FRIDAY 13th

by Rex Antioch	
1

It all began on a Friday 13th, not that I‘m superstitious.  In any case although the start was unlucky the outcome proved to be very fortunate indeed.
It began with some wretched women tailgating my car on my way to the office.  Its rear end was wrecked and the car had to be hauled off to garage while I was hauled off to the hospital for a check-up.  My head had whip-lashed and my neck was sore but no damage had been done so I rang in to the office, took the rest of the day off and went home in a taxi.  There I went to bed as the doctor had ordered and dozed until the slamming of the front door woke me late in the afternoon.
It was about the time my kids, Bruce and Glynis, were due to get home from school.  They’re latch-key kids as I normally don’t get home from the office until nearly six and their mother left us all for the glamorous life of an airline pilot’s wife four years before.  Bruce, who’s fifteen, is a sensible boy and I trust him to look after his twelve-year-old sister for the hour or so until I get home, and I normally find everything in order and their homework done by that time.  Woken by the door I lay listening to for the sound of their voices or the rattle of activity but heard only silence.  When it had lasted five minutes I began to get concerned, climbed carefully out of bed to save jarring a still-painful neck, donned a dressing-gown and slippers and, moving gently, went cautiously downstairs.
It was all still silent and nothing moved.  Beginning to wonder if I had been woken by a burglar leaving the house I crossed silently to the lounge, opened the door and walked in, half expecting to see the place ransacked or trashed.
It hadn’t been.  What I did see, though, was the backside of my son Bruce bare beneath the flap of his school shirt with his school trousers and underpants around his ankles, lumping up and down between the raised knees of a girl lying on her back on the settee.  Then two young, shocked faces turned to me and I saw that the girl was his sister Glynis, my daughter.
The two children froze and Glynis gave a low wail of horror.  I closed my mouth and tried to get my brain working again.
”I think you‘d better get off her, Bruce,” I ordered rather coldly. Quickly and in an eager  state of panic he obeyed, but not before I had a quick glimpse of his stiff, surprisingly large penis slipping greasily out of his sister’s vagina.  Trying to hide himself he crouched by the settee pulling up his trousers and pants but Glynis seemed unable to move and remained just as he had left her.  Her school blouse was unbuttoned and lay open at her sides and her vest was bundled in a rumpled heap at her throat.  Her breasts were not yet large enough to warrant a bra but I had never seen them before and was surprised to see two tiny, pink-ring-tipped mounds on her chest although there was a broad span of flat rib-furrowed chest between them.
In her shock at my appearance she had not even been able to close her legs, displaying a little, totally hairless mound where the parting of her legs began and a crack in which the little wrinkled bud of her clitoris protruded and beneath which,  like little ears, were the lips of her vagina.  They were blushing pinkly and glistening with her sex-dew, and between them I could even see the  reluctantly closing mouth of the vagina her brother had been filling with his penis only moments before.  She still had her white cotton knickers hanging from one ankle looped around her short white school socks while her regulation-length black-pleated school skirt lay in a heap on the carpet beside the settee.  It was obvious someone had been in a great hurry and - or - very eager.
Bruce rose to his feet, tucking in his shirt.
“Go to your room,” I ordered.  Avoiding my angry stare he scuttled past me and out of the room.  I crossed to Glynis.  Only her eyes moved, following me.
She was lovely.  Small and perfectly formed.  Tiny nipples at the centres of slightly protruding round rose aureoles topping beautiful breasts the size, shape of half-oranges but smooth-curved and soft.  Gently-rounded white skin, flawless except for the whorl of her navel, stretched across her stomach.  Her thighs were tiny models of inviting femininity while from the tight, glistening, blushing slit between them came the faint but distinct scent of female sex. 
I reached her and gently slapped her on a knee.
“You‘d best get dressed, lass,” I said softly.  You’d best get dressed before I forget myself and fall to my knees by your side to kiss those sweet lips between your legs and cover those little fledgling breasts with hungry hands.
“Uh.” My touch or my voice seemed to break the spell and she closed her legs so fast that the soft skin of her inner thighs slapped together loudly.  I politely turned my back while she scrambled into her clothes but the image of her nearly-naked body stretched like a sacrifice on the altar of the settee was imprinted in my brain like an unguarded glance at the midday sun.
“I‘m OK now,” my daughter said in a small voice and I turned back to her.
She was sitting meekly on the settee, her white blouse tidily arranged so that its loose folds gave only a hint of the new little breasts beneath, sharp black pleats of her skirt flowing from her waist across her lap and three motionless inches over her knees and little white ankle-socks tightly hugging the slim ankles below silken, smooth-skinned legs.  One heel was angled away from the other, giving her an lost, waiflike look, her hands were lying loosely open in her lap and her little heart-shaped face, ashen with fright, looked back at me from its frame of her straight ash-blond hair cut in a bob to her shoulders. It was in its way a breathtakingly sexier and far more erotic picture than the sight of her spread open for sex on the settee, and my heart nearly exploded with my love for her.
I crossed to her and sat next to her on the settee.  The urge to take her into my arms to comfort and reassure her was almost overwhelming, except I knew that at the feel of the soft press of her body against mine I would be unable to stop myself stroking her hair, squeezing those thin, defenceless shoulders, caressing those fragile arms and pressing greedy hands against those little proudly-pouting breasts, and so I did not, dare not, touch her at all.
“When was the first time you and Bruce did it?” I asked gently.
“Soon after Aunt Mary‘s birthday,” she whispered.
I cast my mind back.  Two months before I‘d taken the kids half-way across the country to my eldest sister’s fortieth birthday celebration. 
“And before that?” I enquired mildly.
“He showed me how to rub him off,” she replied in a voice I could hardly hear.  “And I let him finger me.”
“When did that start?”
“When he could first make his willy go stiff,” she breathed.  ‘Willy’ was the longstanding family euphemism for the penis, although I had never used it in front of Glynis.  So my son and daughter had been playing sexually with each other for two years or more, as I guessed.  And I hadn’t guessed.
“How many times have you gone all the way with Bruce, Glynis?” I allowed a little seriousness to leak into my voice.  She gave a helpless little shrug.
“Lots.”
In two months?  Well, they had plenty of opportunity.  Five nights a week after school, for a start.
“Have you gone all the way with anyone else?”
She didn’t speak but shook her head vehemently and I believed her.
“Have you rubbed any other boy, or let them finger you?”
Again the firm shake of the head.
“Why did you let Bruce do it to you, Glynis?  Did he bully you?” It was the most important question and I asked it gently and sympathetically, offering her the chance to shift all the blame onto her brother whether it lay there or not, which I assumed it did.
Her head came up and for the first time she looked at me.
“No.  I wanted to,” she told me with fright in her eyes but a hint of defiance in her voice.
I feigned shocked surprise.  “It was all your idea?” I asked.  She didn‘t drop her gaze but looked past me and chewed her lower lip for a moment as she thought how to reply.  Then she dropped her eyes back to the carpet.
