On Sabbatical

This is a follow-up to "From This I Was Made" (3/18/17) and "His Organ His Seed" (3/30/17), both published in the taboo/incest section. It helps to read them first but not vital to enjoying what follows.

*****

Emily King drives through the night, wishing she'd awake from this nightmare. Only it isn't a nightmare, but nightmarish reality. Just minutes ago, Roland King, her now estranged husband, admitted that he and their daughter Carrie Ann are lovers as well as law partners. "If only I hadn't seen Carrie Ann's diary," she says out loud.

It began innocently enough when earlier that evening, Emily had dinner over Carrie Ann's townhouse. The diary was lying on the coffee table and while Carrie Ann was out of the room, she picked it up. Thumbing through it, she came to a three-line poem titled "His Organ His Seed." Emily had little doubt what the words meant, and confronted Carrie Ann when she returned to the room. During the heated argument that followed, Carrie Ann didn't admit to anything. Roland, however, did after Emily returned home and confronted him. His disclosure of his and Carrie Ann's incestuous relationship devastated her to the point where she felt physically ill, and she called her friend Debbie Lichtenberg to ask if she could stay with her for a few days.

So now she's parking her white Chevy Impala on the lot of Horizon House, Debbie's high-rise apartment building, Emily tries to pull herself together. Her eyes are still red from crying. Her husband's and daughter's betrayal still doesn't feel real. These things happen to other people, not "respectable" upper middle class folks like her. She shakes her head at the surreal image of it all as she pads through the lobby, suitcase in hand, and then takes the elevator up to the eighth floor.

"Thanks for doing this," she says when Debbie answers the door.

Debbie, divorced and, like Emily, in her late forties, says, "Not at all. I didn't know that you and Roland were having problems."

The word problems ring like a gross understatement to Emily's ears. On the phone, she failed to specify to her longtime friend the nature of her distress, only that it involved she and Roland. "Right now, Deb, I could use some alcohol. Got any?"

"Just wine."

"Just wine will do."

Debbie, wearing white Capri pants and a green v-neck blouse, heads for the fridge. Like Emily, she's tall for a woman, about five-nine, and wears her blondish hair braided around her head.

Emily puts down her suitcase, takes a deep breath and plops down on the sofa, one of those Spartan pieces from This End Up. Ashamed as she is over her situation, she's in a state of desperation to tell. Deb's always been a loyal friend, a good listener, never one to judge, and she's never needed her more than she does at this moment.

"You're a red wine gal," I know Debbie says upon her return, "but white is all I have."

Emily nods, takes the glass and takes a few gulps. "Thanks, I feel better already."

Debbie flashes a sympathetic grin. "There's more where that came from if you need it, and from what I see, you probably do." Pause. "So, what the hell is going on?"

Emily exhales and shakes her head. "I don't know where to begin."

Debbie rubs her friend's shoulder. "Take your time."

Emily does, telling her about the poem in Carrie Ann's diary and the subsequent confrontation with Roland. "Can you believe this, Deb? Can you believe that my daughter and my husband are fucking one another? Cause I can't. More accurate, I don't want to. The whole sordid mess makes me want to scream."

Debbie slowly shakes her head. "Unbelievable. You probably want to kill them both and I can't blame you."

Emily nods. "Yes, but I'd also like to understand the reasons behind it. Sure, Carrie Ann was always daddy's girl. But Christ almighty, Deb..." She covers her face, shakes her head. "You're a clinical psychologist, help me out here."

"Without delving into their psyche—and I could do that only if they were patients of mine—I'm as much in the dark as you. There's textbook theories, such as Jung's Electra Complex that might help explain Carrie Ann's motivation. In an objective way, it's not abnormal for parents to think that their offspring are attractive and vice versa. Hell, I think my grown son is a handsome guy, but I wouldn't jump into bed with him. Roland and Carrie Ann have crossed boundaries that should never be crossed. It's called taboo for a reason, and from what you've told me, they don't seem to care, which I guess speaks volumes about the strength of their mutual attraction." She pauses to tuck her foot under a leg. Then, after a sip of wine, she says, "The width and breadth of human sexuality never fails to astound me."

