The Trouble With Gurley Pets
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2011 by Sterling

Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - My buddy offered me a "gurley", a pet who closely resembled the most beautiful, charming, cheerful, and helpful six-year-old girl imaginable. There were a few important things he didn't mention, however: the gurleys' sexual habits, who they choose for mates, how fast they grow up, and what happens if they don't get pregnant regularly.

Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Science Fiction   Incest   Harem   First   Oral Sex   Bestiality   Pregnancy  

My buddy Mike made an unusual suggestion: he wanted to give me a pet. I didn't think of Mike as a pet kind of person, but it wasn't like other pets, he said. He wouldn't say more, and being coy wasn't like him either. So I was skeptical, but decided to let him come over.

It's not like I had tons of other things to do. I was 29, lived alone and worked 9 to 5. No family in the area, no girlfriend, not too many friends, not even any kids from a failed marriage. A few hobbies, but mostly I coasted through my weekends without goals, deep thoughts, or accomplishments. It was a pleasant life, without stress. And it meant I had time to invite Mike and his pet to come visit briefly. In the back of my mind brewed a few excuses for how to ease him out the door if he overstayed his welcome.

I'd thought now and then about getting a dog. A dog would be less demanding than a girlfriend, someone who would like me no matter what I did and wouldn't want to talk all the time. But still, a dog seemed like a big responsibility -- a commitment.

Mike arrived at 10am on Saturday, holding by the hand a girl who looked to be about six. And what a gorgeous girl she was! Lovely blond curls, big blue eyes, dimples, and a smile that would melt any man's heart, even if he wasn't into kids. I had no idea Mike had a daughter -- he was pulling one surprise after another on me. Now, one drawback to being a bachelor is you don't get to have any children. Yet children were a messy, whiny, demanding lot on the whole, I had decided. But when a girl like this little one smiled, it made me wonder if I should think about it some more. Still, putting up with a woman just to have a kid who was cute now and then was hardly worth it.

"Hi, Jeremy," he said.

"Hi, Mike. You never told me you had a daughter. I thought you were bringing a pet."

"Now Rover, say hello to Mr. Smith."

"Hi, Mr. Smith," said the little girl, and looked down shyly.

I must have misheard the name, I thought.

"Hello -- what was the name again?"


"I've never heard a girl called Rover before!" Unless...

"Oh, no, this isn't a little girl. This is a gurley, and for the moment I call her Rover. You could call her whatever you like."

"Oh!" I said. "Well, come on in, make yourselves at home," I said, very confused. I should have offered Mike a drink. But should I get something for the pet, too? I bet that a person rarely said, "And what can I get for you, Rover?"

So I sat in the armchair in the living room, while they sat on the sofa. Or at least Mike sat.

Rover tiptoed over to me and leaned against my legs. "Can I sit on your lap?" she asked sweetly.

I looked at Mike.

"It's up to you; gurleys do tend to be rather cuddly."

"Um, OK," I said. The little one gave me a big smile, and in a moment had scooted up onto my lap and leaned against my chest. I naturally spread my arms to accommodate her. "You called her a 'girlie'. You mean a girl?"

"No, a 'gurley'," he said, and spelled it for me. "Of course they look like girls, which is how they get their name."

She gave a sigh of contentment that stirred something in me, tenderness perhaps. Her smell was sweet, her blond hair fell over my chest and tickled my chin. The warmth of her little body was very calming somehow.

"These pets are very easy to take care of. They eat anything, and they're toilet trained and bathe themselves. As you can see, they talk and can tell you what they want, but their wants are pretty simple. They can also clean house, do laundry, dishes and even cook."

"But, um, this um, Rover here, is just like a little girl."

"Not really. Little girls are toilet trained, to be sure, but they require help with baths, generate lots of dirty laundry, whine and complain, and very often don't do what you want. And while they do a few chores now and then, they are nowhere near as helpful as one of these pets."

"Um, how do you happen to have a, um, gurley to spare?" I asked.

"Oh, well," he said, looking away and shifting in his seat, "I have a bunch, including her mother, and that's enough for me."

"I see," I said. "Kind of like giving away puppies from a litter?"

"Yeah, sort of," he said, waving his hands to discourage further questions. "She's yours for free if you want her," said Mike.

"I'm not sure; it seems like a big responsibility."

"I'll tell you what, you can keep her for a few days, and if you don't like her, I'll be happy to take her back and find another owner."

Rover raised her head and looked at me with an open, trusting smile. She got up and stood in front of me. "I like you," she said, looking down shyly, and with that my resistance fell away completely.

"OK, what do I need to take care of her?"

"I have a few changes of clothing here," he said, indicating a small suitcase he was carrying that I hadn't noticed before. "Otherwise, nothing! Just feed her, and tell her what you'd like her to do, and that's all there is to it. I was really surprised how much I liked having her mother -- I bet you'll like Rover."

The door shut and Mike hurried away, leaving the girl standing in front of me, hands clasped behind her back, looking down shyly and twisting back and forth like a washing machine agitator.

