As I lay in this darkness, cut off from the world around me, I think about the only thing I can: my life. I’d like to say that it was full of adventure and danger, that I proved my manliness to the rest of my species through feats of heroism and daring. I’d like to say that I thwarted foes and foiled evildoers. I’ve always been a fan of super heroes and dashing warriors for God-and-Country. I always wanted to be like them. Alas, I am only a man of modest means and, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, hardly worth a second look. Conrad Atwood, nobody you’d look at and think of as especially powerful or important.
The truth is, though, that the world scarcely notices me because my affluence hides me very well. I am, after all, the inheritor of extreme wealth. I don’t earn the income I’d been raised with, not a penny of it, but I don’t flaunt it, either. Certainly, I used it, but not in a flamboyant manner. I’m not one of those egocentric rich men who gets off by rubbing his wealth in the faces of those who don’t have it. I’m the furthest thing from a show-off that you could imagine. No, truth be told, I’d like to keep as much distance between the world and myself as humanly possible.
Because my manliness is proven in my progeny.
I guess, for me, it all started from the moment I was born in 1973. The family fortune kept my birth a fair secret from the rest of the world. Oh, I have a birth certificate like everyone else, but my family likes to keep prying eyes away from us, so a few salient facts about me were- shall we say?- “fudged.”
From the moment I drew breath, I was showered with love. My mother Rose kept me safe and my father kept US safe. We lived in a secluded but comfortable house outside of town. It wasn’t so far out of town to make things difficult for us, but far enough away and isolated enough that it would take many decades before the town’s growth would overtake us and force the family to move elsewhere. A food delivery service had been arranged, paid for by the family fortune in a roundabout manner, making it unnecessary for us to bother with such things on our own. All we did was fill out an order for what we needed, left it in the post box at the end of our very long driveway every Tuesday, and the items appeared there a day or two later. For as long as I can remember, this happened without fail every week, regardless of weather or circumstances. I never investigated the conditions of the arrangement and simply took it as a given. It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned most other people didn’t have a similar arrangement of their own, that my family was unique.
Growing up as a boy, we had no visitors. Nor did we have any staff. Mother took care of everything around the house while Father worked in seclusion and secrecy in the barn on our property that had been converted into a lab of sorts. Apparently, Father was an inventor of some kind. The family fortune, apparently, came from a series of inventions that his grandfather had made back when Thomas Edison and Nikolai Tesla were causing the US Patents Office to have kittens. My great-grandfather was apparently a very crafty and ingenious fellow indeed whose patents and inventions kept an obscene amount of money pouring into our coffers since the early 1900’s. For the sake of my family’s devotion to secrecy I won’t divulge what those inventions and patents were. Suffice to say that they are still in use more than a century later and some of them are integral parts of every American’s daily life. Don’t trouble yourself about it; it isn’t really germane to my story anyway.
So where was I? Oh, yes. My childhood. It was filled with knowledge and learning and exploration. You’d think that I was kept hidden from the rest of the world, but that isn’t quite accurate. When I was very, very young, yes. I was sequestered from other children until I was old enough to understand that our family had certain boundaries that we didn’t want crossed, that there were rules for how we interfaced with the outside world. It was shortly after I really came to understand these rules and family policies, all of them drilled into my mind by Father and Mother, that Father passed away suddenly. Illness did not take him; an accident of weather and happenstance did. His death was not gruesome or horrific, as far as I can tell (his funeral WAS close-casketed), but Mother insists that its suddenness took her by surprise.
And so it was that my mother, now a heartbroken widow, resolved to ensure that I would receive the education that Father could not supply directly. With his lessons in how to comport myself firmly seated in my young and impressionable mind, Mother saw to it that I attended school in the city. She had warned me that it was a different world out there, a lot more complex than the one I knew at home, but that I would always be safe there and a watchful eye would be kept upon me at all times, unseen but vigilant. While growing up, I was uncertain of how she arranged this, but I can attest to it: not once was I harassed or troubled by bullies or troublemakers, even though, as the archetypal “new kid”, I should have been by all rights. I saw other kids receive their fair share of headaches from such characters, but whenever they caught sight of me, they always mysteriously turned away as though just being in close proximity to me might somehow cause them to melt in agony. The resentment in their eyes when they saw me was obvious and worrisome, but they never acted upon it. I once mentioned it to Mother and she simply nodded approvingly, as though it was exactly as it should be. Having seen what some of those other kids had to endure, I did not rail against the mysterious protection- “never look a gift horse in the mouth”, after all. My early years in school were lonely, sure, but they were also blessedly absent of scars or unwanted fights. I think that if the protection hadn’t been there I might have made more friends and had a more normal experience around other kids, but I didn’t come to that realization until much later in life. Don’t get me wrong- I wasn’t a total pariah; I DID have a few friends growing up, but there was always a sort of distance between us and I sometimes found myself giving them a good bit of misdirection about my family life due to the rules I had to follow. But, all in all, I suppose that it could have been worse. I never outright lied to my friends (Father had taught me that telling only part of the truth or wording the truth in specific ways was always preferable to telling lies whenever possible), but I always felt alone in keeping my family’s identity so secret.
The years went on and I grew older. I grew smarter, too. And stronger. I played soccer in middle school and, when I turned 16, took over Father’s lab, turning it into a workshop of my own rather than seeing it go to disuse. I believe that Mother was initially upset about that, but when she saw that I was spreading my creative and intellectual wings in there, she decided to let it go. While a brilliant woman in her own right and in her own way, she had no use for the lab and allowed me to do as I wished in there as long as I came in for dinner and kept it clean. I never did make anything of note in there, but I had a lot of great fun tinkering with things and learning how they worked. Some things I did make with my own two hands, which worked according to my own designs, but they all amounted to just re-inventing the wheel. I was not destined to follow in my father’s or great-grandfather’s footsteps, it seemed, but I still learned a lot about all manner of things from the time I spent in that workshop. What I couldn’t figure out from empirical knowledge, I gleaned through Father’s library.
One could make the argument that I learned more in that re-tooled barn house than I ever did in school… and I wouldn’t disagree a whit. That is not to say, however, that I didn’t learn a lot in school. I learned history and literature and science and math- all of the subjects that the other kids learned. I soaked it all up like a sponge, always thirsty for knowledge and forever thrilled by the challenges in understanding how it worked. The teachers loved me for that, I think, but my peers did not. The already small pool of friends I had grew smaller as I grew older. By the time I was in my senior year of high school, I honestly had only one real friend left, and our relationship was tenuous at best- we got along amicably enough until his eye got turned by a certain girl and I drifted into the background of his life, becoming someone he would nod to as we passed in the hallways and share small banter in the two or three classes we shared. I think he is now married to that young woman who’d turned his head and they have a couple of children. I did not feel upset about how my last and only friend in “the real world” had so easily drifted away from me; he was my friend and I was happy for him that he’d found a girl he liked.
And that brings me to an interesting point about my youth: girls. Did I notice them? Certainly! I’m as red-blooded as any male alive! When I was a young man, I was just as intrigued and fascinated by pretty girls as any other guy. But the interest, I must admit, was only superficial. I recognized their youthful beauty and their charm, but the truth was that I went home every day to the most beautiful woman I knew existed: my mother. She taught me, whether on purpose or by accident, about the kind of woman I should want in my life. I wanted a smart, dedicated, calm, elegant, wise woman. The girls I went to school with, while very pretty, were nowhere near as refined as my high standards required. So I contented myself with looking, but never really approaching. Some of them approached me, a few very forward in their advances, but I always saw through their attempts and shrugged them off. Their weak performances of shoddy manipulation and flirtation were ungainly and awkward and without grace. I was never cruel in rebuffing them, but I was always clear in making them understand that none of them were the kind of woman I was looking for. They lacked the sophistication required to hold my interest. Most were shot down gently and even seemed to appreciate my kind and poised way of turning them away; a small few of them were even less graceful in accepting my rejection than they were in pursuing me. I think some of my fellow students, both boys and girls, thought that I might be gay, but I know for certain that I perplexed virtually all of them. I simply had no interest in having a temporary relationship with a girl who would ultimately disappoint me or be disappointed BY me. I mean, what’s the point, right?
On the day of my graduation, however, one of my fellow male students said something that struck me as very odd when he saw my mother in the audience, at first not knowing that she was my mother. We were standing on the stage, waiting for our names to be called so that we could receive our diplomas and walk into the world as legal adults. “Man, check HER out! Whoever’s sleeping with her, he’s one lucky son of a bitch!”
I just turned to him, only slightly annoyed by his crassness. “That woman happens to be my mother. And she’s a widow.”
The boy blinked at me in surprise and then nodded. “Makes sense now,” he said casually and even actually smiled, which replaced my annoyance with confusion.
“What makes sense now?” I asked cagily.
He pointed at her. “I mean, LOOK at her!” he said. “Your mother, on a scale of one to ten in hotness, is like a fifty! She’s off the charts hot! NO WONDER you never had a girlfriend, man! You bring some girl home and she’ll feel like chopped liver compared to her. Hell, you probably saved yourself more grief than you’ll ever know by not dating any of the hags in our school!”
I looked around us and noticed several of our female schoolmates giving him dirty looks. “The girls in our school are anything but hags,” I said placidly, which earned a few appreciative smirks from the ones who looked ready to claw the other boy’s eyes out.
He just smirked and said, “Maybe, but none of them is like your mom.”
And that was when I had a sort of epiphany. I fell silent as my mind began to turn with thoughts inspired by this exchange. I cast my gaze out into the audience, looking directly at my mother with new eyes. She saw me staring at her and gave me a small, demure wave of support and love, a wisp of a smile on her ruby red lips. In that instant I found myself looking at her objectively, as a woman, and realized that what the other boy had said as absolutely true. Her large, firm breasts; her curvy hips; her well-toned legs; full, brunette hair that had natural ringlets; plump, kissable lips; beautiful blue eyes that look almost like still water; her pale, unblemished skin; her short stature that was perfectly proportioned; her thin waist and dainty hands. She wasn’t dressed provocatively, but every pore of her being screamed “I’M A MILF!” before the term had even been coined.
My mother was, far and away, a significantly more attractive woman than any of the girls standing around me on that stage. In every way I could conceive of, she was an absolute goddess in comparison to them. How had I not noticed this sooner? And, as attractive as she was, why was it that she did not have suitors banging down our front door? I could not remember a single instance where some man who was not my father came calling on her. Not even a lawyer or vacuum salesman. All these years, since my father’s death, she had been alone and devoted herself to nothing but my upbringing. We got along very well and spoke about a great deal many things in the privacy of our own home, but I suddenly realized that, what for all that she had taught me, I knew virtually nothing about HER. For the rest of my high school graduation ceremony I was locked in a brooding, pensive silence. I scarcely recall even shaking my principal’s hand as he handed my diploma to me, I was so engrossed in my thoughts about my mother.
After the ceremony, I distractedly bid a small number of schoolmates I was on good terms with goodbye and wished them well in their future endeavors. When I’d shaken my last hand and given my last wan smile to someone I doubted I would ever meet again, I went to my mother who was waiting a short distance away, looking as lovely and patient as humanly possible. She wore a ghost of a smile on her lips, but her eyes were filled with pride and joy for my sake.
When I stood before her, I simply nodded and said, “I think I would like to go home now, Mother.”
For a fraction of a second a look of concern flashed across her face, but it disappeared just as quickly. With a simple nod of understanding, she turned and slipped her arm into mine. “Of course, dear,” she said. “Home it is.”
The trip home was had in silence while I continued to brood and got lost in my thoughts. What that boy said had troubled me deeply. Mother, of course, recognized that I was thinking deeply and didn’t disturb me the whole time. When we got inside, however, she closed the front door behind us and said, “If you’d like to join me in the kitchen, I made you a graduation cake. We don’t have to eat all of it, but I’d like you to at least have one slice with me.”
Still swimming within my own mind, I numbly nodded to her and followed her into the kitchen. Sure enough, there on the table, sitting beneath a glass cover, was a small chocolate-iced cake with the words “Congratulations, Conrad!” elegantly painted on it. I sat down at the table while she cut the cake, removed a slice and put it on a plate for me. When she placed it in front of me and I stared at it stupidly, she finally had had enough.
“Okay, Conrad,” she said sternly. “Out with it. What’s eating you?”
I continued staring at the cake for a few seconds, gathering up the words and questions I wanted to have answered and took a deep breath. “Mom, are you single because of me?”
Mother blinked at that question in surprise. “I… what?”
Then I told her about the conversation I’d had with the boy at the graduation ceremony and the thoughts I’d had as a result. The whole time she was studiously silent and let me have my say, let me ask my questions, until I’d gotten it all out. When I was done, she just stared at me with this most peculiar expression on her face. Without a word, she simply got a slice of cake for herself and took a few bites, chewing on it pensively. Every once in a while her pink tongue would slip out and lick icing from her lips, which drove me crazy now that I was aware of how sexy she really was. I couldn’t tell if she was upset or amused or sad or what. I’d never seen these expressions before, not on her. I watched her eyes, which seemed to move in several directions for a few moments, until she finally looked directly back at me and put her fork down, her piece of cake only half-eaten. Still, however, she said nothing.
“Well?” I prompted her. “Am I right?”
My mother stood up slowly, never taking her eyes from mine. When she was completely on her feet, she said, “Stay here a moment, please. I need to get something. I’ll be right back.” Without another word, she turned and left. I waited in my seat at the dinner table for several long minutes until she came back, now holding a thick photo album in her hands. She gently pushed our plates of cake aside, set the book down on the table in front of me and sat back down across from me.
“Open it,” she said. As I flipped it open about midway through, I saw a lot of black-and-white photos, most of them pictures of her or my father, sometimes together and sometimes alone. They looked very happy.
“I don’t understand,” I said after leafing through the pages for a few moments.
Mother reached across and flipped the pages back. She stopped at one page that had a picture of her when she was very young. I’d guess that she was about the same age I was then, when the picture was taken. Father was in it also. Conner and Rose, 1972, the picture was titled. I looked up at her blankly in confusion. She nodded to the picture. “Take a close look there,” she said. “What do you see?”
“I see you and Father,” I answered immediately. “Before he died.”
“Look closer.” I looked down. “Now, look at me.” I did so. My confusion was still writ large on my face and she noticed instantly. With a roll of her eyes she said. “Do it again. Look at the picture and then look at me.”
“I get it,” I said blandly. “In the picture you’re younger and now you’re older. So what? How does that answer anything?”
Mother, however, remained stoic. “Now… look at your father,” she told me.
And so I did. And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I looked back up at her quickly. “He was older!” I announced.
She nodded. “Now I want you to turn the pages back even further. Go back through the years. Keep your eyes open. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure it out.”
I did as she instructed. As the years rolled backwards in the album, both she and my father got younger and younger. When she was at about 15 years old and he about 30, another face suddenly appeared in the pictures. It was another woman. A woman closer to Father’s age. I continued turning the pages further and further back in time. Mother grew younger with every image, as did Father and this other woman. There were more images of this strange woman and Father, fewer of Mother. More and more years peeled back until it was clearly evident that this woman was actually my grandmother- their wedding pictures said it all. I’d never known her. I didn’t even know that she existed or what she looked like. I’d never thought to ask, I guess, and Mother had never bothered to inform me… until then.
I then turned the pages in the reverse direction, going back forward in time. They were all happy and loving in every picture, that much was evident. When my grandmother stopped being in the pictures, there was a look in both my father’s and mother’s eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. It was a look of strained happiness, of pain that was slowly abating and only being assuaged by their closeness and love. A few years of them being alone, however, and a new look filled their eyes. The happiness had returned, only now it was just them. Mother was older in those pictures, about 18 years old perhaps, and when pictures of me as an infant began to appear, I could see that the love in their eyes was a love that they shared for each other.
The penny finally dropped and I slammed the book closed in shock. I did not jump up from my chair or fly off into histrionics; I simply stared at my mother in stunned silence as the full import of what those pictures had shown me sank in. We stared at each other for a very long time in that silence, her watching me think and me thinking about how I should view her.
Finally, she broke the silence. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a long time, Conrad, but I never could figure out how to say it. I think, now, this is the best way. Your father, Conrad, was also MY father.” She took a pensive breath and waited for me to blow up. When I did not, she exhaled slowly, clearly in relief. “THAT is why I never dated anyone after he… after he left. For all my life, he was the only man I ever knew and loved. I loved him from the moment I was born, I loved him when Mom passed away and I loved him when I came of age to know the touch of a man. For all my years, he was my father, my friend and my husband and he was ALWAYS there. Until he wasn’t.
