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This is the second in the series. Whose version to believe is up to the reader.
Upon further cleanup of the basement of the house I am flipping, I found a large envelope with a letter to a magazine publisher and a cassette tape. The envelope was battered and had been forwarded twice by the Post Office, stamped with ‘Return Undeliverable’. Apparently the publisher was out of business when this cassette was mailed in 1983. I Googled the publisher and found a few magazine covers, but that was all. The address in Brooklyn is an interstate ramp now. I have been unable to find the actual magazine in question, even a copy online. The typewritten letter reads:
“October 3, 1983
RE: Article entitled ‘The Sex Creep and his Crippled Daughter’ – July 1968 Issue
To whom it may concern,
Your company published the above referenced article based on a reel of tape my father sent you in late 1967. I have the complimentary issue sent to him and the check stub for the $27.50 that was paid, along with the returned tape, which I have reviewed. While the events in the article were more or less true, you portrayed him as remorseful martyr. As the ‘crippled daughter’ of that story, I can assure you that was not the case. I thought the accompanying cassette, which contains the true version of events, prefaced by some background, might inspire another article. Please forward your current terms for payment, etc.
E. M. V.”
Here is the transcript of the tape. The speaker is apparently the same as the one in the graduation speech on the earlier tapes from the sixties. Of course her diction is much more refined after a sixteen year span. She seems to be reading pre-written pages from a notebook or legal pad, with frequent commentary.
“Okay, chapter one.
Call me Bess, short for Elizabeth. I don’t use ‘Bess’ anymore, and only my papa calls me that now. But this is about the past anyway. Now, at least to outsiders, I live a relatively normal life, even if I am thought to be a spinster. I’m still walking with crutches, one of the last victims of polio, but I consider myself lucky, overall.
Mmmm, where to start? I guess the children’s home. Ugh. Looking like a medieval castle, it was a rehabilitation orphanage and hospital, more or less. I lived there since I was seven. Mama took care of me when I got sick, but she died suddenly of a heart ailment, and Papa was in Trenton State Prison at the time. Before he met Mama, he had helped rob a jewelry store, and later it caught up to him. So it was like we were both locked up for a while.
The state home got money for each resident, and years later I figured out that those assholes kept me there several years longer than they had to. I was almost a perfect cash patient for them; I wasn’t wheelchair bound and incontinent like many of the other kids, and could help with chores in the kitchen and laundry, as long as I could sit while working. Despite the tight quarters, I didn’t make many close friends of either gender; they seemed to drift in and out like ghosts in hand-me-down clothes. School, library books and later the television were my escapes. I got visits from my papa every few weeks after he got paroled. He was kind and funny, and brought me candy and Archie comic books. Over the years I grew to really love him and miss him when we separated.
Finally the hospital released me when I turned eighteen in 1967. I was ecstatic. Papa came to get me and we took a train home. As our coach rocked and thumped along, I fell asleep on his arm, something I hadn’t done since I was a small child. Papa was a huge man, over six feet tall, and as wide across the shoulders as the door frames he walked through, but not really fat. Despite his ‘smiling’ brown eyes, he could be quite intimidating. I felt very safe and protected next to him.
Ah, a real home at last! We had the first floor of a wood-framed three story walk-up, a bit run down, but it fit the budget. The neighborhood was a little rough, police sirens were frequent, but to me it was paradise. After sleeping for years in a twenty-four bed girl’s ward, I was overjoyed to have my own room, where I could change clothes without other girls snickering about my small breasts and no one would steal my things or wake me up with their screaming nightmares. Little did I know my own nightmares of sorts were just beginning. I unpacked my few belongings, books mostly, a Rosary and Bible, and modest collection of secondhand clothes. My first days were pleasant enough, as I adjusted to daily life with Papa and keeping the house while he was at work.
The first sign of trouble popped up unexpectedly, it could be said. Our house was narrow, and I had to hop down a long hall past Papa’s room to get to the kitchen. One Sunday morning on my second weekend home I stopped in his open doorway to see what he wanted for breakfast. I’m pretty sure bursa escort he heard me approach but pretended he didn’t. My father dropped his boxer shorts, picked up his transistor radio and intentionally turned to face me, giving me the shock of my young life.
