Gen 19

Posted by Rache on August 29, 2001 at 00:28:12:

August 27. Happy birthday. Extra pills. Extra tears. No cake, no ice cream, no funny little party hats. A little present, a black velvet box with black velvet lining. A bracelet fashioned of gold plated guilt with 19 diamonds, 19 little stars on midnight sky. Whispers that steal my breath with dreams, 19 wishes I might make. A single wish, 19 times. Happy Mother's Day.

The back of the limousine is spacious enough. A boring extravagance and I wonder if it's for him, or me but only for a moment. It's for him I think. And that makes me feel better. I look at the bracelet flashing on my wrist and turn my thoughts to other times. Other places.

Two angels at the gates, messengers of life and death. They met my father and in his house did dwell, they are still there. Ghosts speaking when the cold comes creeping, voices carried over time. It is the finality he cannot stand, the judgment beyond his ken. I have heard him ask "Why?" and listen intently in his sleep. I wish I could wonder. Let my thoughts travel to where he is. I would fight them, force an answer from their lips. There must be a reason beyond weakness. The flutter of a frail heart is the failing of life, the confession of a failed God. Two doctors, the shaman of our times, offering a life for a life. Me for her. Nineteen years ago today.

A bit of Keats occurs, unbidden to my thoughts.

A gift I would offer my father, but would he understand? So many things I've tried to tell him, which I never will again. The expression of love was lost someplace, falling between us and never picked up. Or perhaps it is the way of it; the holding in of pain is an act of love.

Is it any reason not to speak? To sit in silence, watching the world go by, a single word would sweet suffice. A touch or tender smile. But he cannot and I don't dare intrude upon the moment. It's not my memory, only a thought planted by the longing. I want to rip my veins, screaming. The stillness is unbearable, killing me but I'm afraid to move. The rustle of my dress would sound across the chasm reminding us of silence shared and how impossible it is to fill. I turn my mind to other thoughts, pretending I am in my room. Alone at last, the way we always are.

I bled. When I was 12 I woke up and felt the wetness between my legs. I understood it; I'd expected it, waited for it even. But it scared me just the same. I screamed for Daddy and felt the sudden flush of embarrassment. I shouldn't have called, but it was too late. I'd pulled the sheet away and we both stared at the red stained flower of womanhood. He carried me into the bathroom; it was as I recall the most tender moment we have ever shared. The last time he ever saw me nude. He ran a bath and washed me, trying to explain. To make it all right to change. At the time I was angry at my body's betrayal, I didn't want to change. I hugged my knees in the warm water and nodded when I should, bravely smiled when expected, and cried when Daddy left. He called my mother's sister and she brought what I would need. I wasn't Daddy's little girl any more.

Or was I? Am I still? I resist the urge to hug my knees and rock myself beside him. I didn't realize it at the time, 7 years ago, the embarrassment he might have felt. The inadequacy of love to do the simple things, like teaching me how to use a pad. I resented him for that, for calling someone else into our lives. For such a simple thing.

And still the world passes by, more memories. The offering made by passive acquiescence. A year later, losing the illusion of virginity to the illusion of love. Both young and old, from every quarter. The clarity is lost, through time or choice, or my careless, reckless desire to be someone else. Did I say no? I can't remember. When I am generous, I say I did. But in truth, I don't recall. Being kissed and touched and told the little lies we always believe upon first hearing, the seduction of being someone important. He needed me, he loved me, he promised me. The pain was not so bad; the years have reduced it to a dull ache, easily ignored. The second made no sound at all, no words of comfort or betrayal to assuage my tears. He was younger and finished quickly, disappearing from my life as if he'd never existed. Leaving behind a thin pink trail leaking from my womb. The third had no face; he took me on my belly, cloaking me with his body, suffocating me. I felt his wet mouth on my ear, panting and saying the most terrible things as he tried to hurt me with his urgency. Hate sex.

The unholy trinity. Everything I needed to know about sex and love I learned that first night. Sex is an emptiness, an absence of love. Something worthless, I'd tried to barter it for love and gotten nothing in return but pain. But that was something, wasn't it? Oh yes, I'd learned that before. Pain is Love. A man loves his woman, so he hurts her. A father loves his child, so he hurts her. Do you suspect my motives? How then to show my love, to give my absent father a taste of what I'd learned? A week later I told him everything. How my boyfriend and 2 strangers had fucked his little girl. Confession is good for the soul. It was the worst beating of my life and I missed 2 weeks of school. Daddy took a vacation and we stayed in our big cold house all alone.

