Rachel's Research - 3 - Emily & James free porn video

James and Emily live in a big, bright, newly-built house on an estate on the edge of London. They are happy, attractive, hard-working and sociable couple. When I first met them, it was obvious that James was somewhat older than Emily but the age gap didn’t seem large and they were clearly very much in love.

Emily was seven months pregnant, expecting their first child. Her swollen her belly was very noticeable and she was making no attempt to hide it. Although the child will be their first as a couple, it will not be the first time James has held a new-born daughter.

For James is Emily’s father.

It was Emily who first contacted me. Throughout our correspondence she has taken the lead in telling their story and as you will read, has been the driving force in their relationship. James her father and the father of her unborn child, is less forthcoming than his daughter, but there is no mistaking the love he has for the girl who shares his house, his bed and his life.

When I met them, James was forty-seven, Emily twenty-five. They had been romantically involved as a couple for seven years and hoped to spend the rest of their lives together.

Despite initially having a few misgivings, I hope they succeed.

*

I pulled up outside the house, checking the address once again. It was right. The house was rather larger and more impressive than I had expected a girl in her mid-twenties to be able to afford, but then I remembered who else lived in that house with her and it all fell into place.

James, my interviewee’s father and partner, was a successful architect in a regionally dominant firm and could afford to live somewhere nice - very nice as it turned out. I retrieved my briefcase from the back seat, checked its contents – paper, pens, voice recorder, camera – then opened the car door, walked up to the house and rang the bell.

A short time later the door was opened by a rather shy-looking girl who appeared to be in her mid-teens. Dressed in shapeless faded grey leggings, an even more shapeless off-white T shirt with a rock band logo and with her hair pulled back severely into a pony tail, she did not look at all prepossessing.

For a moment I wondered whether I had arrived at the wrong house but the girl’s swollen belly told me otherwise; the chances of there being two highly pregnant girls in the same short street on the same day were minimal.

“Emily?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

The girl nodded. I introduced myself and handed over a business card with my researcher’s credentials. The girl studied it for a moment then her surly expression cracked into a broad smile, she stepped back from the threshold and held the door open for me to enter.

“Come in.”

I crossed the threshold into the house. Though pleasantly large it was, like most newly-built houses, instantly familiar. Too new for the couple to have imposed their own tastes, the walls were still magnolia in colour, the floors a pale wooden laminate or, as I entered the lounge, a plain beige carpet.

There was a strong smell of paint which Emily saw me sniff as we reached the foot of the stairs.

“I’m painting the nursery,” she smiled, indicating both the smell and the scruffy clothes she was wearing.

“You’ve only got a few weeks to go haven’t you?” I asked.

“Six weeks,” she replied. “I can’t wait to get it all over with.”

As a mother myself, I knew only too well that birth marked the beginning rather than the end of her exhaustion but I wasn’t going to upset her.

“Everything’s going well?” I asked instead.

“Very well,” she replied. “Oh, you mean is anything wrong with the baby? No. She’s perfect now and she’s going to be perfect once she’s born.”

“That must have been a relief,” I suggested.

“I suppose so,” Emily conceded. “I suppose all mothers-to-be worry.” She paused. “But of course you meant because James and I are related.”

In nodded, a little embarrassed.

“Well, yes of course I was worried to begin with. You read so much scary stuff about incest babies on the internet but most of it’s overblown. Okay, the risks of birth defects are higher but for first timers like us they’re still pretty low. It’s only if you get into second and third generations that things get worrying.”

We had reached the large, farmhouse-style kitchen. It was impressive, built around a central island with state-of-the-art worktops and gleaming chrome equipment. This was definitely not what a builder would use as standard.

“Lovely kitchen,” said with some feeling as Emily began to make wonderful-smelling coffee on a highly polished, expensive looking machine.

“Dad… um… James is an architect,” Emily explained. “There wasn’t time to make the whole house special before the baby’s born, so we worked on the room that would be most difficult for us to do afterwards.

It made sense, but her words had made me think of something important.

“You called him Dad. Is that usual?” I asked.

“That’s because you’re here and you know the truth,” she smiled again.

“So what do you call each other normally?” I asked. “It must get a bit tricky.”

Emily paused in her brewing.

“You’re right, it was very tricky at first. We had to be on our guard all the time but we’ve got used to it now. Basically I call him James all the time unless we’re at home and the doors are closed. Then he’s Dad again. He calls me Emily or more often just Em in public. It’s only when we’re alone that… that the private name gets used.”

