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

“Before we begin,” Dr. Green said as he started my fourth session with him, “I wish to ask you for permission to do something.”

I waited for him to continue but he just watched me silently. “Go on. . . ”

“My wife is my best friend and my confidant. A therapist herself. I tell her everything that isn't protected within client relationships. With permission, I sometimes ask to share a client's case with her to get her input. It happens only rarely, and I only ask when I feel it would be especially helpful. I feel your situation is one such case. I'd like to share my notes and my thoughts about what you're telling me with her.”

I didn't respond immediately, unsure if I was comfortable with such an idea. It had taken a lot of courage to share what I had with Dr. Green, and the thought of my secrets going beyond that room made me feel vulnerable.

“Please tell me now if that is your wish. I will honor your decision, of course. I will never tell anyone what you tell me without your permission, Miranda. Please know that. I only ask because. . . I think she might have some advice for me to help me offer you better support, better help.”

“You don't even know why I'm here, Martin. How would talking to her help?”

“You're right, of course,” he conceded, “here we are starting our fourth session together and you still haven't gotten around to telling me what you wish to achieve from our relationship.”

“I will, I promise, but you need to know more first.”

He nodded. “I understand, and I will remain patient. I'm here to help you, and so long as you feel this long introduction to your ultimate goal is necessary, I will trust your instincts. That said. . . there are aspects of what you are telling me that are. . . unusual for me.”

“Talking about my sexuality as a child is turning you on, right?” I pressed too hard, I know. Sometimes I do that. I don't mean to be cruel or to put pressure where it isn't needed, but I've always been direct, good or bad. I felt that we both needed that admission to be spoken in order for me to trust him for what came next.

“There is. . . ” I could tell he was struggling to admit his arousal without actually saying so. “There are times when. . . your experiences are offered in frank, vivid images where I find it. . . difficult. . . to remain neutral in my observations.”

“Is that a 'yes?'” I pressed further.

“I don't know, Miranda. I admit. . . there are parts of what you tell me that are horrifying.” When I started to tense up in defense of what I'd told him, he quickly added, “I don't mean that in judgement, Miranda. Horrifying in that. . . the ways in which I might react to what you tell me are more open to ethical and moral concerns than I have faced before. Normally, I'm dealing with people who have hangups or inexperience or trust issues. Often, there is abuse,” he said, then rushed to say, “and I know you are insistent that you were not abused. You have to understand, though, that normally. . . normally, what you are telling me leads to extensive. . . harmful relationships. . . through no fault of the minor, you understand, but harmful nontheless. I try to help people see past that harm, and in doing so, I, in a way, give permission to assign blame properly. I'm beginning to understand you don't see us going that way, and so. . . what you tell me. . . without that understanding of harm to bring it context is. . . professionally confusing. That's why I have asked for permission to talk about your case with my wife. Only her.”

I let his words stew in me a moment and saw that he was being sincere. Trying to see things from his view, I could understand that almost anyone who described sexual relationships with parents would be describing harm, the loaded term incest implying that the adult in the mix had abused the minor. I understood that, and I conceded such to Dr. Green. “You're right, of course. I know you speak from experience, Martin. And I get that you are trying to help me based on that experience. It's why I'm going to such lengths to explain why my life is not like the others who rightfully feel victimized. My experiences may have been similar on paper, but in my mind, and those of my parents, it was not that way at all.” I leaned back in my chair, slightly spreading my slacks-covered thighs, a position I found both comforting and, to the right eyes, partially inviting. “You can talk to your wife. No one else.”

He let out a relieved breath. “No one else, I promise you.”

“Okay. . . ”

He grabbed his notebook, reading the notes from our last session, then asked, “how did you get out of their bedroom that night?”

“I actually fell asleep for a while. The shock and the comforting snores of my parents were a balm that fed into my relaxation after orgasming. I pulled some of Mom's clothes from the hamper and rested my head on them. I fell asleep to her scents, and I think that made me have very sweet dreams that night.”