If I was pregnant then, I wasn't after. My period came a week early, the cramps were especially bad, and I curled up on my bed, hitting myself, pounding fists against the pain in my belly. And other changes. I remember feeling my breasts growing, budding into the fullness of womanhood. Oh! I could feel it, the aching which no man could understand. It made me weep and curse and there was no one I could tell. Except my sister in the mirror - my face, my hands, my feet. But nothing underneath, a mimic to beguile. I would turn and turn again, quickly, to catch her unawares. It was how lonely I was.

I stop and rise, pace and sit. Trying hard to finish this.

The journey continues, the world passes by. I watch my father from the corner of my eye. There are flowers on the seat between us. A cascade of colors collected in a clutch. Mine. Of his, 19 roses, the most perfect he could find, cradled in a loose cloud of baby's breath. The smell fills the air, attacking the senses and deceiving our memories. I think I have never smelled flowers before; I have never touched a flower to my nose and felt the silky petals bending to my breath. I have never seen colors so bright; red was a rumor, yellow a myth before today. All of my memories are black and white and shades of gray.

Pain is a color. And sometimes it is the absence of color, as it is in this place. The narrow road winds gently past swaying poplar trees. Shrubbery and a carefully tended lawn spread over how many acres. Large oaks and pines sway to the wind's embrace. It is a deceptive, peaceful place. Devoid of the trappings of life. Everything is white and black and in between. The driver needs directions and my father leans forward, pointing as he speaks in a low dry voice. She is there, right where we left her 365 days before.

Like a pillar of salt, the monument is tall and white with rough-hewn edges. Perhaps that was her fatal sin? Looking back at something best forgotten, as I have been doing all day. And yet here I stand, unchanged from this morning to this afternoon. I follow my father, stepping on his shadow as we carefully trod between the unseen. I imagine the ground is somehow less firm and wonder how wide is wide enough when giving berth to death. It is an easy pilgrimage to make; this is the Mecca of my young life. A place where I might be healed and born anew if only I had the faith to accept it. To somehow forgive myself. It occurs to me like a thunderbolt as I watch my father lay his roses at the bottom of the stone: Is he waiting for me to make an act of contrition, not for him but for myself? In granting myself absolution, would he forgive me also? Would he himself also be forgiven? The thoughts claw at my mind and run down my face as warm tears. I touch my tongue to my wet lips and taste salt.

There are fresh flowers in an urn, brass tinged with green. I place the bouquet I have brought on the grass, below my father's. He is crying too and his arms wrap around me, gently. I hold him, my head pressed against his chest, my arms clasped around his back. I do not know for how long we stay that way, but it isn't long enough. I want to stay like that forever; words come and go but never reach my lips. I'm afraid to look at him. He offers me a handkerchief and I use it, wordlessly while he wipes his eyes on the back of his hands. I have a poem I wanted to read, not for her, but for him.

I folded the paper and put it back in the waistband of my skirt. I said a prayer, an old one from Gaston's Book of Hours. It was the one that brought me comfort and I'd memorized it long ago. Then I kissed Daddy on the cheek and went back to the car. The driver held the door. He was older, maybe very old and he did not smile for which I was grateful. My father was there a long time, but I didn't mind. How could I? My respects for a dream, an idealized version of what I'd never had. My father lived in his memory, with her, every day. She was a person to him, someone he loved and missed. I started crying again, hating without knowing why. I fumbled with the little lever holding the tray in place, finally dropping it and filling a glass with bottled water. I took a pill and lay down on the cold leather to wait.

Somewhere along the way I woke up to the warm glow of the setting sun. My father sat opposite, staring out as the world went by. I sat up and straightened myself, smoothing my skirt and running my fingers through my hair. He spoke then, asking me if I was all right. And I was, everything was fine. There was a semblance of normalcy as if a weight had been lifted. Life would so go on, work and school and living together without being together. He reached across to take my hands in his. They were large and warm and gentle. Daddy kissed them and thanked me with his eyes. I gave him my practiced brave smile and he turned again to look outside. I sat back and folded my arms across my chest, content to watch him.

At the hotel we made our way to our room, it was a small suite with two bedrooms and a living room. There was a fruit basket and a bar. I ate half of an orange while Daddy mixed a drink. We sat there for a few minutes, discussing dinner in all it's possible forms. Room service sounded good to me, but he wanted to go out and I didn't want him to have to eat alone. I got the bathroom first, settling for a shower and promising myself a 3-hour bath when I got back home. I wrapped myself in a towel and padded barefoot into the living room, picking up the remainder of my orange and tugging gently at a section with my fingers.