“Would you tell me what it is?” I asked, sensing her hesitation.

“It’s a bit embarrassing. He calls me his Princess.”

I smiled. I had been my Daddy’s Princess too, but that had ended when I reached my teens. If I was honest, I hadn’t wanted it to end but I couldn’t take the risk that any of my cool friends might hear my Dad calling me by a baby name.

“And you like it?” I asked.

“It’s the best name in the world.”

Emily crossed to the central island carrying two steaming mugs of wonderfully aromatic liquid then took a jug of milk from the large, American-style fridge and placed it alongside.

“Sugar?” she asked. I shook my head.

“Can’t risk the calories,” I grinned.

She placed her hands on her large baby bump.

“I’ll have to watch that afterwards but now…” she grinned, spooning two sugars into her mug.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “You’ll be burning a lot of those calories just looking after the baby.”

Emily indicated a high kitchen stool. I perched on it and sipped my coffee while she disappeared for a minute. I looked around the room; her father must have done very well in his career to be able to afford equipment like this. The house itself must have cost a fortune for a start, even this far from London.

When Emily returned, she was carrying two passports and an envelope.

“Better get the formalities over,” said with a raised eyebrow.

I took a document from my handbag and passed it to her. She read it carefully while I studied the two she had passed to me. The first passport was clearly hers; the picture surprisingly lifelike and the name inside was the one I knew her by. I looked at the second passport. The picture was that of a man older than Emily but with strikingly similar features. He was good-looking as far as I could tell from such a photograph and the surname was the same as that in Emily’s. Finally I opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. It was a birth certificate. The child’s name on the certificate matched the name in Emily’s passport and the father’s name matched that in James’.

Unless James in real life did not match his passport, they were genuinely father and daughter.

“So this contract means you can’t publish anything without our agreement?” Emily asked a little anxiously.

“That’s right,” I confirmed. “And it commits all three of us to tell only the truth. It’s exactly as I emailed to you. Are you still okay with the idea?”

There was the briefest of hesitations before she picked up the pen I had placed alongside her and, with a flourish, signed.

“There!”

I turned it round and signed it too.

“We do need your father’s signature to make it complete,” I frowned.

“He’ll be home in an hour or so. He’s okay with it so we can make a start.”

This wasn’t my usual belt-and-braces way of beginning a confidential interview but it seemed I had no choice. I took my voice recorder out of my handbag, started it and placed it on the table between us.

“For the sake of the tape, this is an interview with Emily,” I gave the date and time. “Emily, let’s start at the beginning; why did you get in touch with me?”

To my delight, Emily was a natural interviewee. Given the chance to perform, the words flowed freely and constantly from her with little sign of self-consciousness.

She explained how she was in a loving, sexual relationship with her father and had been for many years. Now she was having his child. She explained how lonely and isolating it could be in an incestuous relationship, having to keep secrets all the time and be constantly on the alert for anyone who might recognise the true nature of their love.

She explained about the online websites they visited; sites designed by and for couples like them who were, to use her words, in Double-Love. Though I knew the phrase well, I asked her to explain what it meant to her.

“I suppose it means that we have two kinds of love to unite us; the love that being part of the same family involves as well as the physical love that a sexual relationship brings.”

She went on to say that she had read one or two of my contributions to those websites and thought I would be a sympathetic ear. She also explained that she and her father enjoyed erotica as part of their exciting, imaginative sex life. They had discovered my stories by accident and had enjoyed them.

“You seem to understand the love behind our kind of relationship,” Emily told me. “Most stories are just about sex and are impossible to believe. Yours have a ring of truth about them, as if you know yourself how it feels.”

It was flattering to hear but I wasn’t going to explain where my understanding of incest originated. Fortunately Emily was too involved in her own tale to ask.

“I guess at some stage, most consanguineous couples feel like they’re in prison and need to break out. I love my Dad just as much as any wife loves her husband; probably more. I hate having to keep the truth secret. I hate having to lie and hide. Sometimes I want to stand at the bedroom window, open it wide and scream into the street ‘I love my Daddy and I’m having his baby!’ But then the Police would come and our relationship would be over.”

There were small tears of frustration in her eyes.

“So talking to me is a kind of therapy?”

“I hope so,” Emily replied. “I thought if they could see our story in print, other related couples might feel less alone too.”

“I hope it works,” I told her truthfully.