“I thought about seeing other men, but realized that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. First, yes, there was you to consider, but not in the way that you might think. Your… OUR father loved us both very, very much and the short time that you got to spend with him was special. I didn’t want your memories of him to somehow be supplanted by new memories of some other man. And the memories I had with him were just as precious. I found that I had no interest in brining another man into my life. The one who made me and who’d also made you… he was man enough. And then there was you, in a whole other sense. As you grew older, you became the man in my life, son. Take another look at those pictures if you like, the ones where he and Mom are younger. You’ll see yourself in those pictures. You are like him in so, so many ways that, at times, it’s almost like he never left at all. You never knew him in the way that I did, son, but you know him in the way that you are, in the way that you live. He shines out through your eyes and actions on a daily basis. So… in a way, he never really left us. So why would I even need or want another man, when I had him… and then you?”
I let that sink in for a moment and then finally found my voice. “How… how did it begin?” I asked.
Mother closed her eyes in concentration. She didn’t speak for several seconds and then it all rattled out of her. “When I was just getting into my teens, Mother started getting sick. It wasn’t like your normal illness, either. She began feeling weak and drained, like just a few hours of being awake for everyone else was like being awake for days on end for her. She couldn’t lift as much, move as fast or think as clearly. Everything about her was… slowing down, I guess. Father and I didn’t know what to make of it until she started having fainting spells. She’d be standing up, talking to us about one thing or another, and suddenly she’d just collapse in a heap. Father took her to the hospital in town for a few days of testing. I was here, all alone for those few days, not knowing what was happening. When they returned, they finally had an answer for what was wrong. It was cancer.
“You have to understand, back then, it was the 60’s. In those days, cancer was a dirty word. No one spoke it, like just saying the word would somehow inflict you with it, like the very mention of cancer would strike a loved one down. People died from it left and right. Doctors knew what it was, but they had no clue how to treat it, let alone fight it. It was like that new virus they’re talking about in Africa, the one that caused that scare in Reston, Virginia last year. Ebola. The going theory was that being diagnosed with cancer was a death sentence. Out of thousands, only a handful survived, and no one knew how or why. Frankly, it scared the hell out of everyone. When Mom and Dad came back with the news, it was like all of the life and laughter and happiness in our home had been replaced by everything cancer-related in a matter of days. Pain. Doubt. Fear. Those took up residence here while all the good things seemed to have gone on vacation.
“It took about a year for Mom to finally die. We tried our best to keep her comfortable, but back then our options were kind of limited. Being rich didn’t seem to make a difference where cancer was concerned. Medical science simply hadn’t caught up with it enough to matter for ANYONE. So Mom just… slowly wasted away to nothingness. By the end, I think both Dad and I were just glad that it was over for her. We hated seeing her in pain and not be able to do anything about it. It was a few months before she passed, though, when she had finally become bedridden, that she brought both of us into her room and talked to us. She told us that she loved us both deeply and she could see the effects her illness was having on us. She didn’t want us to suffer any more than we wanted her to suffer. Dad was at his wit’s end and I was at a loss for words. But she kept on talking. ‘I want you two to be there for each other,’ she told us. ‘Whatever happens to me, I want to know that you will always love and support each other through everything. You’ve both been a gift to me and, eventually I will pass on. When that happens, I NEED for you two to learn how to be a gift to each other.’ I’ll never forget those words for as long as I live.”
Mother took a deep, calming breath as she collected herself. A couple of tears escaped the corners of her eyes and she wiped them away before they could trace down to her thin, delicate jaw line. Then she pressed on. “So, when she passed, we were glad for her sake, but Dad and I were just a wreck. Due to… the way we live, all we had to rely on was each other. It took us a few years to manage it, but we did our best to honor her wishes. With her gone, I was the woman of the house. I picked up where she left off. At the beginning of her illness, after we found out that it was cancer, she began teaching me how to manage a home and gave me the reins when she couldn’t do it anymore. By the time she passed, I had everything down to a science; she was a very, very good teacher. So that part of it was easy. But, as with me, Dad couldn’t bring himself to take a new woman into his life. His heart just wouldn’t let him do it- and, believe me, he tried. The results were disastrous, so he stopped. It was just him and me. I was coming into my late teens when I realized that Dad seemed restless and distracted all the time. I didn’t understand it at first, but the light bulb in my head finally turned on. By the time I was eighteen years old, I had figured out that, even though he couldn’t bring himself to date other women, he was still a man with needs. Sexual needs. And I was the only woman around.
“And he was the only man in my life. I was so busy with taking care of the house and looking after him that I didn’t really have anything even remotely like a social life, forget about a love life. HE was my life. And I was genuinely glad of it, don’t think otherwise for a second! So I got to thinking. In almost every way but one, I was living with my father as his wife. We ate our meals together, which I cooked, I did his laundry, we had conversations, we… well, to be honest, Conrad, we lived pretty much the way you and I live.
“Just before she died, Mom gave me the photo album that’s sitting in front of you. She, however, didn’t give me any kind of explanation. She was too weak at the time and I was probably too young to really understand anyway. At the time, all I saw were just some old pictures of what I guessed were family members. It wasn’t until my eighteenth birthday that I found myself looking back through that album and started noticing… peculiarities. So, finally, I asked Dad about them, about the people in them. And, a lot like the conversation you and I are having now, Dad told me HIS story. And the story of his twin sister, whom he loved more than the moon and the stars, the sister that he would eventually take as his wife and have a beautiful daughter with.”
And that caused my mouth to drop open. “You mean… wait, let me get this straight… your mother and father were actually brother and sister. They had you. Then your mother died, leaving you and your father alone. Then you and your father had ME? So that makes you, what? My mother AND my sister?”
Mother stared at me with a bland look. “Well, yes. That about sums it up.”
“But he was your father!”
Mother smiled sweetly, almost wistfully. “Oh, honey, no. He was so much more than that. Son, he was the love of my life. Like you are, now.”
“But you’re not having sex with me!”
Mother shrugged indifferently. “It’s not like I hadn’t given the idea some thought,” she said casually.
And that brought me up short. My mouth worked up and down as I fought for logic to settle back into my head. Her words had jarred me completely. When I got my mental balance back, my brilliant reply was, “What?”
“Conrad, have you not been paying attention to what I’ve said, after all? Let me recap: my father and I fell into a loving relationship that brought you into this world. Since his passing, I haven’t been with another man. YOU have been the only man in my life, since your- OUR father died. You look, walk, talk and act every bit like he did. You are, practically speaking, his clone. You’ve seen the pictures yourself. You could be him, at the age of nineteen, maybe twenty-one. Have I thought about seducing you? Certainly! But I haven’t. Because no matter how much you may look like your- dammit, OUR father, you are NOT him. You never will be. And it would be unfair for me to try and seduce you just so that I could satisfy my own selfish desires. And, make no mistake, son, a woman has needs every bit as much as a man does. I haven’t been with another man in the fourteen years since our father’s death, but it has been by no means easy.”
“But it’s incest,” was my lame comeback. And it didn’t come out in the heated, impassioned and disgusted manner most others would say it. Coming out of my mouth, it sounded more like confused recognition of a fact. Like someone would see something astounding and then say, “But it’s science.”
Mother was unflappable. “That’s the word, yes.”
“Isn’t it against the law?”
“In most states, yes,” she answered. “It is in this one. Which is part of the reason you were raised as you were. Our father was no fool. He knew that what we were doing, what our family has been doing going back for several generations, would have Society running at us with torches and pitchforks. Your great-grandfather’s wealth has made it possible for us to hide from Society, to carry on as we always have without intrusion or interference.”
“So, what? You expect me to pick up where Dad left off?” I asked incredulously.
Mother didn’t miss a beat. “Do you want to?”
“I- what?”
“It’s very simple, son. Do you want to pick up where our father left off? I promised myself that I would not seduce you. To my way of thinking, that would be too much like taking away the choice and free will to make your own decisions. I will not lie to you, however: if you decide that you desire me, I won’t turn you away. Tonight, for the first time in your life, you’ve taken a moment to see me as every other man sees me. You said so yourself, that you could not deny what your friend said about me, that I’m beautiful. You think I don’t know that about myself? Father made sure that I understood just how attractive I am. And, if that wasn’t enough, other men have made it very clear, too. We don’t get out into town very much, but when we have, didn’t you ever notice how other men would stare at me? I certainly did. I don’t flaunt it, I don’t actively TRY to accentuate the beauty that comes to me naturally, but I am supremely aware of it. And it’s been very, very tempting for me to just go out and get my rocks off with some dolt who just thinks I’m beautiful. But I haven’t and I won’t. Because, at the end of the day, I love our father too much.”
“But with me it’s somehow okay?”
Mother’s gaze softened. “Absolutely. Yes.”
“How?” I asked in bewilderment. “How could it be okay to take your own son to bed, but not another man?”
And then she hit me with a truth that I’d known all along but didn’t have the courage to face on my own. “Because I love you… and I know that you love me. And if you’re going to have sex with someone, with ANYONE, you should love that person completely FIRST, before you even so much as touch a hair on her head. No one will love you as much as I do. And no one will love me as much as you do. It’s just that simple, son.” She stood up, walked over to me and planted a soft, loving kiss on the top of my scalp, the way she’d done countless times as I was growing up, the way any mother would kiss her son good night.
“Keep the album for a little while if you like,” she said from above me as the synapses in my brain fused. “And finish your cake. If you want to come join me in bed tonight or tomorrow night or any night in the future, you’re welcome there and I will teach you all that I know about all the things I couldn’t teach you before.” She gave me another kiss, exactly like the first and then walked out of the kitchen. When she passed through the doorway, she said over her shoulder, “You’re a man now and a man has to choose his own way. Our father taught us both that.”
As you might imagine, I didn’t sleep much that night. I lay awake well past midnight, thinking about the implications of what I’d just learned about my family. She’d said that incest had been going on in my family for many generations. The implication was that all I’d ever learned about incest must be totally wrong. With my grandmother being the only exception I knew of, we had no history of illness or… defectives in our family. If anything, we were the exact opposite of the image held by Society of what an inbred family might look like. The males were all hale and hearty, leaning towards Adonis-like, while the women (from the pictures I saw in the family photo album) all appeared to become more beautiful with every generation. It was like sex appeal was being bred INTO us rather than out of us.
I was reminded of Hitler’s personal mission of creating the “perfect” race- blonde hair, blue eyes, fit to tackle bears, that sort of thing. He had used a breeding technique called “eugenics”, which is basically selecting the most ideal human beings possible and mating them in the hopes that their offspring would result in something closer to his ideal. Sometimes he would even resort to inbreeding as part of his experiments and, while it shocked the world, his efforts had some merit in a purely scientific sense. The thing with inbreeding, however, was that you had a limited gene pool. If that gene pool has members in it who have a tendency to get sick more frequently than others in that gene pool, then inbred offspring will tend to follow that particular genetic trend. Therefore, you’d have to cull the sickly family member from the gene pool, so that they don’t pollute it. Ideally, the only people in that gene pool would be perfectly healthy individuals with no genetic faults whatsoever. The trick, though, is that once you reach homeostasis within an inbred gene pool- that perfect zone where all offspring meet whatever criteria you’re looking for- you can’t let others into it. Otherwise, you risk having it polluted again.
This realization opened my mind up to a whole new slant of thoughts and questions. Was my family part of a similar “experiment” or were they even aware of what they were doing? If they WERE aware of it (and how could they not be if they’ve been at it for generations?), what were they working towards, if anything? I’d met only a handful of my family members over the years- purported cousins, aunts and uncles whose names I could barely remember- but none of them seemed particularly nefarious or dastardly, certainly not evil by any stretch of the imagination. Some of them definitely seemed a bit odd, but what family members don’t?
Were my cousins sexually involved with each other or their parents? How many generations does this go back? If I didn’t feel comfortable with it, would I be disowned and have to never return to my family? Dozens more questions filled my head and I desperately wanted to have them answered, but I was not about to go marching into my mother’s room and start rattling them off. First of all, I didn’t want to get her hopes up, thinking that I was there to have sex with her. Secondly, she’d raised me to have good manners and it would just be plain rude to wake her (if she was indeed asleep by that point) with such probing questions that even she may not be able to answer.
And thinking about her, about the possibility that she might expect me to accept her offer if I did just barge into her room, got me to thinking in a whole different direction. I was still a teenage boy, mind you, and still prone to hormonal influence. Having realized just how gorgeous my mother was and thinking about her in a sexual context, I naturally had an involuntary reaction. It was with morbid, but not altogether unexpected, surprise that I developed an erection, thinking about my mother. I was still a virgin, but I was not totally unaware of what happened beneath the sheets when the lights went off and a man and woman were in bed together. I’d read any number of books with sex scenes in them (Heinlein says a lot without revealing much) and even though we didn’t get out much, I saw plenty of movies growing up. I knew just enough about sex that it was a mystery without being a totally alien concept. I knew what went where and why things felt good when done in certain ways; I knew what the ultimate purpose of sex was (to make babies) and that it felt good in order to make us WANT to make babies; I knew why things were sexy and appealing; but I had absolutely no frame of reference. I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet, unless you count kissing my mom goodnight when I was a child. I’d discovered masturbation in my early teens and had gotten good enough at it, but the fantasies I used to accompany my masturbatory sessions were probably tame by normal Society’s standards. But now, armed with what my mother had just told me, my fantasies suddenly took on a whole new and different tone. I wasn’t just thinking about “some” woman in my sexual fugue, but about someone very specific, someone who would be a willing outlet to my sexual urges and even encourage me, someone who would welcome me with open arms and teach me all I ever needed or wanted to know about sex: my own mother. Who was also my sister. And, now that I think about it, she was also my aunt and cousin, too.
Dear Lord, my family tree was a telephone pole compared to anyone else’s weeping willow!
With a touch of guilt and confusion, I did what any teenage boy would do in that situation: I jacked off. It didn’t take long and the output was epic in comparison to previous sessions. I cleaned myself up and, as you might expect, I soon drifted off to sleep. And dreamed of doing things with my mother that I could only infer from literature and film.
The next morning I woke to the smell of breakfast being cooked downstairs. Saturday morning breakfasts were a regular event in our home and I would often spend weeks looking forward to them. That morning, however, I was faced with a fine mix of anticipation and dread. I had no doubts that the food would taste delicious because it always did, but I knew that my mother would be down there, waiting for me. I wanted to see her and didn’t want to at the same time. The problem was that, during all my years growing up, mother would dress rather scantily while she made breakfast. I’d never really noticed it before because, well, she was my mother and I hadn’t thought to view her as a sexual being before. But now that the cards were on the table, as it were, every little thing was suddenly amplified. I would go downstairs and not see my mother, but a very fuckable woman in her mid-thirties wearing a thin chemise, no bra and lacy panties, all wrapped up in an apron. I’d have to decide if I was drooling over a plate of eggs, sausage, biscuits and bacon or if I was salivating over my mother’s hot body.
My stomach helped me make my decision. I begrudgingly got out of bed, donned a pair of boxer shorts and trudged downstairs to what would most certainly be an awkward breakfast. I entered the kitchen and, as had been the case for every Saturday that I could remember, my mother was at the stove, her back to me, draining the grease off the bacon. Her apron was open in the back and I stopped cold in the doorway. As I stood there to either admire the view or work up the courage to announce my presence (I couldn’t decide which), Mother moved to her right a bit, pushed herself up on the countertop and reached up to the cabinet above her. She was trying to pull down the grease jar that she kept there, but she was far too short. She attempted to get a little higher by swinging her right leg onto the counter, but she was still only able to swing the cabinet door open. She tried valiantly to touch the slick glass of the jar, which made her wobble with the strain. My eyes drifted upwards from her taut left calf and up until my gaze fell upon what may arguably be the most perfect pair of butt cheeks known to any man on the planet, spread slightly and barely revealing the mound of her womanhood from behind. The globes of my mother’s ass were round and supple and firm, without a trace of age or scarring. A man could stare at that butt for days and simply admire it the way he would a Rembrandt, longing to hold it in his hands while-
When Mother started to move with a sudden jerk, I yanked myself out of La-La Land and focused on what was happening. The grease jar was tilted precariously on the edge, threatening to topple over, and Mother couldn’t get a decent grip on it. She was just barely keeping it from falling, along with herself, but she wouldn’t be able to hold that position for long. Without even thinking, I rushed up behind her and grabbed the jar. In doing so, I pressed my body right up against hers from behind, startling her for a fraction of a second before she realized that I had come to her rescue.
“Oh, thank God it’s you, Conrad, I almost-” she breathed as she started to relax and let herself down from the counter. As she did so, however, we both felt something surprising: the panty-clad lips of her pussy mashed hard down on the shaft of my erection (which I wasn’t even aware I had at the time and I certainly wasn’t aware that it had become tumescent enough to poke through my boxers!). “Oh my!” she gasped.
