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Emma Adler lives in two worlds; a fantasy one filled with sun-kissed beaches, champagne parties and Hollywood starlets, and the real one, a grey and drought stricken landscape plunged into poverty during the middle of the Great Depression. Socially awkward and hopelessly unstylish, Emma resigns herself to the barbs and snubs of wealthy, beautiful Doris de Vris in exchange for the company and occasional nickle malt, believing that even a false friend is better than none at all.
Then one day, Doris inexplicably shows Emma her father's sordid secret, and the two embark on an unexpected afternoon of curious and exciting exploration. When Doris's father interrupts them, things fall apart and Doris's hateful reaction sets in motion a chain of events that changes both girls forever.
After being painfully punished by Mr. de Vris for a lie she didn't tell, Emma vows to give Doris what she deserves, setting her eye on Ian Derenvenko, a strapping young man that Doris has already laid claim to.
When aspiring young filmmaker Franklin "Flash" Bowen arrives in town and encourages Emma to never let go of her dreams, the stakes are raised. Emma entices him into aiding her with her plans for revenge against the de Vris household. Things go missing, threats are made, and punishment is liberally applied to more than one backside. By the time the dust settles, nothing will ever be the same in the dusty tumbleweed town.
Doris de Vris
The first time I saw him I was with Doris de Vris, who wasn't my friend but neither was anyone else and so she was as good a company as nothing. We were walking down Main Street, which sounds important and businesslike but in reality it's just another dirt road through another dirt town in a state full of dirt and not much else. Doris thought I was dirt too but she liked that about me, liked that I posed no threat to her status as the choicest bit of calico in town. She was a tiny porcelain doll, all pink lips and golden curls and big wide eyes so blue they put the sky to shame, trip tripping along in her pretty store bought dress with her perfect pedigree.
People around town thought she befriended me out of her gloriously kind heart. "There goes that sweet little de Vris girl," they'd beam at each other. "Just look how kind she is to the less fortunate." The less fortunate being me of course, but kindness didn't have squat to do with it.
The reality was that next to almost six feet of gangly arms and bony knees, hand-me-down clothes and dirty bare feet, Doris de Vris went from merely beautiful to a shining, halo wearing angel with the trumpets of heaven heralding her arrival. Just as her mother and my mother and every woman who ever came before us knew, Doris had figured out the best accessory a girl could have was a homely friend.
It was this that gave her the smug confidence to point him out to me.
He was in front of the blacksmith shop pulling a huge studded steel wheel off a red Farmall tractor, a feat that should have required two men but he manhandled it with casual ease. We stopped and watched, Doris simpering and waving and me just staring, disinterested and bored. He took no notice either of us as he rolled the cumbersome wheel into the dark recesses of the shop then came back to dunk his head in the horse trough.
Impatiently I reached to pull Doris away, but then he slung his head out of the tank in a sparkling cloud of sun kissed mist, the faded denim work shirt plastered indecently to every curve and bulge, and my tugging hand faltered.
The dusty street between us disappeared and I was there next to him, tasting each droplet as it ran over his heavy brow and down the side of his chiseled face, feeling the flex of his biceps as he reached up to run a broad hand through the damp tangled auburn strands, inhaling his rich signature of worn leather and burnt steel and honest sweat. From far away I heard Doris once more remind me that she intended to marry him, but I was too caught up in the curve of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders to notice.
Ian Derevenko came from dirt like me but he'd gotten an even shorter stick, drawing an alcoholic Boris for a father and a damned dirty Irish washwoman for a mother. With six younger siblings and a father who preferred the company of his homemade hooch to that of steady employment, it had fallen to Ian to carry the family burden.
I remembered him briefly in school, always dirty, barefoot, sometimes bruised, his oversized frame spilling over the tiny desks like a draft horse hooked to a pony cart. His mother cooked and cleaned and ironed clothes for the better families in the area, not that there were many of those left now, and in our seventh year of classes Ian left school to apprentice with the town blacksmith, shoeing horses and repairing tools and rewelding broken bits on tractors and various pieces of farming implements. As our family was too poor for horses or farms or paying others to fix anything we broke, my encounters with Ian had ended after his last day of school and I'd found no reason to consider him again.
Long after he'd vanished into the smithy, and with Doris pulling me down the road I kept looking back, still seeing him standing there as if etched permanently into the dust choked air. I would have gone back except Doris promised treats on her daddy's dime if I'd go with her to the drug store downtown. It was a hard call between a chocolate malt and the chance of another look at Ian Derenvenko but she was buying and I figured he wasn't going anywhere.
