Lily's shock over seeing Sonny fucking his mother on the living room couch had lasted the night.
This morning rage had filled the vacuum of her incomprehension. She had the answer.
Kit was a hateful, shitty, unadulterated bitch and a selfish pig. She had guessed or somehow learned that Lily and Sonny were lovers, and jealousy had made her drag Sonny off yesterday and seduce him..
Two could play that game. Today, Sunday, Kit could probably keep him nailed down. But what about tomorrow, when she had to go to work?
From the kitchen window Lily saw Sonny mowing the lawn and Kit setting up the chaise lounge. Then Kit went to him, unknotting her bra neck cord so he would see her big tits lurch around. And smiling at him, dimpling, simpering, batting her eyes. The whore! Any woman could read the wiggling of her body, the way her hand rose up her curves to languorously brush hair from her eyes- Lily was making a cup of coffee for Daddy. She poured it, sugared it heavily the way he liked, and started out the door into the greenhouse.
She stopped. He had paused in his work and was staring at Kit. He stood in profile and Lily did not miss the tent pole lifting his shorts leg.
Bitter tears started from her eyes. Even Daddy!
She retreated to the kitchen. The coffee cup burned her hands. She thrust it down angrily on the drain board. Let him make his own coffee! She had already worked two hours in the greenhouse.
Her t-shirt was marked with dirt smudges on her titties. Sweat staked her skirt on the line of her ass cleft. Her hair was soggy. And Daddy was gazing at Kit, his cock stiff as a brick. Lily flicked a glance out the window. Kit was returning to her lounge chair, swaying, tits wobbling, a hand patting the hair back from her face. She looked fresh and clean and beautiful, and Sonny and Daddy were eye-eating her.
Oh, the fucking bitch!
Lily's impulse was to march out into the greenhouse and tell Daddy everything, at least to tell him Kit was a whoring bitch he should not waste time on.
No good. He would just turn sullen.
Then, beat Kit at her own game.
Lily's eyes grew wide at the thought. She moved again to the kitchen door and studied her father. He was still staring out at Kit, his eyes hot, heavy-lidded, his cock rigid. He stood as though rooted to the spot.
Nor would he get closer to her. She knew his attitude. He could not afford a woman like Kit. If she remained in view he would probably go indoors and take a cold shower, maybe read the Sunday paper until she was gone, then return to work.
Lily would fuss over him, make him a nice lunch, bring beer. He would forget Kit and their day would return to normal.
He hitched up his shorts, easing the material squeezing his erection, drew on his cigar, and continued staring across the hedge at the voluptuous redhead, who had just rolled her bikini bra down an inch.
Lily had to break the spell. She returned for the coffee, and as she entered the greenhouse called out, "I had to let it cool, it burned my hands."
He started at the sound of her voice. He twisted his torso away to hide the tent in his pants, and began moving the plant flat on the bench before him. She saw his cheek redden.
He was like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
And Lily began to appreciate her own relationship with her father. He did not want her to be aware of his lust. That meant he realized she was a person, not a child, that she might resent his hunger for the woman next door, might be jealous- Lily heard the whir, of the lawnmower but did not glance toward the sound. She had no desire to watch Sonny. Her attention was on her father's broad, bare back, the muscles rolling as he shoved the plant flat across the bench. She scanned his rocky buttocks. The shorts material was drawn into his ass cleft by the pull of the material stretched out in front. His legs bulged with muscle under curly black hair. He was forty but hard labor kept his body that of a young athlete.
She felt a damp squirminess in her crotch.
She thought of last night, peeping at Sonny and Kit fucking in their living room.
And why not? she thought. Why in hell not? Why let that bitch torment her father?
The remaining work was a tidying up after yesterday's transplanting, clumps of weak plants to be thinned and thriftily given a second chance, leftover soil to be sifted. Lily worked alongside her father, rubbing elbows, hips, accidentally touching his hands. She blocked the view of Kit. She tucked her t-shirt into her skirt, shoving, it way down to stretch the dirty cotton on her titties and show not only her nipple bumps but the aureole shadows. Coyly she picked up her father's cigar and dragged on it. He laughed.
There was a half-hour's work left when she brought him a beer. The breeze had died and they began sweating. She could smell herself, the heat of her body, maybe her pussy. She did not know if he would catch the odor. Close to him she smelled his sweat and beer and cigar, felt her nostrils flare and a seething begin in her crotch. Her lust seemed perfectly natural. She loved her father, thought him the handsomest and strongest and truest of men, and war with Kit had burned away her last scruples. It was for his own good.
