"Sure, we could blame ourselves for breaking down, for giving in to our baser natures. But what would it buy us? It's happened. We couldn't undo it if we spent the rest of our lives and all of our family's resources. So, the only thing to do is to try to shove it into the back of our minds as far as it will go. If we find that we have trouble living with it, we'll just have to bring it out and discuss it again. But I hope we can think of it as a very unfortunate but irrevocable part of our lives that we need not think of, again."
"Before we do try to forget it, honey, it might be well to get the last bit of value out of it. Let me tell you that if you ever have one of those moments when you doubt yourself as a man, for any reason, you can remember that your mother gave you top honors."
"You're every bit the man your father is in all ways. You're thoughtful, gentle, and very exciting to a woman. The girl who gets you for keeps – and any others in the meantime will be very lucky. I'll always be proud that you're my son, Tommy."
She was silent, and the cellar was full of her presence as it had not been all the time she spoke. Tommy felt the magnetism of this wonderful woman who was his mother, and almost – not quite, but almost – he was glad that they had shared the rigors of this day. It was a lot of female, and a lot of heart that he had the good fortune to call mother. He wept quietly, unashamedly, for a while. Then he spoke his gratitude.
"You're great, Mother! I've known that for a long time, but after today, I'm afraid that you're some kind of impossible combination of saint and sweetheart that just might have spoiled me for all the other women in the world. I only hope that I'm lucky enough to get one just a little bit like you."
"Thank you, Tommy." She stopped for a moment, then thought of something else. "It's a hell of a way for it to happen, but I don't think we've ever been so close as right now. We've shared the very worst moments of our lives together, and yet found joy in them. Not many people can say that."
CHAPTER SIX
"L'eclairage, c'est ne pas suffisant pour la photographie, maintenant," protested Yvette.
"What did she say?" Fleming asked his daughter. His French had been limited, in the old days, to slowly spoken phrases of simple vocabularies. Now he remembered very little of that.
"She says the lighting isn't good enough for taking pictures, now." Darla hoped that this meant a reprieve. If further photography was postponed until moming, maybe they could find some way to escape in the night.
"We will use the parlor," decided Gerault, dashing Darla's hopes for a delay. They were herded out of the bedroom, which they had just entered before Yvette's protest, and soon found themselves in a fairly large living room. The wall-to-wall carpeting was old but good, and there were a few pieces of furniture scattered around, none of which seemed to belong.
On the walls were a number of mirrors, which seemed to be built into the structure, or cleverly affixed to seem very permanent. In several places, the faint outlines of rectangular shapes revealed where pictures had been hung.
The place gave the appearance of a house deserted by its former occupants, then commandeered by Gerault and company as a temporary headquarters. Darla wondered where the furniture had been obtained, guessing that it might well have been stolen from other homes in the area.
Fleming paid little attention to the details of the room. He was just barely awake, and beginning to feel again the resentments and discouragements which had bothered him since his capture, and the guilt and shame he had experienced after the previous episode with his daughter.
"Here, on the sofa," commanded Gerault. They moved toward the huge sofa, which seemed to be rather new both in design and manufacture. As they approached it, the Frenchman tugged at a corner, and it opened out into a fair-sized bed.
"The clothes – quickly!" he ordered, and the father and daughter sullenly removed their clothes again. This time they piled them on a long coffee table nearby.
Yvette had opened the drapes which covered glass-paneled doors leading onto a terrace. A poorly tended garden could be seen through the dusty glass panels. It was on the side away from the road, and the shrubbery hid the doorway from outsiders.
The light which entered the room seemed to be magnified by the several mirrors, and it was considerably brighter than the bedroom.
"Let me see; I think Monsieur Fleming will sit on the edge of the bed…" Fleming obliged. "… And Mademoiselle will sit on his lap to begin." Darla obediently seated herself across her father's legs. She could feel the warmth of him against her thighs, and the fine covering of hair tingled where it touched her skin.
"No. Not like that. Turn and face him, with a leg on either side of him." Gerault was playing by ear, as if he were a directive genius setting up a scene for the movie cameras.
Darla lifted a leg and swung it over and around, past Fleming's head. He couldn't help but see the pink flash of her spread vulva as her thighs separated so widely. That, and the way her one breast bounced briefly after her knee had struck it during the move, returned him to the illicitly excited plateau he had reached earlier.
Darla, who had grasped her father by the shoulders to make the shift, leaning back on his lap to clear his head with her leg, had caught a glimpse of me soft, white penis which she had coveted until today, and which she had possessed with her mouth less than two hours ago. It made the same little thrills run through her now, no matter how she had intended to control her reactions this time.
While they had been in the cellar alone, she tried twice to talk to him, hoping they could help each other in some way. She felt that if she must continue to carry the burden of her incestuous enjoyment all alone, she would crack up. But Fleming had slept soundly, and she hadn't had the heart to make more than a token attempt to wake him with her quiet words. Now, she was more tensely strung than before. She was really up tight.
As she settled into the new pose Fleming automatically put his hands on her hips, helping her to balance on his lap. The contact doubled the sensations which traveled between them with Darla's hands on his shoulders. "Let us have some kissing, now," said Gerault.
As if hypnotized, they moved their heads together. In the beginning it was a zombie-like maneuver, as they reacted to the command, knowing the penalties for hesitation. But as their lips met, both of them knew the defeat of their individual resolutions.
The damp warmth of their bodies conducted each tiny tic and movement of every muscle. Even the slight tensions caused by trying to stay balanced in their positions as they moved to kiss, were amplified into caresses and meaningful movements, as the animal lusts within each body interpreted the small contacts and responded in kind.
Darla's moist lips parted, and she felt the hot tongue enter between them and caress the inner sides of her lips. As she sucked at the intruder hungrily, she felt the hard pressure of Fleming's stiffening member as it rose under her, slapping meatily against the tender sensitivities of her anus.
Her buttocks squeezed together in reflex, and they trapped the head of the hard instrument between them. This further excited the man, and he reacted by a muscular contraction which made the rod pulse into life, increasing its size and hardness.
It was a vicious circle. The feel of the swelling penis between her cheeks stirred Darla's inner juices, and they began to seep from the parted outer lips of her fleshy blossom, warming and dampening the base of her father's penis.
Something like a low growl emanated from Fleming's lips as he tore them from hers, and then trailed a fiery thrill down her neck to the peak of a breast. Her nipple erupted into a rigid erection which popped into his mouth, and he sucked at it thirstily, as though it could provide him with drink.