“No.  I.....  I didn‘t know.....  That‘s what.....   Sex.......  But when Bruce told me and wanted to try putting his willy in me I didn’t stop him.  I wanted to try it too.”
I was silent for a full minute or more, letting her wriggle a little bit.  Then I said gently,  “Glynis, I‘m not angry with you.  I’m not going to punish you or Bruce.  I still love you as much as I ever have.  All I want is for us all to be happy together.  But I need to know how to handle this.  What to do about it.  So I want you to answer the next question truthfully.  It is most important that you tell me the truth, OK?”
She looked back up at me and nodded.
“Has your brother ever forced you to have sex with him?”
Her little white upper teeth appeared over her lower lip and chewed it for a moment as was her habit when seriously considering something.  Then she said, “Sometimes when we come in from school and Bruce wants to do it I don‘t really want to, but I let him.  But most of the time I want to, too.”
“Your periods haven‘t begun yet?”  The kids sometimes went to spend weekends and parts of holidays with their mother, when she hadn‘t followed her new man to New York or Acapulco, and I had brief contacts with her on matters concerning them.  I‘d left the woman-to-woman talk with our daughter  to her and knew from Glynis that it had happened so although I was fairly sure she hadn’t begun her periods yet, I wasn’t certain.  Glynis flushed slightly and shook her head.
“OK.” I have recovered sufficient control of myself to risk putting my hand to my daughter‘s lovely hair, pulling her slightly towards me and kissing the top of her head.  “I love you, Honey,” I whispered.  Then, as my control wavered, I rose, crossed to the door and opened it.
“Bruce, come down here,” I yelled through it. Thirty seconds later my son reluctantly entered the room, as white-faced as his sister had been and I guessed he‘d had a bad few minutes anticipating this interview.  I hoped he had. He was still in his school uniform but had straightened it up and looked quite neat and very ordinary.
“Sit down next to your sister,” I told him.  Glynis had her head down, staring at the carpet.  He sat next to her, on the edge of the seat.  I took the armchair across from them and sat facing them in silence for several minutes while I ordered my thoughts. 
“OK guys,” I began.  “I‘m not angry with you.  I‘m not going to throw you out of the house.  I‘m not going to tell anyone, even your mother.  I‘m not even going to dock your pocket money.  I was.... surprised.  Taken aback for a moment, that’s all.  I hadn‘t realised how much, how quickly, you‘d both grown up.  I guess you kids find it hard to imagine us dull, boring old grown-ups having sex.  After all, it‘s fun, hard work and you‘ve got to be fit.  Well, we dull, boring old grown-ups sometimes forget that when our kids are turning into young men and women, sex is part of the baggage that comes with it.”
I paused.  They were both looking at me, surprised, puzzled and clearly very relieved.
“So here’s the deal, guys,” I told them.  “You can have sex with each other with my blessing, as long as you agree to some ground-rules.  These are non-negotiable.  Stick to them and you can have as much sex with each other as you want.  Break them and, Bruce, you‘ll be off to St. Joseph‘s as a border the next day and Glynis, I‘ll pack you off to Aunt Mary’s immediately and you won‘t see each other again ‘til you‘re both through University.  Is that understood?”
Two amazed faces regarded me and two heads nodded quick assent.
“Right.  This is rule number one.  It‘s in red capital letters three feet high and underlined.  And I want it carved on your hearts.  Glyn, you will never allow your brother to have sex with you if you don‘t want him to.  Whatever the reason, and even for no reason at all, you have every right to say no.  It‘s your body and it‘s absolutely one-hundred percent yours to say what happens to it and who does what to it.  OK?”
My daughter nodded.
“So, Bruce, if your sister says no she means no and that‘s that.  No wheedling, no begging, no negotiations.  Break this rule and you‘d be abusing your little sister.  Taking advantage of her.  And I will not have that.  Understood?”
White-faced, my son nodded.
“OK.  Rule number two.  You will only, ever, have sex in this house. In one or other of your bedrooms.” I paused to let that sink in, then grinned.  “Well, upstairs anyway.  You might want to try it in the shower one day.  It‘s quite good fun.”
My son and daughter were staring at me, clearly amazed to hear their father suggesting they try having sex in the shower.  I grew stern and hardened my voice for effect.  “It‘s fun in the woods, too, and in backs of cars.  And the best place in the world to have sex is behind the bike-sheds at school.  But not for you two.  If you were seen, or caught, the sky would fall in on all of us.  Schoolboys get caught screwing schoolgirls in woods, the backs of cars and behind the bike-sheds every day and all that happens is strong tellings-off and a few months grounding.  We grown-ups know it happens and that we‘re not going to stop it.  But if you get caught screwing your sister, Bruce, it would certainly mean your teachers and the child-protection people being brought in and it could even mean the police.  You‘d certainly be sent to different schools and it‘s quite likely the authorities would decide I was a bad parent and take you away from me.  I‘d hate that, and I like to think you‘d hate that too.”
Two young heads nodded agreement.
“What you‘re doing,” I softened my voice again, “Is called ‘incest’.  It‘s illegal and very much frowned on.  Sex when there is a risk of getting caught is extra spicy and you will be tempted but you must never, never give in to it.  Bruce, if you and your sister get hauled in front of me by the police or by your teachers or by some social worker I will be very, very angry indeed.  Not because you were having sex with your sister but because you were stupid enough to get caught doing it.
“And don‘t think it‘d be OK because I said you could screw your sister.  If it came to it I would have to deny all this, I would have to pretend to be shocked and horrified because if I did anything else I‘d be labelled a pervert and could end up in prison, and you would certainly be taken away from me.  Do you understand?”
Two white faces nodded and I was confident my son had taken it aboard.
“Right.  For the same reason you must never, never tell anyone about it.  And I mean anyone.  Even if your best friend ever admits to you that he or she is screwing his or her sister or brother you mustn‘t say, ‘So am I.’  Maybe they’ve a suspicion about you and are trying to catch you out.  Maybe it could even be true.  I think a lot of brothers and sisters do screw.  But remember, they might not always be your best friend, and if they know what you‘re doing you give them a lot of power over you.”
I paused to let them think about it, then focused on my daughter.  “Just supposing,” I asked her, “Bruce‘s best friend came to you one day, told you he knew your brother was screwing you and said he‘d tell your teachers about it unless you let him screw you as well.  What would you do?”
I waited until Glynis whispered dryly, “I guess I‘d have to let him do it,” and then turned to Bruce.  “Point taken?” I asked.  He nodded and I knew from the look on his face it had been.
“And it could just as easily be the brother of your best friend,” I pointed out to Glynis and knew from the sudden widening of her eyes that I didn‘t have to labour the point any more.
“All right.  Next point.  Glyn, I want your promise you will tell me the moment your first period starts.  And when it does, no more sex until we’ve got you on the pill or sorted something else out for contraception.  You know what ‘contraception’ means?”
My little daughter nodded.
“Promise?”
