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A Swiftly Changing World
As a five-time novelist there are a couple important things that I have learned about life:
1) Life never tries to imitate art, but it has mastered the surreal.
2) While truth is not necessarily stranger than fiction, it can definitely be harder to believe.
For all intents and purposes, I am known to you as Duncan Goddard. I live in Providence, Rhode Island with my wife Jessica and daughter Emily, just a short distance across town from my older brother, Sam, and his family. Sam’s family is significantly larger than mine is and his house is where we usually have our annual Thanksgiving dinner, since his house is also significantly larger than mine. Of the two of us, Sam is the one who really made good on the family name. He successfully climbed up the ladder within the CIA and stopped when he got an assistant director position within the local agency office. He makes oodles of money and lives well, from what I understand. I, on the other hand, struggle through life as a writer and, believe it or not, earn every penny that I get, which isn’t much to begin with. We’re comfortable and have a nice nest-egg, but we aren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination.
Sam and I don’t talk much these days, mostly due to the fact that our lives are so different, but when our daughters were younger we saw each other almost all the time. I’d been thinking over the last few years that it was almost criminal to live in the same town as my brother and his family and still not see them as frequently as we used to. I knew that his twin kids, Rebecca and Bill, had just transferred to the University of Massachusetts so that they could finish off their last year of college and that Polly, my daughter’s favorite cousin, was going to college for her second year in California. Elizabeth, Sam’s wife, has always been the classic house mom-cum-stepford wife, so she always had things going on that were always interesting, whether anyone else found them interesting or not. Beyond that, though, I knew very little about what they were up to these days. Little did I know that events in my life were about to change all of that.
Most of my work is done at home, in a little room that I call my office. The place is my sanctuary, my haven, and there is a standing rule in the house: NO ONE goes into my office, ever, without my permission. There is an intercom system setup just outside my office’s double-doors so that my wife or daughter can call on me when necessary, but the office itself is considered forbidden territory. As far as I know, that rule has been largely respected. I’ve never found anything out of place or unreasonably disturbed, so I never really bothered with locking it. If we had another child in the house, I might have installed a lock, but since we have only Emily, locks seem like a pointless investment.
Speaking of Emily, I should probably fill in some details about her. My daughter is both the brightest and most mischievous girl I’ve ever known. I’ve heard that I gave Mom and Dad a lot of trouble back when I was a kid, but Emily simply takes the cake. She’s not necessarily rebellious, but she is most definitely headstrong. It took me MONTHS to get it through her head that my office was off limits when she first became aware of its existence as a child. Eventually, however, she learned to follow that rule and never broke it. Other rules, however, were broken all the time. Not the major rules, mind you, just the ones that would annoy me and my wife to no end- sneaking out of bed at night for snacks, making plans to spend the night over at a friend’s house and THEN telling us about it, dating boys she knew damn well would never win my approval and other such things. More than being precocious, though, Emily is beautiful. And I don’t say that lightly- she’s a knock-out young lady, definitely a gorgeous man-eater who has had the fortune of looking like a much shorter version of her equally beautiful mother. Long brunette hair; large, supple, firm breasts; a nice, small, round ass; piercing steel-blue eyes; full, luscious lips; and legs that look strong and muscular on her 4’8″ frame. Technically, she qualifies as a midget, which she likes to joke about sometimes, but everything on her tiny body is in perfect proportion. She looks like a miniature version of the hottest brunette porn star you could think of. Guys follow her around like sick puppy dogs and she has her pick of the litter. Actually, it was her natural beauty that led to her being a tom-boy for most of her childhood. Consequently, she always had boys hanging around her, either as friends or suitors, but the only girls who could stand to be around her were the ones who either looked as good as her or simply didn’t give a shit about how much attention she got from boys in general.