There was a long pause while we sipped our drinks.

“Most people can’t begin to understand,” she eventually carried on. “They see it as a perversion, or abuse, or even a mental illness. I’m not ill, I’m not perverted and I wasn’t abused. I was an adult when it all started. I wasn’t coerced in any way and could have left any time. I stay with James because I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

She sounded very convincing.

“Some people call it suffering from Genetic Sexual Attraction – GSA - as if it’s an illness too. We call it love.”

I had heard of this condition many times too.

“Do you consider yourselves married?” I asked.

She looked down at her left hand, on the third finger of which lay a diamond engagement ring.

“That’s a sore point,” she replied firmly. “We can’t be married - but we’re definitely engaged. Nothing can stop us making that commitment to each other. It’s just going to be a very long engagement, that’s all.”

“Would you want to get married if you could?” I asked.

“More than anything else in the world,” she replied seriously. “We’re trying to find a kind of ceremony that would be close enough to feel married but wouldn’t mean we had to provide too much information about ourselves.”

I wished them luck. Their journey would certainly end up overseas if my previous interviewees were anything to go by. I made a couple of notes then moved the interview on.

“What do you say to those who believe there’s no such thing as consensual incest?” I asked. “That there’s always a power imbalance so one partner is always taking advantage of the other?”

Emily thought for a moment.

“I see what they mean,” she began hesitantly. “But isn’t there the risk of that in every relationship? I mean, doesn’t one partner always have to take control; lead the way sort of thing?”

She thought for a moment longer.

“In our case, that person was me. Dad didn’t seduce me. If anything, I seduced him. If anyone took advantage of anyone else, it must have been me. I set out to get him and I got him.”

There was a brief silence.

“Would it help if I described how our relationship started?” she asked a little hesitantly. “And how we live together now? It might help you with an erotic story as well as the article.”

I smiled inwardly. In all my researches, it has been astonishing how many apparently reserved, private people not only were prepared to disclose the physically intimate aspects of their lives, but were actually keen to.

Perhaps even needed to. Whatever the motivation, Emily was to be no exception.

“Please do,” I encouraged her. “Perhaps a refill would help too? It’s excellent coffee.”

Emily laughed then refilled our coffee cups and settled on the stool opposite me. She took a long sip.

“Beginning at the very beginning?” her intonation made it a question.

I nodded. She settled onto her seat, took a long sip, a deep breath then began.

“Okay; here we go! Mum and Dad got together way too early. They were still teenagers when they started sleeping together and to be honest, were incompatible from the start. Dad wanted to go to college, Mum was training to be a hairdresser. They were both very good looking – Dad still is – and fancied each other like mad but it was largely a physical relationship.

“On the surface they looked as if they were made for each other, a sort of golden couple but there were problems behind the façade right from the off. When Mum got pregnant with me - by mistake - they moved in together, had me and tried to make it work but they soon began to grow apart.

“To be an architect, Dad needed to study for five years. Mum was a party girl. She got fed up with him working all the time, studying most evenings and weekends, having so little money to spend and always needing to look after me. After a couple of years she started seeing other boys for fun, then older men who had the money to treat her the way she thought she deserved.”

Emily paused.

“Mum hung around with a lot of older, wealthier men throughout her life. I don’t think she was a prostitute, but I can’t be completely sure. It is possible, and her boyfriends did give her money as well as presents. Even if she wasn’t actually a prostitute, she certainly wasn’t very difficult to get into bed. I saw an awful lot of that when I was growing up. Anyway, Mum eventually found someone who wanted her for more than one night, had an affair with him and walked out on Dad and little me.

“How did that affect you?” I asked.

“I was still very young. Dad and I were together for over six months before Mum came back on the scene and used her lawyers to get custody of me. After all, Dad was still studying, still had little income and they weren’t actually married.

“I moved in with her and her new man but that relationship didn’t last. When Mum moved on to her next great love she moved to Spain with him and took me with her. This made it almost impossible for Dad and me to keep in touch.

“I didn’t know this of course; I was still too young and gullible. Whenever I asked about him, Mum told me that Dad had abandoned us and didn’t want to see me. I grew up believing this and didn’t bother trying to find out any more about him. I’d seen the odd photo of course but there weren’t many and Mum kept them hidden anyway.”

“What was it like growing up overseas?”

“Well, my Spanish is first class,” Emily grinned. “But it’s not a great way to grow up.”

“Tell me.”

