilled by the beer and the passion he felt taking hold of him. That's it, brother, he thought derisively, if you want to get rid of the voices, booze and lust will do it every time. He squirmed in his seat and tugged at his shorts to accommodate the growing presence there. Sure, let the beer and lust take over; good ole lust, doesn't talk you to death or jerk you around, it just grabs you by the dick and yanks you along, all you have to do is follow your dick and it'll do all the thinking for you. He took another pull on the bottle distracted by her bounding nipples, and he tongued the opening subconsciously. He lowered the bottle to his lap, pressing the cold glass to his shorts, hoping the cold would diminish his unsettling heat. Sweat ran off the bottle, and a dark splotch of wetness encircled his crotch. He ignored it, watching the girl dance and licked his lips with subconscious hunger. He shielded himself with the bottle, hiding his response behind amber glass. And, the dance went on. After an eternity, or so the eight and a half minutes seemed, the music faded into silence, and Laura ended the dance by sliding into a perfect arabesque at his feet. She held the position briefly, breathing heavily from the exertion, before standing. He lunged forward to stand, thinking the performance at an end and prepared to leap straightaway into the cool water, but, anticipating him, she restrained him with a hand laid decisively on his shoulder. "Hold on, Dad, I've got another one coming up in about thirty seconds." While the tape hissed, she retrieved another beer and handed it to him. He took it, and she reached toward his lap to collect his empty bottle. He relinquished his grip reluctantly, and she lifted the bottle. Her eyes fell on the wet bulge in his crotch, and widened in recognition. Again, that smile of acknowledgment flashed across her lips, and she stepped back, pirouetting once more for his benefit. "You liked it, didn't you, daddy?" she asked seductively, letting her eyes measure the tension in his loins while he tried to respond. He suppressed a groan and nodded in affirmative response. Pirouetting again, she asked, "Am I as pretty as Mom?" He proved unable to suppress the groan at that. Miriam? He thought, as the image of his wife barged into his thoughts. Sure, she is pretty enough and takes good care of herself; works out all the time and still has a great body to show for it, but she can't hold a candle to this girl in any department. He opened his mouth to answer as the music resumed. She laughed, intuitively certain of his unspoken answer, and spun away to dance. It was a modern dance, set to a heavy African beat. He recognized it immediately, and recalled the troupe's performance of it. Laura and three others were center stage dressed in grass skirts and halter tops with their hands bound behind their backs. Natives with shields and spears danced around them poking and prodding with the spears, herding the "captives" around the stage. He remembered wondering at the time if the rest of the audience appreciated the phallic symbolism of the poking spears and how much that performance had aroused him. The memory faded to black, replaced by the reality of Laura, who, with hands held behind her as though tied, began thrust her naked hips to the sensual beat in feigned response to an imaginary spear. She twisted and turned, writhing in fictitious pain as the beat strengthened. At last, she freed herself from her imaginary bonds and leapt across the stage to freedom. Oh, yes, he recalled how the dancers held their spears low and level to the stage, suggestive of fence rails, as the escaping captives danced under. Laura placed herself right in front of him and, replicating the scene, began to Limbo. Her feet were spread wide, her knees flexed, and she leaned backward till her back was parallel to the deck. Her arms were outstretched to maintain her balance. Sweat dripped from him. He clenched the neck of the bottle in his hand, his grip tightening fiercely, as the girl, legs spread wantonly, advanced closer and closer. The beat thickened, and she dropped toward the floor. Muscles and sinew in her thighs knotted and bulged with the exertion of sustaining her position. She stopped within arms length and rolled her hips with the beat. Beads of sweat gathered on her heaving belly. Her pubic hair was damp, matted, and through it, her cleft, separated now by the tension of her thighs, opened to reveal her shimmering depths. His eyes bulged as he consumed her nudity. She moved closer. Her knees touched his. His eyes feasted; his heart raced uncontrollably. Her hand slipped across the expanse of her belly only to stop, teasingly, as her fingertips encountered the tangle of damp hair. The bottle dropped from his limp fingers, and his hands flew to his groin to restrain his leaping member. She lifted her head to look at him between her heaving breasts. He failed to notice. Her fingers slid further into the tangle, obscenely dipping into the wet furrow. Her finger plunged into the wet, the red nail disappearing as her thickly swollen lips closed hungrily around it. She fingered herself lewdly in time with the music, and his hands balled into fists as he fought the nearly overpowering urge to touch her. The finger reemerged, shining with her slippery essence. He moaned aloud, and his hand closed tightly over the throbbing head of his cock, trying to forestall an eruption. His breath stopped. He could not move lest he lose control of himself. Paralyzed with fear and need, he hung motionless from a thread, panting, squeezing, praying the pain of his grip would draw him back from the precipice. Sweat poured into his eyes blurring his vision. He blinked, and then, she was gone, the music silenced. He inhaled sharply; shook his head in disbelief. A trick of the mind, he thought. Too much beer. She didn't do what I saw her do. She was standing across the deck, drying her hands on a towel, and watching him intently. The negligee was soaked with perspiration and clung to her like second skin. The tape hissed, ten seconds, fifteen, twenty. She stood across the deck from him, motionless, waiting, catching her breath, watching his hand clutching his cock. She waited patiently, letting his breath and his control slowly return. He struggled to retreat, to quell his urgency. She bent over and turned off the stereo. The hissing stopped. The thunder of his heart beat reverberated in the silence. She sat down on the bench across the deck, crossing her legs, and with her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin on her cupped hand and scrutinized him carefully. With a shock, he realized that she was giving him time to recover, to gather himself, before continuing. His brain fumbled with the implications of that realization. He pulled himself together, straightened his back. His hands, shaking, dabbed ineffectually at the perspiration dripping from his forehead. At his crotch, a spreading stain of precum was replacing the circle of condensation. His cock, still rock hard, twitched, but less stridently. Wordlessly, she stood and walked to him bringing her towel. He lifted his face, and tenderly, she wiped the sweat from his face. From his brow, across the temples, his cheeks, the hollows under his eyes and all around his neck, she gently mopped his perspiration. Up from his throat, over the point of his chin to his lips, she stroked him with the nubby cloth. He inhaled deeply, a sigh of relief at the subsidence of the immediacy of his need, and suddenly, her lingering scent lingering on the towel gripped him. He inhaled again and the velvety smooth softness of her essence laid siege upon his returning control. His mouth watered for a taste of her sweet nectar, and he pressed his face hungrily against the cloth. His lust quickened anew. Realizing what was happening, she quickly completed drying his face and tossed the towel over her shoulder. She pulled another beer from the cooler and, wordlessly handed it to him. She stood beside him, fingers lightly touching his shoulder to measure the labor of his breathing, as he lifted the bottle and drank. He raised the bottle again, and she stepped away, concerned lest her closeness precipitate another premature crisis. Crossing the deck, she retrieved the towel, which, after she sat and crossed her legs, she demurely placed across her lap. Minutes passed. They sat silently watching each other across the open space of the deck, one in complete control, the other totally out of control. She bided her time, confident in her ability to determine the outcome; he fidgeted, consumed by his patent lack of mastery over the situation or himself. She gave him space, a respite from the intense emotions she ignited within him. But not too much time, oh no, not enough to regain any control; not enough to extinguish the flame. Just enough so he doesn't lose control completely, too soon. He took another gulp of beer, and another and set the empty bottle on the deck with the others. He shifted in his seat and, again, reached to adjust his shorts. She responded as though to a secret signal and bent to switch on the stereo once more. He watched as passively as his anticipation allowed as she languidly rose from the bench. The silence, yet unbroken, was complete. She advanced slowly, deliberately, sensuously toward him. The tape hissed, and, like Pavlov's dog, he began to salivate. She approached and reached for his hands. He looked at her quizzically, but reached out without protest and let her take his hands in hers. Her fingers closed on his, and, gently, as the first notes of the song emerged, she pulled him to a standing position. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 6 Chapter 6: A Father-Daughter Dance with Feeling Instantly, he recognized the song. One of his favorites; a song of passion and beauty, which inexplicably filled him with a sense of longing and emptiness on the one hand and of sweet gentleness on the other. The song inevitably produced vague, vaporous notions of things lost and never again found, opportunities missed and never regained. It was nothing he could put his finger on specifically, but he loved the song for its ability to produce in him that pang of melancholy. The strains of Eric Clapton's, "Wonderful Tonight" filled the air, as her hands gently, but firmly, drew him closer. "Dance with me, daddy," she beckoned and she moved into his arms. Wordlessly, he allowed himself to be drawn to her. Their bodies touched lightly, and the feeling jolted him like a surge of electricity. How often have I fanaticized this moment, he thought, as she directed his hands to encircle her waist? Sparks showered in his mind as she moved to him, and he felt the hard points of her nipples pressing into his chest. His hands, fingers spread at the small of her back, drew her tightly against him. Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, her breasts brushed his chest, and she rose on tiptoe to bring her lips against his ear. "You remember this song, don't you, daddy?" Her voice was an erotic, pulsing growl in his ear. He nodded his head against her cheek, feeling her lithe body melting against him. "The Girls' Cotillion Ball last winter? The father and daughter dance?" she reminded him softly. "I remember," he whispered, and indeed he did remember. The first and last time they had danced together it was. She was wearing a white evening gown with a scooped neckline that revealed a modest amount of her developing cleavage. They had danced well together, if he did say so; she followed his every lead perfectly, as if they had practiced for days. He held her close to him and felt her ripening curves even then. He was nearly overcome by the moment and attained an erection in spite of himself, but he thought at the time that she had not noticed because of the thick folds of her skirt. She can scarcely fail to detect it this time, he thought, as her body brushed deliberately against him. They were a perfect fit, this father and daughter; exactly the right proportions to meld into a single, moving entity. She flowed into him, letting her curves mold themselves to his hard angles. Her breasts flattened against his chest. Her head lay languidly on his shoulder, her lips pressing lightly against his neck. On tiptoe, her mons came into full contact with his bulging groin and brushed against his hard maleness with each sway of her hips. She pressed and rode his hardness within her cleft. He thrust himself toward her, and she encouraged him by stroking the back of his neck with her fingertips. They glided across the deck, barely contacting the surface, swaying in easy rhythm to the music. She adjusted, widening her stance, and accepted his knee between her legs. They moved closer and he felt the moist, wetness of her mons opening against his thigh. His burgeoning cock throbbed against her hip. She thrust her hips at him and her pussy opened wider, spreading its slippery wetness along his thigh. He felt her shiver as her clitoris scraped his skin. He lifted his knee to increase the pressure for her and she ground herself upon him like a cat rubbing herself. He felt her lips moving against his neck, speaking to him, but the blood rushing in his ear drowned out her words. He drew her closer. She spoke again, her lips directly on his ear. "I know what you and Mom fight about, Dad. I know how she treats you and I hate it." His arms encircling her narrow waist stiffened, but she moved encouragingly against him. His hands lowered to cup the full globes of her buttocks and pulled her closer. He felt the wetness of her sliding restlessly on his thigh. She whispered, "I can help you that way, daddy; I can make it better for you, if you'll let me." "Oh, baby," he groaned hopelessly, and he felt his cock give a tremendous jerk against the girl. She slowed, paused, and leaned back slightly to look into his eyes. Her mons, its thick, slick fluid flowing freely, remained tightly pressed against him. She grasped his hands with hers and lifted them to her neck, never taking her eyes from his. "Untie it," she commanded, her voice dripping with hot emotion. His trembling fingers obeyed, tugging at the limp bow till finally it released. He dropped the satin ties like they burned his fingers. "Now, take it off," she said, instructing him huskily and stepped back slightly to allow him space. Her eyes burned hotly into his. Tentatively, his hands moved to comply. He hesitated, hands hovering just above the material clinging wetly to her breasts. He looked at her imploringly, begging for additional encouragement. Her eyes narrowed to sultry slits, her tongue moved over her lips with impatient hunger as she repeated, "Take it off, now, daddy. I want to be naked for you." His hands moved obediently, gathering the damp material and lifting it off her breasts. He raised it from her shoulders, and, leaning forward to reach around her, he began, slowly, to peel the damp fabric off her body. This slowness, the tantalizing consequence of his indecision, produced a powerfully erotic effect. His nostrils flared as his cheek brushed hers. The flimsy fabric stuck to her skin resisting removal. She moved closer to him to give him access to her body, and her hands reached for the bulge in his shorts. Her fingers brushed him lightly. Her gown crumpled in his tightening grip. She traced the outline of his manhood with her fingernails through the thin fabric of his shorts. He reeled at her touch. Her fingertips circled the head of his cock, scraping lightly along the prominent ridge of his glans, and encountered a spreading stain of wetness. Her hand closed on the shaft, and she felt the strong beat of his pulse through his shorts. She stroked his cock through the fabric and felt him shudder under the intimate caress of her tiny hand. His mind, completely absorbed in the sensation of her fingers, lost control of his hands, and they fluttered uselessly at her back. She watched him heatedly, feeling his breath flow over her breasts. Holding his manhood tightly with one hand, she gripped his zipper with the other and ripped it down. Instantly, her fingers crawled across the fabric and wiggled through the opening. Groping through the thicket of pubic hair, she found him. Her fingers took possession of his hardness and drew him out. His naked cock pulsed as she closed her fingers around him. He rose slightly on tiptoe, as though buoyed by the immediacy of his need. She stroked his turgid flesh with the tight ring of her fingers and expressed a surge of precum that sparkled in the moonlight momentarily at the tip. She looked down at the object of her attention. She covered the swollen glans with her cupped hand, capturing the flow of precum in her palm, and smeared the fluid over the twitching head. He was ecstatically delirious. He pushed against the restraining ring of her fingers and thrust himself into the void beyond. She drew him closer, bringing the tip into contact