Damn! I’ll never forget the sight of my papa standing there naked, six feet away, muscles and body hair in unexpected abundance. His wiener, I called them then, was severely swollen, long and sticking straight out! It was a scarlet, vein-covered monstrosity! I had never seen such a thing! For a second I wondered if he had some disease, like when a hand swells up from an allergic bee sting, but I knew that must have been the form it assumed for…procreation; that’s the polite term. There were less scary alien creatures in science fiction movies. He pretended to be tuning the radio and didn’t acknowledge my presence. To further ensure he had my attention, Papa stepped the rest of the way out of his underwear, causing his hanging sack to shake, and more so, his hulking, reptilian-looking appendage to gyrate around like it was searching for its next meal.
At this point I possessed absolutely no knowledge of sex at all, other than the schoolgirl discussions of ‘morning tents’ seen beneath teen male pajamas, and that a boy would ‘get stiff and put it in me’ if he thought I was pretty enough. I had caught sight of a few bare penises over the years at the home as boys showed them off peeing outdoors, or as mental patients displayed their genitals to us from the windows of the locked wing. I had naively assumed that was the magnitude of what would enter me on my honeymoon, if I ever even married. Evidently I was quite wrong. I couldn’t believe my mama, who was nearly as petite as me, ever had that hideous thing of my father’s buried inside her.
Back to that morning, I stood there, frozen in shock, leaning on the door frame. Finally Papa looked up, briefly proud but then feigned embarrassment, covering his forested groin with an undershirt. Certainly red-faced, I pretended not to have been traumatized and turned around to leave, offering a quick apology as I scooted away, my pulse pounding.
Nothing else was said about it, but all through mass that morning I tried unsuccessfully to rid my mind of the image of that menacing, extended penis. I had no idea why I was forced, more or less, into seeing it. If it was a test of my morality, I definitely failed by not shutting my eyes instantly. Instead, I stood and gawked at its muscular projection in sinful, lurid curiosity. But as my papa proudly introduced me to fellow parishioners after the church service, everything seemed okay, normal. I decided maybe it was an honest mistake, and maybe his hearing had been affected by the noisy factory he worked in, and he did have the radio on. Still, I was afraid that everyone could sense the heat and moisture that had accumulated between my legs. I had just spent Sunday mass ignoring the sermon and visualizing male schoolmates with their own hairy wieners lengthened and expanded. Now I finally understood the reason for the pliability and depth of the crevice between my legs, even when not preparing itself for childbirth. That crevice seemed to yearn for those swollen wieners, and in an effort to be a good Catholic girl, who had even considered entering the convent, I prayed for the yearning to stop.
Things returned to normal for a short while. The next incident, if it could be called that, was late on a weeknight. A thunderstorm had awakened me, and I hopped to the bathroom to pee, as I had been drinking too much soda since moving in. My papa had been asleep sitting up on the sofa. On my return trip, he was awake, and I was a little uncomfortable when he called out to me.
‘Princess? Why are you up? You afraid of the storm? It’s okay, come sit with me.’ He patted the sofa cushion next to his hip.
I didn’t like the storms; they seemed more threatening in this house, compared to the large stone children’s home. I might not have minded his offer had I been more covered up, but I felt nearly naked in the short, thin nightgown that partially exposed my panties. My more modest pajamas were in the laundry, and I was enjoying the freedom of not wearing a bathrobe constantly when out of bed. The modesty of a robe was a rule at the state home for the pubescent girls that sported breasts, even budding nubs.