Emily took a deep breath.

“As I said, Mum was very much a party girl. She loved the lifestyle; the sunshine, the glamour, the swimming pools, the yachts, the slightly dodgy money and the even more dodgy characters around it. She was still stunningly attractive so there was no shortage of potential sugar daddies even with a child in tow. There were parties every week and lots of drugs and alcohol.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“It was what I was used to. I was also used to seeing my Mum and other women - her age and older - drunk, stoned and behaving in very sexual ways. I grew up to see men and women of her age not just as the parents of my school friends but as highly sexual people too. I guess that’s where my preference for older men came from.”

“You’ve always preferred older men?”

“It turned out that way. Okay, I had a good few boyfriends of my own age on the way but they all just seemed childish compared with the older, richer, more sophisticated men my Mum hung around.”

“Tell me about your boyfriends,” I encouraged her.

“There’s not much to tell,” she frowned. “I had the usually schoolgirl romances, plenty of kissing and groping after parties. It’s just that in Spain things go on much later into the night than they do here - and you start off wearing fewer clothes,” she laughed.

“Were you very sexually aware when you met your Dad?”

“Not very. I wasn’t a virgin but was still very inexperienced.”

I could see there was more to tell so I remained silent and let her continue.

“I lost my virginity to one of Mum’s boyfriends,” she eventually said. “He was an older man; forty-something I suppose. He had been living with Mum in our villa for three months but they were having a rocky time. One night after they had had a row he came into my room and…”

She pulled a face which I misinterpreted.

“He forced himself on you?” I asked.

“God no!” Emily exclaimed. “Far from it. I fancied him like mad and had been teasing him for weeks.”

“Teasing?”

“You know, wearing see-through clothes, leaving the bathroom or bedroom door open; wearing really short skirts and shorts. I had done it before; all my friends at school did too. It was all part of the fun. I’d never imagined anything really happening.”

“But it did?”

“Yes. He was a little drunk; I was quite tipsy too. He came into my room and we started to talk. He was really good looking and very easy to talk to. Before long he was stroking my arm then fondling my boobs. From there it was a pretty short journey into my knickers.”

“He took your virginity?”

“Yes,” she told me without any hint of embarrassment. “I was nervous but after leading him on it felt like I had to go through with it. It was probably time I lost my cherry anyway.”

“How was it?” I asked, remembering my own defloration only too vividly.

“It hurt like hell to start with but it wasn’t long before I started to enjoy it – at least a little bit. I’m sure it would have been a lot less pleasant with a clumsy boy my own age. At least he knew what he was doing!”

“Did it happen again,” I asked.

“Only once. Then Mum caught him squeezing my bottom on the patio and he was out on his ear! I never saw him again.”

“Did she ever find out he’d slept with you?”

Emily shook her head.

“I wasn’t sure how Mum would react. She could easily have blamed me for breaking the two of them up. You had to be very careful with Mum; you had to choose your moment when she wasn’t either angry, drunk or high.”

“How did things go from there?”

“Mum was killed not long after that. She was drunk and got hit by a car crossing the road. I didn’t want to stay with my latest Stepdad in Spain - he was a drinker too - but I was still too young to live on my own so the Spanish authorities looked for relatives back in the UK who I could stay with.

“The first person I went to was my grandmother; Dad’s Mum. Although she agreed to have me out of duty, she wasn’t at all friendly at first. After a shaky start, she told me what had really happened between Mum and Dad; how he had tried to keep in touch but had nothing back either from me or from Mum. She said it had been very painful for him so she had advised him to stop trying and eventually he had stopped.

“I told her what Mum had told me about Dad just abandoning us. A short time later we were both crying. Eventually she agreed I could stay with her for a few weeks while we all decided what was best for me long-term. I moved into her spare room and started at the local Sixth-Form College.

“How did school go?” Emily laughed.

“Not too well at first. I thought I was so cool having lived in the sun in Spain with all that glamour. I hated the cold weather but insisted on dressing as if I still lived somewhere hot. I wore very short skirts, often without tights and short sleeved tops in all weathers. Not surprisingly I didn’t make many friends.”

“What about your Dad?”

“Grandma was very protective of him. It seems Mum going off and taking me away had upset him for years. She said he hadn’t had a relationship since then that had lasted more than a few months. She wouldn’t give me his address or phone number but said she would pass on anything I wanted to write.