No one in that town ever did.
Why Doris de Vris got a notion she wanted him just about confused the pants off most folks around town. Some probably thought it was further evidence of her pure Christian heart, to look past the sorry state of his affairs and determine to bring him above it. I know it confounded and infuriated her father who viewed Doris as a precious gem amid a sea of swine, and in his often outspoken view the Derevenko clan was the epitome of white trash and what was wrong with the world in general.
He had similar things to say about my German immigrant family as well, having lost two nephews and a younger brother to the "goddamned filthy krauts" during the war, but since Doris wasn't looking to add my name to the family Bible he overlooked the occasional nickel malt that went my way.
She didn't fool me for a New York minute though. Doris wanted him the same way she wanted me, as an accessory, one that would never show her up or get in front and that would always be grateful for whatever bones she chose to throw his way. Sure there were other boys in town she could have set her cap for, who would have jumped at the opportunity, but they would have congratulated themselves on their fine fortune and cleverness in scoring such a prime dish. They would have never admitted to themselves she had merely thrown them a bone, and therefore would have been less malleable, less likely to let her remain front and center at all times. Doris wasn't about to let any man put her in the passenger seat.
Ian was different. Where they were banty cocks strutting about town he was a plow horse, slow and steady and ever mindful of his duty to his family. Despite being old enough to pull up stakes and leave them and the tar paper shack behind, he stayed, and when boys in town taunted him he simply shrugged and went about his business. It had given many the impression he was slow, but not me. I knew that look in his eyes back when we was kids in school, had seen the same in my mother's as she stared out the kitchen window at nothing, lost in a world only she was privy to.
I'd seen it when he pulled out of that water trough, and again when I'd spied him coming out of church the following Sunday with his mother and little brothers and sisters. It was the same look a fox gets when he's caught in a snare by the henhouse and he knows he's done for. Ian was trapped, same as my mother, same as I don't know how many folks who got married or saddled with unwanted burdens they couldn't escape and had to stay put as their dreams passed them by. Except Ian got trapped the day he was born and with every passing birth the snare tightened a bit more until he was forced to give up his position as son and become the man of the house while his no-good trapped father drowned himself in rotgut vodka behind the crumbling woodshed. Now Doris was aiming to make his grinding captivity a permanent thing.
"Don't ever fall in love with a poor boy," my mother cautioned me again and again, always in seriousness and never within earshot of my father, whom she loved dearly. "You can love a rich man just as easy as a poor one."
Mama had fallen in love with a poor boy, back in '14 and against her own mother's advice. Before she knew it she was married with a baby and her dreams of going to Paris to study art were on the ropes, and then war broke out all over Europe and her poor boy loaded her and their baby girl onto a steamer ship bound for America and those dreams left the ropes and went up in smoke. She never complained, but I knew when I saw her stare out the window that she saw Paris.
Unlike my mother, I had every intention of taking that advice. I'd decorated the crumbling straw plaster of my bedroom walls with pages carefully torn from the magazines at the beauty parlor where I sometimes earned a little money cleaning. Elegant ladies with pin curls promoting Palmolive and No. 4711 bath salts and Vita-Ray and Chesterfields, and Wild Root Wave Powder - ONLY .27 cents for more than a QUART of PURE WAVE LOTION - satisfaction or my money back and I weren't none too satisfied with that purchase but I didn't ask for my money back.
Then there were the photos, the ones I'd get for writing actresses and telling them how I was going to be an actress like them too someday, Barbara Stanwyck and Ginger Rogers and Jean Harlow, and Marlene Dietrich too. Oh and Marian Marsh, I saw her in Svengali and wasn't she just the bee's knees? Mama wanted to be an artist in Paris. But me? I wanted California and a swell dressing room with a gold star on the door and smartly dressed men holding doors open for me and maybe I wasn't petite but Kay Francis stood five feet nine inches in Trouble in Paradise and what's a few more inches? I had it all laid out from here to sundown, setting every nickel I could earn aside and planning for the day when I shook this dirt town off my feet and headed for the red carpets and endless beaches of California.
And then Ian Derevenko had to get himself wet and fuck everything up.
Doris would not shut up.