Daddy looked at me and smiled, he'd had a couple more of the little bottles I realized. I held a little wedge of orange for him, but he shook his head. I watched him stand up and pull his loosened tie free as he walked into his room. Already, I must confess, a plan was forming in the back of my mind. An idea I'd long had, but never once dared voice. The sun had receded into darkness and the room was reflected in the tall glass windows looking out. I could see my sister staring back at me, wearing nothing but a white towel from the tops of her breasts to just above mid-thigh. I walked closer to the window and reached a hand to touch the cool smooth glass of her reflection. I nodded in silent agreement and she nodded back.

Part 2

Dinner for two. Some people will look at us and wonder. An older man with a young woman, not so strange perhaps in a restaurant, in a hotel such as this. I smile a little, thinking that what is really on their minds is how much he paid for me. It is a wicked thought, a delicious thought. It must be a sin, I think, not in the thinking, but in the enjoyment. It fits my mood and I squeeze Daddy's hand as we follow the maitre'd to a small table with a decent view of the Minneapolis skyline, such as it is.

We order drinks. I tell Daddy I'd like to have a glass of wine, knowing he won't refuse and the waitress won't ask. It's part of the plan; I do not drink, just playing with the sweet red wine in my half-filled glass. I smile and talk while Daddy finishes the bottle himself. It's a weakness for him, but only an occasional indulgence and I know that tonight he needs it, to relax, to give him sleep. I spend dinner listening to stories about me, as I was growing up, the silly things every child does and every parent remembers. We don't talk about the other things, the silly little things my father did which I will never forget.

I lean across the table, letting my dress fall open and my unfettered breasts hang against the loose silk. But his eyes do not waver, how can he not notice? Is he beyond seduction, or do I understand him so little? I have slipped my shoes off and I stretch my legs, brushing my toes against his leg briefly, as if by accident. My heart is beating rapidly, while he tells me how I threw all my toys out the window when I was 4. His eyes are blue and cheerful, intent on mine. He is trying to communicate something, a fatherly expression to thwart my desire.

My nipples are dark and hard. This bold game is exciting and made even more so by my Daddy's seeming immunity. I sit up straight, arching my back with a modest stretch. I can feel the thin cloth being stretched across my breasts. The excitement must be obvious, my arousal plainly visible to him. I want to look down at myself and see, but I'm watching his eyes. Urging him silently to look, to acknowledge me as a sexual being. I hold the pose as long as I dare and my father takes a sip of wine and...There! His eyes flicker across my body, just a glance without reaction. But it's enough. There's a doubt in his mind, a subtle voice telling him he's a man as well as a father.

It is deceitful, an evilness to play upon his biology like this. I feel the color rushing to my cheeks and I put my elbows on the table hiding behind my arms with a sudden need for modesty. But it's only temporary; I concentrate all my energy on him. Giggling and giving him the shy smiles and soft touches of my fingertips on the back of his hand. I know I'm attractive, I know the day has been exhausting for him emotionally; I know the alcohol is working to relax him. The world conspires against him; I feel the soft flutters in my tummy. I want him. I've waited my whole life for this evening, this most perfect night.

I hold Daddy's hand again, as we leave, winding our way to the elevator and back to our room. It's a pleasant sensation, he is loose and I feel giddy, uncontained. It's the little high of feeling a year's worth of stress lifted. Tomorrow we will start again, but we're not thinking about that. I lean against him in the elevator. It has mirrors on 3 of the walls and I look at us. How different we seem, almost like real people. The girl in the reflection smiles at me, knowingly as mirrors must. Daddy feels so warm and strong, so close to me now. It's an odd sensation and wonder if we can't just ride this elevator all night, humming sliding up and down. We'll become homeless travelers without destination. Time would not exist, never a tomorrow, all our yesterdays forgotten. Like a dream and then the waking with a gentle tolling. The doors open and it's time to leave.

I turn on a soft lamp, beside the sofa. Daddy wants to change, to use the bathroom. I like me the way I am and fix him a drink, unasked but appreciated. We sit on the veranda, a small patio really, the air is still warm, but not stifling. Me in my dress, smoking as I've picked up the habit once again. My father leaning over the rail, holding his drink. His robe is long, and wrapped around him and I lean against it's soft roughness, pressing my breast to his arm and putting my arm inside his, holding his hand as we both lean over the edge. My heart is pounding, I want to say something but the words aren't there. I know in my heart of hearts he'll refuse me. He'll become confused and angry and wonder what he'd done wrong. He won't understand what I need or even why I need. And how could I ever hope to explain that which confounds me so complete?

