"Loving daughters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burke Evan)

CHAPTER THREE A PRESENT FROM DADDY

Mom says I'm a damned fool. My case-worker, Miss Taylor, says the same thing, only she says it in words that I only half understand, words that're supposed to show how damned educated she is, I guess.

Whenever Mom comes to visit me here at Juvenile Center, it's the same old line of shit. First, she puts on her bawling act, complete with the bit where she slobbers all over my neck and pats my shoulders raw, and then she says, "Why don't you tell the truth? You might as well tell the truth. You think I don't know that man?"

Miss Taylor is worse. The titless old bitch always sniffs through that horse nose of hers and comes on with something like, "Your total lack of co-operation shall be difficult to justify to my superiors, Melody. Why not mitigate your situation by divulging the truth?"

Fuck her! Fuck them both! How can they know the truth about what happened when I don't even know the truth myself? How?

That's what I've been trying to do — get the truth together in my own mind; the real truth, not the truth everybody seems to want to hear. I've been thinking on it for weeks, trying to find an answer to that question: Who is to blame?

It would be easy enough to blame it all on the old man. A dead cinch, as a matter of fact. That's all they want to hear. All I'd have to do would be start bawling, then come up with some shit like, "He told me we were going to wrestle, then, next thing I knew, he had… he had his thing in me!" and they'd all pat me and say, "Poor, poor child!" Fuck them! It wasn't that way at all.

Maybe the old man was to blame the first time it happened. I guess there's no way you can excuse rape, especially the rape of your own daughter. But it's a fact that if I'd known then what I know now, the whole thing would never have happened. How many broads have said that, I wonder.

I was twelve years old, cherry, and dumb as they happen. I mean, I knew from nothing. I knew I got that funny little ache in my pussy sometimes, and I knew it got worse when I rubbed it, and I knew it finally went away if I rubbed it enough, and that was the extent of my knowledge about sex. A real brain.

I knew that boys were beginning to give me a new kind of look since my boobs had started to grow into hard little knobs that ached almost all the time, but I can honestly say I didn't connect those looks — or even the few sneak feels I can recall with anything like fucking. I was pretty dense in those days.

It never entered my empty little head that the new curves that were forming on my body — a new roundness on the under-curves of my butt, a slight flare to my hips, slightly more padding on my thighs — had much to do with the new way the old man was treating me, either. I knew he'd changed somehow; that was all.

He'd always made a big thing out of wrestling around with me, tickling me and all that, and all that had suddenly stopped. Instead, I'd sometimes turn around to find him watching me in the same kind of way the boys at school did, looking at my ass and long legs in that way that'd cause that warm feeling inside me. Mom had noticed those looks too, I realize now, because more than once I saw her glaring at him. I heard them yelling their heads off at one another about it another night, and I remember wondering why my own father wasn't supposed to look at me. That fight ended like all the rest. She stomped out of the house, headed for her sister's place, where she always went when she was pissed, and the old man proceeded to get drunk. Which was what he always did when he was pissed at her.

It was on a night like that that my old man copped my cherry.

He'd come home early from the docks where he worked as a stevedore, and, out of the clear blue sky, he'd handed me a present. I squealed with delight when I opened the box and found a green knit minidress, the sharpest I'd ever seen. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

"Go put it on, baby. That's what it's for," he said, untangling my arms from around his neck. I rushed into the bedroom. It was perfect for me — except it was a little small. The green went well with my long red hair, though, and it almost matched the color of my eyes, so it made no difference that it ended so high up on my thighs. I was just going to have to be careful about bending over.

"How do I look?" I asked, going back into the kitchen and posing with my arms above my head. He smiled sort of funny as, he said, "You look good enough to eat. Yep — good enough to eat."

"It's the prettiest dress I've ever seen," I squealed, then rushed excitedly across the tiny kitchen and threw myself into his lap, kissing him. I felt I had the best father in the whole world. He was raising a can of beer to his lips as I jumped on his lap, and some of it spilt on the front of his blue shirt. "Hey, careful," he said, laughing. "I can't afford new clothes for myself."

As he looked down at the dark stain spreading wetly across the front of his shirt, I noticed that strange look spread across his face — the same look I had seen the times I'd turned to catch him looking at my butt. It was a hungry look.

Following the downward gaze of his eyes, I saw that the short skirt was tugged up so high that part of my white panties were showing. He had slipped his arm around my shoulder, and I was suddenly aware that his fingers were touching the bottom of my tittie. His touch caused a dull throbbing in my nipples. And under my round little rump, in his lap, I felt something new. His peter was getting hard. Even though I'd never actually seen a hard on, I'd heard enough talk among the girls at school to know that was what he was getting.

And that was when Mom walked into the room.

For a moment she just stood in the doorway looking like she was going to have some kind of attack, then she stomped across the room and slapped me — hard! "You get to your room, you little slut!" she yelled, then turned and started screaming at the old man. Crying, I did as I was told.

She went on yelling at him for what seemed like hours. Through the door of my bedroom I could hear her accusing him of feeling me up, of trying to make a whore of his own daughter, and lots of other things I didn't really understand. I found myself wondering why a good-looking guy like my father had married a bitch like her. She wasn't even pretty.

"You ain't foolin' me one bit! I know what you're up to," she yelled at long last, then stomped, her way out of the house, slamming doors behind her, off to her sister's. I came out of my room.

The old man put the booze away faster that night than I'd ever seen him drink it before. He was soused inside of two hours. I sat in the kitchen with him, drinking Coke and trying to joke him out of the bad mood he was in, and it was in the kitchen that it started.

I was putting an empty bottle in the cabinet beneath the sink, bending far forward at the waist, when. I felt — I could really feel them — his eyes watching me from behind. As I looked around and saw him staring at me, I remembered what I'd told myself about being careful about bending over. Of course, I told myself, it didn't really matter that my bending had caused the short dress to lift so high in the back that my butt was waving like a flag. Not with my own father, it didn't. What the hell, how was I supposed to know that my old man was having the hots for me?

Then I saw the look on his face and was reminded of the way his peter had gone hard as I sat on his lap, the way his fingers had touched my tittie, and the warm feeling it'd caused in my pussy, and I knew it did matter. I felt myself blushing hotly.