with her mons and nuzzled with the swollen ruby head against her burning clitoris. She spread her thighs to receive him and drew his glans along her wet furrow. The thick head drug across her clit, pressing hard against the tiny bud, then burrowed deeply between her spreading lips. She shuddered and looked up at him. "Take it off, daddy," she panted in a breathless gasp, and his head bobbed in startled return to attention. "Oh, baby," he breathed at her almost inaudibly, while his hands finished removing the negligee. The spent cloth dropped to the deck at her feet. His hands slid over her shoulders to the slope of her firm breasts. He circled her golden globes, feeling their heft and firmness, marveling at the exquisite texture of her skin. Pincerlike, his thumbs and forefingers took possession of her distended nipples. Hot, hard little points, nearly the size of the terminal joint on his little finger, her nipples trembled with exquisite sensitivity. His nails dug into tender flesh, and she arched her back, thrusting her breasts at him eagerly. He captured her nipples with both hands and crushed them between his fingers and palms. She flinched, but did not cry out. She closed with him and threw a leg up and around his hip, exposing and spreading her pussy. She jerked his cock tight against her pussy, frantically rubbing the head in the wetness of her slit. She pushed her hips forward, her grip on him tightened and she began swirling the head of his cock in tiny wet circles to find her entrance. The opening presented and his glans filled it. She pulled at his cock, trying to stuff it into her, but the angle was wrong. She succeeded in lodging the tip within the mouth of her vault but no more. She hung, suspended on the point of his dick, clinging to him, while her hand rubbed the length of his exposed shaft. She longed to be filled with him, to take the measure of the length and girth of his strong cock with her cunt. She needed to savor the feeling of engorgement as his fat dick plowed into her belly. Frustrated, she stepped back, clenching his dick in her hand, fearing to relinquish her hold lest he fail her. "Fuck me, daddy. Fuck me, now," she gasped, jerking his stiff member to emphasize the urgency of her lust. She fell back, and he caught her by the shoulders, lowering her gently to the carpeted deck. She lay on the floor at his feet. Her breasts heaved with the breathless rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes were wide with desire. Her mouth opened, tongue emerging, the pink tip sweeping her dry lips. Her thighs parted widely revealing wet, matted hair. Her belly and thighs were coated with her wetness and shone slickly in the light. The lips of her pussy, plump and hotly pink, distended by her need, flared open for him invitingly. Her hands reached up to him. "Come on, daddy, hurry please. I need it. I want it, please. Fuck me." He towered above her prostrate body, driven nearly mad by his own lust. His eyes swept her body, relishing each detail with insane obsession. He stood between her thighs, panting, drawing deeply of the hot, wet smells of lust rising from her open pussy. His hand gripped his cock near the base, and he waved it like a wand over her heaving belly. Sharp pangs of irresistible desire stabbed at his loins. Her words, her scent and the image of her ripe, prostrate body, legs parted in invitation, swirled in kaleidoscope colors in his brain. Reason, logic, morality broke like reeds before the gale of his need to possess this girl. Passion seized him in its unyielding grasp; undeniable, unquenchable lust shredded the fading remnants of his resistance and he succumbed. He gave himself over to the lustful desires raging in his loins. Mind, body and spirit bent to the will of the cock throbbing in his hand. It was the center of his universe, the core of his being. All thought, all meaning, everything he had ever held dear, yielded in that moment to the fierce rushing need of his cock. Her eyes raged with fire as she watched his cock sway above her. She started as his hand slid up the shaft to squeeze a flow of precum from the tip. It gathered there, a building blob of clear fluid, oozing from the eye. It accumulated, enlarged and elongated thickly in the beginning of a drip. His hand passed again and the blob increased; the string lengthened and then broke. A thick accumulation of fluid dripped onto her open pussy. Instantly, her hand flashed to the point of impact. Her fingers located the fluid and spread it wantonly along her crack, and, driving two fingers into her slit, she smeared it deeply into her pussy. He watched intently as she withdrew her slickened fingers from her pussy and brought them to her lips. Her lips moved seductively as she smeared his fluid over them and begged him again in a hoarse whisper, "Fuck me, daddy, fuck me right now." Obediently, he dropped to his knees between her legs, and immediately, she reached for his dick, and her hand closed around him. She drew her knees up to her breasts, opening her thighs and her pussy to him. He leaned forward, and she guided him. They touch tip to lip, and she bit her lower lip. His glans pressed her flesh and her lips parted for him. He felt the heat of her, her closeness and the conflagration in his loins roared. She squeezed lightly; his cock jerked in her hand and spurted precum into her slit. Moving his glans, she spread the fluid along her steaming pussy, lubricating it with their combined juices. Her wet fingers directed the fat knob to her opening. She felt the head nuzzling at the mouth of her tunnel. "Put it in me, daddy. I want to feel your cock inside me." "Spread your lips," he groaned. "What?" she replied, puzzled. "Spread your pussy lips with your fingers. Hold yourself open for me." Her fingers flew to oblige, tearing at the tender flesh of her pussy lips, pulling them apart to give him the unhindered access he required. He looked down at her fingers stretching her hot pink lips apart to receive him; the head of his cock shining with their fluid was poised to fill her. Wild frenzy possessed him as he prepared himself to take possession of the woman beneath him. He began to push, feeling the resistance of her tight opening against the tip of his cock. Harder. Still she resisted, unable to admit him. Harder. The shaft of his cock bent, yielding to his pressure. "Open wider," he hissed through clenched teeth, and she strained to accommodate. He gripped his shaft in his hand increasing its rigidity and pressed harder. The head moved inward, minimally. He pressed again, and the head moved deeper. She moaned as he progressed, "Oh yes, daddy, that's it. Fill me up with your cock." Slowly, he pressed forward and felt the head of his cock slipping through the wet ring of her opening. It filled her completely, stretching the encompassing walls of her pussy, and overwhelming her emotions with wondrous sensation. "Oh, daddy," she said, begging. "Deeper, I want all of it." And she spread her legs wider and pointed her toes toward the sky. Slowly, inexorably, he drove the thick shaft of his cock into the girl's trembling body. Inch by inch it disappeared into her steaming sheath. He paused and withdrew slightly to give her an opportunity to adjust to his bulk. "Don't stop, daddy,” she protested. “Give it to me deeper.” Inflamed to insanity by her lewd requests, he lunged at her furiously. His cock disappeared, thundering into her tightly clinging hole and his belly smacked against hers loudly. She accepted him eagerly, her lips and channel widening to accept him. He filled her totally. The walls of her vagina closed around him, clinging to him and enveloping him with velvety softness. Oh, yes, yes, like that," she gasped as he began fucking her. Her heels locked on the backs of his thighs below his buttocks, and she used them to pull him even deeper into her pussy. He paused, savoring for an instant her incredibly tight grip before withdrawing. He lifted his hips and his shiny, slippery cock emerged until the ridge of his glans appeared between her lips. Her heels tugged his thighs, pulling him toward her, and he plunged his strength into her depths. "Oh, yes, daddy, again, do that again," she begged when his dick filled her, and he began a rhythmic pumping of his cock into her pussy. His rock hard dick pistoned in and out, filling and withdrawing, stretching, then collapsing, her clinging pussy walls, and igniting a quaking passion in her gut. With each thrust, she