leaving through the door that led to their adjoining room. 'You really got it up.' And I pulled him into my arms just as I felt my cunt being spread by the knob at the end of his thick cock. We began to fuck.
He was better than Ken. Better than Jodi. Better than any boy I had ever known. He was Daddy, and he was mine. As I sighed my contentment there on the bed of that motel, letting my body move in the flowing motions of a woman who is being fucked, and holding him so that he was nestled against the soft cushions of my tits, I knew we had something that would never end.
And that's the way it has been. The weekend ended, as all good things must, but Mama was none the wiser. And there have been other sessions with Ken and Jodi, just as there have been other couples to take their place.
And each time it happens, each time we swing, I can't help but smile as I recall the words Jodi said that first time in the motel by the beach.
'Your father for mine?'
And so a pattern is formed — a pattern of incest. And it is a pattern that, according to Nora, will continue until it is disrupted by discovery or a disastrous pregnancy.
It is interesting to note that Jodi and her father, according to this latter part of Nora's narrative, had engaged in previous incestuous swapping, a fact which may indicate that this practice is more common than is generally thought.
Interesting, too, is Nora's description of the pseudo lesbian act which she and Jodi used to renew the sexual energies of their fathers, an act which seems imitative of adult swappers. It is accepted as fact by most researchers that such displays of lesbian acts are most often used to stimulate the males in attendance, with true homosexual desire being present in only a small percentage of the women.
But incest is not limited to those who engage in swapping… as we shall see in the next case.
CHAPTER TWO
MY DADDY, MY SISTER… AND ME
You can damned well believe what you like which is exactly what you are going to do anyhow — but the idea of fucking my own father — or should I say being fucked by him? — was a thought that had never occurred to me. Not until after it had happened. And by then it made no difference. Not really. Once done, it was done, and despite our words of remorse, I think both of us knew it was likely to happen again… and again. As I said, it really made no difference. Not after it had happened that first time. It is all too true that a girl can never be unfucked, and that a second trip to the well is much easier than the first. The second trip to the well of sex is also much more enjoyable.
But that first trip is one that will be in my memory for as long as I live, etched there in exquisite detail. Maybe it was clumsy and accidental, and maybe it should never have happened at all. But it was that first time that led to all the others, all the nights in Daddy's arms — so, how could I possibly forget?
I was sixteen at the time. A wise sixteen, I guess. A girl grows up quick when she has to, and the head on crash that had killed my mother a week after my fifteenth birthday had left me little choice in the matter. Someone had to take care of the house, of Terri, my little sister, who was a scrawny kid at the time, and of Daddy. Most of all, someone had to care for Daddy.
Have you ever seen a strong man go to pieces? Disintegrate right before your eyes? If you have, then you'll have some idea of what happened to my father. He had loved her terribly, I suppose, and he just couldn't seem to accept the fact she was gone. He'd spend hours when he seemed unaware of what was happening around him. He began drinking heavily, something he had never done, and he let his appearance simply go to hell.
He never left the house. He would go for days without shaving; and the small real estate company he owned was fast coming apart at the seams. He refused to worry about it. There were days when he wouldn't even accept calls from his salesmen or his office manager.
So it was left up to me to hold the family together. As I said, a girl grows up quick when she has no choice. Daddy just nodded dully when I told him I was dropping out of school. He seldom said anything in those days.
The relationship between the three of us changed completely after that. Maybe it was because I was doing all the work of running the household — the shopping, the cooking, all of it — but Terri seemed to lose all the smart-alecky ways of a little sister. She did what she was told, without argument. She spoke to me in a new tone of voice. She began to treat me like… well, like I was her mother.
Daddy changed, too. As he gradually came out of the stupor that had claimed him after the death of my mother, I saw that he was no longer treating me as a child; he was treating me as a woman, as his equal in every way. It was a long time before I realized I had somehow taken the place of my mother in his mind. He treated me in a whole different way.
It was shortly after he had returned to work at his office that I began to realize just how fully I had taken her place. I was standing at the sink in the kitchen, finishing his evening meal, when he came home. He slipped his arm around my waist, pecked me on the cheek, then said, 'Lord, Dolly, that smells good.'
He patted me twice on the rump, then walked away.
God! How many times had I witnessed that scene between him and my mother? A million times? Two million?
'Dolly' had been his pet name for my mother. He used it only when he was in a good humor, and it startled me to hear him call me that; then, too, he had touched me on the ass with his hand. I could feel that touch for a long time afterward. It was then, I suppose, that I first began to think of him as a total man, as one who needed a woman to share his bed. Maybe not a woman he could love, but one who would at least be able to give him the pussy a man, any man, needs. I began to wonder if he was getting any. I hoped he was. A man needs that.
I had no idea, then, that I would be the woman to give him the cunt he needed.
Or that he would be the man who would give me the only thing I really missed since leaving school: the thrill of hot necking, the tingling sensation I had always felt when I had allowed some eager boy to paw my tits, my cunt, the even greater pleasure of occasionally going all the way for the unsurpassed joy of a good fuck.
There were times I missed that so much I couldn't stand it; times when I would start thinking about the boys who never came around any more and I would get so horny my legs would actually start to tremble. I'd think about the few who had actually got it in my cunt, and I'd wonder which of the girls they were balling now. I'd sometimes try to picture them fucking the different girls I knew. That only made it worse.
Thinking about it at night was worst of all. In the darkness of my room, with no sounds to disturb my thoughts, the vision would become so real that I would actually feel the touch of fingers on my nipples, causing them to swell, and I would feel hot breath in my ears, on my neck. And I would solve that problem the only way I knew.
Always with a feeling of shame, and a promise that this time would be the last, absolutely the last I would throw aside the blankets, spread my thighs, and go to work on my own cunt. My mind would fill with fantasy. The fingers that tugged at my nipples were not my own; they were the fingers of a male, any male. And the pressure against the mound of my cunt was the pressure of a hard groin, steadily driving cock deep inside me. I would hold onto these fantasies until, at last, moaning, writhing with the desperate need for a good fuck, I would come. Then I would hate myself for breaking my promise.
It was on a bad night such as that — a night that followed a day when my thoughts had continually returned to visions of myself spread beneath some eager young stud, his prick driving away my needs — that I was first fucked by my father. Nights were better after that.
I was in my bedroom undressing in front of the mirror when I first heard Daddy call out in his sleep. His bedroom was next to mine, and I listened for his voice again. Nothing, so I looked back into the mirror.
'You do without tonight, you old whore,' I said, half-joking with my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing only my panties and my bra, and my reflection smiled back in a way that said she was going to get hers, whether I liked it or not. I suddenly realized that, without thinking about it, I had slipped my hands beneath my tits, squeezing them through the cups of my bra. 'Damn you!' I said to my reflection. It was a ritual I often followed; my reflection always won.
They were nice tits, though, I told myself as I fingered them through the bra. Heavy and full, like my