We both looked down in shock. She was back on her own two feet, but protruding from her groin was about three inches of my swollen member, poking between the gap of her thighs as though she’d sprouted a short but very thick penis. Even as realization struck, I felt myself throb with longing as I also noted the sudden warmth that surrounded the top side of my shaft. With a start, still holding the grease jar in my hands, I all but jumped backwards and gave a yelp of embarrassment.
“I am SO sorry, Mom!” I squeaked out as I put the jar on the table behind me swiftly. As soon as I was relieved of the burden, I started to cover my groin with my hands.
Mother turned around to look at me and her eyes immediately went to where the movement was: my crotch. My hands were big, but hardly big enough to completely hide my throbbing member from her view. The top portion of it peeked out from between my wrists and she simply stared for a thoughtful second while I waited balefully for a response.
Then she shrugged. “No harm done. Thank you for catching that jar.”
Frozen where I was, I just looked at her in shock. “No, I mean, I’m sorry about-”
“I know what you were referring to, son, but you hardly need to apologize. From what I briefly saw, you should be proud. I knew you’d be big like our father, but I didn’t expect it to be THAT big. Incidentally, what were you doing with an erection, anyway? You’ve never come in here with one before.” Now she leaned back against the counter just the tiniest bit, a position which had the unfortunate effect of thrusting out her ample bosom. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she did that on purpose.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’ll… I’ll go take care of it.”
Mother cocked a delicate eyebrow at me. “You sure you don’t want me to do that for you?”
I let loose with another squeak and bolted back up to my room. As I fled, I heard her shout after me that breakfast would be ready in five minutes. I’d “taken care of” my erection in less than three.
I came back down, wearing jeans and a t-shirt this time, with a hang-dog expression on my face. I said nothing as I sat at the table and Mother began to fill my plate with food. It smelled delicious and I wanted to say as much, but I was afraid that my voice would crack or that I would say something inappropriate instead.
Mother smiled sweetly at me, fixed her own plate and we began to eat in silence. About halfway through our meals, however, Mother finally piped up. “It’s not that big a deal, son,” she said casually. “I mean, it’s big, but… it’s okay. Dad used to wake up with what he called ‘morning wood’ all the time. It’s perfectly natural for a boy, a MAN your age.”
I looked up at her and was momentarily speechless. I swallowed nervously and nodded. “I… I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
Mother waved it off. “Think nothing of it. If it happens again, then it happens. Like I said: it’s perfectly natural.” She went back to her food, took a few more bites and then put her fork back down. “But I must know. Was that because of me?”
The teenager in me burst through and I rolled my eyes. “You’re the only woman here, Mom. Yes, it was because of you. And because of the conversation we had last night. And because I’m sitting on a launch pad of hormones! But, mostly, yeah, it was because of you.” I put down my fork in exasperation. “Would you like me to be totally honest, Mother?”
“Always,” she replied blankly. I’ve come to learn over the years that the “blank” expression on her face indicates that she’s giving her full and undivided attention to whoever is talking.
“Fine,” I said. “The truth is, I came in here totally soft, expecting breakfast. But when I saw you reaching for the jar, I found myself admiring you from behind. I’d never done that before, just stopped to admire you. You looked incredibly sexy at that moment and that’s where the erection came from. I couldn’t control it and I wasn’t even aware of it until you-”
“Almost took it inside of me,” she helpfully supplied.
“Thank God you were wearing underwear!”
Mother picked her fork back up, picked at her eggs and muttered, “YOU thank God if you want, I’m gonna have a few words with Him when I die.”
I just stared at her open-mouthed for a moment, my meal forgotten. “…what?”
She dropped her fork again and looked me square in the eye. “Look, son, accident or not, that was the closest thing to sex I’ve had in almost a decade and a half. You want to be thankful that it didn’t slip inside me? Go ahead. And, yes, part of me is thankful, too. But a much bigger part of me feels really damn cheated right about now!”
I blanched at that. “I… I’m sorry,” I said ashamedly.
Mother took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out with a sigh. “I know you are, Conrad. And I know it wasn’t something you could control. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. It just… happened. And I don’t mean to take out my frustrations on you. Honestly, I don’t. It’s just that… well, if we’re being honest here… last night’s conversation had an effect on me, too. Maybe I said some things that I shouldn’t have. Or maybe I didn’t say enough. I don’t know. But I DO know that you shouldn’t feel ashamed or pressured about anything, period. But it’s difficult for me, too. I look at you and I see a man. But I think of you and I know that you’re my son and that you’re still maturing. Sometimes I forget that. And this was… this was one of those times. My body didn’t really know the difference between you as a man and you as my son. All it knew was that there was a hard piece of familiar-feeling flesh nearby and in that brief bit of contact, well… the pump was primed, as they say.” She sighed again. “Conrad, this is not your problem; it’s mine.”
“Then why do I feel so…” I stopped as I groped for the proper word. Finally it popped out. “Shitty?” We didn’t cuss in the house. The worst it ever got was the occasional “damn” or “hell,” but beyond that I had been raised to be very guarded with my speech. And I’m sure that it wasn’t because my mother was a prude, either. She just taught me “cussing is the first resort of a simple mind.” I kind of took that one to heart.
She let it go, however, and didn’t reprimand me for using the cuss word. I guess, in light of the discussion, it fit into the proper context. She just smiled wanly at me and shook her head. “I honestly don’t know, son. I can tell what you’re feeling, but I can’t tell you why. I have some ideas, though.”
“Well, I’m all ears, because it’s beyond me,” I replied. “You say that I have nothing to feel bad about, but every fiber of my being feels exactly that. So what do YOU think it is? Because I don’t like feeling this way when you say I shouldn’t.”
“Guilt?” she offered. When she saw my perplexed expression, she explained. “I think I’ve made it very clear that I’m lonely and missing the feel of a man, our father in general and you in particular. So when our… when our genitals came into contact, however brief, I think your mind registered it and you reacted with fright. But, in doing so, you realized that you were depriving me of something you knew I wanted. I know you love me and you don’t want to be responsible for leaving me wanting for anything if you can help it. Hence: guilt.”
I blinked at her a couple of times in stupefaction. That was a possibility I hadn’t considered. And, in a strange way, it made sense. I just hadn’t expected it. So I nodded. “Maybe you’re right, Mom. But if you are, this isn’t just something you alone have to work through. I’ve got to work through it, too. Because… because I don’t like feeling guilty about you feeling lonely.”
“Well, like you said, Conrad. I’m all ears. Because I don’t know an easy way around the issue.”
I took a deep, pensive breath. “There is one easy way around it.” She raised a curious eyebrow expectantly. “We could, I mean, we might make… we could have sex.”
“Get it out of our systems?”
“See what it feels like, yeah.”
“And what if we like it?”
I gulped down my heart, which felt like it was beating a thousand times a second. I couldn’t believe that I had just suggested to my mother that we have sex and she didn’t slap me!
“If we like it?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes,” my mother answered calmly. “What if we find that having sex feels so good that we don’t want to stop?”
“Th-then, I, uh, I guess…” our eyes were locked on each other’s at that point and a hundred horses doing the Foxtrot couldn’t have diverted our attention. “I guess we, uh, keep doing it?”
“You don’t sound certain of that, son. Are you sure it’s something you want to try? In order to get this… distraction out of our systems, that is. I mean, one or both of us could be VERY distracted. It might take having sex together an awful lot before we’re over it.”
My right knee started shaking uncontrollably. Part of me wanted to jump up and run to the bedroom with my mother in tow while another part of me was in absolute disbelief that we were even discussing this. “An awful lot?” I squeaked.
Mother smiled wolfishly, which was an altogether new look on her. It was hungry and seductive and made my temperature rise a few points. “We might never tire of it, actually,” she said with a hint of huskiness in her voice. “And there’s another thing to consider.”
“W-what’s what?”
“I could get pregnant.”
My voice cracked again at that thought. “You could?”
Mother nodded. “Absolutely. I haven’t taken any birth control since Dad died. Haven’t needed to. And I know you don’t keep any condoms in your room. Last time I checked, my cycle started two weeks ago, which puts me right in the window for ovulation. If we have sex, son, there’s a very, very good chance that you could make me pregnant.”
“S-s-so I’ll pull out,” I suggested lamely.
Mother shook her head. “Your first time? I wouldn’t hear of it. And, since we are being so honest and open here, the feeling of a man cumming inside of me sends me to the moon. So whenever we had sex, Dad would cum inside of me. Every time. Frankly, I’ve come to expect it, that feeling deep inside of me. It’s as much a part of sex to me as everything else. Really, it’s a miracle that you were the only child we had together. You wouldn’t want to feel guilty about denying me that feeling, would you? Because then we’d have to do it over and over again until we purge that awful guilt.”
“Over and over again?” I said dumbly.
“As many times as it takes until you’re free of guilt… or until you get me pregnant. And maybe a few times after.”
“Would… would you want that? F-for me to get you pregnant?”
Mother closed her eyes dreamily and said, “Oh, yes. Absolutely, yes.” When she reopened her eyes and fixed them on me, the look of hunger in them was even bolder. “The very thought of it is so very exciting, isn’t it? The son I made with my father, having sex with me and making another child within me. Oh, that’s very, very much in keeping with the family traditions, isn’t it?”
I nodded, swallowed and said, “Pictures don’t lie. That’s what the family album shows.”
Mother pushed her plate to the side and leaned partly across the table, her ample cleavage on blatant display in my peripheral vision. I glanced down at her bosoms and could see that they were just as flushed with desire as the ruddy cheeks on her beautiful face. When I looked back up at her, I saw that she was still smiling. “So… the only question is…” She licked her lips like she was about to devour a meal a hundred times more satisfying than the breakfast she’d just cooked. “…when and where do we start?”
“Whenever and wherever you wish, Mother,” I said with a hoarse rasp. I felt faint but ready to take on a hundred thousand warriors all at the same time. I’d never experienced arousal like this. Girls had flirted with me, sure, but what my mother was throwing at me was a whole other level of advanced that girls my age couldn’t fathom. I was helpless in her gaze and ready to spit ten-penny nails if she’d asked me to.
Mother cocked a playful eyebrow at me. “Here? Now?” Her voice was hopeful.
“S-s-sure,” I answered with a confidence that I didn’t exactly feel.
My mother reached up to toy with one of the straps on her chemise. It gently slipped off her shoulder and with a quick glance downward, I could see that more of her cleavage was on display, the very top of her right areola clearly visible. The hard nub of flesh just beneath it, her nipple, was protruding against the fabric and its size and shape was unmistakable. My mouth involuntarily watered at the tantalizing sight.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do it in a more normal place your first time?” she asked. “Like a bed? Mine is plenty big enough. And I happen to know for a fact that it’s very good for making babies in. After all, YOU were made in that bed.”
My brain was in a fog. I couldn’t concentrate on anything to save my life. If someone had asked me to put two-and-two together, my answer would’ve been “banana” or something equally unrelated. The ONLY thing that was coming through my mental haze at that moment, however, was a single word: NOW! That came through like an insistent cannon shot.
I shook my head slowly at her and forced my eyes upwards against to meet hers. “Here and now is fine,” I said, my pulse quickening as though I was in a marathon. “I-I don’t think I’ll last long enough to make it upstairs.”
Mother affected a look of sympathy. “Aw. Is my young man already so close?” She loosened the strap on her other shoulder so that now both areolas were visible. “Will I even have enough time to get naked for you?”
I took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. “Mother, if we wait much longer, the point might be moot. I can barely think straight right now. Either we’re going to have sex right here and right now, or I’m going to have a mess to clean up in about thirty seconds if you keep talking like that. It’s taking every bit of self control to not just-”
“Maybe you should.”
“Should what?”
“Lose control.”
So I did.
As I stood up, pushing my seat away from me suddenly, the sound of it scraping across the linoleum floor, I reached for the hem of my shirt and yanked it over my head. As I started to unbutton my jeans, Mother rose out of her chair as well and reached under the hem of her chemise. “How do you want me?” she asked as she pushed her panties down to her ankles and kicked them away from the table.
I looked down at her mound, the place from whence I came into the world. The hem of her chemise danced just above it, but revealed everything to me. She was clean shaven, which didn’t surprise me for some reason, and her lips looked very swollen with desire. I don’t know where it came from, but a certain sort of bearing came over me and I suddenly felt completely in control. “Exactly how I found you,” I told her confidently as I pushed down my jeans and underwear simultaneously in one, swift motion. “Bent over with one leg raised.” When I stood up straight my mother was staring at my groin now, her eyes wide.
“Dear God,” she breathed, “it’s bigger than I imagined!”
I gripped it as I started to move around the table to her side. “I wasn’t kidding, Mother,” I said with a growl in my throat. “I’m not going to last long!”
She immediately complied and leaned over the table with one leg resting on the edge of it. As I got behind her, I could see that she was more than ready for me. I’d seen a few adult magazines and I knew exactly what to do. I grabbed my shaft, almost squeezing it painfully, and aimed it at the hole I’d come out of 18 years before. “Be gentle at first, son,” she gasped when she felt the crown of my swollen member barely touch her outer folds. She looked back at me, her right cheek pressed against the wooden table top and her eyes wild with lust. “It’s been a long time for me.”
I nodded my understanding and, as slowly as I could, pushed my hips forward. My mother’s pussy begrudgingly accepted the intrusion of my thick head as I applied more pressure. Mom groaned throatily when the bulbous tip finally slipped past her entrance and began to slowly push deeper inside of her. The tightness, the wetness, the heat- all of it was making my head swim and my nervous system dance with electricity, but I kept my focus and continued to feed more of my hardness into my mother’s sexy body.
When I had little over half of my length inside of her, Mother gasped aloud, “Jesus, son, how long IS that thing?”
Every man measures his penis, even virgins, and I was no exception. I measured it on a regular basis, ever since I learned that mine might actually be more exceptional than others. I let go of my shaft entirely and held onto each side of her hips now that I was firmly seated inside of her. At that point, I wouldn’t withdraw until I was satisfied. Even if someone had a gun to my head, I’d have rather died than stop what I had started. “Ten inches,” I answered promptly.
Mother swooned as I pushed still more of myself inside of her. “Oh! Dear God in Heaven! Your father was only eight inches long!”
I stopped pushing when I heard that. “Really?”
Mother turned to look at me, still impaled on over half of her son’s cock. “Inbreeding will do that,” she said with a smirk. “All of the men in our family are well-endowed, but they tend to get more so with each new generation.”
I looked down to appreciate our coupling. I just could not believe that my cock was now buried inside my own mother’s quim. I certainly hadn’t expected this development, but now that we were doing it, I wondered why we hadn’t done this sooner. And the answer to that question was simple: she hadn’t told me. If she had told me sooner, this most likely would’ve happened sooner. Our coupling would have occurred a long time ago. And, strangely, I felt a bit resentful at that realization. Using that brief flash of resentment, I pushed myself deeper, this time with a bit of force, but not all the way because I’d hit some resistance.
“OH!” Mother cried out. “Careful! You’re at my cervix!”
“Your what?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “My cervix. It’s the entrance to my womb. When our father was alive, he would occasionally get that deep, especially when we did it like this, from behind. If you’ll wait a moment, I think I might be able to let you get deeper. When I nod my head, try to push in the rest of the way, okay?” She faced forward, took another deep breath and then let out a long, low moan of some sort while dipping her spine just the slightest bit. She nodded her head gently, and I slowly pushed against the resistance I felt at the tip of my cock. With steady force, I felt it suddenly give way and the head of my penis was suddenly in an even tighter grip, but it had eclipsed the entrance. As soon as it had, Mom let out the rest of her air in a whoosh.
“Hooo, boy, I haven’t felt that in YEARS!” she exclaimed. Then she looked back at me. “Are you okay, son?”
I nodded back at her dumbly. “Mom… that’s… what IS that?” I flexed my groin muscles just the tiniest bit and found that I couldn’t move very easily. In an out, sure, but definitely not up and down.
“The head of your penis is inside the deepest part of me,” she explained. “It’s right inside the place where babies are made: my womb. The cervix is like a.. a second vagina, I guess. It’s there to keep a baby safe while it grows inside of me.”
My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Seriously?” I asked incredulously.
Mother simply nodded. “Son, I told you that I am most likely ovulating right now. If you cum inside me like your father did, you’d only PROBABLY get me pregnant. But with you so deep inside of me, the chances are astronomically better. If you cum inside me now, even just the tiniest bit, you WILL get me pregnant.”
I looked at her with uncertainty. “Are you sure you want this?” I asked her. “I… I could still pull out… I think.”
