"High Tide"

Posted by Menagerie on July 19, 2004 at 05:30:25:

HIGH TIDE
The alarm clock went off again, more insistent this time. Karen rolled over, raised a palm as if to flatten it, then thought better of it, and just turned it off.
She yawned and stretched. She knew she was supposed to go to school, but lately she'd skipped more often than not. It wasn't any big deal down here; you didn't need a note from Dad. She was having trouble keeping up, anyway; her Spanish was getting pretty good, but they talked so fast, and laughed all the time, too. So she'd miss another day; big deal.
Karen stretched again, swung her feet to the bare wooden floor, and hopped across her expanse of bedroom to the open window. There was a shutter to be drawn if threatening weather ever arrived, but it never did; she'd never drawn the shutter, after more than a year. And she never tired of the view; leaning forward on her elbows, her hands folded against her chest, Karen caught the heavy sea breeze, looked down to see the waves breaking against the boulders that lined the shore, separating their castle from the Gulf of Mexico.
Karen thought of it as a castle; it had been built 400 years ago, but was completely refurbished, all the accommodations a wealthy Yankee could afford. She could get 600 satellite channels in her room, hear radio stations from around the world; she had a fridge, a computer, a mini hair salon. a walk-in closet big enough for a boat. She didn't have friends; didn't need them. She had Dad.
He was her world, had been for all of her eighteen years. Mom--she kind of remembered Mom, though she had never seen her all that much, but pictures of her at their old place served as a constant reminder. Hard, smoking, narrow eyes, cursing all the time, angry when you came in and she was on the phone. She was cheating, Dad knew it, but it didn't matter; he knew when the cops were going to come for her, maybe he set her up, and they were out eating supper when they took her away. That was seven years ago, and she wouldn't get out for a long time. Conspiring to kill a federal drug agent.
Dad wouldn't say much about her, but he would say Karen looked like her. She did, a little; long, blonde hair, kind of a round face. Long legs, a lot of legs for a little body; they stretched luxuriously down from the shorty, cotton nightie that barely concealed her crotch and rump. Karen frowned, looked at her body in the three way, full length mirror next to her vanity. She wasn't really eating much; she was too nervous. Worried about Dad; he seemed drawn, upset, lately. Maybe it was business.
He'd certainly done well enough, for them to live in a place like this. He was in the movie business; there was always filmmaking equipment around, packages with videos or round tins of film being sent out and coming in. He was involved in some other business, too, white trucks showing up at odd hours, large boxes being loaded out of the cellar. Drugs? Couldn’t have been drugs; he hated what Mom was doing. Karen kind of wondered if he was making porn movies; she'd snooped down the stairs, seen attractive, young women, sitting in the anteroom. They wore real short skirts and too much makeup, looked more like hookers than actresses. But maybe Dad was just satisfying his needs, with Mom cooling her heels. Maybe Dad was balling the hookers, or actresses, whatever they were.
Karen shuddered; she felt a twinge between her thighs. She didn't know what she felt. Dad was big and had a strong, hairy chest, big hands; he had never hurt her, never laid a hand on her, gave her everything she wanted, but he was so quiet all the time. She'd learned not to ask him about business; he'd just wave her away. He didn't get mad, just waved her away, maybe gave her a wad of pesos and told her to go play. She'd go to town, hit the arcades and shops, flirt with the young guys; they were handsome, dark, slim, tight pants and friendly smiles. But she wasn't interested; she'd just go back home, and worry about Dad.
She flirted with Dad, too. It was always warm there, and Karen wore the lightest, most revealing clothes she could get away with--halter tops, cutoffs, mini short shorts, and those stilted high heels that made you feel like you were always looking downward. She'd prance in front of Dad while she was getting her breakfast, wiggling her butt at him playfully; she'd lean over him to pour him coffee, practically burying his face between her breasts. He'd smile, pleased at the teasing; but when she peeked over a shoulder, he pretended to be fascinated by his coffee. Or a drink; he was drinking a lot, now. She never saw him drunk--not falling down, hello-how-are-ya drunk, but he was bleary eyed a lot, and tired, and looked like he needed to get some sleep. But he kept working; the young girls kept visiting, the packages kept going out, and he always had a big wad of multi-colored currency to shoo her away with.
