“Didja hear that kitten?” Jeannie asked the cat as she bent and pulled off her socks. Her breasts and buttocks wiggled as she stepped from foot to foot. Eicher’s breath froze; he was sure she was going to spill out of her bra. “My favorite Donna Summer tune is number one!” She turned away from Eicher and he admired the perfect symmetry of her posterior, scantly covered in the same blue fabric as her brassiere. The waistband of her panties had been rolled down from her waist on one side and Eicher found the unfettered curve of her hip intensely exciting.
Eicher drew a shuddering breath and swallowed the last of his port as Jeannie reached back and unclasped her brassiere, slipping it off and tossing it away. The harlot on the radio was wailing about hot stuff. Hot stuff indeed, Eicher thought, as Jeannie bent over and peeled off her panties. Eicher caught a glimpse of her Liebesgrotte and his penis gave a mighty jerk. Jeannie tossed her panties aside with the rest of her clothes and then stepped into the bathroom and squatted on the toilet.
Setting down his glass, Eicher moved to the large peephole behind Jeannie’s bathroom mirror. She flushed and went to the sink, carefully washing her face. Eicher studied the curves of her body, the paleness of her skin, and the startling growth of platinum pubic hair that was as white as the hair on her head and as white as the eyebrows and eyelashes she darkened with makeup each morning.
She showered quickly and Eicher wished he had treated the glass of the shower door with an anti-fogging agent. As she dried herself with a towel and showed him every delicious part of her body Eicher made up his mind. He could stand it no longer! He had to have her and he knew she wanted him because he had seen the evidence, yes, he had seen the way her nipples were excited in the shower, made erect by her own hands. This Eicher knew was a signal to him. She might deny it, but there was no denying the signs her body gave him. She needed ein Mann!
As Jeannie walked naked from bathroom to bedroom, Eicher stripped and rushed to her bedroom door.
Jeannie was reaching for her nightgown and smiling down at the kitten that was curled into a fuzzy ball and fast asleep in its basket beside her bed when her door burst open and Eicher stepped into her room.
She was so shocked by Eicher’s nakedness that for a moment she forgot her own. His fringe of graying hair was sticking up as if he had just received a jolt of electricity. There was a stain like a birthmark high on his chest, a drying splash of port. His face was flushed, his gray-haired chest churning with exertion. His sagging old-man muscles and pallid flesh were shivering and twitching. His balls were dangling like the scrotum of an old antelope she’d seen at the zoo, and for a moment she didn’t recognize his thing, it seemed to be a purple bulb. Then she realized that Eicher was completely erect, his penis straining toward her. His bloodshot eyes were as hot and bright as flash bulbs and a runnel of saliva trickled from one corner of his mouth.
“My number Four,” he said, slurring his words. “Come to Daddy.”
When Eicher burst through the door and saw Jeannie standing naked before him, frozen in shock like some wonderful statue carved by the hand of God, he thought he would ejaculate right there. There is a God, he thought, and he is me!
To think that he had created this woman, this magnificent work of art, made his head spin. He knew he had to have those arms around his neck, had to have those muscular young legs wrapped around him, had to have those jutting breasts crushed against his face, tasting each nipple in turn, sucking and biting until she whimpered under him. He had to drive himself into her Liebesgrotte which was surely the sweetest and tightest in creation.
Jeannie hated it when Eicher called her Four, but now it scared her. She reached for her robe and Eicher leaped forward, his thing slapping against her thigh as he grabbed her wrists. She screamed at him and tried to fight back, but she was still just a kid with a kid’s strength. He was an older man but he still had some muscle, now powered by an almost superhuman lust. He let go of one wrist and slapped her three times across the face, three stunning blows that brought her to her knees. Fuzzy darted under the bed. She felt blood pouring out of her nose.
Eicher dipped his fingers in Jeannie’s blood and smeared it on his chest and his cock, grinning like a lunatic. The growing urge to do violence upon her while fucking her was intoxicating. He never knew this side of him existed. He was not a cerebral milquetoast but a virile, mighty primitive! A savage! He pulled her to her feet and pushed her back onto the bed. She sat up and he punched her full in the face.