“I promise,” she breathed.
“Thank you,” I said gently, then turned to her brother.  “Bruce, if you get your sister pregnant I will skin you alive,” I said savagely and was pleased to see him wince.  “Is that understood?”
He nodded.
“Tell me,” I ordered.  I wanted this speared through his soul.
“I uh...uh.....uhnd....uhnd....” he tried and stopped helplessly.  I waited, forcing him to try again.  And again.
I suspected my son‘s stammer was the reason behind my children‘s incest.  At home, happy and relaxed, he could talk as easily and fluently as anyone else to me and his sister but impose any stress on him and his breathing froze, his throat closed and any word to utter became a mountain to climb.  There was no physical reason for it.  Child psychologists he had seen had said, rather, that it was a result of a highly intelligent, overquick mind where his brain raced ahead of his speech centre which, in computer terms, crashed.  Indeed, the computer analogy was a good one for my son‘s mind was like an ultrafast CPU which threw instructions at a lower-order processor like an IDE controller too fast for it to handle thus freezing the whole operating system for a while.
He‘d been taught techniques to deal with the problem and they worked if he could concentrate on them.  He was, though,  painfully aware how embarrassing his problem was to other people, hated embarrassing them and so avoided speech with anyone as far as humanly possible.  When he absolutely had to talk to anyone the first, slightest appearance of his impediment triggered that awareness which increased the stress which hugely added to the impediment in an appalling, often unstoppable loop which could reduce him to anguished, angry, frustrated impotence which he then had to overcome before he could proceed to reboot the whole system.
Naturally for a adolescent boy with his newly-released hormones burning in his blood and a whole new world of sex opening up before him, the presence of a teenage girl is about the most stressful thing imaginable and my heart had bled at the sight of my son trying, and failing, to get more than three consecutive words out to a pretty girl.
Understandably his response was to try to avoid such situations and, at fourteen, had no girl-friend, had never had one and avoided girls like the plague, his self-esteem at rock bottom.   This he tried to hide by disdain and aloofness, burying himself instead in his schoolwork and staying out of the world of gangs and clubs through which his contemporaries eased themselves into the world of socialising and sex.  What little I could to help him I had done, but with all his contemporaries at school no doubt talking, if not actually bragging, about the exciting things they‘d done with girls and with his own needs to explore this new world and to feel he wasn’t being left behind by, or anything less than, his friends it was hardly surprising that he should turn for the experience of sex to the only girl with whom he could actually communicate.  His sister.
Nor, I knew looking back at it, should I have been surprised that his sister would go along with it.  She adored her brother and idolised him, and in his isolation it was inevitable that he would give her more time, and play a much larger part in her life than many brothers did.  Their fright, and particularly Glyn‘s  when I had discovered them, was a clear sign that they knew what they were doing was ‘wrong’, both because of my daughter’s age and because big brothers are not supposed to have sex with their little sisters.  This sort of moral sense is invariably far stronger in girls than in boys, presumably because they have far more to lose, and I had no doubt at all it had been very strong in my daughter.  Yet she had overcome it and had been prepared to allow her brother to have sex - indeed to have full sexual intercourse - with her.
In short she loved her brother, loved him enough to let him have sex with her and I couldn‘t find anything wrong with that.   What did surprise, and impress, me, though, was the strong suggestion I‘d received from the interview with her that she was a willing and eager participant.  She wasn‘t merely submitting to sex with her brother, she was sharing sex with him.
Looking back I acknowledged there had been a kind of inevitability about my children’s incest and that I should have seen it coming.  Glynis had been masturbating her brother for two years or more and even as a ten-year-old had been allowing him to see and no doubt explore between her legs, and to put his finger and probably other things up her little vagina.  I should have been aware of it then and taken control of it from the first.  Aware of the pressures on my son I probably wouldn‘t have forbidden it outright but would likely have allowed them to do what they actually had done but within the bounds of a kind of sexual playpen, and would certainly not have allowed them to go as far as full intercourse.
Still, it was done, I was confident they would hold by the rules I had set and felt that in the circumstances I was doing the right thing.
Bruce was still struggling to acknowledge my threat that I‘d kill him if he got his sister pregnant and I knew the struggle would imprint it on his mind as nothing else could.  Certainly far more than any belt that I’d never used on them would. He stopped struggling, took a deep breath and managed to say, “I understand.”
“Thank you.”  I acknowledged his success and then turned to my daughter.
“Glyn, I‘m giving you permission to have sex with your brother.  That is not permission for you to have sex full stop.  I will not have you becoming the school bike.” I saw from her expression that the schoolboy term from my own youth for the girl in the school ridden by everyone was still current.  I softened my voice.  “I want you to be the school virgin.  Let the other girls boast.  Let them call you ‘Miss High and Mighty’,” (I hadn’t forgotten my own schooldays), “Or maybe even think you a coward for not going with a boy. You’ll be getting more and better sex than any of them so don‘t you forget it, even if you can‘t say anything.”
“OK.” Glynis breathed.  I mollified my voice.  “One day you’ll meet a boy you really, really want to have sex with.  When you do you‘ll know, and you’ll have to decide then whether or not to go on having sex with your brother as well.  By then Bruce will have met a girl ready to give him as much sex as he can handle so it won‘t be a problem.  We‘ll cross that bridge when we come to it.  Until then get it out of your system with each other and carry on getting good marks at school.  Without having to worry about sex and boyfriends or girlfriends you‘ll both have no excuses for not doing well, and that’s what I expect to see.  Are we all agreed?”
The two faces, relaxed now if still somewhat disbelieving, nodded.  Bruce, I guessed, could hardly believe his luck.  As for Glynis, for the moment she just seemed hugely relieved that she’d been caught having sex with her brother but had escaped the terrible parental thunderbolt she must have been expecting.  What she might feel in the days and weeks to come, though, was something I knew I would have to keep on top of.  I gave them a grin.
“OK.  Well, I‘m sorry I interrupted you.  If you want to pick it up again where you left off you‘d best get off upstairs.  I don‘t feel like cooking tonight so I‘ll ring out for a pizza.  Let‘s say an hour?”  I regarded them quizzically as they sat there, despite everything not quite able to obey my instructions to go upstairs and have sex.
“Begone, varlets,” I eventually snapped and, giggling together, they scuttled from the room and clattered upstairs.
I remained where I was, not only because of my sore neck and the other aches the shunt had left me with.  I heard feet patter about upstairs, whispers I couldn‘t make out, a door close, a short silence and then the faintest regular, rhythmical tapping of the headboard of my son‘s bed against the wall.  With my heart aching I reached beneath the dressing-gown to my erect, pulsing penis and, to the memory of my son‘s bare buttocks rising and falling between the raised knees of my daughter and Bruce’s stiff penis sliding in and out of his little sister‘s slippery vagina I brought myself off by hand to a sad, unsatisfactory orgasm.

