I open a can of coke, light a cigarette, and settle myself in to tell a story that needs to be told. It won't be a nice story with a happy ending, and it won't be a tragic story with death and sadness to send you back to your lives happy that you escaped the fate of our hero or heroine.
No, it is her story. She told me through a winter we spent together, travelling. It was a good story to listen to, and for that reason, I'll share it with you. It is, at times, a difficult story to listen to, and if you are of a sensitive nature, I would tactfully suggest that you close the book now, you won't appreciate it.
But, for those of us who can...appreciate it...I will tell you the story of the pretty young thing, and you may decide for yourselves if it was worth reading, or not.
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She was a pretty young thing, built small, like her latin mother, her skin was supple and darkly tanned, her hair long and dark, shiny with the lustre of her femininity, budding and new, like her small firm breasts and the new shapeliness of her hips and thighs. Once she had turned 18, her beauty had blossomed.
She had grown up hearing and seeing her parents and their friends do things others might have found odd, but to her it was normal to hear her father suddenly growl while eating dinner, and for her mother to strip out of her clothes without saying a word and go to feed him each morsel while letting him pinch and twist her nipples, and poke his fingers between her legs till she was quivering and gasping, chewing his food and eating as if he didn't have a care in the world as he idled the time away, sexually torturing his tantalizing wife while enjoying the meals she prepared and fed to him.
No, that was a pretty normal night for the pretty thing. She never understood it, really, just knew that it happened, like the sun coming up, or the dog sniffing at her crotch when she came in the door. She also noticed that her father had been watching her more and more lately, especially when he played with her mom at the table. He usually let the pretty thing leave the table when his dinner entertainment grew too...messy, but ever since her 18th birthday he'd made her stay, watch.
The night before it really changed, he'd made her sit in the hard wooden chair at the table, her knees spread as she sat, long after dinner had ended. He'd played with her mother, but hadn't followed her upstairs afterwards, he'd let her leave the room and go to bed, leaving the pretty thing alone with her father, sitting on the hard chair, her knees spread so that her daddy could see the white panties underneath the short skirt.
He'd smoked a big fat cigar and had sat watching her, anticipation in his every feature, like he was celebrating something and could enjoy it all night long, and then he...waited.
When she started to squirm, he started to smile.
