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As the plane taxied to a stop beside the terminal, I asked myself if I could go through with everything. It had been four months since I had left this wretched place, my hometown, with memories happy and sad, a guilty heart and, unknowingly at that time, with a son inside me. There was nothing to regret my life here, I thought sadly as I picked up my handbag and walked to the door, except for two nights that had forever changed my life.

And, in my darkest moment of despair, I wished for a moment that Mom had died then, for it was she who was making me come back to Montana and my home...

It was already late in the afternoon, and I had almost canceled the trip because of morning sickness. But I couldn't do that to Mom - not after she pleaded with me to come back home. Mom was paralyzed below the waist and had to be helped into and out of bed, and even though she claimed that Dad was very supportive, I couldn't believe that.

I saw her, but not him; my heart went out when I saw the mechanical wheelchair she would be confined to for the rest of her time, and I rushed towards her. We embraced, tears leaking out of joy, and she didn't let go of me for a full minute.

"Mom, I love you," I told her, feeling her soft hands rub my cheek as she had done so many times in a life that was past. Of everything that I had left four months ago, when I chose to run, I missed my friend the most. "I am so sorry!"

"Shh, honey, it's all right," she soothed, ruffling my hair now. "Let's have no more talk about that, shall we? And... Jesus, are you pregnant?"

She was shocked, though, at my condition - no matter what, I realized, Mom had not expected something like this. Hell, even I was thrown for a loop when I found out... I had anticipated her finding out, but when I replied, instead of lying that I was two-three months along, as I had planned on the flight here, I blurted out, "Yes, Mom. Four months... I am sorry..."

Quite contrary to what I feared, Mom didn't get angry; instead, she smiled matronly at me. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. I was just stunned, that's all. You never even mentioned it in our letters..."

"I planned on having a quiet delivery, then put it up for adoption," I explained, opening up to my best friend of eighteen years, my mother, "When you sent me the plane tickets, I thought of aborting... I couldn't Mom."

Mom patted my hand reassuringly. "You did good, kid. I would never have forgiven you if you had killed my first grandchild - is it a he or a she?"

I wiped away my tears before I handed over the sonogram. "It's too early, the doctor said, but it looks like a boy."

Mom studied the black-and-white printout for a few seconds, and then returned it with a nostalgic smile. "Back in my days, we had to wait until the delivery. Part of the excitement was in the suspense, you know, like what name to pick, if it's a boy or a girl... but there's nothing that beats having a little one inside of you, is there?"

"No, Mom, there isn't."

"Who's the lucky father, Di, if I may know my son-in-law's name?"

"I called him Ed," I lied, "Before he left me when I told him I was pregnant. Now I just call him names."

"You are alone then?" The motherly concern was evident in every gesture of hers. The tone, the eyes, the words... she hadn't changed one bit. "I mean, there is no one to support you?"

"Nope," I replied simply.

"Then you will move back in with us?"

This was the question I had been dreading to answer, not due to its answer - which would be No, all things considered - but because I couldn't refuse the hopefulness in her voice. Yet, in the greater interests of everyone's sanity, I had to... there was no other alternative.

"Maybe..." There would be plenty of time to disappoint her later, I decided.

"I hope your father and I can convince you," Mom commented hopefully. "Speaking of your Dad, where is he?"

In spite of myself, I looked around, my height giving me the advantage of a better field of vision, as Mom turned her wheelchair around. Mom was the first to spot him, probably because Dad was not the guy I was expecting him to be.

He was already walking towards us, dressed smartly, but his eyes averted my gaze. He walked slowly, and where Mom must have mistaken it for carefulness, I knew it to be reluctance. As he came closer, Dad did a double-take when he saw my slightly-bulging stomach, but conscious that an ignorant Mom was looking at him, he maintained his composure and reached us a few seconds later. He pretended to be happy when he saw me, then narrowed his eyes upon 'discovering' that I was pregnant.

He did not say anything as he kissed my cheek, our bodies barely touching, and when I returned the gesture, I was surprised to feel his soft cheeks and the smell of cologne was something that I hadn't expected. He was almost handsome now, I realized with a start, with charm and pleasantness. He smelt nice, he felt nice, he acted nice...

