Prick Van Winkle
Chapter 1

Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Humor, Incest, Father, Daughter, Grand Parent, Harem, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Pregnancy, Slow,

Desc: Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Rip Van Winkle slept for 20 years, according to legend. He had a son, and his son had sons, and those sons had sons. What if, what had caused Rip to sleep was something genetic. that could be inherited? Bob Winkle took a nap one day, but his nap wasn't ANYTHING like Rip's.

It all happened very innocently, but also very mysteriously. It happened on a spring day in 1950, when Bob Winkle took a nap.

It was a Saturday, and he and his wife had already celebrated their third wedding anniversary by a long, sweet lovemaking session when they first woke up. They pretty much had to do it then, since the children would prohibit both opportunity and affect the mood, later in the day.

As he sat, he had a glass with him, an anniversary present from his older brother, who lived in Kentucky, back in the hills, where no one bothered him. His brother had a taste for homemade whiskey, and a talent for producing it as well. The recipe for that moonshine was a closely guarded secret that his brother claimed to have inherited from their grandfather, and which produced the best amber-colored bottled lightning around. That golden fluid was aged for years in gallon sized oaken casks, (quality, rather than quantity was the goal), and slid down the throat smoothly. His brother knew that Bob appreciated a good toddy too, and sent him a bottle from time to time. A note had come with this gift, saying that this batch was made with the last of his special European ingredients, was "almost magical", and that Bob now owned the last bottle of it.

Being in a good mood, and having completed all his chores for the day, Bob had poured himself four fingers of his brother's "magical" whiskey, and sipped at it happily as he sat in his brand new Barca Lounger. That chair was another anniversary present, this one from his wife, Valerie, who decided on that gift because it had leather upholstery. He smiled to himself, feeling the whiskey seeping into his veins. Who had decided that leather was the right gift for a third anniversary? How silly was that anyway? He felt his eyes begin to droop, and decided he had time for a short nap before Valerie called him to dinner. She had said she was making meatloaf to celebrate. That was his favorite dish. She made it every anniversary as a tradition.

Valerie was very traditional about things like that, and, as it turned out, about other things too ... like taking care of her family.

Valerie Winkle was extraordinarily happy with her life up to that point in time. Bob was an energetic and cheerful home-bringer of the bacon, so to speak, not to mention his energy in the bedroom. He had kept her pregnant, if not barefoot, ever since slightly before they got married and she now had three beautiful girls to remind her to pay that special little attention to him when he came home at night. She really wanted a boy or two. She had a wonderful home, nice neighbors, pleasant, if distant in-laws and all the sex she could ever hope for. Bob was as highly sexed as she was.

The first clue she had that her life might change was when, after making her traditional meatloaf dinner for her loving husband, and getting the three girls fed, the youngest of which eased the slight pain and pressure in her swollen breasts by sucking lustily at both of them, she went to wake up the love of her life.

Except that he didn't wake up.

It was only puzzling at first. He was warm to the touch, and breathing ... snoring softly, in fact ... but he wouldn't wake up. Puzzlement led to discomfort as she spoke to him in increasingly louder and louder tones and shook him until the new chair began to creep across the floor. Discomfort morphed into real fear as, in desperation, she upended a pitcher of water on his face and chest.

Nothing worked. He slept on.

Eventually she called her Father-in-law, Percy, who appeared and was just as puzzled, uncomfortable and then fearful as she had been. In the end they called an ambulance, not knowing exactly what to tell the attentive attendants when they arrived. There were no wounds, and no known drugs involved, other than an empty glass on the end table, and a bottle that was missing only a few ounces. He was removed from the house on a gurney and carried off to the hospital in the ambulance. A sobbing Valerie rode with him, while Percy arranged for his wife to come watch the children.

There was no fear at the hospital, much to Valerie's astonishment. Vital signs were taken by a young resident, who pulled the stethoscope from his ears and addressed the crying woman.

"He's fine," said the resident in that voice that young doctors cultivate to get people to believe they're actually older and more experienced than the two or three years of actual medicine they've practiced might suggest.

"What do you mean, he's fine?" asked Valerie. "If he's so fine why won't he wake up?"

"Well ... er ... I don't know exactly," admitted the twenty-four-year old young man who was supposed to know everything. "But he's fine." His face got earnest. "I mean there's no indication that he's in any pain, or has anything wrong with him. His respiration and heartbeat are completely normal for a sleeping man. I don't think he's in a coma, because his reactions are all wrong for that. I'll talk to the attending physician and see if we can do some tests."