2

I let them get on with it for several months without interfering.  I knew they often slept together and once, passing my daughter‘s room in the early morning, I eased open the door to see brother and sister squeezed into her narrow bed, my son cupping his little sister‘s body to his and with a sleeping arm protectively over her.  Many times they’d come clattering down to the breakfast table already dressed for school, Bruce grinning like the cat that got the canary and his sister with that serene, luminous quality to her eyes and skin that follows sex.  I even sometimes felt concern that their teachers would see it, too, or complain that my children were falling asleep at their desks though post-coital bliss, but all I ever had were reports of accelerating academic success and that they were model students so I guessed I only saw it because I knew it was there.
I saw other changes, too.  Bruce’s speech impediment became far less severe as he seemed to find a new self-confidence and to be far less vulnerable to stress in otherwise stressful situations, while Glynis positively blossomed.  Only a few weeks after that Friday 13th she raised the issue of bras and I gave her the cash to get some as I was only too aware how fast her breasts were growing, her legs and hips were rounding out, and how feminine her form was becoming while I was acutely sensitive to how aware she was of her own sexuality, of the effect she was having on men and boys, how sexually mature she was growing.
Then her entire grade went away for a week to study coastal erosion or something and I took the opportunity to do some very necessary father-and-son bonding with Bruce.  Taking a few days off work I chartered a sail-boat in an area of sheltered coastal water and we sailed for four days in glorious weather exploring bays and islands and stretching the 30-footer to the maximum.
Anchored up in the evenings I talked father-to-son talk to him without mentioning his sister until the last evening on the boat.  The sun was already down and the iron-blue sky fading to night in the west.  I‘d made it a long, hard, exhilarating day deliberately and knew he was weary.  We lit the lamps and settled down in the saloon and, for the first time ever, I took a six-pack of beer from the ice-box, snapped one out of its collar and offered it to my son.
After a moment of surprise he accepted the offer, the beer and, I saw in his face, everything else the moment signified.  I broke open the tab, raised it to him with a “cheers,“and drew a swig straight from the can.  He copied me, echoed the salutation and took a drink himself.  I hid my smile as I watch him pretend he’d enjoyed it.
“You‘ll get used to it,” I promised.
We drank a while in silence, until I judged he’d downed most of the can.  Then I asked gently, “How are things with Glyn?”
He must have known it would be coming sometime during the holiday.  “Great,” he enthused slightly woozily.  “She’s really fabulous.”
“Yes,” I agreed, deadly serious.  “She is.  She‘s a very, very special girl, and what you two are doing is very, very special.  What she’s giving you is very precious.  Far more so than what you‘re giving her back.  She deserves every ounce of your love.”
“Yeh,” Bruce agreed, nodding slowly, and I was happy that he meant it.
“Tell me about the first time you two went all the way.”
Bone-tired and slightly drunk Bruce didn’t seem to think it was an intrusive question.
“Oh, it was a few days after Aunt Mary‘s do.  We‘d been, you know, playing together for a while, doing... you know....  And I thought she might be big enough to take my.... you know.... so I asked if she’d let me try I she said yes.”
I wondered what he had inserted into his sister that made him think she might be big enough for his penis, but didn’t  like to ask.
“It hurt her a bit, but she told me to go on.”  Bruce was silent, remembering and I speculated that his penis in her twelve-year-old vagina was probably hurting his sister more than a bit.  Yet I felt sure he would have stopped had she asked him, so it was probably true that she had told him to go on. Amazing girl.
“It was hurting me a bit, too,” my son remembered. “Like she was too small after all.  But then something seemed to give way and I was all the way inside her.  All the way,” he added, wonderingly.  I waited.
“It felt wonderful.  Then I looked down and saw there was blood all over us,” he resumed.  “So I pulled myself out.  I thought I‘d, you know, injured her or something.  She kept bleeding.  I think she was frightened, too.  But not as much as I was.  It took ages to stop.  And it was all over my bed.  And we knew you’d be home soon.  Glyn cleaned herself up and put some tissues up her..., you know, to try to stop the bleeding, while I was washing my sheets in the bath.  We daren’t use the laundry.  Not enough time.  Then I hid the wet sheets and remade the bed, and you came home, and Glyn sat through dinner with tissues....  God, we were terrified you’d notice.  She was going to say it was her period but, well, .......  She went to bed early and we sat there watching telly and I was wondering if she ought to be in hospital......”
I remembered the evening.  Glyn had been white and, although worried, I had hoped it was no more than one of those episodes young girls her age go through.  She had clearly been much better the next morning and I‘d let it pass.  I realised that while I‘d been congratulating myself how careful I was being of my children, I was in truth missing a very great deal.
“A few days later,” Bruce went on slowly.  “Glyn came to me and told me that all girls bled the first time, and it was nothing to worry about.  And did I want to try again.”
I passed him another can and waited as he opened and drank from it, not noticing the taste as he recalled that first true act of intercourse.  I was remembering mine, and am sure I shared with him the memory of that tingle in the spine, and the wonderful first experience of having a girl wrapped around your prick.  Perhaps especially when it’s your sister.
“Does Glyn orgasm?” I asked him gently.
If he saw anything improper in a father asking his son if his daughter orgasmed, Bruce didn’t show it.
“Oh, yeah.  Or at least, I suppose so.  She jerks and squeals, and she bit me once and couldn“t stop.  We were terrified you“d notice and see it was a love-bite.  And she’s scratched my back with her nails, and she can lift me right off the bed sometimes.  Is that what girls do when they orgasm?”
“Uh, huh,” I admitted casually, unwilling to go into detail and impressed by the fact that my twelve-year-old daughter seemed already to orgasm like a woman twice her age.  I took another swig of beer putting off the moment, so carefully arranged, I had been building up to all week.
“Bruce,” I said carefully, trying not to let my tension leak into my voice” I‘m really glad things are going so well with you and Glyn. A really good sex life is a fantastic thing.  It can make life really worth living.  I don‘t want to do anything which might spoil it for you and Glyn.”
Despite my care Bruce must have heard something in my voice for he looked at me through his alcoholic haze as though spoil it was just what I was about to do.  I faced him and shrugged.
“But I’ve got a problem,” I said casually.  “I‘m jealous.”
My son stared at me, trying to work it out though an alcohol-hazed mind.  I noticed he had not stammered once while we had been talking, despite the fact that I would have thought discussing his sexual activities with his sister with their father would have imposed some stress.
“Glyn and I have wondered why, er, you don‘t, er, bring girls, I mean women, home,” he struggled with the statement, but the hesitations were not his stammer.  Merely the awkwardness of a fourteen-year-old boy questioning his father about his sex life.  “Glyn and I wouldn’t  mind if you got married again, you know,” he offered.
“Thanks,” I accepted dryly.  He’d misunderstood me.  I hadn‘t wanted to introduce another woman into the house after their mother had left as I knew it rarely worked, and had no desire whatever for another long-term relationship.  When I had needed sex I had bought it - quick, satisfying and uncomplicated.  It had been quite sufficient, until I had seen my daughter‘s near naked body paralysed by uncompleted sex. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
He looked his perplexity at me.