“I would have been too nervous to meet him straight-off anyway so after I’d been living there for a few months, I sent a note saying that, if he wanted to get to know me, he should get in touch on Facebook.”

“And he did?”

“He made contact the very next day and we started an online conversation. It was awkward but over the next few days he confirmed what really happened between him and my Mum and asked why I never replied to any of his letters or birthday cards. I told him I hadn’t had any.

“We arranged to meet for a coffee in London after school. I was so nervous all day I thought I would be sick but I went along anyway, armed with his homepage picture from Facebook to recognise him by.

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Well after all those years, it was always going to be awkward. But after a lot of frowning and resentful looks we actually began to talk to each other properly.”

“And it went well?”

“It went very well; I couldn’t believe it. It was like a snowball rolling down a hill. One we started talking, we couldn’t stop. The more we talked, the more we found we had in common and the more we had in common, the more we talked.”

“He didn’t just criticise your Mum?”

“Far from it. He took his share of the blame for the break-up and felt very guilty he hadn’t fought harder to keep in touch. I think he felt more guilty than angry. We talked for nearly three hours. I had the coffee shakes by the time we had to go.”

“When did you meet again?”

“The next day we met for lunch, then the day after he took me out for dinner. It was amazing being with him; as if I’d discovered another part of me. After so many years apart, we were so happy in each other’s company.”

“So how long did it take before you realised this wasn’t just an ordinary father – daughter relationship?”

“I’m not sure I know what a normal father-daughter relationship is. I’ve never had one or seen one,” she replied.

I supposed this was true.

“We’d been seeing each other for a couple of months before I realised how I really felt but to be honest, I reckon it started that first coffee. From the start, the atmosphere between us wasn’t in any way ‘family-like’. He started off being very formal and anxious but by the time we were on our second coffee I was telling him all my secrets; about my life in Spain, my schools, my friends there and how much I had wanted him to get in touch. I’d never felt about anyone the way he made me feel even that first day.”

“You’d never had a father figure before?”

“Mum’s boyfriends hadn’t really tried. Mum was so demanding and so possessive that she kept all their attention to herself – apart from the times one or two of them tried it on with me, of course.

“From then on it was never more than a couple of days between meetings. We went to restaurants, went to movies or sometimes just went for walks so we could talk. By the end of our first walk we were holding hands – it could have been like any father and daughter, but I already knew it wasn’t.

“Soon we were seeing each other several times a week and going out together on Friday or Saturday nights too; our meetings became more like dates than family outings. I started to stay over in his house after those dates too.”

“Didn’t he have a girlfriend already?”

Emily blushed.

“They broke up. He was seeing so much of me that she gave up on him. Dad told me it wasn’t a big romance – they weren’t ever going to be married or even live together but still…”

Her voice faded away.

“When did you realise the way you were feeling was becoming sexual?”

“I had so little to compare it to, I didn’t see it coming. Before I realised it was happening, I was in love with him, couldn’t wait for our next date and was daydreaming about him to the point of distraction.”

“You fell in love first?”

“Completely. But lust followed very soon afterwards.”

“Did he seduce you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“If anything, I seduced him,” she replied with a slight laugh. “I certainly made the first real move.”

“Did you realise what you were starting at the time?”

“Not at all. I just knew how strongly I felt about him. I’d never felt that strongly about anyone before. I suppose it was a combination of love and lust; all I knew was that this was the man I had been waiting for.”

“You wanted to have sex with him, knowing he was your genetic father?”

“You’ve got to understand, it didn’t feel as if he was my father. He was just James, the man I was falling in love with. Having sex with him just felt like the right thing to do,” she answered honestly. “Like a natural progression from the love that was developing between us. I know it sounds crazy but I just knew it was the right thing.”

“Do you want to tell me the details?” I asked. “I’m not easily shocked.”

Emily pretended to be considering the idea but we both knew that this was what she had wanted from the start.

“It was Saturday night in the summer. I was eighteen. I was still officially living with my Grandma in Twickenham although Dad and I were seeing each other two or three times a week.

“Grandma was encouraging it; she had a busy, active life herself and was pleased to see her son so happy. Sometimes we would go out to eat, sometimes to the cinema but more and more we were just hanging out together either in his place or the local pubs. I used to stay over with him in North London afterwards then go to work from there the next day.

“That night we had eaten early in the flat, split a bottle of wine then gone to the cinema. It was a horror film so I was holding his hand in the darkness. I had pulled it onto my knee. It was hot that summer so I was only wearing a short cotton sun dress and his hand was on my bare leg.