- - -

I was able to quietly escape the closet around four that morning and went to my own room. What I'd witnessed was so new and so unusual, even with my budding sexual curiosity, that I couldn't really process anything. Especially the part where my parents fantasized about me being intimate with Dad.

For a few days, those moments played over in my mind many times, but like most eight-year olds, I was easily distracted and spent many days playing with Maggie at our various favorite spots rather than dwelling too deeply on what I'd witnessed. I masturbated frequently, but I didn't think about seeing my parents or what they'd said during the final moments. I didn't need fantasies to get off. It still felt so wonderful to touch myself that I came easily from a few minutes of softly playing with my privates.

I'd taken to wearing clothes around the house more often in those days. Both Dad and Mom were having friends drop by for visits, and they'd asked nicely that I at least wear panties around the house. Later, I'd suspect they had reasons other than friends visiting, but at that time, it was enough for me to do as they asked.

It was a few days after the night in my parents' closet that I noticed my first hairs. I was in the bathroom, and as I had done many times before, I pulled the hand mirror from the drawer to look between my legs. I was fascinated by what I saw. My slit was thin and narrow and not very long. I know now that I was quite small there, even for an eight-year old. I parted my slightly-puffy labia to look inside, and gazed into where my dark-pink lips became a darker-red interior. I had often spent an hour or two examining every centimeter of my private parts, including my anus, and this night was no different.

I didn't see the hairs at first, they were very small and sparse. But at just the right angle, it was soon obvious. Just above my slit, arrayed in what I thought of as the shape of a rainbow, there were perhaps a dozen or so small, dark hairs poking out. I touched them gently and found them very soft. I was fascinated again to realize that it meant I'd started puberty. I masturbated twice to orgasm before I finally put away the mirror and went to bed.

I woke up after dawn the next day still excited by my discovery. I had to tell someone. Mom was still in bed that Saturday morning, but Dad was drinking coffee in the living room while reading a magazine in his pajamas. I slid next to him on the couch and he wrapped his big arm around me, letting me curl in close to his warm body.

I loved the way my dad smelled. I've talked about Mom's scents, but Dad had his own that I found so wonderful. I can't really describe it. And, it wasn't always the same. Sometimes he'd just showered and smelled more like shampoo and soap than anything else. Other times, he'd been working in the yard all day and smelled of heavy, musky sweat. Underneath all of it was His Smell. Whatever it was, however I try to describe it, it was unique. Like Maggie's scent, I could have identified Dad's fragrance anywhere. I inhaled against his chest and smiled, content.

“Dad,” I said finally.

“Yes, Princess?”

“Can I tell you something?” I said. Even remembering it years later, I hear my child-voice in my head. “Something special?”

“Always. What is it?”

I leaned back and looked down at my hands. “I have hairs down there.”

He didn't reply at first, then seemed to understand. “Oh! You mean on your privates?”

I nodded. “I just noticed today. There's like. . . umm. . . maybe ten or so.”

Dad hugged me again and said, “well, you're becoming a woman now, aren't you?” He shook his head slowly. “Never would have expected that at eight, but here you are!”

“Wanna see them?” I asked, innocently. Seriously, I never considered what I was offering to Dad. I was just kinda proud of myself and I wanted to show off.

Before he could answer, I slid down my panties and leaned onto my back, spreading my thighs slightly. Looking back, it was a terribly unfair thing to do to my father. Again, it wasn't sexual to me, at least not consciously, but I know it looked that way to him.

Dad's eyes drew down to my privates. He'd seen me naked many times before, and undoubtedly, he'd grown aroused at what he saw between my legs. This time, however, was different. I was aware of sexuality in a way I hadn't been month earlier. I'd masturbated. He and Mom had been fantasizing about me, though those memories never entered my mind as I smiled proudly at him. Dad looked at me without a reaction.

“See?” I asked innocently. “Just here.” I swept my fingers down to where the short, soft hairs had grown in above my sex.

Dad groaned audibly and looked away. “Proud of you,” he said meekly. “You can cover up now.”

