Daddies Taboo

by Iona Nixon

  An adolescent Khmer boy sat down at the table on the other side of Lynnette. "Joom reeup soo-ah," she murmured in his direction, "hello, Haing." She looked back toward her husband. "So what are you saying?"

  "That we need to be able to replicate and create sustainability in what we've done with the kids here in Siem Reap. We know how to raise the funding for capital costs and ongoing support for an orphanage; we can identify and select the kids in need; we know how to set up educational programs to supplement what they get in school, and to reach out to the surrounding community; we understand many of their physical and emotional and spiritual needs -- but we can't be the only ones throwing the starfish back into the ocean."

  "So what do you propose?"

  "That we bring others into the fray -- a small, dedicated cadre of starfish-throwers, who in turn teach others to become starfish-throwers. It ties straight back into recent Cambodian history. The Khmer Rouge devastated the country by targeting the leaders for execution. The country has never fully recovered. We need to identify and teach young adults who can become leaders. Not just leaders of orphanages, but leaders for society."

  "And how do we find them?"

  "We already have a lot of contacts, and we keep on networking to find more, just like we did to find claims administrators for the wildly successful charitable insurance venture with GARP."

  "And how do we get them to throw starfish?" Lynette asked.

  "We spend time with them, building their intellectual, emotional and spiritual DNA -- just like we do with the kids here at 'Haven of Grace,' who will eventually become leaders in their own right. And we learn from them at the same time, just like with the kids. But the reality is, we'll need to hire many of the young adults -- good will doesn't put food on the table. Some of them might become house parents, starting here with 'Haven of Grace' and spreading throughout the country as we start new orphanages. But principled leaders are needed in other arenas -- especially the government..."

  * * * * * * * *

  "My organization's methods are not without precedent," intoned Sokren solemnly, "it is their application that is somewhat unprecedented." The old woman leaned toward the stage and adjusted her hearing aid. An uncomfortable silence filled the crowded room.

  "As Ta Jeff was fond of saying, 'Understanding the risk is not sufficient; acting on it is the moral imperative.' Nowhere is this truer than in the risk exposures giving rise to human suffering..."

  * * * * * * * *

  Shredded cardboard was strewn across the main table in the "Haven of Grace at Tbeng Meanchey" educational building. A glint of late evening sunlight cast long shadows across the room. The building's lone occupant was hunched over a set of instructions written in English. The various contents of the demolished box were lined up on the table in front of him. He turned his graying head as the door opened.

  "Jeff, what sort of contraption is that?" asked Lynnette. The boy at her side walked toward the table.

  "Joom ree-up soo-ah," smiled Jeff, "hello, Sokren. Hey, Lynnette!"

  "I asked you a question, Jeff," she scolded good-naturedly.

  "It's a bio-sand filter. It was originally developed by a fellow named David Manz. An old church buddy of mine introduced me to him by email. Dr. Manz co-founded a group in western Canada calling themselves the Centre for Affordable Water and Sanitation Technology, or CAWST for short."

  "And you, being the wise, not-so-young man that you are, recognize the need for affordable water and sanitation technology in a remote place like Tbeng Meanchey."

  "Something like that. It's going to be the next global crisis."

  "Water?"

  "Yep. Oil shortages are nothing in comparison. With all the environmental shortcuts that poorer countries take in fostering development, their supplies of clean, fresh water will become virtually non-existent if nothing is done about it. Disease and death follow close behind. And my mortality studies become useless artifacts for their intended purpose."

  "So what's one bio-sand filter going to do?"

  "You're wanting to hear the starfish analogy again?"

  "No. I'm figuring my brilliant hubby has a grander plan."

  "Why do you smirk when you say that?" teased Jeff. The boy sitting beside him smiled silently in response. Jeff continued, "As a matter of fact, my dear bride, I'm taking a very close look at the technology, and trying to figure out a way to replicate it with everyday materials available here in Cambodia. I'll then check back with Dr. Manz to see if it holds water -- no pun intended."

  Lynnette noticed that his boyish grin momentarily erased years from his facial features.

  "And then what?" she queried.

