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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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Subject: "The Hidden Camera" Ch.3
Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2006 05:54:27 -0800
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/hidcam.html
The Hidden Camera
Chapter 3
The sky in the east was streaked with the first tentative light
of a new
day, and Fred Hartman's estate was outlined in cold gray early morning
light.
People, their faces haggard and puffy, straggled to their parked cars.
Their
feet crunched over the gravel as they yawned mightily and rubbed their
bloodshot eyes.
Two men about to get in a car stopped and nudged one another.
They
watched, their stares impudent, their smiles brazen as they saw Nancy
Dodge
hurry to her car. She walked quickly, her head down, nervously
fingering her
car keys. The men watched her flaring hips undulate and they could
plainly see
her lovely buttocks seductively swaying under her dress.
One of the men started to say something but the other one touched
his arm
and shook his head. "Another time. You had enough."
"Yeah, but I want her name."
"Another time. I'm beat. Another time. There'll be another
time."
The first man grinned and slumped down into the car, still
watching Nancy
as she hurried to her car. "Yeah," he agreed, grinning. "Man, she
sure was
something. I don't think I've ever had a better blow job."
"Nothing wrong with her asshole, either."
Nancy, hearing them, got in her car. Her lovely young face was
crimson
as she stared straight ahead and drove off the tree lined estate to
turn onto
one of the many highways leading into Chicago.
Only when she was several miles from Fred Hartman's place could
she heave
a weary sigh of relaxation. She settled back in her seat, driving
easily with
one hand while she lighted herself a cigarette with the other. She
inhaled
deeply on the cigarette, feeling it relax her. Her body was sore all
over, and
she was so tired she worried about keeping awake and driving until she
got
home. Driving along the highway, she looked like a lovely young woman,
completely composed, on her way to some early morning errand.
But she was far from composed.
In the past three months, her life had changed so much that even
she
couldn't believe it. It seemed unreal to her... as if it were
happening to
someone else. Three months ago she didn't know Fred Hartman... or Tom
Nelson.
Three months ago Rita Nelson was her old friend who was newly married
to Tom
and drinking too much. Three months ago she, herself, seldom drank.
Now...
the first thing she would do upon getting home was to have a few stiff
ones.
It would be a few drinks just to loosen up. And later... it
would be
quite a few drinks in order to get to sleep.
Nancy drove fast, smoking quickly and lighting another cigarette
after
stubbing the first one out. Vaguely, uneasily, she thought of
committing
suicide. She didn't like to think too much about it or openly admit it
to
herself, for she was afraid she might do it. She was afraid that she
was going
to take her own life. She even had a secret supply of sleeping pills
stocked
up. She had them in a little plastic bottle and, after she had drunk
enough,
she would find them, take them out, look at them and rattle them in the
bottle.
Suicide seemed like the only way out.
Sometimes, especially after starring in one of Fred Hartman's
shows, she
thought of suicide and felt it was the only way she was going to get
away from
him and this double life she was leading.
Sometimes it was the double life, the modern, female, Jekyll and
Hyde
existence that got to her. She felt she was a split personality, a
schizophrenic. At home, with Allan, her husband, she was one kind of
person.
And... when Fred Hartman or Tom Nelson called... she was someone else.
With
Allan, she was genteel and her elegant cool looks were just right when
they
were having people over. At home with Allan she was witty and the
proper
hostess. Then... when Allan was at work, at the bank... and the phone
would
ring...
Tears welled in her eyes and she had to slow down on the highway.
She
couldn't see where she was going and, for an instant, she didn't care.
For one
wild moment, she felt like flooring the accelerator and driving at top
speed
until she went careening off the road or hit something and ended it
all. She
choked back her sobs and swiped at her eyes, knowing she couldn't do
it; she
was too much of a coward and too much in love with life.
And Nancy did love life with a gay and appealing zest. It was
the thing
that had originally attracted Allan to her. It was part of her charm.
Allan
was quiet and thoughtful and conservative. Everyone felt, when he
spoke, that
his words were weighty and carefully considered. He looked like a
banker with
careful good looks and grooming and somber business suits. He talked
like a
banker. He even thought like one. All of this was to the good, for
Allan was
a banker. He was assistant manager of a branch office. He did his job
with
quiet devotion and the smooth determination that showed he was going to
get
ahead.
Allan and Nancy were a good combination, for what he lacked in
wise-cracks and just plain impudent silliness, she more than made up.
Friends
felt that Allan kept her in line, while Nancy kept him from being a
stuffed
shirt. Their marriage was looked on as a good one.
And it was... as far as Allan knew.
Nancy whipped her car into their little driveway and heaved a
sigh. Allan
wasn't home. Bank business had taken him to Cleveland, and he wouldn't
be home
for at least another day. She was, for the moment, safe.
She got out of the car as quietly as possible. The hour was
early and
the sun barely up. She didn't want the neighbors seeing her get in at
such an
hour, especially old Mrs. Hunter who lived next door and had her nose
in
everyone's business.
"My, my, such a lovely morning."
