I keep asking myself "What does a good man do when he's done something so inescapably awful?" I mean, this guy was a really good man. Can you even call him that anymore? How do you even know who you are when you've done something like that? Where's his identity now?
So, I know this needs to be re-worked, I know I need to look again and edit and shit like that, but I just thought, what the hell? Maybe, infact, you can help me figure out what to do?
I have opted for the time being not to publish the one I read to Aaron last night. I guess I'll look at it and see if it can be salvaged. I won't lie, my feelings are a little bruised :(
I know he's only trying to help but I'm a sensitive soul.
I have NOT read the following to him. I don't think I will read any more of this to him unless he asks to hear something. I'm tired of asking: "Do you want to hear what I've written?" or "Would you mind listening to what I've got?"
Fuck that. If he's interested he'll ask. I'm not begging.
Oh, and anytime you get sick of this shit I can stop publishing it here too. In fact, please tell me when that happens because I do NOT want to be one of those people that pushes this shite on all my friends. AWKWARD!!!
Well now I've written a whole mini novel just to set up this fucking vignette. I need to do some writing excercises in brevity.
He wanted to carry on as if that night hadn’t happened. But his body betrayed him.
His sexual activity with his wife dropped off noticeably, raising concerns from her. He satisfied her by going down on her whenever she would roll over in their bed and start running her fingers through his chest hair. He tried, God help him, but couldn’t seem to rouse more than a half-hearted erection, and hid this fact by insisting he wanted nothing more than to pleasure her, eat her out or bring her to climax with his fingers. Then afterward she would always move to return the favor but he would snatch up her hand and kiss it and tell her to ‘just rest’.
And she was so tired after all the stimulation she usually stretched like a cat, smiled languidly and curled up to sleep with a grateful “thank you” or an “I love you so much” on her lips. This strategy seemed to keep her distracted and satisfied enough for almost a full two months before she suspected anything was amiss. But when she snuck into the shower one morning for a little play, as was a favorite custom of theirs, and found him unable to respond, she grew very alarmed.
He begged her to forgive him, told her it wasn’t her at all, that it was the increased work load at the office, that he was only tired and stressed and it was not at all a reflection of his desire for her. She gently suggested maybe seeing a physician.
But the truth of the matter was he was not impotent. He’d been staying at work late, taking on extra responsibility at the office in order to avoid being at home. Because he knew full well that his physical reaction to his daughter was stronger than was safe.
He couldn’t, no matter how much he tried or how badly he wanted to, he couldn’t get more than semi-tumescent for his goddess of a wife. But when he watched Viola walk down the hall in a nightshirt and panties his body reacted with the swiftness and urgency of an adolescent.
She didn’t have to be doing anything particularly alluring, in fact it was better if she wasn’t. Her advances, persistent and sneaky, always made him a bit nauseated. Nauseated and aroused, and he hated himself. But if he caught her stretched on the couch, absentmindedly nibbling the top of her pen while doing her homework, her hair pulled back and her long neck arched innocently, alluringly, and in those tank-tops she wore-- his blood quickened and his breath came more shallow and it was all he could do to force himself to walk to another room until his hardness receded.
He thought about her in almost every waking minute. He avoided sleep because he dreamt about her. One awful night, as he was dreaming about her hands on him, his body responded and he had apparently begun making love to his wife, but coming to consciousness and realizing what he was doing he fell flaccid again and there had been a scene with tears and concern and more urging to see his doctor.
What could the doctor do? He supposed he might walk away with a prescription for Viagra, but he didn’t trust Viola not to somehow swipe the pills and use them against him. Like a woman at a nightclub he now had to watch his drinks like a hawk, never letting them out of his hand when she was at home. He still wasn’t sure exactly what she’d used but he had no doubt she’d try to dose him again, the question was just how and when.
And God help him there were times when he ached for it to be soon. He was a mess. Hardly eating, barely sleeping, tense, irritable, easily distracted. All he could think about was putting himself inside her again, her body beneath his, young and lithe and eager and—and he thought seriously and often about self castration.
He felt as if he were steadily spinning into madness. His mind and body were behaving as if afflicted with love-sickness, but his conscience knew it to be a far more insidious sickness that was coursing through his veins. And hers.
