I married Regina’s mother. She (Regina) is 15 years old. She is 4 feet, 10 inches tall, with well-muscled thighs and a high bottom. Her breasts seem breathtakingly large for a girl her age, although an inspection of her underwear drawer uncovers only C-cup bras. Size in this case is an illusion, a contrast between the firm, fleshy bulbs and the diminutive frame. On a musicological whim, I dub them (her breathtakingly large breasts) “The Mighty Handfuls.”
Regina’s mother is frequently absent, leaving us (Regina and me) alone together. Three nights per week are spent at the observatory, where she maps the expansion and decay of the universe. Friday is strip bridge night, when she and her girlfriends, all married, gather for drinks and cards. Or so they say. We, the husbands, are skeptical. We suspect, though we cannot prove, the evenings consist of nothing more than gossip, or, at most, a quilting circle, and the wives invent stories to keep us in a state of sexual uncertainty.
Getting acquainted with Regina
She is a promising student. A recent ninth-grade term paper, “A Quantum Mechanical Approach to the Nietzschean Concept of Eternal Recurrence,” occasioned some faculty comment, after accusations of plagiarism were withdrawn.
Her school principal is an idiot, she says. Like most men.
At home, she favors skin-tight, cut-off sweat shorts and Fruit-of-the-Loom tank tops, assorted colors, a size too small. Her breasts stretch the fabric between them into shadowy grooves, and her nipples, when erect, are sharply defined. I can detect no panty line beneath her shorts. Perhaps she wears a thong, though I found none in her underwear drawer. Perhaps, more likely, she wears nothing. It is something to think about.
Regina doing dishes
She stands barefoot at the sink, in a powder-blue top and matching briefs. Her hair is off her neck, pinned in a spray at the top of her head. The lump at the base of her cervical vertebrae is enticingly revealed. I stand behind her unnoticed, or so I believe. Sinking to my knees, I purse my lips inches from her bottom. The elastic around the leg-holes crawls up her buttocks; the loosened blue cotton folds into the valley between. She hums softly, a phrase from the Symphonia Domestica.
Regina accompanies her mother to strip bridge night. I press her for details the next morning, but she says only she is not a very good card player. A cocktail, her first, made her dizzy. She believes the women took advantage of her. The question uppermost in my mind is left unanswered.
I can stay silent no longer. At last, I complain about her wardrobe. It is inappropriate, I declare, for a teenage girl to dress scantily in front of her stepfather. It is, moreover, dangerous, leading, as it must, to inappropriate thoughts on the part of the stepdaughter toward said stepfather. A young woman, I say, should not flaunt herself in front of a man who is not her intended. It is unbecoming, unladylike, undignified. It may also ruin said stepdaughter’s reputation if any word of it leaks to the community. I insist, I say, that you wear fuller, looser raiment and one of your modest C-cup bras. Now go to your room and change.
“Wow,” she says, “you must really like my tits.”
The next evening, Regina appears at the dinner table naked. Her mother says nothing. I, taking my cue from her, say nothing as well. The use of napkins is dispensed with. When a speck of rice, encased in a drop of orange sauce, falls to Regina’s breast, she brushes it away with her fingers, the breast dancing beneath her touch. As a result of this mishap, a light goes on in Regina’s mind: she lays her chopsticks aside and proceeds to feed herself with both fists. Her lips, chin, and cheeks glisten with orange sauce, flecked with rice. She wipes her mouth with her palm of her hand, which she then cleans on her dancing breasts.
I eat less than usual, but I drink unaccustomed amounts of water.
“It is not entirely your fault,” her mother says at night, in bed. “She is pretty hot shit.”
I suggest a threesome.
“It has possibilities,” she says.
I can only conclude I am being trained in some way, prepared for some unspecified service. Regina’s lack of inhibition, her obvious collusion with her mother, combined with her playful stand-offishness, suggest that I am being “softened up.” Whatever the intention, the effects are profound. I have become distracted, yet suggestible. Outside her presence, I stare into the middle distance. I say little. In her presence, I can only await the next move in the game.
First contact with Regina. Slight, but affecting.
“Would you like some ice cream?” she asks.
“If you think I should.”
“Then have some.”
She produces a plate heaped with a cumulus cloud of vanilla. She places the plate on the floor and sinks her bare feet into the white froth. It is understood that I am to lick it as it oozes between her toes. She extends her legs, granting me access to her chilled soles.
“Get it all,” she says.
When the plate, and her feet, are spotless, I am to pull my pants down and lie on my back while she uses my crotch as an ottoman. Her feet press down on my erection, and she flexes her toes, massaging me.
Fresh from a shower, Regina enters in a thin cotton nightie and, without a word, jumps into my lap. She kisses my cheek, licks my ear, her arms around my neck. Unbidden, I run my hands over her back, through the nightie. She does not object. She does not object, either, when I move to the front. The Mighty Handfuls have weight, solidity, through the nightie. They balloon when I squeeze them. They drop heavily when I loosen my grip. Her nipples are hard and flushed. They make dark circles, through the nightie. I slide my hand along her bare thigh, en route to her fragrant pussy, and, as wordlessly as she began, she stands and vanishes into her room. I follow, but the door is locked.
I lie on the living room floor in a fetal position, all night and part of the day. It has become difficult to stand in front of her. When she is present, I crawl on my hands and knees for lack of breath. Nightie, Fruit-of-the-Loom, fully naked — it makes no difference. I crawl on my hands and knees.