"What're you thinkin' of?" he asked thickly. "Thinkin' of how your mother accused me of playing with your knockers?"

"Were you?" I don't know why I asked that.

"So what if I was?" he said loudly. He was giving me the strangest look I'd ever seen. "Ain't a man gotta right to touch his own daughter? Well ain't he?"

"I guess so."

"Well, then, come here," he commanded, and his dark eyes seem to be daring me to defy him. As I walked across the narrow space that separated us, I could fell his eyes on my boobs, on the roll of my still girlish belly. I stopped in front of him. He put his big hands in the small of my back. "Ain't nothin' wrong with a man wantin' to touch his pretty little girl, is there?" I felt his hands move down onto my rump. He squeezed me.

"No… I guess not," I said nervously. There was something wrong with the way his hands were sliding down the backs of my legs. There was something wrong with the way he licked his lips and stared at my titties instead of looking me in the eyes. He pulled me down on his lap, one arm circling my waist.

"Even if I did want to touch you on the titties, Melody, what'd be wrong with that," he asked, and through the woven material of the dress I felt his big hand move slowly upward until it rested on the firm little knob of my tittie. His other hand stroked my thigh. Beneath me I once again felt the hardness of his peter, and I was suddenly aware that what was happening was wrong… totally wrong.

Of course, we can't ever let nobody know about what happens between us. "Specially not the old lady. Not nobody." His hand was cruelly tight on my tittie; the fingers of his other hand were rubbing the bottom of my belly, closer and closer to my pussy. "Just our little secret," he said.

I squirmed on his lap. My eyes were closed. His voice droned on telling me of the fun we'd have together from now on, and his hands moved over my titties, my tummy, and finally, beneath my dress. As I felt his fingers press against the front of my panties rubbing the nylon against the hard little lips of my pussy, I suddenly began struggling to get off his lap. He held me there easily.

The feel of his fingers against my pussy both excited and frightened me. It excited me in a way that seemed to cause my pussy to tingle as if it were filled with pins and needles. I felt my panties getting damp; felt his lips against the smooth flesh of my throat. I was warm all over. But there was also fear inside me.

What if Mom walked in and caught us? What was going to happen next? Was this all there was to screwing — just playing with each other? Or…? It was the unknown that frightened me more than anything, I think. But I wanted that good feeling in my pussy to go on forever.

"I'll rub and kiss my little girl's pussy whenever she wants it rubbed or kissed," he said thickly into the hollow of my throat, and his hands bunched my dress around my waist. The crotch of my panties was pushed aside by his thick fingers, and he was stroking the sparse red fuzz around my pussy, and I was shaking… from fear and from something I couldn't understand. I wanted him to stop. But it felt so good. So… right.

I guess I made it easy for him to slip my panties off.

"Put your hand on my cock, Melody," he said, and as he moved my butt slightly away from the center of his lap and sought to guide my hand to the stiff peter there, I realized for the first time that he had unzipped his pants.

In fascination I stared down at the prick to which he had guided my hand. It looked huge. My fingers looked very white and very tiny against its slightly brownish skin, and the head of it was a strange purplish color. It was warm in my hand. Almost like a child with a new toy, I found myself exploring the workings of this recently discovered treasure. The smooth outer skin of it slipped easily up and down over the hard central core as my fingers sought out its secrets; the feel of it within my hand was strangely pleasant. My father suddenly grabbed the back of my head, turned my face toward his, and crushed my lips in a brutal kiss.

The feeling was even better now. His tongue was in my mouth. I sucked it. His finger had slipped inside the narrow pink slit of my pussy. I opened my thighs wide for him. His finger moved faster. I could taste the booze on his breath, but it was somehow made pleasant by what he was doing between my legs. He was fingering my pussy the same way I fingered it whenever the warm feeling got to be too much. I knew that before long the warm feeling would turn into a sizzle, then go away and be replaced by that wonderful feeling I got whenever I fingered myself. And my fingers moved on his peter. I recall thinking that I'd do that to him until he did whatever it is that men do, and that it would be over. That's how much I knew.

"We'll go in the bedroom to fuck," he said suddenly. He lifted me easily off his lap and stood up, weaving slightly. "Bet you ain't never had a prick that size rammed up you, huh, Melody?" he said thickly, grinning down at the big peter I still clasped in my hand.

It was then that I really knew fear.

It may sound unbelievable — but until that moment I'd had no idea that he meant to put it in me, or even that that was how fucking was done. I felt my knees shaking. I stepped away from him, releasing his peter. It was impossible. That big thing would split me wide open. My pussy was just a little slit that felt good when touched — I had no idea how deep — and a stab of that big peter would surely kill me.

In terror I ran toward my bedroom. He caught me at the door.

"Why, you cock-teasing little bitch!" he shouted as his fingers dug into my shoulder. He was behind me and his arm circled my neck, holding me against him. "Think you're gonna play that game on me, huh?" He forced me into the semi-dark bedroom. "Think you can play cock-teasing games on your old man, huh? Like hell, you can!" He threw me across the bed.

"I didn't know," I said stupidly. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. He laughed crazily as he flung himself on top of me.

"Didn't know, my ass!" He was crushing me. "Think I ain't seen you wiggling your ass for anybody who wants to watch? Think I don't know you're puttin' that pussy on any boy with the balls to ask?" He put one hand on my cunt, his other hand seized both my wrists and pinned them to the bed, above my head.

"Ain't none of them can give you a cock like this one, though," he panted. He was between my legs and I struggled desperately as I felt his tremendous peter brush against my thigh. He held me with little trouble. I felt hard flesh touch my pussy. I tried to squirm away.

There was a brief sensation of pleasure as I felt the outer lips of my pussy being parted by the smoothly rounded knob that I knew was the tip of his peter and then… the most excruciating pain I have ever known! I felt myself being torn apart, just as I'd feared. Searing fire raced through the inside of my pussy. Blood pounded at my temples. Lights flashed before my eyes. I tried to scream, but he had his mouth pressed to mine, kissing me. The smell of his breath was making me sick to my stomach. He moved inside me.

The rod of his peter was reaching deeper and deeper into my pussy with each movement of his hips, burning me as if it were a white-hot poker, and I could feel a warm and sticky fluid seeping out of my slit, onto my thighs, over my butt. Blood. He didn't notice.

