"It's gone," Gillian said. "It stopped when you moved."
Kevin rested, his ear still to the floor, Gillian's soft breath, sweet and gentle on his face. His heart ached to reach out to her, to take this moment of dependence to reestablish the bond they'd had when she was younger and less self-assured. But the moment passed.
He sensed nothing unusual under the house. He didn't want to tell her it was only her overactive imagination, so he simply said, "I guess it's gone. Come on, time to go to sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, baby; sleep well."
"Ga'night, Daddy," she murmured, sleep already creeping into her voice.
Kevin crawled back to the comfort of his own blankets and reflected on how long it had been since his rebellious daughter had called him, "daddy." How long would it be before he'd hear it again?
Under the blankets, Karen's familiar body-heat welcomed him back. His eyes grew heavy. Outside, the waves on the beach beat a steady metronome pulse in the night, providing a soft cushion of sound that caused the creaking of the floorboards and the settling of the house to fade away as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Until the screams woke him up.
FORBIDDEN FLOWERS
Until now middle-aged Walter has been satisfied to watch the school girls who giggle past his West Hollywood shop, mentally selecting those who will occupy the hours of fantasy and dreams that make his mundane life bearable. Walter begins to hatch an elaborate plan to kidnap one of his stepdaughter's teenage girlfriends with the intention of breaking down her resistance through sensory deprivation while he covertly watches her increasing vulnerability. His intense craving for sweet, young flesh turns his tormented mind into a battlefield of compulsion and restraint as both Walter and his captive descend into their own form of madness where nothing is predictable. (WARNING: Explicit Material)
FORBIDDEN FLOWERS (CHAPTER ONE)
WALTER
The potent aphrodisiac of their adolescence runs in my veins. It is not my drug of choice--it is the narcotic of necessity.
More simply put: I like young girls.
Let me re-phrase that: I love young girls.
No, not those giggling, pre-adolescent yammering lumps of formless dough inhabiting the local elementary school yard. God forbid! I certainly wouldn't be perverted toward a pre-pubescent jellyfish!
To put it into proper perspective and take the license of a literary shorthand, you might say that I am afflicted--dare I say blessed--with something similar to the Humbert-Humbert syndrome. That fabrication from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita broke the ground of universal recognition and paved an understanding path to those sweet, young, nubile confections, which constantly hover on the edges of conscious desire.
Recently I revisited Mr. Nabokov's masterpiece, an attempt to resurrect our mutual worship in the delights of succulent youth, only to discover that Humbert Humbert was actually a despicable pedophile with no moral fiber, and his only redeeming feature was a desire to possess the essence of young girls as embodied in the adolescent Dolores, whom he called Lolita.
Regardless of his chief protagonist's spineless servility, Nabokov's narrative has a certain rhythm and mastery of language which infuses that aging sycophant with an undeniable charm. Discounting the flaws in his character, I suppose the casual observer would think that Humbert-Humbert and I have much in common.
Not at all.
Regardless of any similar propensity toward the desires of the flesh, there is the honest fact that I have never committed an inappropriate act!
Lolita, that cold, calculating little vixen had no redeeming value except for the amoral availability of a devious but vacuous mind in a delectable body.
Oh, if she had only possessed the blush of innocence! I am lost in a world that doesn't understand the meaning of innocent sensuality.
No! No Lolita for me.
Evangeline, Longfellow's maiden of seventeen summers, would be more the fount of my desires!
"When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music."
Surely I could never be so base as to actually reach out and caress or--dare I think it--possess the flowering innocence of sweet delicate youth, which blossoms only once.
How could I ever be so callow as to steal away the beauty of the blush of purity and bring a wintry destruction upon that which must be worshiped and adored?
I often wonder, though, what would happen if some young flower were to open herself to me, one who would freely offer--offer without the possibility of remonstration, without the propensity of recrimination, without the possibility of prosecution...
Who knows? Who really knows?