One night, Karen decided, she wasn't going to be shooed. She took the money, left out the front, and went right back in the back, through the cellar. It had been a wine cellar when the castle was owned by local royalty; now, it was just a storage area, camera casings and film canisters, furniture for props. She really wondered about his movies; there was a crack of light streaming around a warped, old door. Karen could hear sounds; she eased closer. A whack. Another whack. A girl's voice, pleading in Spanish. Another whack. Dad's voice, also in Spanish. A shrill scream. Karen felt that tingling, between her legs, again; she bit her lip, held her breath. The sound stopped, nothing but quiet; a few seconds later, it dawned on her. She quickly tottered out of there on her oversized heels, rushed out through the ex-wine cellar, back through the creaking door. She jumped on the little motorbike Dad had gotten her for her seventeenth birthday, piloted it along the narrow, dusty road; she looked over her shoulder, several times. Nobody chasing her.
It was just a few kilometers to town; Karen finally slowed down, stopped next to the arcade. Her heart was pounding. One of the local guys walked up to her; she sure looked scared, he told her. What happened? For a change, she was happy to see him; they headed into the arcade for some furious video games. It felt empty, but Karen wanted to stay there for a while, kept dropping coins into the machine, watching the ninja warrior slaughter his foes. She fought the urge for a while, then said goodbye to the smiling, tight-jeaned boy, and headed back on the scooter.
Dad didn't say anything; she looked up into his eyes, looking for an answer, and he mildly told her dinner would be ready soon, her favorite. They ate in silence; Dad pounded down a Scotch, then a couple more. He was a little uneasy, he told her, needed to go get some rest. It had been a long day. He tottered into his room, closed the door. There was no lock.
Karen hesitated. The huge, spacious room was an echo chamber, the sound of the surf outside bouncing off the rounded ceiling and walls. She slipped up his seat, took the half-empty whiskey glass, sipped at the Scotch. It wasn't her first time; maybe her fourth, or fifth. But she wanted a little fortitude, and lapped up the rest of the amber, burning liquid, then poured herself a little more.
The room was stark, almost looked a little crooked. Karen stared straight at Dad's door for a minute; maybe it was three or four, the empty glass dangling from her fingers. She set it down with a firm bump, strode forward, afraid to slow down, and stopped in front of the door. One more breath, and through.
Dad was sprawled on the unmade bed, one brawny forearm over his face. He was wearing socks and boxer shorts; the light was dim through the wooden slats of the shutters. The sea air felt clean and a bit cooler. Ready or not, thought the girl, here I come, and she disrobed. The halter top came off with a quick flick; so did the shorts, untied at her waist. Pink, high cut nylon panties plunged to the floor. She had reached down and lifted one leg, unsnapped one of the ridiculous shoes, when she looked at him, again. He had one eye open. "Hi, Daddy," she whispered. "I was just coming to join you."
He was not surprised, not angry, not even pleased. He just nodded, as if they had done this every night forever. The other shoe came off; Karen glanced at herself in the waist-high mirror. She didn't really look like a waif; her breasts--she was self-conscious--looked damn full. Maybe her arms and shoulders were a little thin. No, she looked good. She wondered if she looked like Mom. "Ready or not," she said, and allowed herself a giggle; he, in turn, smiled.
She crawled onto the bed on all fours, leaned over him, allowing her breasts now to fall into his face, none of this coy cleavage stuff. Her soft skin contrasted with his rough, hairy body; they shared warmth, and Karen felt herself heating up, the tickle in her twat now an itch, an urging. She slipped down, her chest against his, legs against his, belly; her hands caressed the big man, then reached down. He was impossibly big in those shorts; she slipped under the elastic, her hand brushed the swollen cock, then closed around it. His eyes were now fixed on hers--the liquor on his breath bathed her face--and, a crack of a smile showing, he removed the arm from his forehead and reached around, grabbed the back of her head by the hair, pulled her forward...
Their lips met; Karen's mouth cracked open, and Dad's tongue ran into it. He tasted her from inside, her mouth was filled with him. Her eyes closed, desperately; his drawers had been lowered, and she continued to massage his organ, now rock hard and slick with the pre. With his other hand, he cupped his daughter's tail, swept her around. She was on her back, looking up; the craggy, almost mournful face filled her vision, and then she felt him in her, and gasped.