There were, in fact, tests done. Then there were more tests done. Pretty soon there were eight full fledged doctors examining Bob. They poked and prodded and drew blood and made x-ray images until they had no more tests to do. Then they sat around and were ... puzzled.

Three of them wanted to say he was in a coma, since that was a quick and easy solution to the problem, and would result in fewer people questioning their expertise, something they were now worried about.

That suggestion went down the tubes when another doctor, idly flipping through the chart said "Can't be a coma. He got an erection while the nurse was giving him a sponge bath."

"Well we could call it a coma," said one frustrated physician.

"No we can't, because it's not a coma," insisted another.

To avoid making a decision about this admittedly strange case, they put him in a room and had nurses take care of him as if he were in a coma. Then they forgot about him ... or tried to.

The next crisis concerning Bob was the first clue that something exceedingly strange was going on. The doctors, in their haste to distance themselves from a man they couldn't cure ... couldn't even diagnose, for that matter, neglected to order the kinds of things that people in comas routinely get ordered to undergo. Such as a feeding tube and a catheter.

The nurses, not having an order to do these things ... didn't. They knew it would be a problem eventually, but nobody was telling them anything about their patient. When the head nurse finally corralled the Internal Medicine doctor who was listed on Bob's chart, and informed him that the patient wasn't being fed or evacuated, there was panic. That's because an entire week had gone by.

That crisis was un-resolved in much the same way as his initial appearance and problem was ... un-resolved. When the doctor examined him, there was no sign of dehydration, and his bladder was completely normal, except that it was empty.

The doctor, knowing that no one would believe him, elected to simply tell the nurse to continue monitoring the patient, and to notify him immediately if there was any change in his condition.

The nurses shook their heads, as nurses often do when communicating with doctors, and did the things they didn't have to have a doctor's order to do. Namely, they moved him around in his bed, gave him sponge baths, and ... monitored him.

By the time the Internal Medicine Doctor realized he had something of significant scientific importance on his hands ... mainly that a man who wouldn't wake up somehow needed neither food or water to survive ... he was in the prickly position of having to admit that he had denied the patient both of those commodities.

And he couldn't do that ... now could he?

So, the timid doctor gave a pass to something that, had he pursued it, might have made both Bob and himself famous beyond measure. He did share this information with Valerie, who was properly astounded, but cautioned her not to tell anyone, lest they want to do an autopsy to find out what was going on.

"But he's not dead!" squeaked Valerie.

"Exactly," said the doctor darkly.

It didn't take long for Valerie, eyeing mounting hospital bills, to ascertain that soon, she would be a pauper.

Bob had always handled the finances in the family. He had a den, and an old roll top desk that had been his great grandfather's, given to him, oddly enough, in 1935, when Bob was only fifteen years old. The old gentleman had been over a hundred at the time, and insisted that the heirloom be passed down to Bob. His actions had been tossed off as those of a senile, but friendly old fellow, who died not long afterward. Bob's parents used it until Bob got married and moved out, at which time he took it with him.

That old desk had so many nooks and crannies in it that it took Valerie two weeks to go through everything, trying to get a handle on what she needed to do ... or even could do.

The last cranny she inspected, as is quite often the case, turned out to be the most important one in the desk. It contained an insurance policy, in the name of Bob Winkle, and insured him against the loss of income due to "accident, injury or infirmity" which caused him to be unable to continue working. Unknown to anyone currently alive, with the possible exception of Bob, who was ... and was not, exactly ... alive, he had taken out this policy on the insistent advice of the very same great grandfather who had bestowed that roll top desk on him when he was only fifteen.

"You get yourself one of them insurance policies that pays if you can't work," the old man had said in his raspy old voice. "It's important."

"But Gramps, I'm in the best shape I've ever been in in my life," objected Bob, who, at fifteen was sure nothing could ever happen to him. Besides, he had only been actually getting a pay check at his part time job for a month, and had much better uses for his money than giving it to some insurance company.

"You listen to me, boy," said the old man imperatively. "There's things you don't know about ... things we'll talk of later maybe ... but you get one of them policies. They didn't have that sort of thing when I was growin' up and I sure could have used it."

"I didn't know you were ever out of work," said Bob, who, like many grandchildren, never learn much at all about their ancestors or how they grew up.

"There's a lot you don't know," said the old man in a crotchety voice. "You just do as I say and do it quick. You unnerstand? Now, I'm tired and I want to rest. You run along now and take good care of that desk. It's been in the family a long time. And it's important, too."

Bob had not, in fact, bought the policy right away. But, when the old man suddenly died, only a few months later, his last command niggled at Bob's conscience and he then purchased the policy. He was surprised to find that, since he was so young and fit, it wasn't nearly as expensive as he expected it to be.

