Erosion

By Spider Moon

Diesel Mukai is a disenfranchised young man who leads a simple and lonely life.
Then along comes the intensely charismatic Sheila .
There is something mysterious about Sheila that defies words. Yet when she asks him to help find her absentee mother, he readily agrees.
He is unsure why he agreed to this. He is not sure he had a choice. But she has him hooked like a trailer to a runaway train.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.H. Dartos
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370798254

Spider Moon

Christmas Island is an island of geographic isolation with a history of minimal human disturbance. Author Spider Moon aka Sian Poon has been living there since 2009. During his years on the Island he has faced unavoidable difficulties. His extensive knowledge of the Malay language and the customs of the Asian people have proved invaluable.

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EROSION

Spider Moon

This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Pester Skeezle

Copyright © 1998 by Spider Moon

Published by M.H. Dartos

at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved.

I met the man during my twentieth year in California. His name was Emerald Mighty.

He was the president of a large corporation that sold boxes. Containers, he called them.

They made containers of every size. Little ones for radios, and toys, and who knows what. Big ones for televisions, stereos, blah, blah, blah. All shapes and sizes. He talked at great length about his business. He told me with a smile how he had gained the business by screwing the ex-husband of the woman he married. I laughed out of politeness, not really believing him, thinking instead that he was making crude jokes to bridge the gap between us. Anyway, I was wrong. I didn't find that out till much later.

But by then, it didn't matter.

So he tells me his whole story, and then invites me over for dinner. I told him sure, that would be great but first I needed to call home, just to be sure no one would miss me. He commented that he found it very responsible of me to think of such a thing. I smiled and thought what a terrible pain in the ass it was to have to check in like this.

I made the call and nobody answered the phone. I left a message.

I won't be home for dinner, I said. So go on without me.

I almost said more, but then I decided against it, figuring I didn't want to concern anyone with the details of my evening.

Dinner came quickly. Not too quickly though. First, he had to show me the whole place. His house was huge. I remember as we drove up to it thinking how the driveway was so long it would never end. His car, Mercedes of course, was equally beautiful. I didn't know that cars were still using wood on the interiors. I inquired about it. He gave me a long explanation about the type of wood, how Mercedes selects it, the manufacturing, everything. I said it was impressive how much he knew about things. He laughed and said he didn't just like to own things, he needed to know everything about them also. That was during our drive into the house, or more aptly, mansion. Compared to what I was used to. I had grown up living in apartments mostly. And the houses I eventually lived in were old, decrepit things. Nothing like this place of his.

It was a mansion.

Once inside, he showed me to his large living room. There, he mixed some drinks, offered me one which I declined, to which he responded that it was a good quality to not drink. That a man should watch his liquor.

I've seen many a promising young hot-shot get taken out by drink, he said, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. Many good ones.

It looked like he was thinking of someone in particular as his eyes sort of drifted off and his voice faded to a whispering trail. I waited, quietly while he came back around.

But no problems for you though, right? he asked, not really asking. You don't drink. Good quality…fine quality! You'll go far.

He walked me from room to room now, filling me in on the sundry details of his numerous possessions. It was as if he'd birthed each of these items. I said something to that effect. Not exactly like that. That he'd birthed them. But that he seemed to know these items very well, as if they were living things. He said in a way they were because by choosing them to be part of his world he was in some way expressing a normally concealed part of himself. So in that way, yes, he knew these things well because they were really a part of him. I nodded, understanding what he was saying somehow and also being amazed at his ability to infuse the ordinary with so much meaning. As we walked, a young woman appeared. A girl really. She looked to be a bit younger than me. When she saw us heading toward her, she stopped and turned as if she were going to run. I noticed she had a scared look in her eyes, scared but curious, probably as to whom I was. Anyway, she didn't turn fast enough. When the man saw her, he called to her by name.

Sheila, he said This is Diesel, a friend of mine.

I liked that, he called me a friend of his, like it put us on the same level. The girl, Sheila, looked at me, smiled faintly and adjusted her dress. I thought it kind of long and matronly for someone so young. But it suited her. Stylish but not flashy. She was pretty in a way, although with those big, round glasses it was hard to tell.

I wondered how she would look. Without them.

At dinner, she was quiet. Her father talked on. And on. Keeping things going. She sat across from me. He sat at the head. Of the table. Every now and then, I'd look up, catch her looking at me, then, she'd look away. I think she liked me, but I couldn't be sure. It could have been that she found me strange.

And so it shall be on that glorious sunrise morning of judgment day that each man, from the lowest to the most valiant, shall stand before his maker, penis in hand, and proclaim himself the birth-spout of all humanity.

Dinner went on for awhile. It probably wasn't as long as I thought, but it seemed like forever. The man kept talking away about one thing after another, making jokes at which he was the first to laugh, then, picking up on another thread of reasoning, he'd branch off into a different topic altogether. I listened as he spoke, half paying attention to him, and half concerning myself with the actions of his daughter. She was a sly one; I'd say, the way she kept sneaking peeks at me, thinking I didn't notice. I could tell she was shy, probably hadn't been around many guys. Although it was hard to figure. I don't want to sound cliché or anything, like I'm focusing on trivial details only because…there was nothing particularly striking about her. But then again, maybe that's it exactly. There was nothing particularly striking about her. But yet, a strong impression remained after just one look at her. Like the way a mark is left on a pillow after someone's been laying on it. She was just like that, her effect on me anyway. And so I listened to her father ramble away while I picked at my dinner and tried to shake this impression that was pushing away at my insides.

After dinner, Sheila disappeared to wherever. Her father took me into a different room this time. His study, he said.