I could feel the walls of my pussy rubbing smoothly against the slippery stem of his peter as his driving rod pried them wider and wider, and the pain turned into a dull ache that pulsated in time to the drive of his hips. He released my wrists.

"Nothin' takes the fight outta you like a good piece of cock, does it?" He grabbed my legs and raised them high. Once again he kissed me. His peter moved faster inside me. His breath came faster.

The pain inside me was being replaced by something else. Not pleasure, exactly, but by a feeling of warmness. A feeling of doing something that is natural and easy. I suddenly realized that my hips had lifted and were making crazy little figure eights. On their own. Daddy's breath came in great gasps. He bucked and heaved above me. Then, with a great shove that completely buried his peter in me, he gave a loud cry and fell on top of me. I felt the steady pumping of a warm liquid inside my pussy. It seemed to ease the ache.

Mom never knew about that night. I at least had sense enough to wash the blood from the sheets before she saw them, and though she may have sensed something was wrong by the funny way the old man acted during the next few days, I'm sure it never occurred to her that he'd actually fucked me. She probably knew he wanted to. That was all.

The old man, when he sobered up, was all sorrow and remorse. "I was drunk, kid, and it'll never happen again," he said. And, "Just don't tell the old lady, huh, kid? It won't happen no more — I promise!"

Of course, I didn't tell, and for weeks, whenever Mom wasn't around, all I heard was that whining promise.

He broke that promise less than two years later.

I was in my bedroom, dressed in nothing but my bra and panties, and I knew he was sneaking looks at me through the open door. That gave me a strange sort of kick. I guess that it came from knowing that every bounce of my tits and each wiggle of my ass would make him remember the night he'd fucked me. It was a kookie sort of way of getting back at him. Making him pay the price.

My tits had filled out tremendously since that night. They were round and full. The tops of them swelled creamily upward over the top of the black lace bra that was too skimpy to contain them. The light red fuzz around my cunt had turned into a thick bush that padded the front of my panties, and a few stray tendrils creeped from beneath the elastic at my thighs. I remember wondering, as I stood there in front of the mirror knowing he was watching, if the old man wasn't mentally kicking himself in the butt for not waiting. Probably, I decided. I was a hot piece and knew it. Enough boys had told me so.

"Either get some Goddam clothes on or close the door," he said suddenly, startling me. He was standing in the doorway.

"I thought you liked to look," I said, taunting him as I'd found I could get away with doing since that night. As I turned toward him, I saw his eyes involuntarily drop to the darkly shadowed vee of my cunt. I picked up a brush and ran it through my hair. "You sure do enough looking," I said. "Or maybe you were going to rape me again?"

It was stupid talk. All of it. But I'd found I had a hold over him because of the way he'd raped me, a hold that let me get away with almost anything, and I used it. I guess it was my way of getting back at him for the pain he'd caused me that night. This was the wrong night to try it.

"I told you to get some Goddam clothes on!" he shouted angrily and I should have noticed that his voice was somehow different tonight. I didn't. Like a fool, I posed with my hips cocked, my eyes lowered sexily, my breasts lifting as I slowly stroked my hair, and said, "Why, Daddy dear, you talk like you'd like me to walk through that door and tell your wife about how you taught me the facts of life. Do you?"

"She's gone," he said simply. That, along with the husky catch in his voice should have warned me. It didn't. "I can always tell her when she gets back," I said, then, swinging my hips saucily as I turned and walked to the closet, I added, "What are you thinking — that you might as well do it twice? That they can only hang you once? Please don't. You weren't very good at all. I get lots better…"

That did it. As he came toward me, I realized that he had been holding himself back. And that he was through going it. He hooked his fingers in the top of my bra. His face was a deep red.

"All right, damn you, take them all off!" He jerked powerfully at my bra. I felt a biting pain as the straps dug into my back. My tits sprang free.

I had been jerked forward against him by the tug that broke my bra strap, and as he pulled at the bra until it fell away completely, I saw that his eyes were like those of a wild man. His fingers bit into my shoulder, hurting me. With his other hand he tore at my panties. I tried to break free.

"Take every Goddam stitch off!" he shouted. I heard and felt my panties being ripped, ripped again. His fingers touched the furry mound above my cunt. I was naked against him.

"I swear to God. I'll tell," I said, feeling almost triumphant, knowing that would stop him. It infuriated him instead.

"Tell and be damned," he said; then, even before I fully realized what those words meant, he slapped me. Hard. My head snapped backward. He slapped me again, then flung me backward onto the bed. "I'll give you something to tell about." He began to undress.

"You're not drunk. You don't have an excuse this time," I said, searching for a way to stop him as I huddled naked on the bed. I was crying. Not from fear but from something closer to anger. He finished undressing without a word or a look in my direction, then said, "Who needs an excuse to fuck? You ask your boyfriends for an excuse? What's your excuse?" And then he came after me.

I resisted as his strong hands grabbed my lower legs and began prying my legs apart, then I gave up. He was just too strong. The tip of his hard cock brushed my inner thigh as he moved between my legs. I closed my eyes. His hand settled over my cunt. He rubbed it. His other hand opened and closed over one of my tits. He was breathing loudly, almost panting. I could feel his ribs against one of my thighs, his cock against my other leg, down lower.

I felt my nipples being hardened by the contact of our naked bodies, the touch of his hands. My pussy began to dampen. I hated myself for reacting. He rolled between my legs, both hands going to my tits, his hard belly pressing down on the mound of my cunt. I kept my eyes closed and my lips pressed together as he kissed me on the mouth. His hands massaged my breasts.

"Open your eyes," he said finally. "Open your eyes and look at me. Don't try to act like you don't like it. You know you do. You liked it that first time I fucked you. Tell me you like it."

I looked up into his face. It looked weak and pleading. I suddenly realized how I could hurt him. I couldn't stop him from raping me, I knew, but I could destroy his pride. I could show my contempt.

"I like it," I said. His eyes brightened. He kissed me. I felt his prick shift closer to my pussy. His lips moved wetly over my ears, my throat, down to my right tit. "I knew you did," he mumbled, then drew my nipple between his lips. I put my hand beneath my breast, cupping it for him.