My mother reached back with one hand to stroke my arm lovingly. When she did, I felt her body shift just the slightest bit, but the tip of my penis felt it, too, and it was like a thousand feathery touches dancing across my glans, making me shiver. “Son,” she said, “of all the men in all the world, I could think of no one I would like to bear a child for more than you. It would please me in ways you can’t possibly know. So I mean it when I say: son, please… make me a mother again.”
The look of love and desire and pleading in her eyes said all the rest. I was already at the tipping point, but to hear her actually ASK me to impregnate her, to hear those words from my own mother’s lips, sent me flying over the edge. I shut my eyes tight, grabbed on to her hips and began to thrust inside her with short, rabbit-like jabs of my hips. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before my body stiffened. It was nothing like an orgasm that I had while jacking off. This, the sensation of filling my mother’s womb with my seed, was beyond anything I could have imagined. There was an unmistakable bond between us already, which definitely helped me to feel emotionally freer than I ever had before, but the physical sensation of freedom was like none other.
When I masturbated to orgasm and my body seized up, my hand would still be wrapped around my cock and I would just freeze. But when I was buried inside my mother, it was other-worldly. My engorged penis throbbed as though it was about to explode, but what gripped it was her soft, rippling vaginal walls, pulsing along my shaft in syncopation. There was a roar in my ears, my nostrils flared, my eyes squeezed shut so hard that they almost ached. My hands, which were on each side of her hips, gripped her flanks with white-knuckled strength as I pulled her into my groin with as much force as I could, driving my swelling cockhead even deeper inside her. From deep in my lungs, I felt a whoosh of air filling up that would be let out in an agonized howl, the imminence of which could not be stopped for anything in the world. Even with my eyelids clamped shut, I saw stars, opened my mouth and let loose with an animalistic, guttural shout that came from the depths of my soul. My knees buckled and locked at the same time, my calves tightened up, my toes curled and my hips pushed forward, seeking out that last millimeter. When every muscle of my body was poised and ready for the release, my testicles surged up into my body like a spring being drawn in tight and, suddenly, everything let go. A massive gob of sperm-laden seed went screaming through my cock, hurtling out the tip of my penis like a cannon ball. A second seizure, my stomach muscles tightening as my hips jerked spastically, and another salvo of white fluid lanced out into my mother’s womb. A third volley, this one longer and more drawn out, was added to the first two and I let out a loud, gasping grunt.
The whole while, my mother cried out sympathetically as I filled her deepest chamber with my life-making seed. Every time my penis throbbed inside her and belched out more sperm, her pussy clamped down tightly as though to draw more of it in. Her back muscles fluttered and her spine arched rhythmically with each spasm like it was a siphon that was pumping the babybatter from her own son’s loins in desperate need. Each jerk of my hips was met by a slight hitch of hers, as though tilting her pelvis just so would increase the chances of conception.
A fourth, a fifth and a sixth shot of my semen raced into my mother’s depths until my body mercifully stopped ejaculating and I slumped down over her back, gasping for air while my brain tried to reboot itself. Beneath my spent body, my mother was laughing softly and cooing at the same time while my penis continued to twitch and throb uselessly inside the soft, warm clutches of her over-filled pussy.
It took me a moment to catch my breath, but when I did, I began to laugh with my mother in joy. I’d never felt more complete in my entire life. She craned her neck to face me, even though I was still laying atop her back, and, for the first time ever, we kissed passionately as lovers. It was sloppy and wet and sweet and I was completely inexperienced at it, but it was the most amazing thing possible.
When our lips finally parted, with my half-hard cock still buried to the hilt inside her, I said the only thing I could think of at the time: “Where have you been all my life?”
Mother giggled gaily. “Right here, son. I’ve always been right here.”
And that was the beginning for us. Mother and son, living in, by every measure possible in Society’s standards, absolute sin. We had sex daily after that first time, often several times a day. Mother introduced me to all manner of lovemaking and sexual acts, but each and every sexual tryst ended the same way: with my sperm inside of her. It wasn’t long before she started showing the signs- morning sickness, unexplained bouts of cleaning obsessively, mood swings… I’d gotten my mother pregnant.
The nature of our relationship, of course, changed. And, in some ways, it stayed very much the same. Mother continued her role as my guardian and mentor. She still enforced the same rules that I’d grown up with and her word was still sacrosanct in all things. We made love passionately and without reservation, we laughed more openly and discussed most things as equals, but she was still my mother and I was still her son. I was only 18 and I still had much to learn about the world and Life in general. I still needed her to guide me and teach me. So, in keeping with that, I still called her “Mother”, never “Rose.” Even while we had sex. I must confess: calling her “Mother” while we had sex was part of what made it so deliciously sexy. While I didn’t share Society’s discomfort about the incest taboo, I definitely understood that it WAS taboo and we BOTH relished in performing sexual acts so salacious and naughty.
We were completely uninhibited around each other and it was completely freeing. For so long she had hidden her body away from me, never wanting to push me in one direction or another. But now that we were lovers, the nudity taboo disappeared from our minds just as easily as the incest taboo. If anything, seeing my mother in her naked glory made her even more beautiful in my eyes. I found myself appreciating her in completely new and wonderful ways, giving her my total and absolute attention, even when we were doing normal things like cleaning or cooking or just sitting around to read books or watch television. Her nakedness and her beauty were entirely engrossing to me. Perhaps it was only because she was my first lover- there’s plenty to support that theory- but I prefer to believe that it was simply because the love I had for her all of my life was expanded to greater horizons, because I was able to love more of her than ever before.
So it didn’t take long for me to notice when the signs of pregnancy appeared. And I didn’t waste a moment in asking her about it. I brought her into the living room and sat down in the arm chair while I asked her to sit on the sofa, telling her that I had an important question to ask. When I did ask, however, she just smiled lovingly, brightly, and said, “I was wondering when you’d notice. I’ve known for a few weeks now.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, feeling somewhat hurt that she’d hide such an important fact from me.
She smiled at me softly and answered, “Because I wanted to see the look on your face when you figured it out yourself. And you know what? You looked exactly like our father did when he learned that I was pregnant with you.”
“I… did? I mean, I do?”
Mother nodded lovingly. “The look of concern and worry and openness and willingness… our faces tell stories, Conrad. And yours just told me the sweetest story I’d ever want to hear. The look on your face tells me that I made the right choice. And I love you even more for it.” She got up and sat down beside me on the arm chair, squeezing our naked hips together as she swung her soft, supple legs atop mine. “Are you okay with this?” she asked seriously.
All I could do was stare at her beautiful blue eyes, completely lost in them. I felt the smile slowly blossom on my face and my eyebrows raise up totally on their own. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I’m MORE than okay with this! I’m just… I’m… I…”
She gently placed her warm, soft hand on my cheek and returned my gaze. “Conrad… son… you’re going to be a father. I’m pregnant with our child. And we’re going to be a family.” She kissed me deeply and it lasted for several long minutes until we both had to come up for air. I could feel hot tears of joy streaming down both our faces. When our lips parted, she said the words that seared my soul: “I love you, son.”
I didn’t have to think about it. “Mother, I love you more than life itself.” Then my gaze drifted downward, past her bountiful breasts, sure to become even larger as they filled with milk in the coming months, and came to rest on her tummy. I carefully, gently placed my hand over her womb, now growing with her son’s child, and held it there. “You, too, Little One.”
Just about nine months later, on May 1st 1992, Amity Rose Atwood, daughter of Conrad and Cynthia Atwood, was born into the world. There was much that my mother had taught me during her pregnancy. Things of a practical nature, regarding our family secrets and how to keep us hidden from the world right out in the open, but away from prying eyes. I finally learned how my grandfather, not a brilliant inventor but a brilliant businessman, had figured out how to set up corporate proxies, little more than shell corporations, which had ties to our home town. These tiny corporations were responsible for ensuring all manner of interaction for the Atwood family- mail, groceries, security, investment banking, financial asset control and accounting and all manner of other services that most people use on a regular basis- were kept running on a pretty much automated level. We had an estate manager, whom we had never met face to face, who kept the world at large away from us and us away from it. We could always interact with the outside world to our heart’s content, but we never had to worry about doing so on anyone else’s terms but our own. We could travel the globe for years on end and never be met with so much as a single bill. If we needed anything, and I literally do mean anything, all we had to do was dial a certain number and give our instructions. Very few questions were ever asked, and none of them were of a personal nature. From that point onward, everything else would be taken care of and we could simply do as we pleased without another thought.
Some might see that as grossly privileged- and they’d be right. But it was the only life we knew and it had been set up that way specifically because of how we, as a family, lived. We learned to guard our family’s secrecy so very closely at an early age that we wouldn’t imagine abusing the system that had been put in place for us. We never broke the law. We never lorded our wealth over anyone. We lived quietly and humbly. We did not, by any stretch of the imagination, do anything “weird.” To do so would have garnered unwanted attention and prying eyes. To live outrageously or indulgently would have tongues wagging. So we rarely made use of The System (as we called it) in any way other than for our normal needs.
Except on rare and unique occasions, like an impending birth.
When mother admitted to me that she was pregnant, that began my education of how The System worked and how to use it. Together, we went through the steps we knew would be necessary to ensure that our child would be given the right kind of attention WITHOUT getting any kind of undue attention. Within days, county and court records of various types were slightly altered. Without ever having had an actual ceremony, Cynthia (my mother’s middle name) and Conrad Atwood were a happily married couple who’d been gifted with the Atwood Estate Manor as a wedding present, where we could start a new family. The implication was that I was the heir of a sizeable estate but not yet entitled to a penny of it until I had a family of my own to look after. Meanwhile, “Cynthia” Atwood, an older woman who had won my affections quite by accident and without intent, had signed a pre-nuptial agreement which left her with only the clothes on her back should we divorce and a massive inheritance should I live past the age of 60. The thinking here was clear: it was assumed that, being an older woman, “Cynthia” Atwood would be too old to bear children and, should I die shortly after turning 60, she’d also be too advanced in years to enjoy any ill-gotten wealth, provided that she outlived me.
As a side note, I’d like to say that I railed against all of this inside. I didn’t like the morbidity of it all, even while readily acknowledging its practicality. All that talk of death and inheritances and whatnot made me very unhappy. Mother, as always, kept calm and cool about the whole thing. She gently and lovingly instructed me on how Society liked to view things, specifically how it liked to see the worst in people, no matter what, as a default. So if we wanted to keep them off our backs and out of our business, we’d have to set up our fake marriage in such a way that no one could possibly see anything salacious about it. Just a younger man who fell in love with an older woman who couldn’t possibly gain anything from the marriage to begin with except love for its own sake. Remote living accommodations in a small house with no staff, no way to “cash in” on the marriage, no direct ties to family fortunes of any sort… in all respects, our marriage was an engineered fiction of complete and utter banality. Two people fell in love, big whoop.
And that’s pretty much how it was all received. The trick was that it was all done so quietly and subtly that no one hardly noticed, not even the county clerks. The mail, as they say, stayed right on time. Days before Mother was due to give birth to our daughter, we took a trip to Bethesda, Maryland, where Amity was born, again, far from prying eyes. Mother was given some time to recoup from the birth and, a few weeks later, the new Atwood family came back to roost in our Manor.
Coming back to our home, I must admit, was such a relief. We left it so infrequently that having to do so, even for a few weeks, was an odd mixture of thrilling and frightening. Everything was unfamiliar to us and we both longed for familiar stomping grounds. The sights and sounds of the big city, all the craziness of social activity in 1992, was somewhat deafening to us. We quickly learned that we didn’t like the world outside. When I was younger I remember thinking that I felt, sometimes, a bit like a prisoner, being so cut off from the rest of the world, but in my maturity I found that I felt safer and more comfortable without it. Too much could go wrong out there. Too many things can happen without warning. Things were too complicated.
But I learned a lot in those few weeks. Namely, I learned that knowing about the world in intellectual terms was far, far different from knowing about it in terms of experience. Without really meaning to, my upbringing had sheltered me TOO much. I spent a lot of time in the hospital by my mother’s side before, during and after the birth to our first and only daughter, but I did a lot of reading, too. And listening. I realized that I didn’t want my daughter to be as sheltered as I was. I wanted Amity to be familiar with the world in a way that I hadn’t been. Broaching the subject with my mother, I thought, would be difficult and painful. When we got home, when she noticed my brooding and she gently probed about it, I discovered that I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It turns out that Mother had harbored the same thoughts and feelings that I had. “I’ve always known that I was sheltering you, Conrad,” she told me with a tinge of regret in her voice while we talked about it in bed after putting Amity to sleep. “At times, I even realized it WHILE it was happening. Every once in a while I tried to let you branch out and interact with the world, but every time you came back with a sour demeanor. Maybe it was partly my fault, due to how I raised you, or maybe it was something our father had taught you when you were younger, I don’t really know, but I came to realize that you didn’t really WANT much contact with the outside world. You took a few bites of it and simply found that you didn’t like the taste.”
I nodded thoughtfully about that. “I guess, yeah, that makes some sense,” I answered. “Everything just felt… I dunno… alien to me in some way. Like there was a joke that everyone understood and I just wasn’t getting it. I felt frustrated out there, really.”
Mother smiled sweetly in agreement. “I know. Part of me was relieved when I realized that about you, but part of me was a little sad. Before my mother died, I got to see some of the outside world. It’s a big place and there’s no shortage of things to learn out there. I… I wanted more of it, truth be told. But then she started getting sick and Dad needed me more… so I just… let it go. I had more important things to think about and do.”
“And then I came along,” I added sourly.
My mother’s face became stern. “I don’t ever want you to think that you robbed me of anything, son. Nothing could be further from the truth. You’ve given my life meaning and value from the moment you were born. You’ve given me everything I could ever want, including a daughter. I gave up any dreams of going out there NOT because of you, but because the presence of you gave me more than the outside world ever could, or will. And I don’t regret it for even a second. The world goes on just fine without us and we can go on just fine without it.”
I nodded to the wall that separated our bedroom from the nursery where Amity was soundly sleeping. “And what about her?” I asked. “Do you think the world will get by just fine without her, too?”
My mother grew quiet and pensive. She was like that for a few minutes, silent and thoughtful. She breathed quietly, staring off into the distance, her hand draped gently across my broad chest while I waited for her reply. Finally, she said, “When we were in Maryland, maybe you think I was too focused on the fact that I was about to give birth to our daughter. But I assure you, I saw pretty much everything you did, son. While we’ve been squirreled away here in our little homestead, the world seems to have gotten much bigger and much smaller at the same time. I see the writing on the wall. This Internet thing- it’s going to explode soon. The nurses kept talking about AOL, so I started paying attention to the television and news more while you were out getting our meals or napping. America Online, that’s what they’re calling it. People from all around the world are getting hooked into it. Before long, it’ll get bigger. Things are changing. Technology is growing exponentially. Our father would’ve LOVED to be alive in this day and age, I think. And I think, because of that, because of that alone, the Internet, our daughter is going to need to grow up right along with it. She won’t be able to hide from it and neither will we. The System we have in place to protect us is going to have to change, too. And we need to be ready for that.”
I lay there, my mother snuggled up beside me in our bed, and mulled it over. She is not a foolish woman and never has been. I think, if I’d never come along, if she’d never had sex with her father, if her mother had never died, she might’ve grown into one of the most powerful women in the country. She was shrewd and objective about everything. As a mother, that made her an outstanding ally. As a businesswoman, that would’ve made her dangerous. So, after a moment of consideration, I found myself agreeing without especially liking it.
“You, more than I, will have to do the most changing,” she said abruptly.
“What? Why?”
She grew quiet again, but not as long as before, until she answered. “Because I’m not going to live forever. I’m in my late thirties now, Conrad. Even now, just a few weeks after giving birth to Amity, I’m starting to feel my insides changing. I fear that she will be our only child, that I’ll start going through menopause soon. When that happens, I won’t be able to have any more children and…” My mother heaved a great sigh. “I’m going to be too old, son. Hell, I’m ALREADY too old. I’m… the world I saw is not the world I know anymore. I see glimpses of it in the movies we see on TV, in the new books I read. I guess I’ve always sort of known that it was changing, but it didn’t really hit me how much until I saw it with my own two eyes. Everything’s being computerized now. I barely even know what a computer IS.” She let out a small chuckle. “You know what a computer was when our father was a kid?”
“No, what?”