Their bodies were slick in the Mexican heat; she reached her long legs desperately around him, trying to link her feet around his back. He rose and fell rhythmically, all the while his mouth still locked over hers, probing her insides in two places. Karen was swept away in burnished gold and kaleidoscopic lights, and the warm fluid filling her was just an afterthought. Tears came to her eyes, great, salty tears of happiness. My Daddy, she thought, beneath the comforting crush of his weight.
They lay still a long time, drawing long, measured breaths, hers high and airy, his a deep rumble. He was sprawled next to her, one leg and arm draped over her. Karen smiled, cuddled a little closer. They didn’t need to speak; she looked up at his face, bathed in the striped shadows of the shutters, and thought she saw peace. Then, a thought passed through her…the girl in the cellar. Instantly, he could feel her tense. What’s wrong?, he asked.
She thought. If that’s what Dad did…if that’s what he liked…then, it was good. He was everything to her. Karen smiled, warmly, seductively, the darkness of young passion in her eyes.
“I’m going to take care of you, Daddy,” she whispered, quietly. “Just the two of us. It’ll be OK.”
Night turned to dawn; the two of them, father and daughter, remained in that bed for hours. They couldn’t get enough of each other. Karen was nestled up against him, had his massive cock in her mouth; long, slow strokes, looking up at him for approval, her mouth almost comically stretched. He smiled, contentedly, a big fist full of her matted, blonde hair, and grunted as she drew yet more of him out.
She wrapped herself in his shirt and headed out to the dining room, fetched them food, and the Scotch. She returned with an impish grin on her face, held out the bottle; he shook his head, laughed. They shared a swallow, munched on some salmon and hard cheese. Karen was a good tired; her body almost ached from all the activity, and she was streaked dirty from their commingled sweat. She was still wearing her father’s shirt as he took her one last time, rolling her, giggling, on her belly, then up on her knees. Her plump, downy snatch, between tender ass cheeks, invited him; Dad plunged forward again, and Karen made just a little “oomph”. How could he keep it up? she wondered, and then thought gave way to the electricity, the awakening this night had brought to her young body. She had come to her father to learn; he was a very good Master.
When Karen awoke, he was gone. She headed lightly to the shower, reluctantly cleaned him off of her, stepped out feeling brand new. She looked out into the drive behind the manor; there was a white truck, waiting for a load. Two men stood by, impatiently, arms folded.
Well, Daddy’s business, she thought, brightly. Karen turned to her vanity, made herself oh, so pretty. Flushed cheeks, glossed lips, her fair skin lightly highlighted. Her nicest, new outfit, the colors almost fluorescent, the skirt way high. She didn’t know if there would be-could be-another night like the last; she was almost afraid. What if he had decided this could never be, again?
He didn't get home until late; they ate in semi-silence. She asked if he'd had a good day; he thought for a while, then said he had, and asked about hers. The shops, the arcade. "The boys," she giggled, "are so cute." He didn't seem disturbed, went back to eating. As she cleared the table; he rose slowly, lumbered off to his room. Then, one hand on the door, he turned. And met her eyes.
This time, he was rougher, more direct. He was bringing it to her, this time; Karen uttered sharp cries of pleasure as he enveloped her and drove himself into her; she was captured at once by the softness of his flesh and the mattress and the force of his weight on her. This time, he was using her; in brief, coherent flashes between the overwhelming rush of sex, she realized she liked it.
The night would be shorter, but Karen wanted to go farther. At one point, as Dad squatted over her and fondled her, fingered her young breasts and body, she reached down with both hands; taking his, she guided them along the curves of her body, and up to her neck. For the first time, he seemed startled; his eyes widened. But then, deftly, he brought pressure; Karen felt the brief, smoldering pain, her candy pink tongue peeking out between parted lips. He didn't let up; she stiffened, and came, her body arching as jolts of pleasure drove through her.
She continued to flop as Dad kept a grip around her throat; he relaxed only when she did. She lay limp beneath him, panting for breath...then opened one eye, looked at him, and said simply, "Yes." Dad's face did not reflect concern at all, simply determination; the sight of his daughter choking under his grip had once again stiffened him, and the still-weak Karen felt her father roughly roll her onto her back, felt him again enter her. For the first time, the experience felt like rape.
