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Message-ID: <31792asstr$996869402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Alan C. McDonald" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Six Degrees Of Separation 2 - The Roots That Clutch (MF)
Date: Fri,  3 Aug 2001 16:10:02 -0400
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Hi again.

You should probably read Part 1 first. It's archived at ASSTR.

If you're into pedo, skip this. You won't like it. It's pretty anti.

SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION 2 - THE ROOTS THAT CLUTCH
By Alan C. McDonald

April 1998

It was Mary's vulnerability, Andrew supposed, which had always attracted
him. In that sense, she wasn't like the other girls at all. Mixing
seemed a labour to her, the simple pursuit of dancing even more so. He'd
never seen anyone ask her onto the floor, and he'd never heard anyone
explain why not. People simply ignored her. It was as though she passed
into their perception so slowly that they saw her as having never been
there, or as having always been there. Only once had her presence been
the subject of an incident, and all that had been forgotten now, except
by Andrew.

One night, her father had come to take her home from the club, way
earlier than normal. There had been an exchange of words. He had pulled
at her arm, and she had resisted. It had all been very uncool. Andrew
hadn't heard much of the conversation, but he'd known from something
said earlier that her mother had been away that weekend on an Open
University session. He had theorised that the father was nervous of
responsibility, that he had wanted his daughter back in his line of
sight as soon as possible, and Andrew had thought this unfair. After
all, Mary had been visiting the Paperhouse night club for at least three
months by then, and usually left at one thirty, not twelve thirty.
Andrew knew that because Andrew had often watched her come and go.

Only tonight, incidentally, had he realised why he watched. Only tonight
had he had hit upon her vulnerability as the key. Previously, the
attraction had confused him.

Not that there was anything wrong with Mary in the looks department, and
she dressed reasonably well, although never to the height of fashion and
never revealingly. Because of these characteristics, he'd concluded that
she was strictly parented long before the father's midnight visit.

Another thing that she rarely wore was a smile. She was animated at
times, though, and her long brown hair would sway aggressively as she
made points to her usual companion, an overweight blonde named Delyse.

In contrast to Delyse, Mary definitely wasn't overweight. She was better
described, in fact, as a waif. Andrew always wondered about her eating
habits.

The night of her father's visit had been the first and only time that
Mary had been the subject of conversation in the group. Andrew had hung
back from that conversation, particularly because the only thing he
would have been able to contribute was rather unwholesome, and might
have started a rumour.

His diificulty arose from the fact that he had heard Mary's father
railing on at her about making the most of opportunity. Andrew had put
that together with Mary's mother's absence, and had briefly visited an
appalling conclusion, which he had since dismissed. There were after
all, he had reasoned, other obvious interpretations of the situation.
Father getting her home early, for example, so that she could be out of
bed early, then off on a trip - parent and child together. Putting the
occurences and available facts in that basket meant that the basket was
equally full. With such logic, Andrew was able to lock the monster back
in its cage and all was right with the world for him again.

*****

Tonight was Mary's sixteenth birthday. It was a subdued event, it
seemed, because apart from Delyse, there were only two other girls
present. He recognised neither, but he did recognise easily in both of
them a wish to be elsewhere.

He noted that the party dress which Mary wore had too many frills. It
was a father's choice. And the new hairstyle was too affected. These
things confirmed, for Andrew, a need to act.

He had decided over the previous two weeks that she required saving, and
that he was the one to do that saving. As he observed her restrained
celebration, he became surer of his conclusions than ever before.

He watched her move to the bar, and he followed her, knowing that he
increased his chances if he talked to her without the ever present
Delyse, and conscious that now was the only version of that position
which might be available.

He settled beside Mary, glanced at her, caught a line of her vanilla
perfume. She was overfragranced, but he liked that. Vanilla excited him,
eliciting a memory of an old romance. It was an association made in his
brain, like baking bread with hunger.

He continued to study her as she waited to order, until she registered
that he was studying her. And when she turned slightly, he pounced.

"Happy birthday", he said. "Why don't you let me buy these?"