The gossip at church the day before had to do with the arrival of some filmmakers sent by the government to document the dust and drought that was threatening to blow our part of Texas clean off the map, and while normally I would have listened for hours about any talk involving cameras and film and movies, Doris was fixated on the notion that somehow she was going to get them to shoot some film with her in it. In her mind this was a sure ticket to finding herself courted by big wig producers and probably Clark Gable too if he had any sense at all. Every so often I'd catch myself stealing a glance at her to see if her head had expanded any, but it looked the same as ever, which laid to rest at least one of my grandmother's warnings about boasting women.
Finally I'd had enough and decide to change the subject.
"Why do you want to get hitched to Ian?"
The random and unexpected question shocked her into the first bit of silence since I'd arrived at her house.
"Well, I mean�.what do you mean?"
"Why do you want him? He's poor, his family is poor, and your daddy hates him."
She laughed then, tossing her head and rolling her eyes as if I were the biggest dumb bunny ever.
"My word Emma, are you blind? He's a lug alright but he's aces on the eyes."
"But your father hates him."
"Well he's being a pill but he'll come around. Besides, you give me an hour with that scrub, I'll have him nobbied up and knocking 'em dead, and it isn't as if I'm planning to move his whole family in with us anyway. Right now Daddy can't see past them but once I get him away from all that why, he'll warm right up!"
She went on, and on and on, but most of it just floated past me. I wasn't blind and he was aces on the eyes, but the idea that she was actually attracted to him set off a low, rolling boil of anger inside. It'd been a week since we saw him taking a soak on Main but I'd seen him every night since in my dreams, walking beside me in the moonlight or taking a swim down at the Miller's pond, and then he'd touch my arm or my face and whisper my name and we'd kiss and then that damned rooster would set off just outside my window and Mama would holler for me to get out of bed and get busy. Most of the dreams faded away soon as I got the sleep out of my eyes, but I'm pretty sure none of them included him getting hitched to Doris de Vris.
"And you know what they say about big feet."
She hit me on the shoulder then, surprisingly hard for as delicate as she was.
"Haven't you heard a word I said?
"No," I replied truthfully. "I was remembering how he looked at the water trough and wishing you'd shut up."
"Oh Emma you're a scream," she giggled, clearly thinking I was just razzing her. "Listen you sit tight as a mouse and I'll show you the most crackerjack thing ever."
She took off then, leaving me alone in her snazzy bedroom with its fine lace curtains and lush rugs and high four poster bed shipped over from France, and as I sat on the floor in my mother's old dress with my bare legs tucked Indian style under me I felt like nothing more than a speck of dirt, out of place in the swell room and no doubt soon to be swept out to the rubbish bin. In that moment I hated Doris, hated her like the French peasants must have hated Marie Antoinette when she told them to eat cake and if there'd been a guillotine in her closet I do believe I would have stuck her neck in it.
She came back with flushed cheeks and shaking hands clutching a cigar box between them. With a kick she sent the door flying shut behind her and then plunked down on the floor beside me. When she spoke, her voice was higher than usual, breathless and a little panicky and for the first time since we'd started pretending to be friends I paid attention.
"I found these in Daddy's sock drawer, don't ask what I was looking for because I don't remember, but you are going to blow your wig."
She thrust the cigar box into my hands and then fluttered her pale hands at me; hurry up and open it they insisted. Confused, I stared at it wondering how we went from Ian's finely muscled arms to Cuban cigars, but as soon as I opened the lid I understood.
"Nuts!" I yelped and Doris burst into giggles, covering her mouth as her wide eyes twitched between my face and the cigar box.
Inside were photographs, but they weren't of summer trips or family members or granddad's favorite hunting hound. These photos were the sort that boys whispered about and wives pretended did not exist and nice girls like Doris de Vris were expected to put back where they found them and never speak of them again.
Instead she'd handed them to me.
On the top of the pile lay a grainy photo of a naked woman lying on her back, her head towards the bottom of the image and between her legs lay a man, his face buried in the dark thicket that hid her privates. Another photo, slid off to one side of the pile, was of a woman kneeled on a bed straddling another pair of legs that came out to rest on the floor beside the bed, and between them a rigid shaft rose up from one black patch of curls only to disappear into another.
There were dozens more inside the tattered cigar box, and as we poured through them all, eagerly pointing and nervously giggling at each and every one, the differences between us melted away. For the time being we were just two young girls made equals by innocence and our mutual shock at the bawdy photos before us.
"Do you think his hootenanny is that big?" she gawped, pointing at one particularly impressive specimen that was being sat upon by one girl while another held him from underneath.