THE PROJECTIONIST
The genesis of a serial killer begins when 12-year-old William Jarrett considers himself "abandoned" by his parents in an all-boys' summer camp and boarding school. Afterwards, the institutionally-inclined young man joins the US Navy where he finds a special joy as a part-time projectionist for his shipmates movies and sexual satisfaction murdering prostitutes while on shore leave. Demobilized, he finds a job as the projectionist in a dieing art house Los Angeles movie theater and continues to pursue an unrequited illusion of what he regards as "True Beauty." Of course, he feels compelled to destroy those who don't meet his expectations. William's murderous obsession becomes easily confused with the dramas he projects nightly on the silver screen and his descent into madness will culminate in his finally discovering the object of all his desires. [Explicit sex and violence]
THE PROJECTIONIST (CHAPTER ONE)
The Pacific Coast Highway wends its way along the Southern California coast like some giant ribbon wrapping a sunny, warm delightful package of erotic goodies into a perennial birthday present.
No road in California provides sensual delight like PCH.
I love it.
I thrive on it.
I get horny just thinking about it! From Santa Monica through Malibu to Zuma Beach, there's more bare flesh per square foot than any man can savor at one time. And I have a right to all of it. It's mine for the taking, the having, and throwing back when I am done.
† † † †
Hitchhiker.
I made a couple of U-turns and went past her twice just to make sure she was alone. Too often, when couples hitchhike, the guy will hang back, letting the girl stand at the side of the road, thumb out; like bait in a trap--succulent, sweet-smelling, young bait. You stop the car, and then out pops the boyfriend—surprise! "Can you take us...etc....etc..."
There were no guys lingering in the sand dunes behind this delectable tidbit. This one was mine. All mine.
She stood hip-shot, legs slightly spread, her orange tank top—the stretchy, spandex, nipple-showing kind—caught my eye. Flip-flops and cut-off jeans, the legs frayed, cut even with her tight young crotch: a California ensemble. The inside of the pockets of the shredded denims hung down like small white flags against the dark brown of her thighs.
Beach bunny blond, pouty lips with purple gloss, eye shadow daring the world to look past it into her eyes; her make-up was part of the costume. And she was tan, tan, tan. I would bet that she was tan all over, luscious tan without white lines. Surely, the sun had kissed every part of her, caressed her tender young skin and the shadowed places I could only dream about—for now.
Someone's boy toy was going to go riding with the three Willies today!
I smoothed the Mustang over to the side of the road, a few feet from those sexy brown legs.
"Wanna lift?" I asked.
"Yeah! You going far." She smacked gum, her head waggling toward the northbound lanes.
"How far do you want to go?"
Was I leering?
It went right over her head.
"I need to get to Zuma."
"No problem. Hop in." I reached over the passenger seat, unlatched the door, and pushed it open.
She slip-skidded into the seat
, the hot leather sticking to her sunny skin. There was a faint odor of chewing gum and sweet girl-musk.
Afternoon aphrodisiac!
Her pouting little lips pursed into a small, squealing "Ow!" as the heat of the seat sucked at the backs of her young legs.
I could almost feel that same warmth prickle the backs of mine as I got that familiar sinking feeling deep down where the groin meets the pit of the stomach, like a roller coaster falling out of the sky.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!" she chirped.
"Hot?"
"Jesus H. Christ! I burnt the friggin' shit outta myself."
"Here; get up a minute."
She arched her back, pushing the tight neat package of her crotch upwards. I reached into the back seat, grabbed a handy towel, and spread it across the seat under her clenched little ass.
Chew...Snap...Snap...Chew. Sharp, bright, little white teeth went up and down on the gum in her mouth, pulling it apart and filling it with little bubbles of air so that it popped. Chew... Snap...Chew.
"Is that better?" I asked solicitously, smoothing out the end of the towel.
"Yeah." She breathed a Juicy Fruit sigh in my direction.
I pulled out into the road and headed north.
