The Historian

With Sylvie's help, drawing on what she knew, growing up in Communist Poland, I learned the essence of leading a double life, of safely existing in a 'police state,' and profiting from my persecuter's errors, lusts and blind spots. I also learned how to make love to a real woman, who was as elegant and smart on her back, holding out her tits as she fucked back at me, as she was in business. We slept—really asleep—in the cabana until dawn. Then, rumpled and with her hair un-done, she let me see what a smart, elegant lady does with her new lover.

She said to wait in the lobby, and then disappeared from about an hour. When she re-appeared, she was in the same outfit, but spruced up. At her request, I called her a cab to the airport. She let me hold the car's door when it arrived. She kissed me, very thoroughly, and handed me her business card, with her very private phone number written on it, saying, "there's no use giving you my home number, because I won't be there more than it takes me to move out, divorce that creep and sell the place. I'm taking over one of the suites at my hotel. There's always going to be a room for you too, there, but don't count on sleeping in it, 'cause you'll be in my bed, for a lot of years to come. And don't worry about your honeymoon. You're going to have a lot of fun for the next two weeks."

Going back toward our room, I met Dolores in the hall, and she acted as if nothing had happened. We had breakfast, and spent some time at the hotel's beach. But, she 'had to go to the little-girl's room' so often I was sure she was getting more reaming out by the hotel's staff and the male guests.

She made a 'date' with me for a steak dinner, that 3rd night. Yeah, the same steak that she mentioned in her letter, 'cause I still couldn't believe the depths she'd go for one of her 'thwarted' revenges. When we got there, I found she'd pre-ordered for me, and then she disappeared, again, back to the 'little-girl's room'. I noticed that an Asian woman was staring at our table. It took about half an hour, until our food arrived. Quick as a flash, the Asian woman got up, snatched my plate off the table, in front of me, looked down and winked, and substituted the plate from her companion's place (he was gone, too). Dolores swayed in a minute later, and started to eat, and I could tell she was watching me, under her lovely eyelashes.

I had a delicious meal of expensive Angus beef, and drank an expensive red wine that mysteriously appeared on the table. I looked over at the Asian woman's table, and it looked like her Caucasian companion was having a hard time choking down his cheap steak, covered with a thick, sweet sauce. Dolores was laughing to herself all through dinner. However, when we went back up to our hotel room, Dolores slipped into the room first, and slammed the door in my face, saying, through the closed door, "you're sleeping out again, until I get that tea set, dork!"

Growling and grumbling, but not ready to kick in the door and rape her—good thing, as it turned out—I made my way back to the poolside. There, taking Sylvie's place, was the same Asian woman, who introduced herself as Yukio Meada. "The guy I was with isn't with me anymore, since I caught him with your bitch-kitty. He's history. Sylvie told me all I needed to know. You want to spend the night with me? I've got lots to teach you." She didn't have a room there, she had a top-floor suite, and we both didn't leave it until dusk the next day. I still remember the array of Japanese sex toys she had, and I think we tried them all out on each other.

Sophie, I don't want to embarrass you—"Dad, I'm a PORN STAR, you can't"—but she said just about what you did, last night. That I was huge, and thick, long-lasting and I had a sex imagination that went 'way beyond the usual. Yukio and I finished out the rest of my honeymoon. Oh, I kept in touch with Dolores, and she may have convinced herself that I didn't know, but from the moment I heard her grunting and fucking a train of men, I knew we had a loveless marriage.

It's a good thing I did, too. Dolores came down with pretty severe symptoms of the clap, right after we got back. Three different strains. It took a couple of months of heavy-duty antibiotics to clear her up. Of course, she forgot about all that, in her letter.

V.

"You mean, you were wise to Mom, right from your marriage?," said Sophie. "Yeah, I know, you couldn't leave her, 'cause of the sheriff's thugs. Everybody in town knew about the basement of the jail, it's just that nobody could do anything about it. Between the mayor, the judges and the sheriff's crew, they could rig just about any election they wanted to."

"Yeah," I continued, "but I'd already started to prepare for that 'police state' that Sylvie taught me. She taught me well. I graduated from school, that fall, with a Ph.D. in 20th Century Industrial History, and got a job at the University. By then, Dolores was searching through my things, looking for 'evidence.' When she didn't find anything, she waited a couple of years, and then set out to get control of me by spreading the rumors she wrote about."