I frowned, thinking I'd done something wrong. “Don't you like them?”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, then settled his voice. “It's just. . . ” His lips drew tight a moment, then he said evenly. “We need to talk about something important, Miranda. With your mother once she's up, alright? We'll go out for burgers and ice cream afterwards.”

I was still frowning. “About what?”

“You growing up.”

“If you mean sex stuff. . . ” I started.

Dad interrupted, “well that, yes, but more than that. You're getting older. Your body is maturing, and. . . there are some things that we need to talk to you about. . . ” I could tell he was troubled, but I wasn't connecting the dots.

I slid my panties back up and sat with my arms crossed a moment. It was only then that I noticed how Dad's pajama bottoms were bulging in his lap. I think I started to go down the road to understanding, but I wasn't there yet.

- - -

“What would you have done?” I asked Dr. Green.

“Hmm?” he replied. “About what?”

“If you had a daughter, eight like me then, who had shown you something like that. . . what would you have done?”

“I—I don't know, Miranda. I hope I would have talked to you about the changes you were seeing, what they mean, and then tell you how you needed to keep your privates. . . private.”

“That's pretty much what they told me. Mom didn't even want me to show her when I offered. She said that those hairs were the first signs of puberty and I'd soon see other changes in my breasts and genitals, and that meant I couldn't be so open about things.”

“How did you react?” Dr. Green asked, looking down as he wrote on the pad.

“I got mad. I got upset. They still walked around nude often enough, even though it was less than before. I couldn't understand why it was okay for them to be naked like that. I mean, I'd seen Mom's bush many times, and Dad was epically hairy there. He didn't exactly make his privates private. But I did recognize things were changing for me, for sure, and looking back, I realize they were doing more to hide their bodies as I got older.”

“They didn't want the temptation,” Dr. Green said matter-of-factly. “You see that now, I'm sure.”

“Yeah, I guess. They knew what you know. That almost all of these situations, where the temptation becomes action, end up in abuse and harm. They didn't want that for me or themselves.”

“Seems very reasonable. Do you think it is normal for a mother or father to think of their own child sexually?”

I shrugged. “Why are you asking me? You're the expert.”

“Not in this arena, not really. But I do know that far more parents struggle with that than are willing to admit it. I've had mothers tell me they had sexual thoughts about their sons a couple of times, and I've helped them find outlets to deal with that. Fathers, too.”

“What do you tell them to do?”

“Depends on the details, Miranda,” he said in a tone which bordered on lecturing. “Sometimes all it takes is admitting it in therapy. Other times, my clients find that a partner willing to role play takes away the temptation. If it goes beyond that, I refer them to a specialist.”

“So,” I began, “if my parents had sought out a therapist to deal with my budding maturity, they'd have never shared their bed with me.”

“Hopefully not. . . uh. . . That is to say. . . Miranda,” he redirected his response before I could object, “you realize this is usually the right way, yes?” When I nodded, he continued, “the harm. . . the potential for harm is real, and it is damaging to those who experience such things. . . most of those who experience such things. . . We can only do our best as therapists to minimize the harm and that almost always means ensuring that parents don't have sexual relationships with their children.”

“They'd have gone to jail. I know that. If anyone had found out what we did, I'd have lost them both and everyone would have been certain it was best for me.” I settled back in my chair. “But they'd have been very wrong.”

- - -

Listening at the door when my parents usually had sex became an exercise in frustration. They were either so quiet that I couldn't hear them, or they were not being intimate as often as before. I still masturbated outside their door, but it wasn't the same without Mom's moans or Dad's grunts. I think I started to fixate on that. I wanted to hear them together. I knew it was a way they showed each other love, and as I started to identify with sexuality and romance, it was important that I hear those noises to know things were alright with them.

When there had been silence for almost a month that summer, I started to wonder if it was my fault. The days after our talk about hiding my body due to my maturing genitals were empty of the sounds of their lovemaking. I had connected the two and felt horrible that I was the cause.