"Does my little baby need some tit before he's able to fuck?" I asked, but he didn't seem to hear. His mouth moved from nipple to nipple, mumbling, "Beautiful tits, you've got beautiful knockers."

I raised my cunt against him. "And good pussy, or so I'm told." I stroked the back of his head. "Aren't you glad I'm a good fuck? I owe it all to you, you know."

I raised my legs high and wrapped them around his naked body.

"Is this the way you like it?" I asked. Any moment now, I knew, he would become aware of the contempt in my voice. I was wrong. He was too hot.

"Oh, sweet Jesus… yes!" he groaned suddenly, lifting his head from my tit and parting the rubbery lips of my cunt with the first inches of his meat. It slipped in easily with my legs raised the way they were, and I sucked in a deep breath as I realized that his entry had caused a tremendously exquisite sensation inside my cunt. I had forgotten how big he was. I struggled to put the contempt back in my voice. "You're sure you wouldn't rather have it dog fashion?" I asked, trying to ignore the feel of the cock that slipped back and forth in the soft flesh of my cunt. I reached up and put one hand on each side of his face. "Or maybe you'd like me to go down on you? Suck you off? Lots of boys like that. Or would you like to eat a little of my pussy? Ronnie Gower always does. Makes me hot. He says it makes me fuck better, too."

"Don't talk like that," he said suddenly, throwing himself down heavily atop me. My tits were flattened beneath his chest, his lips were close to my ear. He breathed warm against my throat. His hips churned faster, his prick moving… moving… moving! I fought to keep my mind off that.

"Why not? If you're going to come to me for your pussy, I might as well know how you like it. Don't you think so?" And I once again began to rattle about the most obscene things I could think of, most of them things I'd only heard about, things I hoped would shame him so bad he'd regret this night for as long as he lived. He put his hand over my mouth. "Quit talking like a Goddamned whore, quit it."

Pulling his hand away, I French-kissed him. "But I am a whore."

And then, just like a whore, I began to wiggle beneath him. My fingertips fluttered down across his back. My hands found the hard cheeks of his ass, spreading them and using the grip on them as leverage with which to draw his cock deeper inside me. I bent one leg around his back. My back arched itself like a bow. My pelvis swung upward sliding my pussy fully into his hardened cock, fell away, swung upward again. See when a good whore you've made of me? I whispered.

I say, then, that I had hurt him. A sort of crazy expression passed over his face. I think he wanted to pull away. But my arms were around his body. So were my legs. And he was inside me.

"Do you like it like this?" I lifted my cunt until my groin was pressed against his, held it there, then began a slow retreat down the length of his cock. I repeated the action. "Or is it better when I move it in little circles… like this? How does Mom do it? Is her pussy as good as mine?"

Then, suddenly, he pressed his face down into the hollow of my neck. The tears against my throat told me I had won, had shamed him; but I knew at the same time that I'd lost. He was almost motionless. Inside me… and it was I who was doing the fucking.

My hips continued to move in the rolling motions I'd used as I derided him. Every fiber of my being was suddenly alive and sharing in the exquisite torture my cunt was undergoing. My clitoris throbbed. I felt that I could see it being drawn across the flesh of his peter. My tits ached with pleasure. My skin was teased by the hair of his body. My fingers clawed at the cheeks of his ass. My teeth bit hard into my lower hp. I was only dimly aware that he was once more pumping his hips.

And only briefly did it flash through my mind that I was no longer being raped — I was now being fucked!

Closing out every thought of right or wrong, thinking only of the new and wonderfully pleasing feeling that was growing, growing, growing in the deep places of my cunt, I twisted my head and let my lips find his. Our tongues touched. We thrashed together. Our groins were locked together, straining.

And I had a sensation like you get when an elevator plummets downward beneath your feet… only it was a good feeling. And my cunt was suddenly drenched. And the good feeling went on. I strained my hips upward. My nails clawed at him, they kept clawing until he cried out, flooded my cunt with the warm, spasmodic spurts of his come, and fell limply into my arms. I had come for the first time in my life.

Those were the first two times he fucked me.

The next time I didn't have to be raped.

I didn't have to be raped at all.

In this case we have seen an artificial factor appear; that is the total destruction of the restraints against incest through the use of alcohol.

While alcohol is by no means a stimulator of sexual desire (it is, in fact, to a limited extent, a depressant), it does serve to lower the inhibitions of the drinker, to interfere with his judgment, and to allow the release of his frustrations.

Those are its greatest dangers.

With the moral senses which exclude incest dulled by alcohol, and with his sexual awareness of his young daughter obviously honed to a keen edge at the moment of greatest opportunity, Melody's father was confronted by a situation which practically pleaded that he satisfy the incestuous desire he harbored.

The accusations of his somewhat shrewish wife very likely increased his awareness of Melody's young sexuality, added to his frustrations, and speeded him onward toward the moment when these frustrations and desires would explode in incestuous rape.

Lucy Freeman, in The Cry For Love, describes the inhibition-releasing effects of alcohol this way:

"Take a frustrated man. Give him too much to drink."

No man can predict his actions. He may careen wildly down a highway. He may become belligerent. But he will rid himself of those frustrations. Sexually, he may express — or attempt to express his most carefully hidden desires.

Very few figures are available regarding the frequency of incestuous rape, probably because they are mingled with the statistics on other statutory offenses. It seems safe to assume, however, that Melody's case would approach the classical in its elements: An unhappy, argumentative atmosphere in the home; alcohol; the first incident occurs while the girl is extremely young; it involves daughter and father, rather than brother and sister. These conclusions are easily reached. Frustrations are present due to the tense marital relationship. Alcohol is used as a valve to release these frustrations. Moral restrictions are dimmed. The stage is set.

Several factors lead one to the conclusion that most such rapes occur between daughter and father when she is extremely young.

Incest between brother and sister is much more likely to be a thing of mutual consent, an experiment, thus removing the need for rape. The brother-sister relationship seems more conducive to mild exploration than to forcible rape. Then, too, there is always the knowledge that the victim may "tell".

With a daughter and her father the situation is entirely different. Who is she to tell? The mother? The father is the strong, dominant figure in the life of most girls. He provides. He is often the one who punishes. She is accustomed to doing as he tells her. These images are especially true during the early years of life, and it is for that reason that a great majority of cases of incestuous rape involve younger children. In the mind of the father she seems less likely to reject his advances. She can most likely be frightened into silence. She is not aware, as an older child might be, that her father can be sent to prison for such acts.