Emily nods and takes a couple sips. "It makes me feel as if maybe I've done something wrong. Carrie Ann tells me I should have been more nurturing in her formative years. Well, perhaps if I was, then—"

"No no," Debbie says, sweeping her hand between them. "It's not your fault, so don't feel guilty. Nurturing dads don't normally develop a propensity to sleep with their daughters. In fact, quite the opposite. They're protective, they don't exploit." Suddenly looking distressed, she bites her lower lip and turns away.

Emily watches her friend, clueless and surprised. "Deb, is something wrong?"

Ignoring the question, Debbie stands up. "Em, I could use more wine. How about you?"

"Filler up," Emily says, smiling for the first time since she walked through the door.

Debbie returns with the bottle, tops off their glasses and then resumes her seat next to her friend. "Look, I'll let you in on a dirty little secret I haven't told a sole. Just promise it won't leave this room."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Okay, here goes," Debbie begins after downing some liquid. "When I just turned eighteen, I saw my dad's penis for the first time. At least it's the first time I remember seeing it. He was naked in the hall between the bathroom and his bedroom and didn't realize that I had my bedroom door open. So he steps from the bathroom into the hall, then freezes in his tracks at the sight of me sitting on my bed, looking right at him. You'd think that he'd blush, cover up and rush into his bedroom. But no, he just stands there. Far from looking embarrassed, he grins and then comes toward me."

"Oh my, Deb, you must have been scared out of your wits."

"That's the thing, I wasn't. I was more fascinated than anything else, and when he got up close and asked if I'd like to feel it..." She takes a deep breath and another sip. "I reached out and did. Then I began to stroke it, and when he got hard, I found myself shoving my hand down my shorts, then slipping a finger into where the sun don't shine. Mom and my sister Wendy weren't home, so privacy wasn't an issue. Anyway, to make a short perverted story even shorter, I masturbated him to ejaculation and in the process masturbated myself to orgasm."

Stunned, Emily shakes her head, trying to fathom what she just heard. "Did this continue?"

"I figured you were going to ask. Yes, just one other time, and I still suffer guilt pangs because I did nothing to stop him. Truth to tell, on some level I enjoyed it. Should I go on?"

"Only if it makes you feel better, if you find it—what's the word—cathartic."

"I do."

"Okay, then proceed."

Debbie grunts. "And here I'm supposed to be the therapist. Anyway, we were alone in the house, dad and me, and I was taking a shower following my afternoon jog. So, as soon as I turned off the water, he walked in, not a stitch of clothing on him. Grinning, he said, 'You might guess I'm here for a reason. And it's not to use the toilet or bathtub.' Without hesitating, I reached for his cock. Like last time, I stroked him off. But instead of getting myself off, I let him do it. He put me on the toilet, got on his knees and licked me to climax. Needless to say, that bathroom was steaming in more ways than one.

It screwed me up for awhile, kept me from dating until my third year of college. Not only did I not tell anyone until now, but to this day, dad and I have never discussed it. It's like we have this unspoken agreement to keep our skeleton in the closet. Sometimes I'm tempted to bring it up, if for no other reason than to thank him for helping me choose my career path. Inadvertently, of course." She flashes a sardonic grin.

Emily stares into space, sipping her wine, struggling to process. "Deb, if he had wanted to go further, full intercourse, would you have let him?"

Hesitating, Debbie purses her lips, giving Emily a mixed impression. Either Deb's not sure or she's too embarrassed to say. "You don't have to answer if—"

"No, that's okay. Honestly, there's a good chance I would have because I can't put into words the way he made me feel on that toilet. It was that good. So if he had put me on his lap or led me into his bedroom..." She takes a deep breath and swishes a hand over her crotch. "Shit, even the fantasy of that makes me hot. Sorry."

Emily sits in wide-eye amazement. "So, based on your knowledge of psychology slash sexuality, what was going on with you? I mean, another girl might have screamed and slammed the door in his face or run out of the room."

"Yeah, even after thirty years, I wonder about that myself, sometimes questioning my own level of normalcy, quote unquote. Back then, the incidents left me confused and insecure. Now, I've come to think that both of us slipped into some sort of weird state where we objectified the situation, where we blindsided our dad-daughter status with all its inherent taboos and let whatever we felt take over, enabling us to cross this forbidden, metaphorical Rubicon. Carnally speaking, it felt good. Emotionally, well, I wouldn't recommend it. Don't try this at home, in other words." She gulps more wine.

"You were into your late teens," Emily says. "Roland and Carrie Ann are fully grown adults carrying on, guiltless it seems to me. On some level they have to know that what they're doing is wrong, don't they?"