PCH is a slow summer road. You can't go too fast. You really don't want to. Lots to look at. Lots of traffic too, with traffic cops and tickets. No sense rushing.
"Willie," I said.
"Huh?"
"That's my name, Willie."
"Yeah?"
"What's yours?"
"Huh?"
I was getting a bit exasperated. "What's your name?"
"Oh...uh...Julie."
The art of conversation is lost on the younger generation. I am an intelligent, educated man. Perhaps it's the generation gap. Not that there was much of a gap between us, not really. She could have been seventeen or eighteen to my thirty-five. Other than an insurmountable chasm between our IQ's, there was no gap at all, as far as I was concerned. All she would need to do would be keep her mouth shut until it was needed.
"Seat belt."
"Huh?"
"Put your seat belt on." I looked over at her. Nice, soft profile. Clean lines. A little baby fat still under the chin-endearing childlike flesh to be chucked and stroked.
"Don't like them." Petulant.
"Put it on, please."
"They tie me down."
Yeah, that's the point my sweet beauty. Mentally I twirled a melodramatic Simon Legree mustache.
"If you want a ride to Zuma, you'll have to put on your seat belt."
"Shit!"
The girl fumbled with the device, pulling the strap around her waist and over her shoulder until I heard a final click.
I glanced over with my warmest and most paternal smile. "Thanks. Now you're safe." Oh yeah, sure she was.
In the slanting afternoon light, I could see the soft blond down on her upper legs and arms. I imagined the goose bumps if I were to run my fingers across the tip of each little hair. Would she shiver in delight or shudder in disgust?
No rush.
Hold on.
Don't blow it now.
It was a glorious late summer day, even with the traffic pressed almost bumper to bumper.
Prolong the moment.
No need to rush now.
The need could wait.
Sit back and enjoy the ten-mile ride. At this rate it would take at least forty-five minutes.
The scenery was fantastic. Sand, surf, girls. A fresh warm breeze off of the Pacific made me momentarily regret my decision not to purchase the convertible when I bought the used Mustang. But at least I'd gotten the Mustang. Mustang! A powerful name—wild, free. Like me. But a guy needs privacy now and then—like this afternoon—so I'd passed on the ragtop.
"What's at Zuma?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"I said, what's happening at Zuma beach?"
"Oh, nothing. Just meeting some kids."
"Go there often?"
"Yeah."
Oh well, who needed intelligent conversation? That young body cuddled into the seat so close to me spoke loud enough and well enough—for the time being.
She raised her right leg and perched a foot on the dashboard above the glove compartment.
I almost said something about this, when I realized I would be sacrificing the view of soft, tanned under-thigh. Armor-All would take care of the dashboard, and I would take care of the caressable thigh eventually.
I felt the tightness growing at the bottom of my belly. Was she trying to tease? No, it didn't look like it. With the ignorance of youth, she had no idea of the effect she was having on me. On Willie Junior too.
She was looking out of her window at the passing scene, cud-chewing gum as if I didn't exist. She didn't have the foggiest idea that Willie Junior had taken as much notice as big Willie sitting beside her. And as the pressure in my groin began to grow, I knew that Willie Junior was restless. The two Willies enjoyed the sight as I glanced at the warm little shadowed valley between the girl's legs.
Very properly I kept my hands on the wheel at the recommended ten and two o'clock positions. I hummed to myself. Something from the Beach Boys.
Appropriate. Non-obtrusive.
She didn't pay any attention. Her eyes were closed, blond hair spread on the headrest, foot still up, thigh exposed to the cooling breeze, her jaw moving slower as she pushed the gum around her soft, warm mouth with a delicate small tongue.
The two Willies were enjoying every moment of it.
I could see the soft hollow at the base of her throat where her neck curved into freckled shoulders. The orange tank top seemed to prove the old axiom that for every action there is an equal reaction as her pert little breasts pushed against the tight material, spearheaded by marble-hard nipples.
