Miranda, Female, 24 (current), 8 (flashbacks)

	- Narrator, daughter of Angela and Dan

	- 5'7, beige skin, 125lbs, curly dark red-brown hair over shoulders

Dr. Martin Green, Male, late-40s

	- Sex therapist

	- 5'8, ruddy beige skin, 150lbs, short brown hair with grey streaks

Angela, Female, early-30s (flashbacks)

	- Mother of Miranda, wife of Dan

	- 5'7, beige skin, 140obs, dark-red brown hair over shoulders

Dan, Male, early-30s (flashbacks)

	- Father of Miranda, husband of Angela

	- 5'11, tanned beige skin, 175lbs, cropped dirty-blonde hair

One might wonder how I could so easily be available for a late-afternoon appointment in the middle of a normal work-week on such short notice. For those with nine-to-five office jobs and that sort of thing, it would be nearly impossible. I, however, have a bit of a different sort of career. I'll describe that later. For now, it is enough to say that I could set my own hours and making time to see Dr. Green was easier for me than it would have been for most people.

I stepped into the office after Dr. Green met me at the door. Instead of jeans, I'd worn a summer skirt to the session, enjoying the way the summer heat played on my bare legs. I'd managed to develop my summer tan in the spring, and as was normal for me, my beige skin was a smooth, light bronze. Dr. Green ignored the way my legs looked stunning below the knee-length skirt, and I actually felt a bit disappointed that his eyes didn't linger below my waist.

I took my normal seat and realized how easily I was now feeling comfortable opening my secrets to Dr. Green. That first session had had a lot of nervousness and stress, but once I started to tell the man about my past, I found it both exciting and relieving to no longer be the only one to know such things. In the days between our sessions, I found myself eagerly anticipating the personal experiences I could relay to him. It didn't hurt to know how much it turned him on to listen, despite his best efforts to stay unconnected to what I described.

“We left off last time with your friend Maggie,” he began, “is there more about her at this time?”

I shook my head. “Unfortunately, no.” I watched him a moment to gauge his reaction. His face remained even, showing no sign of disappointment. I went on, “It was just a one-night special moment for us. Remember, we were eight. Sexual awareness was just starting for me, and Maggie wasn't there yet. I didn't connect touching myself with wanting to be intimate with her, and though we had many sleepovers that year, we never again had a shared moment like that. Sure, I masturbated during our sleepovers, but she never joined in, usually asleep, and I never even thought about trying to do more than that.”

“Ah,” he replied, just a hint of disappointment in his tone. “Okay, then. What comes next in your story?”

“Sadness,” I said, knowing tears would be in my eyes before long.

- - -

It was a few weeks after that night with Maggie, and I was closing in on the last month of second grade. Over that time, my sexual awareness began to mature a bit. I began to fantasize. Sure, they were the fantasies of an eight-year old girl and weren't inherently sexual in the early days, but I started imagining what it might be like to kiss a boy. Even though that process had begun the night I listened to my parents, I wasn't yet to the point where masturbation was wholly connected to sex.

I didn't know about bisexuality yet, so my thoughts were of boys my age and a little older. I began making out with a stuffed teddy bear in my bedroom some nights, believing I was practicing kissing with whichever boy had caught my attention that day.

I attended a school that ran kindergarten to eight grade, and there was boy named Isaac who was in fifth grade, probably ten or eleven. He was adorable. I suppose, looking back, he reminded me of my dad, but I wasn't aware of that connection til many years later.

Isaac didn't know I existed. I'd just seen him in the lunch room, or every now and then in the hall or on the playground. He was dreamy to my eyes. I imagined kissing him many times, but it took some weeks before I started to imagine him touching me when I masturbated.

Nothing more than that, mind you. This was before everyone had access to the Internet, and though we had a computer, I'd never been exposed to pornography. I never even considered it at that age. Didn't know it existed that I recall. Regardless. What I imagined in my mind involved Isaac kissing me and me enjoying it. That made me horny.

- - -

I paused in my telling, listening to Dr. Green scribbling on his notepad. He looked up after a moment of silence.

“I'm making it sound like my whole life revolved around my sexual experiences, my intimate moments,” I explained. “Obviously, that just wasn't true, but I think those moments are the most important to describe because they address directly why I'm here. I know I owe you that, Martin, but I'll get there, I promise. Just. . . stay with me.”