"Sylvie and I'd anticipated that, and when I was fired from my University position, I sued them for libel and slander. I was successful, because, between Sylvie and me, we'd hired a really top-level private investigator firm, and they tracked down all the allegations, tracing them to my wife."

"In addition, they exposed her sexual history, starting back since she was 11 years old. That 'army' of lovers never existed, but there were a lot of men, and it seems Dolores had done a blackmail scam on about five of them, for sex with an under-age girl, over the years. The University didn't do their homework, taking her letters and phone calls at face value. So I would up with a pretty big settlement. The money went to Sylvie's investment group, in New York City, while I stayed in town, pretending to be the sad, faggotty, newly-fired professor."

"I got a 2nd job, at the more local college, and, in another couple of years, your Mom did the same thing to me. Same pattern. Same lawsuit. Different settlement. More money to Sylvie's firm. Then, with Sylvie's and Yukio's help, I started on some individual consulting work, ferreting out historical details for large companies. You remember that big insurance firm, that headed off the class-action slavery suit? That was my investigative work. There was some other stuff, including international travel. It kept me away from the house a lot, and that was fine with me. Your Mom continued to grunt and whore herself with Hobart, the police and half the town."

"When I came down with the gallbladder surgery, and Dolores showed up with laryngitis, while I was in the hospital, I never once believed her story about loosing her voice. I lost track of her once, for about a week, though, and that's when she picked up another bad strain of the clap. Since she had a horror of needles—she had to be sedated to even get a blood sample, you remember—it had to be treated with oral meds, and that took a long time."

"Dad," Sophie asked, "how did you find out about that. I never heard about it. Not even a hint in town, even if everybody knew about your slut wife."

"It's not real easy to believe, but here's what happened," I told my pretty lover-daughter:

-----

Right after the surgery, I was pretty weak, and walking with a cane. I carried that big, blackwood thing. You can see it, over there in the corner, behind the door. I'd stopped for lunch and a beer, at that tavern, halfway between Coumbus and town.

So I went in, because I knew they did a good bar sandwich, and I had a tall, cool one. There were a group of bikers there, too. You know, big guys with big guts, dressed in leather, riding Hogs. So I sat there, between them and the door, with my black cane between my legs, when I overheard them start to complain about the bitch they'd had at a gang-bang. When I heard the word 'Dolores,' and describing her exactly, right down to the mole in the center of her crotch, I knew something was up, and I said, "Hey, you guys talking about my wife?"

It suddenly got real quiet in the bar, as I picked up the cane, and turned to face the group. They got pale, and looked at the door of the tavern. As I said, I was between them and the door. One said, "Look, buddy, we don't want any trouble." Another one said, "Yeah, put the shotgun down, and let's talk." I got up, and winced/limped over to their table. I put the black walking stick down on the table, ordered them all a beer, and said, "Guys, I just got out of the hospital. This is a cane, not a shotgun. If you want to take me, I'm here. I think the bitch you're talking about is my wife, Dolores. Let me ask some questions.

I did. She was. I put my head between my hands, groaned, and mumbled, between tears, "Ah, God, not again!"

When I looked up, there was a fresh beer in front of me. I bought the next round. They all owned up to fucking Dolores, describing what she looked like, naked on the table, with a couple of biker gangs ramming their cocks into her for hours. Now, Sophie, this was a biker 'gang,' all right, but it was composed of about two groups of seven men. On the weekends, they rode, with grease under their fingernails, in their torn shirts and dirty jeans. The rest of the week, they worked. One sold auto insurance. Two were in construction. Another managed a fast food place in Wooster. I forget what the others did. Just a group of guys on bikes, who happened to 'get lucky' once.

She'd walked in, put dollars in the jukebox, started to dance and strip, and had invited anyone who wanted to bang her. First by ones, then by twos, and finally in an all-out gang-bank, with naked, sperm-shooting men crawling all over her, while she writhed and screamed and encouraged them to do her more and more. She wore out up to 20 guys, some of their girls, the bartender, and his bi-wife, sucking and fucking and having anal sex. When she left, she was covered with semen, and had it leaking out of every hole, including her ears.