Nancy stopped dead in her tracks and wearily closed her eyes. She
was
trapped by the cackling voice. "Good morning Mrs. Hunter. How are
you?"
"Fine," came the voice in a spiteful tone, "considering what date
it is."
Tired, but near home, near bed, Nancy summoned up a smile and
turned to
see the old woman standing in her yard in her nightgown with a faded
old
housecoat buttoned up to her neck. She was wearing worn old house
slippers and
a floppy sun hat. "The date?"
"Yes, the date." She kneaded her wrinkled lips for a
self-satisfied
moment before continuing. "It's the twenty-fifth of the month."
Dumbly, Nancy nodded, not knowing what the old woman was so
maliciously
getting at.
Mrs. Hunter's face turned suddenly pious as she intoned. "Roger.
Poor
Roger."
Nancy caught on. "Oh, your husband."
Mournfully, she nodded. "Dead twelve years and three months
today.
Dropped dead of a heart attack in an Optimo cigar store in the loop.
Man who
owned the store said he bought a cigar and keeled over. Never said a
word."
"My, what a shame."
The old woman nodded and looked off, seeming to remember her
husband. "He
was always coming home at late hours, too."
The words stung but Nancy decided to ignore them. "Lovely
morning, isn't
it?"
Mrs. Hunter was too grandly glum to be deterred. "That's what he
always
used to say." She gimped close to the hedge that separated the two
driveways,
her eyes gleaming dull agates. "That's when I knew he was covering up."
A dry
laugh wheezed out of the old woman. "Oh, didn't he think he was
clever, but I
always knew. I always knew."
"Really?"
"He couldn't fool me. I knew. When the policeman came and
knocked on
the door and told me, I knew. I knew what he was doing in that Optimo
cigar
store when he died. I knew."
"What?" Nancy was completely mystified by the old woman's smug
speech.
"Buying a cigar." Mrs. Hunter said it slowly as if she were
talking to a
child.
"So?" Nancy cocked her lovely head, her long raven hair sliding
silently
and hiding half her face.
"Well. You don't suppose I let him smoke, do you?" She looked
like a
wrinkled bandy rooster as she strutted behind the hedge. "I didn't let
him
smoke! No sir!"
"Oh." Nancy turned away to hide her smile. "That was certainly
thoughtful of you."
"He smoked when he stayed out. I knew. I could smell it on him.
He
smoked and..." she leaned forward, whispering loudly, "and other
things."
"Oh."
"Like staying out all night and then coming home with some kind
of
story." The old woman eyed Nancy in an accusing way.
Nancy hated her neighbor at the moment, but felt compelled to
offer up an
excuse for coming home so early. After all, she was guilty. "I... I
had to go
over to my parents. My... my father isn't feeling at all well." She
stood in
the driveway, biting her delicate lip, hating Mrs. Hunter and hating
herself
for using her father as an excuse.
"Mmmmmmm. Gone all night?"
A lie, once told, has to be embellished. "Yes, it got so late, I
decided
to spend the night."
"And how is he feeling this morning?"
"Better, much better thank you."
Mrs. Hunter smiled and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth as she
asked,
"And how is Mr. Dodge?"
"Fine."
"My, it seems he's away an awful lot."
Nancy drew herself erect. She looked at Mrs. Hunter with her
elegant
features growing cold. "I've got things to do." With that she spun on
her
heel and left the old woman standing in her yard, smiling and laughing
to
herself.
Once inside her house, once she was sure she was alone and
wouldn't be
seen by anyone, Nancy could let go. It was as if a dam broke inside of
her and
she couldn't resist any longer. She put her lovely chiseled features
in her
hands and heaved the first long sob. Moments later, blinded by tears,
she
stumbled to the bedroom and fell full length on the bed and cried hard
and
long. She sobbed herself out, crying until she found a weary kind of
relaxation. She couldn't feel peace. She rolled over and stared at
the
ceiling with puffy eyes and wondered what, if anything, she could do
about her
present situation.
Nancy Dodge was being blackmailed.
It had all started off so innocently, so innocuously. One thing
had led
to another and, before she knew it, she found herself in an impossible
situation where there seemed only one way out: suicide.
Now, she got to her feet and went to the bathroom, putting a cold
towel
on her face and sighing deeply into the cool refreshing depths of the
towel.
Her eyes avoided looking in the mirror... above all, she didn't want to
look at
herself. Hastily, she went to the modern kitchen with its vinyl
counters and
took a bottle out of one of the cupboards. Allan was beginning to be
suspicious of all the liquor that was being consumed. Nancy had taken
to
buying booze out of the house money and hiding the bottles from Allan.
She
knew she was lying to her husband and she also knew that alcohol
wouldn't solve
any of her problems. In fact, if pressed, she probably would admit
booze only
made things worse. That wasn't the point. The point was... she needed
a drink.
She poured herself a generous shot, almost half filling a
drinking glass
with clear vodka. She tossed the drink down as if it were water and
stood with
her eyes closed, her body braced against the raw cutting shock of the
vodka
hitting her empty stomach. "Soon, soon, soon," she murmured. Soon the
vodka
would take effect and she would feel a little numb, things would become
a
little blurred.