While the mind of a rapist, any rapist, incestuous or not, is a devious thing and too intricate in its workings to be explored at this time, the incidents described in Melody's narrative can lead only to the conclusion that she and she alone was the only female capable of arousing him to such an extent that he would commit rape.

His first approaches to her were almost childish in their shyness. They were the clumsy "accidental" touches of the sexually inexperienced, growing bolder only when he became intoxicated. It is likely that he had no intention — consciously, at least — of going beyond the caressing, the fondling and the kisses to which he first limited himself — until the moment when his long-smoldering sexual desires were released by Melody's reactions… He was intent on seduction, or sexual play within the limits of her acceptance, rather than forcible rape. Thus when Melody allowed him to exceed his expectations, and her actions made it obvious to him that she was sexually aroused, his drunkenness combined with his own state of arousal literally propelled him onward.

Though Melody herself possessed absolutely no sexual knowledge at the time of the first rape. It would be naive to believe that she was totally unaware of the effects of her submission to the sexual caresses of her father. Nowadays, few children of her age are that unaware of their sexuality. True, sexual taboos — such as the taboo against incest — are seldom taught as a unit. They are imposed piece by piece, so to speak.

For instance, rarely does a mother say to her daughter, "It is wrong for you to have intercourse with your own father." Instead, the girl is told, from an early age, "Don't come into the bedroom while your father is dressing." And, "Close the door while you change." These same rules are seldom applied where the mother or brothers are concerned, and the young girl is thus separated sexually from the males of the family. Other means of sexual separation are also used, of course.

So, even if one accepts as truth Melody's professed ignorance of the mechanics of sexual intercourse, it must be assumed that, by other means, she knew she was in violation of certain restrictions when she allowed, returned, and perhaps encouraged these first sexual caresses.

Most important of all… she knew her father would be punished if she told. But she did not tell.

Despite her youth and her lack of sexual knowledge, Melody knew her father had done something terribly wrong. She knew it was wrong even before the rape itself occurred. A threat might well have stopped him, had it been made before her father lost complete control. The fact that she waited so long shows — despite her fears — incestuous desire on her own part.

Her awareness of the power of such threats is shown by the manner in which she later used them to gain a certain amount of power over her father; the power to taunt him, to torture him by flaunting her body before him, etc.

The second rape was the child of the first. By the manner in which she held the first act over the head of her father — through the occasional threats, the exposure of her partially nude body, etc. - Melody invited it. Each reference to the first rape must surely have awakened new desire in her father. In fact, Melody may have meant to do just that. It may have been her way of punishing him for the loss of her virginity — a possession of great, though dubious, value in our society. Then, too, her subconscious mind may have longed for a repetition of the assault. Later events support this last possibility.

The fact that Melody, whose parents had never explained to her the barest essentials of the sexual functions, was so strongly aware of the wrongness of incest tends to support Freud's theory that the taboo against incest is so deeply ingrained in the human race that it is an "historical inheritance", e.g., the taboo is biologically inherited. Wayland Young, author of Eros Denied, a study of sexual taboos and their origins, also subscribes to this theory.

"This taboo against incest is probably determined by evolution itself," Young says, "and Freud is probably correct in his theory and in his belief that the taboo is of a genetic nature."

Young adds that the taboo against incest, unlike most others he considers, "… is appropriate to mankind as a whole."

Appropriate or not, the barrier between Melody and her father had fallen, never again to be erected… at least not by themselves.

Like many cases of daughter-father incest, this one eventually came to the attention of the authorities. In the conclusion of this study, Melody tells of the events which took place before that discovery, of a change in the relationship, and of an agonizing decision she was forced to make.

I was sixteen the next time we fucked… Sweet sixteen. Two years older and God only knows how much wiser — or so I thought. And horny! I was full of the fever that night… and most of it was between my legs.

I'd been to a drive-in movie that night. My guy and I'd gone double with another couple. That meant that we'd had to limit ourselves to necking in the back seat, sneaking feels of each other when we got the chance. Torture! By the time they dropped me at the front door my knees were weak and my legs were trembling. Daddy just grunted when I came into the house. Mom was gone.

"Just like the other two times," I thought to myself as I began to undress in my room. Then, I wondered why that thought had popped into my mind later, I knew why.

As I stripped to my under things — skimpy black bra and matching panties, dark hose and satiny garter belt — the touch of my own fingers made me hotter and hotter. Damn' those double dates. Through the silky material of my panties I rubbed at my pussy. I stood with my feet planted wide on the floor, my knees bent, rubbing my pussy. It did no good. It only made me hotter. And it was degrading.

"Just like the other two times!" The thought popped into my mind again. I felt cold sweat in the cleft between my tits as I thought of the old man. I saw him sitting before the TV. I saw him coming into my room. Getting between my legs. Suddenly, I was back to that night, two years in the past. I was under him. I was coming.

It was a long time before I got up the nerve to do it. I sold the idea to myself by remembering how he'd used me when he needed a little. I needed some now. It was my turn.

I slipped off my panties, trembling with excitement as the plan formed in my mind. The hose and garter belt accented the bright bush around my pussy, the white of my skin. I left one small lamp burning then got into bed and covered myself with a sheet. I was ready.

"Dad, would you come here," I called loudly, and I couldn't help smiling as I added, "There's something that needs taken care of." I smoothed the sheet down over the contours of my body, especially down into the valley at the juncture of my widespread legs.

He was at the door, a newspaper in his hand. "What is it?"

Slowly I peeled away the sheet. With my fingers spread, I slowly ran my hands up the insides of my thighs. "This," I said huskily, "is what needs to be taken care of."

The newspaper made a rustling noise as it dropped from his fingers. His face went slack as he stared at my naked pussy. He seemed frozen, unable to move. His hesitation was almost funny; he hadn't hesitated before. My fingers stroked the naked white flesh above the shiny dark strips at the tops of my hose.

"What's the matter — don't you think you can take care of it?" My brazenness was as exciting as the touch of my fingers, the lust I could now see on his face, replacing the surprise that'd been there. I liked knowing that I could be so… so whorish.