“A Chinese man, sitting in the back of a room with an abacus and a notepad.” She let out another giggle but managed to squelch it into a snort. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! I WASN’T being racist. Back when he was a child, that’s literally what they called a computer- someone who COMPUTED arithmetic. Accounting, inventories and what-have-you. Not always a Chinaman, mind you, but usually so. Hmm. Maybe that WAS a bit racist. As may be, it was a hallmark of his time, when he was younger. When I was a child, a computer was a fictitious device in sci-fi novels and Batman episodes. The smallest computers we had when I was a kid were as big as a sofa and only a few dozen people in the country knew how they worked and not many more than that actually USED them. But now? Now it’s this little box of plastic and metal that makes a typewriter look like an abacus. The technology I grew up with and understand is provincial by comparison. I… WE have been so secluded from the world for so long that we can’t possibly catch up to it. Well, I can’t, anyway. You’re young enough that you might be able to.”
“I know what a computer is, Mother,” I said drily.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Perhaps. But I don’t think you know yet what they can do. You’ve read a lot of science fiction here over the years. The same stuff I read. Asimov, Heinlein, Bova, Robinson, Gibson… those gentlemen had glimpses into the future and I think we’re about to see a lot of their dreams become reality. Maybe not space ships and robots and Star Wars, but certainly a large world made smaller by computers. You’re a smart man, son. If you want to do our daughter any favors in the coming years, you’ll learn as much about them as you can. BEFORE I die.”
That alarmed me. “What? Mother! Don’t say things like that!”
She put a calming hand on my chest and locked eyes with me. “Conrad… son… listen to me carefully: SOME day I WILL die. It’s a fact of life. And, God help me, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. There is every good likelihood that you will be left holding the bag where Amity is concerned. We will ALWAYS have money with which we can live comfortably. That will never go away and you know it. But if you’re going to raise our daughter responsibly-”
“I’m not,” I interjected and leaned up a bit in alarm. “Not alone. I couldn’t, not without you.”
“You can and you will,” she said sternly. “In due course I will get too old to keep up. By the time she’s your age now, I’ll be in my fifties. I’ll be an old fossil by then, son. And I’m going to have to rely on you to chase after her, to make sure she’s okay, to keep her safe. You’re her father and you’re going to keep that busy, dangerous world at bay when she’s ready to jump into it head first. And she will. I know she will, because I’m her mother and even though she’s a harmless, witless bundle of cute and dirty diapers right now, she’s going to be a handful when she’s older.”
“Not if I can help it,” I rejoined sourly.
“Son, you CAN’T help it. Or, rather, you’re GOING to help it. You’re going to help her, when I can’t.”
“But-”
She placed a silencing finger on my lips and then kissed me. Hard. When our lips parted, she said, “Do as I say, son. Promise me.”
I wanted so much to say no, to absolutely refute the idea that she’d ever leave me, to rail against the notion that I would have to raise our daughter alone. She was my mother, dammit, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. She was the woman I loved. She was my wife. She was everything to me. And yet there I was, almost 19 years old, having to struggle with realities that I couldn’t possibly be ready for. I looked into her eyes, ready to argue, but I saw in her gaze something that stopped me cold: fear. She was just as afraid as I was. She was terrified. And she was looking to me, her son and the father of her only daughter, to be the rock that she’d always been for me. She was looking to me for strength and resolve. She needed it.
I blinked and said, “Yes, Mother. I promise.”
A week later we had a computer in the house and a modem line installed.
Amity was incredible. There’s no other word for it. As my mother had prophesied, Amity grew up WITH the technology that was taking the world by storm. She played the games, used the computer, studied programming- she ate it all up almost as fast as I could. Almost.
I converted my workout area, the old building that my father had used as a lab before he died, into a technologically thriving office. It was constantly changing as the technology advanced, and I did yeoman’s work to keep up with it. I learned how to do web design, coding in various languages, 3D modeling, hacking… everything and anything that had to do with computers, I devoured it wholesale.
Amity, of course, followed right after me. Eventually she had a place of her own in my computer lab and used it almost as much as I did. All of her schooling was done at home, conducted by our mother and myself. If she missed being around other children, she never mentioned it. That isn’t to say we didn’t give her the opportunity to explore her social potential, as it were, but she simply didn’t seem interested. All she wanted to do was explore the digital age that she’d been born into. On the few occasions when she’d interact with children her own age, she found them to be ploddingly stupid and mundane. They’d talk about some band or movie that just came out; she’d talk about the new Pentium processor. Clearly, our daughter spoke a different language from her peers. So, rather than beat her head against the wall with the communication barriers, she made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with “idiots.” Online, through the use of UseNet and online communities, she found a wide variety of human interaction- all of which she could choose from at will instead of having to make do with what Life threw at her.
She never made light of the fact that her mother knew just as little, perhaps less, as her peers did about technology. And that was absolutely true. But our mother was far from an idiot. She knew about history, science, law, practical home matters, finance… for whatever she might have lacked in regards to technical knowledge, our mother was a walking Encyclopedia about everything else. And, yes, she did learn SOME things about computers. She certainly showed a surprising aptitude for using them, if not completely understanding how they worked.
So it was just us three. We were our world, our own microcosm of Humanity. Amity, whose name meant “peace,” enjoyed a blissful upbringing filled with limitless knowledge and encouragement. She loved to learn and she had a mind perfectly geared for it. By the time she was 12, our daughter was easily smarter than your average third-year college student. And, miraculously, she was every bit as emotionally stable as any full-grown adult, too. Possibly more so, if I’m going to be honest. When her hormones started to hit, she realized it and took it in stride. She was fully and completely self-aware to the point of it being almost spooky. The lack of contact with her peers didn’t seem to affect her adversely in the slightest. As part of her home-schooling agreement with the state, she had to undergo regular checkups with a state-approved psychologist. The general consensus from the shrink was that Amity was easily the most well-adjusted, grounded, insightful, intelligent young woman she’d ever met and could find no fault with her mental faculties whatsoever. Believe me, she looked.
As the technology of the world grew, so did The System change, also as my mother had predicted. Everything eventually went online for us. In some ways, it became easier and more fluid. There was still a learning curve, however, and it took some adjusting for both mother and myself, but Amity accepted it with barely a second thought. To her it was a boon and a blessing and she knew how to use it better than we did. By the time she was 13, she was almost independently running everything for the house. For her it wasn’t a chore; it was something that she actively wanted to do. Who am I kidding? Once she learned about the existence of The System, she flat-out demanded that she be able to use it.
And that was amazingly easy to explain to her, by the way. The System. All of the lessons I’d learned from my father about how to protect our family from the outside world, Amity accepted with equanimity. For her, it was simply a foregone conclusion and explained perfectly how our world worked. And when she pointedly asked WHY such a thing was put into place for us, we told her the stark truth. We told her everything. She didn’t bat an eye, mostly because she confessed to already suspecting as much. We’d never really been all that discreet about our relationship around her when she was growing up, so I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised when she took our confession in stride. She even took joking about it in subtle ways, like calling her mother “Gran-Mommy,” which at first annoyed mother to no end but eventually she took to liking it.
Mother, for her part, aged gracefully. She developed a few wrinkles here and there, acquired a few gray hairs as the years went on, but her figure and beauty were as vital as ever. For a woman in her forties, she could easily have passed for 25 if she really wanted to. But she wasn’t vain. She ate well, exercised regularly, kept busy around the house and generally doted on me and our daughter with boundless energy. I never forgot that conversation we’d had when Amity was still only an infant, about her worries of not being able to keep up as she got older, but the truth of the matter was that Mother, if anything, seemed to grow younger. We made love almost every night and never tired of each other. We tried every sexual position we could think of and some we learned about from the Internet. When Amity was very, very young we often got interrupted by a sniffling little girl who wanted to be close to her parents- and we never turned her away. Eventually, Amity grew out of that needful stage but as she got older, after we explained everything to her, she never tried to pretend that she didn’t know what we were up to in our bedroom. On rare occasions she would jokingly complain that we’d woken her up in the middle of the night, but that was it. She never seemed bothered by our relationship in any way, even though she had long-since learned that the rest of Society frowned upon such couplings. If anything, she encouraged us in her own, quiet manner. She gave us room to love and be. Like I said, our daughter was an exceptional girl.
We never did have a marriage ceremony- who would’ve attended?- so we were married only on paper, but Mother was positively my wife in every way. Yes, menopause overtook her and made her infertile, but we never lacked for enjoyment when it came to our sex life, which was rich and plentiful. Making love to my mother was as powerful, exciting and pleasurable as it had been on our first encounter, most especially now that Amity had made it clear that she wasn’t bothered by it.
We were perfectly happy. Until we weren’t.
Understand that this stage of our life was a nightmare that I couldn’t have endured alone. If not for Amity, our beautiful daughter, I think it’s very likely that I would’ve committed suicide when Mother died. It was an accident of nature, something that no one could have predicted or prevented, and I have been assured by the doctors that Mother’s death was both painless and instantaneous, which is a blessing for her. She deserved that at the very least. I can’t imagine having to endure the agony of cancer that her mother had gone through, not for her, not for me, certainly not for Amity.
The simple story of it is that, while walking along the wood line that ran beside our house, a tree that had been there for many years fell on her. It had been struck by lightning in a storm a few weeks before, which damaged it horribly. The tree was most likely killed by the lightning strike, but we had no real way of knowing. It had been torn and mangled by the strike, but seemed to be still rooted to its spot. Mother had been enjoying a bright, sunny spring day with a simple walk on our property. There was a light breeze in the air and the trees were swaying gently as she strolled by. Amity, who was 15 at that time, and I were locked away in our computer lab, working on a custom operating system that we’d both dreamed up. We were blissfully unaware of the world outside of our hut.
Until we heard the massive, ground-shaking thud of the tree as it fell.
We both went outside to investigate, immediately saw the tree and went to it. We were still some thirty yards away before we saw the lower half of our mother’s body protruding from the fallen oak tree, her top half entirely covered by the dead monstrosity.
It was a closed-casket funeral, attended by only a handful of mournful family members whom I barely knew but were kind enough to keep up the charade that she was my wife and not actually my mother, even though they all knew the truth. Our family’s masquerade with Society had to be maintained, after all. I have no idea who was related to who or how, but I did notice this: Amity was the only child present.
Suddenly I was 34, alone with a 17-year-old daughter, and I was completely and utterly lost. Amity, though, was a beacon during my months-long, painful night of suffering.
Time passed slowly after Mother Rose had died and although I missed her terribly every day, I had eventually learned how to live without her. Amity had helped through that process by stoically taking care of the house while I struggled through the stupor of grief. That whole time, which lasted a good 5 months, I felt like I was living under water, my thoughts were sluggish and it always felt difficult to breathe in a weird way. Not physically breathe, of course, but mentally and emotionally. I didn’t laugh, didn’t work in the lab, didn’t do much of anything except wallow in my own self-pity and despair. One day, though, I just snapped out it. The pain and grief were still there, but some sort of switch in my head had suddenly been flipped and I rejoined my daughter in the Land of the Living. It was slow-going at first and Amity never pushed. She simply did her best to accentuate the positive and cherish any time we spent together. When I needed time alone, she gave it to me and when I needed to be around her, she celebrated in it.
It wasn’t long after I’d come out of my fugue that I realized Amity had to have gone through her own measure of it. She never showed it to me. Certainly, after our mother had died, she was as grief-stricken as I, but she somehow managed to bounce back from it and picked up where her mother had left off- tidying up the house, cooking, cleaning and all of the other household chores that Mother attended to with seeming effortlessness. I’d had my head buried up my own backside for so long that I didn’t even notice it. Until I did. And then I deeply apologized, which she accepted with grace and explained that it wasn’t necessary.
“We’ve both known her all our lives, but you were a part of her in a way that I wasn’t. I figured it was only natural for you to take longer to heal, Dad. It’s okay.” That was all she’d said on the matter and, just like that, it was dropped, never to be discussed again.
Life did change for us with Mother gone, though. I slept in later, read more, and learned about the world more than I had when I was younger. Our home was still an anchor for me, but I was becoming interested in what was going on out there and how it might affect us. I wouldn’t say that Mother had sheltered me from the outside world in any direct sense, but when she was alive, I never felt the desire to know about it; SHE was my world. But now that she was gone, I slowly came to the realization that it was there, waiting for me and Amity. We learned about the world together, from the safety of our own home. Amity, though- and as usual- was light-years ahead of me. Not only did she know that The World was out there, she had become adept at interacting with it, even if it was from the seclusion of our private homestead.
When I woke up from my grief, I’d learned that Amity had completely and totally revamped The System on her own, without any input from me. I guess I’d been sort of dimly aware of it, but I didn’t realize the extent to which she’d changed things. The first clue had been in how things arrived at our house. While I was growing up and for all the years after, parcels would be shipped to us piecemeal. When we discovered a need for something, we simply ordered it. Now, though, Amity had decided that using a weekly list and having it all shipped at once worked better and was more efficient. Instead of several small packages showing up, a big container, known in the military as a “tough box,” arrived by truck. Inside the box was everything we’d need that wasn’t a consumable grocery item (those came in a separate delivery from our local grocery store). Who packed these boxes for us, I still don’t know, but Amity assures me that it’s a completely anonymous process and very discreet. According to her, we could order explosives and no one would notice, least of all whoever packed the boxes for us. Sometimes the box was heavy, sometimes extremely light. Amity was a small, slight young woman and couldn’t lift too terribly much, so she often called upon me to bring the box into the house and then shoo me away so that she could empty it by herself. The emptied box would go back outside the night before our next delivery would arrive, much in the same way you’d set out the trash or milk bottles in earlier times- the empty container would be collected and a full one would be left in its place. This was something that Amity had arranged, so I left it to her to maintain it as she saw fit. I never inquired too deeply and she never filled me in on the details.
On the morning of her eighteenth birthday there was a soft tap at my bedroom door. I woke up with a start, having overslept once again. “Dad?” came Amity’s soft, lilting voice from outside the door.
I rubbed my eyes and blinked at the clock. 10:32. Yes, I had definitely overslept. I’d intended to wake up two hours earlier and make breakfast for my daughter, something I hadn’t done in years. It was a part of her formative years, part of our family tradition that I would wake up early on weekend mornings and make breakfast for my family. Pancakes and sausage and eggs and toast- a full, hearty breakfast that any family would be able to enjoy some time around the table with. Lots of laughter had been had during our morning family breakfasts, back when Amity was younger and Mother Rose was alive. I’d decided to resurrect the tradition as a way to kick off her special day. When I realized how badly I’d overslept, I felt like a heel. Amity tapped on my door and repeated my name again. More aware of myself now, I answered her. “Sorry, sweetheart! Dad’s getting up! Sorry!”
“No worries,” she said pleasantly through the door as I scrambled to put on some pants and a t-shirt. “The box just arrived a few minutes ago. It’s too heavy this time and I was wondering if you would mind bringing it in for me?”
“Absolutely!” I called back as I glanced around for a pair of shoes. “I’ll be right out!”
Minutes later I was outside, lugging the big tough box into the house by way of our garage, which had a direct entrance to the kitchen and pantry. Amity waited in the doorway and stepped aside while I struggled to drag it into the kitchen proper. “Be careful, Dad,” she admonished. “You’re not the young buck you used to be.”
“I’m plenty young,” I retorted. “I just need to get back to the weights and into shape again.” With a final surge of strength, I left the box in place and regarded it with scorn. “I’m almost tempted to make dragging THIS thing in the only birthday present you get this year. Happy birthday, by the way, sweetie. I’m sorry for oversleeping. I was gonna make breakfast for you and everything.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” she said happily. “It’s the thought that counts. Maybe I’ll hold you to that breakfast tomorrow.”
Then I kicked the side of the box. “Okay. So what the hell is in there, anyway? That’s got to be the heaviest one yet!”
“Oh, nothing much,” she answered breezily as she grabbed a small pair of bolt cutters with which she could snap the seal-ties on the box, “just some bricks and a few bags of concrete.”
“What?”
My daughter giggled. “Not really, Dad. Sheesh, you’re so gullible sometimes. It’s just some books that I’ve been wanting to read. Out-of-print stuff that I couldn’t find online. Sort of a birthday present to myself.”
“Must be some really old stuff,” I mused.
Amity shrugged. “Old enough for the Internet to not get around to digitizing it yet.” She applied the business end of the bolt cutters and, with two solid snips, kicked the box’s lid open. Inside was a wide assortment of items, but I could plainly see some thick-looking books at the bottom. My eyes, however, were drawn to a couple boxes of tampons. Amity followed my gaze and blushed. “And now you know why I prefer to unpack these things alone…”
I breathed in through my nose and let it out slowly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m not a total idiot. I’m just… sorry that I wasn’t involved with educating you. I take it Mother filled you in on everything you need to know?”
Amity snorted with a small laugh. “That and so much more, Dad. Most things in this family aren’t very private, but some things… are.”
I nodded. “I understand. And I want you to understand that if there’s anything you want to know that Mother didn’t teach you, I’ll always do my best to help.”
