GENESIS (Projekt Saucer)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘Is your father in?’ Stanford asked.

  The girl tilted her head slightly. Her eyes were focused upon him, very large, their brown depths oddly luminous. Then she giggled again. Stanford shivered a little. She stopped giggling and shook her head from side to side in a negative gesture.

  ‘He’s not in?’ Stanford asked.

  The girl shook her head again. Stanford saw her belly pressed against the door, one breast thrusting around it.

  ‘You mean he’s not here?’ Stanford asked.

  The girl nodded that this was so.

  ‘Where is he?’ Stanford asked. ‘Do you understand? I want to know where he’s gone.’

  The girl opened the door wider, slipped around it like a dancer, moving with a natural sensuality that made Stanford harden. He saw the curve of her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples, glanced down and saw a brown inner thigh, a film of dust on her bare feet. The girl pressed against the door, slid along it, moved toward him, then she passed him, brushing lightly against him, and stood out on the porch. Stanford watched her, fascinated, seeing the curvature of her spine. She leaned back and then raised her left hand and pointed up at the night sky.

  Stanford suddenly turned cold. He raised his head and looked up. The sky was dark and the stars were extremely bright, the moon gliding beneath them. What did she mean? Stanford couldn’t work it out. He shivered and then stepped up to the girl until he stood just beside her. She was still pointing at the sky. She turned her head to stare at him. She was smiling, a distant, disturbing smile, her brown eyes hypnotizing him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Stanford asked. ‘You mean your father’s up there? In heaven? You mean that your father has died and now he’s up there, in heaven?’

  The girl smiled and then giggled, shook her head from side to side, indicating that Stanford was wrong, still pointing up at the sky. Stanford wished she would talk to him. He was convinced that she could talk. Staring at her, he wondered if she was mad, though that somehow seemed doubtful. The girl returned his stare. Her hand was still raised in the air. The wind was pressing the cotton dress against her body, emphasizing her breasts and hips. Stanford glanced at the sky again, seeing only the moon and stars. He looked back at the girl and she nodded and kept pointing upward.

  ‘He’s not dead?’ Stanford asked.

  The girl giggled and shook her head from side to side.

  ‘He’s up there?’ Stanford asked. ‘He’s in the sky? Someone took him away?’

  The girl nodded in confirmation, then dropped her hand and turned toward him. The wind blew the dress behind her legs, leaving them bare. Stanford wanted to put it into her. He wanted no more than that. It was a mindless, brutally primitive desire, and he ached with his need for her.

  ‘Who took him away?’ he asked. ‘Was it the men who were here that night? Was it the Army or the Air Force or the police? Who took him away?’

  The girl raised both her hands, placed them together above her head, drew them apart and lowered them gently to describe something dome-shaped. Stanford shivered, feeling cold. He also felt a distinct excitement. He nodded to show that he understood, then the girl raised her hands again. She pointed to the sky. Her left hand was mushroomshaped. She let the hand drop in a vertical line, then knelt down and placed the hand on the porch and swept it up toward the sky again. It was an eloquent gesture, graceful, dreamlike, and then she turned around on her bare feet and slowly stood straight again.

  ‘They came back,’ Stanford said. ‘They came down in the strange aircraft. Your father was taken into the aircraft and then they all flew away.’

  The girl nodded and smiled, put her thumb in her mouth, brushed past him and went back to the house and leaned against the doorframe. Her long legs were crossed. The dress flapped around her hips. Stanford saw the shadowed area between her thighs, raised his eyes, saw her steady, oddly luminous gaze. She was sucking her thumb, a child, perhaps insane, and Stanford flushed with a mixture of shame and primitive lust.

  ‘How long ago?’ he asked.

  The girl’s brown eyes widened.

  ‘When did all this happen?’ Stanford asked. ‘How many days? How many weeks ago?’

  The girl raised two fingers in a V sign.

  ‘Two days? Stanford said.

  The girl nodded, then giggled and turned away and vanished into the house.