“I’m jealous of you and Glyn,” I prompted.
Still he didn‘t understand.  How could his father be a fifteen-year-old boy again, with a twelve-year-old sister to screw, I saw him thinking.
“Bruce, I’m jealous of you,” I had finally to admit.  Still it took him a moment to understand.  Then I saw his eyes widen.  I took a drink from my can to hide my own nervousness.
“I...er.    She....er.”  He coughed.  “I mean....  I‘m sure Glyn would let you, if you wanted,” he finished hurriedly, as though ready to call the words back if they were the wrong ones.
“I‘m sure she would,” I agreed, and I was.  “But ‘letting’ isn‘t the point.  Letting you have sex with them is what whores do.  What women bored with their husbands do.  What girls whose fathers force them to have sex with them do.  Does your sister only ‘let’ you have sex with her?”
I let him think about it and after a few moments he shook his head slowly.  ”No,” he agreed carefully . “She.....“
“She doesn‘t just let you get your pleasure and take none herself, right?  You work to please her and she works to please you and as a result you both get double the pleasure that you would if she just lay there and ‘let’ you screw her.”
My son nodded.  I didn‘t know if father-son talks were usually this sexually explicit but then how many father-son talks are about them having sex with their daughter-sister?
“I know Glyn wouldn‘t say no to me,” I said.  “But would she want me to have sex with her the way she clearly wants you to.  And if she did and I did have sex with her, what would you both think of me?  A father who screws his daughter.” I used the crude obscenity deliberately, not wanting to soften it behind prettynesses such as ‘making love’ or just ‘sleeping with’.
Bruce looked troubled.  “I don‘t know,” he admitted.  “I don‘t know why she shouldn‘t enjoy it with you the way she does with me.  I mean, want it the way she does with me.  But I don‘t know.  You needn‘t worry about what I might think about it, though.  I don’t matter.  It would be between you and her.   I wouldn‘t tell anyone.”
“But you do matter, Bruce.  You matter to me as much as Glyn does.  So what you‘d think about it does matter.”
“I, uh.....   I,...yi...yi.....yi....”  His stammer was back, an indication of the pressure I was putting him under by leaning on his for an opinion.  A fourteen-year-old boy standing in judgment of his father. He took a swig from his can to gain time and ease his throat.
“I wouldn‘t mind.  You can screw Glyn if you like,” he burst out, rushing to get the words through a closing throat in the time available and, I was sure, not meaning it quite the way it came out.
“Thank you,” I said solemnly.  “You know I love Glyn, and would never hurt her.  And I think you‘ve discovered that sex is just a natural part of such a love.  Incest is illegal and condemned largely for stupid religious mania and irrelevant historical reasons.  I could have sex with Glyn without feeling and shame or guilt as long as I was happy she was not feeling shame or guilt about it, and that‘s one of the things I‘ve yet to find out.  But I need to know, too, that you wouldn’t feel any shame or guilt about having a father who had sex with his daughter, or a sister who enjoyed having sex with her father.”
“I wouldn‘t,” he assured me.  “I...  Why should I?  Glyn‘s pretty.  Sex with her is nice.  Why shouldn‘t you.....  Don‘t worry about me.”
“OK.  Thanks for that,” I said.  “But that’s not all of it.  Think, Bruce.  I‘m older than you, bigger than you and a lot more experienced that you in sex.  I can have sex with Glyn in ways you can‘t begin to imagine, yet.  In another four or five years I probably wouldn‘t have a chance against you, but for the moment I reckon I‘d beat you hands down in giving Glyn an orgasm, and making it last.
“So think of this.  When we‘re home again and you‘ve got your sister on the bed, you‘re banging away at her and you know I‘d had sex with her the night before, are you really not going to wonder what she’s thinking?  Wonder if she‘s comparing what your prick is doing to her compared with what my prick did?  Worry that she might be wishing it was her father rather than her brother on top of her?  Might you  not then perhaps become angry with me for getting between you and your sister?  Perhaps get angry and bitter with thinking Glyn prefers me to you?  That‘s what worries me, Bruce.  That‘s the risk I wonder if I should take.  If, that is, I have sex with Glyn at all.”
My son opened his mouth to speak but I stopped him.  “No.  Sleep on it, Bruce.  Think about it next time you‘re having sex with your sister.  Try to pretend Id done it with her as well and try to imagine what you really would feel about it.  Then maybe we‘ll talk about it again, OK?”
He nodded, looking troubled.
“Ok, then,” I said cheerfully.  “Now, have you ever heard of the Freemasons?”

3

Glynis was home and the house, which had seemed empty and lifeless without her, was warm and full of her presence again.  My children had retired to bed with each other with almost indecent haste on her first night back and I had been forced to turn up the volume on the TV to cover the sound of my son‘s headboard busily knocking against the wall.
Five days after her return she was at her weekly evening art-class and I was watching TV with my son when Bruce rather nervously said, “Dad, do you remember what we were talking about, that last night on the boat?”
I pretended to think.  “What, about the Freemasons?”
“N... n.... n.......”  He was clearly worried and I took pity.
“No. I remember, Bruce.  Glynis.”
He nodded, part of his attention clearly turned inwards to battle the stammer.  I considered offering him a beer.  He avoided my eyes.
“Yes.  Glynis says she wouldn‘t mind you doing it to her.  I said that having you might make her lose interest in me but she told me not to be s... s..... s... silly, that she would always love me and would want to go on having s... s... s... s... sex with m.. m... me whatever.”  He said the last proudly.
“She is one hell of a girl,” I observed and her brother nodded vigorously.  “You didn‘t tell her about our talk, I hope?” I asked.
“N...  Nnnn...  Oh,” Bruce managed get out.  “I  j...j......j......ust asked her if she‘d ever thought about you having s...s....s.....ex with her and she giggled and said she w....w.... w.....ished you would.  I s...s....sssss....s..aid she’d hardly want to do it with me after she‘d d..d....d...one it with you and she told me not to be silly.  She l....l....l......oved both of us.”
“And what would you think of me if I did have sex with her?” I asked quietly.
My son shrugged negligently.  “If sh....sh...sh....  Glyn wants you to and you want to, why not?”
“Thank you,” I said in all seriousness.  “You know what would happen if anyone found out I was screwing my twelve-year-old daughter?” I asked.
He nodded, his own face serious. “But I wouldn‘t tell,” he promised.
“Next week?” I said.  It was his grade‘s turn to go away, for a solid week of studying careers and getting career counselling.  There’d been nothing like it in my day.  It was during the holidays and for a week I would have Glyn to myself.  She wasn‘t in to sailboats so I was taking her to the city for a cultural binge.  I saw my son nod his understanding that, during that week, I would be see if his sister was willing to have sex with her father.
“I promise you,” I said, “That when you get back Glyn won‘t have changed towards you.”
“Thanks, dad,” my son said.