“There is one thing…” I glanced at her questioningly. She looked me right in the eye and asked with absolute earnestness, “Where do babies come from? Because I think I might wanna have one some day.”
The question hit me so completely out of the blue, so unexpectedly, that I at first didn’t know HOW to respond. I just gaped at her. Surely the subject of procreation had been taught to her! I KNEW it had, as I had participated in that conversation with her mother back when she was only 4 years old. “What?! I-”
Amity broke out into laughter. “See? You ARE too gullible!” Then her face hardened. “But, seriously, I DO want to have one some day.”
I just blinked at her stupidly. “I… I have no ready response for that,” I replied.
“None needed,” she said off-handedly. “Just a statement of fact. Now, if you please, go do something else for a little bit while I unload.”
I left to go take a shower. A cold one.
I’ve described Amity’s beauty insofar as her mind and personality are concerned, but I have yet to describe her physically. That was intentional, as her physical beauty was something I never really noticed until it was just the two of us alone together. And I didn’t notice it for a long time after Rose was killed. In retrospect, I fully understand WHY it took me so long to notice my daughter’s beauty: she may have been the only female around, but I was still grieving for my mother, who amounted to no less than my wife.
But that didn’t mean noticing her beauty had any tint of lust behind it- at first. My awareness of her beauty was more clinical and objective, much in the same way you’d walk past a painting in a museum and say, “Oh, that’s an exceptionally beautiful painting!” without having any interest in taking it home with you. Having lived with and loved my own mother as I did, whose beauty was as constant as the North Star, as far as I was concerned, acknowledging Amity’s beauty was almost a no-brainer. To my mind, OF COURSE Amity would be just as gorgeous as her mother was. How could she not?
Amity was short. Much, much shorter than me, perhaps just a shade shorter than Mother, who was five feet tall. So call it four-foot-ten, at an educated guess. Now, on that short and diminutive frame was a woman whose attributes reflected her mother’s, but more so. Mother’s breasts, when I first made love to her, were 36-C. They were firm, high and as close to flawless as any man could imagine and stayed that way well after giving birth to Amity and swelling in the process, as a woman’s breasts are wont to do after childbirth. Amity’s breasts were every bit as perfect and, on her shorter frame, seemed even larger. Her legs were strong and well toned, worked hard from helping Mother in our garden and walking on our land. Her hands were small, but held a deceptive amount of power, mostly gotten from hours upon hours of coding and working on the computer as well as physical labor in the garden, which also helped to keep her waist trim. Her hips held the slender grace of youth, but a critical eye could see that they would soon develop subtly to show off a young woman practically made for both sex and bearing children. On the backside of those wondrous hips was what can only be described as a derriere designed solely to grab a man’s attention. How I’d missed it all these years was a true mystery, but once I’d become aware of her beauty it was impossible to ignore. Her butt cheeks were high and tight and had the most subtle curve, looking both soft and taut at the same time. And all of this gorgeousness was wrapped up in the most exquisite, soft, sun-toned skin any woman would kill to have. All the fresh country air and good, natural living had done her complexion wonders that would stump even the best of dermatologists. Amity’s incredible body notwithstanding, her most beguiling feature was easily her face. Soft, gentle cheekbones, small elfin ears, and a short nose that was small but not at all upturned and sat above full, pouty lips. Her hair was a golden brown in certain types of light and burnt blonde in others. That beautiful mane of luxurious hair was thick and long, hanging down past her shoulders and perfectly framing her bosoms with soft ringlets. Her eyes, however, could steal your soul with a glance. They were a perfect steel blue with just the faintest hint of gray that sparkled with intelligence and mischief and strength, whether she was laughing or crying.
And the day that I consciously realized, for the first time, just how stunningly beautiful my daughter was, I felt like a fool. Not a single thing about her had changed and yet everything about her was suddenly different. I had seen it all along and never noticed. And noticing her beauty wasn’t a sudden event, but a culmination of years spent watching her grow and appreciating, in a detached sense, all of her finest attributes in bits and pieces. But a thing of beauty is the sum of all its parts and there was no part of her that wasn’t absolutely beautiful. It was with trepidation and excitement that I quickly realized that there was no number of cold showers I could take which would hide or assuage the lust that was slowly, menacingly growing for my own daughter. Dear God, I remember thinking to myself as I stood under that first cold shower, what have I wrought?
I did what any father in my position would do: I immediately withdrew. My withdrawal wasn’t, in any way, like what I had gone through during my depression, but it was definitive. I never spoke harshly or distractedly with Amity when she engaged me in conversation, and I didn’t exactly hide from her, either, but I likewise didn’t make any special effort to seek out her companionship. When she came to me for something, I didn’t turn her away, but when whatever she wanted was done with, I’d quietly go back to my office or another part of the house, anywhere I could go that would keep my eyes off her increasingly distracting beauty.
About a month of that and Amity had finally had enough. She called me into the kitchen for breakfast one sunny morning and, when I arrived fully dressed and subdued, she slammed a frying pan into the kitchen sink. “What the hell, Dad?” she cried out of the blue.
I just stared at my daughter stupidly and then looked down at myself, to make sure that I hadn’t somehow forgotten my pants or something. When I looked back up at her I was perplexed. “What?”
Amity glared at me hotly. “You KNOW what, Dad. A year ago you would come to breakfast in boxers and a t-shirt, smiling bright as the sun and happy to see Mom and me. Now… now you just mumble good morning at me like you’re in a soup kitchen! What the hell is going ON with you?”
I blinked at Amity uncertainly. Had I been that obvious about it? But no, I thought to myself. I hadn’t been rude or cruel. I just… distanced myself from her. For her sake. I couldn’t refute the fact, to myself, that I was beginning to lust after her, but I wasn’t about to put pressure on her or invite her to help solve a problem that wasn’t hers to begin with. “I…” I had no idea where to begin, so I decided to just go with a half-truth. “I’ve been… struggling with some things, that’s all.” I placed my hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward a little bit. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or anything. I’m just… going through things right now that I need to work out on my own.”
“Bullshit,” she replied flatly. I arched a cautious eyebrow at her in a non-vocal but obvious attempt to remind her that I AM still her father. She brushed it off with a wave. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Dad. I know you. Hell, I probably know you better than you know yourself, sometimes. You’ve been hiding from me. I think I know why, but I want to hear you say it. Say it out loud, so we can get it out in the open. Because that’s how Mom did things and just because she’s gone, that doesn’t mean we should change something like that. So out with it, Dad. What’s eating you?”
Thoughts raced through my mind at light speed. I was wrapped up in a mix of emotions, none of them easily defined. When had my little girl grown up into such a self-assured young woman? When had she grown so articulate and precise? With a brush of my hand through my hair, I took a deep sigh. “You really want to know?” I asked her.
Amity didn’t miss a beat. “Like I said: I think I ALREADY know. I just want to hear you say it.”
Feeling the challenge behind her words, I hardened myself and scowled. Suddenly the dam within me broke and the floodgates between mind and mouth flew open. “Do you? Fine. Okay. Here it goes: yes, I’ve been hiding from you. More to the point, I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. Because, since your birthday, every time I see you, the only thing that comes to mind is the fact that, daughter or not, all I want to do is have you the same way I had our mother. Every time I see you, literally see you with my eyes, I’m mentally undressing you and wishing that I could feel your body sweating under mine as I take you either as a gift or by force. When you’re in the same room as me and I catch your scent, my cock is immediately hard and my pulse quickens and I have to make a near physical effort to pay attention to what you’re saying because my imagination is doing its best to drown you out. When Mother was alive, I’d be able to get out my sexual frustrations with her, any time I wanted to and any time SHE wanted to, and I wouldn’t think twice about the fact that our daughter was the physical embodiment of lust personified. But now she isn’t here and every single thing about you makes me want to forget that I’m your father and instead revel in the fact that I’m a man and you’re a woman and I haven’t had a woman in a very long time and I miss our mother and every time I feel like just throwing you across that counter top, the very one you were conceived on, and fucking you until I put a child in YOUR belly, every time I think about that I feel like shit because it feels like I’m being unfaithful to the one woman who brought BOTH of us into this world. And I hate that feeling, I hate feeling betrayed by my own lusts and I can’t… I can’t… I…” I yanked the chair away from the table suddenly and sat down heavily in it. “Fuck.” Then I ashamedly dipped my head down in defeat and cradled it in my hands, elbows acting like tripods on the kitchen table. I didn’t cry, no more strength was left in me to do that. So I just sat there in abject shame, hiding my eyes from my daughter who watched me in my tirade with a stony expression.
I didn’t even hear her move, but a moment later I felt her body next to mine and, more surprising than anything, she pulled me to her midriff and held me there in a gentle embrace.
All I could manage to say was, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry.”
She breathed a few times in silence before answering. “I’m not.”
As though struck by a cattle prod, I jerked back, away from her hug and looked up at her in shock. “Amity! I-” and there I paused. What was I going to say? My eyes locked with hers and all I could see behind her gaze was complete openness. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.”
She cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me, looking so much like her mother then. “So you didn’t mean it?”
I thought furiously back to what I’d said. It had all come out in a rush, but there was no filter on it, on me. I’d meant every word of it and that was my hell to endure. “No… no, I did. All of it. It’s true. And I hate myself for it. And I shouldn’t have said any of it to you. It’s not fair to. This is my problem, not yours, and it’s something I’m going to have to work out on my own.”
Again, she said, “Bullshit.” Then she tilted her head back for a soft laugh, making herself look even more achingly beautiful without even meaning to. “Look at you, Dad! I mean, seriously. Look at you. Look at us!” She paused a moment and then grew serious. “Look: cards on the table. I noticed you looking at me differently. And, honestly? It made me feel wonderful. It made me feel like a woman, like Mom. And you know what? I didn’t care that it was you looking at me that way. I mean, why should I? Look at our family, Dad! Look at where I came from, where YOU came from! Where MOM came from! At this point, Dad, if you weren’t having lustful thoughts about me, incestuous though they may be, I’d think there was something wrong with you. With me. Dad, let’s face it: incest is as much a part of our way of life as it is part of our heritage.”
I shook my head in defiance. “But you should be able to make that choice on your own, not with pressure from me!”
And then her steely blue eyes got a hard look about them. “What makes you think I’m not, Dad?” she asked sternly. “What makes you think I’d want it any other way?”
Well. That was a stumper.
“…what?”
My daughter huffed in exasperation and rolled her beautiful eyes at me. “Dad, you think I don’t have urges, too? The full extent of my sex life consists of what I learned from Mom, the Internet and a hairbrush handle two years ago. But it doesn’t mean I’m content with that, Dad. Far from it. I know how beautiful I am, and that’s not a conceit. Mom didn’t mince words with either of us and she made it very clear to me that, eventually, I’ll come of age and want to have sex. And who do I have to turn to? You. And don’t go thinking that you shortchanged me somehow, that you locked me away from other boys and stunted my growth. I don’t want, NEVER wanted any of those outside boys. I’ve interacted with enough of them online to know that 99% of them are idiots and fools and as transparent as glass. I wanted YOU. Just like you wanted Mom. And she wanted her father. It’s in our genes. Might as well own up to it and accept it. And she knew it, too. You know what she told me? I’m sure you can guess. But just in case you need to be hit over the head with it, Dad, she told me that, when I was ready and if you were willing, I was welcome to continue the family tradition. With you.” Before I could interject, she silenced me by rushing forward. “So here’s the deal, Dad. You won’t pressure ME? That’s a laugh. No. I won’t pressure YOU. Much. But you’re the man I want to be my first, my last and my only. So I’ll seduce you. We can make a game out of it if you like, hold out as long as you can, but I prophesy that you will lose that game. I’ve known you wanted me for a long while now, probably before you even realized it yourself, so I know how this is going to end.”
“And how’s that?” I asked weakly.
“With me pregnant with our son. Because that’s how it works with us, with our family. Mom and her father had a son, who ended up breeding with her to create a girl… and he will give that girl, ME, a son, who will, one day, make me pregnant again with a daughter that he will breed. And each generation will be more beautiful, stronger, smarter, better than the last. With us, Dad… Mom used to say that the apple falls NEAR these trees, not far.”
The exacting certitude with which she laid it out took my breath away. Almost literally, I was devoid of breath. I just gaped at her, at this creature I had made, the fruit of my own loins, who was so absolutely sure of herself and her place in our lineage that it bordered on destiny. Or fate. Or both. And perhaps it was.
But I wasn’t ready to own that yet, to accept it. I wasn’t ready… for any of it.
I leaned back from her and stood, my face a blank slate. I stood there for a moment of shared silence and finally said, “I… can’t.” And I turned to walk out of the kitchen, hungry but too stunned to feel it just then.
As my feet crossed the doorway, she said from behind me. “Yet. But you will. The game is on, Father.”
Have you ever played a game against someone, knowing that there was no possible way to win against them and that the odds were stacked against you? The first time you played chess, maybe. Or hide and seek. Any move or tactic you employed was against an opponent who knew the tricks before you did.
Playing a game of seduction with a beautiful woman is like that.
And if the seductress is your own daughter, you are doomed to failure from the start.
But you play the game anyway. For no reasons you can put into words, you enter into a game where your loss is a foregone conclusion and everything will be a long process of just going through the motions. You play the game anyway.
Amity didn’t play fair.
I didn’t see much of her the rest of the day. And on the occasions that I did see her, she behaved as though we’d never discussed the fact that she wanted me to be her lover. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to bring it up. Indeed, she was her perfectly normal self, as breezy and life-loving as she’d ever been. To be honest, it was the happiest I’d seen her since Mother died. She seemed like a puzzle piece had suddenly fallen into place in her mind and life and the tragedy of her mother’s loss was, while still painful, something to put behind her. By the time dinner rolled around, which she’d prepared seemingly out of thin air and without me noticing it, I had honestly almost forgotten that there was supposed to be an air of discomfort between us, that there was a challenge before the two of us- her to seduce me, and me to resist it.
The next morning, however, was when the warfare began. And she wasn’t subtle about it in the least. As per usual, I awoke to the sound of my daughter’s lovely voice calling me to the kitchen for breakfast. I got dressed as I normally did and stumbled into the kitchen smelling good, country home cooking and a fresh pot of coffee. Of the three of us, Amity is the absolute master of coffee in our household, having learned from our mother, whom I thought was the world’s best barista Starbucks had never discovered. But Amity took coffee brewing to a whole new artform, mixing and blending flavors and oils like a maestro. For her fifteenth birthday we had gotten her a very expensive espresso/cappuccino/coffee machine that would make most café baristas blush with envy. And she worked it masterfully. Never was a dull moment when it came to mornings in our home. Amity was able to make the most subtle flavors sing and combine in such a way that it would force you to stop and appreciate the first few sips the way you would a fine wine and, once your palate had adjusted to the taste, you’d want to chug it down and WOULD do if it wasn’t for the fact that you might burn your throat in the effort. My favorite concoction of hers was a caramel/crème brulée/vanilla blend that would warm your soul and make love to your taste buds.
And that was the olfactory siren song I followed as I entered the kitchen, my vision narrowed like a laser beam on the steaming pot of coffee that sat on the kitchen table. She’d already prepared my cup for me, bless her, and as I began to pour the elixir into my cup, she happily chirped, “Good morning, Dad!”
As the brown liquid poured from the pot and into my cup, I glanced up at her- and almost dropped the pot, stopping myself at the last second as hot coffee sloshed past the cup’s lip and onto my hand. I both felt and didn’t feel the sensation of burning as my eyes widened in awe at what I saw.
Amity was dressed in an apron.
And that was it.
Her back was to me, giving me a perfect view of that behind I’d fantasized about for months, and she was busy stacking dishes in the sink. As her arms moved from side to side, I could catch glimpses of the outer edges of her large breasts as they too swayed with her movements. “Amity!” I choked out as I made a conscious effort to place the coffee pot back in its cradle and pulled my overheated hand protectively to my mouth. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Amity feigned confusion. “Hm? What?” She stopped stacking the dishes and turned to face me. “Oh, this? It was Mom’s, but I didn’t want to get myself wet.”
Through the muffle caused by my hand as I tried to nurse it with my mouth, I replied, “I’m not talking about what you have on. I’m talking about what you DON’T have on!”
Amity played it like a pro. “Dad, I’m not going to run the risk of getting hot grease and water all over my naked skin if I can help it. Pain isn’t my thing.” Glancing behind herself, she grabbed a wash towel and tossed it to me. “Speaking of which, are you okay?”
I glanced at my injured hand and shook it gamely. It hurt still, but the burning sensation was going away quickly. I hadn’t burned myself with the hot coffee too badly, just enough to wake myself up, really. “I’ll be fine. But you still haven’t answered my question, young lady.”