Karen thought about that moment, over and over, the next morning. She was back in her own bed, the rush of the sea again filling her ears. She wasn't sure how she felt; she wanted more of it, and yet, she was afraid. Not of Dad--she felt drawn to him, more closely than ever--but of herself. How much pain did she want? Did she want to die? And she had to know more about the cellar; she was actually jealous of the girl, the girl screaming in Spanish between the slaps.
This time, there would be no bare midriff, no fuck-me shoes. She hadn't worn those jeans in years; the sneakers were usually reserved for jogging up and down the road. Sneakers; they made her feel sneaky. Karen self-consciously slipped through the door, closed it quietly, and tiptoed past the stacked crates and dusty film equipment. There was no light behind the old door, no sound. Karen tried the handle; it turned.
Various props in the room, props suggesting torture. There was a chair with clamps attached to the arms and front legs. A metal table, also fitted with clamps. Whips and knives on shelves; two cameras mounted on tripods. Karen peered at it all, fascinated; the feeling, deep within her cunt, had started again. She reached up, touched one of the knives, a long, thin one, then ran a finger along the blade--pulled away, startled, and stared at the ruby fluid welling up in the cut...and the voice asked, quietly, Did you hurt yourself?
She jumped and spun, popping the bloody finger in her mouth. Dad was not angry; he was never angry with her. He stood, stock still, as they looked at each other for several seconds; Karen didn't have to ask the question, her eyes did.
This is my business, he said. I make these movies on a schedule, according to what my clients want. I produce them here for my distributors; the demand keeps going up--I can't make them, copy them, fast enough for them. I've been putting in very long days. You understand, don't you?
Karen nodded, wide-eyed, still sucking on the injured finger. What about the white trucks? she asked silently. What about these knives? What about the girls? Dad said, It's a very good business. Nothing is wasted; the shipping business is a sideline. I've never kept anything from you; my doors are unlocked. You can learn whatever you'd like.
They went upstairs together, made love again, in the den. He was less violent, gentler, than the night before; perhaps he was more relaxed. They knew more about each other, now. Karen slipped to the floor, legs curled beneath her, and took Dad's cock in her small, soft hands, then into her mouth; she caressed the insides of his thighs as she sucked, rewarded as he placed both hands on her shoulder blades, thumbs on her clavicles, strongly massaged them. She felt the tension drain from her body, and then his grip stiffened as his fluids coursed down her throat. They stayed together the rest of the evening, showered together, slept side by side, a man and his woman.
It was late in the afternoon when Karen emerged from their room--not just his, anymore--and found Dad, and a girl, waiting for her. She was perhaps 19 or 20; almond eyes that bespoke Indian heritage, skin the color of smoky bronze. Like the others, she wore a short skirt, high heels, a tube top, and way too much makeup. Karen, this is Consuela, he said; the older girl nodded, stiffly, nervous. She's here for filming. And with that, Dad escorted the girl toward the ancient stone steps that led to the cellar. Karen hesitated, only briefly, and then followed along.
Another man was waiting in the cellar, fussing with equipment; he seemed a little startled when Karen arrived, but quickly resumed his tasks. Karen watched, fascinated, as Dad methodically checked the lights, the camera angles, the sound. The girl stood off to the side, taking quick little puffs on a cigarette; she ground the butt under the stiletto heel. Then Dad took over one of the cameras, and Karen saw.
She saw as the other man dragged the girl, screaming, before the camera, held her by the waist as he ripped the top off her torso. Her breasts shone in the harsh lights, large, dark nipples against the yellow globes. He forced her to a wall, shackled first one wrist, then the other; Consuela twisted in fear, her heels barely scraping the ground. Down on one knee, the man unzipped, pulled down her skirt; her dark brown bush appeared, then disappeared from view, as the girl lifted one leg and then the other, trying to free herself.
Dad shifted from one camera to the other; Karen noticed there was no break in the action, the girl kept struggling and screaming. The man grasped at her breasts, squeezing, kneading them; her eyes shone bright white, rolled back in her head as she instinctively tried to shy away. He forcefully kissed her, his full mouth against hers; when they separated, she choked and sobbed, turning toward the floor.
