Chapter 4

Roger sat bent over his desk in his study drinking furiously to escape the reality of what had happened at the beach just a few short hours before. Over and over he ran the scene through his mind, trying to decide what he could have possibly done to avoid his youngest daughter's obscene performance. He certainly hadn't asked her to do it although he had watched, yes watched, as much as he tried not to; what human being, would not have watched? He had watched if only from shock. He'd simply had no alternative, but still it all bothered him, especially the fact that Ellen had obviously put on her lewd performance for him, and only him, to see.

As the Scotch began to dwindle in the bottle at his side he felt less worried. It was amazing how things always softened after a little dip in the bottle. He'd had to look! He was not after all a piece of chalk. Yet if only it hadn't happened, if only the beach episode had turned out to be the healthy, relaxing family outing he had intended it to be, then he would not be in his room now breaking his vow not to drink today. As it was, he had not only broken his non-drinking vow, but had smashed and shattered it into a thousand pieces. Though he had been drinking privately -- not just in company -- for a year now as an escape, he had seldom consumed enough at one sitting to get drunk. Perhaps a dozen times, if that. The notion of a drunkard in the house was simply too upsetting to his sense of propriety and to the example he intended to set for his children. Today, however -- and at this minute -- he was rip-roaring drunk and there was no turning back.

If only things were all right between his wife and him, then he would not drink and he would not have these tendencies to look at his luscious daughter, Ellen, for which he now stewed in guilt. If only...

Yet things with his wife were not all right. He considered, for instance, the few hours she'd lain next to him on the beach. Had she talked to him? No. Flirted with him, touched him, swum with him, glanced at him, or in any way recognized his existence? No. No to all of them. He could have made the move, of course, but he'd known how flat her response would have been, and that knowledge did not invite making any moves. Things were stale between them and that was that.

And why, anyway, should he have to court his own wife? If he had to court, why her then when there were certainly better little morsels nearby -- quite nearby -- in fact right here in the house...

Stop it! For Chrissakes, stop it, stop it, stop it, he ordered himself!

Cynthia and him -- yes, that was an unhappy story hidden beneath what everyone looking on would think was contented marriage. They were cut off from each other, estranged. Though the word bruised him, it described the situation perfectly. Their sex life had dwindled down to practically nothing, just a few perfunctory, obligatory performances for which he might as well have substituted a rag doll. He just could not stimulate Cynthia, for all his solid, handsome appearance, for all the generous size, even, of his cock. Roger faced this fact only in moments of complete abandon and breakdown, such as now. Yet even at such moments, he did not suspect that his own lack of experience was the reason he could not excite his wife, the reason, ultimately, why she was each day building more and more of her life separate from him.

Cynthia was even separating herself from their children, from Ellen and Louise. She was trying to escape from reality, though in a way different from Roger's. She had just begun a part-time job in the mornings, although they certainly did not need the money, but even so Roger did not object to the job itself. It was just that it fit so well with all of the other escapes she had invented for herself in the evenings, for the last year, in the evenings which she well knew were the only times he and the children were at home. For the last year she had traipsed off to evening courses of all varieties, in all subjects, just to get out. He well knew she had no interest in basket-weaving; she did not even like baskets; yet she had gone through it because there had been no other course available. And now -- to top all of this off -- now when the children were on summer vacation, she'd found this part- time job to get away mornings as well.

In a way, perhaps, he should be grateful. Other wives in the same situation would have found another lover, or gone to group-sex parties, or taken -- he shuddered -- to drinking. The only vice Cynthia had was smoking. And he supposed he had to be grateful, for if she'd been a bit more wild in her search for escape, things could even be in a worse mess. Just as they could be in an even worse mess if she had happened to stumble into the line of sight of Ellen's shocking exhibition given in the three-walled beach shelter this very afternoon...

The curvaceous body of Ellen; yes, of Louise too, but first and foremost Ellen if only for the exciting way she handled it: he could not wipe away the memory of that naked little body seen -- only seen -- three times now. He put his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his hair and scalp, then collapsed his head on the desk and felt soon that he would fall asleep.

There was a soft knock on the wall.

He sat bolt upright at the sound that seemed to come from Ellen's wall. Had he dreamed it? No, for there it came again, three short and very soft raps which would only be audible from his room and hers.

Was it really on the wall, or was it at the door? He wondered just before it came again -- three short, soft knocks and it was on the wall. By the nail hole. His heart thudding in his chest he got up and walked noiselessly to the nail hole and pressed his eye to it, squinting in an effort to focus, for try as he could there was no sense to be made from the pattern of blue color splashes and deep, wavy black shadow he saw on the other side of the wall. Then it dawned on him.

He was staring into Ellen's eye which was immediately on the other side of the wall looking back at him.

His daughter backed off, purring some sort of soft song, and he saw she was dressed in dark black winter boots and a wide black belt about her waist and -- except for those items, she was... completely... naked... completely naked and standing invitingly only a foot or two away from the hole he'd drilled in her bedroom wall.