What was wrong with him? But more disturbingly, what was wrong with her? She had pursued him, she had seduced him, tricked and drugged him. And still she stalked him. She seemed to be always around a corner or finding ways to be alone with him. She had stolen kisses and caresses from him before he’d been able to wrest himself away from her clutches. She’d ambush him in the laundry room or be waiting for him in the garage when he got home from work. She preyed on him when she knew he couldn’t make a scene or a sound lest they draw the attention of her mother or sisters.
And he fervently wished his body wouldn’t respond to her, because everytime she reached for his cock it was full and hard and that only seemed to encourage her. He could tell her no, insist that she stop, but when she always found his body ready and willing what else was she to believe?
He felt weaker everyday. He had long fantasy sessions about tasting her, touching her, bringing her pleasure and watching her body writhe and shudder at his whim. And his cock would throb until he felt he would do almost anything for release. But he refused to alleviate the pain, the need. He had this suspicion that it was a slippery slope from jerking-off to thoughts of one’s daughter to finding oneself in bed with her again.
He was home before five for the first time in over two months, but only because the kitchen calendar had read “Viola at Grandma’s”. He had been relieved to see the opportunity—he badly needed to sleep, to rest, to just fucking be home without that tempting siren breathing the same air, driving him mad simply by existing in close proximity to him.
A car he didn’t recognize was parked next to the sidewalk in front of the house when he pulled in. The twins likely had a friend over, maybe a study partner. He pulled into the garage and parked. He sat for a long moment in the car, as he now always did when he returned home, and took off his glasses. He took the time to massage his temples and the bridge of his nose before replacing the wire frames and dragging himself out of the car. He was bracing himself for playing the role of Dad and husband, burying the cad, the liar, the monster, and putting on the mask of good-guy; every day the feat seemed to get more strenuous, the illusion threatened to shatter with the slightest tap. He really wasn’t sure how long he could carry on like this.
He stepped from the garage into the mudroom and heard laughter and chatter from the kitchen. One of the twins was telling an animated story when he crossed into the kitchen. She broke off from her juicy tale to wave hello and give him a dutiful kiss on his cheek. “Hi Dad! You’re home early?”
“Hi sweetie,” he responded genially, hating the false voice he now always used to address his family “Hello ladies” he added to the kitchen full of highschool girls. He crossed to the refrigerator to pull out a bottled water, and, discreetly checking to make sure the tamper-proof seal had not been compromised, he gave his other daughter a peck on the cheek.
The Twins, of all his children, looked the most like him-- with auburn hair, freckles across the bridges of their noses, and glasses over their Lilac-colored eyes. They had his nose, too, and mouth. If he’d had sisters he imagined they’d look just like these girls. The older of the two, Vienna, took his peck with a roll of the eyes, to which her circle of friends responded with giggles. They were seniors in high school so they were of an age to tolerate their doddering old man instead of dying of embarrassment whenever he was around. “Is it ok if we hang out in the guest house?”
He thought for a moment. Parental decisions that used to be second nature to him and spring easily to mind now felt arduous and murky. He repeated the question. “Is it ok for you to hang out in the guest house.”
Vienna raised her eyebrows and smiled, she expected him to say yes. Perhaps he should say yes. But the twinkle in her eye made him uneasy.
“Yeah, can we?” Geneva added her query, just to pressure him. Two against one had always been their strategy.
“I suppose..” he began, in a very dad-like tone.
The girls clapped their hands in glee. Some of the clique chattered and giggled.
“Thanks Dad!” Vienna said, hopping off the counter and heading toward the back door.
“Ladies?” They knew that tone.
Geneva and Vienna turned in unison. “Yeah?” Geneva asked, all innocence.
“What are your plans?”
“This is a study group for the AP exam.” She answered, a little too rehearsed.
Inwardly he sighed. Ok. Obviously they were up to something. He was tired and disinterested in the truth.
“And studying needs to be done in the guest house?” He asked, leaning his back against the refrigerator, crossing his arms in front of him and fixing them with a skeptical over-the-top-of-his-rims look.