I knew that he was hooked on my stories and wasn't about to suggest I stop giving him the explicit details of my childhood. He nodded and gave me a light smile, “Of course, Miranda. Please. Continue.”

- - -

I would love to know what Isaac thought about me at that time. Well, perhaps that's not true. I doubt he knew I existed, as I said, so what he thought about me was nothing at all. But if he had known of me, would he have found me attractive? Would he have wanted to kiss me?

At eight, my dreamland of romantic adventures was utterly naive and innocent. I had seen enough kids movies to know that the noble knight would sweep his princess off her feet, and of course, Isaac was that knight, and I was that princess. Even as I grew wet thinking about kissing him, my fantasies never went so far as to involve anything sexual.

I imagined scenarios where we were partners in crime, performing some elaborate escape from school so that we could sit next to each other in a park, holding hands, kissing and growing close. I never thought about him touching me or me touching him. Like I said, pretty innocent.

I got up the nerve one day to talk to him. I was not the shy type, but I'd built up Isaac in my mind to be this unapproachable boy, someone above me, out of my reach. I wasn't the type to let that stop me for too long, though. He was sitting with his friends near the back of the room when I walked up. I froze in front of him, staring at his face. Isaac watched me a minute, his eyes suggesting amusement and uncertainty. “Yes?” he said.

I'll always remember that word. It was almost as if he had given me permission to speak.

“Hi, uh. . . I'm Miranda,” I said, trying to steady my voice, my stomach in knots. “Uh. . . hi.”

Isaac tilted his head, amusement on his lips. “Hi. . . what's up?”

“Oh, uh. . . just wanted to say hi. Like. . . hi.”

“Oookay. . . ” His friends were laughing by that point and I was about to run away. “Can I help you with something?”

I don't know where the courage came from but I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I like you. . . ”

He was silent a moment, then glanced at where his guy friends were trying to hold back another round of laughter. “Cool. . . ”

The tone of his voice made me feel off balance. I was devastated. I'd imagined that moment many times, and though it hadn't started the way I'd played out in my head, I never considered that he wouldn't tell me that he liked me, too. My knees started to buckle and I raced out of the lunch room and hid out in the bathroom the rest of the day. I was found by a teacher before classes let out and had a very stern talking-to with the Vice Principal. I managed to convince her, I think, that my stomach was upset so she let me off with a warning. It wasn't a lie. I'd felt like throwing up after the horror of being rejected by Isaac.

At first, I didn't tell my parents about that rejection or the warning I'd gotten, but I was sullen for days. My first crush had, in so few words, destroyed my fantasies. I didn't hate him. Not at all. If anything, it made me desperate to convince him to like me, too.

Sadness is something I coped with fairly well, I think. I'd been sad when I was seven and both Mom's parents died within a few weeks of each other. Dad hugged me a lot and Mom was extra kind to me, and I got through it as best as any soft-hearted kid could. But Isaac's rejection was personal. Maybe it was the hormones and the budding connection to romantic, sexual thoughts I was developing, but it stung to live with what had happened. I even stopped masturbating as a result.

I finally broke down one weekend and confessed everything to Dad, even going so far as to admit that I liked Isaac and hoped he would kiss me. Dad was a big teddy bear and wrapped me in my arms and held me close for most of two days. He spoke kind words I don't really recall, but it did slowly make me feel better.

Monday arrived and I had decided to try again, to figure out where I went wrong. Maybe I needed to talk to him alone, maybe his friends being there meant he couldn't tell me his real feelings. In the lunchroom, I noticed his friends but Isaac wasn't there. The boys he sat with each day were quiet as I looked on from a nearby table. They didn't eat their meals, barely spoke. I knew something was wrong.

The last period of the class, my teacher ended her lesson short and grew quiet. It was then that I learned the most horrible truth. Over the weekend, Isaac and his father had been killed in a car wreck. The school was sending us all home with letters for our parents to let them know what had happened, and ensuring we all understood that counselors were available for any student who needed some support.

I cried in my seat as Mrs. Tangier passed out the notes. I couldn't even read the words I was so upset. The other second graders in my class were watching me with uncertain looks. No one could know how much Isaac meant to me, how much I wanted to mean to him. Mrs. Tangier took me out of the class a few minutes before the school released us for the day and made me see the counselor. I couldn't talk to the woman, couldn't do anything other than cry.