Except that they weren't lucky. Each one turned up with a virulent case of the clap. They were still taking antibiotics for it. Two of the guys were undergoing divorces, for passing it on to their now ex-wives-to-be. I bought another round, and some wings, and reconstructed the time line. She'd done the bar first, then gone home and, apparently, bathed and slept. The next day, she done Hobart the six times she mentioned, and then come to see me ... hoarse with screaming out her lust and her fucking.

As soon as I healed, I 'had to make up the lost money,' and I went away on one of my 'sabbaticals,' to arrange for a faked position with the 2nd small college, about 90 miles away. For a pretty small 'grant,' from my money in Sylvie's care, I got a 'job' as an Associate Professor of History there.

I'd warned them about my wife's poison-pen letters, phone calls and maybe even visits. These started up in about a year. Since I never actually taught there—or was on the faculty officially—and Dolores never once checked—the 'nasty rumors' had no effect. Their Psychology Department got several more dozen papers in behavioral and medical journals, about her antics.

In the mean time, I commuted between home, where I spent as little time as possible, and my consulting jobs, including going to New York City, to see Sylvie. I kept driving my old Volvo, which I ditched at the university, picking up my new leased vehicle on campus, and driving to the airport, where I flew where I needed to go. The lease was paid through Sylvie's firm. I made really good money, as I had an intuitive grasp of a modern company's needs for historical documentation.

I met some other women in the City, too; Sylvie wasn't jealous.

I kept coming back, of course, to get a certain daughter born, and diapered, and raised. A delightful little girl named Sophie.

Oh, yes, Sophie, one more thing. Back when you were about 10, I took you to the dentist. There, he swabbed out your cheeks, and I had the swabs tested for DNA. I'd had similar swabs made of you Mom, when Dolores had her semi-annual checkup. So I knew you weren't mine, genetically, 'way back then. I didn't know who the genetic father was, but I was pretty sure it was Hobart.

But that was only 1% of you. The other 99% was all my delightful times, raising you. Including the diaper changes. The spit up. The scraped knee and the dirt behind your ears. The tangled hair. The baths. The homework. Your first kiss. Holding you and keeping you safe, when your Mom was in one of her rages. Even finally realizing that I had to get you out of town, and paying for those very illegal faked ID papers. I'd had the money ready, in that brown envelope, for months, until you came to me.

I just wished, when I saw you go, that I'd had time to finish that kiss.

VI

Sophie looked at me for a very long time, in silence. Then she crawled up in my lap, and started to cry. After a longish time, when I just held her, I felt her body come back to alertness, and she looked up, saying, "So, when we made love, you weren't concerned that it was incest, 'cause I was Hobart's kid, right?"

I looked right at her, and commanded, "WRONG! I wanted to make love to you when you were 16, when you left on the bus. I wanted you then, and I want you even more, now that we've done the deed. Remember what I said; genetics is only 1% of you. The rest is my raising you, from a baby to a little girl, to a bigger girl, then to a pre-teen, and finally to a teen. OK, now I've got you, and I've had you, as a sex toy, and I'm damned if I'm going to let that go. You and I are together, even if you fuck nine more guys on DVD, three times each, and then come home for three more fucks with me."

My daughter looked at me, wide-eyed, and said, "You'd still wanna fuck me after I had 27 cums in me, from nine total strangers? Why, you dirty old pervert, that sounds ... really wonderful. Maybe you could learn to handle the camera, so you could watch all the action, and direct me, an ... oooohhhh, that makes me all ... God, I'm dripping."

She was. I tugged on the 'secret' release on her micro skirt, and it fell off her hips: the 'secret' release she'd showed me when she put it on. There was a slick and shiny appearance to her pussy opening. I slipped three fingers into her, and they slid in to my thumb with no resistance at all. Sophie jerked the flexible pin release of her crop top, and the straining material burst open, to reveal her two stiff-nippled boobs, bouncing on her heaving chest.

She grabbed at my trousers, and ripped down the zipper, to pull my straining erect cock out of its confines. She slid back an inch or so, grasping my member, and positioning it at the entrance to her garden of earthly delights, then slid forward, and buried it completely inside her 20-something body. Our flesh-covered pubic bones met, as I was seated as far into her as a man could get.

Sophie, my daughter, looked up and grinned that 100-watter, as she lazily said, "Ah, that's where my hard Daddy belongs, buried balls deep in his daughter's body. Oh, Dad, look down, please. Look at your big dick, stuffed inside me. Please, look at me down there, and then at all of me, while I gentle-fuck you. Please!"