But, as has been said, there were lots of things Bob didn't know about at that point. In the grand scheme of things, He thought that probably didn't really matter. Had Bob and his great grandfather been able to talk more, it might have made a huge difference in the way things went.

But the old man died, and so what he might have told Bob was lost ... until Bob figured it out for himself.

That would take a shade more than fifty years.

In fact, three other people would figure out what had happened to Bob before he did. They were quite sure no one would believe them at first, so they kept it a secret, but that will be discussed later.

What was important then was that Valerie, Bob's loving wife, had him sent home, to rest in his own bed, in his own room, and collected on the insurance policy. The insurance company tried to weasel out of it, naturally. They pronounced that he hadn't had an accident, and that he wasn't injured. It was the "infirm" part they couldn't find a way around. Bob was the very definition of "infirm".

So they had to pay off. Not only that, to the the eventual horror of the broker, it was discovered there was no clause in the policy that said how long they had to pay off. That would cause problems later on, but Valerie had plenty of time to research laws and contracts and every time she threatened to take them to court they caved. She had help, from a number of researchers who found Bob's condition irresistible.

So by now you're wondering where this is all going, no doubt. The fact is that you needed to know every bit of information I've already told you ... and more ... but you'll learn that in a bit ... assuming I don't kick off like Bob's great grandfather did. If that happens this will be one of those annoying stories that got started, and then languishes, with the notation of "incomplete and inactive".

We don't want that, so I'll forge on ahead and get the rest of the story on ... paper ... more or less.

There are lots of details, but we'll skip by some of them and just say that Valerie, who still loved her unresponsive husband, provided him with the care, little though it was that was needed ... and the years went by.

Valerie was aware that he needed neither food nor water, though she did have to shave him occasionally to keep his face clean. She eventually had to give him a haircut too, but that wasn't needed all that often.

But she knew that if anyone else found out that he stayed alive and healthy without eating or drinking, things would become ... difficult. So she made sure that it looked like he had an IV tube firmly in place, and ran a tube out from under the sheet to a collection bag that always had a yellowish liquid in it, though it wasn't urine.

For the first two or three years lots of people wanted to study Bob.

But after everybody looked at him and measured him and asked their endless questions, they all shook their heads and went away. She wouldn't let them use shock therapy on him, and limited the number of times he was hooked up to an EEG or EKG, all of which indicated he was completely normal and should be awake.

Eventually, Valerie was left alone with her husband.

Now, you have to understand that Valerie Winkle was quite normal, even though her husband was not. She was, at the time he took his ... nap ... all of twenty-one years old, two years younger than Bob. They had married when she was eighteen and, during those three glorious years she had become accustomed to not only pleasing her husband after a long day's work, but to being pleased herself. While she didn't know it, Bob was, as the saying goes, hung like a horse. He had even, in Junior High School, endured the nickname "Donkey Dick", which name was given to him in the locker room after gym class.

He endured it, that is, until his father sent him to Karate lessons. His Sensei strongly preached non-violence and self defense only. But his Sensei didn't have to listen to boys (and some giggling girls) calling him "Donkey Dick", and since his feelings were hurt, Bob felt no compunction about defending that hurt. It was semantics, a word he didn't even know at the time, but he was justified in defending his feelings at the time. He parlayed the reputation he got from that into a football career in High School, earning the new nickname "Grinder" for his ... enthusiastic ... tackles.

The only reason all this matters is that Valerie, who had never had a man other than her football star husband, was used to a donkey dick on a regular basis. Now, not only did she not get to talk to the love of her life, she didn't get reamed good and proper, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

Valerie was a chaste woman, and she took her wedding vows seriously. People, as time went by, probably would have looked the other way if she'd have decided to dally while her husband lay unresponsive in her house. One of her friends, a woman of somewhat less than sterling repute, even provided her with a "life-size" rubber replica of the very organ she no longer had access to. She blushed for days afterwards, and for months every time she saw the woman.

But she tried it. There came a night, when she had sat and talked to Bob, like the doctors had suggested, even reading to him from his favorite books, and had reached the end of her emotional rope. She retired to her own room, pulled out the dildo and managed to get it inserted, almost crying from the shame of it all.

It wasn't, shall we say, a thing that took her to the heights of passion. After fifteen or twenty minutes, she threw the thing in a drawer of her nightstand where it never saw the light of day again until a daughter found it while they were cleaning out her things after she died.

It was when she talked to Bob about that fiasco, that things improved, at least to some degree, and at least for Valerie.