  Stanford followed her in, feeling strange, not himself, intrigued by what she had told him and by what it might mean. The house was unchanged, the oil lamps still near the windows, casting shadows on the dusty wooden floor and the makeshift furniture. The girl stood near the table, smiling at him, sucking her thumb; the shadows fell down flaking walls, crept over the old chairs, danced fitfully on and off the girl’s face, the rise and fall of her breasts. Stanford returned her smile. There was light in her brown eyes. Her left-hand thumb was in her mouth and her right arm was folded behind her back. Stanford saw her parted thighs, seeing her flesh as his salvation. The shadows flickered on her face, a pool of light around her eyes; and the eyes, which were vacant, were also bright with some vague, sly awareness.

  ‘Who were they?’ Stanford asked. ‘Who took your father away? Can you describe the men who took him away? What were they like?’

  The girl tilted her head slightly, her knuckles pressing against her nose, her dark hair hanging down across her face and covering her right eye. Stanford thought she was smiling, but wasn’t sure, just had that feeling; he then thought of what had happened, of the UFO descending, of the men taking her father away, and wondered how she could smile. An idiot? Possibly. Stanford wasn’t too sure of that. There was a light in the brown, vacant eyes that gave hints of awareness. The girl seemed to be teasing him, her languid carnality seducing him; silent, she spoke through her body with a sly, feline eloquence.

  ‘Who were they?’ Stanford asked.

  The girl giggled and walked up to him, stood very close to him, her breasts almost brushing his chest, the rising flesh lightly shadowed. She stared up at Stanford, still smiling, slightly mischievous, arched her spine and stood on tiptoe and raised her hand to his head. Stanford felt sick with longing. He had a hard, pulsating erection. The girl placed the edge of her hand against his forehead and drew it down to his chest. Stanford followed the hand down. He saw the cleft between her breasts. She moved her hand in a cutting motion across his chest, as if marking a line.

  ‘They were all that size?’ Stanford asked. ‘They were small? Is that what you mean?’

  The girl nodded and stepped away. Stanford moved into the shadow. His erection was tight against his pants and he wanted to hide it. The girl moved closer to him. She cupped her left hand in the air. She indicated that the men had been five feet tall, her eyes more expressive. Stanford nodded that he understood. The girl smiled and touched her forehead. She placed her hands around her neck, probably indicating a collar, then ran her delicate hands down her body in two parallel lines.

  Stanford didn’t understand. He was finding it hard to concentrate. The girl’s hands were on her breasts, on her belly, on her thighs, pressing her own hollows and curves and increasing his lust. This wasn’t what she intended. She was trying to tell him something. She waved her left hand in a negative gesure and then tried again.

  Moving her hands down from her throat, drawing them away from one another, she rubbed them over the buttons on her dress as if trying to erase them. Stanford nodded that he understood. He saw the shivering of her breasts. The girl smiled and placed her hands on her shoulders and ran them straight down her sides. Her hands traced her gentle curves. She stooped down and ran her hands along her legs until they touched her bare feet.

  ‘One-piece suits,’ Stanford said. ‘They were wearing one-piece suits. They were wearing some sort of coveralls and you didn’t see buttons.’

  The girl nodded and straightened up, a graceful movement, very sensual, the dress falling back over her legs, rippling over her breasts. She put her thumb back in her mouth. Stanford
saw that she was smiling. She stared at him, her eyes more expressive, perhaps even inviting. Stanford looked her up and down. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wanted to peel the dress from her body and press himself into her.

  ‘Who were they?’ he asked. ‘I need to know where they came from. You know and I believe you can talk and I want you to tell me.’

  Stanford studied her, fascinated, his will destroyed by his erection, trying to gauge what her large eyes were concealing, the room dissolving around him. The girl looked like an adolescent, ragged, unkempt, her feet dirty, her legs burned brown by the sun. Stanford heard the moaning wind. He thought of the moon and stars. The girl stood there, beside the old table, her long legs slightly parted.

  ‘You won’t talk,’ Stanford said. ‘Did they order you not to talk? Did they do something? Why won’t you talk to me?’

  The girl just smiled and sucked her thumb, then started humming a tune. Stanford watched her, mesmerized. He felt totally unreal. The oil lamp on the table burned fitfully, flickering over her face. The girl sucked her thumb and hummed. She rocked languidly to and fro. She was leaning against the table, her hip forming a graceful curve. Stanford wanted to press against her, wanted to feel her tender flesh; he felt dizzy and tense with throttled lust and hardly knew where he was.