I looked at all the books filling the giant shelves and commented that if someone were to require study, this would certainly fit the bill. He laughed as he packed his pipe. I glanced around the room some more. The wide glass windows revealed a vast amount of light, now soft and amber as the day sank into the hills. From where I sat, I could see straight out back, past the duck pond, the tennis courts, and maybe a shooting range. Beyond that, the ridges of the mountain scraped against the sky. On his desk he had a large ashtray, a wooden mallard duck decoy, and a pen holder. Pretty sparse, really, considering his work. But then, what did I know.

After he filled his pipe, he leaned back in his chair. A large cloud came bursting from his direction as he puffed. For a moment he reminded me of one of those old masters of legerdemain, the kind of magicians who would always be conjuring up thick, blankets of smoke to conceal or produce whatever tricks they were presenting. He took a long pause in conversation. There was a reverential symbolism to the way he enjoyed that moment. I just sat there, glancing outside, taking in the reds, browns, and greens of the curious volumes peeking in from the mahogany bookshelves.

It was then that he looked at me and asked me to fuck his daughter.

At first, I thought I had heard him wrong. Surely I must have been mistaken. I stumbled at my response.

Excuse me? I said, my voice breaking like a child.

I want you to fuck my daughter, he repeated. You do know what that is, I presume?

My face rushed with blood. I felt hot and sick.

Sure, I said, but…I mean…

The words hung in my throat. He let me finish and trail off to silence before he picked up the conversation.

Look, he said, leaning forward on his elbows. Let's talk, okay? We're men, you and I. And my Sheila…well…let's just say the girl needs a bit of…exposure to adult matters. As you no doubt can tell, she's not exactly the outgoing type. I mean, it's not like I'm having to hold the boys at bay or anything. Funny thing is though, as much as I had always dreaded the idea as she was growing up, now I'd rather taken to liking it. At least for awhile.

He leaned back into his chair, mulled this over and took another long puff.

Look, Diesel, he said. It's like this. If the girl stays locked up the way she is, here's what will happen. One day, out of boredom, or curiosity, or simply depression at having been alone so long, she'll get an inkling. Maybe even meet somebody. Someone who for that brief moment will open her eyes to the possibilities that lie beyond her narrow view. She'll look at him, then at herself, and at first dismiss the idea out of hand as a bad idea. But eventually, as is destined to happen, she'll reconsider, weaken as they all do. And you know what will happen then? She'll hop in the sack with some good for nothing yo-yo, fall in love, get pregnant, or worse, and the next thing you know, her whole life is spent devoted to some lousy schmuck who'll no longer give her the time of day once he's had his fill. And you know why? Bridled lust, that's why. Keep it bottled up too long and the first chance it gets, it just up and explodes. Trouble is, by then, it's too late. Life's already mapped.

He paused for a moment, looked at me, riveting me to my chair.

I gripped at the cushion right next to my legs. He couldn't see that my knuckles were white.

Now, Diesel. I've given my little girl a good life. By most standards, a great life, with all the privilege money can buy. But like a rose that refuses to open, the girl just never blossomed, know what I mean?

He paused again for effect. I remained scared silent.

So, the way I see it, it's time for someone to push her a little, sway her into the path, nudge her in the right direction. That's what I'd like you to do. Have her once, twice, as many times as you like. I know she'll take to it after a bit…they all do. Then, once she's had the shit knocked out of her system, I can feel safe that she's not going to run off with the first joker who looks her way.

He stopped after these last remarks and I was struck with a sort of dumfounded awe. Here was this man that for all intents and purposes I hardly knew a man who just this very evening had invited me to his house for dinner for the first time and now after the feeding he sits her in the not-so-private privacy of his study and calmly, casually tells me that he'd like me to bed his daughter.

My entire system went into shock. The scene was far too bizarre. Looking around I expected to find her, the object of our discussion crouching in the corner tepid hand clutching at her crotch restraining herself from wetting her pants over my reaction to this obviously horrendous joke the two in tandem were attempting to perpetrate. I looked, carefully, could not discern her presence. Became more sure, then unsure that I was the butt of a joke. Was this guy for real?

Peeling my eyeballs around the room, looking at all of the typical trappings of success, items that screamed, beware conservative white bourgeois at large, the effect of these surroundings and his unusual request…offer, more to the point, became even more, if that were possible, incongruous; ridiculous, the longer I thought about it.

I glanced back at him unable at first to look him the eye, but then feeling that this shared, perverted intimacy somehow demanded it, searching for something, anything to anchor my rampant emotions, something that would narrow the range of all of the things that were coursing through me violently, paring the muscle from my bone.

His face betrayed nothing, no hint of sarcasm, irony emotion of any kind save a dull placid assurance that what he had spoken was in no way out of the ordinary. And perhaps that more than any immediately assertive look he could have given me, struck me as the most absurd non-sequiter to the entire evening's events. I mean here I was a relative stranger and yet somewhere in that situation-churning brain of his he had decided that I was not one of those yo-yos he had so derogatorily dismissed as unworthy of his daughter's feminine delights. If it was a joke he was certainly making a serious show of it. Or maybe, and knowing what little I did of him this thought immediately crossed my mind, this could be some kind of a test. Bait. You know, dangle the sweet fruits before me and see what my character really is. Cause me to drop my guard, remove my social armor, get at the heart of the man before going any further. This last idea, that of this being some kind of test was the one that in the end held the most sway for me as it seemed to offer the most reasonable explanation for the absurdities I'd just witnessed.

I must say though, regardless of the growing feeling that I was being tested, the idea of course held appeal. I mean it's not like his daughter was hideous or anything and truly the notion of a little flesh-play was always an appealing aperitif, not to mention the absolute honor I felt at being so quickly chosen as the one to de-flower the stone, so to speak, casting the Arthurian legend in a light