griped him fiercely, shaking out of control as his cock penetrated to her innermost core. Her pussy spasmed along his throbbing cock, and he sensed she was close to climax. Slowing, he softened his thrusts, lingering while she engulfed him completely. She went wild with desire. She writhed insatiably on his impaling post, gyrating her hips in a vain attempt to stuff even more of his cock into her pussy. As her hips rose to meet him, she felt the cold teeth of his zipper scraping her flesh. Harder, she pressed herself against those unyielding teeth, raking their sharp edges over the quaking stalk of her clit and the swollen lips of her pussy. Sharp little teeth nipped and chewed her tender flesh, and stinging pain contested the exhilaration of her approaching climax. Pain and pleasure, juxtaposed in her heaving loins, vied to be the agency of her passion. Hot, hard cock to the hilt in her belly and cold, sharp steel teeth on her clit was too much to endure. She gripped his buttocks with her hands, yanking him tight against her and burying his cock in her pussy. Her hips leapt against his cock and zipper as spasms of sweet completion shook her body. Oh, God, daddy, I'm going to cum," she screamed into the night sky. "Fuck me hard, fuck me, fuck meeeeeeeee," she implored as she wrapped her arms and legs about him and shuddered in release. She clung to him as violent tremors coursed through her body. The walls of her pussy rhythmically griped his deeply embedded cock, and rippled along the shaft as her pussy signaled her orgasm with a series of quick, spastic contractions. Her lubricating fluid flowed like water, flooding her tight channel. She rocked her hips in the final throes of completion, rubbing the tip of his cock against her cervix, and the contact forced an "Oh" to her lips. He held her tightly within his close embrace, feeling the rhythmic, involuntary stroking of her muscles. His cock quivered in her warm sheath, responding to her clutches with his own soaring need. His eyes watched her features soften as her fierce passion loosened its grip. He paused, savoring her climax and the exquisite agony of postponing his own. Her hands stroked his back and rose to grip his shoulders. She pulled his mouth to hers and her lips found his. Her lips parted and her tongue lunged upward into his mouth. Her arm looped over his neck, locking him in her embrace, while her tongue danced across the even rows of his teeth and entwined with his tongue. She kissed him and his head swam with excitement. She clung to him, arm over neck, kissing him, and her free hand clutched his buttock through his shorts, pulling him tightly into her embrace. Her lips churned against his, her tongue twisting and turning like a butterfly in flight within his mouth. His cock throbbed inside her; his pulse was a quickening roar in his ears. "Take your shorts off, daddy," she urged him huskily, her fingers probing between their bodies for the clasp. He raised his body and she released the catch. Hooking the waistband of his shorts with her thumbs, she pushed them over his hips and as far down his legs as she could reach. He took over for her and worked them down to his ankles and kicked them off. Immediately, he settled back into the saddle of her loins, and she accepted the full, unrestrained length of his manhood. "Oh, daddy," she cooed as the fires of her passion rekindled. "Your cock feels soooo good inside me. It feels even better than I imagined it would." As if for emphasis, her pussy contracted with each of her words, eliciting a moan from his tightly clenched lips. "Baby," he began, gasping at the radiance of her beauty in the soft moonlight. She had never been more beautiful than at that moment, he realized heatedly, with the flush of her excitement coloring her cheeks and the sensual heat of her passion smoldering in her eyes. “Oh, my beautiful baby," he moaned. “Fuck me,” she cried with a lunge of her hips, unsheathing and resheathing his penis, and she begged him, "Fuck me again, daddy. I want to make you cum for me. Let me feel you cum in my pussy, daddy." Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 6 Galvanized by her words and his raging, insistent need, he withdrew. His cock swung free, bobbling in the cool air for an instant. She grunted in disapproval, just as he began a downward thrust. His prick, as though sighted through its single eye, unerringly found the mark, and he plunged smoothly into her in a single crushing lunge. "Oh, God," she gasped as his stiff cock filled her and she breathed a small sigh of relief that he hadn't missed her pussy and damaged himself. Feeling him slicing into her, she bounced her hips off the deck to accept him. "Oh, daddy, that's good. I like that. Fuck me hard," she breathed as his cock entered it's full length, driving her buttocks back to the deck as he drilled into her. Instantly, he began the withdrawal anew, retreating back from bottom; his prick, slippery, awash with her wetness, emerged from her depths and sprang free. She chased him, lifting her hips, hungrily seeking his glans with flared, dripping, lips. He thrust and they engaged again, and again. He growled, his senses reeling at the prolonged contact of his flesh with hers; the exquisite sensation of his glans floating free, then touching her lips, bursting through the tight ring of her entrance and thrusting to her very core with each stroke. The delicious friction of her tight pussy on his ultra-sensitive glans drew him closer and closer to the edge of his passion. His head swirled. The girl panted beneath him, matching him thrust for thrust. He lunged at her, feeling the conflagration taking hold of him. His heart caught in his throat, pounding there. "Arghhh," he gargled, the muscles of his back, thighs and buttocks tightening in anticipation. “That’s it, that’s it,” she panted, chanting. “Fuck me, fuck me, daddy; fill my pussy with your cum. She felt his passion quicken and arched to meet his thrusts. He shouted, "Oh, baby," in forewarning of his crisis and shuddered uncontrollably. He was tottering again at the brink of dementia, at the very edge of his heavenly abyss. Charging, crashing, throwing himself at her with total abandon, he flung himself toward the beckoning blackness. She slowed the movement of her hips and insinuated her hand between their bodies and, as he withdrew for the final assault, her fingers closed around him. Her thumb and forefinger encircled his pulsating shaft at the base, squeezing hard and choking off the emerging stream of cum. He sought to drive into her, but she maintained her grip and the heel of her hand slammed against her pussy preventing him from entering her deeply. He jerked back and drove again only to be restrained. He slowed; his frantic urgency diminished, and took a deep breath. His head swam with emotion; his eyes, bemused, scanned her face seeking some signal of her purpose. He withdrew for a fresh plunge, as before. Her hand lifted his cock causing him to miss. His prick slid harmlessly through her pubic hair and came to rest on her belly. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, preventing movement, and he lay still cradled in her arms and legs. The throbbing pressure in his loins subsided fractionally. His cock twitched weakly on her tummy; a trickle of fluid oozed from the tip. He desperately desired to resume, but she held him close to her, unable to move. He felt her breasts, nipples hard with her own desire, digging into his chest, and the effect was like the opening of a furnace door; the flames of his passion erupted again, and he wrestled free of her restraining embrace. His cock bobbled, searching and she opened for him. He entered with a gasp, and she screamed, "Oh God, yes, fuck me like that. Give me your cock," and almost immediately he found himself again hurtling toward the edge of the precipice. His eyes drew to narrow slits, his nostrils flared, his breath whistled through clenched teeth as his effort built. His cum was boiling, pressure building, his piping rattling in anticipation of the impending explosion, and again, her hand found him tensely trembling at the bottom of his belly and she seized him. He gagged in frustration as her hand shut off the valve of his release; gripping him hard, she choked his tube and stemmed the beginning flow. He writhed, jerking in her hand in an effort to achieve completion. She clutched him, misdirecting his cock and frustrating his attempts to reenter. His gasps sounded