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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	This part of my collection offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no    o
o  particular order other than offering them to you in  alpha-    o
o  betical directories.                                           o
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o  a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises    o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!  This story was produced as adult en-   o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.  Kristen Becker   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o


A Long Time Ago (father-daughter, inc)
by Bazarov (c) 1991



   My father was a good man, but a poor husband to my mother.

   Still, the year after he passed on was hard on her, and she took
to drinking more and more. I didn't like seeing her drink, and
would probably have turned out some kind of delinquent out of
doors, but she seemed to want me with her all the time. I guess
this was a pretty hard time for both of us.

   Anyway, she grew very possessive. She didn't have any sense for
my privacy, and I was thirteen and had grown old enough to want it.
We had no locks on any of the doors in our house; for some reason we
never knew, the people who had moved out before us had taken all the
keys with them. Pretty often, Mama would walk in on me as I changed or
as I used the bathroom. And she wouldn't excuse herself and leave.
It was like there was nothing strange in it. I didn't like it. It
embarrassed me, and I was self-conscious.

    I must have said something sometimes. I remember she'd say,
"What? You're ashamed before your mother?," like it was no big
deal. She also became pretty negligent of her own modesty,
especially when she was drinking.

   She would walk between her room and the bath in various states
of undress; she would change in front of me; she took to going
about the house in nothing more than a thin nightie with no robe or
housecoat on over it. Very often, as I bathed or brushed my teeth
or combed my hair, she would come into the bathroom and sit down
and take a pee as I stood there.

   One afternoon, I was in the bathtub and she did this and then
just stood there talking to me like she would sometimes. She said
she wanted to bathe when I was done. She stared at me with her
smart black eyes and her st rong-beaked aquiline face and made me
feel pretty funny. I tried to cover myself with my hands. "Baby,"
she sighed, "you're almost grown."

   She leaned against the sink and sipped her drink. "If your daddy
was still here, he'd tell you about things, things a boy as grown
as you should know."

   I was very embarrassed. "I know all about that, Mama," I said.
I wanted to drop the subject. Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed.
"What do you know?" Fact of the matter, I was about as ignorant as
a boy can be. All I had was the vaguest of vague ideas picked up in
smutty school yard talk. "Have you ever seen a girl," she pressed,
"what a girl looks like?" She was the only woman I'd ever seen
naked (and only in peeps and flashes), but I couldn't tell her
that. I had to say that I had not. "Do you know where babies come
from?" I was too embarrassed to hazard a guess.

   She just stood and stared at me and didn't seem much inclined to
let it go, like I was praying she would.

   She knocked back her highball and set the glass on the counter.
There was a potted rubber-tree in the corner on a four-legged
stool. She set the pot on the floor and moved the stool to the side
of the tub. Then she sa t facing me. Mama did that, and she didn't
seem much different than she might at any time; only, rather than
tuck her robe up between her knees as a woman will when she sits on
a low stool, she just let it part at her wa ist and fall free of
her legs, and she was naked underneath. Mama's legs were parted,
and I could see the dark patch between them. She untied her belt
and let the robe fall open, and I could see her belly and breasts.
I was ashamed, and I wanted and I tried to look away, but my eyes
would only dart between her suckling-thickened paps and the dark
hair below.

   "You should know about things, Harry. You should know what a
woman looks like--the facts of life, you know." My eyes were still
all over her, and I had to drag them up to her face. "Its all
right," she smiled, "I want you to look so you can see how a woman
is made." She scooted toward me on the stool and drew her knees back
so that I could see her better.

   Her skin was very white. We never went to the beach, you see,
and she always went well covered in sweaters and long skirts, hats
and scarves. The hair that clustered on her mot was very black and
dense but not so thick where it spread down over her ruddy-showing
sex. My mother had a rather large quim--I know that now, anyway,
because I've been with other women, and, of course, there are all
the girls in the magazines--but she must have been a little vain of
it to have done what she did. I joke, though she did h ave a pretty
quim--I've always thought so, though maybe pretty isn't quite
right--it was well-formed, long and broad and thick in its outer parts
and surpassingly delicate within the hairy rind. Mama had a fat and
opulen t quim, a great, pulpy half-fruit and she proceeded, in her
strange and kindly way, to give me an unselfconscious demonstration
of its design.

