Title: Partners
Author: Sara
Keywords: Mf MF incest


Really, it's my fault, and I know it, and I think I need to
explain.

I'm leaving this letter with my lawyer, and he'll give it to you
when I die.  Not before.  There's no way in hell I could face you
if you knew this.  I love you, I really do.

So, baby, today's your wedding day.  Kyle is a good man, and I'm
certain he'll make you as happy as you can be.

The two of you have just left.  You looked beautiful today: your
white dress showed off your slender delicate shoulders, though
I've always felt wedding dresses hid so much of a woman as
beautiful as you've become, Kara: it didn't show your legs, or
your small but perfectly shaped breasts, or your flat stomach. 
But your face, love, that innocent face that is so full of wonder
and interest in life, your bright blue eyes, your dark hair
hanging around your shoulders.  All that remained.  And when you
came out with Kyle in your traveling clothes, your brown legs
free in your lovely sundress, your strapped sandals on your feet,
and your straw hat on, you were the sexiest girl I'd ever seen,
my darling, and I was proud of you.

And I guess I should tell you now: I know why you looked so
radiant, so exhilarated, so flushed and full of life today.  I
know that before you walked down the aisle and took Kyle's hand,
you lifted your wedding dress and looked at your father with a
coy smile and he knelt between your legs and licked you, your
fingers massaging his scalp through his close-cropped
salt-and-pepper hair.  I know he stood up, his handsome rugged
face covered in your fluids (he says you always were wetter and
hotter than anyone he's ever known), that he kissed you and you
licked his lips clean, and looked him in the eye, and smiled at
him, your father and my husband, as you guided his smooth warm
cock into your tight wet pussy.

And I know you know his cock really well.

I can't tell you how wet it made me when he gave you to Kyle,
turned with the conventional father-of-the-bride's awkward smile
towards the congregation, and came and stood beside me and bent
down and whispered, "I fucked her."  I watched you and imagined
beneath that white dress the sexy feel of semen soaking into your
stockings, into your panties (if he'd left them on you at all)
while Kyle looked at you with grave adoration.

God, it turns me on so much to write this, even though I'm
flushed with shame.  I can only finish this because I have to get
this off my chest.

When dad first took your virginity, you were fifteen, and it was
my fault.

Please understand, Kara.  I love your father passionately.  I've
always wanted him.  When a woman wants a man so badly, she can
feel his disinterest.  Oh, he licked me, like he licked you
today.  He fucked me in every conceivable position.  I gave him
my ass willingly, and came hard when he took me.  But there was
always... I don't know.  Something.  Something missing.  When he
had come in me and I had worshiped him by scooping his semen onto
my fingers and eating it, or sucking him clean, I could tell he
was somewhere else.  But where?  And when did it start?

It began when you were twelve, my love.

When your breasts began to emerge, when you began to lean forward
with that magical intensity of yours when you talked with people.
 You were becoming sexual in the deepest way, a way that related
to men and women alike.  You drank them in, you loved them.  He
told me once that sex with you was like a conversation that could
never end, a conversation he could never have with me.

I suppose I'm selfish.  I wanted his love, all of it, all the
time.  You're more generous than I am: you gave him back to the
world.  Me, I tried to keep him for myself.

And the only way I saw to keep him was to give him what he
wanted.

It didn't take much to figure out who he wanted... just a little
observation.  You were his favorite, our only daughter, so
beautiful and full of life.

It took me months to get up my nerve to bring it up at all, Kara.
 Many more to get him to admit, when he was fucking me and I was
close to coming, that he wanted you, our little girl.  He called
me "Kara" that night.  I came and came and came.  Afterwards, he
was spent, and lay next to me, staring into space, far away from
me.  I gently ran my fingers through my wet, come-soaked cunt,
thinking.

After that I made him call me Kara.  I stole your clothes.  I
wore them to bed.  He undressed me.  I called him "Daddy."   God,
Kara, it turned him on.  I sucked him as you, I seduced him as
you, I made him come all over me as you.