They'd called my Mom and she picked me up shortly thereafter. I was still bawling. Empty. Raw. How could life be so unfair as to take Isaac from me? Mom tried to console me after she read the note in the parking lot. She at least knew, from talking to Dad, about my crush on Isaac. She drove us home and Dad left work early to give me hugs.

- - -

I realized that Dr. Green had risen and was passing me the box of tissues. I was crying in his office, and it was only then that I realized how strongly I still felt the loss of my first crush. “Sorry. . . ” I muttered between sniffles.

He smiled thinly at me and, for one moment, I think he considered touching my shoulder to comfort me. He did not, though, soon returning to his chair. “Tears are normal here, Miranda. It's good to mourn here. This is a tough moment in your life. Know you have the freedom to be honest with me. And to yourself about your pain. . . ”

“Sorry,” I repeated, “I knew I still missed him, but that was. . . years ago. I didn't even know him, and yet. . . here I am!”

“I think, given what I know about you so far, Miranda, that you are someone who loves fiercely. I think you used that term when describing your dad, but I suspect you are like him. When you love, even puppy love, you are all in. Am I right?”

I nodded but didn't reply.

“Isaac was the first boy who made you think about romance, the first boy who you connected to in that way, even if he didn't know. It's normal to be upset remembering him.”

“I blamed myself for a while.” I mumbled, dabbing my eyes with a tissue.

“For his death?”

“Yeah. . . I wondered if he died because I told him how I felt. I thought that, maybe, if I'd not done that, things would have been different. That the weekend would have played out some other way so that his father's car wasn't in that exact place at that exact time. I convinced myself that he died because of me.”

Dr. Green's voice was calm and soothing. “Do you still feel that way?”

I shook my head. “No. . . you know, I was eight. I didn't know enough about the way things worked to know it wasn't my fault, but it was so personal. . . it felt like I caused it.”

“When, then, did you start to undo that self-blame?”

“That was all Dad. He was the real knight to his little princess. . . ”

- - -

I don't know how many days I missed from the remaining couple of weeks of school, but it was probably a week's worth. I'd managed to take my end-of-year exams and did well enough to pass on to third grade, but just barely. I was distraught beyond anything I'd known before. Dad even took a few days off work to spend time with me, Mom wrapped up in her end-of-semester teaching. He took me to movies and to the zoo. We went to lunches and saw a play. He went out of his way to distract me, and it really worked. Looking back, it was almost like dating, just that he was being a good Dad, and I was being an emotional girl who didn't know better.

School ended and I was doing better. Dad went back to his normal work hours, and summer came in quickly. Maggie and I spent most days together at the pool or in the parks or at one of our homes. Mom or Maggie's mother would chaperone us, but we were largely left to find our own fun, and Maggie and I were really good at that.

I suppose I should mention I had started masturbating again. At first, it still mixed with thoughts of kissing Isaac, but slowly that changed. Although nothing replaced my crush when I played with myself, there was a general sexual awareness that crept in. Kissing in general made me horny and I got off thinking about it even if no specific person was attached. I found the idea of being touched by a boy arousing for the first time, again, no one in particular, but my fantasies became more adult by the day.

It was around this time, the first week or two of summer, that I did something a little crazy.

I had been listening to my parents in their bedroom from time to time, slowly starting to associate the sounds I heard with made up images in my head that only tangentially resembled sexual intercourse. I had no idea what that looked like, but my mind had no problem trying to visualize it. Dad's grunts, Mom's moans brought intensity to the sensations of my fingers playing on my vulva, and even if I couldn't see what they were doing, the noises they made helped me orgasm really hard.

I had crept up to their room one night, expecting to hear them going at it again, my fingers already playing lightly around my vulva. At first I heard nothing, and, disappointed, was about to go to my room to get off. Then I heard Mom laugh, more muffled than usual. I realized I could faintly hear the shower running and realized she was in the bathroom. Dad's laugh came through a moment later, and it was clear he, too, was in the shower.

Whatever got into me, I'll never know, but without forethought or understanding what I was about to do, I opened their bedroom door, quietly closing it behind me, and raced into their closet. They had one of those sliding-door closets which took up most of one wall, and I was able to get inside and pull it mostly closed, leaving a small gap to look out from.