They exchanged one of their ‘twin glances’ and he bit the inside of his cheeks. Why the fuck wasn’t Velvet home to deal with this? All he wanted to do was go upstairs and crash into his bed and sleep, and never wake up.
“Dad,” Vienna said seriously “We’re 17 years old. We’re straight-A students, we’ve never been in trouble, not even once” she sounded defensive, she sounded like a lawyer. “Are you suggesting that we might be ‘up to something’?” She raised an imperious eyebrow and he sighed.
“No boys.” Was his reply. A few of the girls giggled.
“Of course not Mr. Delaney!” one of the high school girls, a blonde with wide brown eyes, said, sounding falsely scandalized and indulgent. “Boys don’t even know how to study!” Her too-sweet voice irritated him but he smiled blandly. With a nod he gave his reluctant consent and several of the group bounded out of the kitchen. Vienna remained behind.
“No boys.” He repeated, sternly.
She shrugged defiantly. “Why don’t you tell that to Viola?” Her look was challenging, bold.
He squinted. His guilt instantly made him wonder if she knew-- “Excuse me?” He’d learned quickly over the past few months that jumping to conclusions made for very awkward conversations if he wasn’t careful. Better to be absolutely sure before he confessed to anything.
“Well, I just think maybe you should speak to Viola about having boys over.” With that she flipped her red hair over her shoulder and strode out of the kitchen.
Well that certainly hadn’t sounded as if she knew anything. Then what the hell had she meant? Jonah re-checked the calendar which indicated Viola would be 'at Grandma’s'. He closed his eyes in a brief moment of relief. Deciding to brush Vienna’s cryptic comments off until he was better rested Jonah opened his bottled water, took a long swig and then headed out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.
He mounted the stairs slowly, his feet leaden. He made full use of the smooth wooden banister and practically pulled himself to the top landing. He began to salivate a little at the thought of sinking into his memory-foam mattress and falling into a dead sleep. He couldn’t wait to relish the feeling of kicking off his shoes, peeling of his trouser socks, unbuckling his belt without looking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone.
But as he made his way down the hall he slowed and came to a full stop. Low music was playing; he could feel the bass tickling in his solar-plexus. And then voices. He cocked his head to the side. Had the girls left their stereo on? Maybe a TV? He advanced slowly toward the twins’ room but he was getting colder. It wasn’t coming from their bedroom.
Fuck.
He moved with purpose toward Viola’s bedroom and stopped outside the door, listening. She was home. And she wasn’t alone. He heard a male voice and his reaction was savage. His heart rate tripled and his mouth went dry and his hands curled into fists. He waited. Rooted to the floorboards just outside her door. The sounds were low and intimate and sporadic. He tried to feel relief, he tried to say “amen” that the girl had found someone else on whom she could lavish her attention and her appetite. But his teeth ground together and his nostrils flared and something very visceral was overwhelming him.
When he heard her moan he snapped. With a force that rattled the hinges Jonah rammed the door open with his whole body and burst into the room. The young man looked terrified. With almost cartoon speed the boy leapt off the bed, pulled on his jeans and backed up to the wall trying desperately to find the neck-hole of his t-shirt.
Viola was startled too, pulling a pillow over her naked breasts and shrieking “Dad!?”
Only once before had Jonah felt so close to murder in his life, and that had been a very long time ago. He looked at the rattled teenage boy whose shirt was inside out and backwards and he gave the kid a look that he hoped would wither his cock. “Get out of my house.” Jonah growled, cold and steely.
The boy didn’t move, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. Jonah realized it was because the prick was afraid to move past him and into the hall. Taking a menacing step toward him Jonah added “Now.” In a tone so low and deadly he was sure the kid might have pissed himself. The boy startled into action and flew out of the room, making as wide a berth around Jonah as possible and hustled down the stairs without even bothering to take his sneakers. Jonah stood stock still until he heard the front door slam and the tell-tale beep of that car outside dis-arming.
He slammed the door to Viola’s bedroom shut, locked it, and turned to face her. He was breathing hard. So was she. She looked frightened, but she licked her lips.
The sound of an ignition slamming on and squeeling tires pulling down the street made Jonah narrow his eyes. Viola’s got wide as saucers.
TO BE CONTINUED>>> LOLZ
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