We're on the 18th floor. Far below traffic floats by on the thin white glow of headlights. The downtown traffic is a soft murmur, distinction lost as it travels across time. A thought appears silent as a thief; an assassin come to save us. I could jump. I could climb onto the small white table, step to the railing and be gone. Just a wave and quick goodbye. Would that be better than words? Would it say what I am feeling more succinctly, with the clarity of love? It would be so easy, so wonderful to fly. Like magic as I float, drifting towards...What? What is waiting for me there? I close my eyes and squeeze daddy's hand. I crush my eyelids together, until I think that black is white and colors dance. A last step and freedom waits, a line once crossed and only once. How different that undiscovered country from the one that I desire to find in Daddy's bed? And then the thought is gone. I open my eyes and hear is voice. Yes. I'm okay Daddy, just a little tired.

He kisses my forehead and I cannot help it. I pull his mouth to mine and kiss him there. I open my mouth for him, touching his lips with my tongue and feel something, feel his secret desire to yield to my offer. Two heartbeats, no more, and then he pushes me away. His old voice returns, the one I've heard so many times. Go to bed, Rache. It is sad and defeated and hurt. If he looked at me what would I see in his eyes? Revulsion? Pity? Perhaps a desperation to be someone else. Someplace else. With someone else? Two more beats of my heart and I know I'm lost, so badly lost. Tears are coming, but he can't see. I won't let him. Running with shame. Grief for an innocence I never possessed. I slip into the cold room, like a tomb it feels. So cold. And into the bed where I'll sleep, or not.

I've ruined everything, as I always have. I destroyed the memory of this day and killed a part of us. I lay there, ripping the buttons off my dress, baring myself, and kicking it off and onto the floor. I tear at my panties. Naked! Bare to the blackness, I want it to envelope me. I close my eyes, cross my arms, pretend I'm dead. I wish it were only so. My heart won't stop. I hold my breath until it burns and my body heaves. I can't stop myself from taking another breath. I want to will myself to die. Trying to find my heart with my mind, searching for the muscles and the means to tell it cease! Somewhere in the myriad of nerves it hides, my fingers move, my toes, my stomach and my face. But not my heart, it mocks me with its constant beating.

I feel hot tears falling, trickling out the corners of my eyes, to my temples and to my ears. I imagine its blood, wet and sticky, leaking from my soul. How can I be so wrong? About everything, always, always wrong. I would lay with my father and feel his seed within me. I haven't taken my birth control in 2 weeks, waiting for this. I want to feel him in my womb, planting me. I want no other, only him. I lay there, wondering if he'll come. If the door will open with a sliver of light. A near death experience to bring me back and give me reason. Just to talk, if he would ask me if I'm okay, I would forgive myself. If he would say goodnight, I would apologize for everything. I want him so badly, but he won't. He's given up and left me in the mountains. He'll go back to Zoar without me, without a backward look.

And does my heart become evil then? An hour? I am lying there, unmoving. The room is so cold, I am dead. I have a prayer to give me strength, I have to try.

Part 3

I walk out of the small bedroom, stretching a little as I slowly feel my way in the darkness. It is not completely black, my eyes are wide and I can make out the unfamiliar objects. But still I go slowly, as if deciding which way to go. Straight, through the living room and onto the veranda? Should I take flight with all my hopes and fears and dreams? Would they buoy me up and keep me safe? I have no illusions and no desperation to truly die in this strange, unhappy place. It is anonymous, lifeless and I cannot wait to find myself back home. No, that path isn't for me, not tonight.

The door to my left, I open it slowly, peering inside. I can see Daddy under the covers, the soft sound of his deep breathing. He's sleeping well, no doubt from the day and the drink. I slip into his room, closing the door behind me. My heart again is beating fast, a telltale sound I imagine reverberating through the quiet room. He'll hear it and wake up, disproving my presence with a frown. Watching me with angry eyes as I slink away, ashamed and wretched to my lost purpose. I stop and almost turn; I have to take a deep breath and will my foot forwards, and then the other, sliding my bare soles across the cool scratchy carpet. I pause by his bed, my body feels flushed, and the cold air is not enough to keep me calm. My nipples are hard and I can feel them, desiring attention. It is like a soft throbbing, a delicate ache barely noticed at first, but steadily reaching for my thoughts.