   "This is my pubic hair," she said, starting with the obvious and
combing it with her fingers. "Yours is called the same. And this is
my vulva." She cupped it a moment proprietarily. Mama liked the
naming of parts: "These, here and here," she traced the fleshy
pads with her fingers, "these are the labia majora. Most just call
them the outer lips, you see, the parts with the hair on them." She
spread her thighs as wide as she could a nd pulled one side of her
sex open with her hand. "And you see this bit, here and here? Those
are the nymphae. Most people just say 'inner lips.' They're called
labia minora in the doctors' books." (Her father had been a
physician; that's how she knew.) "They can be much larger in some
women; sometimes they stick way out."

   I was very curious to look at her, but I had an irrational
compulsion to glance toward the door, too, as if "they" would
crash in and catch us doing what we were, at any moment. Frankly,
I was at least as scared as I wa s excited. I could smell a smell
coming from her, not a strong or a bad smell, but distinct like
mushrooms. She showed me her clitoris, "There, beneath the little
hood there, I don't know if you can see it," but I don't think she
told me its pride of place in the female genitalia.  Otherwise, I
probably would have paid it better attention later.

"... And you see the man puts his penis in here. This is my vagina.
He puts his penis in here, and he spends his seed, and, if his
seed fertilizes the tiny egg and a baby is made, it comes out of
here when it comes to term." I laughed that a baby might come out
of such a little hole, but she assured me tha t it was true, that
I'd come out from there. "Let me have your finger," she said, and
she put it into her vagina so that I could feel that it was soft
and moist. I can't describe how incredibly strange it felt to be
sit ting there in the bathtub, in water growing tepid, with my
finger in my mother's vagina. After that, she let me touch her all
over between her legs. I was curious where she made water, and she
showed me. "And look, this little fold of skin, its called the
fourchette. Some women don't have it. Some women have it, and some
women don't; isn't that funny?" The hairs grew sparse around her
bum hole. It's odd to remember that I thought w as it so strange
that her anus was so near her vagina. I was curious to look at it,
too, but that was incidental to Mama's show-and-tell.

   My penis was up for all that it was worth by this time, and
though I was so young, and it wasn't very big yet, it was sticking
out of the water. Mama saw it lift its little head and enclosed it
in her hand. She stroked it kind of soft and played with my scrotum.
"Do you understand why it gets hard like this? It is very natural;
when the man becomes aroused, his penis stiffens like this so that
it will go into the vagina...  It feels good, doesn't it?" It did
feel good. I flinched from her hand when she first touched me, but
after a moment I felt all hollow inside with that feeling deep in my
stomach. "Do you ever do this to yourself when it ge ts like
this?," she asked. I admitted that I had, and that concerned her.
"You mustn't do that, its very bad for you." I'm sure that she
believed that; many people did. She made me promise that I wouldn't
masturbate.

   "Come," she said at last, "you've been in there too long. Your
hands and feet are wrinkled like a prune." I thought that she was
going to get into the tub, but she pulled the plug from the drain.
We both stood, and sh e helped me to dry. She wouldn't let me dress
but led me into her room. "I'll teach you how to have intercourse,"
she said.


~Subject: BAZAROV: A Long Time Ago 2/2
~From: an223732@anon.penet.fi (Bazarov)

                          * * * * * * * *
                      ****A Long Time Ago****
                        (mother/son incest)
                            by Bazarov

    (cont.)

    "Teach me?" My chest was frozen with a longing I'd never known
and little understood, and all the fear just washed over me. I'd
heard low-class Colored men say "motherfucker," and I had some idea
that it was supposed to be a really bad thing--like the worst thing
that a guy could do. But I was excited, and I pretty much gave
myself over to her. She seemed so poised and certain of what she
was doing; I was used to trusting her.

