Daddy Crosses The Rubicon Ch 1

I write exclusively for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of other, mature adults of like minds. If you are a minor, fogidaboudit, close the file and move on, for this material is not for your consumption. I hope you, dear mature reader, find the imagery to follow to be to your liking; if so, feel free to heap your praises on my humble head. Otherwise, for you budding critics out there, unless you know what the hell you’re talking about and have some really meaningful, learned criticism that I can put to work making me a better wordsmith, thanks anyway for the thought. Enjoy, TheScribe.

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Chapter 1: The Encounter

It's eight o'clock, Sunday morning. I'm in my office to dictate my notes on an encounter with a potential client that I had a few nights earlier. I have the entire city to myself. Nothing moves on the street; the office is empty. The phone certainly isn't going to ring; it is the perfect time to work without interruption. Now, I'm not enthusiastic about working on Sunday, but, like most lawyers, I do like to get my recollections down and recorded while they are still hot in my mind, and these thoughts certainly fit that description.

I open the unlabeled manila folder on my desk, and, extracting the legal sized canary yellow papers we lawyers are fond of using, begin trying to decipher my nearly illegible script. I read slowly, underlining particularly significant passages, marking others with asterisks, sometimes jotting down additional notes in the margins. Finally, an hour later, I drop the last page onto the pile on my desk and stand to stretch. Whew, I think, that's some story. It's gonna take me all day to get it dictated.

Picking up the microphone, I switch on the Dictaphone and begin:

"OK, Shawna, these are some of those notes you love to transcribe for me, darlin. These are so hot you're going to need to hose off the computer every twenty minutes or it'll bust out in flames. Ha, ha. Just do the usual, double space, don't worry too much about punctuation or spelling, nobody but me's going to see them. My notes are in the folder the tape's attached to. Feel free to use them to help you through the dictation. I tried to follow them straight through except for the part in the middle which I'm going to start with."

I turn off the machine and sit back in my chair, collecting my thoughts before beginning the dictation. Images of the meeting begin to resurface.

It was a rainy evening. It had been a dry summer and the rain was welcome. I was at my desk, working late to research a particularly knotty problem. It was well past six, and sheets of rain were flailing against the office windows. There was a soft, almost hesitant, knock on the outer door, which I nearly missed. Who in the world could it be, I wondered, walking through Shawna's office and the anteroom to unlock the door. You see, my law practice is located in a second floor office with a public entrance on the street downstairs. A long, steep flight of stairs directly connects the office to the street. That's by design, you know. There's an axiom among country lawyers, from whose stock I was bred, that "the steeper the climb, the stronger the case." I've found that to be true, by and large, over the years.

I opened the door cautiously and stepped back immediately, shocked at the sight of the disheveled, miserable figure in the doorway. He was unshaven and unkempt. His clothes were rumpled and soaked, and he was shaking as though chilled clear through. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, and the air about him was thick with the unmistakable smell of alcohol. His hands were trembling, and, I judged him to be in a state of near panic. I asked what business he had with me, and he replied that he needed desperately to talk with someone. I asked it he was in legal trouble and needed a lawyer, or just someone to talk to about his obvious distress. He replied that he was in more trouble than anyone could possibly imagine and needed the best lawyer he could find. I suggested he go home, sleep it off and call me in the morning, if he still felt like talking, but he refused. He said darkly that it was now or never; he had been drinking all afternoon to get up the nerve to come in and he wouldn’t do it again. I relented, of course, or there would be no story to tell, and told him he could have fifteen minutes of my undivided attention.

He sank into a chair by my desk and began to talk, hesitantly in the beginning, but becoming more confident as I listened quietly, speaking only to nudge him along when he lapsed into silence or to clarify an uncertainty in his story. He talked and minutes stretched into hours. It was four in the morning when we finally locked up and descended the stairs to the street. We parted there for good, because I declined the representation. You see I am of the old school and don't take cases in which I have no faith. His story, though titillating in many respects and certainly moving in many others, was so repugnant and vile to me that in the end I was left with no choice but to send him elsewhere.