I approached them one night when they sat on the couch watching a movie. They parted and let me sit between them, Dad's arm around my body, and I rested my head on Mom's shoulder.

“I'm sorry.” I said, feeling very sad.

“Why, Princess?” Dad asked, squeezing me tighter.

“It's my fault you aren't together in the bedroom like before.”

I felt them both stiffen. Mom asked thinly, “whatever do you mean?”

“I know you aren't together and having intercourse like you used to.” I felt more mature when I used the words they'd taught me. “I listen sometimes. . . you used to do it all the time, but I haven't heard anything in weeks. . . ”

“Miranda,” Mom's voice was uncertain, “you listen to your father and I making love?”

I nodded, sadness in my voice, “I used to. . . now I just listen to silence. . . ”

For a moment, that same silence met my ears. I didn't know what either was thinking, but it was Dad who spoke first. “It's not your fault, Miranda. Look at me,” he said firmly. I met his eyes, pouting. “Hear me on this, Miranda. This isn't your fault. What is going on. . . is your mother and I working through some things. It doesn't come from you, okay?”

“But. . . ” I started, “it only happened after I showed you my hairs down there and then everyone wanted me to hide it and I know it made you mad and I'm sorry and I didn't mean to make you hate me or stop being together in the bedroom. . . ” I was beginning to cry.

“I think it's time for a frank talk between the three of us,” Mom said. I could hear a tenderness in her voice that was comforting.

“Okay,” I squeaked.

For a moment, no one said anything, then Mom began. “Do you know what the word incest means, Miranda?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Incest is the word used when describing mommies and daddies who have sexual relationships with their children. It can also be two siblings, or with uncles and cousins, or whatever. It means sex with someone in your family.”

I understood, so I nodded. Dad handed me a tissue so that I could blow my nose.

Mom continued, “Sometimes, Miranda. . . sometimes mommies and daddies have certain. . . feelings. . . about their children that they can't control and don't want, but they exist, and not wanting to harm the ones they love, they have to ensure that they don't have the opportunity to act on those feelings.”

She took a drink, clearly trying to keep her voice even and calm. “Your father and I. . . we both have those feelings sometimes. . . We're not perfect. . . and. . . we love you so much, Miranda, we never want to hurt you, okay?”

“I know. . . I don't want to hurt you, either. . . ” I said, my tears no longer falling, Dad still holding me against him.

“I know that, and that's why we have to put certain rules in place. . . to ensure that Mommy and Daddy aren't going to do things that might hurt you. Even if those things are something which might be fun for all of us. . . we just. . . cannot risk it.”

“I think I understand,” I replied, slowly putting the pieces together. “Is that why you and Daddy pretend to do things with me instead of actually doing them with me?”

“Wh-what?” Mom stammered.

“I heard you one night. . . a few weeks ago. You told Daddy to call you my name, and he did and you pretended to be me. . . ”

“I-I-I. . . ” Mom was obviously not prepared to hear that I knew about that fantasy.

Dad spoke up. “Yes, Miranda. That's why we do that. . . It's a way for us to not harm you while not ignoring those feelings your mother was describing. . . We love you, Miranda, we never want to do anything to hurt you. . . ”

“So why aren't you still doing that? Why have you stopped?” I asked, turning towards him to look into his gentle grey eyes.

“It's. . . complicated. . . ” He reached for his drink and took a long sip. “We're very conflicted, you see. . . those. . . fantasies. . . are exciting, and we both enjoy them, but. . . with you getting older and maturing like you are,” I knew he was referring to the hair which was now a bit less sparse than a few weeks earlier, “it gets more difficult to ignore what we feel. It's led us to. . . not be intimate as often. And we're not blaming you, Miranda, please understand. This is our fault, our problem. We are the adults here, you can't possibly understand what is going on. . . ”

In the silence that followed, my mind raced, making connections I'd missed. “Why would it harm me? You said it would harm me, that's why you do things in your bedroom with Mommy pretending to be me instead of it being me. . . ”

“Well,” Dad said, pausing a moment, “see. . . incest hurts people. . . ” he trailed off, clearly not following his own argument any further.

