Message-ID: <23618asstr$955411807@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin X-Original-Message-ID: <8csgn7$29b8@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} Why Rose 36 Cried (MF rom) PART 2: Scars and Bruises Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 20:10:07 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, gill-bates Why Rose 36 Cried (MF rom) by DrSpin April 2000 PART 2: Scars and Bruises: =========================================================== Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, he/she should not have been here in the first place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and please include my email address. =========================================================== * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com =========================================================== PART 2: Scars and Bruises: In the morning she cradled a cup until the coffee turned cold. She talked about who she was and why. I sat and listened, offering no comment and letting her talk on and on, and I waded into Rose's sexual swamp with my eyes open. She harboured dark and shadowy monsters, hungry beasts lurching around looking for prey. Mostly they fed on her. She had obviously crossed the border between girlhood and womanhood with some speed. One day she was a flat-chested little girl; the next she wasn't. She remembered it as something that happened virtually overnight. Her mother, listless and ill, hadn't seemed to notice. But Rose was an educated modern young woman in the making. She knew about these chemical changes to her body and she welcomed them. She was not prepared, because the fine progressive education system was not that fine or progressive, for the chemical changes to her dreams. She became instantly sexually active behind her cool eyes. Everything took on a new shape, a new texture and a new subtlety. She dreamed what she had never dreamed, she thought what she had never thought and she saw, all of a sudden, what she had often seen but never previously recognised. For example, she saw that her father and her mother did not appear to have sexual compatibility. She saw nothing she had not always seen but now she knew it for what it was. Her mother was ill, of course, but there was more to it than that. She saw the barrier that had grown between them. She had became aware of such things, all of a sudden, and she paid close attention. One day, one early morning, she was in her room getting ready for school. She heard her father call out to her mother. She heard it clearly because her father had been in the shower and he had obviously opened the door of the bathroom to call his wife, and Rose's room was diagonally opposite. Her mother went to the bathroom and stood in the doorway, holding the door open. Rose slipped across her own doorway to get a clear view. Her mother stood at the doorway, holding open the door. Rose, shrinking back against the wall, peered around her door. Pastor Vincent Cooke was standing in the centre of the bathroom, dripping wet, with a rigid penis jutting from his body. "Have a look at that," he said happily to Rose's mother. "Who says it won't work any more? Who says that now?" Her mother looked at her father and Rose looked at her father's erection standing out so assertively, with its dark red skin and its knobbly head, curving upwards like a banana. She'd never seen such a thing. She knew about such matters because she was an educated young woman but she'd never put flesh to the concept. Away from direct line of sight, peering around the corner, she had an uncompromising view and she looked with considerable curiosity at this celebrated appendage. "You're so pathetic," her mother said to her father. "You disgust me the way you expose yourself." She left abruptly, leaving him standing in the centre of the bathroom. He looked down at himself, his head bent. Then, while Rose watched him, he took his penis in his hand, waggled it, then ran his hand up the length of it. He shook his head slowly and turned away, clearly intending to return to the shower that was still running. As he moved out of Rose's sight, he continued to hold himself. Rose ducked back around from the door. She flattened herself against the wall. She was not comfortable. She should not have watched that scene. She found her heart thumping and her breathing quick and shallow. She could understand that, whatever he had been trying to do, her father had just been humiliated. But most of all she understood a whole lot more about the male sexual organ and its proportions. New visions now invaded her dreams. The image of her father's penis, in fine detail, appeared on a regular basis. The red-brown banana, standing up so eagerly and expectantly, became attached in her mind to boys she knew, to teachers, to men of all ages, shapes and sizes. And more often than not, it was attached to her father. He stood there in her dreams, looking at her, looking at himself, proud and happy, clasping his erection. "Have a look at this," he said in her dreams. And in her dreams she stayed and she looked, because she didn't want to humiliate him. She looked and she touched. She clasped him like he clasped himself, and he was happy. Some time after this, and she couldn't remember how long, but she believed it might have been three or four months, she had her next substantial experience. Rose liked to have her bath at night before she went to bed. She would go to her room, undress, put on a dressing gown and go to the bathroom for a long hot bath. That was her routine. That was what she liked to do. One night, at her usual time, Rose set off for her bedroom to change for her nightly bath. As she turned the corner into the corridor she caught a glimpse of her father going into her room. She expected to see him there when she entered, but he was nowhere