I, however, most definitely gave a shit about how much attention she got from boys and did everything I could to protect her. I’m not foolish enough to believe that bahis firmaları Emily was still a virgin and purely innocent by the time she got to her Senior year of high school, but parents often like to live in ignorance of such facts. Protecting my daughter, while ultimately pointless, was something that I could do thanks, in large part, to my career as a writer. On the surface, sitting in front of the computer and writing stories might seem somewhat boring, but the fatherhood angle keeps it all pretty interesting. My wife, Jessica, has a full-time job as a nurse while I stay at the house and write my books and raise Emily, who has just reached the graceful and frightening age of eighteen. I say graceful because my daughter has turned into a stunning beauty and I say frightening because, well, my daughter has turned into a stunning beauty. Boys her age are more insistent than ever before and it’s all I can do to keep up with her. She’s always keeping me on my toes, whether it’s going out and dancing on a school night or disappearing for entire weekends under the pretense of staying at a friend’s house. But, to be fair, she’s as much a joy to my life as she is a burden- she has those incredible moments where all the mischief disappears and she’s my adorable little girl. So I bear the burden of fatherhood gladly while my wife pays the regular the bills, having done her bit for parenthood during Emily’s formative years.
Being a writer provides me with a lot of alone-time. When I’m not writing, I’m usually thinking about a story or looking for inspiration. Inspiration, I have learned through hard experience, can come from all kinds of sources. This being the case, I don’t limit myself and expose my creative mind to all kinds of stimulation. TV, movies, plays, shopping malls, my daughter’s conversations with her friends… nothing is taboo for me when it comes to the never-ending search for an inspiring idea. And I get plenty of them, some good and some not so good, but the well is never dry if I push myself hard enough and slog through enough crap. Lord only knows that I’ve gone through several VCR’s and DVD players over the years doing exactly that. Translating some of that inspiration into a viable story, on the other hand, is where the work of a writer really comes in- and that’s where the dedication to my craft must be applied. I actually look forward to working every day and can’t wait to see what I produce by the day’s end. I’ll be the first to admit that 70% of what I end up writing is crap, but that golden 30% makes it all worthwhile- both literally and figuratively.
I’m not the most popular writer out there, but I’ve got a modest fan-base, which keeps me honest and my family well provided-for. I am what many people in the pulp industry would call a second-tier author. I’ve sold a rather healthy number of books but still haven’t made it to the New York Best-seller’s list. My book advances are just big enough to pay the bills for a few years while I spend that time working on another book, in order to keep the mill running. Residuals and royalties help some, but not as much as you might guess. It’s the advances, really, that matter most to us second-tier authors. Those and the odd jobs that all authors must do: signings, readings, conferences, conventions and radio or TV interviews (for those rare and lucky few who get the attention of the mass media, that is).
So when my agent calls me once every few months to tell me that she’s booked me on a short signing tour, I typically don’t make much of a fuss about it. Truth be told, some of those jaunts can be a real blast- and the fans are almost always interesting in one way or another. The only real downside, though, is that I oftentimes have to leave Emily, basically, home alone since her mother works all the time. Emily, of course, loves to get every opportunity to stay home while both her parents are working- what teenage girl wouldn’t? And, to be fair, it isn’t like we’re REALLY leaving her alone for any extended period of time- my wife still comes home after work, even though she comes home rather late at night.
But, as they say, shit happens, right? Indeed it does. Jessica works at the local hospital. Having worked there for a few years now, her routine has gotten to be fairly, well, routine. It’s very rare that she has to deviate from her normal schedule and the hospital has always given her plenty of notice when things had to change. It’s fortunate that our particular hospital doesn’t suffer from the shortage of nurses that a lot of other hospitals do, otherwise Jessica would probably work a lot harder and have longer hours. In the ten years that she’s worked there, not once has she had to go out of town for her job- until now. Apparently there was some sort of re-certification program at the hospital which required Jessica to go to Chicago for a few weeks and brush up on her ER skills. The timing was unfortunate because I had also just been told by my agent that I was kaçak iddaa booked for a week-long jag in New York to promote my newest book.
This left Emily completely alone to her own devices for a full week. Neither Jessica nor I really liked this development, but neither of us could back out of these obligations to our professions. I had signed a contract to do a certain number of public appearances and Jessica’s job as a nurse was on the line if she didn’t get re-certified. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter, which doubtlessly made our daughter even happier. This was her moment to do whatever she wanted while we were away and she damn well knew it.
