Chapter 12

My father stopped fucking at midnight. When he pulled his beautiful, gleaming-wet cock out of my hole for the last time that night, he sighed as he poked his lovely long fingers into my straining cunt and said, "Darling daughter, I have an ordeal ahead of me this day. I must rest and prepare myself for it."

"Can't we have just one more fuck?" I pleaded, but he shook his head as he diddled my twat and then, after bidding all of us good-night, departed for one of the other bedrooms.

I moved to follow him, but Harry stopped me by sliding an arm across my tits and said, "It's for your mother's good, Robin. Let him go."

"But we were just getting warmed up!" I protested. "Who needs rest?"

"He does," Harry insisted. "He has to be at his best when he sees Wilma Rood tomorrow."

"But he never runs out of gas," I insisted. "I should know."

Harry looked at me, the sadness back in his eyes, a sadness I had seen only since my real father arrived. He said, "Not with you, Robin ... after all, you're young and beautiful ... and his daughter."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"You haven't seen Wilma Rood," said Harry. And, to Hotpants, who was slurpingly sucking his cock. "Excuse me, darling, but I think Robin's need is greater than thine as of this writ-tag.

Hotpants lifted her lovely, sexy face from the big prick she loved so well and tossed back her hair and said to me with a smile, "Be my guest, Robin."

Harry rolled over on top of my willing body and slid that marvelous mole-tipped tool of his into my cock-hungry cunt ... but once again, I was reminded of the importance of the psychological element in fucking. While Harry was a magnificent amorist, fucking and being fucked by him had lost its quintessence of excitement for me ever since I learned that Leicester Martin rather than he was my real father.

I didn't even try to figure out what it meant. After all, Harry was ramming his wonderful prick in and out of my thrusting hole so this was hardly a moment for a self-question and answer period. Having him in my quiff may not have been as wildly exciting as in the past. But it still sent me winging into orbit in a hurry, and, if only to make up for my loss of love for him, I gave the fucking all I had. Nor did I emerge the loser as voluptuous thrill pursued voluptuous thrill through my churning, gyrating body.

When we finished, in a wild wet tangle of limbs and torsos, and I had rested for a little while, brother Bill drew me on top of him and, for the first time that night, I could feel the head of his cock pushing against the nubbly surfaces of my labia and nymphae. I spread my legs so that my knees straddled my half-brother and wriggled my cunt downward until his meat filled it. Once again I gave it everything I had and was repaid with interest by the wonderful sweetness of the succession of orgasms that roiled my flooding guts before; at last, he drove his cock in all the way and held its throbbing head against my womb-top while his semen flooded that already full-to-bursting organ of delight.

Thereafter, I was out of the contest, feeling no need for any prick other than that of my so-newly discovered real father. I sat on a corner of the big bed and watched Harry and Bill and Joanie and Hotpants gambol as they had so many delightful other nights. Then, when all four of them were engaged in a marathon double fucking, I felt sleepy and very much alone and slipped off to find my real father and snuggle my own naked body against the muscular magnificence of his.

When I wakened the following morning, it was to find him sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, smoking a cigarette and regarding me thoughtfully. When he saw I no longer slumbered, he said, "Robin, are you sure you want to come with me ... after we finish with Mrs. Rood today?"

I nodded, said, "You know it, darling Daddy."

"You'd better get used to calling me Les," he said, his incredibly light blue eyes laughing down at me. "Some of the inevitable situations we'll be in would make our true relationship ... well, indiscreet."

"Les ..." Shyly, I slid a hand between his lean, muscular thighs and gripped his limp prick tenderly. "I did hear you say something about our coming together ... didn't I?"

He smiled and my heart lit up, and then he turned briefly away to tamp out the cigarette in a nightstand ashtray. He made no effort to remove my hand from his dong, and even as he did this, I could feel the wonderful beginning of it swell within the circumference of my palm and fingers.

Turning back as it rapidly attained full fucking size and far outgrew the grip of my hand both in length and thickness, he looked down at its burgeoning, then at me and said, "I really shouldn't..."

"... But you can't help yourself." I slid a hand around his rump to pull him closer. "And what you've got now would be a pity to waste."

"That's a thought," he conceded. "It would hardly be production for use now, would it?"