He wasn't the man I had run away from...

Everything had begun with one innocuous entry in my personal diary, one that was the gatekeeper of my innermost feelings. Everything's still as painfully clear as it was when it happened four months ago, and I found myself slipping into the past...

On that first night, just a few days after I had turned eighteen, I was lying in bed reading a book. Mom, I knew, was already in bed - she always stopped by my room before she went to hers - and we had exchanged our goodnights half an hour ago. Being the eldest earned me my own room and privacy, while my siblings - Jimmy, 11, Sarah at 10 and Megan, 7, had to share the room across mine. I had checked in on them not less than five minutes ago; they too were asleep.

That left me and Dad as the only ones awake at that time, and from what I could hear, I surmised that Dad was catching up on the late-night news. Our house, being a single-storied affair, had been my grandparents' before an accident snatched them from the world of the living. It was paid for, and that left us a better-than-surviving existence upon my father's income as a foreman and my mother's nursing job. Summer was just around the corner, and I was already looking forward to easing the financial strain by working somewhere.

We had always been a close-knit family, and I knew that Dad would be coming in soon to check on his 'little Angel, ' as he still called me. I didn't mind the pet name, though - I was having a very good relationship with my parents, and with Mom as a best friend and Dad as a cool protector, I had only half the problems of the other kids in the neighborhood. Dad wouldn't step in unless I asked him to, he always gave me that responsibility, and when he did, all he would have to show for it would be a scratched knuckle or two...

There was this guy who tried to rape me on our first date, right in front of my house, and... poor fellow! Dad had insisted that I include the three teeth that he had knocked out with the 'get-well' card. Few people messed with me, and while that left me with less quantity, I was sure the sacrifice was rewarded with better quality.

I hadn't counted on Dad's drinking that night, and when he stepped into my room, I could almost smell his breath all the way across. His eyes were glazed, too drunk to focus, and for the first time in my life, I remember a sense of uneasiness when he looked at me strangely. It took me a second to realize that, with my resting my book on my upright knees, I had probably flashed him a glance of my pussy. I immediately covered myself decently, but the damage was already done.

That was when Dad saw my diary on the floor. I was too far away to stop him, too naive to think that he would read it, and gasped when Dad turned to the last page. Still, I was not as indignant as I should have been; Dad wouldn't invade my privacy... would he?

"Dad," I pretended to be angry. "That's personal stuff."

"I shnow," he mumbled, turning the pages. "Thatsh why I wa' to read it."

"You are not supposed to," I protested, a little more alarmed - there were things he shouldn't know about - that he wasn't going to respect my wishes. My worst mistake at that point was that I did not get up and snatch it away. Dad started to read out my latest paragraph.

"... And even Ken (he was a friend's brother) can't really kiss, either... that's five boys I've come across this week who don't know how to kiss a girl properly. It's really disappointing to remember that I've never ever had a decent kiss in my lifetime. Do you think something is wrong with me -?"

"DAD!" This time, I moved, but Dad just pushed me back on the bed. Stunned, I stared at the ceiling as I listened to him. This was not happening...

"Every time I get my nerve worked up enough to kiss, it proves to be a damp squib. Maybe I should ask Uncle Dave (Mom's cousin) to kiss me, you know. Maybe what I need is a man's kiss... if I can't even kiss properly, diary, how can I ever hope to lose my virginity?"

If it were someone else's words, I swear I would have laughed at the crass naivete... the fact that my father was reading it out like some kind of riot-act removed all the humor from the situation.

Dad scowled when I managed to take my diary back. He was terribly drunk, I saw, and weaving as if he were about to fall. I couldn't remember a time when I had been angry with him, as angry as I was now. "What did you do that for?" I hissed, locking the diary in my drawer. "You shouldn't have done that...

"Don't tell me what I can and what I can't do, young lady," Dad shot back. I froze - this wasn't my Dad speaking. His face hardened as he clutched my elbow, and I winced at the pain. Damn, but his grip hurt. "I am the boss here, and you're gonna have to listen to me, not the other way around, you hear?"