We, however, weren’t so easily beaten. Both of us assured her that there would be hell to pay if she didn’t answer the phone when we called (each of us would call at different hours of the night) or if she somehow got into trouble while we were gone. No parties, no late night dancing trips, no boys. Stay home, watch TV, go to bed whenever you want, wake up the next day and do whatever it is you do during the day (it being summertime, she didn’t have school) and then repeat the process until we get home. “Hell to pay” was described a number of different ways and we like to think that Emily fully grasped the concept. We knew that there were literally dozens of ways that our daughter could out-fox us, but when it came down to it, she was going to have to spend time alone on her own terms anyway- she might as well start now. We did not doubt that she would take full advantage of the situation once we were gone, but we liked to think that she would have shown at least a little restraint.
So my wife boarded her plane to Chicago while I drove off for New York and we both prayed that our daughter would be able to stay out of trouble for the week during my absence. The up-shot was that I would be coming home first, and, if there was a problem to be dealt with, I was only a few hours’ driving distance away. Jessica can be rather hot-headed sometimes while I usually take the more rational and even-tempered approach to child-rearing. When Jessica punishes our daughter, the punishments usually hurt and are marginally effective; when I punish Emily, it usually COUNTS and is extremely effective.
I kept in close contact with my wife while I was on my book-signing tour in New York. By day three neither of us had reason to suspect that Emily wasn’t following our rules on the barest of pretenses, so we were temporarily relieved to think that she just might be trustworthy. We joked a few times about the possibility of silent orgies held by our daughter and wondered if the neighbors might be able to tell us about anything amiss when we get home, but we were still rather hopeful that our jokes weren’t based in fact or truth.
On the fourth day of my signing tour I caught a slight break. I had a two-day engagement at a single bookshop, but the shop in question had been audited by the IRS recently and was discovered to be (I swear this is not a pun) cooking the books. As a result, the shop was closed down and my obligation for the public appearance had become null and void while I still got my paycheck for being there. This was great news because it meant that I could go home early, back to my sorely-missed office and my precocious daughter. I didn’t even bother to call home and let Emily know about the change in plans, figuring that once I was home the burden of responsibility would be lifted from her inexperienced shoulders and she would then be thankfully free to play as she wished. I figured that she would be glad to see me home.
When I did get home, though, I learned that she would most definitely NOT be happy to see me. I pulled into the driveway and immediately noticed a car parked in my spot that did not belong to anyone in the family. I got out of my car and inspected the newish-looking Honda. The back seat was a mess, there were cigarette butts in the ashtray almost to overflowing, a plethora of empty soda cups from various fast-food shops littered hither and yon and a number of crumpled clothes were scattered on the back floorboards. Peeking out from beneath the clothes were gaming magazines, faded paychecks stubs from Toys R Us and countless receipts. This, I decided, was most definitely the car of a teenage boy.
I went into my home quietly and pricked up my ears to get an idea of what I might be walking into. I didn’t hear a single blessed thing, which both calmed and frightened me in equal measure. I didn’t know what to expect at that point, so I began a slow tour of my house, room by room. I didn’t find my daughter anywhere in the house- not her room, the TV room, the living room, the kitchen… nowhere. And more importantly, I didn’t find any teenage boy, either. I saw evidence of their presence inside the house in the kitchen, however- dirty plates that looked at least two days old, a few garments of women’s clothing scattered around the house (one of them my daughter’s kaçak bahis favorite skirt), but still no kids. I figured that they’d gone for a walk or perhaps they’d gone out with some friends of theirs to a movie or something; that I’d catch up with them later when Emily returned home. I shrugged the situation off for the time being and decided to make off for the one place I missed most: my office.
