Back to the Garden

by Selena Kitt

  “God forgive me,” he whispered.

  She felt him pulsing inside of her. He started pulling out of her and she sighed, relieved, but then he moved into her again.

  “So tight,” he breathed. “The heat...ohh God, it’s so good.” It was almost a moan. “Easy, easy.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or himself. His thrusts were very slow at first, simply an opening of her flesh a bit at a time, the movement subtle but relentless. She lay still, trying to relax into it, letting him move into her, again and again.

  He found her hips with his hands, lifting her a little, reaching beneath and finding the little nub of flesh that made her insides contract involuntarily when he touched it. She flushed when she heard him groan out loud as her muscles fluttered around him.

  His fingers worked her flesh. There was so much wetness, she didn’t know where it was all coming from, and she heard the sound of him inside of her, slipping in and out of her softness. He groaned, his fingers pressing her harder, faster, rubbing and rubbing, until she shivered with the pleasure of it, trembling under him like a small earthquake. Then she was simply gone, everything else had disappeared and she felt herself being pushed toward some precipice, dangling right on that edge.

  “Lily, look at me,” he panted, and she obeyed him, she always obeyed him, she’d always wanted to give him everything, everything.

  “Tell me,” he said, his eyes looking into and through her at the same time. Somehow she knew what he wanted, she always knew.

  “Daddy, yes,” she whimpered, begging. “Fuck me, Daddy, please fuck me harder!”

  He made a noise deep in his throat, moving faster, harder, giving her more, she wanted more and more, and then she felt it, like some slow trickle that suddenly became a deluge, flooding her, flooding him.

  “Oh God help me,” she whispered, and the eager pulse of her forced the thrust and surge of him. He pulled himself out of her with a great deal of effort and she felt the liquid heat of him, wave after wave, over her back and her bottom, so much of it, sliding heat down her slit toward her belly.

  She collapsed onto the floor, and he looked down at her curled into the redness of her cape, her dark hair tangled in her limbs, her knee socks still on. She looked up at him as if he were God, and to her, he always had been.

  “‘And saith unto him, all these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me,’” he murmured, easing his hands over the smoothness of her thighs, opening her to him as an offering, seeing the virgin blood there.

  “You’re a good girl, Lily.” He gazed down at her, almost bemused, or maybe just bewitched.

  It was something she’d waited to hear her whole life. She smiled back and reached for him, and he enfolded her and held her, and it was finally enough. She waited for the shame, the feeling or sense this was somehow wrong, but it didn’t come. Adam’s breath became deep and even, and she heard thunder outside now, a full-fledged storm.

  “Daddy?” Lily queried after she couldn’t stand the silence anymore. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say. “What we’ve done... I... isn’t it... isn’t this... wrong?”

  “Oh, Lily.” He stroked her hair. His eyes were closed. His voice sounded heavy, and she wondered if he was regretting what they had done together. “You know God forgives us our trespasses...and sometimes we have to be taught certain lessons in life. I don’t know anyone who could have taught you more lovingly than I did. And tonight, this is All Hallowed’s Eve, Lily, remember...the devil is in us all, and sometimes... sometimes his taunts and his temptations... sometimes it’s too much to bear, even for a man of God.”

  Lily sat with that for a moment, looking at the curve of his mouth and idly wondering how it would feel, if Adam’s mouth would transport her to other worlds like Luke’s tongue had between her legs. Oh this had to be sinful, it had to be, her mind raced, and yet the stirring in her belly, and lower still, told her it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, as long as he loved her.

  She didn’t feel shame, although she had a vague sense she should, and she didn’t want him to regret this, more because she didn’t ever want him to stop doing this with her, something that took her to the heights she had been to tonight. There couldn’t be any place closer to heaven, she thought.

  “In the book,” Lily whispered. “Lolita loves her stepfather... like this.” Her fingers brushed over his upper thigh to the dark thatch of hair where the root of him was pulsing alive again at her touch.

  His eyes flew open in the darkness. “Lily! Did you read that book?” he demanded.

  She nodded slowly. She had known, the moment she said it, and now looked up at him, biting her lip, and purred: “Yes, Daddy. I know. I’ve been a very, very naughty girl.”

  “You are the devil’s own temptress,” he whispered, looking into her eyes as her hand found him again, teasing him awake. “I have a feeling you have a lot more lessons to learn like this that I’m going to be forced to teach you.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she agreed, her leg slithering over him.

  Outside, the rain pelted the roof, and the candle in the leering pumpkin across the street flickered and finally gave up with a puff and a hiss. The night turned darker as a sliver of a moon sliced open a velvet sky, and this time Adam plucked ripe fruit, and fell, and Lily sank to her knees and offered penance for all of their sins.

  Man of the House

  There are three things I remember clearly about 1944, the year my father went off to war and left me alone with my mother.

  I remember her crying at the docks as we watched the steamer pull away. She tried to hold out and put on a brave face for my father, although we could only have been pinpricks of color to his eyes by then, because the sailors on the ship were a blur of navy and white to me across the deck as they waved their goodbyes. Still, she tried—she was so brave to try—but in the end, she turned to me and sobbed in my arms, burying her hot, wet face against my neck. That was the first time I’d ever seen that completely open, vulnerable side of my mother, but it wouldn’t be the last.