"What happened to you, Daddy? Why are you talking like this?"

"Oh, and I don't give a damn about your sympathy either. Just because I lost my job doesn't mean that I'm useless, you understand that. And I'm drunk because I happen to like it, not because some college-freak has got my fucking job to-fucking-day."

To say that I was shocked would be an understatement - Dad had never even badmouthed anyone in front of the kids, and now he was dropping expletives like shit, no pun intended. I stared at him, hoping that he would break out into a grin and say' "Psych!"

Without warning, Dad pulled me towards him. There was no time for me to cry out as he covered my mouth with his, forcibly thrust his tongue, and kissed me. There was no gentleness in his assault, no consideration that I was his own daughter; he drew blood from my lips as he ground his teeth, and his tongue stabbed the gums and teeth, occasionally darting under my tongue to tickle it. His hands were pressed against the back of my head, so strong I couldn't even turn my neck.

I never found enough time to scream or even to protest, and even though my hands started to punch his shoulder, it was as if they had no effect on him at all. I clutched his hair in an effort to pull him away, but even when I pulled out a few hairs, he did not release his grip. Worse, I was aware of a dull throbbing that was coursing my body, weakening my resistance, and although I was mentally fighting him, my hands dropped to his neck.

With a control of its own, my body pressed itself to my father's, almost molding into his masculine frame. Just because I was a virgin didn't mean that I didn't understand what the lump between his legs was, or why, pressed against my crotch, it throbbed with the same dullness that he had inspired in me. I found myself repulsed by the fact that my father was claiming what was never his; my legs, in contradiction, were on either side of his, as if welcoming him.

In spite of myself, I kissed my father back.

Later, I would rationalize that it was the kiss, not the kisser, that made me respond in the way I did, for in spite of the taboo, Dad's kiss - though unasked and unwanted - was by far the most intense one I had ever had. Instinct made me thrust and parry in synchronization with his tongue; the same instinct overruled my better judgment and held on to him long after he had ceased his vise-like grip.

But I can't conscientiously blame instinct for the fact that I was disappointed when Dad shoved me away. My lips hurt, my mouth hurt, and I felt very close to vomiting out the fumes of liquor from his mouth, but I was sorry when Dad pushed me towards my bed.

"There," he sneered. "That's a real kiss. That's how a real man kisses. Tell those puny boyfriends of yours to shove their mouths up their ass."

With that, he turned on his heels and walked out of the room as steadily as he had come in. I stared after him long after he had vanished from sight as the truth sunk in. What had he done... what had we done... what the bloody hell had I done? We had kissed, and even when I had known that it was too wrong to even imagine, I had kissed him back. I could deny it to others, but I had to admit it to myself.

And why the hell did I feel so good about it? Why was my body so hot and bothered now than it had ever been in my entire life?

Why had he even kissed me in the first place?

Too many questions; too little answers. With nothing else to do, I buried my face in my pillow and cried myself to sleep.

Dawn awoke me with the hope that yesterday's was but a solitary nightmare, but the ulcers that had broken out on my gums claimed otherwise. They weren't ulcers, I saw in the bathroom mirror, as much as abrasions caused by Dad's teeth when he kissed me the previous night. My lower lip was swollen a little, a hint of blood on it. Brushing my teeth became an ordeal, with the broken skin shooting white bolts of pain whenever the plastic touched it; having had enough, I chose mouthwash over toothpaste that morning.

I had already decided that I wouldn't tell Mom anything. In all likelihood, the incident was just a single aberration, that one mistake of Daddy's, and Mom could do without added burdens. Maybe, I thought hopefully as I walked to the kitchen, it would make Dad reevaluate his drinking and other priorities... with Dad out of work, as he had admitted before the 'kiss, ' Mom would be even more hard-pressed as the sole breadwinner for the family.

The day began with Mom's announcement that she was going to work overtime at the hospital for a couple of months, and the overtime pay would be handsome... in addition to which, she confessed to me after the rest of the kids had left to play, she was taking up a transcription job at a moderate price. Her only request was that I cut down on my social calendar so that I could babysit my siblings.