Do I need to paint a picture at this point? Have you figured out where my daughter and her boyfriend were hiding? If not, then I pity your ability to understand the simple concept of foreshadowing. Alas, my daughter and her rapscallion of a boy-toy were naked as jaybirds on my office sofa, Emily posting up and down reverse-cowgirl style on some faceless kid’s groin (faceless because she was blocking his face from my view) and watching a porno on my TV. I took in this sight as my jaw dropped open in a perfect “O” and my eyes bobbed up and down along with my daughter. She held her breasts and tweaked her nipples as she moaned and flounced her brunette hair over her shoulders. My eyes drifted further down and I could see that her pussy had been shaven bald and was currently being stuffed by a rather impressive bit of manhood- well, I guess it only looked impressive because her pussy is small that she didn’t go down on it completely. Her mouth was agape with pleasure and, when she finally saw me, it snapped shut like a mouse-trap. As soon as Emily’s eyes locked onto mine, she froze with rigid fear. Seeing my daughter naked, even at the age of eighteen, wasn’t a problem for me. I understand, in a detached I’m-a-man-too sort of way that Emily is going to do these kinds of things. As I’ve already pointed out, I haven’t missed the fact that she has developed a very nice pair of breasts, that she has a trim waist, that her hips are nicely rounded, that she has a nice ass- I know all of this in an intellectual sense, but never did it fully register with me until I saw it all in action. No. Seeing my daughter naked wasn’t a problem… it was a disaster. It was a disaster because, for a fleeting moment, I dearly wished that I could be in that boy’s place. The realization of that thought caused a very abrupt inner-conflict that I wrestled with while my eyes continued to take in the scene before me.
The brat fucking my daughter on my office sofa didn’t help matters any when he grabbed Emily’s hips forcefully, pulled her roughly down on top of his groin so that his bat-like pole filled her to the hilt and shouted out, “OH, FUCK, I’M GONNA CUM!” Without hesitation, he began to do just that, and I could actually see Emily’s belly ripple when his cock twitched while slug after slug of sperm was ejected into my daughter’s body. “AW, FUCK, I’M GONNA FILL YOU UP! I’M CUMMING!” he added proudly.
I let it go on for about ten more seconds, stunned into silence while this kid filled my daughter’s womb with his seed and she just stared back at me like a helpless doe, until my paternal instincts finally kicked in. The tumultuous debate going on inside my head came to a sharp end and I felt my jealousy swiftly transform into a parent’s rage. “LIKE HELL YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU ARE MOST CERTAINLY-THE-FUCK-GOING! GIT OUTTA MY HOUSE OR SO HELP ME GOD I’LL PLANT MY FOOT IN YOUR ASS SO DEEP YOU’LL TASTE LEATHER FOR A YEAR!”
Emily jumped off the boy’s spent cock like she’d been hit by lightning, leaving behind a right mess of cum on his lap as she did so. She raced by me without a word (which was smart of her) and went straight to her room. The boy, on the other hand, wasn’t as bright.
“What the fuck?!?” the kid shouted as he watched my daughter tear ass out of my office. Then his eyes focused on me, for the first time, and a puzzled look crossed his face. “Who the fuck are you?”
I stalked over to my desk, picked up the family photo which sat on it and showed it to him. I knew the picture well, after having looked at it for years. Jessica, Emily at the age of twelve and me. I’m in the middle with my arms around both of the two most special women in my life. All of us are grinning madly in the photograph because when we took the picture, we’d just gotten the news that my brother Sam had been officially promoted as a mid-level CIA director- something that he had worked hard for since he was in his early twenties. “Ask me ANOTHER stupid question, fuckwit. No. Wait. Let me ask YOU a question: WHY ARE YOU STILL IN MY GODDAM HOUSE?!?” I tossed the family photograph aside, not caring if it broke or not (it didn’t), and leaned forward as I bellowed at him. “GET. OUT. NOW!”
The fucking idiot just blinked at me owlishly, like this was the first time he’d ever heard English spoken plainly. “Dude, I’m sorry, man, we were just-“
I smacked my own forehead and looked up at the ceiling, talking to God. “He thinks he has to explain it to me! Oh, my fucking God. Allah, have mercy on me for what I am about to do.” I looked back down at the kid even more menacingly. “You, you dumb fuck, have until the count of ten to run for your life. I should warn you that I worked for a few years as a bouncer at a strip club and I’ve got almost a decade of experience in the military.”
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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32