The shades were always drawn. The house was always dark. But it was especially gloomy in the attic where there were no windows, only ventilation slats at the top of the wall that let in scant slits of gloomy light. The attic was small, only five feet high and barely bigger than a walk-in closet. It was meant for storage, but it was Rachel Booker’s bedroom. She was one of seven children living in a three-bedroom house, and when it became obvious that seven children simply couldn’t fit into two bedrooms with all of their meager possessions, Al Booker had cleared out the attic for Rachel, his oldest daughter.
Over time, she had made the attic a more inhabitable place. There was carpet now, that she had tacked down herself, and sheets of plywood nailed to the unfinished walls. She had even taken the trouble to wallpaper it, but it was clumsily done so she covered it over mostly with white sheets that made the room look strangely haunted. There was just enough room for a narrow twin bed and a cardboard box for her clothes. It wasn’t much of a room, but at least she had it to herself.
She stayed up there most of the time, lost in a book, despite the extreme heat or cold depending on the season. In the winter, she propped the trapdoor open to catch some of the heat, but in the summer there was no relief from the sweltering inferno. She dragged up box fans to get some relief, but all it did was push the hot sheets of dry, dusty air around and make her sneeze. Nevertheless, the attic was a safer place than the cooler home below. Safe and sheltered from six siblings who argued constantly and an alcoholic father who had taken more notice of her since she turned eighteen.
She dreamed of getting out of there, of going away to college or finding her own apartment, but her father forbade it. He wouldn’t pay for college, and her grades weren’t good enough to get a scholarship. And she couldn’t get a job without a car, even if he would let her. It seemed she was destined to be trapped up there forever… at least she didn’t hit her head on the ceiling.
Standing on her toes, Rachel was still only four foot ten and ninety pounds soaking wet. She still looked like a child, but she certainly didn’t feel like one.
Al Booker ran a tight ship. He had five daughters, two sons, and no wife. Laura Booker had left years before shortly after the birth of their youngest child, Matthew, who was almost six. It was after Laura left that Rachel had moved into the attic. She was there one stifling day in June, still dripping wet from a cold shower wearing only a towel twisted over her breasts when the trapdoor flew open. She spun around with a gasp, lovely in her own way. Childish looking with no make up and no clothes, but her body argued with the eye.
She was slender yes, but she also had a very curvaceous figure for such a small young woman. She had wide, sensuous hips, high, firm, B-cup breasts, and long, tone, attractive legs that drew the eye. She wasn’t a beautiful girl, but there was something appealing about her wide, innocent brown eyes, and long, soft brown hair. Everything about her was feminine, fragile, and innocent. She was a perfect blend of pretty and plain, pretty enough to attract attention, but plain enough to disappear in a crowd.
Poking his head just inside the trapdoor, Al Booker took in his nearly naked daughter and feigned disapproval. “What are you doing up here dressed like that?” He came through the trap door, stooping because of the low ceiling. Rachel swallowed and backed up until she felt the backs of her knees collide with the edge of her mattress.
“Nothing, I was just getting dressed.” She said sheepishly clinging tighter to her towel. Al frowned and shut the door with a booted foot. Then he crossed the small space to her and she flinched. He sat down on the bed and looked up at her.
“Go ahead then.” He commanded in a soft, dangerous voice. Rachel wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head, staring at him with wide eyes. She had often caught him looking at her before, with an expression she didn’t like, but he had never taken it this far before. She glanced toward the trapdoor wistfully, wondering what to do. “I said go ahead.” Al barked and reached out, wrenching the towel from her grasp. Rachel gasped trying to cover herself, but it was a futile act. Al’s roving brown eyes traveled appreciatively down his daughter’s naked figure. Her nipples, a becoming shade of pink, were puckered from the cold, her flat navel was damp with a sheen of still drying water and her little pussy was a perfect V between her legs dusted with a light brown fuzz that matched her hair. Rachel hurried into a pair of panties, half expecting her father to stop her, but he didn’t.