Amity blinked at me. “Yes, I did, Dad. You asked me what I was wearing. It’s Mom’s old apron. Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t hit your head, too, or something, did you?”
“My head’s fine!” I barked, not sure WHY I was losing my temper all of the sudden. It was so totally out of character for me. I think I might have raised my voice to my daughter maybe ten times in all her years, and maybe half of that in frustration, never anger. I closed my eyes in an effort to calm my nerves, only to find the image of my near-naked daughter seared into my retinas, a vision that was quickly being sullied by my imagination. With alarm, I opened my eyes back up. “It’s… fine. I’m just… WHY are you wearing JUST the apron and not your normal clothes under it?”
“Oh, that’s simple,” she said with a wave of her hand and turned back to doing the dishes, once again showing me her perfect ass. In that early morning light I could see just a hint of her young pussy lips and I could swear that there was a slight sheen as the sunlight glinted off it. Was she wet? I wondered. “I want you to know what I look like naked and start fantasizing about having sex with me. I thought we settled this yesterday?”
“Amity,” I began carefully, “I know you’re eighteen now and you’re probably as wound up as a girl can get at her age-”
“Understatement, Dad,” she interjected.
“But if you keep this up, you’re going to be an orphan before you’re made a woman.” Translation: you’re going to kill me with a heart attack, young lady!
Amity arched an eyebrow at me. “Too much?” The false façade of seduction was gone from her face and she was genuinely curious. She pulled out the chair across from me at the table and sat down in it.
“Much too much,” I replied. “Look, Amity, I get it. I do. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But this…” I gestured at her near nakedness, “is too much, too fast. It’s like…” And I paused to grope for the words, trying my best to give her fatherly advice on, of all things, the subject of how to seduce men. Well, how to seduce me, really. Which was weird and counterintuitive. “It’s like walking into a restaurant and having the chef rushing you to eat his world-class meal. You don’t get enough time to savor it or… learn from it. The experience of the meal gets completely side-stepped. It tastes great, but it doesn’t last.”
Amity looked down at the table in contemplation for a moment, her eyes roaming over the freshly-cooked meal she’d prepared as she thought about the analogy. Then she looked up. “So you’re saying I should dial it back a bit?”
“A lot.” I paused a beat and went on. “It doesn’t matter who your first is, you should always cherish it and make it the best possible experience.”
My daughter narrowed her eyes at me. “That’s not what happened with Mom,” she said.
I took a deep breath through my nose, recalling the first time I’d had sex with our mother and nodded. “No, you’re right. It isn’t. That case was unique. EVERY case is unique. With Mother there was… it had always been just us. Father died when I was a boy, so really she was the only woman in my life.”
“Just like you’re the only man in mine,” Amity put in.
“Stipulated. But Mother and I had a lifetime of experiences that were limited ONLY to us. With you and me, the story is a bit different. Our mother was here for most of your life, thank God. It’s a different dynamic. And you so resemble her that, sometimes, it’s almost like she’s still here. But she isn’t. And I know that. And as much as I love you, I loved her, too. She was my mother first and foremost. So we had a relationship that was exclusive to us. When we first made lo- had sex, the passion and love that we had for each other, one that grew with time, hit us full-force and we didn’t have the time to think about it. We just… reacted, in a way. But my relationship with you is… different.”
“You don’t see me in the same way that she saw you?”
“I…” and I gave some real thought to that question. “I don’t know.”
Amity was quiet for a moment before she hit me with the next question that would hold my heart hostage for the rest of my life. “Are you not in love with me the way she was with you, when you first… fucked?”
“Of course I love you,” was my immediate reply.
“No, Dad,” she said softly with a shake of her head as she stood to leave. “Not that. IN love. Because I spoke to Mom about this at length before she died. Maybe you didn’t know it, but she was IN LOVE with you long before you got together. And maybe I can’t compete with that.” I could see tears welling up in her eyes and the color in her cheeks was rising. Even as naked as she was under that apron, our mother’s apron, she was even more naked to my gaze then, her heart open and aching. Nothing hurts like a heart in search of love and she was that personified.
Without another word, she was the one to leave the kitchen, too overwhelmed to say anything more.
If there’s one thing you can’t do, it’s to compete with a ghost. It’s impossible. Because a ghost isn’t real and what you’re competing against is actually just an idea of a memory. But Amity wasn’t deterred. She didn’t give up. She knew what she wanted, even if I didn’t… yet. Oh, to be sure, the male in me wanted her the way a dog wants a bone, but the father in me was at odds with the MAN in me. It was beyond question that I loved Amity more than life itself, but she’d posed a serious question that I couldn’t answer: was I, COULD I be, in love with her?
I think she realized that that was the one hurdle I’d have to leap before I’d consent to taking her as my… my what? My lover? My mate? I think the relationships in my family kind of defied real definition in those terms. At any rate, I believe she realized that before I could make love to her, I’d have to be certain that I was in love WITH her- first. And I think she wanted it that way, too. A passionate, animalistic sexual exchange appealed to her youthful lusts, but she was no dummy. She knew that a healthy relationship between a man and a woman, regardless of their relations, would need to be built on a genuine love that was more than just what a parent felt for a child and vice-versa. Any love I felt for her outside of our family dynamic would need to have a life of its own.
So she dialed it back- WAY back!- but she didn’t give up. Or maybe she just developed new habits. It was hard for me to tell. For days after that painful conversation, whenever I saw her, she was nowhere near as bold, but she had just a hint of tease to her. Low-cut shirts, skin-tight shorts, barely-there skirts with thongs underneath… that kind of thing. But when I saw her in those outfits, she didn’t make an obvious show of it. She just moved and acted like normal. This was how she dressed now, skimpy, almost bordering on slutty, but not depraved. The male in me ate it up. And, I have to be honest here, the father in me felt proud. She was learning balance in the delicate art of seduction, learning how to wield the weapon that was her beauty like it was a well-honed knife rather than a sledge-hammer.
Amity was persistent, if not relentless. Nevertheless, our original father/daughter dynamic was slowly coming back into firm setting, despite a palpable tension that was felt by both of us. Never again did she broach the subject of whether or not I was or could ever be in love with her. Meanwhile, it was all I ever thought about… until I didn’t. I don’t know when, exactly, I stopped thinking about it, but I did. We fell back into our routines, I guess, and eventually it was a concern that I didn’t focus on anymore. I remember one night in bed alone, thinking about the situation, when I thought to myself, “For now, I love her. Every piece of her. And, for now, all I can do is hope that will be enough.”
Laughter and jokes, two things you quietly wonder when they will come back into a home that’s been struck by tragedy. Time heals all wounds, as they say. And while I don’t think either of us would ever fully heal from the loss of our mother, the wounds were no longer as fresh or painful. We adjusted to her absence over time. And, in due course, over a period of months, the laughter and joy returned. Jokes at one another’s expense, laughter while watching a movie on TV, smiling genuinely at each other… those were the best, if you ask me, the smiles. At first they were warm and supportive, but at some point they had a hint of playfulness about them. She’d read something online while we were in our shared office/computer lab and I’d glance up to see her glance at me self-consciously and, when she caught my gaze, her eyes would twinkle. And seeing joy in her face always made my heart swell. Seeing happiness in her gave me hope, which was something I desperately needed.
Maybe it had happened sooner and I just hadn’t noticed it, but one day I did: Amity stopped wearing panties. She still wore the short skirts and sexy shorts and tight pants, but one day, when she walked by me and I dropped something, she bent down to pick it up for me and, not a foot away from my nose, I got a very clear eyeful of my daughter’s sex. The first things that registered in my mind was that my daughter’s pussy was small, clean and very inviting. When she stood upright again and turned to hand me the pen, she noticed the befuddled look on my face. “What?” she asked.
It was my turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow at my beautiful daughter. “Playing The Game again, are you?”
Amity’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion and then realization dawned on her. “Oh. Oh! No. Uhm, no. I… I just… I think I gave that up.”
“So why aren’t you wearing any panties?” I asked bluntly.
And she just shrugged. “Don’t want to anymore. I quit wearing them months ago, found I liked the feeling. Now I only wear them when I’m on my periods. You really didn’t notice until just now?”
It was my turn to shrug. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. “Not really, no.” Feeling uncharacteristically bold, I flipped up the front of her skirt to get an unobstructed look at her mound from the front. Like her mother’s, Amity’s pussy was completely bare, not even so much as a whisker. “Can’t say I disapprove,” I added.
And she jumped back in surprise, pulling her skirt from my light grasp and once again hiding her cute little snatch from view. “Dad!”
“What?” I said defensively. “You see a nice painting, you admire it. That’s how it works.” As explanations of sexually harassing your daughter go, yeah, that was pretty lame.
“Maybe for perverts,” she retorted archly, “but not for respectable people.”
At that I scoffed. “Then call me a spade. And a pervert. I had sex with my mother, knocked her up and now I’m lusting after my daughter… who is also my sister. If there was a meter that measured perversion, I’d be in the red, Amity.”
And that seemed to shut her up. For about five seconds. “…you still lust after me?”
“I never stopped, Amity,” I answered honestly, “There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t look at you and thank God for placing such a beautiful woman in my life.”
“I…” she began and then clapped her mouth shut and simply stared at me searchingly for a few seconds. Finally, she said, “Thank you.” She planted a chaste kiss on my forehead and went on her way.
I didn’t think twice about it.
She most certainly did.
I think I’ve made it clear that Amity is very, very smart. And when it came to seducing me, she applied her intelligence like a surgeon. After that day, I began to notice, more and more, that she wasn’t wearing panties. She stopped wearing pants and shorts altogether and wore only skirts, usually short ones. She never missed an opportunity to bend down to pick something up or look under a piece of furniture for something. And every time, I was treated to a perfect and clear view of her backside. But here’s the thing: she made a show of it without actually making a show of it. If she caught me staring, she’d just give me an admonishing look or say something like, “Stop staring, Dad. That’s not polite.”
And then I began to notice that she had stopped wearing bras, too. My glimpses of her ass and pussy naturally got my libido back into high gear and, of course, I started taking a more careful look at her entire body. It wasn’t long before I realized that her breasts, which looked so large on her short body, swayed more freely and her tiny nipples were more prominent under her shirts. Along with the skirts, she took to wearing white button-down Oxfords. In due course, her normal attire was that of a Catholic schoolgirl, despite the fact that she was no longer doing home-schooling and never left our property. I don’t know if she was aware of it, but that look was an extreme turn-on for me, something that haunted my dreams and fantasies for decades. Mother was aware of that fetish, but I highly doubt that she’d shared THAT kind of detail with our daughter before she passed away. Nevertheless, Amity was getting my attention like never before and, for once, I wasn’t objecting at all. Hell, I looked forward to it.
Her wardrobe seemed to evolve over the following weeks, slowly and imperceptibly, until she’d reached the pinnacle. A delivery box arrived and, when we opened it, we found a new pair of shoes inside. They were white high-heeled numbers, with a single strap that could hold the shoe in place on the foot and that screamed for attention. When Amity saw them, she squealed happily. “Oh, goody! They’re here!”
I glanced at her in confusion. “Since when are you into shoes?”
Amity played it cool. “I dunno. I just… am. Now.” She reached into the box and pulled them out. Without waiting, she sat down at the kitchen table and put them on. Of course, when she lifted her knee so that she could set her naked foot on her other knee, I got a clear line-of-sight look at her nude pussy. I tried not to stare and instead watched what she was doing. I noticed that her socks had a little bit of fringe on them as she slipped on the shoes one at a time. With the shoes on, the sexy factor was upped several notches. She admired them for a moment and then looked up at me, her hands on her knee caps and the front of her little pleated skirt flipped so that it showed even more of the pussy I wasn’t supposed to be staring at. “What do you think, Dad? You like them?”
“They look… they look very nice, Amity.” I neutrally replied, trying my absolute best to keep my eyes from flicking up to her crotch.
Amity rolled her eyes. “I know THAT, Dad. But do you LIKE them?” Then she stood up and turned around to show me her calves, which looked very taut and firm in the high heels. Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief. At least my daughter’s cunt wasn’t on full display anymore.
“I, uh… I guess…”
Then she bent down over the chair, thrusting out her ass. “What about now? How do they look on me?”
My eyes widened. Now it was obvious that her pussy was wet and she deliberately wanted me to see her forbidden charms. Fuck it, I thought. I might as well roll with it and see where she’s taking this. “You look very… inviting.”
She looked over her shoulder at me. “Inviting?” she asked with a playful expression on her face. “Like ‘come on in’ inviting or ‘let’s go see a movie’ inviting?”
“I’d say you’re inviting whoever sees you like this to fuck you silly,” I said evenly. Challenge delivered.
“You’re the only one here, Dad,” she replied. Challenge accepted.
“Are you?” I asked her.
“Am I what?”
“Are you inviting me to fuck you silly?” I was wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt and nothing else. Amity’s recent no-underwear policy had struck a chord in me and I had decided to try it out a couple weeks before. I have to admit, it was liberating in its own way and not uncomfortable. Seeing my daughter poised over the chair like she was, her naked pussy on obvious display, I couldn’t help but get an erection. Seriously, there was no stopping it at that point. So I adjusted myself. With her staring right at me while I did it. “Is that what you want?”
Amity didn’t change her position, but looked away distractedly to stare at the wall in front of her. “Hmm. Well, I seem to recall saying something to that effect not too long ago, Dad. But you shot the idea down. So I guess I’m just going to have to live with- WHOAH!”
I didn’t let her finish her sentence. I’d had enough and couldn’t stand it anymore. The teasing, the hints, the seduction- all of it had conspired to wear me down and it did exactly that. Seeing her like that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. While she was looking away, I’d resolved to end this madness and simply give in. I pushed my sweat pants down, my engorged cock sprang free and I crossed the space of barely five feet until I was right behind her and bent my knees a slight bit. While she was saying “But you shot the idea down”, I grabbed my shaft and aimed the head of my cock right at her waiting, dripping pussy, lined it up perfectly, and thrust forward. In less than a second, the same penis that had created her was stuffed inside Amity’s wet and willing pussy.
I didn’t wait. I didn’t hold back. I just grabbed hold of her trim hips and began thrusting inside of my daughter’s welcoming quim with powerful, solid thrusts. Each time my hips drew back, I paused for a fraction of a second before slamming my cock back into her. Her youthful buttocks, toned and strong, didn’t even ripple with the impact of my groin as it smacked into her backside. “I can’t stop myself, Amity!” I growled. “I… just… can’t… hold… back!”
My daughter arched her back as her body rocked with my thrusts into her tiny body. “FINALLY!” she gasped out and then looked back at me. “Use me, Dad. Use me the way you’ve wanted to. I’m tired of waiting, too!” With that, I tightened my grip on her hips and literally held the lower half of her body in the air while my cock continue to plough into her forcefully, her small feet, enclosed in those sexy fucking shoes, dangling off the kitchen floor. Using my own hips as a pivot, I swung her helpless and impaled body just far enough to the side so that she could lay face down on the kitchen table while I fucked her mercilessly. With a wicked grin, she added, “I’m ovulating, Daddy.”
I paused my thrusts on the in-stroke, burying myself deep inside her, and felt the resistance of her cervix. I wasn’t completely buried, but if I pushed with a little more force I would be. “What?” I asked her breathlessly.
“I’m ovulating,” she repeated. “Today. If you cum inside me…”
“I’ll get you pregnant,” I finished for her.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it? That’s why people have sex, right? To make babies.” Her eyes smoldered and her nostrils flared with excitement. “Make a baby in me, Daddy. I want it.”
I resumed fucking my little girl, still with long, slow, powerful thrusts of my hips. “Say it again,” I told her.
Amity didn’t hesitate. “I want you to cum inside me. I want my father’s sperm inside my womb. I want you to get me pregnant, Daddy.”
My brow creased. “Where’s all this Daddy stuff coming from, Amity?” I asked her without slowing.
She smiled again. “Where do you think?” She mimed working on a computer keyboard with her fingers and raised an elegant eyebrow at me.
And the penny dropped. She had been monitoring my Internet activity and had probably hacked my computer. She knew the kind of porn I’d been watching in private, the kinds of stories I’d been reading. Of COURSE it had all been incest-related, mostly having to do with father/daughter couplings, but I wasn’t exclusive to that. She’d known all along which buttons to push and which fantasies to exploit. Again, I stopped fucking her for just a moment as I let that sink in. “You were spying on me?”
My daughter shrugged. “Desperate times and all that, Dad. I wasn’t getting through to you with logic. Even telling you that Mom endorsed it, and she DID, didn’t seem to have an effect. So I did what I had to do to get your attention.” She wiggled her hips as best she could while I held them in my hands. “I guess it worked. Because, here you are, about to knock me up.”