"Perhaps. But, like I said, they're not my patients, so I really can't say. Where are they now?"

Debbie shakes her head. "I'm not sure. But if I had to guess, I'd say they're probably together, doing things that dads and daughters have no business doing."

*****

Emily's wrong, at least on the surface. Roland and Carrie Ann sit at her kitchen table, sharing cups of coffee. There's nothing perverted about that. However, anyone in Emily's position listening to their conversation would cringe.

"You know, even with all the turmoil this has caused," Roland says, "I still crave you in ways I know I shouldn't but can't help myself from doing."

Carrie Ann, wearing a white robe over bra and panties, brushes her fingertips across her chest. "Needless to say, dad, you've got a willing partner. By the way, you look super sexy with your helmet of hair slicked back like that." She grins.

He peeks between the lapels of her robe, eyeing her cleavage and her smooth, translucent skin, showing a vein just beneath her left collarbone. Leaning closer, he inhales her clean, fresh fragrance. "Damn you smell too good!" he exclaims, shaking his head. "Jesus, listen to me."

She takes his hand. "I don't think Jesus can hear you, dad."

"Good, cause he'd banish me to hell if he did."

"No, I don't think so," she insists, kissing his hand. "Jesus was a merciful fellow, don't forget. Surely, he'd forgive us for our so-called sin."

Said tongue-in-cheek, he knows, for neither of them are strict believers. They're not strict atheists either, just pragmatists who think a lot of what's in the bible is based on wishful thinking, embellishment and superstition. He reaches under the table and begins rubbing her thighs. "I'm taking a chance on you being right."

Holding her coffee cup to her mouth with both hands, she parts her legs. "Please do, 'cause right now my hot meter is on the rise." A wicked grin creases her full lips.

He feels something else rising, and the next thing he knows, he's under the table, sticking his head between his daughter's legs. He, a partner in one of the city's most prestigious law firms, on his hands and knees, his head wedged between his daughter's luscious thighs, his tongue swishing over her wet twat, his hand gripped around his stiffness.

She puts down her cup, closes her eyes and leans back. "Oh. My. God. You're gonna make me swoon." Feeling dizzy, she shakes her head. She rises slightly, then slips off her panties, giving him full access. Swoon or climax, she can't help but wonder which will come first. Perhaps in unison, she thinks, rocking from side to side, immersed in the eroticism of the moment. When he starts to get up, she says, "Don't stop now, not unless you plan to go further."

"That's my honorable intention," he says in mock formality, and then begins to slip out of his shorts and T-shirt.

She unsnaps her bra and throws off her robe. "Where do you want me?"

Naked now, he sits down. "On my lap."

Facing him, she straddles his legs, takes hold of his cock and slips it inside her. Her legs are long enough for her feet to touch the floor where she can use them for added thrust. She bounces and squirms, moans from the touch of his tongue on her hard nipples. He's got his hands under her armpits, giving her added lift. And, as if that weren't enough, with his cock still deep inside her, he rises from the chair, then strides toward her bedroom with her legs locked firmly around him. Gently, he lowers her onto her queen-sized bed. "I think we're in sync, honey."

"I think we are too," she whispers. "Now resume where you left off. Ohmygod, your dick feels so fucking good and I'm so fucking hot."

"Jesus, Carrie Ann, what hath God wrought?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "I must sound ridiculous, throwing out biblical references while doing this."

"Cute, I'd say. Now fuck me harder."

He does, oh how he does, pile-driving his passion into his offspring, his blessed, precious princess offspring wrought by the miracle that is life. His seed helped make this wonderful woman that's now driving him crazy with desire. Sin city it is, the consequences of which he can deal with later. Right now, the intensity of his feelings usurps all concerns, including a divorce that no doubt is in the offing. He could come anytime, could shoot his salty, sticky stuff into this fantastic human being he helped create. Better to hold out, he thinks, and somehow he manages to do it, to tread water until after he feels her quiver and hears her shrieks of joy, shrieks mixed with superlatives that inflate his already fat middle-age ego even more. He's still got it; never mind that it takes his own daughter to prove it. It doesn't really matter, does it? Of course it does. You can't kid a kidder, he's wont to say, especially when that would-be kidder is yours truly.

"Dad, that was fantastic," she coos, resting her head on his chest. "I hope you enjoyed it as much as me."