I looked at the erotic spectacle of my incest-driven lust-cock slowly sliding in and out of my daughter's drooling-wet vagina. I slowly slid my eyes up her flat tummy, and across her breasts, where I squeezed and pulled at her breasts and nipples. Then to her neck and head, where I grasped her temples, and forced her head down, to look at our physical joining.

"You look, little girl. Look at yourself being used. Used for sex. You watch me come almost all the way out (Ahhhhh) and then sloooowly (thrust) push back in. Thrust until I hit whatever's back up in there that makes you close your eyes with pleasure (hard thrust)."

Sophie squealed wordlessly, then said, "Yeah, that's it. You are so hard. So thick. So deep. I feel completely filled. Filled up with man-cock. So you like your little girl to do incest with you, do you? Well, you're gonna get—ooohhh, yeah, so good, push, yes, yes, yes—so much of this stuff I got. And then, I'm gonna introduce you to all my girl friends, and most of the women I tape with, and I'm gonna—oh, shit, I'm gonna cum—see your big cock go inside so many women, you won't know what day it is. And then, we'll start all over again. Shit, I'm cumming, now, now, now."

She squealed, stiffened, and then fell forward, gasping, her head resting on my shoulder, as she accelerated her hip thrashing movements. I felt that dull tingle, that said I'd gone too far to stop, even if I wanted to. I met her thrust for thrust.

"Come on, Dad, fuck me, FUCK me, FUCK ME! Yeah, fuck your daughter. I'm your fuck toy. Sex me. I LOVE IT! Make me your little cum-slut. Yeah, I wanna be my Dad's incest cum-slut-ho. Come on, FUCK ME!"

She screamed, and came hard, again, as I, too, came hard inside her, filling her cunt with Father's jism, and bouncing her body, impaled solely on my rigid cock, in the air. She squealed, and gasped, and took it all.

We collapsed on the sofa again, and both fell asleep, still 'plugged in' to each other.

It was around noon when I came back to consciousness. I guess that happened when Sophie, now dressed back in her micro-skirt and 'fuck-me' crop-top, dribbled some cold water on my bare crotch. She was holding a peanut-butter sandwich on a plate, and a glass of that water.

As I took the plate, she said, "I already ate. The 'fridge is empty. We're almost out of everything. The electricity's off. We have water, and the gas seems to be OK, from the propane tank. The TV doesn't have cable any more. I went outside to check on my car, since it's parked around back. I moved it around back. The garage is burnt down. There' a burnt up car in the wreckage. There are a bunch of heavy plastic-covered boxes in the back porch. What the hell's going on here?"

She added, "and just so you know, you are the BEST fuck I've ever had, and I remember just about all of them, even the gang-bangs on camera. Even my first cherry-popping fuck wasn't this good. Yea gods, man, what kind of a short-sighted slut-bitch was Mom, to shunt that man-meat aside for a bunch of bikers, a sheriff and a dough-faced banker."

Talking around peanut-butter, I mumbled, "Sophie, do you want to read Dolores' letter again, or can I pick up where I left off." She nodded, saying, "Let me have it all, right up front."

So I did, and continued:

-----

When you left, Dolores went into one of her rages. She tore your room apart, and tried to rip the wiring out of the walls. I tried to calm her down, and got a back-hand slap, with fingernails, for my efforts. I wanted to slam my fist into her chin, but fear of her deputy friends and their anal shock-rod stopped me. Mom raged for three full days, when she wasn't sleeping, screaming things like 'kill, mutilate, thwarted,' and the usual stuff. Then, abruptly, she turned on me, screaming, "It's all your fault," and came at me with a butcher knife from the kitchen.

Knowing something about her rages by this time, I didn't do anything heroic and husbandly. I lit out for the woods behind the house. I spent the afternoon and that night in a little cave, about a quarter-mile into the forest, where I'd placed a few granola bars, a gallon of water, a survival groundcloth and space-blanket, for just such an emergency.

When I cautiously went back to the house, about 10 AM, she was gone. She'd left me a note, saying she was taking a 'vacation.' The house was a mess, with books pulled off on the floor; the kitchen emptied of everything; slashed-up furniture; up-ended beds; ripped up clothing. The aftermath of a human-sized amoral tornado. It was the worst of her rages so far, which had been getting more and more frequent and more violent.