4

I took my daughter to the city, to a good hotel rather than a motel because she deserved it.  Our first stop was to a fashion store of her own choosing, and I gave her free hand to buy some clothes for the trip.  It cost me more than half-a-dozen sail-boat charters would have but the look on my daughter‘s face as she popped in and out of the changing-room and had the sales attendants dancing to her whims was worth every penny, especially as I knew that when she was parading or twirling in front of me in this ensemble or that, she was inviting me to appreciate the body within the clothes she was showing off as much as the clothes themselves.
We did cinemas and theatres, art galleries, the ballet, the zoo, museums, amusement parks and the shops.  We dined out each night in good restaurants so she could show her new clothes off and I allowed her one glass of very good wine.  When we said good night in the gleaming, carpeted corridor outside our respective rooms each night I knew she was waiting for me to suggest she come into my room on some pretext, or invite myself into hers, but I knew even good hotels can have secret cameras in the bedrooms, especially of those of middle-aged men with adolescent girls in tow who may or may not be their daughters, and thus I left her to wait.
I did not talk to her as I had my son, for we had little enough opportunity and in any case I was in no position to talk to her about girl things, and it was only in the absolute privacy of the car on our way home from the city that I asked casually, “How are things between you and Bruce?”
She blushed a little naughtily.  “Great,” she said.  If my son was as good as his word, and he usually was, my daughter would not know I had discussed with her brother the possibility of my having sex with her.  She had to know I was interested - no girl with her level of sexual awareness could fail to have noticed my involuntary responses to the little tests she had put my way, such as the ‘inadvertent’ view of her little breasts down the front of her T-shirt, the ‘accidental’ glimpse of her skimpy panties stretched over tight tiny buttocks as she twirled to show off a dress and the ‘unavoidable’ brush of her body against mine, - and of course she knew I was aware she was sexually active, for I had seen her being sexually active and had told her to carry on.  She had to know perfectly well that I wanted sex with her but as she had no reason to think I was any different from most other fathers, who presumably also wanted sex with their daughters but presumably didn‘t, and was also aware of the strong prohibition against fathers having sex with their daughters, she could have been by no means sure that I would do anything other than resist the temptation and continue to love her Platonically as good fathers are supposed to.
I shot her a sideways glance as the car cruised along the motorway.
“I‘m glad,” I said and let a pause develop.  Then, “Glyn?” I asked.
“Yes dad?”
“Could you let me love you the way your brother does?”
For all that we both knew it was on the other‘s mind, and knew the other knew we knew it, I still felt her momentary shock at it being laid bare.  I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a twelve-year-old girl who has just been asked by her father if she will have sex with him, and failed.  My twelve-year-old daughter took a deep breath she tried to hide from me and said, “Yes, dad.”
I had known that she would.  I knew she loved me as any girl child will love her father unless that father does something stupid to lose that love, and I knew she knew I loved her.  There was probably very little she would have refused me - had I asked her to let a dog mount her she would have done her level best to have let a dog mount her even while disliking every moment of it.  Had I brought a strange man home and told her to let him have sex with her she would have let him have sex with her, without question.  Had I wanted to take photographs of her naked with a candle in her vagina for a child porn site on the Net she would have posed for me and smiled when I asked even while hating every moment.  Eventually, though, the reservoir of love she had for me would have been exhausted and there would have come an occasion, a demand which would have finally soured the dregs of that love into hate and she would have rebelled, but at that moment in the car that reservoir of love was full to overflowing and the request I had made of her was not one she would have to grit her teeth to perform, so I had known she would say yes.
Even so it had still been extraordinarily difficult to put the question, and it was a moment of incredibly beauty to hear my twelve-year-old daughter say softly - yes dad.  I want to have sex with you.
The motorway stretching away in front of the car suddenly smeared mistily as tears filled my eyes and I knew I was grinning like a loon, and unable to help it.
I blew my nose and wiped my eyes and tried to recover myself.  My daughter sat calmly in the seat beside me watching the traffic with an occasional smile at me.
“OK, Honey.”  I had to clear my throat and even then sounded gruff, like my voice for Pooh Bear when I had read the stories to my daughter when tucking her up in bed as a four-year-old.  “Some rules for this as well.
“Number one, just as with Bruce you‘ve got the right to say no, or no more, to me at any time for any reason, or for no reason at all.  That’s your right and your privilege.  You can say no to me and I won‘t stop loving you, OK?”
She looked round at me and nodded, solemn-faced.
Number two, my bed only.  I promise you I will never come to your bed, and won‘t even go into your room without your permission.  And I will never ask you to come to my bed.  Anytime, if and when you want to come to me, I will love you with all my heart, but when and how often you come is completely up to you.  OK?”
She nodded again, one slow, deep inclination of her head in understanding.  I hoped I could keep that promise.
“OK.  Three, Bruce will have to know.  We‘ll not be able to keep it secret from him and I wouldn‘t want to.  Would you mind his knowing?”
She shook her head.
“But you know that if a word of it reached anyone else, your teachers, your mother, anyone, I would go to prison for a long, long time?”
She nodded again.
“Honey, I‘m worried about Bruce.  I‘m worried that if you go with me he might start to think that you might prefer me to him. I don‘t want that.  It would hurt him and that wouldn‘t be right.  I know you agreed to say no to your brother if you didn‘t want to go to bed with him, but if we‘re both going to have you you‘ll have to be fair to Bruce as well.  I‘d love for you to stay all night with me sometimes, but if you do with me you ought to do it more with Bruce.  Do you understand what I‘m saying?”
She nodded three times.
“What do you think?”  I asked.
She thought, and then said, “I don’t mind doing it with Bruce.  I don’t want to stop.”
“I‘m glad,” I said with a pang of guilt, for I knew she understood I was telling her that she might, after all, have to allow her brother to have sex with her when she might not want to.
“And it‘s even more important that you tell me when you have your first period,” I said.  “Because I would never forgive myself if I got you pregnant.”
I had for the first time expressly said what had previously only been a mutual understanding between us, that I was going to have sexual intercourse with my own daughter. That I was going to place my penis inside her and ejaculate into her.  I glanced at her to see how she had taken it but she merely gave that slow nod of understanding she had given before.  “Mum said she began at fourteen,” she added, surprising me for I had not known that about my ex-wife.  “So it‘s not likely to be yet.”
More than a year, I thought, and felt another pang of guilt as she innocently emphasized how young she was.  I couldn‘t think of anything to say and we drove on in silence.
Deliberately I had timed the trip to arrive home mid-evening, and we stopped for dinner at a restaurant an hour short of home.  I felt like a teenager in love, my feet hardly on the ground.  Glyn, the top of her head barely up to my shoulder, was serene and queenly, child and woman, and I had a major fight on my hands not to sweep her up into my arms and hug the life out of her.  For the trip home she‘d gone battlefield in baggy olive trousers with zipped pockets at the knees, a round-necked field-green t-shirt under a khaki combat jacket which had cost almost as much as an original WW2 bomber and a carefully shapeless jungle hat on her straight-bobbed pale-gold hair.  She was the utter antithesis of elegance and femininity yet to me she was a goddess and I worshipped her even as I fought to play the part of fond, myopic, slightly exasperated father in front of the restaurant staff.  I was going to have sex with this diminutive tom-boy, my daughter, and I was sure the thumping of my heart at the thought would be audible over the soft background music and clatter of cutlery.