   I didn't know what she wanted from me. She let her robe fall off
of her shoulders, and she took my hand. "It will be okay," she
soothed. "You'll like it. The man always likes it. It feels very
nice." Mama wasn't short or tall, fat or thin, young or old; she
wasn't beautiful, though no one would have thought her very plain;
but the sight of her loving form, stripped for my learning and my
lust, and of her kind pale brow and her sharp jet eyes, set such a
longing behind my lungs as I've never slaked. I lay down beside her
on the bed. "Are we going to make a baby?," I asked. "No," she
said, "but when we are through, you will know how it is done."  She
asked me to kiss her, and I did. "No, like this," and she gave me
her tongue. I pulled back, a little startled and, for a moment, a
little repulsed. I'd never seen nor heard of people kissing that
way.  She laughed and asked me to do it again. I tried it. Her
mouth and breath tasted a little of gin and lime, but I was
surprised to find it so pleasant to kiss like that, our tongues
slicking together.

   One of her breasts was pressed to my own, and she placed my hand
on the other. I'd, of course, never felt a woman's naked breasts
before now, and I thought them pretty remarkable. Mama was about
thirty-five, and I suppose she looked her years--not that that is
very old, but, as is natural, her body was slowly settling toward
middle age. Her nipples hung dark and a little heavy on her
breasts. Her hips and bottom flared, her belly rolled out, and her
limbs were soft and substantial. But she was shapely, her wrists
and ankles finely turned, and her waist still narrow.

   "Get on top of me," she said. She spread her legs wide on each
side of me, and I lay with my penis pressed to her stomach. She had
me raise myself, and she took my member in her fingers. I could
feel it dragged down though the crisp hairs. She drew her legs back
and back 'til her knees brushed the sides of her breasts and she
touched my back with her feet. Her feet were soft. She went
barefoot sometimes, but she kept them rubbed with a pumice and used
baby oil on them. As her legs came back, her bottom rolled up, and
I was inside her. We'd left the door open, and I could hear the
water draining loud in the bathroom. I relaxed myself and felt her
hairs crush to my belly and my pubic bone press into the rubbery
pad of her sex. "Move it in and out," she said, and I did.

   There's no need to tell you how wonderful it felt. We fucked a
couple dozen strokes, then she had me roll back and crouch on my
shanks without pulling free of her. She wanted me to see what it
looked like going in and out. I spread her quim open with my
fingers and gazed into the pinky groove as my penis slipped in and
out of her vagina.  Her belly shimmied with the jostling. As I
started to spend, I laid myself back on her. Mama didn't say much
when I was done. She didn't seem at all sorry. She just said that
I'd done fine, she kissed me and said she loved me and went and
took her bath.

   A couple of days later, she asked me if I would like to have
intercourse with her again. I told her yes, that I would, and we
did it on her bed. This happened a few times over the next week or
more.  Early one evening, I asked her if we might have sex. It was
about all I thought about, and I had begun to itch for it just
about all of the time. I thought that I loved her different than I
ever had before. I told her that, and she seemed very gratified.
She hugged me, but, as she did, she told me that I mustn't stop
loving her as my mother, that if I did, she would grow very sorry
that she had taught me what she had. Mama stopped drinking just
after that. Neither of us ever said anything about it, but it must
have been pretty hard for her, without any help--I think she was an
alcoholic.

   We began to lie together every day. One time--this may have been
two weeks or more after the first--she spent. I knew something had
happened to her, but I was still very ignorant. She cried out and
got very tense and grasping. You all know how that is, but I didn't
until then. I guess I'd thought of sex as nothing more than a
gentle kindness on her part and a fantastic pleasure on mine. That
is how she had treated it, though I'm certain it was pleasant for
her--I remember those first times so well, you know. But that was
changed now. "You gave me an orgasm," she said. When I was made to
understand what that meant, I was very pleased with what I had
done. I was more inquisitive after that, and I worked toward her
pleasure as much as my own when we did it. I soon found there was
nothing hard in it. She was as passionately inclined as any woman
in good health can be.

