Her fluid movement, the way her skirt billowed and her heavy breasts swayed arrested my attention. She was moving along the bank of three-story windows in the office corridor two flights below where my assistant and I were standing on the catwalk. I drew in my breath and started removing her skirt and blouse in my mind, squeezing those luscious breasts in my hands as I pushed her against the window hard and thrust brutally up into her. Listening to her moans as her long blonde hair came tumbling down and those icy blue eyes fired up for me.
"Excuse me, Sir. What . . .?" Roderick had kept on walking when I'd stopped in midsentence and turned to the railing at the glimpse of her. Now, he had turned, though, his eyes searching the corridor below, seeing now what I'd seen—but without the same eyes I had for women.
"Who is that?" I asked simply.
"That's Jennifer, Mr. Talbot."
And then when I didn't react, "Jennifer Hancock. Recently signed on in Marketing and doing very well, too, sir, from what I've heard. You must be very proud."
I tore my eyes from that luscious body and turned my gaze toward Roderick. The remark seemed a strange one to make, and there wasn't anything about Roderick that wasn't straightforward, down to his swishy clothes and limp wrists. Of course there wasn't anything about Roderick that wasn't highly competent organization and total loyalty either. Why would I be proud? Or did he just assume this already was one of my women. I did have a bit of a reputation—well, to be true, a honking big reputation—for skirt chasing. But she wasn't one of my women. She would be, of course. But wasn't yet.
"Jennifer Hancock," Roderick repeated, showing a bit of exasperation perhaps. "Jennifer Hancock . . . your daughter." And then from the look of my reaction. "You didn't know?"
What was he asking, I wondered. I didn't know she was working here, or I didn't know she was my daughter. The truth of that was both, actually. But no one accused me of being a slow thinker, so I worked it out quickly.
"Umm, sorry, Rod. Her appearance is completely out of context. She's from my least successful marriage. Her mother has kept our daughters away from me so long that their mere existence sank into the ether of my wild past, I'm afraid. And, no, no, I didn't know she was working here. So, any success she's having in Marketing has nothing to do with me—and do feel free to let that be known around the company. I'll not have the employees tittering about any of her successes because she's my flesh and blood."
My flesh and blood, I thought, as we continued toward my office with its big windows overlooking whatever cruise ship of mine was in port at the time. I felt guilty, of course, thinking of all the ways I wanted to fuck a woman who turned out to be my own daughter. A taboo I'd never had occasion to think about before. Somehow I had assumed that there would be some mental connection between a father and daughter that would just shut down his sex drive in that direction. But no, I guess not, the papers were full of fathers fucking their daughters. I just never assumed that I . . . But even now, visions of the billowing skirt and pendulous breasts intruded on my thoughts, and I had to concentrate very hard on the problems of running a cruise tour line empire to try to get that young woman out of my mind.
But my mind continued to drift rather than to focus on where the on-board entertainment was coming from for our next South Seas Adventure tour. What was that I'd said to him? Calling my marriage to Gayle Hancock one of my least-successful marriages? That certainly was a sin I'd never live down. It was that first marriage, the one where two worked as one to establish a family and a business, the one that should have worked—and perhaps could have if I'd been able to keep my now-famous dick in my pants.
Marriage. That had been my downfall. I couldn't just fuck 'em and leave 'em. Like the actress, Liz Taylor, so publicly did, I had to marry them if I fucked them—at least in those early years. In the 80s, new exotic places were opening up for American tourism, especially in the Pacific: China, and Australia, New Zealand, and Thailand, and even Vietnam, slowly. My brilliant idea had been to capture this opening and to serve it up by taking the hotels to the attractions, in the form of cruise ships, rather than wait for the infrastructure of resorts and first-rate hotels there to come up to American expectations.
I went off for five years to make my professional mark and to get what eventually became a solid shipping empire established. And I was young and virile in those days—well, I'm still virile, just not that young. I had a woman in every port in those days. I fucked them and then, if I really enjoyed that, I married them and settled down with them as I established my offices in their port—always by local custom—despite the fact that I had a wife, Gayle, and daughters at home in the States already. It was a chore, but I could remember most of them now that I was putting my mind to it. Years and years of not thinking about it, though. There was the delicate but steely in the throes of sex Nguyen Duc Thanh in Ho Chi Minh City (which I still preferred to think of in more exotic terms as Saigon), straightforward lusty fuck Cecelia Honeycut in Sydney, master of the massage Chao Ching Ling in Hong Kong, and the always intriguing Pasharee what-ever-her-unpronounceable-last-name-was in Bangkok.
For five years I was well fucked and frequently married. But when I returned to the States, all set up in business and ready to enjoy the fruits of my hard work with my loving wife and daughters there, I found I had become a bit too famous. The National Enquirer licked its lips in delighted fashion in a layout on my failure just to love and leave them during my East Asia experience, and Gayle dumped me in a very bitter divorce. I don't know what I had resented more—her taking half of the result of all that hard work I'd done or that she was the type to read the National Enquirer.
Not knowing my own daughter just now started me thinking. What if there had been children from the other marriages? Would I not recognize or acknowledge them if there were? And surely there were. I had had a few other marriages with issue here in the States after Gayle divorced me—and I had two by-blow sons as well, both of whom I acknowledged. There was nothing wrong with my sperm count or my sex drive—or, God knows, the frequency of my fuckings; I had become legendary in the corporate world for my womanizing.