It happened while she was giving him his sponge bath, and when she got to the part of him she had been trying to replace, she told him about the abortive attempt to satisfy herself.

"Bob, it was just horrible!" she exclaimed, moving the sponge over his abdomen and across his pubic hair. "It wasn't warm, like you, and it was so small! I could hardly feel the stupid thing. It wasn't like you, my darling. Oh, I miss you so much. I miss what we used to do in bed."

By now she had his penis in her hand. No one had thought to tell her that he had become erect during a sponge bath. The nurse who reported that little detail neglected to mention that she had done just a tad more than wash the massive thing she had found under the hospital sheet. And Valerie had always been prim and proper while she bathed him.

This time, however, she took just a little longer, holding that part of him that had so pleased her in the past. She rambled on until she suddenly stopped, shocked to find that what was in her hand was a completely serviceable erection, of the proportions to which she was accustomed. And ... it was nice and warm.

Valerie looked at Bob, expecting to see his eyes open and a smile on his face as he yelled "surprise!"

But he slumbered on, just as before.

Then she looked around, as if she expected to find someone else in the room. The girls were in bed, and of course no one was there. She looked back at the penis her hand was suddenly sliding up and down and licked her lips.

It wasn't as if he were dead or anything. He was still her husband. And she needed him so badly.

It took her only seconds to drop the robe she had been wearing and, blushing like a virgin bride, she climbed up on the bed, straddled her husband and...

Well, this time, those heights of passion were reached, and in a lot less than fifteen minutes.

She talked to him as she rocked back and forth, full to the brim of warm, thick, firm and living cock. She told him how wonderful he felt, and how much she loved him and, then she realized that the heights of passion were clearly in view again, and she moaned for a while.

She stopped eventually, panting.

"You never went this long with me before this," she said, her voice amazed. "I so wish you were awake to enjoy this with me."

Then she went again. He was still hard, and she was still horny, and it was during her fourth orgasm that she felt the wet heat deep inside her that rang the clarion gong in her mind that he had just completed his passion with her.

She rose off of him, staring as his thick white spend dripped out of her gaping pussy and fell back onto his now softening prick.

"Ohhh Bob!" she squealed, throwing herself down on top of him and kissing his face over and over.

Alas, his lips were not as responsive as his lower body had been.

Valerie was still euphoric, though. So much had happened in so little time that had made her life so much better that she couldn't be sad about his lack of returning her kisses. Instead, she promptly began cleaning him up again, this time without the sponge, like she had so many times before they had gotten married.

She smacked her lips when she was done, no longer ashamed to be naked with her unconscious husband, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Good night, my darling," she said softly. "You made me very happy tonight. Please wake up." She stood, looking down at his limp body.

In the morning she thought it was a dream. She worried about it because she knew it wasn't a dream, but somehow wanted it to be a dream. Her embarrassment was back. She was distracted and put coffee in June's cereal. June was only three, but she knew the difference between coffee and milk immediately and cried.

That upset Valerie more and she put her husband out of her mind to take care of her children.

When they went down for a nap, however, she couldn't put him out of her mind any longer.

She returned to his bed and, filled with trepidation, lifted the sheet from his nude body. More to prove that it wasn't true than anything else, she manipulated the object of her desire.

"Bob, something happened last night and I don't know if it was real or not." she said. "Are you in there Bob?"

His staff rose like a young bamboo shoot, growing visibly in her hand.

She stepped back from the bed, her mouth open, her breath frozen in her lungs.

That lasted about fifteen seconds. It's truly amazing how much can race through a human brain in a mere fifteen seconds. Valerie reached "acceptance" of the situation in only nine seconds. The other six were spent on seeing just how fast she could slip out of her dress, and bra and panties.

Then, like Annie Oakley, she rode, yipping and hooting until five year old Martha, holding her three year old sister's hand, stepped into the room to find out what was wrong with Mommy.

"What are you doing Mommy?" whined Martha, watching as her mother's breasts bounced up and down while she sat on top of Daddy, who didn't talk to anybody any more.

"I'm taking care of Daddy sweetheart." was her reply. At this point she wasn't concerned about appearances. How much would a five year old remember in a year anyway?

Well, the fact is that a five year old can remember an awful lot ... especially if she continues to see something happen year after year after year, which is exactly what Martha, June and Betty all did as they grew up. Quite frequently they got to see Mamma ... taking care of Daddy ... who one day would wake up and thank her profusely, Valerie was quite sure.