   As we grew more assured, she began to teach me things, and we
sometimes experimented so that we eventually became rather
accomplished lovers. We played at all of the positions we could
think of. She serviced me with her mouth, and I learned to do the
same for her. We became quite attuned to one another's pleasures.
This was easily the most intensely erotic relationship of my life.
She never let me sleep in her bed, though, not until many years had
passed and I was married.  She said that I would never grow to be
a proper man if I were to wed myself to my mother. She held to this
even when, after about a year, she discovered that we had made a
baby despite her precautions.

   Mama's pregnancy really scared her. If abortion had been more
easily available in those days, she would have done that. She
thought that the baby might be born deformed. We also had to move.
It had been almost two years since my father had died, and people
would have looked down on her pretty bad if it had gotten out that
she was pregnant. My sister, Jess, was born in California, three
thousand miles from anyone we knew. It was all okay in the end;
Jess turned out fine. She teaches grammar school now and is a very
bright woman and very handsome. She is married and has teenage
children of her own. I raised her from when she was ten, but she
doesn't know that I am her father.

   When the time came for me to go to college, I was fortunate
enough to get into one of the best universities on the West Coast.
Mama bought a house nearby. But, though we remained very
passionate, she kind of pushed me out of the nest, and I lived on
campus. It was difficult at first, but she really knew what was
best. I met my wife, Clara, at school, a girl of whom my mother
grew very fond, even to genuinely love, especially after the
grandchildren came.

   Well, Mama was killed in an automobile accident almost thirty
years ago. We had last made love just two days before she died. She
was good and loving and, to me, a very desirable woman--I loved her
very much. Sometimes, I get to missing her so bad, and it makes me
so blue, that I settle into a funk that hangs about me for days. I
had always found my best antidote for this in Jess. She looks very
much like my mother did, and, as each year passes, I see more and
more of my mother's ways in her daughter. I took after Mama myself,
so I suppose it should be no wonder that the resemblance has grown
so strong in Jess. Just being with her, watching her and hearing
her voice, always had a way of dispelling these moods of mine and
giving me some comfort.

   But it's come to me, of late (something that has never before
occurred to me), that there is, in what I feel for her, a strong
tie of incestuous desire. The shock of this recognition stayed with
me for many days when it first came upon me, and, like a fool, I
let myself dwell upon it. So now, her every display of affection
stirs my longing, then begs my shame. My experiences being what
they are, I could never feel anything inherently loathsome if some
closer connection were to occur between us--indeed, there's nothing
I would want better in the whole world--but I can only imagine how
she might react if she were to know how I want her. She has always
been a rather modest woman, you see, so far as I know, perfectly
conventional, perhaps even a little reserved, in all matters of
sex. She would have to think this a horrible perversion, even
believing me no more than her brother.

   But I think of her in this light all of the time now. I am very
much afraid that I shall do something stupid and irrevocable. I
fear to lose her regard, but, as my mind sits, I can hardly bear to
spend a day out of her company. I've become obsessed with my want
for her, and I think of little else. I cannot say what will come,
but I've no cause for hope. If I had any sense, I'd move a thousand
miles away, but that won't happen. My ties to this place run too
deep--almost forty years--my life has been here. I can't just up
and run. . . . And what could I say? to my Clara? to Jess? I don't
know what will happen. . . . No, nothing will happen. I can't let
it. . . . And yet . . .?

   Oh God. . . . How I miss my mother.


			****An Addendum****
		(sibling father/ sibling daughter incest)


by Bazarov

	Several months ago, I posted an account, that I called "A Long
Time Ago," of my sexual initiation with my mother, of our long-standing
love, and of my current torn and guilty feelings toward my "sister"
Jess.  As you may recall, Jess was the fruit of our intimacy.  My mother
had been dead for thirty years, and Jess, who had now reached her own
middle years, reminded me of her in every way.  Jess was forty years
old, a grammar school teacher, active in service to our community, and
a happily married woman with two children, a son and a daughter, nearly
grown.  Her mother, and then I, had raised her as "regular people;" she
had no idea that I was her father.  We were very close, but I had no 
reason to believe that she would have been anything but horrified to
have known who I really was to her and how I now desired her.  I was
half mad with despair, very much afraid that I might do something that
would cause me to loose her love.  Much has changed in the intervening
months.