"Thank you", she replied, colouring slightly. "And yes, why don't I?"

He extended a hand. "Andrew", he told her.

Her grip in return was light. "Mary. I've seen you around."

Things went well after that. He accompanied her back to her table, where
he was presented to the ballooning blonde as well as to the misery
twins, who, he then learned, rejoiced, or more likely didn't, under the
names Melanie and Lucy. Ten minutes later, said misery twins drifted off
to a claimed prior engagement. Even more promisingly, five minutes after
that Delyse took the huff at lack of attention from Mary and drifted
into the background.

Andrew steered Mary out on to the dance floor. She was clearly
uncomfortable, and that worried him a little. The implication was that
she was merely going with a pleasant and unexpected flow, whereas he'd
wanted to provoke a more honest and upfront attraction.

His concerns didn't prevent him kissing her, of course, and that first
kiss was a hit for him. She enlivened his body, thickened the part of
him that few women could affect without touching it. And very soon,
because Mary adapted with a fluidity which surprised even him, the dance
outside the dance speeded up. The kisses became more frequent and the
caressing began - or rather, he began it, and Mary didn't object.

Later, in a dark corner of the club, she permitted him to touch a
breast. He felt the nipple harden slightly beneath the silk of her
dress.

"I want to make love with you", he whispered in her ear. "I need to make
love with you. You're the sexiest girl I've ever met."

His intent was cynical. He was setting down a marker, in the hope of
seeing her again within the next few days and cashing it in. But
cynically intended or not, the compliment which concluded his words held
some truth, and that truth strengthened when he saw her reaction, a
colouring in her cheeks which indicated surprise and pleasure. Clearly
she was unused to flattery.

No reply from her was necessary, or indeed expected. He had expressed a
wish, and it could be acknowledged by a squeeze or a kiss. But Mary
startled him by aknowledging more directly.

"I wish we could", she said. "But there's nowhere to go, and I've only
got an hour left."

Andrew liked to believe that he could usually think on his feet, but
this time he struggled. Had he been chatting up a different kind of
girl, a less sedate girl, he would have hoped for just the sort of
brazen response that Mary had given and would have instantly taken
advantage. It took him a few seconds to realise that he should do
precisely that in any event. Looking in the mouths of gift horses wasn't
Andrew's style at all. Mary was indicating willingness. Not following
that up would be a real waste.

"An hour's a start", he told her, the fingers of his right hand skipping
through her hair. And listen. There's a covered storage area behind the
building. Nobody ever goes down there at night, but there's a staff
door, and it's usually unlocked. I'm not trying to press, Mary. You've
only met me tonight, I know that. But I can't help how I feel. At least
we could talk in private down there."

"Fine", she agreed. "Let's do it."

Except, Andrew reflected, the response didn't sound like agreement. It
sounded more like submission.

Common decency suggested that he take a step back, check the ground that
he was proposing to walk on for potholes. But the gift horse's shrill
whinny was loud in his ears, drowning Mr. Common Decency out.

So Andrew reached for her hand, and she gave it willingly.

*****

He led her round past the bar. He encouraged her through the door which
he had described to her. Down a few steps, and they were into the open
air.

She followed without a second thought.

She followed in silence.

*****

Privacy achieved, he turned her to face him, and he kissed her, long and
deeply, his tongue searching behind her teeth. She responded in kind,
clutching his bottom, her eagerness in deed dissipating his concern that
he was taking advantage of her.

*****

The storage area was used for incoming goods, such as crates and beer
kegs. Bordered by walls on three sides and a large gate on the fourth,
with a roof covering all but the strip nearest to the club, it was a
perfect location for consummation of one nighters. And one nighters for
Andrew were something of a habit.

Mary's failure to ask him how he knew such a convenient secret suddenly
occurred to him, and again he wondered about her self-image. As a
result, chivalry did finally win out, after a fahion. "Are you sure
about this?", he asked. "I mean, really sure?"

Mary merely shrugged.