"I can take care of it." His eyes never left my pussy as he walked toward the bed. He sat down beside me. He looked into my face as he put his hand between my legs. My hips jerked once, convulsively, as his fingers touched my cunt. "You know I can take care of it."

For two years we had been pretending, I suddenly realized, and now the pretending was over. I squeezed his hand between my thighs and threw my arms around his neck. I felt his finger slip into my pussy as we kissed. I lowered one hand into his lap and found his cock. It was hard. I squeezed it.

That squeeze brought him down on top of me. His tongue tasted good as it came into my mouth. I sucked it, and his fingers did crazy things to my cunt. My own fingers clawed wildly at the buttons of his blue work shirt, then at the zipper of his pants. Soon his shirt was open and his cock was in my hand. I tried to guide it home…

Let me get naked, baby, he said, pulling away; then while I watched through a red haze of passion, he did just that. I took off my bra. The air felt cool against my tits.

His prick was bigger than I'd remembered. As he stepped out of his shorts, I raised myself into a sitting position on the bed and teasingly ran one hand up his hairy leg, slowly beneath the dark-colored, thickly-haired sack of his balls and out onto the length of his prick. Beneath the skin I could see the blue veins, like rivers on a map. Still holding his cock, I leaned my cheek against his thigh. I levered his cock slowly toward my face. I kissed the dark head of it, softly. I heard him chuckle.

"Developed yourself a taste for cock, huh?" he said, turning so that his peter swiped across my face and I was suddenly facing his hairy groin. He stroked my hair. "Well, I've got a taste for cunt. Man gets a smell of cunt, baby, or a taste of it, and he never loses the hunger." And I knew he was going to go down on me.

As he sank to the bed and kissed me, his arms going around me and holding me so that I lay half on my side, my tits flattened against his hard and hairy chest, I felt relief. He had misunderstood me. I had no desire to suck him off. That kiss on the head of his cock had been more… well, instinct. At that moment, for the first time in years, I'd felt affection toward him. His words had killed it.

But all that passed away as he eased me down against the pillow and began kissing his way down my body. He was on his belly, his legs over the side of the bed, his cock beneath him. He rested himself on his elbows and his hands held my tits while his lips sucked hard at one of my nipples. I forced my hand under him and found his cock. He shifted so I could hold it.

I squirmed as his kisses moved lower on my body.

His tongue licked slowly down through the cleft between my tits, onto the soft mound of my belly, and it darted into the dip of my navel. As I lay watching his progress toward my pussy, his cock gripped in my hand, I was dimly aware that my other hand had replaced his lips on the sweetly aching nipple of my left tit and was trying to give it the same pleasure he'd given it. I looked at my tit. The nipple I rolled between my thumb and forefinger glistened wetly. It was red and elongated, more than twice its normal size; so was my right nipple. As his tongue licked the top of the line of hair that tapers into a thin red fuzz as it flows outward from the coppery red bush of hair that grows so thickly around my pussy, I used my thumb and forefinger to pinch my swollen nipple. I winced as a shiver ran down my spine. The sharp little pain was delicious. I did it again — harder!

His hands were stroking my nylons, my naked thighs. One arm was hooked around my leg. That hand slid slowly down onto my cunt. It stopped there. He rubbed me gently. I felt my cunt getting wet. I moved it against his hand. My fingers were moving on his cock, slowly jacking him off. His hand left my cunt. His lips took its place, kissing me. In the hair just above the slit. I lifted myself, trying to bring the lips of my pussy in contact with his mouth. He rolled away, first reaching down to take my hand off the hot hardness of his cock.

"I eat it better from the front," he said.

And he was telling the truth.

He knelt between my wide-flung legs. The palms of his big hands felt rough as he bent low and slipped them beneath the smooth globes of my ass. His breath teased my pussy as he raised my ass slightly off the bed. It felt hot on the lips of my cunt. I raised my legs and draped them across his naked shoulders. My fingers clutched the sheets. His tongue snaked between the lips of my pussy.

My heels came down against his back as I felt his tongue spreading my slit, moving in and out, licking the lips of it, probing upward until I felt he must be reaching my belly. Then his head began bobbing slowly up and down as he moved his extended tongue the full length of my cunt. I helped him with slow movements of my pelvis. My heels beat a steady tattoo against his back, urging him on. His hands, cupping my moving ass, gripped tighter. My heart was pounding in my ears. I felt ready to faint. His mouth made a strange sucking noise between my thighs, a wet sound.

I could actually feel the tiny piece of flesh that was my clitoris growing larger as his greedy sucking drew it out from beneath its hood. He caught it between his lips. I felt his lips pull on it softly, release it and tug at it once more. I put my hands on the back of his head, tangling my fingers in his hair. The sucking noises from his mouth grew louder as I swung my hips smoothly into the motions of fucking. I moved faster and faster. I strained to hold his face tight against my cunt. I began to come.

It was like nothing I'd ever known. It was a violent sort of coming that caused every muscle in my body to knot and tremble violently as I locked my thighs tight around his head. And each time his rough tongue slithered across the sensitive flesh of my clit, I came again.

"Nothing like it for warming up a cunt," I heard him say through the buzzing that filled my ears. As he moved up over my body, I raised my arms and legs to receive him. He was right. The countless orgasms that had shaken the inside of my cunt had only increased my desire for a feel of the cock he held poised near the gates of my cunt.

My pussy, my come, was a strange taste on his mouth as we kissed. Ignoring it, I sucked at his tongue and put my weight on my shoulders and heels, lifting my body beneath his. His hand went under me, into the small of my back. I felt the first welcome stab of his cock.

The lips of my pussy, warmly wet with a mixture of his saliva and my come, settled easily around the head of his prick. I clawed at his back. His cock moved deeper. I was filled with it. I knew I could take no more. I was wrong.

His muscular arms suddenly squeezed me so hard that the breath rushed from my body. A powerful thrust of his hips drove his cock inward with such suddenness and such strength that I felt his hairy balls swing inward to touch the tender skin of my ass. I heard myself begging for more — and found myself getting it.

We fucked with a passion that drained us completely and left us sweating and exhausted on the bed. It surprised us both, I think, and it was a long, long time before either of us spoke. I was in that half-sleep that follows fucking, one arm resting across my eyes, my other hand on his softened cock, when I heard him ask, "Was I good for you, baby? Did I do you up right?"