Though I look back now with some regret and no small sense of responsibility, I am afraid that I sent him away with the warning that along with many of the laws of Man, he had also violated the laws of God and of Nature, and that no defense which I could muster would prove adequate to shield him from the judgments which inevitably were to follow those transgressions. I directed him to an acquaintance who operates a psychiatric sanatorium for the hopelessly addicted, and suggested, somewhat harshly I fear, that what he most required was a sturdy defense of his soul. I am a compassionate man and, as a man, I felt true sympathy for his plight, but as a father I was revulsed.

I understand now, having reviewed my notes and having had time to reflect on the matter, how it is that a good and decent man can fall from Grace, as he did. It need not begin with an evil purpose or intent, but with weakness and a series of lapses of conscience with unforeseen but compounding consequences. As a rule, a good man does not walk to the line and deliberately step across; events conspire to blur the line, or his vision of it. He takes a series of small steps, some forward, others back, none seemingly of great consequence, yet, there comes a time when he looks back whence he came and sees the line clearly and discovers that he is lost.

Sometimes it is the path he takes that dictates the result, and one seemingly innocent step leads to another less innocent step, and so on until the path becomes a swamp and he is caught in the quagmire up to his chin. So it was with my visitor, as you shall see. He began with steps which, in the beginning, were innocent enough to appear innocuous, but those steps brought unforeseen consequences, and, before long, forces over which he had no control were drawing him along. It was his fatal flaw that he wasn't strong enough to stop when it became obvious that he must. He yearned for something, some compensation for his psyche, but had no direction and no compass. Ultimately, he tasted of the forbidden fruit, no, that's wrong; he feasted on it. He became addicted to it and, so strong was it's hold upon him, will likely remain so forever, I suspect.

Picking up the microphone again, I begin:

"Shawna, I’m going to digress here for a moment. You know I usually like to tell a client's story exactly as they tell it to me, but in the middle of the night this guy made a rather extraordinary revelation, the significance of which I've no clue. It was one of those moments like when someone lights a match in a dark room and then blows it out before your eyes adjust to the light and you can figure out where everything is. For continuity's sake, I think it belongs at the top of the notes. I guess he was a little reluctant start his story at this point, especially since we had just met. If you need to, you can find it at about page twenty of my hand written notes. Anyway, here goes. When you're done you can have the rest of the day off and take a cold shower or whatever floats your boat. Sorry about the pun, you'll see what I mean as you transcribe. Enjoy."

The dictaphone hums quietly in the background as I begin to recount the events:

"I recall that in the early morning hours, as his story progressed toward climax, my visitor became increasingly agitated and distressed. He paced the floor, ringing his hands nervously and shaking his head and muttering, sometimes unintelligibly. He eventually came to an uneasy rest by the window and remarked that the rain had finally stopped. He asked if he might have a drink, as the effects of his earlier libations had worn off, and he felt his courage lapsing. I consented, reluctantly, and directed him to the credenza in the corner, from which he proceeded to pour himself a tall tumbler of scotch, which he immediately gulped down. Replenishing his glass, he walked again to the window and stood, silently, looking into the night and sipping. After some considerable interlude, I presume to allow the alcohol to produce the desired effect, without turning his head, he began to speak.

"My mother...." he began haltingly only to stop in mid-sentence, his words trailing off.

"What about your mother," I inquired, some what startled at this abrupt change of direction, for we had established early in the interview that he had left home at the age of fifteen and had had no contact with any of his immediate family since that time. He had been taken in, literally plucked off the streets of Miami, by a Catholic priest with whose assistance and encouragement he managed to complete a college degree.

He took another draught of scotch and inhaled deeply, as though gathering himself for some great effort. "I was remembering the day of my father's funeral."

"Yes, yes," I replied somewhat impatiently at this apparent meander into irrelevancy, "I'm sure that was quite traumatic for you."