“How?”

“People abuse their children,” Mom jumped in. “They force them to do things they don't want to do. They take advantage. They make children do adult things before they should, and that causes harm. I've known people who were molested by their fathers or mothers, and they are still hurting from those experiences. We never want you to deal with that.”

I puffed out my chest a bit, unwilling to admit I would be forced in what, whether we knew it or not, we were beginning to negotiate. “What if I want to be in your bedroom? What if I want to do to Daddy what you did? You can't force me if I do it on my own.”

Dad replied, “See, it's not that simple, Miranda, you think you want that right now, but later—”

“Maybe I do want it,” I said with the forceful certainty only a young girl can deliver. “No, I do. I want to do to you what Mom did. I want to make you feel good, Daddy. I know you liked it. I saw you. . . ”

“Saw us?” My dad exclaimed. “You said you were listening. . . ”

“I. . . ” Pausing only briefly, I considered my response. Looking back, I know I was always honest with my parents when they confronted me directly about anything, and I was almost always honest when I was telling them something without being asked, and only rarely did I lie when, for whatever reason, that seemed like the best thing to do.

I was honest in that moment.

“I snuck into your closet one night. . . that's when I saw you, when Mommy pretended to be me and put your penis in her mouth.” I knew the right words for body parts, my parents insisting I know all of them in case anyone ever molested me. If that happened, I'd be able to tell someone what was happening without using obscure code words like 'playing with my purse' or 'riding a broomstick' or 'eating my cookie' or some other phrase an abuser might use which someone listening to me might mistake for more innocent, non-sexual activities.

That said, it still had to have been somewhat of a shock for my parents to hear their eight-year old daughter describe a blowjob so explicitly.

While I waited for them to respond, I shifted and moved my head from my Mom's shoulder to my Dad's chest. My eyes were just a few inches from where Dad's penis was pressing up his pajamas. It was the first time I remember explicitly imagining what was underneath. I may have imagined such things before, but I know I did then. I couldn't help it. Dad's penis was just inches from my mouth, and the temptation to show him how much I wanted to do what Mom had done was making it hard to show restraint.

“Well. . . I didn't expect that, Dan,” Mom said with resignation. “She's seen us in all our incestuous fantasy glory. I just. . . I just don't know what to say. . . ”

I decided for them what happened next.

- - -

“Miranda, can I stop you a moment?”

I pursed my lips and furrowed my brow, not happy to have Dr. Green interrupt me just as things were starting to come together in my tale.

He continued, “I just want to note. . . very kindly, that it seems like this is going to be a situation where you are going to explain how you started the sexual contact with your parents, that it was you not them who made the relationship sexual. Is that where this is going?”

“In a way. . . yes.”

He let out a frustrated breath and sat down his pen and notepad, leaning forward in his chair. Dr. Green was clearly choosing his words carefully. “Miranda. . . it isn't all that unusual for someone to. . . invent. . . stories about themselves. Whether to sound interesting to a possible partner or to attract attention from a therapist, or whatever. I have to tell you. . . at this point, I am honestly wondering if you're making the whole thing up. Please be honest with me now. Is this how it really happened?”

My mouth hung open in disbelief. I'd come so far in telling my secrets to this otherwise-stranger that I was just about to describe how my first sexual experience with my Dad took place, and he stopped me to ensure I knew that he believed I was lying?

I was incredulous. “How dare you! After all I've told you, all the fucking secrets I've laid out for you to paw over, all the ways I've described my life, the real things in my life that happened to me. To me! All the stories of a little girl fingering herself that got you hard, true stories! I've seen you get hard, don't bother denying it! You dare, now, to call me a liar? Call me a liar! Go on, just come out and say it, Dr. Green.” I stood angrily and grabbed my purse. “No, don't bother. I'm done. You don't believe what I say, you don't believe I've lived what I've lived. There's no reason to continue this bullshit. I'm done.”

And with that, before he could utter a single word, I left his office and expected I'd never return.