Jeannie was delirious. She saw the punch coming and it was a comic-book moment, Eicher’s face a mixture of glee and rage as his fist slowly descended and smashed into her left eye. Then he slapped her again, on the mouth, striking her so hard that her own teeth cut her lips. She tasted her blood and felt its warmth running down her chin.
With her head reeling, one eye squeezed shut in pain and her nose clogged with blood, Jeannie continued to fight Eicher, but he was just too big, too strong. His assault was a black haze punctuated by bright flares of shame and pain and horror, ending when he grunted and screamed breathlessly. She felt him pumping inside her, his thing vomiting its vileness deep within her body. He finally withdrew with a triumphant grin and staggered to the door where he paused and caught his breath.
“I am so glad I kept you, vier. The others I delivered out of this life via the incinerator, but you were different. I was so sure you were perfect, and I was right. Now I shall have you like this as often as I want, kleine Zahl vier, because I am your Daddy and my word is law.”
Jeannie had turned away from him and curled up on her side. Her voice was raw, a whisper. “You aren’t my daddy. My daddy would never do this.”
Eicher smiled. “Ah, but I am your Daddy. Your Daddy and your God. I gave you life. I created you from almost nothing, a scrap of flesh taken from the blonde harlot you were watching on television. You are a clone, liebling, a copy, a doppelganger, and as such you are not a real person, but property. You have no birth certificate, no citizenship, and there are no records of your existence. You are mine, and if I decide to dispose of you as easily as I disposed of your three predecessors, I will. You are my possession, like a book or a wristwatch, and I will do with you as I please.”
Jeannie gave her head a weak shake. “I’ll fight you ... I’ll call the police. I’ll cut myself, make myself ugly ... you won’t do this again ...”
Eicher looked startled. He didn’t care about her threats to fight back or call the police. What he cared about were her threats to mutilate herself. To bring ruin on the perfection he had created. This needed consideration. He stepped out of her room and closed the door.
Jeannie stayed curled on the bed all night. She knew she should clean up, but she couldn’t move. She felt as if there were something horribly wrong inside her, she could almost feel a molten lump of foulness so deep inside that she couldn’t force it out. She thought madly that she should take a knife and cut deep into the center of herself to try and wash that foulness away. Sometime during that long night she pulled the blood-smeared coverlet over herself, hearing Fuzzy mewing beside the bed. She groped for the kitten and lifted it up to her. It curled against her neck and fell asleep. A tiny buzzing purr helped soothe her mind. When she opened her eyes again it was almost noon.
The next day Jeannie didn’t say a word to Eicher. She was moving slowly and felt as if every muscle in her body had been pulled or torn. She was wearing a sweater and baggy jeans, loose clothes she hoped would hide her body from him. There was a heavy layer of make-up on her face but it couldn’t cover the swellings on her eye, nose and lips. She couldn’t think straight.
Eicher sat at the long kitchen table sipping coffee and glaring at her. He thought Jeannie looked like a zombie in an old Lugosi picture. It was only when she asked in a wooden voice if he’d seen Fuzzy this morning that he finally brightened up. He said he hadn’t seen the kitten but was sure it was still asleep in the basket in Jeannie’s room.
“I looked there,” Jeannie said, keep
ing her distance from Eicher. She went to the refrigerator to get some orange juice. Her throat was sore from crying. She noticed a familiar tuft of gray fluff sticking out from behind the fridge. She moved closer and then simply stared at the dead kitten that was wedged between the wall and the fridge.
Eicher came up behind her and emoted like a bad actor. “Oh dear,” he said flatly. “What a shame. The little bundle of joy must have been playing and crawled in there after something. But you know what they say about cats and the consequences of their curiosity. I suppose it became trapped. Suffocated.” He returned to the table.