"Ask me another," I said, unable to tear my eyes away from the enormous organ in the photo. My experience with male organs didn't extend beyond seeing the Miller's stallion getting it on with a mare in the pasture, and at the time I remember thinking I ought to run away even as my feet froze to the ground and my eyes to the stud's enormous organ and a queer feeling began to roll low in my belly.
Looking through the photos of couples and threesomes and pairs of ladies and whole groups of people naked and rutting brought that queer feeling back again, starting in the pit of my stomach and teasing its way down between my legs.
"What do you call that anyway?" she whispered, pointing to the thick shaft thrusting from one gentleman's trousers and grasped in the hand of a woman wearing a smart sailor dress.
"My dad calls it a cock but I heard Jenny Miller's father call it a dong when he was talking about their bay stud."
She wrinkled her button nose and twitched her mouth sideways as she considered the options.
"Cock dong, cock dong. I think I like cock better."
The words sounded impossibly dirty coming from Doris's bubble gum pink lips, sending us both into gales of laughter that we tried to muffle behind splayed fingers.
"I think I like dong better!" I crooned in a high falsetto mimicry of her and making her laugh turn into a very unladylike snort.
"Dong, why would you call it a dong?" she giggled, holding up a photo of a strapping young man wearing cowboy boots and a hat and nary a stitch betwixt them, while a dark eyed lady knelt before him with both hands wrapped around one of the smaller specimens in the collection. "That word makes me think of church bells ringing."
The notion of the naked man and his amorous attendant at church while the bells rang sent us into another fit of laughter, and so on we went, nervously laughing at the name and its mystifying purpose and secretly trying to imagine how Ian Derenvenko's might compare as we pretended the whole thing was just a goof and we weren't both flushed and blushing and growing increasingly hot with every photo viewed.
"Emma, why do people do it? My aunt told me once that when you get married you let your husband lie on you so you can have a baby, but sometimes you have to let him lie on you because he wants to. She said it was nasty and brutish but over fast enough."
She paused to pluck a photo from the scattered sordid images that now lay strewn across the expensive Oriental rug, this one of three naked and smiling women standing together, each with a hand buried deep between another's legs, and held it up for me to view.
"So tell me, do these dames look like they're enduring some nasty, brutish act, or was dear Auntie selling me a load of bushwa?"
"How should I know? They're your photos."
Her eyes rolled expressively as she tossed the photo at me.
"They're not MY photos they're daddy's and anyway I think we should try it."
The slow burn between my legs suddenly burst into flames as she jumped to her feet before me, tugging my hand and pulling me towards the door.
"Doris!" I protested weakly, beyond shocked that she would suggest such a thing, but also more than a little dizzy for the idea.
"Come on Emma, don't be such a scaredy-cat! I wanna know what all the fuss is about, but first you need a bath."
She yanked and demanded and finally drug me out of her bedroom and down the hall to the bath, and if I ever needed more convincing that her family was wealthy the ornately designed water heater sitting in the corner of the spacious room would have sufficed. While my family and a thousand others like it were still taking Hooverbaths in a washtub on Saturday nights and forced to dash outside to the Johnny when nature called, the de Vris house had a big sea green porcelain tub and a hot water maker and a sea green sink and matching sea green toilet to ensure their upper crust bottoms never suffered a frozen splinter on a winter's night. Unlike the packed dirt floor of our outdoor privy, this one was covered in black and white check tiles that extended halfway up the walls. Pretty grand place to drop some bait if you ask me.
She fussed with the faucets, getting the water temperature just right before turning her attentions to me, sternly ordering me to undress and then into the tub as if I were a particularly daft child. Her commanding orders and businesslike demeanor couldn't hide the flush in her cheeks or the slight quiver in her voice though, and as I pulled off my dingy grey shift and draped it over the sink I caught her staring at my bare breasts and then at the chestnut thatch between my legs as I discarded my cotton panties, and her blue eyes went wide and hungry at the sight.
The water was glorious, the first truly warm bath I'd ever had the pleasure of taking and I groaned with pleasure as I sank into it. Doris placed a hand on my head and pushed, and I yielded, going deeper until my face submerged and my knees surfaced in its place.
When I came back up she began to vigorously scrub my stringy hair with a lavender scented soap, firmly massaging my scalp and clicking her tongue as she worked a particularly vexing tangle out. I should have been ashamed of the state of my hair, or the fact that I was buck naked in front of her, but the luxury of stretching out in the warm water was intoxicating and simple, happy pleasure drove all other emotion away.