like sobs as he clung to her, shuddering, begging her to release him, to allow him to resume. "Baby, baby," he gulped helplessly. "What does daddy want?" she replied without relaxing her grip on him. "Please, baby." "Tell baby what daddy wants." She squeezed him harder because she felt him bulging in her hand; the knob of his glans bumped harmlessly but urgently against her mons just above the entrance. She directed it toward her clit, hidden within the folds of her lips. He thrust blindly, hopelessly, and the tip of his glans nosed between her lips and brushed her clit. She shivered and moved the head up and down to caress herself with his smooth skin. "Tell me," she urged him, when the words proved too much for him to speak. "Baby, I want..." he stammered incompletely. His hips bobbed urgently but without effect. "Tell baby what you want her to do, daddy," she demanded huskily, enjoying the game and her mastery of him. Her hand moved a fraction, adjusting, and she allowed him to enter slightly. Still, her hand restrained him, choking off his orgasm and preventing full entry. She held him within her, just inside the portal and flexed her muscles, performing a Kagel. Her pussy contracted around him, encircling the head of his cock in a tight squeeze that approximated the grip of her fingers on the shaft of his penis. "Jesus," he groaned at this delightful new stimulation. "Baby, let me in, please," he begged, poking harder at the encircling ring of flesh. "Let you in to do what?" "To fuck you, baby, please," he gurgled with desire so intense its denial was sending shooting pains through his testicles. "You want to do that, daddy? You want to fuck me?" "Yes, yes, oh God, yes." "And, what else, daddy? What do you want to do when you fuck me?" "Baby, I...." he stammered again, unable to complete the sentence. "Say it, daddy. Tell me what you want to do to my pussy." Her hand pulled his cock out of her cunt and redirected the tip to her clit. Slippery with her wetness, it slid easily over the distended bud sending shivers flashing through her body. She felt her control slipping away. "Put it back, baby, please," he pleaded. The tension in his body was palpable. She could feel him shaking, trembling uncontrollably, without pause. His pulse beat in his cock like a hammer, throbbing against her fingers insistently. He whimpered with each pass of his glans over her clit. His sweat ran between her breasts, mingling with hers, making them slippery. "Why?" she asked, holding him deathly still, allowing him to touch nothing but the night air, and her fingers white with the effort of restraining him. "Cum, baby, please. Let me cum," he sobbed, pleading with her to release him. "You want to cum in baby? Is that what you want, daddy, to shoot your hot cum in my little pussy and fill me up with it?" "Yes, yes, oh God, baby. Please let me in." "Say it then, daddy. Tell me what you want to do to me," she hissed wickedly. She sensed him coil like a wound spring; tension twisting his nerves and muscles from head to toe, like he was gathering himself for some monumental leap. She relaxed her grip slightly to encourage him and allowed him to position himself at her portal once more. The touch of her opening encircling his glans coaxed him beyond the brink of any threshold; he abandoned himself to his lust and screamed, "I want to fuck you, baby. I want to fuck you and shoot my hot cum into your pussy. I want to fill you up with my cum, Goddammit." "Then, do it," she growled from the back of her throat; a primal, earthy howl of a command so compelling in it's sexual energy that the hairs on his neck bristled in response. Her legs splayed open to receive him. His back arched, his head tipped back, eyes shut to all images but that of his cock thundering into the girl's welcoming flesh. Moonlight played on his upturned features; features that were distorted by the enormity of his desire, and his need for completion. Sweat poured from his face, coursing down his neck and chest. His hands found her breasts and kneaded their firm flesh relentlessly, twisting and pulling her nipples with his fingers. She writhed, arching her back and offering her breasts to his savage fondling. Her hand, still gripping his member, relaxed and allowed him entry. Only the ring of her thumb and forefinger continued to hold him as he slipped into her depths. Their bellies met, pinning her hand against her wet mons. She waited while he pushed into her, forcing himself deeper and deeper. He bottomed, rested for an instant and began a withdrawal. Her circling fingers began a wet slippery caress of his emerging shaft; stroking gently, enticingly. His cock jerked under the dual, simultaneous stimulation of her pussy and fingers. He hesitated at the top of the stroke with his glans still inside and shuddered as she masturbated him with her wet slippery fingers. Shaking, spastic with a surfeit of emotion, he slumped toward her pussy, driving deep as though to quench a fire on the shaft. Her hand fluttered to a stop as their bellies met, her fingers maintaining a gentle closure around him. He jerked within her grasp and for a moment she feared he had begun to cum. He heaved himself up and withdrew, shaking his head in self-denial, and her fingers resumed. He began to stab at her urgently with his prick. Just an inch or two and withdrawal, as though he was unwilling to abandon the sensations being wrought by her masturbating fingers. He thrust into her in short little jerks, while her fingers flew up and down the exposed shaft, jacking him off, coaxing the flow of his cum into her hot, waiting pussy. He balanced there, on the edge of oblivion, for a lifetime. Lightning flashing in his mind with each passage of her hand on his quivering flesh. Passion raged out of his control, but totally under the control of the girl awaiting the spraying fountain of his seed. He held his breath, giving himself over to her completely. He yielded his body to her needs and manipulation, floating on a cloud of blossoming bliss and the image of her fingers stroking, coaxing, urging him into her wet pussy overwhelmed him. Laura was awed by her power over this helpless man. He shook in her arms, quaking with desire, aching with the immediate need to expend his love in her and she controlled him completely. She knew every weakness, every point of vulnerability. She knew the points of pleasure and those that diminished pleasure. She had toyed with him for her own pleasure and throbbed with delight at her mastery. Her loins moved wantonly, sucking the distended bulb of his glans into her pussy, while her fingers jacked him off. She felt his pressure mount, the urgency of his thrusts quicken and her own passion flamed with her power. She panted as he panted. She lifted her shoulders to look between her breasts at her fingers obscenely stroking his shaft as it fucked into her. Her free hand slipped to her pussy, stroking her clit and gathering an accumulation of her wetness. Her head lolled under the stimulation of his cock and her finger. She drew him closer into her embrace; the insistent tempo of her fingers on his cock increased. His cock jerked again and again in her fingers. Her free hand, fingers dripping, circled his hip and explored the crease of his ass. Her fingers found the tiny opening of his anus and she caressed him there. Lightly, her fingertips circled the tight hole, lubricating its wrinkles and ridges. He gurgled with passion and thrust his cock madly through her fingers. They rushed headlong toward the abyss. "Oh, dear God, baby," he shrieked as she pressed her finger through the stricture of his sphincter and into his rectum. His body began a wild, gyrating shudder, and she introduced a second finger, penetrating the narrow opening easily. "Oh, baby, I'm cumming," he screamed as she began fingerfucking his ass with one hand and jacking him off into her steaming pussy with the other. She required no announcement of the event; she knew intuitively exactly what would happen when she introduced her fingers into his asshole, and she was not disappointed. He gave a massive shudder immediately upon the entry of her fingers; his body became rigid, taut as a bowstring, and within the circle of her fingers she felt his cock heave as the first jet of his cum began it's journey to her womb. His cock heaved, and she felt his anus wink around her fingers. The eye of his cock blinked open and a stream of cum spewed from the tip, splattering against her walls