Willie Junior enjoyed. I enjoyed. Wee Willie Winkie would enjoy!
Soon.
The traffic thinned just past Malibu and we got closer to Zuma Beach. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon ahead of us.
I pulled over to the side of the road.
"Huh!" Julie's eyes popped open. She seemed a bit disoriented.
"Sun is right in my eyes," I complained. "I need my shades."
I twisted my body awkwardly toward the girl, reaching for the glove compartment with my left hand instead of my right. This brought me against her left side. My right arm was squeezed between us. I fumbled with the latch on the compartment and let my right hand slide down between the seats.
She tried to lean away, either to give me more room, or avoid being touched. But the seat belt held her tight.
That’s what seat belts are for.
The fingertips of my right hand brushed against Wee Willie Winkie, where he waited, stashed and sheathed in the back of the passenger seat. I pulled him out, slipping my palm around the comfortable handle I had fashioned long ago. The Wee-one felt good in my hand.
I introduced little Julie Hitchhiker to Wee Willie Winkie, inserting the sharp-tipped rod just under her lower left rib. I thrust him upward, wriggling and twisting the long skewer up, up through her sweet, delicious organs and left lung.
Into her lovely, unsuspecting heart.
My other hand cupped the hot pubescence between her legs as that delicate flesh puckered and throbbed in sympathetic shock.
Julie's eyes opened wide in surprise, no longer squirming away from my closeness now, but from Wee Willie's dear metallic invasion.
Her jaw dropped open and a great dollop of chewing gum rolled off her tongue unto the floor. I made a mental note to pick it up later, before it got crushed into the floor mat.
Everything seemed to flicker step by step down into slow motion.
Leaning over the girl, with all my weight burying Wee Willie Winkie further into the warm depths of her sweetness, I clamped my mouth over hers. Two lovers dallying by the side of the road. Young lovers too impa
tient to wait, needing to stop, kiss, confirm their love for all the passing world to see.
At first she tasted of Juicy Fruit and sunshine; and then bitter copper blood stained her breath. Deep within her a low, growling moan rolled up from that dear broken heart. The sound pulsed through her and fell from her lips like the piece of gum; it rolled into my mouth, binding and bonding us together in my ultimate act of appreciation for her loveliness, frozen for all time at the peak of perfection.
Ah, consummation! I was wet and warm where Willie Junior spewed his spreading joy, acknowledging our act in the hot swamp of his effluvium.
Wee Willie Winkie had ceased his own vibrations as Julie's feet stopped thrumming against the floorboards along with the last beating of her heart.
For the longest moment I held perfectly still, locked together with the girl as the evening breezes, gentle zephyrs, caressed our fevered skins. Willie Junior's rapidly cooling stickiness melted into wrinkled stillness.
My right hand was still pressed deep against the girl's side. I could feel the small flow of thick warmth that had trickled blood from Wee Willie Winkie's joyful entrance. His thin elegance prevented much leakage. With my left hand I reached down to stroke between her legs and confirmed that, with the sudden ardor of our lovemaking, she had wet herself. Her bowls had probably released also, but I couldn't tell. That's why I had her on the towel. I'm a good Boy Scout—always prepared.
Surrounded by all of these liquid proofs of my devotion, I again heard the sound of the sea and the swoosh of cars passing by.
Too bad.
With all of her potential, she didn't have an intelligence worthy of True Beauty. Yet, even in her shallow corruption, I knew that her sacrifice would help to form the foundation upon which I could build a proper altar for my continued worship of perfection.
I sighed and Julie seemed to sigh along with me as I drew my lips from her mouth. I closed her eyes and chucked her with a forefinger under her adorable chin to close her sagging jaw.
"Now, Julie, wasn't that nice? Don't you feel relaxed and calm? Look at that sunset. You know, I think this is my favorite time of the day. How about a little ride? No need to go all the way up to Zuma Beach now, is there? Let's head back down toward Santa Monica so I can get this last bit of sun out of my eyes."