And for hers. Sonny had kindled fires in her cunt and she needed a man to sate them. Why not the man she loved best in all the world?
In a narrow aisle she found occasion to brush her tits across his back. She dropped a trowel. As he bent to pick it up she squatted, skirt hiked up, pussy exposed, and their hands met on the tool.
Then she went indoors to bathe.
The doors to their bedrooms faced on the short bathroom hall, and in her room there was a closet, backed by a full-length dressmakers mirror. Lily opened this, and placed a chair facing it, to represent herself, and stepped back to the hall. She wanted Daddy to see both her naked back and the image of her front, accidentally caught in the mirror.
She shifted the chair, angled the door-mirror just right. She dropped her skirt where the chair was, to mark where she should stand, and wedged a sandal between the door and jamb to keep it firm.
She showered then. Returning, toweling herself dry, she set her hall door halfway open and went to her post on the dirty blue denim skirt marking where the chair had been She waited for the soft, heavy tread of her father's bare feet.
Bill Folsom's forty-cent cigar was down to thumb length. Across the hedge Kit lay sprawled on the lounge chair, auburn hair blowing across the mounds of her breasts, a gorgeous leg cocked up and wagging to the beat of music from a transistor radio. But Kit's beauty was beyond his concerns.
He was reflecting on how much he loved his daughter, and wondering why his cock was bone stiff even though he had stopped ogling Kit.
Shoving the last flat into neat alignment, he turned to the house, gulping his beer can dry, tossing it in the garbage can, entering the kitchen and taking the whiskey bottle down from the shelf His mood was to drink from the bottle. He took a long gulp that burned all the way down and made him cough but did not clear his mind of thoughts about Lily that he had always kept separated by a wall of impossibility. He replaced the bottle and padded silently toward the bathroom. Realizing that Lily might be undressed and not hear him coming, he called, "Bathroom empty?"
"Uhhhh." She spoke from her bedroom.
In the hall his gaze followed the line of her half-open door. He saw her bare back, a towel sheathing her head as she vigorously dried her hair. She was standing on her dirty blue denim skirt, naked, her limbs brown and her back lightly tanned, her buttocks white and her thighs white shading to pale gold.
Then he saw the mirror, her head a mass of towel, her red-tipped milky breasts dipping and jiggling as her arms moved, her dark-tufted pussy exposed in its bracket of white hips.
He sucked in his breath.
He stood transfixed, gazing at the loveliness of his daughter's body, front and rear, at the slim, limber waist, the perky buttocks, the sleek legs shading from alabaster to pale gold to brown. Then again at her bulbous titties, at the plump protrusion of her bushy mound, at the dark furrowing of hair on her cunt lips.
He did not know how long he stared at this woman, this daughter of his, whose face and hair were hidden by the towel but whose nude form slid into his mind until he could see it from all sides, evaluate every curve and dimple. He retreated, stepping as silently as a burglar to his own room, through the open door, still watching. His room was dark. Lily kept the drapes closed in summer. He felt the-whiskey he had drunk, a heat roaring into his veins, like he had drunk the whole quart and was as tight as a tick. He dropped his cigar butt in the ash tray on his dresser and half closed his door, facing the glow of sunshine in the drapes and seeing Lily there, too, her round buttocks and her pretty tits. He turned to the bed and she stood there, her dark-tufted pubes thrust toward him. Wherever he gazed she leaped from inside his skull and stood nude, her face veiled by the towel.
His cock was bunting his shorts.
He unbuttoned them, unzipped, let them fall. He gripped his cock, a huge, grotesquely swollen agony, all the pain he had ever suffered physically grown out to an upcurving bone.
He began jerking off, something he had not done since the age of sixteen when he began screwing a girl on the next block and had been immensely relieved to no longer have to masturbate. This was self-abuse, punishment for having gotten hard for his daughter. He wrenched it, jerked it, beat his balls with his knuckles..
The room had gotten darker. The door was closed! He felt a warmth at his back and side, heard a sound not his own, saw a slim hand reach around his hip and cup on the swollen end of his cock.
He heard a whisper. "Daddy, let me do it."