The whip followed. The girl cried out as each lash bit into her flesh; welts were raised on her breasts and thighs, across her belly. Her shrill screams didn't seem to carry; the room had a high ceiling, tiles to catch the sound. The beating finally ceased, and Consuela sagged against her chains, defeated, helpless.
The man produced a knife.
Karen wanted to leave, but could not. Her eyes remained fixed on the scene, the man grimly making first one small cut, then another. The girl howled in agony, blood tracing along the copper skin, streaks of dark red that wove a pattern of stripes against the wounds from her whipping, a checkerboard. A slash to the inside of her leg was an inch deep; blood poured. Another opened her breast.
The blade was against her throat. It moved; it seemed like slow motion. Her neck opened; the girl gagged, her screams cut short. Her thrashing became weaker, a marionette arms and legs only moving part way, and then stopping entirely. She sagged; her feet no longer found the floor.
Dad remained hunched over the camera for a minute, then two. Karen tore her eyes away from the slumped figure chained to the wall; Dad seemed to be panning, up and down the girl's body, closing in, then pulling back. Finally, he stood up.
Thank you, he said. That was excellent.
The man had already gotten to work. He unchained the girl’s wrists; as Consuela collapsed to the floor, he grabbed her body under the arms and hauled her to the steel table, flung her onto it. The man was selecting knives, and plugged in a small saw. He then began the task of butchering her.
Karen didn’t understand why she wasn’t revulsed. The body was split open; great lengths of multicolored guts were hauled out, stretched out on the table next to the girl. Then, the knife split limbs from torso; the saw finished the job.
Methodically, the man wrapped Consuela’s parts in plastic, then laid them in one of the boxes Karen had seen. Then, with a grunt, he loaded the box onto a hand truck, tilted back and headed through the door. The hooker with the almond eyes was going away.
Karen suddenly realized Dad was no longer in the room; she was alone. She didn’t want to be; hurried through the door and up the stairs. He wasn’t there; his old, blue Cadillac was gone from the garage. Gone, on business.
She plumped down on the divan, the same one Daddy had rested on yesterday, as she massaged and sucked him into pleasure. Alone in their castle, Karen put her head in her hands and thought. Daddy is good, he treats me well. He’s my knight, I love him with all my heart. He brought me to this fabulous place on the sea. She swallowed. This is what he is, what we are. I can accept this. I can be his friend, his lover, his confidant, if he’ll let me. He’s so tired all the time, under so much strain…
When she awoke, it was in her own bed; her shoes were off, but she still wore her clothes. She glanced at the alarm clock. Three A.M.; Karen got up, still groggy, staggered out of her room and along the corridor to Daddy’s room. Their room. She heard his voice.
She heard another voice. A woman’s voice. And a laugh.
Karen turned, and ran. Shoved her way through her door, slammed it shut, flung herself onto her bed. All she had seen, all she had done; now, came the tears. She knew she wasn’t being fair; she didn’t care. She wanted Dad. Now. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.
She felt a hand, a strong hand, on her shoulder. Turned her head; saw him, through the tears. He was so concerned. Please; don’t cry, his face told her; his voice told her, Come with me.
She was in the den. Tall, slender, in her late 20’s; jet black hair, paper white skin. Eyes that almost closed when she smiled. Karen, Dad said, meet Sara. She’s from the States; a business associate. Karen felt fifteen again. No, twelve. She timidly shook hands. Sara smiled, and eyed her voraciously. Karen liked her skimpy outfits, was proud of her body, but she suddenly felt…undressed.
A business associate? “I used to be on the business end of the camera,” Sara said breezily; she was kicked back in one of the grand chairs in the kitchen, shoes off, a drink in one hand. “I met so many people on ‘goodwill’ tours, I wound up a distributor.” Karen thought; how could she have been in a movie that…? She deliberately took a glass and poured herself a Scotch, half expecting the woman to slap her hand or scold her. She did neither, just reached over and stroked Karen’s free hand. “Like father,” she said, “like daughter.”
The three of them wound up in the bedroom. Sara turned out to have a taut body that could bend in all directions; Karen lay on her back as the older woman lapped at her pubes, nuzzling her into a new state of bliss. Dad was behind the woman, and in her; the bed creaked as they rocked, a pair of high-pitched sighs resonating against the pounding surf. “This is nice,” Karen moaned between shallow breaths; “but”-she looked up at Dad-“I still want you, too.”