	School let out last June like it does every year, and, as happens
every year of late, Jess and I began spending our days together.  My
business has grown more or less self-sufficient.  Most of my time is
relatively free, and I've gone into a semi-retirement mode.  My wife is
an attorney--she loves her work, but it keeps her pretty occupied--so I
have my days to myself.  Jess' husband, Frank,  is a district sales rep
for a major electronics manufacturer, and his job keeps him living out
of hotel rooms for much of the year.  Because of this, it's natural that
my sister and I should keep a lot of company, especially in the summer
months when she isn't working.

	I got up early one morning--I'd promised it as a favor to Jess
--and drove over and took her kids to the train station.  Their
grandparents owned a share in a houseboat on Lake Shasta, and the
children went up every year for two weeks.  Jeffrey and Bridgette groused
a little in the car that they were too old for these trips, but I think
that they looked forward to their houseboat vacation as much as they ever
did.  Frank's folks are a good natured and active couple, and I know they
show the kids a good time.

	After I saw the train off, I saw some nice crimson peonies in a
florist's window, and I took a lavish bouquet back to Jess.  She'd
promised me breakfast in exchange for taking the kids.  The flowers
earned me a loving kiss.  I sat in her kitchen and drank her coffee as I
watched her pattering around in her bathrobe.  Her face was a little
puffy with sleep, her hair was disheveled, she didn't have any make-up on.
God, I thought she was beautiful.  So much like Mama, with her large,
black eyes and her pale, pale complexion, her long, thin nose and her
lovely, narrow mouth.  I studied the flare of her hips, the turn of her
ankles, her pretty feet and the swell of her calves at the hem of her robe
whenever she turned away from me.  We ate, and I pretended to read the
newspaper as she did the dishes.

	Jess took the peonies off the table, cut the string that bound
the butcher paper around their stems, and laid them on the counter;
then she climbed up onto the step-ladder to fetch a vase out of a top
cabinet.  But, as she stretched toward the top shelf, she cringed suddenly
and drew a breath through her teeth with a grimace.

	"What's the matter?," I asked, standing up behind her.

	"Oh," she said, "I've got this twinge in my back--had it a couple
weeks and it won't go away.  I'm getting to be an old lady."

	"Well, let me get that," I said, a little concerned, and helped
her down off the ladder.

	She put water in the vase and cut the stems and arranged the
flowers carefully into it.  Then she lifted the bouquet and placed it
in the center of the table.

	"Careful of your back," I said.  "Where does it hurt?"

	"Oh, it's not so bad.  It's right here," and she reached behind
her to touch a place beneath one of her shoulder blades. I rubbed the spot
sympathetically.

	"See, there's a little knot there," she complained.

	"Yeah, you've got a little muscle spasm.  Let me rub it out for
you."

	"That'd be nice," she said.  "I've been meaning to go to the
club.  I'm due for a massage."

	"You're in for a treat," I smiled.  "I give a famous rub-down."

	"Been moonlighting?"

	"Well, Clara likes them."

	She laughed. We went into her bedroom, and she sat on the edge
of her bed as I went into the bathroom.  I got a towel from the rack and
a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a bottle of baby oil from the medicine
chest and went back in to her.  She wasn't wearing a bra under her robe,
and she asked me to turn my head for a moment.  When I looked back, she
lay on her stomach, her breasts pressed into the counterpane so that I
couldn't see them.  Her robe was open and peeled down to the line of her
panties.

	Jess has a lovely back with clear, unblemished flesh, and my
hands shook  a little as I touched her.  She gasped as I splashed some
alcohol on her skin.

	"Oh!  That's cold!," she said.

	I went at the knotted muscle in earnest, digging at it with my
thumbs.

	"Oh  Harry!  That hurts!," she protested.

	I commiserated but dug all the harder with my thumbs until I felt
the flesh beneath my fingers soften and watched her body relax as the
discomfort passed off.

	"There now," I said, "don't I know what's best for you?"

	"Ummm," she sighed.

	I poured some oil into the palm of my hand to warm it and
smoothed it over her back.  She brushed her dark hair out of the way,
and I rubbed the nape of her neck, her shoulders and arms.  I plied her
vertebrae like a blind boy caressing the keys of a piano.  I traced the
line of every rib and ligament.