I suppose I hoped it would give him back to me.

But always afterwards there was the emptiness, the dark distance
between us.

And so I resolved on the final step.

I wore your black pleated skirt that night, the one that showed
off your legs so nicely.  I wore it with a white t-shirt and no
bra.  He fucked me in your clothes, and as I grasped the bathroom
door-jamb, I looked over my shoulder, and I looked him right in
the eye, and I said, "Doug."  He paused.  I'd shattered the
illusion.  His arms held me tight (I knew he didn't want to hurt
my feelings), but he could not go on with Michelle, his wife.  He
needed Kara, his daughter, his bitch, his little come-slut (as he
liked to call me).

His cock was still in me.  I held still.  "Doug," I said,
seriously.  "Why don't you just take her?"

He was silent for a long time.  He began to shake a little.  At
first I thought he was laughing.  Then he said, "You know I
can't.  I'd go to jail."

And though it caused his cock to slip out of me, I turned around
to face him.  Wearing your clothes, I reached up and kissed him.

"I'll get her for you," I whispered to him between kisses.  "I'll
get you your little bitch."

And that's how I betrayed my little girl.

He fucked me harder than ever that night.  When he came, he was
weeping, and buried his head in my shoulder.

"I can't," he kept saying.

"Shhh.  You can.  She'll want you.  She's going to want you to
fuck her.  I want you to fuck our little girl."

And so the rest you know, how I started to take you shopping, to
buy the innocent but sexy clothes he likes: how I began to talk
to you about sex.  About the lie I told you about fathers and
daughters, and how I ensured your secrecy by telling you how your
daddy (you adored him and always did) would go to jail if anybody
found out about the secret love.

And then, the hardest thing ever for me: leaving you alone when
you were fifteen with my husband.

It was a women's church retreat that I went on.  I had packed my
bag with the feeling that I was to be put to death, that I was
dying and would never be whole again.  Your father was nervous,
jumpy.

My last words to your father were, "I want you to.  Just... tell
me."

And I left.

And returned.

And when I came in the door, you were snuggled against him,
unselfconscious, happy, smiling.  The two of you, watching
television.   He smiled at me over the top of your head.  Kara, I
almost came seeing you there, like lovers, at home with one
another on the couch.

You kissed me on the cheek and chattered as though you hadn't a
guilty thought in the world.  You're a natural, Kara: you're born
to fuck, you take it as easily in stride as you do falling out of
bed.  I would find out later he had filled your mouth and your
pussy with his semen, that you had sucked your daddy's cock and
become his lover.

He told me that night as he fucked me.  "Is she very tight?" I
gasped as his cock plunged into me.

"Her pussy is like a hand that grips my cock, baby," your dad
said, and I looked into his eyes, and they were intense, full of
light.  He was your lover now, and I was his partner.  "She said
as I took her cherry, 'I can never tell mom about this... it
would kill her.'"

God, I was coming.  But it pushed me over the edge when I said,
"Let her think it's your secret.  But tell me everything."

"Yeah," he said.  "Our secret.  Our wicked, beautiful secret."

Oh, Kara.  That made him mine in a way I couldn't begin to
imagine ten months before, and I came so hard, and wrapped my
legs around him, and fucked him more gloriously than I can ever
remember, and when he came he kissed me hard and passionately,
and we were one.  No distance.  Partners.  Mates.

You two were becoming best friends.  You were beautiful to watch
together, so unselfconscious.  You would hold hands, sit in his
lap, break out ina spontaneous game of tag, shoot basketball. 
Nobody would ever guess, love, that you were your daddy's bitch,
his little willing slut.

And you owned him, too.  He adored you.  He talked about you
incessantly: not just sex, but how you were  doing in school,
your amazing S.A.T. scores.   He loved you, and loves you still.
I saw it on his face as he gave you away today.

And you and I began the strangest dance of secrecy: you fucking
my husband and not willing to say so.  Me fucking your lover and
not willing to say so.  God, Kara.  I'd be lying if I didn't say
it was the most life-giving deceit that ever was.  I felt closer
to you than you know, and we became closer than ever.  Sometimes
I thought you'd tell me the secret I already knew.  But you never
did.