  I remember his words to me, the firm handshake and quick one-armed hug, “You’re the man of the house now, Patrick. You take good care of your mother.”

  I vacillated between both relief and guilt—at just nineteen years old, I should have been sailing off on that ship. My father was a veteran and going back for more. It was the brave and courageous thing to do, and a part of me thought so, and wanted to do the right thing, too. The decision had been taken out of my hands, though, not only because I was still a student, but also because my mother had given birth to me in Canada while she was staying with relatives, and I was technically a dual-citizen. I always felt like I lived in two worlds, and that irony was never lost on me.

  On the surface, it seemed life went on after he was gone. Our routines moved us through our days. My mother did loads of volunteer work during the war years, and she ran to the mailbox every day, looking for a letter. The days when one came, I could usually find her upstairs soaking in a hot bath, her hair pulled up, cheeks pink from the heat, the bubbles dissipated enough so I could see the tops of her breasts and their dark nipples floating in the water.

  Sometimes I would go in and sit on the edge of the tub and talk to her. She was always bubbling over with news—where he was, how he was, that he loved us and missed us, that was all a given—the biggest news, though, was that he was safe. For that moment, in the instant when pen touched paper, he was still alive and moving in the world. That was enough for her to hold onto until the next letter.

  I loved those days, too, when she took down her long, dark hair and asked me to wash it. I can still see the water spilling down her back and over her shoulders, beading on her skin before I poured another deluge over her head. There was something so trusting and vulnerable about her posture, the way she tilted her head back, eyes closed, that took my breath away.

  There were times when I poured warm water over her hair long after any remnants
of soap had been washed away. With her eyes closed, I could gaze freely on her body, at the soft, rounded curves of her waist and hips and thighs as my eyes moved in and out and around the bends. The dark triangle between her legs was just barely visible in that position, and I strained to see, wanting more, but was never satisfied. Even when she stepped out of the tub and motioned for me to hand her the towel, the dark mat of hair covered her flesh like a shroud.

  Days when she wanted to be alone, I was met with the gentle closing of her bedroom door. It was never forceful or abrupt, although it often felt that way to me, standing on the other side and listening to the sound of her opening drawers and shuffling through her clothes. If the news was particularly good, though, and she was still brimming with it, she would allow me to accompany her to the bedroom. I would sit quietly on the edge of the bed and watch her dress.

  My mother was a methodical woman, and I am much like her, now, in the slow, deliberate way I do things. Every part of her was rubbed dry, from top to bottom. She was much rougher over her sleek, soft skin than I would have been, dragging the towel over her breasts and belly, tugging it between her legs. I loved watching her dry her calves, seeing her breasts swaying and getting a brief peek at the dark patch between her legs as she bent over.

  Then she would open her drawer and pull out a pair of panties. Back then, almost all panties were made out of silk, still hand-sewn, and they fastened with buttons up one side. Most had some sort of lace or decoration on them. My mother’s underwear was exquisite. I often wondered if my father bought it for her—or if she bought it for him. The pair I still have is soft-as-butter silk, almost a flesh-color, with two mother-of-pearl buttons that fasten on each side.

  To me, there’s nothing more feminine than panties, and women are never more feminine than in the sublime moment when they’re sliding a pair on. She would bend over, giving me another glimpse between her legs as she wiggled the shimmering fabric up over her hips. I would trace the scalloped lace edges with my gaze, over her thighs, toward the apex between and, if the light was just right, I could see the dark hair underneath showing through them. The buttons were my favorite part, seeing her twist around to do them up, one on each side. The first one was always the easiest, but the second sometimes gave her trouble.

  I would wait in great anticipation on the edge of the bed to see if she would sigh and walk toward me, turning her exposed hip in my direction and asking, “Patrick, would you mind?”

  Those moments lasted years, when my fingers worked that tiny button, feeling the silk of the panties covering the velvet of her skin. She would smile a thank you, sometimes tousling my hair or chucking me under the chin as if I were still a boy.

  And part of me was grateful to be still that, to her—allowed into her room, to be a part of this, to help her bathe and dress. There were men off fighting a war in conditions I couldn’t even begin to imagine, my own father among them, and yet I was here, in my mother’s boudoir, getting a glimpse into a world that would hold much more power over me, then and for the rest of my life, than any other battle could. I was privileged to be there, and I knew it.

  I suppose I should confess that my erection was present throughout this entire process, and I sat in a way which would allow me to hide it as much as I possibly could. She never looked or asked or even indicated I might be in the least excited by what she was doing. To her, I was simply her boy, keeping her company and helping her get dressed. For me, it was a descent into hell and a glimpse towards heaven.

  I knew I should’ve felt guilty or ashamed in those accidentally intimate times I spent with my mother, but I didn’t. You see, my father had entrusted me with her care when he left—”You’re the man of the house now, Patrick.” Perhaps I simply rationalized that he had given me his permission. But nothing happened. Not then. And I was still a boy to my mother, and thought I would remain so forever. But something changed. And that was the last and most bittersweet thing I remember about that year—Naomi, who changed the course of everything in just one night.

