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.