He told me about fucking you the night of your spring dance, when
you went with Stephen.  He told me about how you visited him at
the Base, how you knelt in his office and slid a finger into his
ass as you sucked him until he came, and how you sat on his desk
fingering your pussy in front of him while he talked on the
phone.

Baby, he had me on my hands and knees as he described how expert
you were becoming at sex, how natural, how innocent and beautiful
and skilled you were as you took his cock.   He came in my ass as
he told me how he had come in your ass.  He licked me with the
new technique you had taught him, the one you had found together
through experimenting on your trip to the cabin in Rockford that
autumn.

We watched you grow together, your happiness, your childhood
punctuated with the strange, almost surreal happiness of being
fucked by your parent.

By both of us, really.

The night you first fucked Kyle, you came home and your father
fucked you too: he told me how you had told him everything, your
confusion about your feelings, and the tentative steps the two of
you made towards reconciling your feelings for him with those you
had for Kyle.  That night he came to me and made me suck him (and
I was his willing slave) to taste the combined flavor of himself,
our daughter, and our future son-in-law.

I'm sorry.

Somehow I have to find a way to tell you now.

You've graduated from college.  You've married a wonderful young
man, and you both have careers ahead of you.

What I've done is wrong.  I don't know how to undo it.

But I love you.  I suppose the only thing I can think to say is,
as your father's semen dries now on my own thighs (he fucked me
as he told me about your wedding-day sex), I did it because I
love him too much.  I needed him too much.

Try not to think too badly of me: I am sorry.

When you read this I might well be in hell.  But it'll be a small
price to pay for the heaven of having been so loved by your
father as I was, beginning the night he took your virginity, and
loved the most beautiful, sexy, clever girl we know.

--Mom

-----------------

Dear Mom,

It's been six months since I got your note.  It's been seven
months since dad lost control of the wheel and the two of you
plummeted from Torr Canyon road to your deaths.

What can I tell you?  That we're the most fucked up family that
ever was?  That it's alright?  That I love you?

I'll leave this note on your grave today, and then I'll walk
away, home to Kyle.  I suppose these last six months since I've
read your letter I've been distant from him, and that will stop
today.  How do you respond to this life I've led, this world
we've made?

I guess I should tell you this though.

Truth is odd.

Dad taught me that.

The night you left for that retreat to go pray with all those
women, dad brought me into your room, and he set me on the bed,
and he knelt on the floor in front of me.

And then he took my hands between his, and he said, "Kara, life
is short.  It's strange, too.  You have to make the best of it
that you can.  You can't fuck around with it."

I smiled at him.  He never used the word "fuck," and it tickled
me.

"Here's the thing.  Your mom and I love you.  What is it you need
from us?"

I could answer that one.  "I need mom to stop being so weird. 
She says the strangest things."

His face looked like a cloud had left the sun.  He grinned ear to
ear.

"It will."

"You sure?"

"Yeah.  Mom's had a tough time lately."  He thought long and
hard.  "Thing is, Kara, we all need partners in this life.  We
all need to feel like we're... useful.  Joined together.  Part of
something bigger than we are."

"And mom doesn't?"

"No.  Not yet."  He kept staring at my feet.  I'd painted my toes
coral red.  "She thinks she knows what she wants, but she can't
get it.  It kind of creeps her out, and makes her say odd things,
do odd things.  Maybe she just wants to be closer to me than..."

"Than I am?" I finished for him.

"Maybe."

I stood up and lifted him off the floor by his shoulders.

"C'mon, dad.  We need pizza.  My treat."

"My treat.  I make the big bucks."

"Your treat, right."  We hugged for a long time.  "You're gonna
take care of mom, yeah?"

"Yeah, baby.  I'm gonna take care of your mom."

"You love her, don't you?"

"More than anything."

"Except me."

"Don't push it."

We laughed.

I love you, mom.

--Kara


  
Partners