When she got him, it was from behind, on her elbows and knees; Dad had doubled his belt, wrapped it around Karen’s neck, and kept slow, steady pressure on her throat as he fucked her in the asshole. Sara watched gleefully, sipping a drink. “Ride ‘em, cowboy,” she laughed; Karen’s eyes bugged; she felt lightheaded from her blood and air being cut off, and the unfamiliar pressure in her rectum had her nearly going through the ceiling. The brunette thoughtfully reached over, wiped the drool oozing from Karen’s lips, then knelt on the floor and locked her own mouth over Karen’s, hard. Pleasure, pain, pleasure; the teen-ager reeled, seeing crimson and black as her body shuddered in sexual rage.
Sara left the next morning, a box of videotapes filling the trunk of her Saab. She gave them both pecks on the cheek, as if she hadn’t just spent the night with them in a three-way. “Keep me posted,” she waved cheerfully, and told Karen with a wink as they clasped hands, “A real pleasure to meet you.”
It's not always like it was two nights ago, Dad was telling Karen; they were lying in his bed, spent from another furious lovemaking session. A special customer orders those movies; another wants--he hesitated--the woman, and pays a good deal for her. No, she didn't know what was going to happen to her; yes, Sara knows all about it--she's my go-between for the "special" customer. More often, the violence is real, but tame, like it was a few days ago when you were down in the cellar--Karen caught her breath. Yes, I knew about that; it would be bad business not to monitor my facilities. But you were welcome then, and you're welcome now.
Karen turned to Dad, wide-eyed, lips forming an "o". "What...do they do with her?" Dad smiled, a small smile. I'll show you, he said.
Karen almost never rode in the Cadillac anymore. She played with the radio, finally settling on some hip-hop in Spanish as they drove along the poorly-maintained road up the coast, the waves smashing against steep banks to their left. She wore an all-white suit, top and slacks; Dad was in those synthetics she hated, muted pinks and aquas meandering across his shirt. He wore shades and white patent leather shoes; she didn't know why he dressed that way. Maybe that's what they expect of gringos down here.
They passed through an old, tall gate, up to an estate that dwarfed their own big house. A fully-uniformed and heavily armed guard smiled, and waved Dad through. The Caddy shuddered to a stop at a circular, stone-inset drive before the mansion, where the patriach was waiting, eyes twinkling and hands clasped.
Señor Diego was an old, rotund man with a bald head and tufts of cotton over his ears; he was dressed kind of like Dad--that must be it, a uniform. He greeted both of them warmly, in fairly good English. Dad had told Karen that Señor Diego had made his fortune in the hierarchy of the Mexican state petroleum monopoly; that, and political connections, got you a long way. The greeting room was wall-to-wall bookshelves and framed photos of Señor Diego with a multitude of powerful people and celebrities; he had the same look on his face in every one--a pursed grin, cheeks sucked in, as if someone had told him a joke just as he was sucking on a lemon. He wore that same smile as he demanded to know of Dad how business was. It's moving along, Dad said carelessly, looking relaxed in an overstuffed chair, legs crossed; he held his shades between two fingers. You're keeping bread on the table, and Señor Diego bowed and smiled, again. The table, he said, is waiting.
A lavish lunch, offered by a pair of silent servants, was the order of the day. Fresh greens, a vegetable soup; Señor Diego ate voraciously, Dad rather slowly. They both tossed down wine from a bottle with a French label; the conversation continued, Señor Diego talking between swallows about oil prices and politics, Dad occasionally offering his two cents. Karen picked at her salad; she thought she knew what would come next. The main course, smiled the old man, and despite the heat of the tropical mid-day, Karen felt a chill.
She really didn't recognize it, a lump of meat on a worn wooden platter. The stiff-faced waiters carved it, presented Karen with a small slice, Dad with a somewhat larger one, Señor Diego with a gigantic hunk. He jumped to his feet, lifted his wine, toasted their continued friendship. Karen stood, and sipped ice water. Then, they got down to the meat.
Señor Diego seemed to go from jovial to adolescent; he giggled, made a show of stuffing the meat in his mouth. He seemed very agitated, and kept glancing at Karen, who was glad she wasn't wearing the halter and cutoffs today. He lapsed into Spanish, made a joke; you can tell, he told Dad, her legs got a lot of exercise. More jokes followed.