	I was filled with an incredible tenderness for her, and I was
extremely aroused.  At the same time, there was a certain element of
terror in what I was doing.  I tried to keep my hands brisk and
professional, but I caressed her all the same.  She didn't seem to dislike
my touch, though.  She was very relaxed, her eyes were closed, and I
slowly grew more self-assured.  I applied more oil and worked the joints
of her shoulders, and her arms, and down to her wrists and hands.

	"Feel nice?," I asked.

	"Mmmm yes," she sleepily murmured.

	I kneaded my fingers into the hollows beneath her arms, and sweeping
my hands again and again across her sides and under her shoulder blades, I
touched the out-pressed swells of the sides of her breasts.  Still she did n
ot tense or complain or put an end to it.

	"Would you like me to do your legs?," I asked, very much afraid that
she wouldn't.

	"Mmhmm."

	I lifted the robe off of her and tossed it to the side.  She
tensed at that, and raised her head to glance back at me.  What was
that look on her face?  A little startled?  Uncertain?  Bemused? Yielding?
Each in turn seemed to flit across her face, then she nestled her head
back into her arms with a self-conscious giggle.

	Her plain, white cotton panties were rid high and stretched tight
over her wide woman's bottom, and the creases where her thighs met her
buttocks showed naked where the elastic of the leg bands had pulled up.

	I began massaging her feet.

	"Mama bought this brand of oil," I said, smelling my fingers.
"She always smelled like this."

	Jess didn't answer.

	I rolled her ankle in my hands and worked the arch and center of
her foot and gently popped each of the joints and rubbed the oil
between her toes until they no longer glistened.  I turned up her legs
a little, each and each at the knee. placing her foot on my thigh, and
kneaded her large, round calves.  Her thighs were no longer so smooth
and toned as a girl's, but for me there is another, maybe better, pleasure
in the more supple flesh of a well formed and mature woman.  She was very
lovely.

	As I finished with her calves, I parted her legs as I laid her
foot off of my lap.  I could see where her white-clad sex protruded
from the crux.  She lay still with her eyes closed, but something had
now subtly changed.

	She was no longer relaxed, and I realized, from the gentle tension
that had come over her, that she had grown sexually excited, that she
held herself in abeyance, not wanting me to see it.  I felt myself now
in a kind of fog that numbed my senses so that I was able to act with a
certain assurance.  But it was more than a numbing of my senses, for I
felt a certain affinity for my sister like I was certain of all she thought
and felt to an extent that I grew certain of all I should do and at what
pace I should do it.  Where ten minutes before it would have seemed an
impossibility that she would ever lie here aroused and allow me to continue
touching her in the ways that had caused the arousal, now it seemed the
most natural thing.  I knew that if she would let me I would consummate
my desire upon her.

	I let drip a drop of oil on the back of each of her thighs and
began to caress and massage her soft flesh.  I took each of her legs in
the clasp of my two joined hands, and, as I rubbed them, I spread them
further apart.
	
	I made as though I took no notice of her of her panties or the
proximity of her sex, and I touched her freely and with an expert hand.
There was a willfulness now that kept her head cradled in her arms and
kept her eyes closed.  She was quiet, but her breathing was up and I could
feel that her heart raced as mine.

	I reached down and touched the very inmost part of her thighs and
cupped her sex through the thin cotton material.  She lay strained and
unprotesting--it had come.

	I opened my pants and freed my member.  I took her by the
shoulder and hip and gently rolled her upon her back.  Her eyes flew
open, and she gazed, frightened, into mine.

	"No, Harry!  Don't.  Stop.  . . . We can't," she whispered.

	I lay myself on top of her and between her legs.  I slipped my
fingers into the leg of her panties and pulled the crotch to the side,
careful not to pull or tear her hair in the elastic.

	"No, don't.  Don't," she said, and tried to push me away, her
hands on my shoulders.

	I guided myself down.  She squirmed beneath me and I had a little
trouble finding her opening, but at last I slid inside her.  She was
very moist.

	"Oh stop, Harry.  Stop.  We mustn't."