Again, Andrew struggled to rationalise. Her comments and gestures seemed
to say that this wasn't really all that exciting for her, that she didn'
t really care what happened here, but that nonetheless she'd do whatever
she was called upon to do and would do it with a willing commitment. It
was as though her key concern was to please him, as though her own
desires, if any, were subsidiary. And he hated that, with a will,
because it spoke of oppression. It implicated her parents, who as far as
he knew were the only people with influence over her, in the syphoning
of her spirit.

He swallowed the restraining thought, fighting it down as though it was
bile. Chivalry be damned, he decided. Such things could wait.

He returned to kissing her, forcing his tongue intimately against hers,
and as before she responded with energy. Not only that, but a hand
lowered to cup his testicles, a finger tracing upwards along the line of
his zip. He enjoyed the notion that she was teasing him, and he in turn
found her left breast, kneading it, feeling again the nipple against the
palm of his hand.

The bud was as aroused as before but by no argument hard. He ignored
that warning sign too. Time was at a premium. He told himself that given
better circumstances, he could have taken her to the very edge before
considering himself, and that the opportunity to do so would come. Then
he rationalised that the then current circumstances were what they were.
Lost opportunity, a phrase he knew to be in Mary's father's vocabulary,
was not, Andrew decided, going to stray into his.

He had already noted the presence of a packing case which seemed sturdy
enough to support some weight, and which stood a couple of feet to their
left. He maneouvred her in that direction, whispering to her, "Come on,
Mary. Come on, love."

Again, she co-operated without objection.

He sat down on the case, then reached beneath her dress, pulled at the
hem of her knickers. She spread her legs slightly to make it easier for
him, and he rolled the garment down to her knees. She stepped free of
it.

He pulled her towards him and she moved obediently, simultaneously
placing the knickers, compressed into a white cotton ball, in the middle
of the case.

Hauling her onto his knee, Andrew then reached beneath her, unfastening
his belt, unzipping, looping his boxers beneath his balls, releasing
what was by now a strong, full erection. As he worked, he felt her
moisture against the back of his hand.

When he was done, he pushed beneath her buttocks, so that she would
raise herself slightly, and as soon as she did, he adjusted his cock to
the required angle. He brought the head into contact with the slick
surface of her vagina, fiddling until he had purchase within her inner
lips. Then he spread his fingers over her dress at hip level, indicating
with slight pressure that she should lower herself, that the time had
come for her to give the thing that she had all but promised.

She sank down. Her cunt half enclosed him on the first push, and
completely sheathed him on the second. Then she started to fuck him, not
too quickly, not too slowly, a steady, determined rhythm that he knew
would suck him to climax in short order. Her hands went to his shoulders
for purchase, and she dug her nails in slightly, causing him to cry out.
It was rough, she was skilful, and he loved it. She was also very tight,
but he noted that some of that tightness was a result of limited
lubrication. Oh, she was wet. But it wasn't the wetness of a woman
completely out of control.

He looked up into her eyes, and saw an odd concentration there, a lack
of abandon. He read this as a complete and cool understanding on her
part of what was happening.

In reaction, as though recognising what she was exposing, Mary ducked in
towards him, locking her lips to his. Her sweet bacardi breath hissed
into his throat, and, excited by that, he locked his arms around her
lower back and started to heave up into her, employing a force at least
equivalent to that which she was using in rocking down onto him.

It occured to Andrew that in some ways, if he ignored her lack of
emotional involvement, he was experiencing the best sex of his life. He
also knew that the experience would momentarily be over, and he
regretted that, but then such was the tone which she had set.

Tension built in his balls and back, and with a cry, he pulled Mary even
closer, stilling her movement. Then, sliding forward and up to entirely
impale her, he ejaculated powerfully and satisfyingly, jetting his seed,
he was sure, right up into her womb.

The kiss continued. Silence lay between them.

In the end, it was Andrew who broke away. But only to tell her
breathlessly, "Mary, love. That was really, really good."

He tried then to return his lips to hers, enjoying the after coitus
tenderness. But she didn't allow that to happen. Instead, she pushed
against him, lifted free of him, reaching for and retrieving her
knickers as she stood. At first, of course, she stood a little
unsteadily.