I drove the last stretch with exquisite care.  The delay of an accident would be unbearable while the thought of a police car flagging us down and a policeman appearing at my window terrified me, as though the fact I was taking my twelve-year-old daughter home to screw her would be instantly obvious to him.  Arriving home in the twilight I parked the car carefully, carried her suitcases and mine into the house and then helped her transport a dozen boxes and parcels containing all her other purchases from the car.  I picked up four days worth of mail from the mat and threw it on the hall table without glancing at it.  My daughter was standing at the foot of the stairs looking at me.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.  “Ovaltine, (her usual bedtime drink), or a glass of wine perhaps?”  After all, she wasn‘t a child any more, was she?
She shook her head.  “No.  I‘ll go have a shower,” she said and scampered up the stairs.
I waited ten minutes, turning on the TV without registering a frame or hearing a word of the program.  The answerphone light was winking but I let it wink.  The settee where it had all begun that Friday the 13th three months before was empty, just a piece of furniture.  I heard the shower start, run and then stop, and the bathroom door close.  I waited five minutes more then turned off the TV, made sure all the outside doors were locked and bolted, turned off all the downstairs lights and made my way upstairs.  She would be in my bed or she wouldn‘t.
She wasn‘t and her bedroom door was closed.  Que sera.  I unpacked my suitcase and put the contents away.  Then I undressed and had a shower.  If she didn’t come to me I wouldn‘t go to her.  I had promised.  Perhaps she would come to my bed later.  Perhaps she wouldn‘t.  Into Thy hands, O Lord.....
I left the bathroom and entered my bedroom drying my hair with a bath-towel.  She was waiting in my bed.  The sight froze me.
My daughter was lying in the middle of the big double bed in which, as far as I had been able to work out, she had been conceived.  In the soft golden light of the one bedside lamp I had left on her slight body was a small shapeless lump under the quilt.  Her head was on the pillow, barely denting it, and her wide gaze was on me.
She was seeing me naked, a man rather than the boy her brother was, and I saw apprehension in her face - the faint, unconscious sawing at her bottom lip with her teeth which betrayed some nervousness.  I dropped the towel, crossed to the bed and perched on it at her side, her eyes following me steadily.  “Honey,” I leaned over and kissed her forehead.  “I would not hurt you for all the world.”  She managed a faint smile.
I reached over and turned out the light, why I don‘t know unless it was some unconscious idea that a father getting into bed with his daughter was a more fit subject for darkness.  The drawn curtains glowed gently with the faint light of distant street lamps and the occasional brush of a passing car‘s headlights.  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could see my daughter‘s head on the pillow before me, a faint glint of light in her eyes regarding me, and knew it was the moment of decision - and of no turning back.  I had one last chance to turn away, to do what a good father should whatever might be howling in my mind.  Didn‘t all fathers of girls have this opportunity and face this temptation?  How many of them fell?  Did those who resisted the temptation do so out of nobility, sacrificing their chance of delight for a wish to keep their daughters pure or unsullied, or did they turn their backs on the temptation because of cowardice, for fear of the possible consequences?  I couldn‘t know.
“What‘s the matter, dad?” my daughter whispered from my bed.
“Honey, I don‘t know if this is right,” I said to her.
She was silent. Then, “Dad, I love you,” she whispered.
I fell.  Without giving myself time to reflect I slipped between the sheets and pulled my daughter‘s warm, naked body to mine.  For all my fantasies of this moment in the weeks before I was surprised by her doll-like smallness yet her little breasts when I caressed them were surprisingly firm, a woman‘s in miniature and she pressed herself against me boldly.  Sliding my hand down her stomach I noticed a soft, downy fur on the little pouting mound at the join of her legs while the crack between them swallowed my finger eagerly.
I was kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyes and her nose and she opened her legs to my hand.  She had her arms about me, snuggling into me as my finger slid deeper into her dry crack between the soft folds of skin of her sex. I smelt the fresh-washed fragrance of her hair as I nibbled her ear and ran my tongue around its grooves while my finger sought out the entrance to the burrow into her body, found it and slipped into it.  It was warm and soft and moist, but as I shafted her with my finger she gave a soft moan and my finger was suddenly slippery and her vagina hot. I withdrew my finger and spread her sweet oil around her cleft, coating her clitoris and laving her labia, and felt her whole body quiver as I lingered on the little bud in the hood of her vagina from where her orgasms were born.
She had not reached for me and we were laying on our sides so I took my penis and slipped it between her legs against the crack, not trying to penetrate her.  Closing her thighs around it she squeezed it against her genitals and began riding me like a hobby-horse with little urging motions of her hips as though in the saddle encouraging a horse to a gallop.  Her hot, slippery vaginal lips slid back and forth along my shaft, embracing the bulb of my penis at the entrance to her tunnel and then stroking it with her buttocks.  Her face was level with my throat, her quick breathing warm against my skin, her little breasts against my ribs, her nails digging into my back as she pleasured herself and rode herself to orgasm on my eager prick.
“Oooooh,” she came, little body going rigid in my arms and twitching as though electric shocks were pulsing through her, her fingernails digging into my skin.  She squeezed her thighs tighter about me as though trying to crush my prick into her and I could feel aftershocks of her orgasm pulsing through her flesh.  Then she went limp, panting, but before I could move or say anything she rolled onto her back and I felt her spread her legs wide in invitation.
I moved between them, supporting my weight on my elbows to either side of her shoulders.  My daughter‘s hand burrowed between our bodies, took hold of my penis and guided it towards her vagina.  I followed her directions, felt the hot, slippery kiss of her genitals and pushed the tip of my penis into her vagina.
She was small and tight.  It felt as though I was trying to push my prick into a thimble.  I felt her wince away slightly and knew I was hurting her.  I felt her tense herself, brace herself and eased the pressure.  I did not miss the sigh of relief she tried to hide.
“Not this way,” I breathed, and moved.  I took her seven stone easily into my arms and rolled onto my back in the big bed.  “Straddle me,” I suggested.  “Lower yourself onto me.  Go as far as you want, and stop when you want.  We‘ve no need to hurry this.”
She rose above me, knees to either side of my hips, and the quilt slipped from her shoulders to the foot of the bed.  I held my prick still and vertical for her and she lowered herself until her cleft made contact with it.  She repositioned herself, moving her vagina over my prick, and then lowered herself by minute degrees and let it penetrate her body.  