  "If successful, we can show the construction and use of them to the house parents at each of the 'Haven of Grace' centers, and to all of the leaders-in-training under the umbrella of our 'Preah Vihear Project.' They can host classes for the surrounding villages. Like Joe Namath's girlfriends on the old Breck shampoo commercials -- 'they tell two friends, and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on, and so on.' It just seeps across the country -- again, no pun intended."

  This last comment earned him a well-placed jab of Lynnette's elbow into his mid-section.

  He wrapped his arms around her, trapping the renegade elbow, and placed a tender peck on her pink, sunburned cheek. Young Sokren turned away in flushed embarrassment and fled the scene.

  Jeff took Lynnette and placed her on his lap. "I feel that," she chided. His erection was pressing against her bottom through the layers of both their clothes.

  "So what're you gonna do about it?" he asked hopefully.

  "Depends on how much time you have," she deliberately tempted him.

  "I think I can call it a day," he replied.

  "Good," she cooed, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to settle for giving you a blow job and sending you back to work. I want to feel that thing inside me, where it can do some real damage."

  They held hands as they walked toward their hut.

  * * * * * * * *

  "Enterprise risk management is not just about correlation matrices and copulas," continued Sokren, his voice beginning to rise with passion. "Diversification of risk can only go so far. When the remaining risk profile is still unacceptable, something further must be done. In the case of financial risks, that 'something' may involve hedging strategies. For insurance claims risks, it may involve reinsurance techniques. For the risks associated with systemic poverty and disease, the solution involves investment in human capital. That is what the Preah Vihear Project is all about -- identifying key societal risk exposures and training leaders to take action to mitigate them ..."

  * * * * * * * *

  "Hospitals -- and knowledgeable people to staff them," Jeff uttered through a hacking cough. He rolled over on the mat that he and Lynnette shared as a bed. She sat beside him, mopping his forehead with a moist cloth. Sokren stood next to her, holding a bucket of clean water, the product of a Cambodian-made bio-sand filter.

  "Save your strength, dear," whispered Lynnette.

  "Yes, Ta Jeff," added a teen-aged Sokren, "please."

  "Just a minute -- let me speak what's on my mind. This isn't about me or my illness. It's about the future of the 'Preah Vihear Project.'"

  "What do you want to say, dear?"

  "They need not be Harvard or Yale graduates. Just sensible people with basic training in the key health risk exposures of the region -- how to avoid them, and how to treat them. What do you think, Sokren?"

  "I think you are a wise man, Ta Jeff."

  Jeff's eyes moved from Sokren to Lynnette. "You remember the quote from the Psalms?" he rasped, pausing briefly to cough again. "It's the heart of wisdom that matters -- not the number of years."

  "Fifty-eight is too few," she replied quietly, gazing at him tenderly through misty eyes.

  Sokren's sadness drove him from the hut. Lynnette climbed onto the mat beside her husband to comfort him. Even in his weakened state, Jeff began to massage her breasts through
her satin top.

  "Please, save your strength, dear," she pleaded with him.

  "We agreed from the start that we'd never deny each other -- that's straight out of the Bible."

  "I know, sweetheart. It's not that I don't WANT you. It's that I don't want to LOSE you."

  "Then don't let me go until I'm gone."

  She understood immediately. She silently acknowledged by her actions the truth in his words. Her hand began caressing his manhood through his loose-fitting pants. As dusk began to settle upon the room, Jeff's body coursed with a familiar response to his wife's nearness and availability.

  Within minutes, they were both naked. She protected his strength by exerting the energy to remove not only her own but also his clothes. She straddled his erect penis after sucking it both to full expansion and for lubrication. His physical afflictions were momentarily forgotten as she sank down onto his dick, taking his full length and girth into her vagina. She began rocking up and down on his shaft as he massaged her breasts. She encouraged him to remain still while she gently fucked him. She was intent on taking the brunt of the physical exertion while sharing the explosion of mutual bliss.

  * * * * * * * *

  "The Preah Vihear Project's approach is not transactional in nature," exclaimed Sokren.