“It felt really good and the movie was good too so I hardly noticed and definitely wasn’t bothered when his hand moved up my thigh. By the time the movie reached its scary climax his fingers were right between my thighs and touching my knickers.”

“He groped you in the cinema?” I asked.

“It wasn’t like that. My hand was on his the whole time.” She giggled. “To be honest, it might even have been me moving his fingers towards my panties. Anyway, after the movie we were both a bit giggly and went to a pub on the way home. It was crowded and a band was playing but we fought our way in and eventually got served.

“The music was good, we had a couple more drinks. As it got later, it got more and more crowded until we were pressed really close together when we danced. I could feel his hands on my waist and a lump in his jeans. It was big and hard.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“I’m not sure. It certainly didn’t frighten me. In a way it made me feel good to think I had turned him on. It turned me on too.”

“So what happened next?”

“Eventually it got too busy even to dance so we squeezed out and got a cab home. We were both still giggling in the back seat and he put his hand high on my thigh again. I liked it.”

From the sparkle in her eye, she was really enjoying telling her tale. I let her continue uninterrupted.

“It was well after midnight when we got back to the flat. We were both a bit tipsy so we decided to go straight to bed. When we said goodnight in the kitchen, Dad went to kiss me on the cheek as usual, but something went wrong and he kissed my lips instead.”

“Just by accident?” I challenged.

The look on Emily’s face told me there was more to it than that but she carried on.

“Then it just sort of happened. We started kissing properly; just lips first then it got hotter and hotter. Before long we were mouth to mouth and tongue to tongue, arms round each other and bodies pressed together. There was no great set-up, no seduction. It just started naturally as if it was the most normal thing in the world.”

“How did it feel?”

“Wonderful! It felt as if it was always meant to happen. Yes, it did take me by surprise but only for a moment. I raised my arms around his neck, I felt his hands on my bottom and we kissed for a long time.”

“How did it go from there?” I asked.

“Dad seemed to realise what was happening because he stopped the kiss suddenly and moved away. He kept saying he was sorry. I kept trying to kiss him again but he kept avoiding it. I could tell he wasn’t angry; if anything he seemed more frightened but he kissed me on the cheek and went to his bedroom.”

“Did you feel rejected? Vulnerable?”

“Vulnerable certainly but for some reason, not rejected. Maybe it was the look on his face. I could see the love and pain when he stopped kissing me. I got into my night dress and lay awake on the bed for ages just thinking about him and how much I loved him.”

“What was it like in the morning?”

“I didn’t let it get that far. After an hour or so rolling on the bed, I knew what I wanted and what I had to do.”

She took a deep breath. I waited silently for her to continue.

When Emily did continue, her story was heartfelt but disjointed, punctuated by emotion and several breaks for tears. What follows is her story but unashamedly written by me as erotica rather than reportage.

Emily is content that it presents what happened and how she felt even if the words are more mine than hers.

I sat up in bed. My tummy was rumbling. I was really nervous; what if he rejected me properly and sent me away? It was a big risk but I had to find out if he felt the way I did and the way he had looked when we parted.

Rising slowly from my bed, I padded silently across the carpet to my bedroom door, opened it and stepped out onto the landing. By the time I reached Dad’s door, I was getting cold feet but the feeling inside me wouldn’t let me back out.

My heart was thumping and I felt sick with nerves as I turned the handle but I had to find out. I opened his bedroom door and walked silently into the room. The curtains were partly open and the room had an eerie silvery glow from the moon and street lamps. Dad was sitting up in bed. He obviously hadn’t been asleep either.

“Princess?” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

I didn’t reply. Instead, with my tummy full of butterflies, I reached down, took the hem of my night dress in both hands, peeled it up my body, over my head and dropped it on the floor then stood completely naked in front of him.

He gasped.

“What are you...?”

He began to speak but the words seemed to catch in his throat. A moment later I had crossed to the other side of his large double bed, lifted the duvet and slid my naked body alongside him.

I could feel the heat of his warm, masculine form against my cool skin and realised he was naked too.

“Hold me,” I whispered.

“Princess I…”

“Shh! Just hold me. Please.”

The man I loved took me tentatively in his arms and held my body close to his. It felt incredible; warm, reassuring, safe but with a powerful sexual overtone that made me tremble. His cock was already erect. He tried to hide it from me but I had pressed myself against him. I could feel it against my belly so hard and large that I almost lost my nerve.