Apparently deciding she'd done all she could with the unruly mess she ordered me to stand and proceeded to scrub me, beginning with my hands and working her way up my tanned arms to the swell of my breasts.
I could hear her breath coming quicker now, and as she reached out to massage the lavender soap across my breasts I caught her by the wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"Don't blow your wig Emma, I'm bathing you."
"Then give me the soap."
She huffed in exasperation then, her blue eyes warning me to stop making things so difficult.
"C'mon Emma, don't be such a sack. Let me doll you up, it'll be such fun."
I released her then, and as her soapy hands cupped my breasts and her fingers gently massaged my nipples until they drew in hard and tight, I wondered why I tried to stop her in the first place. The touch of her satiny soft fingers on my skin felt grand and sent my heart skipping and tripping across my chest.
Lightly grasping one nipple she tweaked it slightly, causing me to gasp and her to titter nervously before releasing them and ordering me to raise my arms.
She was not impressed by what presented itself.
"Honestly you're quite the savage," she smirked as she quickly lathered the thin hair under my arms. "This look is so last century."
Leaning over in front of me, her hair tickling the front of my thighs, she splashed the soap from her hands then straightened up again to kick her shoes off. Pulling the Sunday best pink dress over her head and the stockings from her legs she carelessly threw the whole lot into the corner. Now clad only in a pale pink silk brassiere and matching girdle, she retrieved a straight razor from the cabinet above the sink and started to step into the tub with me.
"You'll ruin those," I whispered.
She shrugged as she joined me in the tub.
"Then I'll give them to you and I'll get some slick new ones."
I stood soapy and naked and dripping like an overgrown wet puppy with my arms above my head and my nipples hard enough to cut glass, next to her in her fine, silky undergarments. Working under my upraised arm, her hot breath warming my damp skin as she worked, she proceeded to slowly and carefully strip my armpits of every single hair that dared to show itself, pausing every so often to run her fingers over the freshly bared skin in search of any errant hairs she might have missed.
There is something unexpectedly sensual about having another person shave you. Small wonder the barber shops only employ men to deliver shaves and haircuts. I doubt much actual work would be done if some hotsy-totsy was the one performing such an intimate service. By the time she'd finished we were both breathing in shallow gulps.
Setting the razor aside she returned her attention to thoroughly soaping every inch of me, her nimble fingers exploring the gentle curve of my waist and the slight bulge of my hipbones before coming to a pause just above the brown curls that guarded my now overheated sex.
Both of us held our breath as we looked down at her finger. Curiously she twirled a patch of hair between her fingers until it stuck out in a soapy spike, then repeated the motion until I looked like a pincushion.
"So what do you call this?", she whispered, tapping the damp skin just above the chestnut fluff.
"My mum called it a cunny once, but I've heard the men my dad works with say cunt."
She tapped once more and then pressed gently against me.
The words rolled over her small, perfect pearly whites like slop over crystal, immediately dragging Miss Perfect Doris down to the dirt she'd always pretended to live above. Suddenly emboldened I stood up straight, looking down upon her and grasping her tiny white hand in my large tanned one and pulling it tight against me, pressing her fingers through the damp curls and into my increasingly wet slit.
"THAT'S a cunt," I commanded as she gasped and tried to pull away, "and if you're going to touch it then do it right."
Sliding one finger forcefully over hers I shoved it between the swollen folds and against the tiny button of sensitive flesh that I'd discovered years ago during another, much less luxurious bath. Her forced touch was electric, shocking and crisp, and a tiny gasp slipped out as I caressed myself with her privileged finger.
Leaning over, my lips grazed her ear as I reached under her girdle to slide my fingers into a slit even wetter and hotter than my own. Quickly locating her slippery thimble I grasped it between my thumb and forefinger and massaged it, causing her to reel and gasp as her free hand clutched my arm for support.
"Nuts!" she gulped, inhaling sharply as her hips tipped forward towards me of their own accord. The sky blue of her irises had been pushed to little more than a narrow band around huge, inky pupils, and her mouth formed an astonished "O" as I slipped my middle finger deeper until it slipped just inside her.
"And that's what those girls in the photo were doing."
Before we'd left the bath the pink brassiere and girdle had joined her dress on the floor, and we were both well-scrubbed and squeaky clean, and though we still giggled nervously our whispered voices had taken on a husky, shaking tone that betrayed our racing hearts.