His daughter, Lily, pried away his fingers, then fisted his cock and began jerking it off Disbelief shattered his last vestiges of self-control. He could see the girl's hand kneading and pulling his tool, could feel the soft femaleness of it, just as he could feel the burn of a tit against his back and a hip pressing his ass. Her breath fanned his shoulder. But this could not really be happening. Therefore he let the hand manipulate his turgid cock. It slid down his scrotum and gently squeezed his balls, producing a seething heat that made him groan and stiffen, raising on tiptoes, expelling his breath with a wrenching sigh.
In a flash he knew that Kit had not been real either. His mind leaped light-years backward for an explanation, to children's stories. The neighborhood was bewitched. Kit had never been as sexy as this morning. She had radiated lust, inflaming him and Lily as well. Kit was a witch, a sorceress, and he, suffering a hardness of cock, a monstrous, agonizing extension of it that made a grotesque bludgeon of an ordinary prick, had ceased to be an ordinary mortal.
Since none of it was real he let his daughter fondle his cock. She was no longer jerking it off but playing with it, exploring, fingering the flare of the head, caressing the glans, tracing the pencil-sized blue veins on the sides, tugging the loose scrotum and palming each swollen testicle in turn.
Her chin was on his shoulder, a hand on the other, her hot body against him and her pussy fluff a tantalizing silkiness rubbing his thigh. His head hung. His gaze was fixed on the bulb-tipped bony monstrosity sprouting from his dark pubic ruff, and the slim hand weaving about it, caressing and squeezing.
Time slipped out of gear. He could not guess how many seconds or minutes she toyed with his genitals before she moved, stepping around and facing him, taking the ball-bat prick in both hands and drawing him, backing slowly, inching back toward his bed, her hands feathering about his cock SO lightly that perhaps there was no contact, simply waves of heat weaving a net of iron that would. pull the organ out of his body if he did not follow her.
Her head also hung, her gaze fixed on his cock. Her dark hair looked glossy and clean, brushed to shining. She smelled of soap and hot cunt. Her pretty, tip-tilted breasts glowed palely in shadow, projecting dark points. Her white belly narrowed to a protruding pubic bush that filled the space between her thighs.
She was lowering. Her hands left him, moved behind her as she sat on the bed, but he could still feel them drawing him even as she scrunched back on the bed, on her back, legs spreading out wide, showing him her opening crotch.
Her hairy outer lips had swollen away from each other. The damp coral teardrop shape of her cunt beckoned. She raised her legs. The red oval of her vaginal mouth looked small, but that might be an illusion, like the impossibly gigantic growth of his prick.
He knelt on the bed between her legs, planted a hand on each side of her torso and murmured, "You steer it in," knowing that she could more precisely plug it in without hurting herself.
Her thumb and forefinger pinched the stem and seated the swollen arrowhead in an oily socket. He nudged. A jelly-soft mouth closed on his cockhead. Her breath hissed out. He hung over her, firmly poised, allowing a little weight to fall on the prong sinking by quarter inches into her cunt.
"Wait," she whispered. She fingered it about, lubricating it, then said, "Now. Deeper."
The big tool squeezed into her.
Again her breath hissed out. She squirmed. Her body trembled a moment, quieted. Her legs lifted and crossed on his back. He felt the form of her cunt change. It was open now and straightened but he still eased cautiously into the narrow channel.
A flicker of awareness advised him that he was pronging into his daughter's cunt, that she was no enchanted creature but Lily Folsom, and he her loving father. He frowned, confused. The illusion of magic faded and he knew it had been a self-serving justification at best, leaving him with his cock half into his beloved daughter. But because he loved her he could not accept it as evil. It had to be good, an expression of his love.
He sank deeper: She squirmed, adjusting to it. Her heels hardened on his back. Her hips moved, lifting, impaling her cunt on the bony cock. Waves of damp heat washed its length and when he looked down at their pubes he saw that their hair had merged.
She arched up and the hair flattened together.
He was full into his daughter's body.
He sank down on her, feeling the hard points of her tits burn his chest.
They lay still for a moment, his meat throbbing inside her.
He whispered, "Did it-does it-hurt?" "Like eating too much Sunday dinner."
Her arms curled about him. She pressed her velvety cheek to his.
He said, "You mean, you liked it going in, but now it's too much?"
"Did any woman ever complain of too much?" There was a giggle in her voice.
Her amusement made him frown. Was this a game to her, mere playing? His love for her was an overpowering, deadly serious thing. Her mother had been like this, always seeing the funny side of sex, especially of his solicitude for her comfort. He had learned that women were tougher than men thought. Still, this was his virginal daughter. Had she been a virgin?