It was Mom's reasoning that her part-time job would pay more and be more secure than an eighteen-year old's, and besides, someone had to watch the young ones. Since I didn't have a steady boyfriend to consult or oblige, I agreed readily. I was ready to do whatever I had to, just to help Mom.

Mom had already left when Dad came into the kitchen, a hand held against his head. "Where is everyone?" he asked, sulking as he sat down at the table.

For a moment, I bristled. No 'Sorry.' No 'How are you?' Nothing. Then I figured that his head hurt too much for him to be courteous. I did want to discuss it with Dad, but not when he was grouchy.

Quite frankly, Dad had scared me the previous night. I had cried because I had thought he would rape me; thankfully, he had walked off. There was no telling what he would do next, it was a side of Dad that was frighteningly new to me.

"Out," I couldn't keep the curtness out of my voice. Dad looked at me strangely.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," I replied, placing before him an aspirin and a glass of cold water. Wordlessly, he gulped them down.

Nothing was exchanged between us for the few minutes it took me to make him a couple of pancakes, and then, halfway through his breakfast, Dad broke the ice. "What happened to your lip? Anyone hit ya?"

I shot him a cold look before I reminded myself that it wasn't the same guy. "You could say that," I said, sitting in front of him. "You hit on me yesterday night with a bottle of booze inside you."

Dad didn't say anything until he had finished his coffee. "I didn't think it had happened," he said finally, walking over to the stove and lighting a cigarette. "It seemed like a bad dream."

"It was," I agreed, "For both of us."

"Jesus, Diana, I don't know what to say."

"How about Sorry?"

"Sounds a little weak, doesn't it? I've never believed in saying sorry after the fact."

"So you aren't sorry?" I knew I was baiting him, just like I had hundreds of times, but never had been the stakes this high. Still, I was starting to look at everything as a poor joke, and cracks like these, I hoped, would bring my father back. He was changing before my eyes, and I wasn't too sure I liked what he was changing into.

Dad gave a wan smile. "I guess there's a first time for everything, eh? Look, for what it is worth, I am sorry... It's just that..." he gave a shrug of resignation, "... with everything that's been happening, I just react, you know, like instinctively. And we had a fight, your Mom and I, and that... I am just sorry, Diana. It'll never happen again. I promise."

I believed his sincerity, and walked over to hug him. "It's all right, Daddy, I understand."

As I moved away, Dad gave me a hard look. "Do you?"

I nodded, thinking I did. That night, he proved me wrong.

I was already in bed when Dad came in to say goodnight. Mom was working the nightshift - she had come home for a few hours' rest before returning to her station - and I had packed Jim and the girls into bed a long time ago. Call it a woman's instinct, if you will, but I decided against standing up in front of Dad. For the night, I was wearing PJ's, buttoned tight and long. The only problem with that was that the tight top emphasised my ample bosom.

Dad was drunk once again, and my heart raced. Somewhere, alarms went off, but I wasn't going to give in to panic. Dad had promised... that promise lay in ashes when Dad bent over me and kissed me on my lips fiercely, resting his entire body on me, pinning me beneath his muscle. For some reason, I couldn't command my body to fight him; within the minute, I was kissing him back.

His erection rested at the crook between my legs, the hard tent pushing my pants into my slit, and I felt ashamed when I felt a warm wetness spread across my crotch. This was not happening... but it was. Denial was refuted by the way my erect nipples were crushed by his flat chest, reason blocked by confusion within my head. My body was in conflict with my head, and stuck in between, there was nothing else for me to do but give in.

This time, though, Dad didn't leave immediately. Instead, he held my face in his hands. The irony was in the gentleness of his action, in its polar difference from his aggression just a few seconds earlier. With the deed done and over, reason regained its footing. I managed to ask, "Why, Daddy, why?"

Before replying, Daddy pressed his fingers into my cheeks, painfully keeping my mouth open, leaving me squirming. "You said you understood," he whispered to my face. "Understand this... I need this. This is the only good thing I have left."