I felt my bulb being squeezed by the ring of her pelvic bone and knew the pressure was hurting her, but she didn’t let up.  In the dim light of the room I could see my daughter, her proud little breasts jutting, her eyes closed and her tiny teeth bared, force herself downwards.  It was even hurting me but I could stand it if she could. She began to rotate her hips in tiny circles like a Polynesian dancer in a grass skirt, each circle allowing a fraction of an inch more of my penis to pass through that ring of bone while I held it still and tried not to let it swell even more as she took more and more of it into her vagina.
Thus my daughter literally screwed me, winding my penis into her vagina, while I slid my hands up her tiny hips, held them around her narrow waist almost encircling it, ran them over her distinctly furrowed ribs and stroked her immature breasts drawn tight as she hollowed her back and swivelled her hips to take yet more of me into her.
The rim of the blood-swollen helmet suddenly popped past the ring of bone into the soft pouch of her vagina beyond and in one movement she eased herself six inches down the shaft.  There I felt the soft press of resistance from her uterus against the tip of my penis and knew I was in her as far as I could go.  In the dim light of the room I could see two more inches of my penis beneath her as though supporting the wide-spread arch of her thighs like a thick black column, with the rest of its length buried in her body.
“Aagh,” she sighed with relief and swivelled her hips slightly, experimentally, to feel my penis move within her.  I held myself still, aware that the head of my prick was pressing firmly against her womb and afraid that I might actually damage her internally if I moved.  She began rocking back and forth, slightly at first and then more boldly. Each forward motion slipped her vagina a half-inch, then an inch, then two inches along the shaft of my penis, each reverse motion sliding it backwards the same distance until I came up against the soft cushion of her womb.  Coming forward she leaned over me and her tiny breasts took shape, gravity pulling them down into little dugs.  Then she rocked away and the arch of her back pulled the skin of her chest taut, her breasts disappeared and she became no more than a child again.  The hot, moist lining of her tight vagina stroked back and forth around my penis, sending surges of sweet pleasure through my loins and tingling through my blood like fire. 
I was holding her by the waist, trying to support what little of her weight that I could while yes, I admit it, trying also to stroke my penis with her as though my daughter‘s body was some masturbation aid.  Hot lava seemed to be pooling in my groin like a volcano getting ready to blow. 
It had been long since I had known sex with anything other than the well-used cunts of prostitutes and the tight grip of my daughter‘s vagina around my prick was like a revelation of what sex should be like.  That exquisite pleasure on its own would have given me an orgasm in a million yet in addition I was intensely aware that the body pierced by my penis was that of a twelve-year-old girl - maybe not quite a child any longer but still far from a woman.
And that twelve-year-old girl was my child, my daughter.
My semen exploded from my prick into her tight embrace with a joy so intense I nearly passed out.  In that moment of fertilization I had raised my thighs from the bed so that my daughter was riding me like a horse and had rammed that last two inches of my rod into her .  I suspect its head had passed through the ring of her cervix into her actual womb which I filled with my seed.  I don’t remember doing it, and hope it did not hurt her.  
Glyn was holding herself still and upright, straddling my thighs and panting slightly, and I gently lowered her back onto the bed.  
“Are you OK, Honey?” I asked, suddenly appalled that I had hurt her.
“Oh!” She released her breath with a gasp and sagged, still penetrated by the full length of my prick” You’re bigger than....”  She stopped, suddenly shy of comparing my prick with her brother‘s, but I caught an echo of pride in her voice, too.  Pride and relief, for her brother was still a boy and I was a man yet still she had been able to master a man’s prick and I suddenly realized that she had been worried whether she would be able to.
I ran my hands over her tiny, firm, warm body feeling my semen oozing back down her vagina past my prick to pool in my groin.  I was still rock-hard inside her but my orgasm in her uterus had taken the drive out of my lust and I was able to feel concern, and a huge love, for her.  I lifted her tiny body off my prick, which slurped as it slid out of her, laid her out on the sheets, grabbed some tissues from a box beside the bed and wiped my semen from her sex.  Then I held her close and cuddled her, kissed her and loved her without sex until she fell asleep and I lay for hours longer in the darkness just holding her and drinking in that glorious love that only a father who has fucked his daughter, and fucked her with love, can know.
She was still in my bed when I woke in the morning and I fucked her warm, sleepy body slowly and gently until she gasped and quivered beneath me.  Then we lay together in the rumpled, sweaty sheets of the bed talking of this and that while the rest of the world went about its Sunday morning business outside.
In the following days I watched her carefully, and my son too after his return, to see if there were any repercussions from what I had done but saw only a bright-eyed, confident pre-adolescent girl with a quiet, attentive brother.  My daughter came to my bed two or three times a week and stayed the night, and did the same with her brother and the only consequences I noticed were a closer, more trusting, more loving relationship between the three of us.  
When Glyn turned thirteen I introduced my children to pornography and we watched the films together.  Then, at my cautious suggestion, Glyn nodded eagerly and all three of us retired upstairs to my big double bed where she had sex with her father and her brother at the same time.  She took to oral sex and anal sex like a giggling duck to water and there can be few family photo albums with a photo of a little girl looking as pleased and triumphant as my daughter did when she lay like the meat in a sandwich between her brother and me with a prick in her anus and a prick in her cunt, although I was not so stupid as to risk actually taking a photo of it.
Then, overnight as it seemed, my children grew up.  As I promised, Bruce - a confident, relaxed Bruce who knew all about the joys of sex - found a girl of his own and no longer needed to have sex with his sister, although they still slept together sometimes for old-times-sake.  Then Glyn, a laughing, assured, seventeen-year-old, went off to University where she could have all the sex she wanted, but still came home at vacations and for the odd week-end out and would come, smiling, to my bed where we made love like grownups.  Our last threesome as a family was when we gathered for Bruce‘s wedding almost ten years after that Friday the 13th when I caught him as a fourteen-year-old boy screwing his twelve-year-old sister on the living-room couch.  For a moment as I lay out the way on the bed and watched the twenty-four-year-old boy make tender, gentle love to his twenty-two-year-old sister, his bare bottom rising and falling between his sister’s spread knees just as it had all those years before, I knew that our family sex had done us no harm at all and I like to think it did a lot of good.
It is still the glue that binds us, although Bruce is now married with children of his own and Glyn is in a ‘relationship’.  Bruce, I know, would like to encourage his two sons to have sex with their vivacious little sister as soon as they are old enough although I suspect his wife might not be so keen but as they are not yet old enough that potential problem has not yet arisen.  Glyn would like to have a child before she gets too much older, and while we discussed the possibilities of her having mine we decided against it because of the genetic dangers - not those usually associated with inbreeding as they are not great, but because of the danger that the child might years into the future have a DNA test which could reveal his or her true parentage.  Her present partner‘s reluctance to commit himself to the relationship by fathering a child on her is putting the relationship to some strain and Glyn has several times come ‘home’ to my bed for support I’m only too glad to give.  My secret hope is that she will come home for good but that would be very selfish of me, I know.

© Rex Antioch 2003