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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Hidden Camera" Chapter 3
Date: Fri, 12 Jan 2007 03:15:42 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/hidncama03.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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