The fact that the three girls were presented with new siblings ... all boys, interestingly enough ... made an impact on them too. Even back in those days girls, when they got around twelve or thirteen, were able to figure out what sex was all about. By then, Valerie was so used to making love to her almost-but-not-quite-non-responsive husband, that she didn't even try to hide it from the girls any more. Instead, she taught them everything that was needed to run the house and take care of their father, with the exception of that one thing she reserved for herself. Language is very important, in terms of good communication. A very good example of this is that she told all her girls, "This is what Mommy does to take care of Daddy. Some day you'll get to do this, too."

She didn't mean with Bob, but the way she said it was interpreted by all three girls as exactly that. Some day they would do with their father what their mother did with their father.

Thus it was that, when Betty was thirteen, and Martha was fifteen, and their mother contracted one of the diseases that we laugh at nowadays, but which killed people quite frequently back then, Martha just naturally assume the matriarchal role in the household.

It would astonish us now, but back then, if you were well behaved, and showed an ability to cook, clean and wash the clothes, the relative who came to stay with you while your mother's body was laid to rest might actually go back home and leave you to raise yourself. It all depended on the relative. Both Bob's and Valerie's parents had passed on, and there were no really close relatives living nearby. The girls had access to the bank account, because while she was ill Valerie had instructed Martha in those matters and gotten her signature registered at the bank. They had an income, and went to school, and knew how to get medical care. So the distant cousin who stayed with them for three weeks went back home and the girls and their brothers faded from the radar of their relatives. Everyone was busy and had lots of other things to think about.

So Martha took care of her sisters and brothers. It just seemed natural to continue taking care of her father too. And since Valerie wasn't there to try to wake him up by jumping up and down on his penis ... Martha decided that "some day" had arrived.

She hadn't been much impressed with things the first time she sank down on her father's stiff prick, like she had seen her mother do so many times before. Whenever her mother did it, the penis looked wet and slippery. But when she tried it, it wasn't that way at all. In fact, it wouldn't even go inside her. She knew to play with it to get it hard, but once it was hard it just bent as she tried to sit on it. It was June who came up with the solution. She got a stick of butter and rubbed it all over their father's penis. This time, when Martha notched it in the opening of her fifteen year old pussy and sat down, the donkey dick seemed to stab upward and she was impaled. It is probable that, had she been able to climb right back off, it all would have ended there.

But her legs were more or less paralyzed by the pain of losing her maidenhead and, by the time she got her legs under her, her vaginal canal had already adapted to the point that, when she leaned forward to position her feet to stand up, and her little unused clitty pressed deliciously against Daddy's rock hard prick, she decided that maybe ... just maybe ... she'd stay there for another minute or so ... just to see if it got any better.

It did, of course, and her two sisters watched in awe as Martha began jumping up and down excitedly, eventually getting her own belly stuffed just as full of Daddy's virile spunk as Mommy ever did. And, since Martha was now the "woman of the house", she made it known in no uncertain terms that the other two girls were too young to ... take care of Daddy.

That lasted all of ten months, after which Martha wasn't as comfortable with a thick prick stuffed up inside her, since there was a baby taking up most of the room that prick used to fill. On a sunny day in 1962 Martha gave a last convulsive push, and had her father's daughter. It had been a long, hard labor for a sixteen year old girl, and Martha was a bit peeved at her father and the baby for causing her all that agony. On top of that, she couldn't think of a name for the baby. She, being tired, and it being a sunny day, she just named the girl ... Sunny.

It was while Martha was in the hospital that June, now fifteen herself, usurped the duties of ... taking care of Daddy. She had been jealous of Martha for months and months, even when Martha's belly swelled like she'd swallowed a basketball. Now that Martha couldn't do anything about it, June commenced to lose her own virginity. She remembered the scream, followed by the sobs, followed by the moans, finally followed by the joyous bouncing around Martha had done and, not being stupid, June eased herself onto her daddy's prod with much more care.

June had also shoved several things up inside her during the last year, since mean old Martha wouldn't let her use the real thing. So her defloration was, for the most part, only slightly painful, mostly because of the stretching. She sat quietly for a few minutes and began to rock like both her mother and Martha had. She had a good time from the very beginning. She had such a good time that, when Betty wandered in to watch, she insisted that Betty try taking care of daddy too. She wasn't stingy like her big sister.

Betty, always having been the youngest, and always feeling left out when her sisters got to do things before she did, was quite happy to join her sisters. She had to wait until the next day though. June's pussy was dripping with great globs of thick white stuff that Daddy had shot off inside her, but no matter how much they played with the penis that had just put it there, it wouldn't get hard again. By the next day, when they tried again, whatever had been broken had repaired itself.