  ‘Who were they?’ he asked.

  The girl didn’t reply. Stanford stared at the thumb in her mouth, at her breasts, her curved hip. The shadows flickered across her face, across the tanned skin of her throat, across the cleft of her breasts, her rocking belly, the leg exposed by the open dress. Stanford felt choked with lust. He simply had to step up to her. He stood right in front of her, very close, almost touching, and looked down into her brown, expressive eyes, seeing himself in their dark depths.

  ‘Who were they?’ he repeated. ‘I know you can talk. I need to know where the men came from. I know you can tell me.’

  Looking up, the girl smiled, her thumb still in her mouth, still humming, her body rocking to and fro, her warmth flowing around him. He reached out and placed his hand on her wrist and tugged her thumb from her mouth. She licked her lips in response. Her hand dangled indecisively. She smiled and slid the hand beneath her dress and lightly scratched her right breast. Stanford felt that he was choking. He saw the hand beneath the dress. Her fingers moved up and down, scratching lightly, her palm pressed to the white skin. Stanford’s heart started racing. His sole reality was his erection. He raised his hand and pressed it down on the cloth right above the girl’s hand. He saw her tongue at her lips, his own reflection in her eyes, then he felt her fingers slipping away and his hand cupped her breast.

  ‘Who were they?’ he asked.

  The girl offered no reply. She was still humming contentedly. Stanford felt the breast beneath the thin cotton, very soft, very warm. He pressed gently and felt the nipple. The girl continued humming contentedly. Stanford pulled the dress back and cupped her bare breast in his hand, his palm rubbing the nipple, sliding slowly, pressing down, trying to flatten it. The nipple hardened against his palm. He squeezed the warm, heavy breast. The girl hummed and rocked gently against him, her warmth saturating him.

  The room seemed to be dissolving. Shadows flickered across the walls. Stanford looked down at the eyes looking up. Silence. A moaning wind. His own breathing was too harsh. He took the collar of her dress in both hands and pulled the dress off her shoulders. The girl stopped humming, bit her tongue and smiled at him. Stanford slid his hands along her smooth spine, felt her sweat, tugged her to him. The girl continued smiling. Her belly was pressed against his erection. She just hung there in his arms, bending backward, her hands loose by her sides.

  Stanford looked at her bare shoulders, very smooth, white; he lowered his gaze to drink in her milky breasts, the dark nipples erect. He didn’t kiss the girl’s lips. Her smile was distant, enigmatic. He bent over and pulled her hard against his groin and pressed his lips to her right breast. The girl quivered a little. Stanford kissed her heavy breast. He put his lips around the nipple and sucked it, his tongue licking and stroking. The girl quivered and writhed against him. He felt her hand on his head. She stroked the back of his neck and pulled him down, her breast filling his mouth.

  Stanford didn’t know where he was. He didn’t stop to think about it. He saw lights ascending silently to the sky, blending in with the moon and stars. It was all one and the same. She had known it and belonged to it. Stanford wanted her, he wanted some answers, and she was key to the mystery. He felt the nipple between his lips, sucked and licked it like a child. Her burning groin was pressed against his erection, moving back and forth, teasing. Stanford pressed her sweaty spine. He slid his hands down to her buttocks. He removed his lips from her right breast, slid his tongue across her skin, then took the other nipple in his mouth and let it roll through his teeth. The girl gasped and writhed against him, both her hands at his neck. She ground her belly against his throbbing erection and pulled him closer.

  Stanford pushed her against the table, jerked the dress down her arms; she moved her arms and let the dress fall to her waist, her body sweat-slicked and white. Stanford sucked her breasts and nipples, soaked his lips with her sweat. The girl gasped and placed her hands on his neck and sunk her nails in his skin. Stanford felt her ridged spine, slid his hands up to her shoulders. The girl groaned and fell back and pulled him down, her thighs opening out to him. Stanford knew that he was lost. He spiralled down through a void. The girl was bent back against the creaking table, and he glimpsed the oil lamp. Its light flickered in a darkness. Beyond the darkness there was nothing. The girl opened her thighs and clamped them tight around his hips, and Stanford pushed his erection against her belly, his hands gripping her buttocks. He didn’t think of what he was doing: her writhing form was his whole being. He had lived with her memory for three years and now her touch stripped his senses. He squeezed her buttocks and pressed upon her, kissed her breasts and nipples, slid lower and put his tongue into her navel, his lips sucking the creamy skin. Flickering shadows and light. A moaning wind in the distance. The girl lay back on the table, her thighs clamped around his hips, and he saw the dress tangled around her waist as his tongue licked her belly.