Jeannie gently pried the kitten free and held it close a moment. Then she looked at Eicher a very long time. After last night, the only thing that had helped her stay sane was the kitten, holding it and stroking it and listening to its faint buzzing snores and deep purring. That Eicher had killed the kitten was fairly obvious. He’d broken its neck. She watched him drinking his coffee and looking smug until he faced her and smiled, something he did so rarely that it looked grotesque.
“I enjoyed last night very much,” he said.
Without saying a word Jeannie went back to her room. She sat at her dressing table and lifted a small mirror to her face. She looked at herself a moment and then slammed the mirror down on one corner of the table. She pried a long sliver of the mirror free from its pink plastic frame, cutting the fingers of her right hand, and drew the shard of glass over her left wrist once, then twice, then a third time, digging deep. She dropped the piece of glass and let her arms hang at her sides. After a time the carpet soaked up enough blood that she could hear the splash of each drop that fell from her wounds.
Eicher found Jeannie just in time. He didn’t waste a moment after stepping into her room. He saw the blood and grabbed her in an instant, carrying her down to the kitchen, the brightest and cleanest room in the house. He laid her flat on the big table and treated the wounds to her wrist, realizing that if she had cut both wrists she’d be dead by now.
Later he bound her to her bed with elastic bandages, wondering what he would do with her now. She was sedated and sleeping deeply. Eicher locked her in her room that night.
In the days that followed Eicher kept a close eye on Jeannie. She had completely withdrawn. He had to spoon-feed her and supplement her diet with intravenous drips. He found it delightfully easy to buy almost any medical supply he wanted through legal means, or on the street.
Jeannie never left the bed, hardly moved at all, and when she soiled herself Eicher cleaned her. He enjoyed exercising her limbs, giving her a daily bath and washing her hair. He continued to rape her, delighting in the fact that he didn’t have to use any force. Just a glob of petroleum jelly on the end of his prick. He found all of this fantastically erotic, whether he was sticking a spoonful of food or an IV needle or his cock into Jeannie.
When it seemed he was going to have to care for her indefinitely, he took pride in his own foresight. As he had planned years ago there was now a fleet of Mr. Zap vans patrolling Los Angeles and killing its pests. All Eicher had to do was sit back and collect the profits. This left him free to spend his time with Jeannie.
The passing days became a week, then two. Concerned about the girl’s health, he did a blood panel. He nearly sang with joy when he saw the results. Jeannie was quite healthy, if a little thin. Her withdrawal was an entirely mental condition. She was also pregnant.
A new idea seized Eicher. His ongoing experiment would continue, but now he would have two subjects to study. Marilyn Monroe had never been able to bring a baby to term; rumors said this was due to a dozen or more abortions in her early years. If Jeannie could give birth, this would be one more indication of his success in making her worth more than the sum of her parts, so to speak.
Yet he could no longer live openly with her as father and daughter. If she ever breathed a word of what had happened, Eicher would be locked up. Americans were a perverse society. Sex twisted their minds. They delighted in the most horrible violence on television, but would never allow a bared breast to be displayed via that public medium. Eicher decided Jeannie should disappear. He would concoct a story for the curious, perhaps something to do with Jeannie going to school in Europe and staying with distant relations.
In one hectic week while Jeannie was sedated upstairs, Eicher engaged a plumber and a crew of handymen to work in the basement. A wall was raised to divide the big basement in two and create a spacious, windowless bedroom. Flooring was laid down and the plumber installed a toilet, bathtub and shower. Afterward Eicher painted the walls of the new room while thinking of the glorious days ahead, his excitement giving him tremendous energy. He went out and bought all the furnishings Jeannie needed. He also purchased and installed soundproof tiles and a heavy-duty door-bar from a hardware store. The door-bar was used upstairs on the kitchen side of the basement door to make sure Jeannie did not fly from the nest Eicher had created. He broke down Jeannie’s bed and moved it downstairs, installing it so it was immobile. He cleaned and polished and fussed over the arrangements. When he was done, Jeannie was ensconced in a soundproof, escape-proof room. She would be his secret forever.
A month passed and finally Eicher could keep the news to himself no longer. While bathing Jeannie in her own tub, stroking her thighs and belly with a washcloth while she lay unmoving, he began whispering to her.