Betty had a much rougher time of it. She was only fourteen and Bob really was much larger than average, in the penis department. Betty worked hard to get a little more in, and then a little more after that, and a little more after that. When she felt the head of his penis pushing at something up inside her that just wouldn't move, there was still an inch of him left outside of her. But that meant there were six or seven inches inside her, and as she began raising and lowering her tightly stuffed pussy up and down, it began to feel better and better and better. She was able to feel better for a long time until she suddenly felt something happen up inside her that was warm and felt wet too. Then her father's penis softened and, as she stood up, she too had long strings of white goo dripping out of her pussy. It was delicious for her to be like her older sisters.

So, by the time Martha got out of the hospital and back home, the cat ... or pussy, as it were ... was firmly out of the bag and firmly impaled by something long and strong that spurted regularly enough that it could have been called "Old Faithful".

After that all three girls took turns taking care of Daddy.

As things go, it was June who delivered her own sister next, in the summer of 1963. She went into labor while she was at a movie theater, which could be why she named her daughter Gidget.

Betty wasn't far behind, giving birth to her daughter before she reached her sweet sixteenth birthday. Her water broke while she was curled up in a chair reading Pollyanna to her father. Being as unimaginative as her sisters, she named the girl Polly.

Not much has been said, thus far, about the girls' brothers. That's because there really isn't much to tell. The girls took care of the boys just like they took care of their own offspring. These days folks would be amazed at that, but back then it wasn't all that odd. Part of that was because there were fewer people around to begin with, which meant there were fewer people around to poke their noses into other people's business. There was also less government "regulation", meaning the government didn't poke its nose into people's business either. If you were well behaved and didn't draw attention to yourself, you'd pretty much be left alone. And by the time the boys went to school, Martha was old enough that nobody thought it was odd that she was in charge of a boy whose parents were marked as "deceased" on the forms.

Add in there that, at that time in American history, there were no video games to keep a boy in his room for hours. Boys went outside and played with each other. They formed impromptu baseball teams and rode bikes and climbed trees and secretly explored junk yards. The boys were busy being boys, and that's all that really needs to be said at this point.

Well, I suppose it should be pointed out, just for clarification, that the boys were not privy to how Grandpa was being taken care of. Grandpa was boring. All he ever did was sleep. Nor did the girls ever develop any interest in the other penises in the house. They got all the dick they wanted from Bob.

What with the insurance from dear old Daddy, and the life insurance from their mother's untimely death, the girls did fine, even though every time they got pregnant from taking care of Daddy again ... they had boys.

It sounds like the girls had no thought for anything other than riding their father's boner. But that's not true. They did become a bit more circumspect about their daily ... and nightly ... attempts to make sure their sleeping Daddy was happy and would be happy when he finally woke up. The fact that they were getting all the stiff prick they wanted... when they wanted it ... and that the man giving them all that stiff prick didn't argue, or fart, or snore or tell them they were stupid, made them treasure all that quality time with their father. They also learned in school that incest was frowned upon by the community at large, so they kept their activities quiet, both from the community, and their brothers, who grew up, moved out and started families of their own.

As such, they made sure their own children ... who, like their mothers, were also Bob's children ... were not aware of what went on in the room where Grandpa was sleeping.

By the time Bob's granddaughters, Sunny, Gidget and Polly, got to be to the age where it was more or less natural for them to ask their mothers who daddy was, and why nobody had ever seen daddy, the three women simply explained that, during the sexual revolution of the sixties, things like that happened. To divert attention away from fathers, the girls were encouraged to read stories to their grandfather so that, when he finally woke up, he'd be happy.

The girls, however, could think of a lot of things to do that were more interesting than reading to a sleeping man, things that didn't involve the sleeping man at all, and they usually did those things. Thus it was that after the "grandchildren" were all in bed, their mothers went the extra mile to ensure Bob's happiness themselves. They had, by now, learned to use birth control, else Bob's "grandchildren" number in the teens.

Eventually, first Sunny, then Gidget and finally young Polly went away to college, followed by their brothers as the years went by. Their mothers, who had raised their children in the big old house - sort of a mini village kind of concept - finally had a chance to find a place of their own. June and Betty found cheap houses not far from the homestead and Martha stayed with Daddy. All three, however, kept taking care of Daddy, who slept on. Almost everyone in town was impressed (some positively and some not so much) with how Bob's daughters had all forgone a lot what most women wanted - a husband - in the pursuit of taking care of the old man, who somehow didn't look old enough to be a grandfather. But then again, everyone knew that sleeping kept you young, and that's all he ever did. Besides, while the women didn't have husbands, they obviously had round heels, as evidenced by all those babies they'd had without all those husbands. Many a man in Circleton wished he could have been one of the fathers of some of those children ... or the next one. But their advances were rebuffed, and in a nice way that didn't make the men feel dirty. Basically, Martha, June and Betty were well liked by everyone in the neighborhood.