The house was only lit by a distant small lamp in my room and the television, and Papa was smiling warmly, so I consented to join him. I tried to ignore my pangs of embarrassment as I sensed him looking at my crotch and chest, his first view of me braless. While nature had shortchanged me in the breast department, I had been overcompensated with bulbous, protruding nipples. My papa’s ‘gumdrop’ description on his tape was actually pretty accurate. While using the crutches there was no way to cross my arms in bursa escort bayan front of me and mask their protrusion and tendency to roam inside the slightly sheer cotton. My discomfort waned as I snuggled up to him. He smelled of cleaning chemicals, cigarettes and body odor, but I didn’t want to move, and fell fast asleep as the storm subsided. I pretended not to awake as he carried me back to my room, crutches hooked over his large forearm. I was uneasy as I knew he was surveying my nipples, likely discernable in the moonlight and poking at the thin cotton as he described on his tape, and only panties clinging to my genitals. Despite that, I felt safe in his arms, and loved. Papa tenderly tucked me in and kissed me on the forehead. I began to think his unsavory intent was all in my mind, as it had been so long since I had lived in a family situation. Deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, I asked myself ‘So what if he was looking at my breasts? He used to give me baths as a child. Was it such a big deal if he saw me scantily dressed now as a woman?’ My sincere answer was an unimaginably sinful ‘No.’ I read my Bible until I slept before I considered my next, horrific question, ‘Did I like him looking at me?’ and the most deviant of all, ‘Did I like having seen my father’s erect penis that other morning?’
The dilemma of the display of intimate anatomy faded but was soon supplanted by another traumatic event, and this time there was no mistaking the lecherous intent. The way I felt about my papa changed forever. Surprisingly, it was not so much due to what he tried to do, but it made me painfully aware that he possessed a major flaw, one even worse than the legal troubles he had at a younger age. The era of my juvenile worship of my father as, more or less, a hero came to an abrupt end.”
[Phone ringing in background, inaudible conversation]
“Where was I? Oh yes, we were snuggling on the couch watching TV, and I arose to my knees to kiss Papa goodnight before reaching for my crutches. His large hand grasped mine firmly and guided it beneath his robe to his crotch. He curled his fingers, forcing my small hand to surround his waiting wiener. As we kissed briefly on the lips, I couldn’t help but feel the spongy tubular organ within his underwear momentarily. I recoiled in shock, devastated! My own father was a molester, an incestuous pervert!. To make matters worse, he blamed me for grabbing him without provocation. It was now clear that he did intend for me to see his bloated erection that morning, and made sure he saw me closely in the thin nightgown! I was sobbing as I bolted away on my damned crutches. They helped me walk, but kept me from running away.
I was torn between ignoring what had happened, and packing my things and leaving. Where would I go? The Y.W.C.A.? I didn’t have a dime. Who would hire a girl who couldn’t gracefully walk, even if I was valedictorian of my class? Once the original shock and sense of betrayal lessened, a strange thought process began as I laid there in the darkness of my room, replaying the scene in my head. Sinfully, I imagined what might have happened had I not instantly pulled my hand away, and done whatever twisted thing Papa wanted me to do. Did he want to put that gargantuan dick, some of the girls called them, inside me? Was it flattery I felt, that a full-grown man wanted to do dirty things with me, little Bess the cripple? I had never been kissed or even got asked to go to a malt shop or a movie with a boy, and now I was catapulted straight into sex.
I amazed myself with a tiny bit of regret that I hadn’t stayed and seen what might have transpired. Sure, he was suddenly like a stranger, but then again he wasn’t. He hadn’t been violent, and didn’t seem to want to hurt me. In the end I chose denial, and decided to pretend the whole episode hadn’t happened, even the next morning as Papa ‘forgave’ me for grabbing him and gave me a halfhearted, confusing speech about me meeting a boy from church, and so on. I had put the episode out of my mind to the point that I sat on the couch next to him for TV the next few evenings. A few nights later he grabbed my hand and guided it to his fly. I winced and was again wrongfully accused. I actually received a token, juvenile television restriction, which seemed more like I was being punished for not touching his genitals, rather than acquiescing to his immoral wishes.
Still, I harbored a shred of remorse that I didn’t let things progress a bit, just to see exactly what was so irresistibly tempting. Then I even began to fear he wouldn’t try again, and, honestly, a small but growing, devious part of me wanted to see that big damned scarlet erection again. In spite of my devout ambitions, I wondered what it would feel like. Exactly how ‘hard’ was it? Was it warm to the touch? I imagined it both in my hands and, elsewhere, let’s say. At first I thought of it as a detached object, but it was escort bursa impossible not to associate it with Papa. I began to imagine him at the helm, ruthlessly violating my naked body. My vagina would heat and dampen as I entertained such sinful thoughts at night in my bed, my pulse elevated. I felt guilt and shame in the mornings, vowing to rid myself of such obscene notions. But there I was the next night, alone in the dark, disappointed that nothing happened. A few days later there was another episode where he had me nearly unzipping him, but I chickened out on going through with it and was sent to my room, accepting the blame once more. For the first time, I felt more regret for not succumbing to his wishes than resisting. My morality was crumbling under the weight of a vile curiosity and a craving for his complete acceptance. I knew it was just a matter of time, and began tempting fate.