like a tidal wave of fire. He heaved again and again she felt the simultaneous closure of his anus; another spurt of white hot cum burst into her. Her hand, feeling his cock bulge with each squirt of cum, stroked him eagerly, encouragingly, coaxing him to release his seed for her. Her fingers drove into his rectum in perfect syncroneity with the movement of her hand on his cock. He hung in delirious madness, a captive fly between her hands, while she coaxed his prick to pour his life force into her. At the zenith of his orgasm, he raised on toes and fingertips and she lifted her hips to follow him, never losing the insertion of his prick and he flowed into her in an uninterrupted torrent of cum. His mouth opened and his lips moved in utterance of unintelligible sounds and noises. Her fingers flew on his cock, moved to frenzy by the ferocity of his ejaculation, and in gratitude he filled her with the liquid proof of his passion. She mouthed words of encouragement and enticement to prolong the flow. "Oh, yes, daddy, I can feel your cum squirting in me. Oh God, daddy, you're filling me with your hot cum. Fuck me daddy, keep fucking me and pumping your cum into my pussy. Ooooo, daddy, you like my fingers in your ass, don't you?" Each utterance produced a fresh spate of fluid rushing through her fingers, and she clung to his spasming cock as his reservoir drained into her welcoming pussy. At length, the convulsions of his cock subsided to a rhythmic pulsing, and she released him from her grip. Pulling him toward her, she accepted his full length in her pussy. For a moment, they lay still as she allowed the full presence of his cock to complete her arousal. He lay atop her, collapsed and drained, nearly incapable of movement as his last drops oozed out. She rolled her hips, dragging the wet lips of her slit along his length as his cock emerged, then reversing roll, moved to envelop him completely again. His prick sloshed in her cum filled pussy. Each penetration expelled a gush of cum, which quickly coursed down the crack of her ass to pool on the deck beneath her. She rolled her hips and the friction on her already aroused clit was exquisite. Again and again, as he clung to her helplessly, she rode his dwindling cock, stroking herself against his remaining hardness until the bright waves of another orgasm washed over her. And, she threw her arm over his neck and whispered into his ear such words of love and of lust as he had never before heard. "Oh, daddy, you're fucking me soooo goood, I knew it would be like this. That's it, daddy, deeper, fuck me deeper with your hard cock. Ooooo, daddy, I'm gonna cum, you're making me cum,” and then she was there and screaming, "Daddy, daddy, daddy, I'm cumming; Oh, God, I'm cumming again." He tried to respond, to participate, but his efforts were feeble, and she was a wild thing to behold, writhing beneath him, whipping her pussy against his cock and mouthing obscenities at him. She was thrusting her pointed breasts at him and raking his shoulder with sharp nails, and her fingers, still in possession of his rectum, fucked him there wantonly, while she threw her pussy at him in total, lustful, abandon. And, she came, sweetly and gently, mewing softly with her face pressed against his shoulder, as her body shook in his arms. This was not the cataclysm which her energetic writhing had portended, but a tender submission to ecstasy, and his heart nearly burst with love for this spectacular woman who had allowed him to please her so. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 7 Chapter 7: A Second Bite of Forbidden Fruit Moments later, having somewhat recovered, he withdrew his shrunken member and rolled from her to lie on his back by her side. She moved to touch him, pressing her side, hip and flank to his, maintaining tactile contact with him for a purpose. She realized instinctively that, with the ebb of his passion, guilt inevitably would rush in to fill the void and she was determined to prevent that. "Baby," he began in that “I should have known better" tone of voice. "Shhhhh," she whispered softly and rolled to her side. Her breasts brushed him intimately. She supported her head with her hand, elbow on the deck by his head. She looked at him warmly and reassuringly. Her hand stroked his chest idly as she told him, "You were wonderful, daddy. I knew you would be, but you were better than I imagined. I've wanted this to happen for so long; I've wanted to fuck you, feel your cock shoot cum inside me, but I just didn't know how to go about it, you know? I used to lay awake at night thinking about you and me and getting all hot and wet thinking about what it would be like to feel your prick in my cunt, and I would finger my pussy to make myself cum, but it never was good enough; it always left me wanting you more than ever." Her words flowed like warm water over him, soothing and calming, stifling the shrill voice of his conscience that even then, in the quiet aftermath of his ecstasy, was rising to berate him. He listened and her soft words turned back the black shroud of his guilt. "So, I planned this, daddy. As soon as I heard mom was going to Chicago, I decided this was my chance, so I asked you to bring me up here for the weekend. I lied about Barb and Bonnie; I never invited them to come along, or Lance either. I wanted us to be alone. I wanted to dance for you, just you and me, and to be irresistible for you. I wanted to make you want me as much as I wanted you. So, I planned it, daddy. I got you here alone with the music and me and kept bringing you beer, just like I planned. Well, almost; I was going to start out naked, but I chickened out on that and had to find that gown of mom's in the drawer. But this was all my idea, daddy, so if you gotta blame somebody, then blame me." "But, dammit, baby," he started to protest. "Shhhhh," she hushed him with a finger to his lips, "I'm not finished. But I don't care if I do get the blame for this, I'm glad it happened. I loved it, every minute of it and I don't want it to end either." He attempted to lift himself to a sitting position, but she gently restrained him with her hand on his chest, saying "Let me finish, please, and she continued, her voice assuming a coaxing, almost cajoling tone. “ I don't want to stop now, daddy, and we don't have to if we don't want. Nobody will know; it'll be our secret, just you and me, and we'll be very, very careful, I promise. Nobody will ever find out about us, not ever." As she spoke, her fingers played lightly with the hairs surrounding his nipples, almost absentmindedly tracing circles on his bare chest. As her words turned more to request, her fingers moved lower, stroking across his belly, while her eyes searched his for an indication of acceptance. Her fingertips encountered the damp mat of his pubic hair, and paused momentarily, tickling gently, before grasping his limp member and lifting it from its bed between his thighs. He jerked, startled, at this renewed intimacy, but closed his eyes and did nothing to resist her. She took him wetly into her cupped hand and squeezed him gently. She spoke to them both. "I know you liked it. You liked watching me dance for you, didn't you? You watched and it made you hot; you wanted me and couldn't wait to get your hands on me. Your cock got so hard you thought you were going to cum in your pants, didn't you? And, you wanted to fuck me so bad you could taste it, isn't that right, daddy?" He lay motionless, eyes shut, listening to her provocative words and knew everything she uttered was the truth, but he feared to admit it to her. Her words mingled powerfully with the sensations of her fingers upon on him. She waved her fist and his limp cock waggled aimlessly. She leaned toward the reddened head hanging from her encircling fingers. "I know your little buddy here loved it, didn't you little buddy?" Her hand waved, and his prick, puppet-like, nodded assent in response. She spoke with mock gravity, "Well, at least somebody around here can talk. You loved it, didn't you, little buddy. My hot wet pussy was tight for you wasn't it, sweetheart?" His penis nodded in eager agreement. "And, it squeezed you sooooo gooood, when we were fucking, didn't it?" He bobbed enthusiastically again. "And, you just loved it when I jacked you off with your head in my pussy, didn't you?" He nodded so excitedly that his head slapped Don's belly. "And, darling, you came sooo good for me, spurting and squirting all your hot cum into my pussy, didn't you, baby?" Smack, smack, smack, his head, nodding in enthusiastic agreement, slapped Don's belly in rapid succession. "Why, you've never cummed that good before, have you, baby?" His reddened head shook in answer, as her hand changed direction and jerked him back and forth. "And, darling, you want to do it to me again and again, don't you. You want to keep fucking my hot pussy forever and ever, don't you? Whenever, wherever and as much as you and I like, don't you?" She smacked Don's penis against his belly playfully, nodding the head eagerly, until he stayed her hand with his own and laughed, and she knew she had won again. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his in a lingering kiss. He responded instantly, eagerly and his mouth opened in welcome. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her close as their tongues explored and teased. Their kiss deepened, but lacked the frantic, lust driven urgency of their earlier kisses. Her hand held him lightly, patiently. Her breasts, nipples hardened anew, brushed his chest and side. "Hmmmm," she breathed into his mouth as she felt the early stirring of revival. He kissed her harder, his tongue probing deeply then withdrawing only to plunge deeper into her moist depths. She closed her lips around his tongue, pursing them into an "O" for him to thrust through, and he began an eager penetration and withdrawal, replicating the movement of their previously joined loins. He grew within the confines of her fingers that were holding him passively while his strength returned. He thrust his tongue upward, stiffening that organ to a slippery point and she moved her encircling lips up and down on him in a lewd sucking action. Her hand tightened and his member throbbed in her grasp. His fingers ran through her hair, holding her, encouraging her to inflame him again, while she fornicated his tongue with her mouth. His penis strove to mimic the rigidity of his tongue, and he lifted his hips to induce her fingers to move on him. She laughed deep in her throat, a gurgling sound, at his excitement, and stroked the soft head of his penis with the pad of her thumb. He strained to force his tongue deeper into her mouth, as though such pale penetration would relieve the quickening urges in his still recumbent loins. She recognized his need and lifted her lips. "You want to fuck me again, don't you daddy?" He nodded his head, mouthing the word "Yes," inaudibly, and in the same instant she shook an affirmative response from her "little buddy." They laughed spontaneously, and she giggled, "I'm sure glad you two agree on that." She slid down his body and laid her head on his belly. Her hand lifted his member for her inspection. He was still only semi-erect, without the starch to stand alone, and he lay helplessly across her fingers. She encircled him with thumb and forefinger and attempted to masturbate him, but he lacked the required rigidity. She moved her head and brought him to her lips. Her tongue slipped out and the tip entered the eye in the head of his penis. She tasted him and heard a groan slip from his lips at her intimate caress. Her lips opened, and she took him into her mouth. She sucked him deeply and felt his pubic hairs brush her cheek as her lips closed about the base of his member. Her tongue stroked and caressed the soft, spongy flesh filling her mouth. She lifted his head with the tip of her tongue and pressed it against the roof of her mouth. Her tongue held him tightly, and she began to suckle him, as a child suckles his thumb. Her tongue stroked the underside of his penis, rhythmically, in accompaniment to the rhythmic hollowing of her cheeks. Her fingers moved to tickle his scrotum, scratching lightly and feeling the sack retract and tighten as his excitement began to increase. He lengthened in her mouth, and she accepted the increase with intensified suckling. Her fingers tickled the underside and back of his testicles and his legs spread to accommodate her. Remembering his earlier responses, she tickled the area between his balls and anus and felt him wiggle his hips in answer to her caress. He stiffened perceptibly within her lips, the head nudging the back of her throat eagerly and she continued to suck. Her fingertip passed over the tight circle of his anus, stroking the lingering wetness there and elicited a groan of delight from her father. Continuing to suck his stiffening post, she began to move her mouth up and down thrusting him in and out of her throat. He was gasping with delight at the erotic sensations of her mouth and tongue on his growing penis. His arms were thrown out to his sides, empty fingers scratched frantically at the grassy deck. Words, lewd and excited, streamed from his lips as the girl hungrily mouthed his member. "Oh God, yes, baby, yes. Oh yes, you are sucking me so good. Jesus, baby, yes, suck it like that; don't stop, please don't stop." Thrilled by the returning wave of his energy, she laid the tip of her finger on his anus. Instantly, his hips bucked and his penis throbbed in her mouth. "Oh, yes, baby, stick it in," he shrieked, and she felt his sphincter relax to accept her finger. Slowly, tantalizingly, she pushed her finger into his bowels, fraction by tiny fraction. He writhed like a worm on a hook as her finger penetrated, and his penis spasmed in her throat in wanton anticipation. "Arrrrrgh," he cried out in delirious excitement, thrilling to his ravishment by the girl's dainty finger. "Deeper, baby, please," he implored her deliriously, and she accommodated by driving her finger fully into his ass, and her mouth moved down on his throbbing member till it filled her completely. His prick quivered rigidly, fully erect and throbbing with recovered desire. Her finger probed his rectum and encountered the hard bulb of his prostate gland. She circled the gland with her fingertip and the sensitive organ shot bolts of sexual lightning through his member. She began a gentle massage and immediately his cock heaved in her mouth and emitted a gush of hot, salty liquid. "Ieeeee, baby," he bellowed as the fluid flooded her mouth. "You're making me cum.” His hips rose in an effort to force more of his penis into her mouth, to penetrate her more deeply in anticipation of impending ejaculation. She gulped, swallowing his emission, and carefully withdrew her finger from his anus. Amazing, she thought, as she deliberately slowed the movement of her mouth to preserve his stamina, how erotic he finds the stimulation of his anus. I could easily take him from completely soft to ejaculation in a minute or less just by fingering his asshole, and she realized that she had very nearly driven him over the edge. "Oh, baby, don't stop," he implored her weakly, as she withdrew her lips from his twitching penis. The cool air enveloped his wet member with chilling effect, and the flood tide of his onrushing climax relented momentarily. He bit his lip to restrain himself and closed his eyes, fearing that the mere sight of her bending over him would cause his cock to erupt in a shower of premature cum. "Take it easy, daddy," she cautioned. “There's no need to hurry." She moved to kneel over him, placing her knees on either side of his hips and laying her hands flat on the deck on either side of his head. Her breasts hung pendulously, nipples brushing lightly against his chest. His penis rested impatiently on his belly, glistening with her saliva and twitching erratically in hopes of attracting renewed attention. She moved her shoulders causing her breasts to sway and scraped his chest with her nipples. The movement sent shock waves of desire through her body. He lay passively still, allowing her to stimulate herself, and her nipples traced circles on his chest. She drug her nipples across his and thrilled at the touch. He looked at her questioningly, but she said nothing. She leaned forward and drug her breasts up his chest to his face. Swaying back and forth she drug the points of her nipples across his face and lips, shivering with desire as the roughness of his beard stubble scraped her sensitive flesh. Abruptly, she brought a breast directly above his mouth and lowered it, bringing her nipple into contact with his lips. She lowered further, mashing her breast against his mouth. "Suck my tits," she commanded and his mouth sprang open to obey. Her nipple dropped into his hot cavern, and his tongue leapt to embrace it. His lips locked around her swollen areola, and he began to suckle her