But I had started this; I had deliberately sent my father a message so clear and unambiguous that there were only two possible outcomes; rejection or copulation.

I wanted the second more than anything in my life before. The first was unthinkable; if he rejected me I had no idea what or how strong my reactions might be. If accepted me… would I be able to handle so big and strong a man?

“Are you sure you want this, Princess?” he asked anxiously.

“Do you?” I whispered in return.

“More than you can possibly imagine,” he kissed the top of my head.

A bolt of elation flashed through me.

The man I loved had not rejected me; an immense feeling of relief washed over me as I surrendered myself completely, giving myself to my first real lover to use in any way he wanted; trusting him to treat me with love and gentleness.

“Then I’m sure,” I replied, moving even closer and raising my face towards his.

James touched my cheek with a fingertip then ran it along my jawline. His eyes were soft and loving, his pupils huge; the expression on his face adoring and adorable. He placed his finger under my chin and slowly lifted my mouth towards his.

Our lips met again, but this time our naked bodies met too, a full skin-to-skin embrace in which our lips, arms and legs all touched then intertwined.

I could feel my life changing as our bodies merged.

Although a few boys’ hands had been on my body and my lips knew what it was like to feel the touch of a male mouth, these had been naive, clumsy fumblings with many clashes of teeth and numb lips afterwards. Even my loss of virginity had been illicit, hidden and rushed. From the moment my father’s lips and body touched mine, I knew this was different.

Words cannot describe the next few moments but they will remain carved into my soul until my last breath. Even now, years later and with his baby in my belly, my memories of our first sexual encounter are still raw and strong, though now they have an even deeper meaning.

I could feel his whole body go tense, as if fighting the urge to take me quickly and forcefully. My father is a big man in every way but the love in him quickly overcame the lust. Even so I was nervous. Though I already knew how it felt to have a man’s erect penis inside my body, I was still very inexperienced.

There was fear, but not fear of pain. My trust in him was absolute. In fact in a strange way I actually wanted to feel pain in making love to him, as if pain would cement the love I felt and which I prayed he felt for me. I was nervous too, but mostly worried that my inexperience might disappoint him.

I needn’t have worried. From the moment I felt the warmth of my father’s breath on my cheek and the softest, lightest brush of his lips against mine I knew I had been right to put myself completely in his hands. Even the embrace we had enjoyed earlier that evening faded in comparison with the emotions and sensations that surged through me as he enfolded me in his arms.

As my father’s hands began to explore my flesh I was shaking with nerves. I tried hard to control it, not wanting him to think me in any way reluctant or unwilling. I was most emphatically not unwilling; this time my head, my heart and body were all aligned.

I wanted this to happen and to happen now.

His hands and lips began to explore my still, compliant body, tentatively at first as if fearing my reaction but, meeting no resistance, quickly gaining in boldness and confidence.

I felt his palms on my sides, my hips and my buttocks, I felt his fingers on my still-small, pointed boobs. My nipples were so hard they almost hurt. I felt his tongue deep in my mouth as his hands brushed over my slightly-padded tummy and toyed with my belly button.

I was too nervous and inexperienced to touch him in return, but my body writhed instinctively against his fingers and I pressed myself against his strong, masculine frame, reeling in the sensations that rolled over me as his searching hands explored my sensitised flesh.

Eventually his gentle, dextrous fingers found the soft downy triangle between my thighs. I shivered, my knees pressing together instinctively as if to keep him away from this last secret place.

“Still okay Princess?” he whispered.

I nodded.

“You’re trembling. Do you want me to stop?”

After a second or two I shook my head emphatically.

Our faces were only inches apart, his warm breath on my cheek as for the first time, my father began to finger me. There, in his bed and with my complete co-operation, his long, searching fingers began to explore the wet, weeping slit between my thighs.

The legs that had closed so tightly now fell open, surrendering complete, unrestricted access to my most private places. He took full advantage, stroking from the base of my slit, across the entrance to my near-virgin vagina and upwards to my almost undiscovered clitoris where he rubbed in little circles around and over my nub.

I had never known arousal like this, not even before my defloration and certainly not during it. The orgasm that rippled through me came like lightning, was entirely unexpected and made my whole body shake uncontrollably.