“I know you can hear me Zahl vier,” he said softly. “I have good news. Soon I will have two of you. You are with child, my dear girl, and I shall do everything I can to see that your baby comes into this world healthy and normal. Then we shall raise it together, you and I, because after all, it is half mine.”
Eicher chuckled and leaned forward to pop a tiny soap bubble on her left nipple with his teeth when Jeannie whispered, “No.”
“Yes,” he replied gleefully. “You can’t stop me. You are mine, and the baby will be mine.”
“I’ll kill it,” Jeannie said. Her body was still slack. Her eyes were still closed. It was as if she were talking in her sleep. “I’ll kill myself.”
Eicher shook his head. “I will make that impossible. No, my child, you will do as I wish, and only that. I will not even allow you the release of death. You are mine.”
11
The Dangerous Years
Betsy Jones was loaded for bear, but a certain bitch-mother was her real target, thank you very much. She glanced at the Road Star’s speedometer. 90mph. Interstate 40 was an easy stretch. She could almost ride it in her sleep. I’m coming, mother, she thought. I’m coming for you, you piece of garbage, and I’ll catch up with you one of these years.
She looked like a biker’s wet dream; sunglasses, white shirt, scuffed and faded leather jacket, blue jeans and sneakers. Her jacket was open, her shirt flat against her stomach and molded to her breasts. Her jeans were so well-worn they hugged her hips like wisps of cigarette smoke. Fashionable tears in the jeans exposed thighs begging to be touched. Her skin was very pale, with a delicate tinge of rose pink. Her hair was whipping behind her in a black and shining wave, like polished obsidian. Behind the sunglasses were big blue eyes and long dark lashes made thicker by a heavy application of mascara.
Betsy had followed tips to Las Vegas, where she got the bike, and then Bakersfield. Her car had crapped out in Vegas. Since she had been born with a secret weapon, she never had to worry about where her next meal was coming from or fret over the price of a desired piece of clothing. She had left the car and began looking around for a suitable vehicle.
She had liberated the bike from a gross, fat, gray-haired lump of filth and sweat who swore he used to be a Hell’s Angel. She had seen the biker and his fat buddies hanging around a convenience store parking lot a few blocks from Harrah’s. She’d wanted the bike and had lured the fat fuck into an alley.
Sometimes it seemed like all she had to do was wiggle her ass and men would come running like hungry dogs. Her whole life had changed the summer she grew tits. She’d been thirteen then. Since that time she had almos
t everything given to her, by her pseudo-dad, pseudo-dad’s friends, boys at school and guys she met on the road after leaving home for good. She hadn’t even fucked any of them. It was just the mere possibility of getting into her pants that set them off, made them want her, and once in a while made them beat the living shit out of each other for her. She had caused more than one horny scumbag from schoolboys to grown men, hell, even her own pseudo-dad, to come in his pants.
They sure as hell weren’t going to come in her.
Poor pseudo-dad was found dead in his den a year ago. He was found reclining in his favorite easy chair, his little mushroom-cock protruding from the unzipped trousers of his expensive suit and a big grin on his face.
Betsy had been asking him for money, a lot of money, because she was ready to begin her search for the woman who had abandoned her.
She had been teasing pseudo-dad, daring him to expose himself. The filthy fuck had been groping her for years, his hands accidentally brushing her breasts or buttocks whenever they passed each other in the kitchen or the hall. She had always rebuffed him and made her disgust clear. That was all Betsy could do. Pseudo-mom was a former actress who was either sleeping off a belly full of booze or drying out at a spa. Pseudo-dad was a pillar of the community, an extremely successful mutual fund manager who gave generously to charity and had even taken in a poor abandoned child and made her his own daughter.
When he finally did decide to rock out with his cock out, Betsy knelt and began crawling across the carpet toward him like she was going to blow him or something. As fucking if. She saw his hands twitching and knew he wanted to swat her.
Made in the U.S.A.: The 10th Anniversary Edition Page 19