The bed springs creaked as he stood up and left the room, leaving behind a confused and betrayed daughter, one with a hurting jaw and a sore mouth. He hadn't raped me, but he had taken away my hope. And there was nothing else to do but to cry myself to sleep...

"Did you like it?"

"Tiffy!"

Tiffany grinned at me. She was my other best friend, living just down the block, and the only person I trusted enough to discuss everything. Right now, though, she was being irritatingly light-hearted about the whole affair. When I had finished my account, I had figured that she would be shocked and indignant, protective and attentive.

"Oh, cheer up, sweetie," she replied, meeting my eyes evenly, "It's not like he took your virginity or anything... although I find it hard to believe he didn't. You sure about that, Di?"

"This is just great." Pissed off, I stood up to leave - this was getting me nowhere. "First, my Dad abuses me. Then my best friend tells me it's alright -"

"Cut that self-pitying crap," Tiffany interrupted sharply, "Don't let this traumatize you! You've got things going for you, girl, you are smart, pretty... voluptuous. A figure I would kill for, and I am not that figure conscious..."

"But it isn't right," I protested, sitting down across her. "What he did to me -"

"Was something wrong, but which you enjoyed," she finished. "You enjoyed it, didn't you? It's evident that you did. What's wrong about liking a kiss?"

"Because HE gave it to me."

"Tell me something, Di. If someone else had kissed you like that, would you be here now?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Or, even if it had been his kiss, if he weren't your father, say a neighbor or a family friend... would you feel as bad?"

I thought about that. "No, most probably not."

"So don't let this get to you," she advised, her voice softening. "Just think it's someone else kissing you, like that Geography teacher of ours or someone... and remember that it's just a kiss. With your body, if I had been in his position, I would - nope, forget it!"

"You would have... what?" I was curious. "And what does my body have anything to do with it?"

Tiffany sighed. "Have you ever looked in a mirror, Diana dear? Like I said, you've got a gorgeous body, voluptuous and all... pretty face, reddish brown hair, a graceful neck... and those firm tits of yours are really unfair to us the rest of the girls, you know, all high and just the perfect size. And those legs..."

"Stop," I giggled. "You sound like you are in love with me or something!"

"I wish," Tiffany grinned. "Only you are too fat for my taste..."

Talking things out with Tiffy had the desired result, and I wasn't so depressed when I returned home. Harmless, I told myself, compared to everything else that went on in this world. At the end of the day, it made Dad happy; there was no reason I should mope over it. Besides, I thought to myself naughtily, it was kinda exciting. Arousing would be a better description, I corrected myself.

Sometime during that day, it occurred to me that for what it was worth, Dad's kisses had distracted me from worrying about our family, and for that, I felt thankful. I was still reluctant to consider his advances as molesting me, and convinced myself that somehow, it was part of my daughterly duties. Maybe it happened everywhere else too, and no one talks about it...

Dad came home in time for dinner that night, drunk again as was starting to be his norm, and joined the four of us at the table in a foul mood. Mom was working for the second night in a row, leaving me in charge of everything. I remember that Dad's grouchiness put a crimp on Jimmy's enthusiasm about his day's baseball game, and I tried to get him to talk. In a strange way, I suppose, I was filling Mom's spot as the heart and ears of the house; it just came naturally, and my little brother's smile as he recounted his 'unbelievable' catch was worth it.

Much to my surprise, Dad stayed behind to help with the dishes - he hadn't eaten much, and I had to put up with a scowling expression everytime I turned around. But when I tried to strike up a conversation with him, all I got in return were monosyllables. Still, I persisted.

When I remarked that he shouldn't have driven after drinking, Dad blew his top. With all his fury, he smashed the plate that I had passed over on the floor, breaking it into smithreens and causing the kids to come running to see what it was all about. Dad stood by stonily while I reassured them that it was nothing, the plate had just slipped from my hand.

Satisfied, they returned to the living room.

