When Lilacs Last
Pt. 1
Piper Ray
Lisa gripped the seatbelt as the car trudged up the steep incline. It wasn't like this was a new experience to her, her father routinely drove her and her older brother to desolated parts of the wilderness, although it was a startling reaction to something that she hadn't experienced in a long time. Under the rubber of her father's Chevy truck, the crunch of gravel began to increase in volume. Through the windshield, the road ahead was obscured by fog, the thick and wild brush revealing itself slowly as the thick mist parted in the wake of the heavy puttering of the SUV. In the rearview mirror, her father's eyes stared with deep concentration; she had a hard time judging the intent behind that gaze if there was any at all; his stark blue bulbs looked at nothing, the flesh surrounding them tight and smooth.
Lisa always remembered her father with long, flowing black hair, but for as long as she could trace back her adult life, his hairline stretched more and more back until it fused with the back of his head. When she was little, he used to sit in her miniature chair, looking into the mirror as she brushed it down carefully.
Her brother Colin sat in the seat next to her, listening to headphones. He inherited their father's eyes, stark blue and menacing, but he tended to keep things cool more often than his father. They got into it more and more often now that their mother was gone -- they both dealt with grief in their own way.
The sound came out like a gunshot and moved over her like a deep earthquake. In her bones she knew the call; her mouth clenched. When the rumble calmed down, her father's voice emerged. She knew that crack at the top of his register: he was in pain, he was helpless. She had only heard him make that sound once before, when her mother, his wife of twenty-five years, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. From the window, Lisa could see him hunched over on the grass, his head to the ground, and through all her concern she had to at last face the truth that cut her father; her mother had finally fallen victim to her illness.
Lisa, only eighteen-years old and burdened with responsibility, ran to her fallen father in a frantic state of ecstatic horror and sorrow and wrapped herself around his back. The thud of his heart hit her ear like a punch, his breathing shallow and hurried. He stood up like a man exhausted from labor.
"Our life is over," he said in a voice Lisa didn't recognize. It was coarse and weak, nothing like his sharp tenor croon. She stared into his blue eyes, bright as they always were but empty and unfocused.
"Oh dad," Lisa shrieked, falling to her knees, covering her face with her hair.
Her dad fell into the dirt. Out of his mouth a sound both crackling and muffled escaped.
It took everything inside her to pull the dead weight of her sobbing father off the ground; her muscles acted swiftly as if remotely reinforced. Even though he resisted at first, swatting away his daughter like he had so many times when she was younger, when booze sluiced his brain, he eventually settled against her shoulder, gasping for air. She patted his head. From above, with his head resting gently against her, he looked like a child, vulnerable, powerless, desperate for answers. Her father choked in quick spasms, snorting. He yelled his wife's name at the top of his lungs. Lisa had to get him inside and calmed down.
She led him to the shower and turned on the faucet. The water sprayed out and made a sound like a jet plane, a sound that could only remind her that her mother was dead. She took off her father's shirt: his chest was bare, it resembled a wrestler, bulky and hairless. She took off his jeans, surprised at the skinny briefs he wore under there. Then he made a motion to pull down the boxers, but Lisa made a face and countered the resistance.
"Dad, no," she said.
She turned from his naked body, a body, she had to admit, immune to gravity's effect on the flesh; it glistened over his chest, and veins traced muscles that popped out of his shirt. Not that she had to know, but Lisa looked down quickly and caught sight of his semi-hard cock slightly bouncing up and down; it was paler than his tan appearance, a few fingers' girth with a long shaft. Lisa shook her head. She thought with only her hands. The cock's creaminess sent signals to her mouth, informing that it needed to be sucked, needed to be gagged on. Her father, kneeled in front of the shower as it ran, began to sob openly. She walked up and could see the muscles in his back appear as shadows against his brown skin. She could imagine the phallus all day, with her eyes closed, while walking to and from school, alone in the bathroom.
His full ass clenched, muscular and smooth. He crouched on all fours; his head submerged under the sprinkling shower; his cry was one monotonous bleat this time. She grabbed a towel and immediately threw it around his head, whereupon the noise ceased. It was also the first time he spoke for what seemed like hours.
"Lisa, you gotta do this for me..." he reached up to his arms as if blind, pleading for the embrace of his daughter.
He clawed his way under her skirt, rubbing her calves. He stood up on bended knee and took his cock in his hand. He cried as he stroked it, at first quite calmly, and then as his crying picked up, the speed against the flesh became more strained.
He stood up and said, "let me inside you, Lisa!"