My sex too is made slippery by my bold presence. Inside I am fired and the heat spills out of my pores, between my nether lips. I have my feet together, my thighs pressed closely to trap the growing want. I am a shadow, a reflection standing there, looking and trying to convince my heart be silent! Sin bravely! It is a thought I've had, a message from the past and I've embraced it as my new philosophy. No one will understand this; no one will care what I am thinking. What I am feeling at this moment. This splendid wild moment which it has taken 19 years to reach. I would not admit this, not until now. I waited and pushed and shut it to the back of my mind. Now, uncaged, the thought devours me whole. I cannot resist it; I cannot pry myself from those tender jaws.

I am shaking, shivering as I pull the thin sheet back and lift one leg slowly. I sit on the bed, hearing the mattress compress beneath me. It sounds loud and I fear the every movement I make is like an earthquake in the still night. I bring my other leg and straighten myself, sliding as slowly and quietly as I can so that I am lying next to my sleeping father. I can feel his warmth and smell him now. His breath fills my ears and turn onto my side, facing his back. I stay like that a little while, feeling the heat building inside me. The last time I slept with my father I was...11? A bad dream and he let me sleep curled up against him. It was not so rare a thing back then, not common either. When I got older, somehow it never happened again. I touch my fingers between my legs, slowly, so very slowly. I can feel the damp; the soft humidity of my body and it excites me further. I run two fingers down, across my clit and against the swollen lips. I masturbate gently, pressing my teeth into my lower lip to ensure I don't cry out. I'm not going to orgasm, not like this, not yet, but it feels so fine.

I have been waiting, trying to lose my aim in the manipulations of my idle hands and a voice tells me I can't wait any longer. I'm reaching that point where I won't be able to stop, I'll have to continue and finish and it scares me. I don't want it, not like this. I have to touch him, feel my Daddy beneath my hands and on my lips. I want him inside, bringing this pleasure and so much more. I reach out with one hand, my left, the other I cannot quite withdraw. The first touch, under the sheets on his side, my palm against the warm softness of his skin. I feel the hardness of his ribs just beneath, expanding as he takes a sleeping breath. I hold my hand there while I slip a finger across my folds. I move my leg a little, until I can feel the soft curls of his bare calf against my foot. I hold still and hold my breath, waiting to see if he will wake, but he doesn't. It is becoming almost unbearable, this terrible wonderful exploration. I turn over on my side, so that I face his back. I withdraw my hands from his skin and mine only reluctantly, missing the twin comforts immediately.

There is a pause in his breathing and so I stop, only continuing to gain my posture when I hear him start again. When I am comfortable, my body is bare inches from his, my hard nipples almost brushing against him. I bring my right hand to my face in the darkness; I can smell myself on it. The wetness is oily, slightly sticky and I touch it to my tongue, rubbing my fingers and thumb together. I move my arm over Daddy's chest, snaking it beneath his own. I slide a little closer, feeling my breasts touching and then flattening against his warm back. He's stirring, waking slowly. I can feel him as he wonders at first where he is, then remembering he will wonder who is with him. I move my legs to his, bending my knees to mold with him. My face presses between his shoulder blades and I kiss him there gently. I make my hand flat, pressing the palm like a soft breeze upon his heart.

His senses are coming to him only slowly, first his eyes, but he cannot see me. Then his hearing, but I do not speak. He can smell my sex, perhaps, but it is unfamiliar I think, like a half-remembered spice considered before named. His touch, he feels my heat and my hand. My body against his back, but does he know I am naked to his warmth? My heart pounds, wondering if he will simply throw me off his bed, or if he will let me stay a little while longer. Daddy speaks to me, slowly as if to ensure that we will both hear and understand him. He asks me what I'm doing here. A simple question, a reasonable question. But the truth is neither and so I feign sleep. As if I were only concerned with resting, nothing else. My own bed was too small, or too big, too hard or too soft. I'm so tired Daddy, just let me lay with you. Nothing else, my mind pleads across the darkness, only this. We are both so still it's like the room itself were frozen, the air itself unable to move.

