ELEVEN
Alex Burkheimer sat in his bedroom, preparing his canvas for the
painting he planned to execute from the drawing that was now in front of
him--the drawing he had made of his daughter, naked and strung up to the ceiling
in his basement.
He had moved his easel and painting equipment up to his room because he
didn't want Jane to come upon him while he was doing this. He and Jane had not
referred to that bizarre afternoon in the basement room since it had occurred,
almost a week ago. They had, in fact, pretty much avoided each other since then,
which was not hard to do in the nearly empty house. Jane had always been an
independent child, and they often took their meals separately. When they had
come together in the past week, they had been polite but distant, almost like
strangers. But there was a palpable tension in the air, a pervasive sense
of...waiting...
He shook his head. He would have to do something to resolve the
situation--have a talk with her, discuss openly what had happened. It had been a
terrible mistake, a sudden, unbelievable nightmare which had caught them up
unawares. They must try to forget it. It would never happen again. What she did
with her friends...well, there was nothing he could do about that, he supposed.
She was nearly a grown woman. It was her choice. But he wanted nothing more to
do with it. Nothing.
Meanwhile, there was the picture....
He stared at the drawing in front of him. He had looked at it many times
during the last few days, but actually he had no need to. It was there in his
mind all the time, complete in every detail, every line and curve.
And so was the model.
No matter how many times he had perused the drawing, each time he looked
at it anew his mouth felt dry and his heart began to beat faster. He had done
his work too well; had captured the scene so vividly that when he gazed at the
silent, inanimate lines on the paper he could actually hear in his mind the
sound of her moans and sobs, and see the spasmodic jerking and writhing her her
suspended, helpless body.
Her beautiful body....
He forced himself back to the task of priming his canvas. But his hands
were not steady, and he had to stop. He was aware that he had a hard-on. Despite
himself, his brain swarmed with the remembered images. Inexorably, his eyes
turned to the drawing again. He sat looking at it this time for many minutes,
unconscious of the fact that his ragged breathing was loud in the quiet room,
lost in the overpowering evocation of his daughter's erotic and insanely
pleasurable torment.
And again the drawing merged with the reality, and he saw the breasts
quiver, the feet dance slowly in the air, the drops of sweat dribbling down her
legs. He heard the gasps coming from her open mouth, and in his feverish fantasy
he even heard a sound he had not been present to hear--the cracking of the belt
across her flesh.
And then, amid the other sounds, he heard Chuck's voice.
"You'll be able to tie her up anytime you like, and draw her....We'll
share her with you....She'll like that....Tie her up...."
No.
To have more pictures...to see her in other positions...to gaze on her
nakedness....
He couldn't.
But he saw her in his mind, a succession of imagined
pictures--spread-eagled on her bed; bent double over the back of a chair; lying
on her side on the floor, with her legs drawn up behind her, bound wrists
fastened to bound ankles; standing on her toes facing a thick post in the
basement, her arms tied around it, her breasts flattened against it, lashed to
it with numerous coils of rope around her body and legs, only her buttocks
jutting out bare and defenseless....
Anytime you like....Anytime you like....
And then he heard the sound of the front door as his daughter entered
the house.
For a long moment he did not move. Then, as if in a trance, he rose and
went to his bedroom door.
"Jane," he called. "Will you come up here, please?"
"All right, Daddy," came Jane's voice. He walked back to his chair.
Hastily, he put the drawing of her away. He would simply talk to her, he told
himself. Try to smooth things over....
Jane came into the room. She moved a few steps inside the door, then
stopped. She seemed very calm. "Yes, Daddy?" she said.
He couldn't speak for a moment. She stood there quietly, his daughter,
and waited. His eyes couldn't stay on her face. She wore a casual blouse and
slacks, nothing provocative, but he could see what was beneath them. In his mind
he could see it. And she knew. Her face showed nothing, but she knew. She
waited.
"Jane," he whispered finally, "I want to draw your picture."
#
She lay on his bed, naked and bound, legs quivering with strain,
shoulders nearly dislocated, torso arched painfully, writhing and moaning,
panting and sweating, and loving every minute of it.
If he had had any doubts, he was convinced now. His daughter loved to
suffer. That passion had now grown strong enough to override all feelings of
shame, modesty or conventional behavior. When he had told her what he wanted,
she hadn't said a word. She had simply taken her clothes off, not even bothering
to turn away from him. She had brought him rope. Together they had worked out
the position, but it was she who had insisted on its severity. He would have
been more lenient, to spare her. But when he would have tied her hands behind
her at the wrists, she forced her arms as far in back of her as they would go,
until each of her hands cupped an opposite elbow. With her forearms lashed
together, her shoulders were pulled sharply back, thrusting her breasts out
boldly and tightening the flesh over her shoulder bones until they seemed about
to burst through the skin. When he spread her legs, tying each ankle with a
length of rope which then was fastened to one of the bedposts at the lower
corners of his large king-sized bed, she kept urging him to pull the ropes
tighter, and still tighter, until her legs were stretched taut as they could
possibly get, and then still tauter, stretched so wide apart that he thought she
would split, her crotch only a short distance from the foot of the bed, her
vagina splayed forcibly open.
Now she lay on her back, her strained legs trembling with the tension,
her wonderful breasts jutting straight up, forced into even greater prominence
by the agonized arch of her upper body, lying on her tightly bound arms. To
prevent her from raising the upper part of herself from the bed, he had come up
with the idea of using one of his late wife's metal hair-curlers, which he had
clamped into Jane's hair and tied with a length of twine fastened to the head of
the bed.