	Jess remonstrated, and she tried to avoid me--and I ignored her
remonstrations and overcame her slight resistance--but it was not a
rape.  It was like something understood but not spoken between us that
this was a thing that she could not consent to.  So I had to consent for
the both of us.

	After a moment, she stopped her complaints having done what she
needed to protect her superego.  After a minute she joined me in my
movements, and we made love upon her bed.  We kissed tenderly and spent
together.  When we had finished, she began to cry.

	"Shhh, shhh, shhh," I tried to console her.  I felt bad that she
seemed to feel bad.  I was a little frightened that she might decide
that she was angry at me, but she wasn't.

	"I can't believe that we did that," she said.

	"Don't be sorry," I said.  "You're beautiful and I love you."

	She didn't say anything.

	"You know that? that I love you very much?"

	She gave me an ironic, almost peevish look.  "You're very
gallant, but I would have stopped us if you'd let me."

	She lay there, still part under me, and she made no effort to
cover her nakedness.  What had happened between us seemed now a fact,
just a fact.  And if she had not quite reconciled herself to the fact,
at least she didn't act as if it were the horror that I had feared that
she might.

	I looked on her, nearly naked as she was.  I hadn't seen her
unclothed since she was a young girl.  She looked very much like Mama
had.  Her breasts were smaller, but had held their shape a little
better for that.  I was quickly hard again.

	"Let's do it again," I asked.

	Jess just looked at me for a few moments, and then she laughed
through her tears.

	"At least I have the good grace to be ashamed of what we did,"
she said.

	She didn't say "yes," but she didn't say "no," either.  I quickly
stripped naked. and she let me peel her panties off her legs.  She had a
dense, dark brown bush that looked very nice against her white thighs and
belly.

	This time we took much longer.  It was a wonderful coupling, tender
and passionate.  Both of us were very much aware of the other, and I stared
into her face as she stared into mine the entire time we were at it.  I took
 inexpressible pleasure in her every expression, her every little gasp and
sound, her every strain and movement, her every gentle touch.  When she came
beneath me, I wanted to flow out of myself and into her, to inhabit
her womb and experience the world through her eyes and ears, through her
fingers and toes, to pump through her heart and visit her every extremity, to
be at one with her brain and her belly and her bowels.  I felt such an
incredible love for her, and I kept on as best I could until she quivered a
second time and I could hold out no longer and I collapsed upon her.

	I lay beside her, softly caressing her chest.  "You're not sorry
for it now?," I asked.

	"No," she answered, seeming quite collected--more collected than
I felt just then.  "I'd never want to hurt Frank or Clara, but I can't
be sorry for this."  She was quiet a moment.  "And for the other. . . well,
that's between you and me as long as no one else finds out."  She laughed
and shook her head as if it were all just incomprehensible.  "We've
broken a doozy of a taboo."

	"I'd say we shattered the commandments," I chuckled along with
her, and I thought, "If you only knew, my sister-daughter-love."

	She showered after that, and I jumped in after her.  We spent the
rest of the day together and made love again later that afternoon.  I
performed cunnilingus on her.  It embarrassed her at first, but she
finally took great pleasure in it.  I felt like some kind of poor sick
miser pouring and counting over his treasure, never quite convinced in
his heart of hearts that this bounty is really his.  Every part and element
of her body had its fascination for me.  We were both very happy.  I told
her how badly I had wanted her and for how long.  Jess seemed a little
surprised at this, and said that I'd always seemed a very proper kind of
older brother.  She said that she'd always loved me very much and that
she'd always thought I was a handsome man, but that she'd never really dwelt
on me in that way.  I think that she was really surprised to find that she
could respond to me at all sexually.  We were both really blown away that
these feelings were so intense.

	I was back again the next day, and after, and after, and after.
Her home, alone as we were, was like our refuge, her bedroom, our cave
and den, her bed, our nest.  I had to pretend illness with Clara
several times, and after that I had to be careful not to fuck myself out
too entirely.

	When Jeffrey and Bridgette returned home, we lost our utter
privacy and had to change our habits.  But, still, we had all of our
days to spend together and plenty of opportunity to make love.