Dad paused as I came, his expression anxious as if worried he had hurt me. Once he realised what was happening, he resumed his attentions with a smile, bringing a second, more intense climax, then a third. Our faces were so close that our noses rubbed together, my eyes wide open in shock as the waves of pleasure washed over me.

My memories of exactly what happened next are vague.

I remember the fingering coming to an end. I remember being rolled unresisting onto my back, my eyes never leaving my father’s face. I remember him rising over me, parting my legs with his knees, his big, strong body blocking out what little light was in the room.

I remember the feeling of helplessness as he reared up over me, his arms either side of my shoulders as if to prevent any chance of escape, but with escape being the last thing I wanted.

I remember him pausing, looking down on me, his features hard to determine in the darkness.

I remember feeling something large and smooth being rubbed up and down my slit. I remember feeling my juices flowing freely despite my nervousness. The smooth something found and parted my inner lips, working its way between them then pausing at the entrance to my vagina.

He was going to do it and I wanted him to.

My whole body stiffened in anticipation, my heart thumping as I lay underneath my father and lover. I had always known he was a big man but his body simply dwarfed mine. It was both reassuring and frightening at the same time, but it didn’t change my desires; I wanted him inside me. I needed him inside me. It was just a matter of how hard it would be and how painful.

But I wanted to feel that pain; I wanted to be his woman. I wanted to know the pain so many women – including my own mother had known in his bed.

A warm glow rippled through my tummy and a faint but distinctive earthy aroma wafted towards my nose as my body prepared itself to be penetrated.

Then it actually happened.

My heart stopped beating as my father’s erect penis forced its way through the tight entrance and into my welcoming vagina. As it entered my body for the first time it felt massive; huge. Surely nothing that large could possibly fit into the tight little hole between my legs.

There was more pressure; I felt my entrance being stretched and my inner cavern being filled.

“Please… Please be gentle,” I whispered.

“I promise, Princess!”

He pressed slowly forwards, I could feel him entering me inch by inch; stretching my entrance tighter than it had ever been stretched before. I could feel tears welling in my eyes; the strength of the emotions rising within me was almost unbearable.

There was a sudden flash of pain from my vagina. I grunted. He paused.

“Does it hurt?” he asked anxiously.

I nodded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

I blinked, my eyes tearful but fixed firmly on his; I did not want him to stop. I shook my head again.

Dad smiled, pulled back a little then, slowly but surely, pressed himself forward.

The sharp pain returned; I bit my lip hard as my father’s erect penis sawed its way deeper into my body. His pace was slow but forceful, confident but caring. The feelings of love that had been so strong before, now became overwhelming. Tears began to roll down my cheeks.

“Is it your first time?” he asked anxiously, slowing his pace but not stopping.

I shook my head.

“Does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

My vulva was now lubricating for all it was worth as my body adjusted to the huge presence within it. Three more slow but positive thrusts and my juices had loosened my body’s grip on his shaft considerably. The pace of his thrusts increased; quickly establishing a slow but steady rhythm.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

It was happening; we were making love. My father’s erect cock was moving in and out of my vagina as if I was his real girlfriend. The pain was fading fast and the feelings of pleasure were rising sharply too.

I began to moan softly, my legs flopping open, my arms rising to stroke the hips and waist that were driving the invading phallus in and out of me.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

The feelings growing within me were like nothing I had ever imagined. My defloration had been exciting but an entirely physical experience. There had been no love on either side.

Giving myself to the man I truly loved was another thing completely. Both the emotions and sensations were on another plane, but this was so much more than just pleasure. The feeling of our two souls becoming one as our two bodies had become one is all but impossible to describe, but the deeper my father’s body penetrated mine, the closer we became.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Now, after seven wonderful years together, I understand what a caring and sensitive lover my father actually is. At the time all I knew was that I was being shown a whole new world of love and pleasure that I had believed existed but had never dreamed could be so profound.

Unfortunately, I also knew that this proficiency in bed had come though long experience. Before he and I got together, my good-looking Dad had been with a large number of lovers but had had very few lasting relationships. Even now with his ring on my finger and his baby in my belly, I find it painful to think of him with another woman; holding her hand, kissing her lips, doing the things he and I now do so often.

But this is now. Back then, the only thing on my mind was the presence of his wonderful body deep within mine.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Oh God! Oh God Daddyyyy!”

Over the years, I was to have many orgasms in bed with my Dad, most of them more powerful than the first climax he gave me that first night. But that is the one I remember most; the one that made me the latest and I hope, the last of hisTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.