"I'm glad", she said once she was on her feet. "I'm glad it was."

Her sudden move had caught Andrew by surprise, and he hustled his
clothing back together, unaccountably embarrassed at the fact that he
was still exposing himself to her. By the time he looked up, she was
flattening down the front of her dress, and the knickers were nowhere to
be seen. Her dexterity in concealing obvious clues to what she had been
up to was, he seemed to know intuitively, a skill learned in unhappy
circumstances, but he could interpret no further than that.

Andrew took both of her hands in his, held her a short distance from
him. "We should talk", he said, knowing that he would sound like he was
giving her a line, when in truth he wasn't. He did want to get to know
her a little bit better. He did want to to overlay the sex with a
recollection of a prettily coloured personality.

But Mary was still not co-operating with his whims. "Not tonight", she
insisted. "Some other night. You're forgetting my dad, Andrew. We need
to get back in the club."

Yes, Andrew realised, he was forgetting her dad. It wouldn't be very
fair to let her be caught out here. And it wouldn't, he suspected, be
very safe for him if she was caught out here. "Okay", he allowed. "But I
'll hold you to some other night. I don't feel like I know anything
about you. I want that to change."

She nodded. "There's not much to tell", she assured, and it was clearly
a lie. "But yes. Next time, maybe. If you do decide that you want there
to be a next time, of course. I'm not counting on it."

He was offended by the comment. Only later did he realise that he should
not have been, that his reputation, which would no doubt have been known
to her, would naturally encourage doubt.

Only later, too, did he recall the wistfulness with which she had
spoken.

And only much later did he look back and recognise what the comment had
truly been. An expression of her desperation to have a normal life. A
confirmation that his interest in her had brought that desperation to
the fore. Evidence that she had fucked him in the hope of trapping him,
of claiming him, if only for a brief time, if only to give her a chance
of escape. He would finally recognise, in that same much later time,
that she'd hoped to use him as her flimsy excuse. "I'm leaving", she'd
have planned to tell her mother. "I've got a boyfriend. We're thinking
about moving in together."

And that might have served. That might have saved her. Luckily for him,
Andrew would always doubt it.

All that, of course, was to come. Back then, Andrew felt only hurt.

But he tried to hide it. "Tomorrow", he suggested. "How about tomorrow?"

"I'll ask my dad", Mary volunteered.

"You do that", he recommended. "And I'll be here. At the club. Waiting
for you."

She kissed him again, ever so lightly, to seal the deal. It was
probably, he thought, her most honest kiss of the evening. Then she
said, "Let's go in. Please. He might be here already."

Andrew nodded.

*****

Unfortunately, Mary's remark was prophetic.

When Andrew pushed open the door to the club, the noise cranked up
twentyfold, and the lights briefly dazzled him. By the time his senses
adjusted to the restored assault and by the time he could distinguish
individual figures in the chaos of a dim illumination punctuated by
reckless and occasional strobes, it was too late for the couple to
distance themselves from one another, too late for them even to
disengage hands, too late for Andrew to close the door. Mary's father
was already looming over them.

"You dirty little bastard", the man seethed at Andrew. "You fucking
dirty little bastard."

Mary was shaking. Her horror transmitted itself to Andrew, absorbed it
seemed through his skin. As a result he was nervous, not entirely sure
that he could handle such a big, angry opponent if the confrontation
came to blows. Normally, he knew, such size wouldn't have bothered him,
and he'd have been cocky - the man was, after all, older, slower, and a
lot of his weight was body fat. But fear was a virus, and Andrew was
suddenly sick.

"We've been out for air", he tried, as anxious for Mary's good name as
he was for his physical safety. "No more than that."

As soon as he said the words, he knew that they wouldn't be enough.

*****

Mary's father punched out and caught Andrew square on the jaw. Andrew
had seen the blow coming, but he hadn't wanted to believe what his eyes
were telling him. He staggered back against the door frame. Blood
squirted onto his shirt, a tooth having cut his mouth.