I wonder if he can feel my breasts stabbing into his soft skin, or below that my heart pounding as I breath slowly in and out, trying to imagine what I sound like when I sleep. Of course he doesn't believe me. He asks me again, what do I want? I kiss him, sweetly on the back and press myself against him. My hand slides down his chest, across his stomach, slowly reaching, sliding my fingertips inside the waistband of his shorts. Daddy grabs my wrist in his hand; he's hurting me, closing his fist around me. It catches my breath, the idea of being hurt. I wonder if he enjoys it more. Rache, stop it, he says and I kiss him again. I don't want to talk. I want to make him love me. Daddy holds my hand, pulling it back up to his chest. He doesn't know what game I'm playing; he doesn't understand why I'm doing this. I can stay if I want, but I'm hurting him this way. He can't take it; it's killing him little by little. He says all these things and more, while I kiss him and lick slowly across his skin.

Finally he turns, onto his back and I drape my leg over him. I look into my Daddy's face in the dark, just able to make out his familiar features. He isn't pushing me; he's not turning me away. It's as if he thinks by ignoring me I'll grow tired of this and leave him alone, or maybe he's afraid of what I might do, how I'll react if he rejects me so completely. A little bird I may become, an angel set on flight. It's an unfair advantage. I'm stronger in my depravity than he can be in his tortured morality. I can feel his anger, his frustration radiating from him. My sex is wet and I press it against his thigh, my knee sliding over his loosely covered crotch. I can feel him, my Daddy's penis semi-hard, growing despite himself. I put my lips close to his, a fraction of an inch apart. I can feel his breath on my face and I want him to kiss me. I drag my nails across his bare chest and push my hard nipples against his arm. How long has it been since he's been with a woman, I wonder. Does he even have a girlfriend? It's a small thing I never considered, not since we moved to Zoar. It was something he'd never brought up, and I hadn't cared enough to ask. As long as I didn't have to see it.

He moves his lips, telling me to stop. But not in the same voice he'd used earlier, it was different somehow, more desperate. He opens his mouth again and I press my lips to his, my tongue into my Daddy's mouth. He twists his head, pushing me away, saying no. He can't, he won't. But his hardness beneath my fingers is telling me something else. I grip him through the thin cotton and stroke slowly back and forth. I hold him tight and move my mouth to his body. I kiss his nipple, biting it gently and his hands are on my shoulders, but not pushing. I use my lips, my tongue, moving lower down his body. He's breathing heavily. I can taste the sweet salty sweat on his skin. Daddy's cock is hard in my hand, throbbing in my fist as I drag my hair across his stomach. I take him in my mouth, through the soft cotton of his boxers. Sucking at him, hearing him moan and caress my back as I let my saliva soak into his shorts.

I tug at the waistband, freeing his hardness from captivity. It springs upward, slapping against my face and I sink the smooth swollen head between my lips. I suck my Daddy slowly, savoring his heat, his strength, and his taste. I delight all my senses in this simple act of pleasing him with my mouth. I swirl my tongue around him, touching the tip to the underside, flicking it back and forth while I caress his heavy balls. Daddy's fingers are in my hair and he repeats my name over and over with a breathless, whispered voice. I tighten my lips around the shaft and slide downward, letting him fill my mouth and touch the back of my throat. A tiny gag and I let him slide out, kissing the tip and then sliding my pursed lips along the length of him. I kiss and stab at his balls with my tongue, licking my way back to the head and swallowing him once more.

His strong hands push me, pull me, and turn me so that my legs are spread over his shoulders, my wetness poised over Daddy's mouth. I suck him deep and gasp around his thickness as I feel the first soft touches of his tongue. He licks slowly, carefully and my orgasm starts immediately, forcing me to pull off with my mouth and moan with exquisite delight. I push myself against his kiss and he rewards me with his tongue moving deeply between my labia, tasting me, drinking me. He takes my lips between his and tugs them gently, just enough and then licks across my aching clit bringing more shuddering ecstasy. My fingers are wrapped around him, squeezing him and I have to will myself against pleasure to take Daddy once again into my mouth.

I try to concentrate, to somehow ignore the devilish workings of his mouth on my pussy. My orgasm leaves, but not entire, the sensations remain, quivering in my belly as he works to bring me to the brink again. Daddy's cock is long and thick in my mouth, and I suck gently trying to work him as deeply as possible. We fall into an uneasy rhythm, his hips moving slightly, thrusting up and into me as I move my stretched lips down. I make loud slurping sounds, my mouth fills with his pre-cum and my spit, I let it run down the shaft and I swallow some, breathing between mouthfuls of Daddy's cock. I feel his fingers spreading my ass, working his tongue along my slit and back, touching the tip to my tight anus. It's like an electric shock, sending shivers through me as he penetrates me with a wet finger, kissing and licking around it. I work to open my throat for him, his growing excitement plain as he begins lifting his hips a little further, a little faster. I swallow and the smooth head catches my throat and keeps it open for him, sliding the length of him inside me. His thick tangle of pubic hair presses to my lips and tickles my nose. I have my hands underneath him, holding him there for a moment before letting him slide out with a gasp.