Sunny, Gidget and Polly did all the things girls everywhere do. They met boys, loved them, hated them, and met more. They studied, had sleepovers, went to parties and lost their virginities in ways completely different than their mothers had. Though, not to put too fine a point on it, Gidget lost her virginity to a professor who actually looked older than her grandfather did, so one could suppose her experience was close to that of her mother's. The man "prepped" Gidget during several of their heavy petting sessions, making sure that she could take two fingers before he skewered her with his academic member.

Sunny succumbed to a smooth talking assistant football coach when she was a 19 year old cheerleader at Crampton University. She was quite sure she could marry him and live happily ever after. When she told him about the happy news that they were going to be parents, he was less than enthusiastic about it, but agreed to "do the right thing." She named the little girl she bore him Valerie, in honor of her grandmother, the baby's great grandmother. She found out fairly soon that despite "doing the right thing" her husband was a louse and divorced him when little Valerie was only five. She graduated and became employed, and went on with life. She never remarried, having decided that men were more trouble than they were worth.

Gidget managed to parallel her cousin's story remarkably closely. She went to a different university where she became the victim of another educator, as described before. He swore he was going to divorce his wife as he was spurting deep inside Gidget's unprotected pussy, and it only took her two or three months to figure out what kind of asshole he was. She broke it off, changed colleges, and had the asshole's daughter in 1982. She was named Rebecca, primarily because the professor who had knocked her up was also a closet anti-Semitic and she knew that giving his daughter a good Hebrew name would hurt him more than anything else she could do.

Polly, determined not to make the same mistake as her two cousins, shopped around until she found a man who was sensitive, caring and polite in the extreme. He also didn't push her into anything, which made her feel better, if not a little superior to her cousins. In fact, she managed to remain a virgin until 1983, when she was every bit of twenty. She was both amazed and delighted that, when she proposed, to the man who she finally awarded her virginity to, he not only accepted ... he helped her plan the most beautiful wedding she could have imagined. He also helped decorate the house and made baby clothes for their daughter, named Francine, born in 1984. He was better with a sewing machine than she was. Her only complaint was that her perfect husband didn't seem to have much of a sex drive. That was because, as she found out in the nineties, when it was okay to admit these things, that her husband was, and always would be, a flaming homosexual. He had married her in an attempt to "fit in". Still, he was as much fun to be around as any of her girlfriends, and they stayed together ... as friends.

As fate would decree, all three cousins ended up right back in Circleton, so named, supposedly, because a group of settlers who made it all the way across the prairie and the mountains without incident, had to circle the wagons to fight off a band of roving Paiute Indians when they finally got to the West coast. The settlers had actually won the day. They stayed there and built a town, figuring that if the Indians wanted it enough to fight for it, there must be some reason. No gold was ever found in those parts, but by then everyone was pretty much tired of moving.

At any rate, there they were, in sleepy, backwater Circleton, leading their separate lives, while their mothers took care of Grandfather, who slept on, just as he always had.

There was a natural inclination for their daughters to band together. While their ages were disparate, they were cousins, and that counted for quite a lot. It didn't hurt that their mothers, who were technically cousins, had been raised in the same house and thought of themselves as sisters. The younger cousins played together, went to school together, got in trouble together and basically acted like sisters themselves, even though they lived in separate houses.

They also spent what some folks might call an inordinate amount of time standing beside their great grandfather's bed, staring at him. Their young, fertile minds and young fertile imaginations came up with scenario after scenario of what was wrong with Great Grandpa Winkle, what he was thinking as he lay there, and what would happen when he woke up (they all just knew he'd wake up).

While their mothers had little interest in the old man ... who didn't look at all old to the girls ... his great granddaughters learned from their grandmothers that he enjoyed being read to, and liked for people to tell him stories, and describe their day to him and all that sort of thing. No one ever told them how it was actually known that Bob liked that, but then kids will believe most anything a trusted adult tells them.

So they did that. And, at the odd moment when the other two weren't there, each young girl talked to the only man they felt like they could confide practically anything to without worrying about what he'd say back, or who he would share those secrets with. They talked about all kinds of things they'd never have talked about with a man who was awake, including, as they grew older, how they felt about certain boys, and what their bodies felt like sometimes when they touched themselves certain places ... or when a boy touched them in those places ... things like that. In short, he got told a lot of these kinds of secrets.