He spoke softly, almost inaudibly, and with a hollow voice, devoid of inflection or animation. "Yes, it was. I was eleven at the time. It was a winter day, nothing at all like today, rain alternated with snow, and the wind drove ice crystals like splinters into exposed flesh. My father had died suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a complete shock to everyone, especially my mother. He was buried in the afternoon during a heavy snow. We rode to the cemetery, my mother and I, in one of those black limousines. She held my hand, stroking it with her black gloved hand, and telling me everything would be alright, but I knew nothing was ever going to be the same.

Later that afternoon we returned home and after the last of the mourners had left, the house seemed cavernous and empty. Silent sadness gathered in the gloomy corners like cobwebs, smothering out any remembrance of the laughter that previously had brightened those rooms. My father was a musician, you see, a cellist, who played with the symphony, and he had many, many friends. Acquaintances, friends, awe struck admirers and some insatiable partygoers were constantly dropping by with flowers and champagne, or their instruments, or just wistful looks of adoration, and the house was constantly filled with music, gaiety and the electricity of excited conversation. Those voices were stilled, and I wondered if they would ever return.

My mother, her composure steadfast, sat silently, watching the fire burn out in the front parlor grate. I sat opposite, observing her, remaining still as death myself, afraid to move lest some unforeseen act on my part might cause her to die suddenly and take her from me also.

As the daylight failed and the mantle clock began to toll, she turned from the fire and spoke to me, "Come Donald, let us give you a bath and see to some supper, young man." She was an imperious woman, tall and commanding in appearance, though not at all unpleasant to look at. She had a manner, particularly in times of stress or anxiety, of speaking in a theatrical tone, stretching out the pronunciation of my name to two or three times what would ordinarily be required to gain my attention. I suppose there are those who would explain this behavior as the taking on of "airs."

"Donnnnnnaaald?" she repeated, "are you listening to me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, come on." And, with that, she stood and extended her hand expectantly for mine. She led me upstairs to the bath, where she directed me to undress, while she changed her clothes. She returned wearing a dressing gown and filled the great tub with steaming water. She instructed me to get in, and, after I had done so, she began, wordlessly, washing me from head to toe. She spent rather longer at this task than I thought the accumulation of soil at my father's funeral required, but eventually she was satisfied that I was clean, and she directed me to dry off, put on the terry robe hanging on the door and come to her room which adjoined the bath.

I did as she directed, and upon entering her room found her sitting at her dressing table admiring herself in her mirror and slowly brushing her long hair. The only illumination came from two candles on her dressing table. Her face, freshly made up with rouge, and lipstick, eye shadow, mascara and eyeliner, looked to me to be remarkably beautiful in that low, flickering light.

Observing my reflection in the mirror, she turned and bade me approach. She reached and took my hands into her own and drew me closer to her, pulling me between her knees. Her dressing gown parted somewhat to reveal her black lace brassiere and matching panties. I was struck by the contrast of her milky white belly and thighs with the darkness of her undergarments, as I had never seen her in such a state of undress. Her lack of modesty was disturbing and made me uneasy.

She placed her hands on either side of my face and drew me close to her. I could smell her perfume and see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, which her makeup had failed to conceal. Her lips were a deep crimson with lipstick applied so thickly that no hint of crevice or induration appeared. She spoke slowly, making her voice heavy with the gravity of the occasion, all the while pinching my face between her hands.

"Dooonnnnaallld, my darling, it is just you and me now. We have suffered a grievous loss that is most painful to bear, but we must bear it, Dooonnnallld. We must go on from here. From this day, you will be the man of this house; you will be my little man, Doonnalld, and you will take the place of your father.”

Her words poured like honey from a jar, slow and thick with promise of things I could not imagine. I looked into her eyes, liquid pools of brown, whites reddened by the day's many tears, her pupils dilated, nearly absorbing completely the surrounding irises, but she returned my gaze blankly and I could not discern her meaning or intent.