"Mmm-huh," I answered sleepily.

"Good enough for a repeat? Good enough to de serve a steady shot?"

I thought that over, really thought about it, then whispered, "Yes."

We agreed to give it another go on the following Friday.

That Friday night set the pattern for all the nights that were to follow. He prodded Mom into an argument. She slammed her way out of the house. He waited until he was sure she wouldn't be back, then came to my room… where I was waiting. We locked the door.

"Damn, but you're a gorgeous little piece of ass!" he said when he'd locked the door that first Friday night. I laughed at the hungry look in his eyes, then raised my arms high and turned in a slow circle. I was wearing my shortest gown, a bright aquamarine one that you can see right through, and there was nothing beneath it. My lifted arms caused the bottom of it to lift above the white twin swellings of my buttocks and my turning motion caused my heavy tits to sway. I laughed again as his arms went around me from behind, then asked, "Little, did you say?" I ground my butt slowly against the hard on that I could feel through his pants. He kissed me on the neck.

"You're little where it counts — between your legs little and tight." His hands were under my thin veil of a gown, moving upward to cover my tits, and I let my head hang limply backward. He kissed me once on the mouth, then said, "I ain't been able to think of anything since the other night… Only how I was going to put it to you."

"And all I've thought about is how I was going to get it." I put my hand behind my back, found his cock and squeezed it, then asked in a voice deeper than normal, "Well… how am I going to get it?"

His one hand slipped away from my tit, down to my bare leg, then moved up between the cheeks of my ass and touched my cunt from the rear, and then he asked, "Does that maybe give you an idea?"

"It gives me sort of… backward ideas," I said, then laughed as I turned to kiss him again. I helped him undress. My gown stayed on because he wanted it that way. He said he liked the feel of it.

And it did feel good against my naked skin. Static electricity caused it to cling to the dips and hollows of my body as he guided me onto the bed. It rasped deliciously against the smooth spheres of my breasts, making my nipples come alive, and I could feel the ruffled hem lightly touching me in a line across my buttocks. The hem slipped into the small of my back as I knelt on the bed, leaning down on my elbows.

The old man had his hands on my waist. I could feel one of his thighs touching the back of my leg. The mattress sank as he moved between my legs. I spread them wider. His hands moved from my waist down to the naked skin of my upraised buttocks. I could feel the sweat in his palms. As his fingers tightened on the big spheres of flesh — little — he had called me — plying them, kneading them, I lowered my face until it was almost touching the sheet my long red hair fell around my face. I clenched my fist so tight I felt my nails digging into my palms as I felt his stiff cock brush against my leg. I knew he was watching his hands work me over, deliberately being slow, and I wanted to scream at him to get on with it. I shifted myself backward, meaning to press myself against his cock. He moved at the same time.

He had moved back. His hands went to my upper legs. They held me. I felt his face against my ass. No — his lips! I closed my eyes as he planted wet, soft kisses on the bottom curve of one buttock, then the other. He bit me gently once or twice, then touched his tongue to the spot he'd bitten. His mouth moved closer to the center, licking, kissing as it moved. I put my head back down between my forearms. My titties swung beneath me, nylon teasing my nipples. I felt his tongue press itself into the smooth crack, very near my asshole. I purred like a kitten.

"He's going to eat it again from behind!" I thought excitedly. I tried to spread myself so it would be easier for his tongue to lick away the fire that was running wild between the lips of my slit. But I wasn't so lucky. Not this time. I felt his tongue move slowly — so damnably slow — upward. And his hands left my legs. I felt them go beneath me on the outside of my gown. They formed two warm cups beneath my tits. My ass was tickled deliciously by the hard hairiness of his belly. One hand left my tit. My breath rattled loudly in my throat as, an instant later, I felt the head of his cock slip inside me. Just the head. Guiding it with his hand, I suppose, he moved it from side to side, up and down, in small circles that were tortures from heaven. Each move of that cock brought a moan from my lips.

"Do it… Do it all the way m! Bang me with it. Bang me!" I pleaded through clenched teeth. I tried to push myself back fully onto the warm meat that I knew lay beyond that knobbish head, to swallow it with the wet mouth of my cunt. Easing away so he could continue the voluptuous torture, he said, "Is that how you like it? You like to get banged?" I whimpered a weak, pleading, "Yes."

And then he banged me.

His cock plunged into me with a force that pushed me forward on my knees. I felt the head of it pound against something deep inside me. I felt the soft lips of my pussy sink inward as they attempted to cling to the hard flesh that slipped between them. He was in so deep that the crisp hair above his prick was touching the sensitive skin of my ass. He reached beneath me and once again grasped both my titties. His hands felt good through the nylon… even better than when I was naked. I tried to follow as his cock inched out of me.

But then it was slamming into me again… and again. His hands tightened around my tits as he used his grip on them to provide the leverage he needed for those long strokes of his cock. He was leaning over my back, his face resting just above and between my shoulder blades, and his breath was hot and damp through my gown. As he pumped faster, I felt his balls touch my leg. I reached for them.

They were hard as the cock I felt inside me. I gave them a gentle pressure that caused him to moan in passion. Faster and faster he drove himself in and out of my cunt. I was close to coming, my whole body tingling in anticipation, and I rocked back and forth on my knees, trying to hurry myself to that moment when the muscles, the nerves, the whole of my cunt would ignite in fiery orgasm. His weight was suddenly heavy upon me. I gave his nuts one last squeeze, then sprawled full-length on the bed, my legs flying wide.

"You've got the cunt of a Goddam princess," he panted. His hands were trapped beneath me, still on my tits. "The best cunt this side of a wet dream." The cheeks of my ass were flattened beneath his weight. He was between my long legs, fucking with short, choppy strokes because of our new position. "Tight as a rubber. Tight… like a cunt should be." The words poured into my ears with each stroke of his cock.

I closed my legs so I could feel more of him. As if the closing had caused my cunt to tighten around his prick, he gave a deep grunt of pleasure, then pounded himself into me even faster than before. The bed shook violently beneath us. He bit the back of my neck.

I came with a blinding intensity, scissored my legs against the sheets, then came again. My head rolled from side to side, I saw only a brilliant red that penetrated my closed eyes.