  Many in the hotel crowd were now beginning to fidget. Sokren's speech was noticeably over the time allotted on the program agenda. But Lynnette sat listening in rapt attention, adjusting her hearing aid volume as Sokren's voice reached peaks and valleys, her mind straying back and forth between the past and the present.

  "It is not a matter of purchasing options on the trading floor, or entering into a reinsurance agreement with the stroke of a pen," Sokren continued, "it is an investment in people, and it is measured in months, in years, in decades..."

  * * * * * * * *

  "Are you going to return home now that Jeff is gone?" asked Sophaly. She had become a good friend and confidante to Lynnette during their nationwide bio-sand filter campaign.

  "This is home, Sophaly -- at least here on earth. Some day I'll join Jeff in our eternal home. But I'm here in Cambodia to stay for now. Jeff's body will be buried just outside the grounds of our first 'Haven of Grace' center in Siem Reap, and I'll be laid to rest beside him when my work on earth is done."

  "And where will you stay in the meantime?"

  "I'll go where I'm needed -- teaching, and continuing to learn. Jeff's and my vision for the 'Preah Vihear Project' was based on sustainability and replication from the start. He was so happy to see young Khmer leaders -- like you -- rising to meet the challenge."

  Going, teaching, learning -- that was exactly what Lynnette had done for the better part of the next decade after Jeff's death. Among the young leaders that flourished under her tutelage was Sokren Prath. Sokren completed a degree in mathematics, and several years later qualified as a Fellow of the fledgling Cambodian Risk Management Association. He became one of its leaders, and successfully lobbied for its membership in GARP. And even before Lynnette's peripheral polyneuropathy confined her to a wheelchair, she had turned over the helm of the 'Preah Vihear Project' to Sokren.

  He had built well on the foundation that Lynnette and Jeff had laid. He engaged other Khmer leaders to address a host of societal risk exposures facing Cambodia. He had even expanded the organization's influence beyond the boundaries of Cambodia, speaking at various lecture series hosted by other developing nations and writing for international journals. The practical application of risk management principles to ease human suffering began to spread like dandelion seeds in the wind.

  And then, earlier this year, he had received the invitation to attend the GARP meeting in Geneva as a nominee for the Enterprise Risk Management award. He had immediately arranged to bring Lynnette with him...

  * * * * * * * *

  "And, finally, my fellow risk managers," concluded Sokren, "let me encourage you with these words. Your discipline can be used for more than your tradition dictates. It can be used to do a world of good. But you must be guided by your heart as well as your mind. Thank you, and good night." With that, Sokren ambled off the stage, polite applause from the dinner guests accompanying him.

  The house lights came up slowly. As Sokren reached his table, Lynnette smiled up at him.

  "I'm so proud of you, Sokren," she gushed, "Jeff would be, too." She noticed a tear forming in the corner of Sokren's eye. She reached out to touch his arm.

  Suddenly, she could no longer clearly see his face. His countenance seemed a mere blur. She felt a tingling sensation in her left arm, her left leg, her face. Her jaw began to clench. She no longer saw Sokren's face, but Jeff's.

  Sokren saw Lynnette begin to slump in her wheelchair. He knelt down and took her in his arms. "Yee-ay Lynnette, what's the matter?" he asked frantically, as a tattered photograph drifted toward the floor. Sokren recognized the man in the photo -- a man with fine lines creasing the corners of his cobalt blue eyes and smiling mouth, a man with flecks of silver salting his coarse mane of inky-black hair.

  "The... wisdom of the heart... that matters," she slurred, "not... the number... of years..." She smiled at Sokren once again, her hand in his -- and then her hand was stilled.

  It was time to go home.

  The End.

  For Her

  I grab you from behind, swiftly covering your mouth, and whisper in your ear that if you scream I'll hurt you. Your hot breath against my hand makes my cock pulse just a little, and as you struggle against me you can feel it growing against the top of your arse. With my stiff cock prodding into you, you reach behind your back and rub your fingers across the front of my jeans, groaning deeply as you feel the entire length, marveling at its thickness, terrified of what it will do to your cunt.