Daddy's cock invades my throat, over and over, the wonderful discomfort of doing this for him brings me to the edge of another orgasm and his fingers and tongue send me tumbling over the edge. He's pushed one finger deep into my ass, turning and twisting it as he slowly fucks it in and out of me. Daddy's mouth is sucking steadily at my pussy, taking my labia wholly into his mouth and flicking his tongue back and forth between them, It's a wonderful, delicious feeling and I have to hold onto him, tearing my mouth of his wet cock as I vent my pleasure with soft high pitched cries. He doesn't give me a chance to relax; my body is still shaking as he lifts me, turning me onto my side so he is lying behind me. He lifts his leg, bending it at the knee so that mine is over his, my legs spread wide as he rubs the head of his engorged penis across my slit.

He slides into me easily, buried with one smooth thrust and grunting at the feeling of my hot wetness enveloping him. I'm crying, tears filling my eyes as I cum again, hardly after the last had passed. My body thrusts back, trying to impale itself deeply over and over on daddy's beautiful cock. His hands are on my breasts, caressing and pinching them, his fingers in my mouth. I suck at them as I work my hips. The feeling of my own father's cock sliding in and out of me, being gripped in the spasm of my unending orgasm is too much. I turn my head as far as I can and his mouth finds mine, his tongue exploring my mouth while we fuck. His hand is holding up my leg and now he pulls me so that I am on top of him, facing his feet I lean forward straddling his driving manhood. Daddy's hands are on my ass, spreading them as he tries to see his cock disappearing into his daughter's womb in the darkness. I slam my hips downward, fucking him as fast as I can, reaching down to rub my clit, to try and press it against his shaft. My orgasms roll through me one after another, and I am sweating, breathing hard and crying out as I feel his cockhead finding my cervix. A little bump, like the finger of God touching me inside. It makes me crash and scream as I reach the peak.

And then I feel it, Daddy's hands pulling me hard against him as his cock swells and the first sudden jet of his semen floods into me. I keep moving, thrashing as the pleasure roars through my blood. My eyes are shut tightly, visions of his sperm filling my womb, searching to implant me with our child. I want my eggs to bathe in his seed. I push myself and feel Daddy's hands wrapped around me. His cock jerks and pumps his love into me, filling me completely with the warm comfortable feeling. I pull my legs out from under me so that I can lay beck, keeping his still hard penis inside me. His hands cup my breasts and my own go between my legs, feeling the hot sticky wetness where we are joined.

We stay like that for a little bit and when his penis goes soft enough to slip out of me I turn around so that I can lie on his chest, kissing him and feeling the warmth of his body beneath mine. We do not speak; his protests are forgotten to us. Now there is only our lovemaking. I want him hard again; my body feels empty without his hardness inside me. I want to feel him above me, taking me, using me the way I've always wanted him to. I want more of his potent seed inside me; I want to make sure that I have his child. Daddy's cock begins to swell again we kiss softly, tenderly. My breasts against his chest and my wetness against his lower stomach, resting there, waiting for him to take me.

We make love again, with me on my back and Daddy above me. It is a slow, leisurely fuck. His thick cock sliding easily in and out of me. I wrap my legs around him and we kiss, he brings me to 3 more orgasms before he rocks my body back, pinning me with his urgent manhood. His sperm fills me once again and again it is that realization that I am fertile, that I am ready, that brings me the best orgasm of my life. I weep beneath him as he kisses at the tears. We roll over, onto our sides facing each other, my body lightly angled, slightly bent, and keeping him inside me as we fall asleep.

Part 4

I wake up without knowing why. Just a sudden realization that I was not asleep any longer to go along with the curious sensation of being alone when you don't expect it. I was in Daddy's bed, naked and wrapped in a sheet. But he wasn't in the bed with me. Light was filtering through the open door. Sunlight, it was morning sometime. I got up, not sure what I was feeling. There was a dream-like sense surrounding everything, my memories were bright, vivid and I felt the sudden stab of guilt as I realized what I'd done last night. I didn't want to leave that room; the idea of confronting my father was terrifying to me. I put a hand to my tummy. Still small, still flat, but maybe...I didn't let the thought finish. What had I done? How could today be so different from yesterday, from last night? A few hours, what had changed me? Sleep? Daylight? The act completed now held a certain revulsion for me, it was a favorite fantasy for so many years and I'd plotted and schemed and dreamt, but never had I done anything until...

