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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Why Rose 36 Cried (MF rom) PART 2: Scars and Bruises
Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 20:10:07 -0400
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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.
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