in sight. She was sure he was there somewhere. Gradually she became convinced that he was hiding under the bed. She didn't see him or hear him but she knew he was there. She also knew why he was there. It came to her immediately. He was hiding under the bed so he could watch her undress. He knew her routine. He knew she would take off her clothes and prepare for her bath. She remembered standing in the bedroom absorbing this. She remembered not thinking about it, particularly not thinking about propriety or impropriety. She remembered how she decided to proceed as normal and take off her clothes. She remembered that she did not know why she wanted to do it and that she pushed away the understanding of it. Aware that he was watching, she undid the buttons of her blouse and took it off. She walked to the mirror on the dressing table and looked calmly at herself, at her long fair hair hanging down below her shoulders and at her nice and relatively new breasts contained snugly in the pretty white lacy brassiere. Shunting side thoughts of his presence, she faced the bed as she reached behind her to unfasten the bra. She took it off and walked around the room, breasts bare, pretending to examine things. She caught sight of herself in the long mirror, her hair long and her small but growing breasts looking distinctly cute. She moved back to the centre of the room and undid the button that held up her skirt. She lowered it and stepped away, quickly drawing down her pants, collecting them and throwing them on the bed. She looked at her naked reflection, at her slim hips and the light patch of hair at her loins. She thought she was neat. She thought she was pretty. With the actions of one who thinks she is alone, she studied herself deliberately in the long mirror. She ran her hands over her stomach and her hips. She examined her skin. She held a breast lightly and inspected the reflection. She did all this without thinking about the watcher, even though she knew he was watching. She collected her dressing gown from its hook behind the door and stood before the bed. She enclosed her slim and attractive body in it and left the room to have her bath. She was thankful he was gone by the time she returned. He never hid in her bedroom again. She would have known instantly if he had tried. She didn't know what she would have done if he did. But then it soon didn't matter anyway because other things happened and her life changed irrevocably. Rose was just 15 years of age when her father took her. She was young but so was he. He was just 36 himself, ungrown-up, unadjusted to himself as a parent and a husband, unsuited to his role as a servant to his God. He was, it seemed likely, still a young man in his own view of himself, unhappy with his circumstances, doubting his faith and doubting his sexuality. He grappled ineffectively with rejection and failure and he sought solace with his daughter. She was not an outgoing girl. She had difficulty making friends and could not bring herself to make the advances other girls did to begin relationships with boys around her own age. She was reserved and circumspect, watchful and suspicious. She had to deal with her deepening sexual awareness by herself and in her dreams and daydreams. It seemed to her she thought about sex too much. She thought she may have been abnormal because every night, every single night, she lay in her bed and masturbated. "Have a look at this," said the man with the rigid penis as she masturbated in her bed. She conjured images of herself naked, her pretty breasts exposed, as the man clasped his erection. She never pictured the man with her father's face, but when she slept her father came to her in her dreams. Rose did not recall fantasies or dreams about the sexual act. Rather, they were about men and boys with eager erections, watching her, adoring her, touching her, kissing her breasts. The penis stood to attention and she was wanted, admired and revered. The night her father first came to her in reality, it was like a dream, or a fantasy, or a half-dream half-fantasy. The stroking of the hair was dream-like, the gentle kissing of the neck and shoulders likewise. Even the hand which slid beneath the neck of her nightgown and traversed her breasts and brushed her hard nipples. All this had already happened in her fantasies as her fingers excited her. She recalled herself in a dream fantasy, her body being stroked and she herself sliding her hand and working her fingers as she spread and wriggled her hips and stretched her toes. It was, as usual, luxuriantly pleasant. The smell of him first alerted her. There was a man in her bed smelling of whisky, and he was murmuring incoherently and grazing her neck and shoulder with kisses. His hand was on her breasts and her hand was between her thighs. "Daddy," she said aloud, because she knew who it was. Her mother was in hospital once again and only the two of them were in the house. She was just telling herself who it was because that brought her out of the dream. He murmured and kissed her bare shoulder and his hands moved across her breasts. She was awake now and aware of his body in her bed, pressed up to her side. He was naked and she felt his penis hard against her thigh. Rose recalled her most immediate concern was about her own actions, and she snatched her hand guiltily from her groin. But she doubted later whether he had known about that, because he was heavily drunk. She snatched her hand away but could not determine further action. She lay in her bed, her father's hands brushing her nipples, the nightgown off her shoulders, while he moved his penis against her thigh. She lay still, unmoving, her buttocks now frozen, and she tried to consider what she should be doing. His hand left her breasts and reappeared under her nightgown, brushing lightly through her pubic hair. She lay still, trying