Great Grandpa Winkle was a very good listener.

Of course it wasn't all sugar and spice for Bob's descendents. There came a time, in 1970, for instance, when a man from the insurance company came, saying that the company had been paying disability for too long, and demanding to see the beneficiary. He was duly taken into the room where Bob Winkle lay. He didn't believe it was Bob, since the man in his files would have to have been at least fifty-five years old. This man was obviously only in his early to mid twenties. A court case ensued, which was resolved by the taking of Bob's fingerprints, which proved that he was, indeed, the same Bob Winkle that the insurance company was indebted to. Heads were shaken, but a court ruling is a court ruling and all the people involved were too busy with making money to seek further into Bob's condition. Once again, he was forgotten by all except his daughters, and their granddaughters.

And so, life went on. Martha, June and Betty had settled into a rotating schedule in which they cared for their father, who was still ensconced in the family home which Martha lived in, even though the papers on the deed still listed her father and mother as owners. Each of the women, now in her early fifties, mounted his sleeping form with great regularity, sighing and moaning as they gently rocked themselves to sweet orgasms, and welcoming into their bellies the warm spurts of his not so sleeping issue. He had given each of them a beautiful daughter, and several sons. His sons ... or grandsons, depending on how you look at it, had all become successful at various pursuits and were pillars of their respective communities. While his other daughters, or granddaughters, again depending on how you look at it, had been somewhat less successful in their pursuit of true love, they were, for the most part, well adjusted and carried on with little more pain in their lives than anyone else would experience.

It was a sunny morning in May, 2000, when Betty shuddered, her pussy clasping her sleeping father's prick tightly as waves of pleasure swept over her naked body. At fifty-two, Betty was still a healthy and well preserved woman. She would like to have lost fifteen pounds, and she mourned the loosening of the muscles that had held her generous breasts up for so many years. She observed this as she held up those breasts, one in each hand, squeezing the fat brown nipples that perched on their tips. She had to hurry. Her granddaughter, Francine was due to arrive in half an hour for a birthday shopping trip. Betty had already had one orgasm, and was tempted to go for another one. She decided she didn't have time though.

Over the years she had learned that she could make her father's long hard prick spurt whenever she wanted it to by using her pussy muscles just so ... by rocking just this way ... and making him cum was a habit by now. She and her sisters had decided long ago that Daddy deserved to cum as part of his "care". She began to do what she knew would get his prick to spurt.

Her father, as usual, made no sign or movement, but she felt his wonderful long penis swell a bit and then the warm wetness she loved so much filled her deep inside. She leaned over, as she had done so many times in the past, kissing his slack lips softly.

"I love you Daddy." she said softly. It was something she had been saying for so long that it was a routine statement.

It was the same general routine that she had carried out, as had her sisters, for almost forty years.

It should not be hard, therefore, to imagine the level of her surprise when her father's eyes opened and stared up into hers.

Betty's first reaction, the most normal of reactions, was shock. Part of that shock was because his eyes were brilliant sky blue. She had never seen her father's eyes, or at least couldn't remember seeing them. He had, after all, gone to sleep when she was still suckling her mother's breasts. Part of that shock was because, while she "knew" that this man was her father, his youthful appearance belied that fact. He looked like a man in his early to mid twenties. While she had been young, that hadn't seemed notable. But as she aged, and he stayed the same, her mind had begun to rebel at the notion that this handsome young man could be anything other than what he appeared to be ... just a handsome young man.

It was very conflicting, because she loved the concept that he was her father, and while she had only nice memories of the man who had impregnated her four times, it was still difficult for her to fully grasp the idea that he really was her father. Maybe that was one reason why it was so easy for her to have let herself be impregnated by him. Who knows? It was, after all, an unusual situation.

Another part of her shock was because he took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, part of which was probably due to the fact that his prick was right in the middle of spurting her full of semen. She had neither seen nor heard him do anything other than lie there quietly. And, of course, part of the shock was because while her sisters had always stubbornly claimed he would wake up some day ... she secretly didn't believe it.

But, her sisters were right. Today was that day. He had awakened.

Betty's next reaction followed closely. She was suddenly intimately aware of how she was dressed ... or rather not dressed ... and, despite the fact that she had done this very same thing with this very same man, literally thousands of times, she was acutely aware that she was engaged in having sex with a stranger.

Her face was only inches from his, her body frozen as if she were made of stone. She stared into those endlessly deep blue eyes. His penis gave two more convulsive spurts and stopped.

You could literally have heard a pin drop.

Chapter 2 ยป