The bed rocked gently but steadily as I lay curled on my side next to my husband of fourteen years. He lay likewise, but in the opposite direction. We were back to back, not touching. The situation had become familiar, painfully so.

We were not alone in our bed. Curled up spoon fashion with Dan was our twelve-year-old daughter, Sarah. Dan sleeps in the nude, as does Sarah. The rocking gra- dually built in tempo and intensity until it could not be ignored. In weeks past they would not permit them- selves to lose control and waited mercifully until they thought I was fast asleep. Each time, they began earlier and became more obvious until I found myself being gently rocked shortly after retiring and rudely jostled after only ten or fifteen minutes.

I lay with tightly clenched jaws having to feel the rhythm of sexual passion slowly building; having to hear the obscene wet noises and the bed's cry of, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I had to smell the heavy sensual musk wafting up from under the covers.

It was the heady smell of incest that prevented sleep. The product of our love which gestated in my womb now stealing that love ounce by ounce, and doing so within arm's reach, doing so with a voracious appetite that left nothing for me, not a seminal scrap did she leave.

As I lay thinking, I remembered the days of bounty, when that special fluid ran like ambrosia from an endless spring. I could feast at my whim and often choose to abstain. I had semen to waste. I had head- aches on demand, and the bed rocked to the rhythm of his hand. He cleaned the waste or slept in the stain.

There was semen aplenty for me when I pleased. Those were the good old days of months ago, before Sarah returned to her childhood practice of sharing our bed. And now I kept track on a private calendar, marking the days between.

It was sweet revenge, plain greed, or just selfish need, but the endless sperm fountain was drying up for me. In our early years, I never went more than three days without sex. At first, the days between came in batches of three and four, then five and six, then full weeks. The latest was the first full month, an anniversary of sorts. They'd grown careless or just plain insensitive over time. I wanted to roll over, reach between Dan's legs, squeeze his balls, dig my nails in deep, and say, "Happy anniversary, dear!"

I rolled onto my back to let them know I was not asleep. My bare hip touched Dan's naked ass. This slowed him only momentarily. Soon, I could feel his ass muscles tighten and move, I could feel his thrusts, feel them fucking, committing incest in my marital bed. He knew I was awake; and still, he continued unabated.

I rolled all the way over and pressed my front to his back. He ignored my presence, the bastard. I rested my hand on his hip and dug my nails where I gripped. He removed my hand with a stronger grip, never breaking his rhythm. He thrust it away, overt rejection.

This hurt me deeply. I returned my hand, gently, sub- missively, and rested it lightly where it had been. My hand followed his motion as I snuggled closely bringing my lips to his ear. In a gentle, soft whisper, I pleaded, "Dan, don't do this to me."

He continued. I said, "This is wrong. She's just a child. She's our daughter." As if in reply, his thrusts became stronger, going deeper, a moan escaped her lips, a moan that should have been mine.

My hand moved ever so carefully over his hip and dipped low, searching. I steadily converged on the point where the crime was being committed. His lunges pushed my hand against Sarah's tight little ass, my wedding ring lightly scratched her flawless skin. The warm wetness told me I was close, wet curls, then a shaft of pulsing meat. I curled my fingers around the base and he shoved them against my daughter's stretched vulva. Again and again he insulted my grasp, fucking major fingers to a minor cunt.

I squeezed gently, massaging the shaft, feeling the loose skin slide along the stiff rod beneath. Sarah, the slut, hiked her leg to let me know that she was aware of my complicity. How could she not with her father's hands full of budding tits. I unfurled my traitorous fingers and traced delicate patterns over her labia lips, clit, and tiny puckered anus. My index finger ran circles around the place where father entered daughter. Dan rolled them toward me until she was lying on his belly on her back. I had to make room.

Sarah yawned wide her sweet thighs, and I replaced my hand coming in from above. Dan used his to slide her by the tits, making her body rock onto his turgid manhood. My fingers felt it all, and teased the unholy union. Dan pulled the covers over my head.

The aroma of sex made me woozy. I pushed up on my right arm, making a tent of our bedding over the site of infidelity. On and on, they rocked, pouring out their wetness on my hand, assaulting my nostrils with lusty scent. A manly hand clenched a handful of hair at the back of my head and squeezed. Pressure bent my head down.

My lips touched Sarah's moist and tawny skin above her navel, tasting her salty sweetness. My lips planted tender kisses wherever the pressure directed. The pressure pushed me lower and my kisses covered tiny hairs, curly hairs, hairs divided by a valley, then silky-smooth hot membrane flesh, then a shaft of man meat on the move. Still, I kissed the place where father and daughter merged. I kissed the place where a husband violates his vow. I kissed the place where I should have been by every law of nature and society. I kissed away my rights.

Those kisses became licks. Those licks became sucks. The licking and sucking continued after the hand went away. They continued long after Dan's seed shot down the tube. They continued after he pulled out. They continued until I drank ambrosia from a new well.

The licking and sucking continued as the second monthly anniversary rolled around. They continued through the third, fourth, and fifth. Everything changed after that eventful night. The lights came on, the covers were tossed off. Love making between them began with my tongue teasing both. I became their instrument of foreplay. My tongue followed them throughout the act and cleaned them afterwards. I drank the seminal and vaginal ambrosia until I thought I would burst. No headache could relieve me of my duties.

When the calendar showed six weeks, I became moody, bitchy, and depressed. I confronted my husband with my needs, my rights, my rightful place in our family. I threatened to cheat. I threatened divorce.

He threatened divorce as well, on the grounds that I abused my daughter, offering her to men for money to support my drug habit. I was appalled, especially when Sarah confirmed her testimony. I recoiled and shrank back. That afternoon, Sarah wanted my things out of the master bedroom. I spent the afternoon making the move, putting her shit where my stuff was, and putting my stuff where her shit was. Her small bedroom became my bedroom. The master bedroom was where the masters slept.

Sarah enjoyed her new status as queen of the house. She never lifted a finger. I was her personal servant. She did not even bathe or attend her own toilet. I even wiped her ass. Dan enjoyed watching Sarah putting me through my paces. He delighted in watching her apply his belt to my ass, thighs, or breasts for the slight- est infraction, or simply to amuse herself. No pride remained to celebrate the second month.

On the third, I licked a pregnant cunt. On the first anniversary of their unholy union, my daughter pre- sented me with a baby to look after. She nursed me and the baby at her breasts. Sometimes, I nursed at her clit while the baby had her breasts.

My life continued in this strange way until she moved away. She left us with three kids to raise. She ran off to see the world with a sailor. Dan let me move back into the master bedroom, but made it clear there was only one master there. Sarah's oldest just turned eleven and she climbed into our bed last night. I started a new calendar.


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