Dripping and naked, we quickly tip-toed back to her room, quiet as giggly mice for fear of attracting her father's attention as he did whatever it is fathers do while holed up in their study. Once we were both safe behind the closed bedroom door, Doris shoved me onto the padded bench in front of her dressing table. Selecting a grandly carved and gilded hairbrush from the wide assortment of hair taming options, she began to work her way through my snarled hair.
"You know you'll never be considered a beauty Emma, but we could do something about this rat's nest you call hair."
I started to argue when she reached for the scissors that lay on the polished cherry dresser, then remembered how perfect her hair always looked. Shrugging acceptance, I leaned back and let her take the shears to my hair, and as clumps fell to the floor I focused on the touch of her fingertips across my scalp and the press of her small, firm breasts against my bare back.
Satisfied with the back she moved around to the front, straddling my left leg as she combed and fussed with the hair that normally fell into my eyes, her creamy breasts and rosebud nipples now just inches from my face. The gentle brush of dewy peach fuzz along my bare thigh sent icy hot shivers across my skin, and then she lowered herself onto me completely and I felt the searing heat of her slick, velvety folds as they parted and spread like warmed syrup over my goose bumped thigh.
Once finished with my hair, she reached across the dresser behind her and grabbed a tube of lipstick with which she proceeded to carefully stroke and paint across my lips. Seeing the soft raspberry colored stick twist up from the silver case I felt quite the fool for I had always thought she came by her perfectly pinked pout naturally. The lipstick was exchanged for tweezers, then a brush, and then a pencil, and always she studied me the way I imagine Monet must have studied his paintings, tilting and turning and holding my face steady as she artfully plucked and colored and tinted and powdered her creation.
Leaning back she studied her handiwork, her eyes roaming across my face until at last she appeared satisfied.
"My, my... don't you clean up nice," she announced, her carefully arched eyebrows going up a notch in approval at her fine job, and suddenly I leaned forward, wrapping an arm around her waist and taking one firm candy apple nipple into my mouth, sucking and tasting her hungrily before letting go and looking over my right shoulder at the pair of us in the dresser mirror.
Doris's perfect bow mouth had fallen open in a breathless gasp, her head tilted slightly back and flawless body arched against mine. Beside my face, my wondrously painted and now foreign face with its straight brows and darkly outlined eyes framed by perfectly even Marian Marsh Svengali bangs was a mirror image of my full lips circling her taunt nipple, the raspberry kiss against her buttermilk flesh somehow more shocking than our mutual nakedness.
We stared in awe and lust at our reflections in the mirror, her petite doll-like figure made all the more delicate beside my thinner, athletic frame, the differences in our height obvious even though I was seated for her head rose only a bit above mine. Her flawless milky skin contrasted beautifully against the golden tan of my hand which rested along her satiny hip and her legs, indecently parted to straddle my bared thigh, revealed the slightest glimpse of cherry silk nestled inside butterscotch curls.
"Touch me again Emma," she pleaded softly as our eyes locked in the mirror, and this time I slipped my fingers between her legs where I'd touched her in the tub, and found her dripping with desire. Gently I parted her lips further until her silken button rested firmly against my thigh, then grasping her hips with both hands I began to rock her forward and back along my bare skin. By the third rock she caught on and began to grind against me in a slow roll, her hips picking up a rolling heave as she grew wise to the rhythm.
My fingers found my own dark cleft and deftly slipped inside to stroke the burning flesh within, dipping deeply into the molten honey before spreading it eagerly along my throbbing thimble. Instinctively my wanton mouth returned to Doris's supple breast, my tongue wrapping itself around the ruby nipple, cupping and swirling until she crushed me to her, moaning my name as she buried her face in my damp hair.
"Doris dear? Everything OK up there?"
A cautious knock sounded on the door, sending Doris flying across the room like a scalded cat. Snatching up a white dress that had been draped across the footboard of her bed, she flung it at me and motioned for me to put it on quickly.
"Fine Daddy, I'm just letting Emma try on some of my dresses!" but her breathless, shaking voice sounded anything but fine and her eyes were wild and frantic.
My fingers were dumb lumps of coal trying to fumble the buttons open but finally I got enough undone to yank it over my head. The shaking in my legs was enough I didn't dare try to stand up and Doris seemed to have a similar issue with her own, leaning against the wall as she tip-toed unsteadily across the room to the closet.
"Are you sure? I thought it sounded like someone was hurt."
The door opened and Mr. de Vris peeked in. The sight of me slouched at his sainted daughter's dressing table did his face no favors for his countenance immediately hardened into irritation and disgust.