  ‘Yes,’ Stanford groaned. ‘Yes!’

  The girl reached up for his jacket, pulled it down around his arms, and he slipped his hands from under her naked spine to let the jacket fall off. The girl gasped and grabbed his shirt, her fingers tugging at the buttons, her legs coiling around him, her buttocks pressed against the table’s sharp edge, her groin thrusting up into him. Stanford glimpsed the burning lamp, flecks of light in brown eyes, the eyes wild and blind, the pink tongue at her lips, dark hair lying across her tanned face, beads of sweat on her forehead. He groaned and ripped his shirt off. Her hands slithered along his chest. He saw the smooth skin of her throat, the marble shoulders, the heavy breasts, very white, the nipples dark and stiff, the dress around the slim waist.

  The girl writhed and grabbed his belt, undid the buttons on his pants. He saw her parted legs, the golden down of her inner thighs, her dress split above the crotch and falling away from a red patch of panties. He groaned and unzipped his pants, spread his fingers on her belly, very smooth, soft and warm, felt the mound of damp hair, closed his fingers and slid them under her panties as she groped in his pants. Stanford groaned and muttered something. The girl gasped and shook her head. Stanford slid his fingers through the mound of hair, curled them back, felt inside her. The girl gasped and thrust down, her thighs opening and closing, then she tore at his pants and jerked them open and took hold of his cock. He groaned and felt inside her, the moist warmth, the yielding lips, found her clitoris as she pulled his cock out, her fingers closing around it. Stanford felt her sliding fingers, lost himself, became her fingers, thrust himself into the soft glove of her hand, his fingers kneading her clitoris.

  The oil lamp cast light on the table. Around the lamp there was only darkness. Stanford groaned and dissolved, flowing
out into that darkness, becoming one with the darkness and the silence that was torn by her gasping. The girl pulled his foreskin back. Her fingers slid up and down him. He drained out of himself, flowed away and knew only her silky touch. Stanford felt deep inside her. She was wet and warm in there. He jerked his fingers out and tore her panties off, the ripping sound jolting through him. The girl gasped and shook her head, rocking wildly from side to side, her thighs clamped around his hips, her fingers tight around his cock, around his hardness, trying to guide him into her, his tip rubbing her clitoris. Stanford groaned and shuddered violently, grasped her buttocks, squeezed and pulled; the girl pushed herself against him, opened for him, drank him in, became part of him.

  ‘Yes!’ Stanford hissed. ‘Yes!’

  He sank down and brought her with him, his hands clutching her buttocks, kneeling low, letting her slip off the table, her thighs opening wider. Stanford grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her down hard on his cock; the girl gasped and slipped her hands beneath his arms and then clawed at his ribs. Stanford pushed her shoulders back. Her spine was bent in a flowing line. Her breasts were pointing at the ceiling, her brown thighs locked around him, her legs bent back, her feet touching the floor, his cock still deep inside her. Stanford held her sweaty spine. His other hand caressed her breasts. He groaned and lowered her to the floor and then pressed down upon her. She shook her head from side to side, her eyes closed, her mouth open. Her dishevelled hair was coiled across her nose and lips, curled around her pink tongue. Stanford stretched out along her. She opened her thighs and writhed beneath him. She pulled her legs up, her knees level with his shoulders, then slid her hands across his buttocks and squeezed him, hoping to coax him in deeper. Stanford groaned and rolled his hips. He felt her melting around his cock. She was liquid and his cock dissolved within her and he felt himself burning. He spasmed and changed direction, moving from one side to the other. He thrust deeper inside her, touched her center, set her loose, and she gasped and banged her head on the floor and started shuddering under him.