as she had done to him. "Hmmmmmm, daddy," she breathed huskily. "That feels nice." She struggled to remain motionless, but the sensations ran like a hot wire from her nipple to her clitoris. Each stroke of his tongue brought a fresh burst of electric excitement to her loins. Her lips throbbed with desire. He sucked her nipple and her vagina drew taut in response. His tongue circled her and coaxed a spate of hot fluid to rush from the walls of her womb. She watched his mouth caress her breast and felt the pressure of her passion building. She shifted and brought a fresh nipple to his mouth. He accepted it hungrily and sucked it into his mouth. "Harder," she cried in heated insistence. He pulled the rubbery nugget deeper into his mouth with increased suction. "Harder, dammit," she cried again. "Bite it; use your teeth." His eyes blinked open, searching her face for guidance. His teeth closed tentatively on her nipple, gently pressing into her sensitive tissue. "Harder, I said," she said, glaring at his hesitancy, and her hand twisted in his hair painfully. His teeth bit harder, and she arched her back, hissing, "Yessssss." Threads of exquisite pain and pleasure intertwined in her mind and wove themselves into coils of passion that tightened around her nipples and her clit. Hidden within the folds of her soft lips, her clitoris throbbed insistently for more direct stimulation. His teeth chewed her tender flesh, and she writhed above him. His hands reached for her breasts and began kneading them roughly. Her back arched further, offering her breasts to him, as she chanted in delirium, "Yes, yes, yes." His fingers closed on her nipple and clenched it forcefully. His nails dug into the sensitive skin of her areola, matching the ferocity of his teeth on the other breast, and she fought to maintain control of her urgent passion. Her clit throbbed unbearably. "Oh God, daddy, that feels soooo good," she gasped. Her hips lowered bringing her mons into contact with his stiff member. She shuddered as the pressure of her weight mashed her clitoris against his resistant hardness. Waves of pain and pleasure collided in confusion in her brain. Her hand snaked between their bodies, her fingers separated her lips to allow his member to burrow deeply within her moist furrow. "Ohhhhhh," she gasped as the smooth skin of his penis touched her clit directly, igniting sharp pangs of desire. His teeth closed harder on her nipple; fingernails dug, scoring tender flesh harshly and she cried, "Yes, yes, do that." She lurched, and her clit swept along the rigid length of his shaft; electric sensations of pure pleasure mingled with fierce, stabbing pain and lust flowed like molten lava from her breasts to her loins. She groaned and drove her clit harder against him. He lifted his hips in answer, thrusting his hardened member through her folds, stroking her tense bud repeatedly with the hard knob of his cock head. Her nectar flowed anew and inundated his prick. Her lips thickened in the throes of her excitement. Her clit rolled back and forth under the assault of his battering ram. Her breasts shrieked as his teeth, frenzied by his soaring passion, scythed the darkly tender tissue. The bronzed globes of her breasts were streaked, slashed with crisscrossing ribbons of angry red welts. His hands clenched her flesh, stuffing her nipple into his mouth. Fingers, like pincers, fiercely gripped both nipples and forced them together. Her nipples felt as if they were being ripped off as he mashed them together and thrust them, united, into his mouth. "Arrrrrgh," she screamed as he held her nipples in his mouth with his pressing fingers, chewing and sucking her tormented flesh. "Oh God, daddy, yes," she cried out with back arching, offering her breasts in sacrifice to their combined lust. In her mind, wild, unrestrained sensations jolted her from every direction, vying for control of her passion. Her breasts flamed with hot, wicked, masochistic wantonness, relishing the contrast of teeth and tongue on tender tissue and tugged insistently on the tiller of her attention. Her clit, obscenely engorged and elongated, shouldered past her pouting lips and slithered along his slippery shaft. Continuous contact and the incessant abrasion of her throbbing bud sent tidal waves of raw primal need roaring through her loins. Lust, monumental and overpowering, drove her hips to blinding speed, thrusting her clit into the maelstrom in wild eyed, masturbatory abandon. Flames of exquisite passion burst into her mind in a conflagration of sexual excess. Beneath her gyrating hips, he bounded and thrust with an equally mindless pursuit of passion. The frantic friction of her body moving on his, her lips awash with the emissions of her lust stroking him with liquid velvet, and the hard stalk of her clit scoring his trembling flesh with each passage were driving him insane with need. He lost focus; his eyes, glazed, rolled in their sockets, his tongue lashed out, feverishly wetting lips desiccated by the hot wind of his labored breath. His hands clung to her breasts, immobile, stunned to inactivity by the immediacy of his climax. Together they rushed headlong toward the precipice; an insanely driven sprint to the finish, to throw themselves into the abyss of sweet oblivion. Passion, heavy, thick, palpable, hung in the air about them like a bank of fog, impenetrable, muffling all sound and sight. Nothing moved, nothing lived, nothing existed outside the sphere of their lust. Their bodies collided wetly, slickly, grinding and stroking, bumping in the last mad dash to conclusion. "Oh God, daddy," she screamed softly, in gentle, childlike wonderment, and madly plunged her hand between their churning bodies. She seized him, fingers frantically fumbling to gain a purchase on his slippery skin. She lifted a knee to elevate her loins and directed him to her opening. Adjusting slightly, moving the head to separate swollen lips, she pointed him properly and instantly impaled herself on his fleshy spike. "Oh God," she gasped at the filling intrusion in her pussy. He heaved, lodging himself completely and lifting her knees from the deck with the force of his effort. He abandoned her breasts, and his hands slid to her hips, holding her tightly to her mount, while he held her on uplifted hips, run through to the hilt with his throbbing sword. She tottered there, unbalanced, overcome by the ecstasy of her impalement and shuddering in surrender to her passion. Her hips rolled on her pedestal; her clit rotated against his pubic bone, sending a spasm through her limbs; another, then another. Her vaginal walls clutched him, gripped him in a silky grasp that slithered his length with each roll of her hips. He groaned and lifted her higher. His back bowed in an arch from his feet to his shoulders as his hips lifted free of the deck. She rode him up, feet dangling, toes just brushing the deck surface, his cock thrusting into her belly, and she rocked on him. Her hands raised to cup her breasts, fingers gently twisting her ravaged nipples in self-stimulation. His cock jerked inside her. She heaved. They raced toward the precipice together, a blur, one entity, locked in a timeless embrace and the void loomed up before them. Daddy Crosses the Rubicon Ch. 7 "Ieeeeeeee, daddy," she cried out as his hands, encircling her waist, lifted her body and slammed her down on his standing prick. He drove into her softly yielding flesh insanely as a stream of cum erupted from his cock, and he screamed, "Oh God, baby, I'm cumming." She felt his cock spasm deep within her and felt the hot flood of his cum splatter against her clasping walls. She shook and her flower opened; an explosion of brilliant, multi-hued orchids with luxuriant petals of indescribable texture and intoxicating scents erupting in her loins and mind. Waves of colors, emotions, sensations, boiled upward from the caldron of her loins to engulf her brain, and still his cock jerked inside her, pumping his seed in torrents to fuel the cataclysm of her climax. "Oh, daddy, daddy, daddy," she grunted as each fresh wave of his cum burst into her. She shook and her fingers twisted her nipples feverishly, heightening the intensity of her orgasm. She screamed the announcement of her fulfillment, but his own experience had deafened him to her words. Rapture, sweet, simple, and complete embraced them and lifted them on outstretched wings to soar among the stars and they sojourned there for a while overcome by their satiety.