Chapter 3: Inappropriate Fantasies
God, he prayed as he cruised toward his house in the suburbs, maybe with Miriam out of the picture for good, the nightmares will stop. Wonder if she has anything to do with them, he thought; I doubt it. The nightmares, "The Dream," he had begun collectively calling them, were always identical, and in the last six weeks they had been occurring not only every night in his sleep, but also even in his daydreams. They could occur anywhere and anytime; at home, at work, hell, even mowing the grass. "The Dream" was a sickly perverted dream that simultaneously aroused and disgusted him. It was a technicolor atrocity of forbidden lust which both repelled and enticed him, forcing him to wrestle with the yen and yang of his sensuality; compelling him to struggle impotently for control of his sexual energy.
Memories of "The Dream" welled up from his subconscious even as he sped toward a new life free of Miriam and responsibility, and so powerful was its hold on him that all thought of his recent crime dissipated. He drove on autopilot as the terrible images flooded into his mind, filling it like a movie on a screen, bright, clear and fully focused. It was Laura, his baby, his gorgeous teenage daughter, with her long blonde hair, flashing blue green eyes and soft, gentle laughter.
In "The Dream," they are always together, alone, in the ski boat. The sun is high in the sky and it's uncommonly hot. She is wearing a daring bikini, which seductively and inappropriately exposes her ripening body. Even in "The Dream," his face would burn with shame as the sight of her unselfconsciously moving about the boat produced unwanted erotic sensations. She says she wants to ski, but he says no; they don't have anyone to spot for her while he drives the boat and it's too dangerous to let her ski without a lookout. She pouts and stamps her feet petulantly. Just like her mother in some ways, he thinks, but her bouncing breasts are twice the size of Miriam's. Then, she smiles coyly at him and runs her fingernail down his chest to his belly, while looking into his eyes with a look that's sultry enough to steam crabs; a look that even now, existing only as a pale memory of "The Dream," causes his pulse to quicken.
"Please, daddy, just for a little while; I'll be careful, I promise," she pleads as her fingertip teases the knotted string at the waist of his trunks.
I wonder what that finger will do, if I say no, he muses, as the words to refuse her form on his lips, but they die unuttered. He has not the will to deny her.
"OK, darlin, but just a little while," he relents, ruefully looking down at her hovering finger.
The lake is crowded. He aims for empty water and advances the throttle, accelerating to pull her up. She rises expertly on a single ski and gains her balance quickly. He eases back the throttle back. The bow drops slightly as the boat reaches planing speed. His eyes scan the crowded water ahead to avoid the other boats. He glances back quickly and sees her skiing smoothly over the choppy water. She throws up a hand in a wave with the flat of her hand facing him; the signal to put on speed. She's a speed lover that one, he thinks, easing the throttle toward wide open.
They hurtle toward the opposite shore. Closing rapidly with the shoreline, he begins a wide turn to reverse course. Laura, hair flying, swings out in a wide arc, jumping his wake and throwing up a rooster-tail of spray. He returns his eyes to the front just in time to see another boat cut directly across his bow. He spins the wheel evasively, hard to starboard. The shape of a boat flashes past, a narrow miss, and he frantically spins the wheel to resume course. Instantly, he feels the boat lurch forward as though kicked from behind. Throttling back, he looks to the stern and sees a few feet of slack ski rope trailing a frayed, broken end just behind the boat and, receding in the distance, Laura, ensnared in whipping ski-rope, crashing into the water at high speed.
Desperate, he turns the boat around and speeds to his child. She is hopelessly tangled in rope and struggling to extricate herself. The rope is pinning her arms to her sides. Her bikini top has been torn off by the impact and she looks frightened and dazed. As he approaches, she slips beneath the surface, with her eyes looking at him helplessly. He frantically stops the motor and dives over the side, swimming deep, guessing at the direction of her descent and praying to intercept her. In the murky darkness he finds her, struggling feebly to escape the encircling rope. He gathers her in his arms and, with a Herculean kick, propels them both toward the surface. They break into the sunlight, gasping for air, several yards from the drifting boat.
"It's OK, honey, you're safe now, so let's get that rope off of you and get back in the boat," he says reassuringly. He begins trying to untangle her, and finds it easier to unwind the rope by simply turning her around in the water. Slowly, helping her turn with one hand and pulling rope with the other, he begins to disentangle the frightened girl. She spins slowly in his arms heedless of her nakedness. With each pass, her pert young breasts, full, yet immature, rotate toward him.
Round, perfectly shaped, with light pink aureoles surrounding the small hard buds of her darker nipples, her breasts lift proudly and heave with the exertion of her experience. Occasionally, as her back turns toward him, his hand inadvertently brushes across those swelling breasts. He feels the resilience of her fullness against his hand and marvels at the firm texture of her flesh,. Finally, she is freed, and he positions her with her back toward him once more. He pulls her tight against his chest in a classic lifesaving embrace and speaks to her calmly.
"Sweetheart, we've got to swim to the boat. It's not far and you don't have to do anything, just lie back and let me tow you. Can you do that, honey?"
"Yes, daddy, just give me a minute to get my breath back, OK?" she answers.