My focus drifted down to where we were joined. I could see my cock firmly buried inside my daughter’s stretched pussy, could feel the throb of my own penis against her warm, wet walls. My cock jerked involuntarily at the thought that she was right. I was so close then that I couldn’t stop myself completely. It felt too good. I felt too right. I was right where I belonged… almost.
“You really want me to do it, don’t you?” I asked her. “You really want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes, Daddy, I really do. I want to carry my father’s baby. As many of them as I can. I want you to breed me and make me your woman, your wife. I want to grow big and then get small after I give birth so that we do can it all over again, as many times as we can. I want my breasts to swell with milk so that our babies, and even you, can suck from them. This is our family, Dad. It’s our tradition and this is what I was made for. Fuck me and knock me up, please!”
I locked my gaze on to hers and set my mouth tight. “Breathe in, baby, because what I’m about to do might be uncomfortable at first,” I told her.
Her eyes got big with realization. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to push it all the way in.”
“Only if you want me to. I’m really close, Amity. I can cum at any moment, but if you want me to do this, then I’d better do it right. You want me to get you pregnant, then my sperm is going to need to be as deep inside of you as possible.”
“Do it!” she gasped and then held her breath. She looked away from me and seemed impatient. With just a slight hitch, she shifted her hips and arched her back, giving me better access to her deepest chamber.
With my cock being ten inches long and stuffed into her significantly smaller frame, the tip of my penis was already nudged up against the entrance to her womb, but when she shifted just so, I could actually feel the slit at the head of my cock line up perfectly with the shrunken portal of her cervix. My cock was as hard as it had ever been and I pushed steadily against that closed chamber, insisting entrance until it permitted me within. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, we both felt my fat, engorged cockhead slip past the barrier and into her hidden core. My hips lurched forward and pushed the rest of my entire length inside my daughter’s tight body until my hips were flush against her backside.
Amity gasped with the sudden breach, but then seemed to purr like a kitten. “Oooooh, God,” she said heatedly. “I’m so… FULL!”
I waggled my hips just a tiny bit, forcing my cock to move within her body, and said, “Give it a few seconds and you’ll be more full than you know.”
She let out a small hiss of anticipation and sexual glee. “You’re that close?”
I experimentally began to resume my thrusting, with shortened strokes into her small form. “Hair trigger,” I gasped out. Each time I pushed forward, I could feel the head of my cock crashing against her furthermost wall like it was a battering ram. The sensation was beyond exquisite.
“Oh God, this is so amazing,” Amity said breathily. “I can feel you growing inside me, Daddy. I can feel it getting bigger, getting ready to shoot all of that cum inside me. Do it, Dad. Let it go! Fill my womb with your sperm and give us a baby! Let it all go inside of me, Daddy. Please! Knock me up!”
With all of the sexy talk, the extreme tightness of her cervical ring wrapped so tightly around my barbed cock, the warmth and wetness of her pussy and the absolute passion of it all, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I hadn’t masturbated in several days, so there was a lot of sperm inside of me, ready to get out. I pushed myself into her as fully as I could and did as she’d asked, just let it all go. I felt my cock swell to its full thickness as every muscle in my body tightened and I pulled her as close to me as possible.
And exploded.
Volleys of thick, white cum lanced out of my cock and shot directly into my daughter’s body with such force that she cried out as it scalded her inner walls. My hips jerked with each ejaculation, causing me to grunt with the effort of it, and my cock throbbed insistently. I couldn’t have pulled out if my life depended on it at that moment. And the thought that I was really doing it, really impregnating the daughter that I had created with my own mother, the taboo nature of it all and the thrill of it, kept me going like never before. I lost count of how many thick, long streams of my seed was sent hurtling into Amity’s womb, but I knew in the deepest recesses of my mind that I was fulfilling her ardent wish. I was getting my daughter pregnant.
When my spasms finally ceased, I leaned across my daughter’s back and breathed heavily. It had been quick, far too quick for my liking, but the whole event had caught me by surprise that I couldn’t have kept up even if I wanted to. I had been at the mercy of my lusts and desires and had lost control of myself. Did I feel guilty at the thought that I’d tried to impregnate my daughter? No. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been able to make it last.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I said quietly into her ear as both of us fought to catch our breath.
Amity stiffened at that. With my thick cock still buried inside of her, I felt it from within as well as from without. “Why?” she asked with surprise.
“I just wish that our first time could be more…”
And then she surprised me with a soft giggle. “Oh. Thank God. I thought you were sorry about fucking me or something. Listen, Dad, it’s okay. It’s MORE than okay, really. This is exactly what I wanted, exactly how I wanted it. I couldn’t be happier.”
I lifted myself up a bit on my elbows so that I wasn’t crushing her small body against the table with the full force of my weight. “If we’re going to make you pregnant, honey, I would rather it have been a little more romantic. Or gentle. Or that it could’ve lasted longer.”
“Get off me a second,” Amity said gently.
I tried to pull out of her, but the flared knob of my cock wasn’t going anywhere just yet. I was still too hard to withdraw from the stranglehold her cervix had on me. “I… uh… can’t.”
Amity didn’t need me to explain the predicament. She let her head drop in amusement. “Wow. Okay. I guess I’ll just say this from here, then.” She craned her neck around to look at me, twisting her upper body just a little bit in the process. “Dad, I have a confession to make.” She paused a beat and then said, “I’m not really ovulating. That isn’t for another week. I just said that to…”
“Get me in the mood?” I offered.
“Yeah. Exactly. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just wanted to… I dunno, get past the hurdle of our first time. I wanted to break the barrier and get you past whatever it was that held you back. So, really, it’s me who should be apologizing.”
I just blinked at her in astonishment. “So… I didn’t just get you pregnant?”
My daughter smiled sweetly, as sweetly as she could with her father’s spent and swollen cock still rooted inside of her, and said, “Not yet. But I’m hoping that you’ll try like hell.”
And, for some reason, that just inflamed my desire for this sexy creature all the more. Immediately my shaft began to harden again within her body. “I can’t believe it,” I huffed. “So… you manipulated me?”
“That’s part of what seduction is, isn’t it, Dad? Convincing the other person to have sex with you? So, yeah, I manipulated you.” She wiggled her hips and felt my firmness stir within her depths. “Pretty successfully, I might add.”
With a growl, I stood up straight and pulled her along with me, holding her torso with one hand just under her plentiful breasts and the other across the front of her thighs. I heard two soft thumps as she somehow managed to kick off her shoes and let them drop onto the kitchen floor. With the sudden shift, I felt her body settle down even further on my tumescent shaft, which made her coo with surprise. She hooked her arms behind us and latched on to the back of my neck while curling her dainty feet up to wrap backwards around my thighs. Without a word I began to unbutton her white Oxford and exposed her heaving breasts as she leaned against me, the entirety of her weight supported by my thighs and raging erection. Within seconds, her chest was exposed and I began to devour the nape of her neck with passionate kisses.
“Oh, God, Dad!” she huffed, “That feels nice!”
“You’re coming with me,” I growled into her ear and then turned us, with her still mounted on me, to take us out of the kitchen. Each step down the hallway, with me buried so deeply inside of her, it was like I was fucking her as we walked. She just bounced lightly with each footfall and panted as I continued to maul her soft, firm tits. As we passed a hallway mirror, she asked me to stop and back up.
“Wait! Go back,” she sighed. “Back to the mirror.”
I stepped backwards a few paces until the mirror was to our left. We both looked in the reflection.
“Look at that,” she said quietly and brought her hands down to her tummy gingerly. “That’s you!”
In the reflection we could both see a visible bulge where my cock sat within her small body. It wasn’t like she’d been impaled on a baseball bat, but there was definitely ten inches of her father’s cock inside of her, buried to the hilt. We could see the slight shape of my cockhead pressing against her tummy. When she applied the gentlest bit of pressure at that exact spot, I could feel the resistance of it from within.
“Oh my God, that is so hot!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this! My father’s cock is stretching me from inside my womb!”
Again I growled. “We’ll do it again later and get pictures. Right now, I need to cum again!”
As I resumed my awkward gait towards the living room, Amity feigned astonishment. “AGAIN?!”
When we got into the living room, I made a beeline for the couch. It was big and had high, soft arms on it, upon one of which I quickly laid the front half of my daughter’s body. With her draped over the sofa’s arm like that, it was as though she was bent completely in half. The softness of the arm’s cushion would keep her comfortable, but now she could feel my thick cock practically scrape the insides of her womb as I pushed into her. I didn’t even hesitate and immediately resumed fucking my daughter as hard and fast as I could. “It’ll take longer this time, I think,” I said through gritted teeth as her tightness squeezed around me, “but I’m not getting my cock out of you until I cum again and that’s a fact.”
Amity sighed deeply. “Now I wish I WAS ovulating!” As I fucked my daughter in earnest, desperate to cum inside of her again, she said, “I mean, two loads of sperm in less than an hour? Are you kidding me? I’d be pregnant for sure!”
I said nothing as I continue to hammer my swollen and throbbing penis into her inner chamber with all of my might and passion. While I grunted with the effort and Amity moaned pleasurably, I recalled the few times I’d taken our mother Rose on that very couch arm, in exactly the same way.
As though she was reading my mind, Amity asked, “Was it always like this with Mom?”
“Sometimes,” I answered. “Sometimes soft and gentle. We’ll do that, too, sweetheart. Later.”
“Good!” she said as if to punctuate my thrust into her tiny frame. “I was hoping that there’d be more of this in the future.” She glanced back at me as best she could from her hunched position. “I really DO want you to knock me up, Daddy. I want you to fill me with every drop of your seed until I can barely walk straight. I want to be so thoroughly fucked by my father that any doubt of my fertility would be blasted away with every jet of your sperm as it paints my womb white!”
Jesus Christ, where did she learn to talk like that?! I wondered to myself. I didn’t pause in pummeling her pussy, but the surprise at her ability to provide such provocative language stunned me. “Where is all of this coming from?” I asked her.
“The dirty talk?” she asked between breaths. My answer was a grunt and forceful push against her ass. “I’ve done a bit of reading myself, once I figured out what you like. Turns out I like it, too. Probably even more. We’ll talk about it later. For now, just fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me until you fill me up with more cum. I want you to wash the womb you’ll be impregnating with every drop you’ve got! Don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, just do it!”
And so I did. We said nothing more as I concentrated on granting her wish. For what seemed like an eternity, I just continued to repeatedly shove as much of myself into her frail body as I could. The heat was building up and we both began to sweat, but my stamina hadn’t waned yet. It had been a little over a year since the last time I’d had sex with our mother and I felt like I was making up for lost time. Yes, I’d masturbated some, but not as much as you’d think. Don’t forget that I’d been grieving the loss of my mother/wife for the majority of that time, so sex wasn’t very much on my mind. It wasn’t until just recently, when I’d realized and started to rail against the attraction I felt for my daughter, that I’d begun masturbating in earnest. And, even then, it wasn’t very much. Sure, I’d read lots of stories and watched lots of incest-related porn, but that had been more out of diluted interest than anything, something I did AFTER taking a cold shower. So my balls were aching for release and now my daughter was proving to be a most welcome receptacle.
Amity’s moans grew in intensity as my thrusts became more erratic. I’d felt her experience a couple of small climaxes already, but there was a huge one building up within both of us and it would crest soon. The crescendo of our passion was just on the horizon, like a freight train coming down the tracks, and neither of us would have been able to forestall it. Not that we wanted to. Our grunts and moans simply encouraged us to reach that orgasmic finish, to the point where it was almost an unsaid but desperate plea that we both shared.
Amity’s toes didn’t even touch the ground as I felt my orgasm approach, she was so completely bent over that couch arm. They just danced back and forth in rhythm with the relentless pounding of my hips as I fucked her wildly. Suddenly, though, her feet went straight and her toes curled as she let out a loud shriek. Her orgasm was upon her and she was a complete captive to it. I felt her pussy walls clench down tightly on my cock and, suddenly, I was unable to even move, so tight did she grip me from within her walls. The pressure of her orgasm, coupled with the heat and my own ardor, pushed me over the edge.
Again, my cockhead swelled and my testicles tightened up against my body as my orgasm struck me powerfully. With a loud, soulful yell, I felt myself release what was left of my energy and sexual essence. I could feel each ejaculation like it was a canon shot from my tired cock, wads of greasy sperm and cum that splashed against the insides of my daughter’s deepest chamber. My hips bucked and jerked uncontrollably with each jolt from my loins and I felt a rushing in my ears as my body succumbed to the inevitable. I don’t know how long it lasted, surely not as long as the first orgasm, but it did last a lot longer than I’d expected, seeing as how it was my second cum. All the while, Amity cried out in sync with each burst of my seed and gasped when she felt it crash inside her.
This time, my cock wilted quickly. When my orgasm subsided, my tired peter slipped out of my daughter’s well-fucked pussy with a soft squelch and I slumped off her body, to land softly on the couch beside her. Meanwhile, Amity continued to stay bent over the sofa arm and broke into fits of giggles while we both tried to recover from the insanely animalistic session.
When I could finally catch my breath, I asked her what was so funny. She waved it off. “Oh, nothing. I just had this funny thought.”
“Well?”
“It’s just that… this is the first time I’ve ever had sex. I think you might’ve bruised my uterus.”
Alarm shot through me. “Oh, God! Honey! I’m so sorry! I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I was too exhausted to move at that point, but my concern was real and if it turned out that I had injured her, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
Amity giggled just a little more. “Probably, but not so much that I won’t get over it. I just won’t walk straight for a few days.” She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, a tired and contented sigh of a woman whose desires had been truly filled. “I can only imagine how much rougher it’s going to be when you really DO try to get me pregnant.” She locked eyes with mine and I saw a sparkle of tired happiness in them.
I leaned over and kissed my daughter deeply for the first time. As our lips locked and our tongues danced and swirled around each other, I marveled at the absurdity of it. Normally lovers kiss first and THEN have sex. As I lost myself in the kiss, my mind slowly began to awaken at the realization that, for not having any other boys around, Amity was damn good at kissing.
I pulled back and looked at her searchingly. “Where’d you learn how to kiss?” I asked her bluntly.
She didn’t even pause to think about it. “Mom taught me.”
My eyes widened. “You and…?”
My daughter giggled again. “What, Mom and me? Together? No. Sorry, Dad, but we never quite got to that point. She didn’t want to cross that line until I turned eighteen. But she did teach me how to kiss. It was nice. One of the things I miss most about her, actually.”
I smirked and leaned back against the sofa cushions, remembering her. “Yeah. She could kiss like she was tasting your soul and pouring some of hers into you at the same time.”
Amity perked up at that. “Yes! That’s exactly how it felt! I couldn’t think of the words to describe it, but that’s it exactly!”
We both sighed deeply at the memory of our wonderful, sexy, amazing mother. “She taught you well,” I said finally.
Amity slid back on the couch arm so that her feet could touch the floor and leaned against it with one elbow perched and rested her chin against her palm. “She would’ve wanted to see this, I think.”
As my breathing slowed and I was able to get my head back into reality, I nodded soberly. “Possibly, yes.”
Amity guffawed. “No. She definitely would’ve wanted to see us get together. She told me as much.”
Then I looked at her uncertainly. “She did?”
“She never talked to you about it?”
I shook my head. “Never. That’s part of why I was so reluctant to give in,” I answered. “I didn’t want to betray her.”
Amity leaned across to me and kissed me again. It wasn’t as long this time, but it was heartfelt. When our lips parted, she smiled. “Dad, I’m telling you, she wanted us to be together. She told me everything. How to seduce you. How to love you. How to take care of you. In everything. She knew that she wouldn’t be around forever, that sooner or later her time would come. And she wanted me to be there for you, to give you the same love that you gave to her.” She kissed me softly then and stood up. “I should probably get myself cleaned up.” She came around to stand in front of me so that I could see the mess I’d made of her nether regions. If I hadn’t just cum for the second time that day, I’d probably have gotten another erection at the sight before me. “See?”
Indeed I could. Rivulets of my white seed poured down her inner thighs, leaving two small trails of greasy cum. She reached down and scooped some of it onto her fingers. Keeping her eyes locked onto mine, she brought her cum-laden fingers to her mouth and tasted our mix. “Mmm,” she said sultrily. “Better than I imagined.” With that, she turned and made off for her shower and said over her shoulder, “By the way, I’m sleeping with you tonight.”
It wasn’t a suggestion and certainly not up for debate.
Not that I’d offer up much of an argument anyway.
And, just like that, I realized that her question from months before had finally been answered. Yes, I most definitely had fallen in love with my daughter.
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