I was dimly aware of him straining hard against my butt, holding his cock at its deepest for what seemed an eternity, and then there was the good feeling of wet warmth being hosed inside my cunt. The first stream filled me with the thick fluid. The next spurt caused me to overflow. A final stroke of his prick and I could feel a trickle of it flowing stickily from my cunt, beneath me. A few warm droplets spattered on the cheeks of my ass as he slipped it out and rolled away. He took me in his arms.

"You always did dig it dog-fashion, didn't you?" He asked me a long time later. I was almost asleep in his arms. I mumbled something senseless and he repeated the question. I smiled, kissed him and shook my head.

"Never had it that way before. What made you think so?"

He had one arm beneath me, his hands on my ass, and he pulled me closer against him. "Don't you remember that night? The second time? The things you said?"

I touched my finger to his lips, then threw my leg across his body and snuggled closer to him.

"Shhh! Of course I remember it. But I don't want to talk about it. That was a long time ago." My pussy was touching his leg… just barely.

"You talked about doing a lot of things that night. Blowing me, stuff like that. I ain't been able to get 'em out of my mind… All this time." He moved his leg high between my thighs, pressing it hard against my cunt. It felt good. I saw by the look on his face that he was getting horny again. His cock was half hard when I felt of it — and getting harder.

"We'll do them all," I promised, thinking to myself, "With the exception of that — I'm no cocksucker!"

It was the truth when I thought it. When he left my room that night, it wasn't. After you've fucked your own father, things like that don't seem so bad. None of them. He had to talk me into it that first time. And I don't suppose it was as hard as it should have been. I tried to stall him off by telling him there'd be other nights, and he just reminded me how hard they'd be to arrange. And all the while his cock was hard in my hand, and I kept remembering the way I'd so innocently kissed it a few nights before. That hadn't been so bad, had it? I asked myself at one point. And, after all, hadn't he gone down on my pussy? What was the difference? Really? What was the difference?

"All right, I'll suck you off," I said finally, then added, as though it made a difference, "but I don't want you to come in my mouth."

I guess I went about giving him that first blowjob just as professionally as any whore who ever lived. I know my actions gave me the same exciting, whorish feeling I'd had that night I called him into my room. It went off like I'd done it a million times.

His cock was sticky with dried come and, just like a pro, I went to get a cloth to wash it off. He was sitting with his legs over the side of the bed when I came back. I locked the door, then asked, "Any more special requests?" I let my hips roll as I walked to the bed.

"Do it any way you like," he said, stroking my leg as I sank down beside him. He seemed puzzled by my casualness. But I wasn't casual inside. Inside, I was feeling that whorish excitement. It didn't show, however, as I carefully washed the white remnants of come from his erected prick with the wet cloth. I laughed when the cold cloth caused him to shiver. Just like a pro, joking with a trick.

The rest of it was whorish, too. I stood and, looking down into his face with my eyes lidded and my lips slightly parted, very slowly and deliberately slipped my gown off over my head. I dropped it at my feet. It made a nice cushion for my knees when I knelt beside the bed, between his legs, and took his cock in one hand. With my other hand I reached out to touch his nuts. He put both hands behind my head. I felt him pulling me toward his cock. I let myself go easily.

Holding his prick upright with my hand and resting my elbow on his leg, I touched my lips to the dark-colored head. I kissed it again, at the edge of the foreskin. His hands urged me to do more. With my lips only slightly parted, I put my mouth over the tip of his prick; it had no more taste than any other part of the body. I parted my lips.

As he felt me take the tip of his prick into my mouth, he pulled harder on the back of my head, trying to force it deeper; I lowered my head until all the rounded knob was inside my mouth. That was as much as I could take; my mouth was opened so wide I could feel a dull ache at the hinges of my jaw, but that was all I could take. He was too big.

I drew on his cock until I felt my cheeks hollow with the suction, and he began squirming on the bed. My fingers moved up and down his cock, slipping the outer skin back and forth over the hard core, and my tongue swirled crazily over the spongy knob in my mouth…

He came suddenly to his feet, his hands still behind my head, and my tits were against his legs. That felt good. I cupped his balls with one hand, lightly, just tickling them, and my fingers literally flew up and down his rod. His legs began to shake, he bucked at me, and a moment later I was wiping from my chin, lips and mouth the part of his come I hadn't swallowed. "Dad," I said, "you're a good one for breaking promises."

But I wasn't mad about it. Not at all.

We did it all during the months that followed.

Every way, every time we got a chance. And somewhere during that time, Mom got suspicious. I guess she could see a change in us. She almost caught us a couple of times, and after a while I was certain she knew. Still, she couldn't prove a thing. That didn't stop her from making accusations, though… especially when I came up pregnant…

Even when I tried to make her think it could be the baby of anyone of a number of boys, she still screamed and called the old man a son of a bitch, and when she got the cops out to the house and give them her story and a line of shit about how she couldn't handle me and wanted both of us out of her house, they brought me hereto Juvenile Center.

They can't do anything to the old man, of course, unless I break down and tell like they want me to. Mom keeps hounding me to say he made me do shit. They'd leave me alone if I said that, I guess. But is it the truth? I can't find the answer.

Then there's the baby. I feel it more every day…

Eventually, of course, the truth was known. Melody's father was punished under the laws of his state. A case that clearly illustrates the two most dangerous aspects of daughter-father incest: pregnancy and the possibility of arrest. Though Wayland Young concluded that the genetic dangers of incestuous pregnancy have been greatly exaggerated — and even if there were no dangers — a child born in such a manner faces certain social problems. If the child is kept my his mother, those around it may always consider it something of a freak. Adoption laws in some states, on the other hand, require that prospective parents be told if the child is one born of incest.

Due to the widespread belief that such children are certain to inherit undesirable characteristics — a belief that is the subject of continuing debate and study among researchers — prospective parents are far less likely to adopt a child thus conceived, beautiful and intelligent as the child might be. Many states however, have recently done away with such archaic laws.

Most people who violate the taboo against incest, however, are aware of these dangers and wise enough to take precautions. Unlike Melody, who was so naive about sex, many of these couples are extremely sophisticated about sexual matters… and they satisfy their appetites by the most sophisticated means.