"And I helped produce it, didn't I, darling?"

"You beautiful little devil." He laid his flesh against mine, and my cunt flooded and I began to come before either prick or finger touched it. There was no further question in my mind--if, indeed, there had ever been one--this was the man I had to be with if life was to have any meaning at all. And, as his wonderful whang slid into my more than ready roundhouse, I climaxed so mightily that the sun seemed to burst into a brilliant nova, even though, when I came out of it, I discovered that the skies were clouded.

Les made this fairly quick. Instead of repeating, put his head in my crotch and tongued and sucked my sopping sex piece until my passions subsided ... although the wonderful roughness of his tongue against my clit and in my cunt rendered the process slower than it might otherwise have been.

We showered and he shaved and then we dressed and had breakfast with the family. Then we were off to Running Water and the great ploy to make the minister's wife drop her charges against poor Mommy and her reverend husband.

My father had set it up the day before while Harry and I were discovering the thrill was gone. And as he put the plan into operation, I discovered that there was a great deal to learn about this man who had so swiftly possessed himself of my paternity and my cunt. Like anyone else confronted with a miracle, I had simply taken him for granted and asked few questions. Nor had I asked any of myself. Questions like where he lived or what he did for a living ... stuff like that. Thus far, I was just along for the ride.

We drove to a motel on the outskirts of Running Water ... the very same place in which Wilma Rood had caught Mommy and her husband in what is known in legal circles as flagrante delicto ... where Les had already engaged the large end suite usually reserved for traveling salesmen who wish to lay out their wares for the local buyers.

Les and the kids had rigged it up with black draperies and set up a sort of altar at the side ... directly across the room from the door to the suite's bedroom. My father led me in there and showed me the peephole and then drew a fine little movie camera from the suitcase that lay open on the rack against the wall.

"I want you to be sure that my face never shows," he told me, "but get every bit of Wilma in action. It won't be so difficult to keep me out of it since I'll be masked most if not all of the way."

He began undressing, and I automatically reached for my own zipper, but he checked me, saying, "Not now, Robin. I've got to change."

There before my eyes, my father transformed himself into a priest with black cassock, white surplice and all ... surely the most handsome priest who had ever worn such drab attire, all the more handsome in contrast to it.

"But, Les," I protested, "you're not wearing anything underneath..."

"I'm well aware of that," he said, his wonderful eyes laughing at me. "As a matter of fact, that's most important!" Then, as the doorbell sounded from outside the display room, "Oh-oh, Robin ... she's here!"

He glided from me, closing the door, and I quickly stationed myself, camera in hand, at the peephole to watch.

Wilma Rood was the homeliest old woman I ever saw--even for a Running Water minister's wife. Beady eyes, a big birdlike beak, a tight, mean little mouth, a sprinkling of large moles, lank, greying hair ... these were a few of the stellar attractions Wilma boasted from the neck up. From the neck down, it was anybody's estimate, for she wore a shapeless ankle-length dress of black sateen turned rusty brown by too many launderings. A pair of rimless pince nez perched on the crown of her corvina beak.

As I watched Les receive her, I realized that my real father was not only a superstud but a super-performer as well. No star of stage, screen and television could have radiated the delight with which he greeted this walking horror. I've heard of extreme unction, and my new daddy had it sticking out all over him and he took her hand in both of his and led her gently but firmly to a straight chair, sat down opposite her and began conversing with her, keeping his hypnotic light blue eyes firmly fixed on the pair of black beads that passed for Wilma Rood's orbs.

Since the acoustics were lousy, I could only catch snatches of what Les was saying to her in his low, persuasive voice. But what I did hear was enough to make my neck hair stand straight up. I heard mention of "sin" and of "redemption" ... of seeing that "Each one of us who treads the path of evil must receive his just and fitting reward here on earth"... of "carrying out unflinchingly the vengeance of the Lord" ... et cetera.

Wondering why Les was trying to set Mommy and the Reverend Milton Rood up for a lynching, I nevertheless got the camera focused properly and took some footage of Wilma Rood through the peephole, busying myself so that I could not for a time pay attention to the frightening things my new Daddy was telling the woman who had put her husband and my Mommy in jail.