Rationalizing to myself that it was due to the summer heat, I found myself changing out of my nightgowns after breakfast with Papa instead of before. With no robe and of course braless, I felt nearly naked and slightly aroused hopping around the kitchen as I packed his lunch pail and cooked us nearly inedible pancakes or eggs before he left for work. I felt a strange satisfaction knowing Papa’s eyes were on me much of the time. He began to arrive early, before I even had the stove on, and sat at the table, pretending to read his paper, but rarely flipped a page. Sunday morning breakfast was prepared and consumed at a later hour before mass. I was bare-legged in an oversized pajama top, and the risen sun streaming through the windows and the thin yellow fabric probably left little to his imagination.
Two days later I got my immoral wish; it was to be the first of many bizarre days in my young life. On the morning of July Forth, as Papa said on his tape, I had brought him his paper in bed after retrieving it from the front porch. After handing it to him, he thanked me nicely, opened and buried his nose in it. I was wearing my robe over what I had slept in, panties and a thin little camisole. It was hot already that morning, so I shed the robe before hopping back to my room to dress. I doubted he would peek out from behind the spread-open New York Times he was holding up, and I was not really concerned, even if he did see my butt in panties. Halting halfway out of the room, I returned to the bed to retrieve the comics from the pile. Papa suddenly flung the paper aside and grabbed my wrist.
He pulled my arm toward him so that I had no choice but to crawl onto the bed on my knees, dragging my lame calves and feet behind. At the same time, with his free hand he pushed the sheet and his boxer waistband down. There it was, exposed in broad daylight, my papa’s penis! Surrounded by hair, it was curled up against itself in hibernation. Suddenly it jolted, and began swelling and uncoiling before my eyes. It was much bigger than any of the flaccid dicks that I had seen before. ‘This is it, Bess. There’s no escape this time. Pray you don’t get pregnant,’ I told myself as he maintained his grip. My palm was forced into my first contact with it. I was simultaneously repulsed and, yes, excited. True, it was my father’s, but regardless, this was a man’s sex organ I was touching! Without thinking, I voluntarily squeezed it, a forbidden and blasphemous act, but I’ll never forget that first sensation of the spongy, tubular mass that inflated against my grip. It was not as foreign as I had expected.
‘Fathers and daughters aren’t supposed to do this. You aren’t goin’ to stop, are you?’ he asked a bit angrily, gesturing at my sheer camisole. I realized he knew I was semi-intentionally teasing him with the minimal outfits I had been wearing in the mornings. Essentially caught, I nervously blurted out the first thing that came to my chaotic mind, calling my papa ‘silly’ as I massaged his swelling penis. My pulse raced.
“If you just got to do this…” he began.
Papa leaned over and reached into his night table drawer. I knew he had at least one pistol. In TV shows and the movies they always seemed to be kept next to the bed. Was my own father, a man I loved, going to force me to do his heinous, sexual bidding at gunpoint? Did he think I wouldn’t submit without it? Nevertheless, I continued my exploratory groping of his growing dick. To be honest, a small part of me was exhilarated by the seeming danger in just my underwear, and my sudden, reprehensibly naughty behavior. I felt like a movie character, both victim and femme fatale. Imagine me, little crippled Bess, in such a starring role!
‘…let me show you the right way,’ he continued. Was the right way going to be sex while a gun was pointed at me?
In an attempt to appeal to the kind father I thought I knew and implicitly surrender to him, I raised up, leaned and kissed him on the mouth. “I love you Papa!”
Trembling with adrenaline, I was unable to finish my intended second sentence of ‘Please don’t hurt me, I’ll do whatever you want,’ as I exhaled with relief. Instead of the black steel of a revolver, he had retrieved a bottle of hand lotion.
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