Karen cut off and lifted to her mouth what she now was certain had been part of Consuela's leg. It was sweet, and fragrant; it almost seemed like it had been dusted in baby powder or something like it. The flavor was very strong, to the extent it almost made Karen's face hurt; she wrinkled her nose, a couple of tears involuntarily running down her cheeks from the unfamiliar flavor. It fell apart in her mouth, and she concentrated, then chewed and swallowed. When she reopened her eyes, the two men were staring at her, Señor Diego popeyed and mouth agape, Dad concerned, as always. Then the Mexican man roared with laughter. You can always, he told Dad, tell a first-timer.
It was a good 50 kilometers back home; Karen thought about it all the way, the hip-hop and the excited deejay providing a backdrop as they cruised the worn road. The whitecaps were right next to her now, crashing just yards away; their spray mixed with the afternoon air, rushing past her as she thought. She'd been turned on by what they'd just done, but it wasn't a sexual turnon; her emotions, her thoughts had rushed through her head at high speed. She remembered the girl, her nervous look, her stiff demeanor; she remembered her screams and cries. She had stared at her plate and pictured the girl walking past her in the tiny skirt, her legs one in front of other, shiny like copper in the harsh light of the makeshift studio.
And then, Karen thought about herself. She had almost fleeting images of herself chained to that wall, naked, the nameless man drawing the sharpened steel across her body. The visions would disappear, and then she'd see Dad with his hands around her neck, lying on her, driving his cock into her as he squeezed the life out of her. She saw it as if she were on the ceiling, saw her own eyes bugging out, her tongue out, her limbs flailing feebly, her body bouncing up and down under his bulk--then, fade to gray, and start again.
Karen didn’t see any reason why she should be shy about it; after all, hadn’t she strutted into her father’s room, stripped to the buff, and jumped into the sack with him? That night, she told him what she wanted; as always, he nodded, peacefully, and accepted it. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and then another. They looked deeply into each other for a long moment, barely breathing; then, their eyes still locked, Dad reached down, held up Karen’s left wrist, and secured a cuff around it.
Karen lay on her belly on the bed, each wrist cuffed to a post; his wallet was between her teeth. The crack of a thin, leather belt stung her behind, then her back, then her thighs. Tears boiled from her eyes; she shrieked through the wallet with each blow, kicked her legs, then lay still for the next. Her mind was a blur, the crack of the leather driving a white-hot nail through her brain, then receding to a dull red as she awaited the next. He’s my Daddy, she thought; he knows how much of this I can handle.
Then, on her haunches, legs apart so her cheeks would be parted; the wallet was gently removed, and she panted heavily, spilling the wind she’d been unable to let go of. As Dad entered her, his hands again closed around her neck. Karen bucked in the agony of near-death, the twin sensations leaving her an animal of pleasure and pain, and she reacted like an animal, twisting against the cuffs and croaking from lack of air.
You wet the bed, Dad told her, holding the glass of whiskey to her lips. She had; she’d damned near passed out. Laying exhausted in her own pee, her arms still stretched by the cuffs and posts, Karen felt she’d given him even more, now; her soul, as well as her body. She was ready for more.
For the first time, Dad was hesitant. Was she sure? She was. Karen wore her most revealing outfit, her modest breasts squeezing out of the tight, red top, a black skirt that started short with a slit nearly to the hip. Those impossible shoes completed the image; a schoolboy’s dream, a Daddy’s nightmare. You look good, Hon, he told her, and she knew it. She pictured herself with a cig, sitting back with her legs crossed, swearing a mile a minute. Like Mom.
It was a woman this time, maybe thirty, busty and swarthy. Viola. As Dad bent over the camera, she shoved Karen to the floor; strong hands, with long nails, tore open Karen’s top, pulled off her skirt. She knelt bare before the big Latina; an open hand across her face was not pulled—it drew blood. Lying on the tiled floor, Karen spat, gagged and cried.
She felt her hands bound, then her arms raised, then her whole body. She was hooked to a pulley, rising to the ceiling; her shoes scuffed at the ground, then left it entirely. Viola knelt to cross-bind Karen’s ankles, straightened up and examined her pussy intently; Karen took laborious breaths, looked down at the woman. Then, incredible pain; a very large dildo was being forced into her. Karen flailed, screaming, Dad didn’t flinch.