She didn't quite believe it when she was first approached about
blackmail... it wasn't quite real... people just didn't get blackmailed
anymore... there seemed so little reason for it. It had seemed, at the
time, an
elaborate bad joke. Surely old friends wouldn't take advantage of her.
Surely
old friends wouldn't trick her.
"Friends." Nancy said the word aloud like something tasted awful
in her
mouth. Friends. Rita Nelson was an old friend. Nancy trusted her; why
shouldn't she? She was happily married, and Rita came back into her
life with
her new husband, Tom Nelson,
Tom Nelson.
First impressions. Nancy hadn't liked him when she first met him
yet she
tried hard to deny and submerge her first impression because she liked
Rita so
much and wanted Rita to have a good marriage... she wanted Rita to have
as good
a marriage as her own.
Tom Nelson. Young, handsome, social, glib, flashy. Yet weak
somehow.
There was a roll of petulant fat under his belt, and Nancy thought she
saw a
look of indulgent depravity on his face. He was in public relations and
apparently was doing well. To Nancy, it seemed that he always had a
drink in
his hand or on his breath.
And he was too fresh, too familiar. Nancy felt she was far from
being a
prude, yet Tom Nelson was just a little too intimate. The first they
had met,
he had brazenly, somewhat drunkenly looked her up and down, taking in
her
sensuously flaring figure and letting out a low, long wolf whistle.
Nancy poured herself another drink and tossed it down,
immediately
refilling the glass. Her first impression about Tom had been correct.
Actually, it hadn't been enough. If she had been really sensitive, if
she
hadn't buried her instincts in her happiness over seeing Rita again,
she would
have known or suspected that Tom Nelson was a vile human being who
would sell
out his own mother if the price was right. In fact, he would probably
be out
peddling her.
Tom Nelson was blackmailing Nancy.
To Nancy, Tom Nelson was scum, a man who would use and betray a
friendship, an unbelievably evil and weak man who would do anything to
gain an
advantage... even sell his own wife's body.
Rita.
Rita Nelson, vivacious and possessed of a wild, sensuously wanton
figure
that was second only to Nancy's proudly upthrust breasts, supple waist,
and
smoothly undulating hips. Rita was now no better than a whore, doing
her
husband's bidding. Tom, starting his own public relations firm in
Chicago, was
a success, off to a flying start.
Grimacing, Nancy poured herself another drink and gulped it down.
Immediately, she half filled the glass then decided she'd be more
comfortable
in the bedroom. She found her walk was getting loose and easy, the
alcohol
already beginning to take effect. She pulled the blinds closed as she
ambled
from room to room. If, later, she drank too much and started wandering
around,
she didn't want old Mrs. Hunter seeing her. She didn't want anyone
seeing her.
Tom Nelson had a flock of clients using his services and proudly
showed
Nancy a big write-up he got in a trade paper: YOUNG REP STREAKS FOR
TOP.
She had felt a surge of nausea as she read the article. It was
true he
was successful... it was true he had many clients... but that was all
that was
true about the article. The truth was... Tom Nelson was selling his
wife's
body for his own gain and profit. Rita was nothing more than a common
prostitute. Madly in love with Tom, she did whatever he asked of her,
even
down to recruiting and betraying old friends. Tom Nelson was
blackmailing her
for his own gains. Tom, drunken and weak-willed, had his own genius.
In ways
that totally mystified Nancy, he had ways of finding a particular kind
of
person... like Fred Hartman... and somehow discovering his secret
desires...
like watching women humiliate themselves. Tom Nelson had a nasty,
perverted
knack for getting orgies going. In a comparatively short time, Nancy
had come
to regard Tom as the ultimate rat. Full of disgusting weaknesses
himself, he
had a nose for sensing weakness in others... and taking advantage of
it.
She drained her glass, holding her breath against the shock she
would
feel in the pit of her stomach and decided the best thing to do was to
have a
shower and go to bed. She was bone tired and sore all over. She had a
shower
at Fred Hartman's... he was nice enough to give her a guest room, but
all she
had wanted to do then was get away.
The alcohol was beginning to make her yawn and stumble around.
She knew
she couldn't keep her eyes open much longer. As tormented as she was,
she knew
she simply had to get some sleep. Without looking at herself in any
mirrors,
she threw her clothes off, letting them fall to the floor. Later she
would
straighten the house up, later she would have it ready for Allan coming
home.
Later! Later she would be rested and she would think of what she was
going to
do. She knew she had to do something because she was only getting in
deeper
with each phone call from Tom or Rita. She was only getting herself
more
deeply involved in a lewd world of utter abandon with each visit to
Fred
Hartman's estate.
At the thought of Fred Hartman, despite her fatigue and drunken
vagueness, Nancy shuddered. She feared him. She loathed Tom, but she
was
afraid of Fred Hartman, afraid of what he might ultimately do to her.
She showered quickly and wrapped her lovely body in a terry cloth
robe
and, yawning, eyes almost closed, she curled up on the bed and fell
into a deep
but troubled sleep.
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