I could see that Wilma was taking it all in. And from the expression on her face, Les had her hypnotized. Her little black eyes stared fixedly at him and her little mouth was open with the tip of a pink tongue showing in one corner. The front of the shapeless black dress was heaving up and down, indicating the intensity of whatever emotion my new daddy had inspired.

Listening once more, I realized that the tenor of Les's monologue had changed. Now he was talking less of sin and vengeance and more of "the unfulfilled needs of every human soul." He had recaptured her hand and was leaning forward, pressing with low-keyed insistence the case he was trying to make for her benefit. Whatever it might be.

Then, gracefully, he rose and smiled beatifically down at her, holding both her hands. In sonorous tones, he said, "I want you to pray for guidance, my dear, lest you soften in your resolve to pursue the vengeance that is rightly yours ... nay, pray not merely for guidance upon you, however hard the path may seem."

He led her in front of the altar and, with the gentlest of shoulder pressures, caused her to sink to her knees and pray. All of this I caught with the camera, carefully leaving my new Daddy's face out of the frames as he stepped out of the camera range. I was still shooting and Wilma was still praying, in profile across the room, when suddenly the door was opened and Les slipped into the room beside me.

After mopping a beaded brow, he said in tones barely above a whisper, "Put that camera down, darling ... you've got to help me get a hard on so I can fuck that old bitch."

For a moment, as the true purport of his plan got through to me, I was unable to move. The sheer audacity of his scheme, to say nothing of its devilish effectiveness, actually paralyzed me. Understanding the sacrifice he intended to make in his sister's behalf, my love for my new-found father soared to even loftier heights.

But Daddy was not in a waiting mood. Pulling me close, and forcing me to my knees, he said as he pulled up his cassock in front to expose his limp genitalia, "Honey, give it everything you've got. That old bag's bad enough to look at, but she's got breath like a dead rhinoceros that's been lying in the African sun too long."

"Better fuck her from the rear then, Daddy," I told him just before I lifted his flaccid fucking piece and put it into my mouth. The stroke of his hand on my head expressed his approval of my suggestion. In general, I have always been known as the practical one among the three of us kids, which was why my just discovered psychic powers came as such a surprise.

But this was hardly the moment for such esoteric considerations. My duty clear before me lay: to give my new-found daddy a hard on and give it to him in a hurry, so he could fuck old balsam-face there in the next room and get it under with.

At first, I didn't think I was going to make it. No matter how cunningly I applied my lips, my tongue and even my teeth, I seemed unable to rouse any response in Daddy's dick. Invariably, if a man's prong is going to respond to any treatment, it shows at least some signs of life early in the game. Daddy's remained as soft and dangling after two full minutes of sucking and licking and nibbling as it had when I first put it in my mouth.

I let it go and stood up and said, "It isn't going to work, Les darling."

"I know it." He looked down at his useless fucking piece and shook his handsome head. "Just thinking of that hideous old crumpet out there is enough to put it in non-rigid shock. And of all the times to ..."

"Don't give up the ship, Daddy," I said, pushing my naked body close against his. "Maybe if..."

Keeping his cassock high on his chest, I climbed his beautiful body and tucked his hanging cock into my well-creamed crotch and began squeezing it between the tops of my thighs. It worked, and within a mere matter of seconds, that magnificent curved scimitar pushed hard at the gates of my cunt, seeking its true scabbard.

But there was no time for us to complete together what we had so well if so belatedly begun. Wilma Rood waited in the next room, and it was time for the coup de grace. Daddy hugged me and then pulled his prick clear of my cleft. Still naked, I resumed my post at the peephole, camera in hand, as soon as the door closed behind him.

He approached his victim quietly, his cassock protruding in front, thanks to the big erection beneath its modest black broadcloth surface, like that of a pregnant woman after her waters have fallen just before the childbirth. But even as I watched and took pictures, to my horror the bulge began to recede.

Les moved swiftly, deftly, taking the only course remaining to him, which was to plant his prick in that old horror's hole before it grew too small for insertion. Even so, I didn't think he was going to make it. But, when he lifted Wilma's dress from behind, intoning, "And now let us know the pleasure of our Lord!" the miracle occurred.