to decide what she should be doing. His hand slid under and cupped her genitals, and a finger probed at her gently and hesitatingly. She lay still, rigidly still, knowing she should be doing something but unable to formulate a plan of action. He shifted his body, and her hand which had been trapped under him came into contact with his penis. Involuntarily she closed her hand around it, just like she did in her fantasies. She recalled how rock-hard it was, how warm, how eager. She clasped his penis and knew she should not be doing that, so she drew away her hand. He shifted his body over her, holding himself away from her with straight arms. He was directly over her and she was acutely aware that the head of his penis was brushing against the inside of her thighs. It was smooth, warm, eager. She knew he was moving to penetrate her and she knew she ought not to allow it but she couldn't make a plan to stop him. He lowered himself and the smooth head of his penis nudged unerringly at her entrance. She felt the weight of his body for a moment and then he levered himself away and his penis pressed at her. "Daddy," she said flatly. But he pushed into her and she stopped thinking about what he was doing because she needed to know what was going on in her body. She analysed it. The penis was sliding into her, not vigorously but insistently. It was hard and warm and she was soft and warm. She enclosed the head of it comfortably. The parts of him and the parts of her seemed to work well together, smoothly, easily. He pushed harder and she was aware something in her had given way to him. She felt no real pain but she was stinging, as though she had brushed a nettle. He was sliding into her, all of him, and she enclosed him comfortably. She remembered thinking how she had taken him all the way into her, and how remarkable that was. She remembered thinking how well she had been made because she could do that. "Daddy," she said again, lying still and deeply aware of of his penis deeply inside her. He murmured and moved, sliding out, sliding in, slowly, insistently. Sliding in, sliding out. He wasn't rough. He took his weight on his elbows on either side of her and he moved into her and out of her. Sliding in, sliding out. Slowly, steadily. She paid close attention. She knew it ought not to be happening and she didn't want it to happen because it wasn't right. But it was a very important thing that was happening and she needed to know about it. Without changing his slow motions, he jerked once, twice and then once more. He continued to slide in her but with lesser length to the stroke. Then he stopped altogether. He held himself above her on straight arms and she knew he was looking at her in the dark. "Daddy," she said. He sighed and moaned to himself, then withdrew from her, his penis smaller and softer. She felt him pop out of her and she felt the wetness of his semen on the inside of her thigh. Immediately he rolled away and climbed out of the bed. She watched him open the door and leave. She knew full well she ought to have done something. She knew she should have prevented it. But she didn't know how she could have stopped him without rejecting him, without humiliating him. And he had come to her in a fantasy, when she was weak. She had been stroking herself and he had been with her. At any given time it had always seemed to be too late to do anything. She lay in her bed, on her back. She felt his semen weeping out of her. She was stinging inside. The bed was wet, messed and uncomfortable but she didn't move because she still didn't know what to do. In the morning nothing was said. Rose washed away the blood which had dried on her. She scooped up the bedclothes and put them in the washing machine. Since her mother was in hospital, Rose was the de facto housewife. She cooked breakfast for her father and then she went to school. Nothing was said. Not a word. The routine went on. She cleaned up, cooked breakfast and went to school. She didn't look directly at her father. She didn't say a word and neither did he. Later on, she thought that was the time she should have said something. But she didn't know what to say and he said nothing. He was dull, unresponsive, mechanically chewing his breakfast. She went to school and he went to work, and that was that. That afternoon Rose visited her mother in hospital, as she did most afternoons after school. She thought she ought to tell her but didn't know how to begin to do it. Her mother was at a low point in a long stretch of radiation therapy; so wretchedly ill she could barely talk. She didn't have the time or strength to listen to her daughter but she did have a message. The pastor, her husband, was a troubled man. He could not make it on his own. It was up to Rose now to take charge of the household and to look after him, and the best way to do that was to fuss over him and make him feel important. She knew she could rely on Rose. Her daughter would do what she could not. Rose remembered her mother's words with clarity. "Rose," she said, her face grey and streaked with pain, "you have to be me." I think incest is an ugly word. Few words are uglier. It's just a short word but it represents human weakness and the betrayal of trust. The man was a monster but hardly fearsome. He was sad and tragically pathetic, weak beyond sympathy. But that was just my view of it. I stood back from it, looking over the gap of the years, and I could instantly condemn him and the angels were all on my side. She, however, was a shy and reserved 15-year-old girl and she had to deal with it on her own, without objectivity and without help. She could have stopped it there and then but she didn't, and that was what haunted her. Presumably she loved her father then. But that was too easy to say. Maybe she was extremely affectionate towards him. She must have been at least warmly