The beating was brutal, worse than Dad’s mild whipping. A real whip was laid across Karen’s body, putting a thick, red stripe across her tender skin. A second blow, then a third, a fourth. The teenager flopped like a fish, letting out a plaintive howl with every fresh assault, blurting hurt noises in between. The marks crossed her shoulders, her belly, her ass. It was hell, and heaven, and she craved it.
Heat followed, a cigarette first under a breast, then singeing her pubic hairs. The new sensation drew high-pitched shrills from Karen; now, she could no longer stand it. Dad picked it up immediately; Viola backed away, and the camera panned her, up her bruised legs, her violated twat with the huge device still planted within her, the raw wounds on her breasts and belly. It found her face, captured the suffering. Karen did not look at the camera, looked away, up to the ceiling, unable to catch her breath for the sobs. Then, she felt herself being lowered to the floor.
In a hot bath, her father cleansed and massaged her wounds. It was a huge tub, built for the minilords who once ruled this land—as does, Karen had reflected, Señor Diego today. She eyed her father, up to her chin in the mineral laden water, her many sores producing thin, pink plumes. “Join me,” she asked. He did; his attentions were even better medicine. Pinned by his slick flesh against the side of the tub, Karen spread her legs and felt him in her. He sprawled over her, placed his mouth over hers; all the little injuries jerked her into a heightened sensuality, and she shuddered violently and came.
Nude, on her stomach, on his bed, she winced as Dad smeared a salve on her cuts and welts. Playfully, he worked a goo-covered finger into her anus; Karen wriggled happily. “Stop it!” she said, not meaning it. The moon played a pattern on her face as the shutters swayed in the wind. Karen sighed, went limp; he left her as she passed peacefully into a deep sleep.
“You were very popular,” he told her a few days later; it was breakfast, and already getting hot, the overhead fan only partially overcoming the onrushing summer day. “I’ve had a request for more.”
Karen didn’t think twice. “Sure,” she said, feeling like a business partner. “I’ll try to do better,” she laughed. Dad smiled, a tight smile.
This time, she was a runaway; T-shirt, blue jeans, flip-flops. The unnamed man was back; he dragged her into the scene, a knife to her throat. Dad calmly zoomed in, caught the look of terror on her face. Ordered to disrobe, Karen slowly pulled off the rough clothes; the camera lovingly took in those long legs, her young pubes, her breasts. Now, she was on the table; the clamps held her wrists, her ankles. She was aware of a camera over her, recording her struggles, her fear.
Then, the man was atop her. It was different than Dad—his breath was foul. His hands, his body were grimy; Karen sobbed, genuine tears, as the man used her. His cock was a dirty thing in her, twitching, probing at her innards; it hurt. She coughed and retched as he got off, worked the clamps, violently.
The lights glinted off a knife. Now, Karen wasn’t sure; her eyes never left the blade in the man’s hand. She was still self-aware, wanting to put on a good show. “No,” she said. “Please.” Glumly, no emotion, the man drew the blade across her left breast, leaving a red trail behind it. “Ohhh!” she cried, a little more urgently. The knifework continued; her soft belly, the tops of her thighs. Karen thrashed; now, she was trying to escape. And then he put the knife below her chin…
Dad watched it all, watched the blade plunge through his daughter’s throat, watched her gurgle in despair, her limbs jerking against her bonds, her head back. After her eyes had rolled back and her movement ceased, he started breathing again; he stood up, nodded to the melancholy man, who began to unbuckle the clamps. Dad had made up his mind; he would not leave. That would have been easy.
“She really did look like her mother, didn’t she?” asked Sara. She wore, barely, a black negligee; she was curled up on the divan, sipping a drink. He nodded, sat heavily next to her. “Diego had me,” he said. They were watching a videotape; Viola brought the lash, Karen shuddered on the screen. The sound was off; all they heard were the waves, down below. “If I hadn’t delivered, I’d be going back to the States. Her old ‘friends’ were waiting.”
Sara nestled against him. “Well, you still have me,” she said in a low voice, and he drank to that. “And, don’t get any ideas,” she said, the thin lips stretched into a smile. “I’m out of the acting business.”