I huddled inside while they showered. I sometimes heard them talking or laughing, but I couldn't make out what they said. The closet smelled like Mom. Hints of her perfume and her body met my nose. I realized some time later that they kept the laundry hamper inside, and I was smelling her dirty clothes as I settled against the wall. I inhaled and giggled lightly. I loved that smell. It wasn't sexual. Not yet. But it was comforting and warming to me in the darkness.

Some moments later, the shower shut off, and in almost no time I heard my parents' footsteps on the wooden floor. I peered through the gap carefully, trying not to make noise. Mom was walking backwards, nude, her arms around Dad's shoulders as they kissed. They had left burning two large candles, so there was enough light to see them both fairly well. Mom's heavy breasts jiggled as she moved, and for the first time that I was aware of it, I became interested in her body.

She was beautiful to me, and there was something very sexually attractive to her curves, to the weight of her boobs. Even at eight, I felt that attraction to her. Even knowing she was my mother didn't change things. It wasn't that I was imagining any sexual act with her, it was just a simple sexual awareness of her that had been missing before. The wetness dripping into my panties made it clear how much I loved seeing her in that moment.

And Dad. Oh, Dad. His hairy back was just as I'd seen it so many times. His hairy butt, too. He was fit but had a bit of extra weight in places, including his butt cheeks, and I almost giggled as I saw him push Mom back on the bed and spread her legs, his ass pressing forward.

Only when I heard Mom moan did I connect the sounds I'd been hearing with the act. Although I hadn't seen the detail, they had taught me enough about sex to know that Dad had put his penis inside Mom's vagina. Her moan triggered thoughts of listening at the door. Here I was, though, watching it clearly.

Dad and Mom scooted up the bed a bit so that Dad could position himself on hands and knees. Mom spread her legs wide, embracing his hips with her thighs, feet tucked against the backs of his knees. He started to hump her and grunted with each stroke. I felt myself grow wet with excitement. I was in heaven in so many ways. I was seeing the forbidden, but not in some grotesque, 'going to hell' sort of way, but an act between my parents which was wonderful and lovely and warm. My fingers were soon between my legs as I watched them make love.

Dad's thrusts picked up as Mom wrapped her arms over his shoulders and raised her legs to cradle Dad's back. She was helping him pump into her. “Oh, Dan. . . ” Mom sighed, “Oh. . . yes. . . I'm cumming. . . uhnnnnnn. . . ohhhhh. . . ”

I saw Dad's ass tighten and relax as Mom's orgasm rushed in. That's when I realized that the pleasure I had felt the first time with the doctor, the pleasure I'd brought myself so often since, was something Mom could experience as well. That cemented a connection between us that I would forever be trying to explore. She came, and I came with her. Juices flooded my panties as I held a hand over my mouth, trying to be quiet as I orgasmed.

I watched Dad pull back and slide off the bed, sitting along one side. For the first time in my life, I saw my dad through sexual lenses. His penis was long and shiny, dark hair all around his shaft and down over his balls. Dad idly stroked himself while Mom closed her legs and moved down to her knees in front of him. I heard her say so sweetly, “Want to cum in my mouth?”

“You know I do,” Dad purred. “I'm so close.”

And then the shocker.

“Call me Miranda,” Mom said just before she took his cock between her lips.

Dad's head rolled back as Mom sucked him. Mom's words didn't meet with understanding in me at first. I was so caught up in what I was watching that I didn't process what she'd said.

Call me Miranda.

It slowly dawned on me as Mom's lips moved up and down my father's penis that Miranda was my name. Wait. Why did Mom say that? What's going on? My fingers froze in midstroke, and then my Dad added to my confusion.

“Oh, Miranda. . . suck Daddy. . . suck Daddy just like that. . . oh, my little princess. . . Daddy loves it when you suck him. . . ”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wasn't horrified or disgusted, but terribly shocked. I didn't know what to think.

Mom's lips rose off the tip of my father's cock and she whispered, “yes, Daddy. . . cum in my mouth, Daddy. . . ” She sank her lips back down his shaft, and seconds later, Dad started to tense and his hips began to rise with her movements.

“I'm cumming, Miranda. . . swallow Daddy's cum, now. Swallow it, princess. . . unghh. . . oh. . . Princess. . . ungggghh. . . unghh. . . ”

I didn't know enough at the time to really understand what it meant to 'swallow Daddy's cum,' but my father filled Mom's mouth with his semen, holding her head steady as he ejaculated thick cream against her tongue. All while imagining it was me sucking his cock.