If Wilma had the face of an old witch, from the neck down, concealed by the shapeless rust-brown sateen dress, lay a bundle of goodies which, though slightly overripe perhaps, were definitely female and definitely designed for fucking. As Les lifted his cassock once more, his waning prick was rising once more, and he lost no time in dropping to his knees behind his victim, pushed her torso over forward and thrusting his curved cock to the hilt in the juicy cunt of the minister's wife.

And I kept right on shooting for posterity as he fucked her.

As he pumped his Big Bertha in and out of her fully exposed hole, it quickly became lathered with pussyjuice. Since he could neither see her face not get a whiff of her monstrously bad breath, it quickly became evident to me that my sire was enjoying himself. He was too much the erotic artist not to do his utmost to give delight when embedded in such a juicy hole. He began fucking her with flourishes, moving his buttocks to the left or to the right to bring his big curved cavalry saber plunging into Wilma's juicing tunnel of love from a variety of angles.

As for Wilma ... she behaved like a highly sexed female who had never been so thoroughly fucked in her life. She bucked and bobbed her bottom, she wriggled and writhed, she uttered little whinnies and snorts of delight as she savored her much relished attacker with her cunt and finally, lifting her homely profile upward toward the improvised altar, she uttered a shrill, "Praise to our Lord for giving us such pleasure. Thy will be do-o-o-o-o-o-o-one!"

The done was drawn out until it became a long groan of ecstasy as she came, snapping her rump around wildly and planting herself on all fours the better to wag her tail as feelings invaded her whose existence she could hardly ever have suspected.

Finally, my father had to grab her churning buttocks and grip them tightly, his fingers disappearing in the tender flesh, to plant his sperm in the top of her tunnel. Finished, he pulled his prick out of her richly creamed hole, leaving her in pitiful shape--a condition he relieved by sucking her shuddering pussy, a ministration to which she surrendered with evident relief and delight.

With this done, he let her suck his prick, giving her a lesson in the art of fellatio and pulling his long thick dong out only barely in time for me to get an excellent series of shots of his sperm spurting from the tip of his prick across an inch or two of space into her avidly open mouth. And, since she failed to catch all of it, giving me a fine close-up of Daddy's semen running down her face.

Les said, "Okay, hon, that should do it. Come on out."

When Wilma saw me with the camera and realized what had been done to her, she fainted dead away; but we rode back to Riverville with Mother riding on the front seat between us. She was almost pitifully grateful, yet even now, she uttered a few snide comments about Les's way of life and how he must have accomplished her release.

"You can thank this big prick of mine for getting you out of jail, Edna," he told her. "And at least I'm honest about it. When I fuck, I fuck and I enjoy it as much as possible." A pause, then, "Incidentally, dear sister, you were one of the lousiest lays I ever had ... even worse than Wilma Rood."

Mother turned cherry red, just like Joanie when she's embarrassed. She said, "Joe, you mustn't ... the child!" This last, with a furtive side glance at me.

"Your daughter," he said. "Our daughter ... is one of the very best pieces of arse I've had in my life. What's more, she's coming with me when I take off tonight."

"You wouldn't!" she cried. "I won't let her go!"

"Edna, I hate to say this, but you're in no position to stop us ... not since you made an ass of yourself with the Reverend Rood. So shut up and don't let it happen again. With Robin leaving, you can get all the fucking you'll ever want from Harry and Bill."

"But ... it's so wrong!" she gasped. "I couldn't."

"You will ... now," he said calmly. "You've been dying to get in on it for years, or you'd never have let Rood fuck you. I suppose his being a reverend made it okay."

Mom didn't say anything, but her blush grew brighter still.

Harry and Joanie drove to Kernstown to catch the Indianapolis plane. Mommy and brother Bill were doing, guess what? back at the house in Riverville. After much kissing and a few tears from Joanie, they left us there. Then Les and I went inside--and saw that our plane was ninety minutes late.

I said, sliding my hand into his, "Les, do we have to go to Indianapolis tonight?"

Those hypnotic bright blue eyes looked down at me and blazed with humor and sensuality. He said, "Now that you mention it, I don't really have to get there for another day or two. We wound this business up more quickly than I had estimated."

"Oh, shut up, darling ..." I said lovingly, and we began the short walk back to the motel of blessed memory.