"You will do that for me, won't you Donald?" she continued. Without waiting for a response, because she knew I could refuse her nothing, she turned to the table and picked up an eyebrow pencil. Cupping my chin in her hand she lifted my face, tilting it up toward hers, and said, "Look at me, darling, and be still," and, continuing to no one in particular, "I must make my little man as beautiful as possible, mustn't I?" She applied eye liner and eye shadow deftly, with a practiced hand, followed by blush and lipstick, which she put on with a thin tipped brush, accentuating the cupid's bow of my upper lip in crimson. She paused from time to time to admire her work, and the transformation of a boy into a woman. Indeed, she smiled and said that I was becoming ever more beautiful with every stroke of the brush, and that she had made me up to be as pretty as any girl my age.

Her breathing became slightly labored as the effects of the transformation emerged. Her lips parted slightly; she leaned back to examine her handiwork, and, nodding with satisfaction at the result, licked her lips wetly. Her hands, empty for the moment, reached to my shoulders and pushed the robe down, over my arms, letting it drop in a pool at my feet. I was only mildly discomfited by my nudity; modesty was not a virtue or vice which I was yet old enough to embrace.

Her eyes traversed the length of my body, examining every crook and cranny with an almost preoccupied air of indifference. My thin arms hung loosely by my side; my narrow chest dropped straight away to equally narrow hips supported on spindly legs, which, I suppose in retrospect, actually looked to be fragile. My tiny penis hung limply from a hairless groin. There was no hint of hair any where on my body except, of course, for my head where there grew a longish mop of shoulder length brown hair, which mother had stubbornly refused to allow me to have cut in the current fashion.

She dipped a brush into a flat container of rouge and brought it to my nipple. With her strokes carefully staying within the lines, she darkened the skin of the aureole with the cosmetic. I stared down in shocked curiosity, while she applied rouge to my other nipple and, picking up her lipstick brush, applied a coating of ruby lipstick to the tiny knots of my nipples. My mind was a welter of confused thoughts and emotions. Bewildered, yet not entirely displeased by the rather pleasant, though unfamiliar, sensations these ministrations were producing, I looked at her inquiringly, but her mind and gaze are elsewhere, and I was rebuffed without uttering the question. Her hand descended to grasp my limp penis. She took it into her hand like a somnolent mouse, laying it across her cupped fingers and stroking its length with her thumb. I jerked involuntarily at her unexpected touch, but she said nothing and continued. Her tongue swept her upper lip. She took my member between her thumb and forefinger, pulling the head up to look directly into the tiny eye at the tip. Holding me thus, she turned the attention of her lipstick brush to the tiny glans and with tantalizingly slow strokes began to coat the head of my member with crimson.

My little cock twitched and began a slow rise to my inaugural erection. Frightened, dumbfounded and confused at the turn of events, I squealed, "Mother!"

He was standing, framed in the window, as the shriek, Mother, exploded from his lips. His head dropped forward, his chin falling onto his chest like that of a firing squad victim upon receiving the volley. His shoulders rolled inward and his back sagged; he was visibly diminished. I thought for a moment that he had fainted and was about to fall, but was stayed from moving to his assistance when I notice his hands were clenched and shaking. Settling back in my chair, I watched as the sobbing wretch struggled with what must have been unspeakable images and memories. At length he regained his composure and turned toward me to ask in an emotion choked, voice, "Where was I?"

"You were telling me of your mother..." I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand, saying, "No, no, I mean before that." After that, no amount of coaxing could induce him to return to the subject of his mother and the events on the day of his father's funeral, but eventually he recovered sufficiently to resume telling of the sequence of events which precipitated his visit to me.

"OK, Shawna, you still with me? Now that we have that admittedly opaque prologue out of the way, let's get on with the rest of the story. You know me, darlin, I tell it exactly like it was told to me, without judgment, embellishment or expurgation. So cinch up your girdle, hon. I think you'll agree that it reveals the irresistibly seductive power of carnal lust and the insidious manner by which it asserts itself over the unwary. Sure hope you're not one of the unwary ones."

To Be Continued...