	The incestuous nature of our love excited me, and it came to excite
Jess, too.  Over the months that followed, we would sometimes talk of it, and
we took to calling one another "sister" and "brother" much more often than
 had been our habit.  It was a special thrill to do this when we were not
alone.  We were careful in all other particulars, but every time Jess would
say something like, "Brother, would you pass the salt?," we communicate
d something between us that no one else could know.  It might have sounded
completely innocuous, and there would have been nothing out of the ordinary in
her glance, but the simple word, dropped in the company of our spouses or others,
said everything between us.
	We were really tearing up the sheets for a while.  We'd always
been pretty intimate, always talked pretty well, but when we became
lovers--well, you know how free lovers can be with one another.  One
afternoon, I mentioned to her that Jeffrey was growing into a good-looking
young man.  She agreed, and I asked her if she'd ever thought of taking
her son to bed--half joking, but not entirely.  She laughed and said she
hadn't.

	"Why not?," I asked.

	"Don't be silly," she said.  "He's my son, I just don't think of him
that way."

	"Maybe you should start.  It might be a nice thing."

	"You trying to give me away?"

	"No, but I'd share in this case."

	She gave me a funny look.  "Well, I haven't," she said like she was
talking to a recalcitrant child.

	"You should do it," I said.  "It'd be good for him.  You too."

	"I think you're kidding me."

	"I'm not."

	"Come on, tell me you're joking."  She jabbed me in the ribs.

	"I'm not."

	"So what is it?  You think that, because of what we do, I
shouldn't have any qualms about seducing Jeffrey?"

	"Well . . ."

	"It's not the same.  It's not the same at all.  We're
grown-ups--my son isn't.  We're grown-ups, and we're brother and
sister.  A boy's relationship with his mother is more complicated.
It'd screw him up for life."

	"No," I scoffed.

	"Well, it might."

	"Mama and I did it together."

	"No."

	"Yes."

	"You are giving me a hard time, now.  Don't fib."

	"I'm not fibbing.  Mama taught me all about sex when I was
considerably younger than Jeffrey is now.  We did it many many times.
Hundreds.  I don't know--maybe thousands--like married people."

	Jess took my head in her hands and brought her face close to
mine.  "You are serious, now?," she asked.

	I said that I was, and she could see that I was.

	"Wow."  She sat up and leaned against the headboard of the bed.
She was quiet a long while.

	"Does it bother you?," I asked.

	"No, I guess not," she said.  "It's just a strange thing to find
out."

	She wanted to know how it had happened.  I told her, and the
story struck her really funny.  She laughed and laughed.  "Mama did
that?," she asked.  I assured her that she had.

	We talked a little about what my feelings for Mama had been and
what it had been like between us.

	"So you were thirteen the first time?"

	"Yes."

	"Where was Daddy?"

	"Daddy was dead."

	"But . . . when . . ."  Her mouth hung open a little, her jaw
just working over her perplexity.  Mama and I had always led her to
believe that Daddy had lived almost two years longer than he had.

	"Daddy had been dead for a year," I said.  Then I told her that I
was her father.

	She seemed a little shocked.  Her face colored.  "Y. . .you got
Mama pregnant," she said, ". . . with me?"  She was quiet a little
while--she took it pretty well.

	"You're my father."

	"And your brother," I said.

	"Oh, what the hell," she shrugged after a while, "I've always had
daughterly feelings toward you--you're the man who raised me."

	"That's a girl," I said, and I stroked her thigh.

	Jess bent toward me and breathed in my ear, "You've had sex with
your daughter many times, but I've never done it with my daddy!"

	I tell you, I was in the saddle in nothing flat.  Jess wrapped
her legs around me and just whispered, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,
Daddy," over and over and over as I screwed it to her.  It was
fantastic.  We had a lot to talk about when it was over, but I got it up
and performed twice more before I had to go home.

	"So, what about Jeffrey?," I asked her before I left.

	"I don't think so," she laughed, seeing me out the door and
closing it behind me.

	"Maybe not," I chuckled to myself as I skipped down the steps. Yet,
again, you never know.

The End