  I let go of your mouth, and your body trembles as I start to kiss and bite your neck hard, my hands move down to grab your breasts, mauling them through your shirt. You are whimpering now, and I rip your top into pieces to give me easier access to your heavy breasts. Your nipples are hard, I wonder if it's the cold in here, or are you just starting to enjoy this? I begin to play with your nipples roughly, tweaking and pinching, your breathing is heavy and low, my teeth still sinking into your neck, sending a shiver right through you.

  I notice your fingers are still on the front of my jeans, gripping my hard cock firmly now, and you gasp as you feel it throb against your hand. I start to slap and play with your magnificent breasts with one hand, whilst the other sneaks down your body, and into your thong. Even I am surprised at how wet you are. I whisper in your ear what a filthy slut you are, to be so wet for me, describing all the dirty things I'm going to do to you, my thumb just brushing your clit as my finger enter your cunt, curling upwards, forcing you to ride two of my fingers intensely but not too fast. With every word I pour into your ear, I can feel your clit throb, and you push start your arse back against me, trying to get my cock to pulsate against your arse again. You start to cry and beg me to let you cum, the tears running down your face as the juice runs down your thighs.

  You cry because you're so shocked at how much you need me to make you cum, how much you want me to force you to cum on my fingers. You're begging through the tears, pleading with me just not to stop. I grab your throat with my other hand and pull you closer, and command you to cum all you want, you little whore, my thumb toying with your clit as my fingers curl up deep inside your cunt, hitting your g-spot. I spit the words into your ear;

  "Have you ever had somebody spread your legs and just breathe on your clit? Teasing you, a little jolt of pleasure going through you, as the tension builds before they finally put their tongue onto your clit, and your back arches as feel their fingers explore your pussy? Had a man spend hours exploring you with his tongue, slowly moving up your legs, biting the inside of your thighs, making you wetter and wetter, before toying with your clit and making you cum again and again?"

  My words have pushed you over the edge, and you let out a long deep moan lik
e an animal, and start to shudder and convulse against my body as you cum all over my hand, the hot, sticky liquid flooding my fingers and your thong.

  I bring my fingers up to your face, and you inhale the scent of your cum on my fingertips, filling your nose with the aroma of your cunt, enthralled at your sweet smell, you must taste it. You stick out your tongue and try to lick my fingers, and I laugh and whisper in a slow, but lustful voice, that sluts don't get to lick, they only get to suck, and so I shove my fingers into your mouth. The taste is addictive, and soon my hand is totally free of your juices. You feel like such a slut, sucking and savouring your own juices off my hand; a rush of confusion hits you as you realise you've been stroking your rapist's cock through the thin fabric of his jeans, knowing in your head how long and thick his cock must be, and how incredible it will feel inside you.

  You hear the zip of my jeans and start to quiver, it seemed big before, but at least it was caged. You know it's going to look huge now. I even take anything off; I just pull it out of the fly, the thickness resting in my hand. You can feel my cock right against your arse and it's so nasty and wrong that it's making you so wet. You look down at yourself in disgust, your top is in tatters, and your thong is so wet that it's sticking to your cunt lips. Your mind is racing as you come down from your orgasm, you realise that you are going to have to pleasure me, in all of the dirty ways I desire. The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through your nipples and down to your cunt.

  I grab you by your hips and pull you over to the desk at the side of your room, right next to the window. You squeal as I kick your legs apart, bending you over, forcing your hands onto the desk. I tell you that if you move I'll punish you, so you stay rooted to the spot out of sheer terror, yet your juices are running down the inside of your thighs and the air smells of your cunt.

  I push your panties down to your ankles and spread your legs wider apart; your panties are so wet they literally rip at the front, and I laugh again, smacking your arse hard with my palm, telling you how much of slut you are for my cock. I pick up the torn panties and sniff them, saying how wet you must be, and how good your cunt smells. You stay silent, totally ashamed at how aroused you feel, your nipples are so hard and your clit throbs so much you just want me to touch you, to make you cum again. You realise what a whore you must look, bent over a desk with your legs spread, your cunt juice slick on your legs, clothes torn and quivering with anticipation.