sympathetic in the circumstances of her mother's illness. She understood his rejection and humiliation. At 15, she was virtually in charge of the household. She took up the major domestic responsibility. Her sad father became part of it. He visited her bedroom irregularly. She couldn't remember how often; sometimes two or three times in a week, then sometimes not for more than a fortnight. On the first night he was thickly drunk, barely comprehensible. On the second and third occasions he had also been drinking, but not so heavily. Thereafter the act was performed without even the feeble excuse of alcoholic irresponsibility. It happened on the basis of his need and that's how she accepted it. She was a competent housekeeper, intelligent and well organised, and she became a competent bed partner. She became accustomed to him and his visits. She accommodated him as an obligation. She took sensible measures to prevent pregnancy by taking up her mother's unused supplies and prescriptions. She was standing in for her mother and it seemed the appropriate thing to do. The mother's illness persisted, became worse. She went to hospital frequently. Rose took up the role she imagined her mother filled in earlier and happier times and it became part of her life. In time, Rose became more than a passive bed partner. She remembered the turning point with clarity. He'd come furtively into her room late at night, as usual, and closed the door. This night she sat up and clicked on her bed lamp and he stopped, clad only in his pyjama bottoms. "Stop there," she said to him and he remained still, uncertain. "I think you should take off those pyjamas." He stepped out of them and stood before her, his penis flaccid. She looked at him steadily for a few moments, and then she pulled her nightgown over her head. "Do you like my breasts?" she asked. "Are they nice?" She watched as his penis rose quickly, steadily lengthening and growing. She told me this was what she had wanted to see; an affirmation of her desirability. He took a pace towards her and she reached out and clasped his erection in her hand. She folded back the sheets of her bed with the other hand. "Come on," she said simply. She had taken the initiative. "You don't have to sneak around like a thief any more." That night she told him what she liked and how she liked it. Some time not too much later she had her first orgasm through intercourse. Then, irritated by not knowing whether he would visit or not, she went to his bed and took over the schedule, even when her mother was home and in the next room. What did it matter? It was known. It may not have been spoken about, but it was known. Rose was simply doing what had befallen her, and like all her household duties and obligations, she developed proficiency. In time she put an end to it, after nearly two years and after she'd grown up quite a bit more. She left home and put it behind her. And she almost did, too. But every now and so often, the shame and the guilt swept in like a king tide and washed her away. These days her mother was long dead, of course. Her father she had not seen or spoken to since the day she left home. The story was a long time in the telling. My back was stiff and uncomfortable from sitting silently for so long. Her words trailed away and Rose stared blankly at the carpet without seeing it. "I've never told anybody that story," she said after a time. "Do you feel better now you have?" I asked. "No," she said, so desolately it had to be truth. "I told you because you knew too much and because you would never leave me alone until you knew it all." "Rose?" I asked, gently, tentatively. "What about us?" She lifted her head and looked at me. "There is no us," she said. "You're so cruel," I said sadly. "Do you know how cruel you are?" "I do," she said. "Your face never stops telling me." I wish I could say I liberated Rose from her guilt. I really wish I could say we lived happily ever after. But I can't. The best face I can put on it is that, because we stayed friends, she sometimes forgot to remember her problems. Trouble is, I can't look into her eyes any more and hope to see a light shining just for me. It's not there. It never was there, but now I know it. Hope has almost been extinguished. I still love Rose but it's different. I can't look into her eyes any more and not see the scars and bruises. I can't banter in the same old sexy way because too many topics are off-limits. I can't even fantasise about fucking her. The only thing she hasn't given me is her love. And that's not going to happen because I'm now nearly certain she doesn't have any. For me or for anybody. Soon she will turn 37 and in the past few months she has crashed through four more short-term doomed relationships. I have stuck with her. I suppose I always will. True friends are there to be needed. Just the other day she asked me: "Why do you keep hanging around? You know I'm not a kind and loving person." "But I am," I replied. "I must be. Lost dogs, lame ducks and children. I love you all." One day she just might strike it lucky and meet a man who makes her happy. Of all the hard things about Rose I have had to bear, that will be the hardest. ENDS =========================================================== NOTE: The author offers a small apology for not including an `incest' code against the title of the story. But to do so would have disclosed the plot of the story prematurely. In any case, Why Rose 36 Cried is not directly a story about incest. It is a part of the story, but not the story itself. Also, it must be obvious the story does not in any way glorify or glamourise incest. The reverse is the case. If I have distressed any reader, I regret it. My defence is to claim author's privilege. =========================================================== * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+