He holds her tighter. "You know I did." And he did, too, despite the angst hovering over him like some alien drone. Thoughts of Emily drift into his consciousness and that house they shared for years, now empty and dark.

*****

A few days later, Emily thinks it might be time to return home. Debbie's been great, taking her in, lending her expertise, spilling her guts and in the process giving Emily insight into her own emotionally wrenching situation. She's reconciled to divorcing Roland, blames him for most of what's happened. No tragedy if she never sees him again. Further communication will be through attorneys, she figures. If he's at the house, they'll take separate bedrooms. It won't be easy to endure the tension, but she's strong, she'll manage. This too shall pass.

Carrie Ann is a different matter. Emily yearns for some kind of reconciliation. She's her daughter after all, her own flesh and blood and the thought of losing her sends her into an even deeper emotional dungeon. What Carrie Ann's doing with Roland, her own dad, still makes her cringe. Even so, she's still her child, for better or worse. Hell, she's a grown woman, a successful lawyer who partnered with King, Sullivan and Cromwell, Roland's blue chip law firm. In the process, and for reasons she still doesn't fully comprehend, their partnership now includes three venues—courtroom, boardroom and bedroom. Ugh. Well, such is life. Expect the unexpected her own dad once told her. He failed to mention the perverted and the deviant, the dysfunctional and the abnormal. But, what the hell, she's got no control over this situation other than how she decides to handle it.

Emily throws on a pair of jeans, slips into her black flats and then begins to pack up. She's going home. But first, because this is Sunday morning, she decides, without calling, to pay Carrie Ann a visit. She doesn't know what to expect. Roland might be over there. So be it; she's got unfinished business with her daughter.

She's nervous and teary by the time she pulls up to the parking lot. She sees Carrie Ann's car. Roland's vehicle is nowhere in sight, a good sign. She rings the doorbell twice. "Yes?" It's Carrie Ann's voice she hears through the door.

"It's mom, Carrie Ann. Look, I know you probably hate me now but—"

Carrie Ann flings open the door. "I don't hate you. Come in."

"Your father...is he—"

"He's at the gym," she says, all perspired in her shorts and sports bra. "I just took a run."

They stand on the white tile floor just inside the front door. Carrie Ann adopts a defensive posture, arms folded against her chest. Emily, hands on hips, says, "I've come to apologize for being so judgmental, for not being the nurturing mom I should have been, for not telling you, at least enough, that I love you and that I'm proud to have you as my daughter. I just hope it's not too late to say these things, to make it right between us."

When her mouth starts to quiver, Carrie Ann reaches out and hugs her. Moments later, they're both crying, holding each other. Carrie Ann wipes her eyes and says, "Come into the kitchen, mom, I'll make us some coffee."

The table is round and white and the seat cushions are overly plush for a kitchen. Emily now sits on the same chair that Roland took when he had Carrie Ann on his lap. Of course, Emily doesn't know this, and Carrie Ann has no intention of telling her. But she does reckon that it's time to tell the truth, to drop the veil of secrecy she put up last week after her mom read her poem. So when Emily again asks about their relationship, Carrie Ann doesn't obfuscate. "Yes, we've been sleeping together," she admits. "But don't make more of it than what it is. I mean, we're not getting married or planning to show up on Jerry Springer. We simply have this strong mutual attraction that we decided to consummate. I say we, but I was the one who initiated it, not dad. In fact, he's less than comfortable with it."

Emily nods, then takes a sip. "How long is this going to go on? It must interfere with your dating life, does it not?"

"Yes and no. I still see people, nobody special right now, but I haven't slept with anyone since, well, since this began with dad. You of all people should know what a fantastic lover he is." She grins.

Emily guffaws and slaps the table's edge. "Yes, I sure do, although, needless to say, I haven't got much lately. Don't worry, I'm not blaming you. In marriage, the trill wanes with time. Plus, the current situation doesn't exactly bode well for a happy marriage. I suppose that sex with you is new and exciting for him."

"Yes, and for me too, but new is only part of it. It's the incest thing that drives it up to stratospheric levels." She takes note of Emily's sour, bitter pill expression. "Look, I know you don't get it. I'm fully aware of how disgusting you and probably most people find what we're doing. I just hope you can love me unconditionally and reserve judgment for something or someone else. Like the Trump presidency."