  —

  “You have to help me!”

  I wasn’t paying much attention to the impassioned plea on the other side of the glass. My shift selling tickets at the bus station was over and I had a book of ration stamps to cash in—my mouth watered just thinking about eating a few ounces of meat. Old Mr. Howard, sliding into the seat I’d just vacated, would have to deal with the soldier who needed help.

  “Where do you need to go, sonny?”

  “No, it isn’t me, it’s my wife.” The soldier was young—my age, a little older maybe. He had a wife? The thought was a mystery to me. What must it be like to have a wife?

  “All right, where does she need to go?” Mr. Howard asked.

  “No, you don’t understand.” The soldier pressed his palm to the glass, as if he could reach one of us. “She’s coming. She’s coming all the way from Washington—Washington State!”

  I checked to make sure the ration book was still safe in my coat pocket—the lines would be long, although maybe not too long, I thought, glancing out at the gray New England sky. No one liked to stand out in the cold, and it would be even better if it started to snow.

  “What can I do for you, Sonny?” Mr. Howard was getting impatient with the piecemeal information the soldier was providing and I was impatient, too—to be gone. I shrugged on my coat, already anticipating the possibility of beef or lamb.

  “She’s coming to visit me. Her mother sent her on the bus, gave her the money to come, because I had a two week furlough, and we hadn’t seen each other since I shipped out,” the soldier just kept talking, looking as if he knew he was making a long story even longer but he seemed unable to stop himself as Mr. Howard tapped his fingers on the ticket counter and I wrapped a gray scarf—my mother had knitted it for me that Christmas—around my neck.

  “Sonny, I’ve got other customers.” Mr. Howard nodded to the soldier standing behind him. “Unless you’re buying a ticket…”

  “You have to help me!” He was digging in his pockets, and I thought I recognized the look on his face. He looked like he was going to cry. It made me want to look away, but I was somehow transfixed by his frantic motion and I continued to watch the drama as I slipped on my gloves.

  He found what he wanted, his eyes glowing with an “ah-hah!” as he opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. That was enough to make Mr. Howard and I both pay attention. “I’ll pay you! All you have to do is meet her bus and tell her what’s happened.”

  “And what, exactly, has happened?” Mr. Howard asked.

  I should have slipped out the door, but instead I took another step toward the glass as the soldier slid something else out of his wallet, slapping it up to the glass so we could see.

  “This is her—this is my girl, Naomi. She’s coming on the five o’clock bus, and I won’t be here to meet her. Please, you have to help.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  It wasn’t the money—although twenty dollars was a fortune. I only made fifty cents an hour selling tickets at the bus station, and my mother made a little more at the factory, making widgets, that’s what she liked to call the parts they made for the war planes.

  It was the photo. The girl in the photo was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. It was clearly her senior portrait, one of those posed pictures, but she didn’t get all dolled up like I’d seen so many do. She was completely natural, her hair like a long, dark curtain, looking as soft as silk against her velvet cheek, her big, dark eyes bright and full of promise. She was thinking about something or someone she loved, I was sure of it, and I burned with jealousy when I glanced at the soldier and realized it was probably him.

  I didn’t realize until later, much later, how much Naomi resembled my mother.

  “Which bus?” I asked, seeing relief and gratitude flood the soldier’s face. So I would be late getting the rations, late getting home. I knew my mother would understand, when I told her the circumstances—and showed her the twen
ty dollar bill.

  “Thank you!”

  I nodded, barely hearing the soldier’s words as he took the picture down from the glass. I wanted to ask for it, to keep it, and I thought of a way it might be possible as he went on talking. “We got new orders, we’re shipping out in an hour—less than an hour now.” He glanced at his watch and I opened the side door to the booth, stepping out into the bus terminal. The soldier held out his hand and I shook it. “Name’s Jerry.”

  “Patrick,” I replied in kind. “Which bus is she coming on?”

  He opened his wallet again, taking out a slip of white paper and shoving it into my hand. “I wrote it all down here. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. What rotten luck, eh? We barely had a honeymoon before I was shipped out, and here I am, being shipped out again on my first furlough in six months, and I won’t even get to see her!”

  The soldier—Jerry—was holding the picture again, and I took it this time, wanting to touch it. The woman in the photo smiled at me, just for me, her eyes saying the most delicious things.

  “Here’s the twenty I promised you.” He pressed that into my hand, too, but I didn’t pay much attention. I was still staring at the photo. “You tell her…tell her what happened. Tell her I got shipped out. She’ll have to get her ticket changed so she can turn right around and go home to her mother. I—” Something clicked in Jerry’s throat and I glanced up, seeing that look on his face again, like he was going to cry.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said, holding fast to the photo as he reached for it. “I’ll help her. I promise.” He looked both confused at my refusal to let go of the picture and relieved at my willingness to help. “Listen, can I hang onto this? I’d hate to go up to the wrong girl and tell her that her guy’s been shipped back off to war…”

  Jerry frowned, blinked, then slowly let go. “Sure. Sure, okay. But will you give it back to her, so she can mail it to me? It’s the only one I have.”