I would have to come out. All these thoughts went through me very quickly. A few minutes, maybe a little more. I took a deep breath and wrapped the sheet tightly around me. Nothing, I was sure, would ever be the same again. I walked down the short hallway, to the bath hesitating when I saw the door closed, wondering if my father was inside. Did I dare knock? I wasn't even sure if I could stand to hear his voice, or if he would welcome mine. I turned around, looking in my room and seeing it was empty I went in and closed the door, locking it.

I sat on the bed, looking at the girl in the mirror. I didn't recognize her. She had a sad face, long and drawn and not pretty in the least. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes black from makeup smeared by too many tears. She was pale, deathly so. Lips compressed into a thin frown. Lipstick smeared and garish red. I hated her because she'd lied to me. Promised me freedom finally and I was locked in my room with her now, too afraid to even speak. I'd killed something last night. I felt sick to my stomach, I wanted to vomit up my existence, release my experience and go back to what I was before. This was madness, the absolute edge of sanity passed. Everything before this had been nothing. I found my suitcase and dug out a pill, swallowing it and looking inside the cinnamon cylinder, pouring the contents into my palm. I counted, 13 left, not enough I thought. I put them back and screwed the top back on, throwing it at the mirror in frustration.

I knew I couldn't stay in that room for much longer. We had a flight back home in the afternoon. I needed to use the bathroom and take a shower. I needed to eat, I needed to pack, and I needed to see my Daddy. I wondered what I'd done to him, what was he doing now? Sitting in the living room, thinking about me? Probably hating me, hating both of us for what we'd done. But it wasn't his fault - it couldn't be his. I'd wanted it too badly. I'd waited until his weakest moment. And mine. Someone had betrayed us both, he had to know that. He had to see that it wasn't our fault it was something else. I wrapped myself back into the sheet and slowly opened the door, taking a last look at the mirror, trying to catch her looking the other way.

I knocked on the bathroom door, briefly waiting for an answer before I turned the handle and went in. I would clean myself before I faced him, I'd make myself over into the daughter and not the woman. Perhaps we could hide behind that facade, pretending not to notice the way we could never relax with each other again. How even the smallest touches would bring a crush of guilt to compress our lungs and still our hearts. Life would become distant, barren. Suddenly I realized with a flash of terrible insight where all this would lead. How it would end. But I was wrong.

My father was lying in the bone white tub, naked except for the hand towel floating between his legs. The water was a pale crimson, a beautiful shade of rose. I stared at it, wondering what it meant. It was a color I had seen before, a dress I'd worn when I was 13, when my daddy had saved me. I stood there as that memory filled me. The feel of razor blades across thin veins, the smell, the taste, everything. It all came back and I wondered why. It was shock, it was not real. It was as if life had somehow reached out and slapped me. Everything I believed, I mean truly and completely believed, was shattered. Why wasn't it me in that tub? I reached down and touched my father's skin; it was cool but not cold. The water had been warm, a pleasant way to fall asleep. He'd sat patiently, waiting, thinking about his life. Thinking about me. While I slept, happily with his semen working in my belly, he'd slipped out and into safety. A place where I wouldn't touch him ever again, where I couldn't say the things I said, or do the things I'd done. I couldn't hurt him anymore. I kissed him goodbye.

He had left a note, on the table under a glass still smelling of whiskey. Last call. It was as I'd thought; he couldn't bear what had happened. He couldn't live the knowing that somehow he'd failed me. He'd failed my mother. He forgave me and he hoped that I would forgive him. The words were better, the sentences longer. But the meaning was the same. He'd been searching for something along with me. A cure perhaps, a sacrifice he thought he could make to save me. But it was too much; it's promise too uncertain. I understood him completely. I picked up the pen and wrote, "I forgive you" beneath his word "Love". Paused a moment and added, "Gen 19:39 in front of it." And then I walked outside, into that brilliant warm morning. I shaded my eyes, looking easterly into the sun. Sweet Apollo and his steeds. And who was I? I was Icarus perhaps? No, not me, him. Daddy would be Icarus and I was the sun, the center of his universe. Daddy's little girl. I stepped onto the table and looked down, 18 stories. Everything was small. I looked back and caught the sun reflected it the windows and myself as well. She looked at me and I turned away, I didn't look back.

The end
Rache18us@yahoo.com

(M/F,Suicide,Incest,Consensual)