She said, "Daddy, your tool is awfully big."
His impulse was to apologize, to withdraw the offending member, to bang his head against a wall to atone for having caused her pain.
But there was a lilt in her voice. She was teasing him, this teenager with a monstrous cock up her cunt She giggled, "I'm not made of sugar candy."
The echo of her mother's voice, so many years ago. On their wedding night she had added, "I wish you'd fuck me lots harder."
But Lily added, "I'm pretty stretchy inside."
A certain tension left him. He glanced sidewise, met her gaze and saw the twinkle in it. Yes, females were animals, compared to men, quite indifferent to morality. He had learned that in a thousand harsh lessons from his wife but could-not get it through his thick skull.
And no matter how much he blamed it on Kit, his daughter had seduced him.
When he had glimpsed her naked in her room, drying her hair, the towel concealing her face, she had been posing for him. She had known he could see her nudity front and back.
A throb in his prick made him push deeper into her belly.
"Mm-mm!" Lily murmured. "Yes, I'm ready now, Daddy."
Her eagerness stripped away his last regrets. He began to fuck his daughter, slowly, with exquisite caution, short jogs in the tight suction of her vaginal tube. She gave a moan and hipped up to meet his shoves. Yes, she was a female, a member of the unknowable, immoral, unpredictably pagan sex. If he had thought differently of her it had been his own prudishness being expressed.
He lengthened his strokes. Her cunt sucked on his retreating tool and gaped, welcoming its reentry.
She gasped, "Daddy, your cock is so wonderful, filling my hole and-oh, Daddy, please, push in and stay a minute, squeeze hard on my clit, I think I'm starting to come."
He plugged her full and wrenched his loins at the wetness of his split, and his daughter thrust up against it, hips rotating, her open cunt making squishy noises.
"AGH!" she cried. "There! Now fuck me hard, I'm coming, coming off like crazy!"
He gave her long strokes, sliding easily in her tight but incredibly slippery hole. Slow ones, his scrotum merely patting her upturned behind.
Her face burned. Her cunt began milking his cock, sucking at it and pulling waves of wet heat up the shank.
"Daddy!" she shrieked. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"
She was whipping against him, their bellies swatting together, and her fire burned into his cock. It began to surge, stiffening to an iron club. As he speeded his balls jounced about, hurting when they struck her ass. He had gone too long without. The end of this fuck would not ease the pain in them. He needed an orgy with his daughter, a day-long party to release all the agonizing knots within him.
He was bucking high, sawing at her gulping cunt.
"I'm getting there," he grunted. "Honey, are you still coming?"
"I came, but I'm coming again. Daddy, I hurt all over like I have to burst."
"Can you take this? Am I doing it too hard?"
"I'll be sore but I don't care. Just fuck me, please, you can just fuck me, oh, yes, like that-"
He was ramming her now, his balls smashing her, his cock so bloated and huge that he was no longer human, just a horse flailing wildly at his spurting, gulping target.
The come made him rigid all over. His eyeballs protruded, his neck drew into ropes, his whacking ass hardening to tangles of steel cable ripping apart.
He cried, "I'm shooting-"
"Give it to me!" she shrieked, arching up, hips grinding, rotating, her cunt squishing loudly as it sucked. He could smell it strongly, that luscious, pungent smell of pussy excited beyond endurance, and he laughed with joy as his first spurts blasted up her hole.
"Daddy, you're coming inside me!"
"Honey, are you with me?"
She answered with a wrenching moan, vising her thighs on his flanks, grinding her heels into his spine, flagging her wide-open split at his pubes.
He shot again, this time feeling a terrible relief as everything seemed to sweep out of his cock and spurt into her pulsing cavity.
"I'm flipping off!" she cried. "I'm coming all the way, it's going, everything going-"
He felt more jism burn up from his balls, up his scrotum tubes into his prick to spurt volcanically into her.
She arched her ass off the bed, twanging against him, moaning anti gasping.
He gave her one more powerful shove, driving his last spurts into her.
Fluids dribbled down her ass, wetting his scrotum.
In a moment of clarity the fact that he had shot off in his daughter's cunt became real.
Despite the awful truth of that, it had been the most exciting fuck of his entire life.
He should hate her, and himself.
But as their bodies softened and he sagged on her still throbbing flesh, he knew that he had never really loved her before.