When we were alone in the kitchen once again, I glared at Daddy. What a jerk! It was the first time I had thought of my father in such terms, but I felt I was more than justified. It was apparent that Dad wasn't going to do anything about the pieces on the floor, so I grabbed the broom and started to clear the floor.

When I had almost finished the task, just as I was pushing everything into the pan, I felt his hands between my legs! Liquor, it seemed, was not enough to slow him down; in the time it took for me to sense his touch, Dad was cupping my pussy through my pants, while his other hand roamed over my ass, tracing the crack between my cheeks.

"What are you doing, Dad?" I managed to ask before he squeezed my pussy, causing me to exhale sharply; his left hand was now moving up my back, his fingers pressing into my spine. Dad didn't bother replying, though. Instead, he closed his mouth over my neck, tilting my face, and started to nibble his way to my earlobes. My knees grew weaker by the second as I fought for repulsion over attraction, trying to overrule what I found myself wanting to do.

Dad won; I moaned my pleasure.

His left hand was now cupping my left breast fully, licentiously teasing and pinching my nipple, which peaked in an instant under his touch. His cock felt so good pressed against my ass that I started to push back at him, sandwiching the lump behind my butt. Dad groaned as he reached the delicate flesh of my earlobe, my earrings dangling until he swallowed them in his effort to taste my ears. With his right hand, Dad started to squeeze my pussy rhythmically, exciting the raw flesh underneath my pants, and for his efforts, succeeded in getting me wetter than I had ever been.

Nothing else remained in my head except the electricity. I was responding to Daddy in a way no man had ever made me respond, in a way no man has ever made me WANT to respond... My hormones raged within my body, as if seeking a powerful release, and I found myself extremely turned on by his experienced hands. I gasped when I felt him start to unbutton my blouse, remembering that I had thought it unnecessary to wear a bra. Then Dad changed his mind, or so it seemed - he plunged his hand into my top and squeezed the naked flesh.

For some strange reason, that touch of his brought me back to my senses. "No," I found the voice to object, "This is not right. Daddy... you shouldn't... we shouldn't be doing this..."

Nothing happened for a second, and I was starting to think he hadn't heard me, when he let go. His hands left me a wreck, and when he stepped back, my knees buckled. I stopped myself from falling, absently noticing that one breast was almost completely exposed. Even as I regained my footing, I pulled the blouse back over my tit and fastened the buttons, not wanting to look at Dad until I was decent enough.

I was conscious of the musty odor of sex when my breath started to retun to its normalcy, and shocked when I found out that there was a wet spot on my pants, between my legs. My nipples refused to subside, poking defiantly through the thin material of my top, and there was not a damn thing I could do to hide my reaction. This time, he had gone too far. This was definitely abuse. This time, I couldn't forgive him...

But by the time I had changed into a fresh set of clothes, the anger started to wear off. Half an hour had passed by then, and I found myself wondering if anyone else would ever make me feel so aroused again. On retrospect, I suppose his arrogance in claiming my body was sexy, in that old caveman-era lifestyle, where the man did as he pleased and the physically weaker women had to put up with whatever he dished out.

Life must have been so simple, so blameless then. There would have been no guilt about incest, no guilt about being turned on by your own dad.

I was still buttoning my pajama top when Dad opened the door and walked in. I remember feeling no shock at his entrance - it was something I had somehow learnt to accept. The only problem in the picture was that my tits were still exposed, and his eyes focused on them instantly.

Even before I could completely cover myself, Dad walked over and grabbed my waist. My protest was quickly muted by his mouth. Sometime during the kiss, Dad removed my top and threw it over my head towards the door.

Numb to everything else but his kiss, I started to kiss him back, letting my tongue out and teasing his lips. Dad had his pelvis pressed against mine, and the erection, I could feel through the thin confines of my bottoms, throbbed against his shorts. My ears started to burn, my eyes blurred, and I sought normalcy by clinging on to his head even harder.

When he finally pulled away, I couldn't stop myself from gasping for breath. My breasts felt heavy, and it was only then that I was aware of his hands massaging them, albeit in a rough, uncaring manner. He kept on toying with the nipples, as if delighting in the way they challenged him to get them harder.