Now he was angry. Now he was ready to fight. But as he prepared to
launch himself at his assailant, Mary stepped in front of him.

"Don't", she requested. "Please, Andrew. Don't. I'm going with him. It
can't be helped."

Andrew seethed. He wondered if she was aware that her intervention
served as more of a blessing to her father, who was locked now into a
defensive posture and who appeared, if the truth be known, to be ready
to run.

"He needs a lesson", Andrew sulked. "Not because he hit me. Because of
the way he's treating you. He shouldn't treat you like that."

Mary's father touched her arm. "Come on", he said, and there was a
wheedling gentleness in his voice. "Come on, love. You know this was a
mistake."

Opportunity. The word roared back into Andrew's brain. Sympathy and
disgust overwhelmed him as his once discarded interpretation of that
word became instead the only viable one.

"You're fucking her, aren't you?", he exploded at the nervous man. "You'
re fucking your own daughter, you vile old bastard."

He regretted the words instantly. To be fair, the look of horror on Mary
's face would have been enough to produce that regret, but the look wasn
't all that he had to contend with. He registered, too, a communal
intake of breath, and now he was aware of his audience, aware that, even
though the music continued to pound, his voice had nonetheless carried
some distance. He saw familiar faces, unfamiliar faces, some looking at
him. All bore the same look of pained, pitying shock. And those who were
not staring at him were giving full attention to Mary.

There is a type of silence which can overwhelm noise. For a few awful
seconds, Andrew was part of such a thing. He wondered how to break it,
wanted to break it. Then, Mary did it for him. Without so much as
sparing him an accusatory glance, she turned on her heel and elbowed her
way into the crowd. Within seconds, she had disappeared.

Her father didn't follow her. Neither did Andrew follow her. Instead,
the two men continued to face off.

The crowd closed slightly.

Mary's father took a step forward, and Andrew raised an arm in self
defence. But the other man had something other than violence in mind.
Instead and amazingly, he seemed to want sympathy.

"It's not what you think", he said. "It's more complicated. Honestly it
is. You wouldn't understand. It's hard to understand. But it's not what
you think."

Andrew was furious at even having to deal with such revolting
supplication. "It never is", he spat back. "And I can't grant you
absolution anyway, pal. I wouldn't if I could, but I can't. Go to Mary
for that."

The man seemed to consider this. Then he shrugged. "No, you can't", he
agreed, before turning, now a shambling figure, to follow the route that
his daughter had taken. Andrew noted with some satisfaction that the
crowd did not part as easily for the father as it had for the daughter.

*****

And that was the end of the affair for Andrew, really.

He didn't see Mary again. She never came to the club, an absence which
he deemed to be both understandable and as much his fault as her father'
s.

But Andrew never saw her in the street after that night, and he never
saw her at the supermarket, and he never saw her in any other location
where he had in the past caught an occasional glimpse of her. It was to
all intents and purposes as though she had vanished from the surface of
the planet.

About two weeks after the incident at the Paperhouse, a fact arrived
within public consciousness, getting there, as facts often do, by
apparent osmosis. The fact was that Mary's father had been arrested, and
whilst the reasons had not been made public, no-one who had been at the
club that night harboured any doubt about what those reasons would be.
Andrew thought that the arrest was an outcome to be celebrated, and
knowing that the ugly scene by the dance floor and his shouted
accusation had probably started the wheels turning towards that arrest
made him feel better still about it. He felt no guilt until six months
later, when he heard that Mary had left home.

He had been intending to call round to see her throughout those six
months, but it had been a vague intent, a low priority in a busy life.
Too late, he was consumed by guilt, and he lived badly with himself for
quite some time. But then he forgot the guilt, and Mary became no more
than a story for him to tell. No more than a cautionary tale.

Later still, he became famous for a year or two, and morality lost its
clarity for him, condemnation its sharp but pleasant taste. The story
too got forgotten then, lost in his labyrinthine, alcohol-sodden mind.
And thus it was that Mary disappeared even in the least important
places.


Copyright Alan C. McDonald 2001

Comments welcome at alancmcd@lineone.net

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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