All she could do now was to writhe her torso slightly, an act which set
her high-set breasts deliciously bobbling. But their nipples were stiff and
pointing, and every sound of pain, Alex knew, was also a cry of joy.
He sat in his chair and watched her avidly, his sketch pad set up on his
easel. As though he were already a veteran, after one experience, at drawing
bound and helpless girls, he was waiting for the proper moment, waiting until
the strain had more of a chance to set in, when she would begin to gasp with the
pain, tears in her eyes, squirming mindlessly against the relentless ropes,
dampening the sheets with her sweat.
Meanwhile he was more than content to watch the deepening stages of her
suffering. It was so incredibly arousing that he had to hold himself in his
chair.
Jane abandoned herself to pain as if it were a lover. Her open vagina
moistened as that lover brought a groan from her mouth. With every heaving
breath, her thrusting nipples reached out to it. Her twisting, twitching body
was dancing for it alone.
His own breath quickened, his heart pounded as he watched this erotic
loveplay. Like this, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He
groped for his pencils, his eyes reluctant to leave her straining body for an
instant.
Now he began to draw. The arch of the upper body over the crushed arms.
The distorted, panting mouth. The rolling head, held in position by the cruel
piece of metal that pulled at her hair. The breathtakingly flat sweep of her
stomach. The damp triangle of pubic hair. The agonizingly taut, widestretched
legs, in which the tortured tendons now stood out in relief against the curved,
sensuous flesh of thigh and calf.
He was lost in the picture, driven on by the groans and gasps which were
now steadily increasing in volume and frequency. He did not know how long he
worked; but when he stopped at last her entire body was trembling with strain
and agony. Tears dripped from her eyes, and he didn't think she was even aware
of the nearly continuous moan that came from somewhere deep inside her, broken
only by heaving gulps for breath.
Her lover was taking her.
He pushed himself up from his chair with an effort. he must release her
now. His legs were weak, and the blood was pounding in his head. His cock pushed
demandingly against his pants; he had had a huge erection since long before he
had started to draw.
But he would not give in to that again. He must not. He would release
her. He moved unsteadily toward the bed. jane's glazed eyes turned to him,
focused for a moment. "Daddy..." she moaned.
"All right, dear. I'm going to untie you now." But he didn't. He stood
over her, unable to move, unable to do anything but look at that wonderfully
tormented body. It was calling to him with its eager enslavement. The upthrust,
shuddering breasts were begging him, the cruelly pulled-apart legs were begging
him. And her eyes were begging too--and not for him to release her.
He heard a new, deeper groan and realized that it had come from his own
throat. As if with a will of its own, a trembling hand rose, reached toward
her--and touched its palm lightly to the very tip of one rigid, jutting nipple.
Two groans now mingled in the charged air of the room. "Daddy..." Jane
whimpered. "Daddy..."
"Oh jesus," Burkheimer whispered. The hand closed softly over the
upreaching mound of flesh. He caressed it reverently. Then he drew away.
"No," he gritted hoarsely. "No!"
The girl on the bed squirmed feverishly within her bonds, trying to arch
her body still further toward him.
"Please..." she moaned breathlessly. "Please, Daddy....Do it to me...do
it...."
"Don't, Jane," Burkheimer groaned as he walked around to the foot of the
bed. "It's not right," he said, gazing down at the quivering inner surfaces of
her tightly stretched thighs, and the open, moist entrance to her cunt. "You're
my daughter," he whispered helplessly, unzipping his fly. He knelt at the foot
of the bed, and lowered himself between the sweet tortured limbs.
"God forgive me," he said brokenly, and slowly fed his stiff phallic
pole into the lovely warm hole of his daughter's cunt.
"Yes!" Jane cried. "Yes! Oh Daddy, please! Give it to me!"
He gave it all to her. He swam in overwhelming sensation. He pulled out,
pushed slowly in. He was fucking his bound daughter.
"More! Daddy, more!"
He had no more to give. He went faster, harder. She squalled in painful
delight. That was what she wanted. More pain. He pumped into her. He was holding
himself above her, propped up on his hands. her face was twisted with lust. Lust
for sex, lust for torment. This was Jane. His sweet, lovely daughter. Absurdly,
he realized she was not wearing her glasses.
"Fuck meeee...."
He fucked her.
"Daddy..." she gasped. "Lie on me....Fuck me with all of you....Crush
me....Oh yes, crush me!..."
Yes! He was her lover now, provider of pain. He slammed himself down on
top of her arching body, his passion heightened by her shrill scream. He crushed
her down even harder against her tied, drawn-back arms, pressed her hips down
into the mattress, mashed her upthrust breasts against his unyielding chest. His
weight put an incredible extra strain in her impossibly stretched legs, and
caused the metal roller to pull cruelly at her hair. He didn't care now. She
wanted this, and he did too. He plunged into her harder than before, keeping his
weight on her while moving his hips like a triphammer.
Jane was yelling in his ear, a scream of agony and triumph and violent
fulfillment, a tribute to her twin lovers, himself and pain. It turned into a
deafening banshee-like shriek as she came at last, jerking and heaving beneath
him for long, long moments before she tapered off, sobbing with exhaustion and
joy.
Carefully then, he lifted his weight from her body, but he did not pull
out of her. Incredibly, unbelievably, he had not yet come, was still stiff and
aching inside her cunt.
But he waited for her to recover, held still until her melting,
climax-softened but still paini-dazed eyes focused on him yet again.
"Ohh god...Daddy..." she panted. "You didn't..."
He began to move again inside her.
"Come, Daddy," she breathed, writhing her hips for him with painful
effort. "Come in me. Come inside your little hot slut of a daughter."
And he did, with all the power of hell behind him.