He shivered a few times and let out a long, relieved sigh. Mom pulled back and Dad's dick slipped, shiny and streaked with whitish fluids, from her slick lips. She kissed the tip then made a show of swallowing the remainder of his seed.

Dad pulled Mom to him and kissed her deeply. I heard him whisper, “God, Angela. . . I love that fantasy so much. . . ”

“Me too, Dan. Me too. . . ”

- - -

Dr. Green's mouth had been hanging open for the last few minutes in rapt disbelief, so I paused to give him a chance to remember his role in our sessions. Honestly, though, I'm not sure how the man resisted jerking off. I was so wet that I knew my panties were soaked under my skirt. I could smell myself whenever I uncrossed my legs, and it was no accident that I did so regularly and and in a way which made what I'm sure was an obvious wet spot in my purple cotton panties visible to the man's eyes. I didn't notice if he looked, but if he was interested in women in any way, I couldn't imagine he had not.

“Right,” he said finally, clearly trying to compose himself. “Right. . . ”

“You okay there, Martin?” I said with a small grin. “You look like. . . this is a bit of a shock.”

Dr. Green looked down at his notepad a moment. I wondered if he was double checking what he'd wrote so as to be sure the details were recorded perfectly. Then he replied, “It is, in many ways, Miranda. I told you before this isn't my specialty, so I don't know if what you describe, the 'role-playing' your parents performed, is in anyway nor—” He almost said 'normal.' “. . . uh, typical, in any way, but for me. . . I've never even heard of this happening before. It seems like. . . it seems like it must have been a shock to you as well. How did you react?” He remembered his role at last.

I closed my eyes a moment before responding. “I dunno. I was eight, so there was a sort of self-protective shell that kids have sometimes. I couldn't internalize it too deeply. But I understood, at least as much as any eight-year old could, that my parents had imagined that I was sucking Dad's dick. Not only was I seeing sex for the first time, at least directly and with some marginal understanding of what was going on, and not only was it my parents I saw, there was this incest fantasy about me in the middle of it. How would you have reacted, if, say, you had seen your mother and father playing out a fantasy of your Mom sucking your dick?”

It was a rather mean twist, I suppose, to throw it back at Dr. Green that way. I actually felt defensive when I had responded, as if the very nature of his question implied harm. I didn't accept that, whether it was true or not. I didn't remember it that way, and certainly in the years to follow, I had more and more reasons to see what had happened as the start of something amazing and fulfilling. I had been waiting for the moment when Dr. Green would start trying to make me into the victim, and I tried to deflect his question back on him rather than consider his concerns.

“This isn't about me, Miranda, I—”

I didn't give him a chance to dodge. “I need to know what you expect me to say here. Did I cry about it? No. Did it bother me? Not in the ways you might think. Was I mad? Not even close. Confused? Absolutely! Dr. Green, how is an eight-year old supposed to react? What would you have done?”

I stared at him with an intensity beyond what I'd meant to unleash. I suppose I'd been so prepared to defend my choices, and more importantly, those of my parents, that I wasn't willing to give him one inch towards making me a victim, and by extension, making my parents into monsters.

He met my stare a long moment before he replied. “Much like you, I suppose. At eight, I doubt I'd have even known what I was watching, let alone understand what it would mean for my parents to fantasize about me being involved with them sexually. I'd have been confused, I'm sure. I can't imagine anger or fear would play in, my parents were good people and I had every reason to trust them. I might have just shrugged it off after some moments of reflection.”

I let out a long breath and relaxed a bit. “Exactly. That's exactly what I did. It didn't hurt me, or worry me, or make me hate or distrust them. If anything, it seated in me the idea that my parents loved me so much that they envisioned me being part of something that brought them joy and love and pleasure. Maybe I rationalized it that way, but I never saw that fantasy, the things I witnessed that day, as anything harmful to me. I know, soon enough, that such moments would bring me much, much closer to them.”

The timer on the desk dinged and Dr. Green and I stared at each other more softly than moments earlier. He finally said, “I think, Miranda, that today I got my first real taste of understanding you. Perhaps you can enlighten me further in our next meeting. Say. . . ,” he opened his scheduler, “tomorrow at noon?”

I smiled. “I'll be here.”