He had never seen her so close before, never been able to drink in her ripening, budding womanhood at this range which was so short he could see the light blonde down which covered her entire teenage body. He seldom even saw his wife's naked body this close, this thoroughly exposed.

Ellen began to dance again as she had at the beach shelter but this time on a more intimate basis, swaying her jutting young rose-tipped breasts from side to side with her hands, but dropping her eyes to his level occasionally to check for response. Then she placed one hand under each breast and, smiling, began to wiggle her hands with slight, nearly imperceptible, but very quick motions, lewd motions well-designed to set the curving white breasts into an ecstatic quivering and jiggling like mounds of jello, the tautly erected nipples bobbing around like corks in a pond.

She moved ever closer to the hole in the wall and -- good God! -- now she was trying to work her naked white breast into it! She was gasping, sighing, from the effort or from her lascivious excitement as she squeezed and pushed hard to jam one ripely swelling nipple into the hole, pulling the breast back out again and -- dipping a finger quickly into her moist throbbing cunt -- lubricating the small pink nipple with her finger and then trying to jam the enticing mound into the hole towards Roger's eye. In response, her drunken, lust-incited father maneuvered and hungrily forced his tongue in a similar fashion from the other side trying to touch the hot rubbery tip of her throbbing nipple.

Do not cross the line to action. Do not cross the line to action, he thought jerking his tongue back in horror at himself. Ellen, unsuccessful at trying to push her nipple still farther through the hole, and feeling Roger's hot breath leave, also slowly withdrew. The tortured nipple was now enormously stiff and erected, and bruised -- there seemed even to be blood on it -- and she forced her throbbing breast upward toward her mouth and licked the nipple clean which made it jut enticingly outward still more from the full firm roundness.

Now she began dancing nakedly around the room, although it was not a vulgar dance like she had done in the beach house -- perhaps she realized her father was too inhibited to be much stimulated by such an obscene exhibition. As a pre-teenager, she'd had ballet lessons, and what she did now was an improvised ballet, but in the nude, with many sensually provocative leg raises, bends and spreads that her father's blood was churning in his loins. As she floated around the room, scarcely impeded by the tall black boots, her ripening breasts and round curved buttocks undulated slowly like waves on the beach. As she danced, she continued half humming, half singing her soft song, and her face slightly flushed, was ironically a picture of adolescent innocence. She was giving an exciting performance, but one help perhaps was the bottle of cognac on Ellen's nightstand, of which shed already consumed one-third. So she had found his liquor supply and learned how to use it! He thought it was a secret that he kept it in his study.

She was doing an erotic ballet, suggestively emphasizing the charms of her firm curvaceous body. Well, she'd always been good at dancing -- with clothes, that is! He remembered those lessons he used to drive her to when she could realistically be called a child, given by an eccentric old woman who'd once danced with Bolshoi. A few times he'd gone into the studio to pick her up and he had seen the practice room full of barely adolescent girls working with bars and mirrors to music from a record player and to the commands of the old woman. Ellen must have been ten then, for it was just before she stopped the lessons.

He had entered the studio that one time and hungrily watched the pretty little girls finish their last five minutes of provocative leg raises over the bar. Some of the girls were not so little, some had the beginnings of breasts, and in the case of a few older teenagers, very developed voluptuously mounded breasts and full thighs with smooth round buttocks, which came well into display as they stretched and strived to work their tapered legs sensually around the bar. Among this selection of partially or fully developed girls, he noticed, was his precocious ten-year-old daughter Ellen. She had always been ahead of her time, or her age, in all respects, and he noticed while standing there that her softly curving pussy mound, stretched incitingly wide under the tights as she raised her legs to the bar, had at least the external appearance of a woman's. The small rounded cheeks of her buttocks, though, were those of a little girl child; and her budding breasts were still only miniscule rock-hard mounds, only beginnings. Yet he had the feeling for the first time watching her in that room that his daughter was no longer a little girl. Something about the look in her eyes, the reticence and new knowledge of her expression, suggested that -- as did the visible evidence of coming changes in her developing body. In point of fact, Ellen at that time had not begun menstruating, for his wife Cynthia announced its beginning later, at the age eleven and a half. Still, at ten Roger had seen for the first time a womanly little Ellen. And now -- through the hole he'd drilled in her bedroom wall -- here she was doing the same thing -- suggestively raising her long shapely legs as though up to a bar -- only this time she was naked and wearing black leather boots and a wide belt and showing the soft parted lips of her fully developed pussy, pink in color up beneath the tantalizing light blonde pubic hair, and above were swaying moderate-sized breasts with small erected nipples, breasts voluptuous enough to make any man happy. And around in back was a tantalizing little ass that in its tightness and fluidity was so saucy that no matter how innocently Ellen tried to walk down the street with it, she always seems to be trying to start a male riot. And now those buttocks were naked and dancing before his eyes, the softly mounded ass-cheeks waving back and forth about three feet away from his eye, smooth and unblemished, with the narrow crevice spreading wide in some of her tantalizing positions so that he could catch a hungry glimpse of the pink hairless ring peeking out, the tiny puckered anus she had sodomized and distorted so lewdly with her very own fingers some hours before.