"So!" I said. "Um, do you like the name 'Rover'?"

"No," she said with a hint of emotion, looking at me. "That's a dog's name! I'm not a dog."

"I can see that," I said quickly.

"I'd like to have a girl's name," she said.

"Oh, hmmmm," I said, thinking of girls' names.

After a moment, she said, "I have a few ideas, if you don't have any right away."

"OK," I said.

"What about 'Millicent'?"



"That's a pretty old-fashioned name," I said.

"You could call me 'Millie' for short."

I shook my head.

"What about 'Patience'? 'Prudence'? 'Esther'?"

She paused after each candidate, looking for a sign of enthusiasm from me. I was trying to think of nicknames for them. Pashie? Prudy? Stirry?


I smiled. "OK, if I can call you 'Connie' for short."

"OK, that's fine with me," she said. But then she grew serious, and said, "It's your choice, though. I'm just a gurley and you're my owner, so you can pick whatever you want."

"No, 'Connie' will do just fine."

It was by then 10:30. "So," I said. "What now?" I was a little uncomfortable. With a dog or cat, you just did what you wanted and they adapted. But it felt harder just turning away and ignoring a being that seemed indistinguishable from a charming young girl.

"Well, you could give me a quick tour, and then go back to whatever you were doing."

That suited me fine. In preparation for Mike's visit, I'd cleaned up the worst of my disasters. I'd washed the sinkful of dishes, stuffed my dirty clothes in the closet, and pulled up the covers on my bed. So the house wasn't a total mess. I showed her the place: living room with an attached dining room forming an 'ell' shape and a kitchen off the dining room. Off a short corridor was a large bedroom, a smaller one I used as a study, and a bathroom.

As I was showing her the second bedroom, I wondered where she would sleep. There was a bed in there, but it was piled high with my things. I certainly hadn't planned on giving up my study to her. But she was a pet, not a girl, right? That was the deal. The image of a doghouse in the back yard flashed through my mind and made me smile. I then thought of a wire dog crate, but that seemed nearly as silly. I imagined the sort of round "rug with a rim" I'd seen people use for a big dog. Maybe I could put it in a corner of the dining room?

"Um, where are you used to sleeping?" I asked.

She hesitated one brief moment. "Well, if it's OK with you," she sang in her sweet voice, "I'd like to sleep in bed with YOU," with a child's emphasis on that final word. "I don't take up much room, and I don't flop around and bonk people or anything."

It made sense. People's dogs and cats slept on their beds with them.

"And I can keep my suitcase in a corner." She then said quietly, as if asking for a big favor, "Or maybe I could put my things in part of a drawer, if there's a little extra space."

It was a little girl's voice and personality, but she approached the subject matter in a very practical and almost adult manner.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"How old do you think I am?" she asked, eyes bright.

"Eight?" I asked.

"A real girl who looks like me would be about six," she said, "but we gurleys grow differently." She followed it with a dismissive wave that suggested she'd rather not talk about it, and it didn't seem that important.

"So!" I said, when the tour was complete.

"So what were you going to do today?" she asked.

I hadn't decided yet, so now I decided to pick one of the more respectable options. "I was going to put on some Mozart and read my novel," I said.

"OK, that's fine!"

"What are you going to do?" She didn't have any dolls or toys. Would she curl up at my feet?

"Oh, don't mind me," she said. "I might do a little cleaning."

But after I settled down with my Mozart, my book, and a glass of Coke, she gave a shy smile and snuggled in beside me in the armchair. "Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," I answered. Her warmth and charm delighted me, and I found myself stroking her hair, which she obviously liked. But I also found that I was reading the same line in my book over and over.

When I shifted position, she got up, kissed me on the cheek with a giggle, and tripped off. I heard her rummaging around in the kitchen and wondered what she was up to. But Mike had said she was helpful, and it wasn't like I'd put a lot of thought into arranging things in my kitchen or had strong feelings about it.

I then got into my book and actually forgot about her. But I returned to the present when the lovely Connie -- my pet gurley, I reminded myself -- appeared before me.

She handed me a refill of my Coke. "I'm not sure what you had in mind for lunch," she said. "But I could make something. Maybe omelettes with onions and cheese, or toasted cheese sandwiches with tomato slices?"

It was weird to have a little girl talking like that. Girls expected grown-ups to make lunch for them, and whined if it wasn't just what they wanted, right? She was proposing to make lunch for me, not just to whip sandwiches together but to cook a hot meal. And given what little I had in my refrigerator, those were maybe the most elaborate options available.

"Toasted cheese would be lovely," I said. "I've never had them with tomato slices, but it sounds good."

When I stuck my nose into the kitchen, I noted at once that it was cleaner than it had ever been. My counters accumulated miscellaneous junk such as empty paper bags, junk mail, cans of food I hadn't gotten around to putting away, packages of crackers and cookies. Now the counters were clean and shone, as did the sink. I was sure that everything had been stowed in its proper place.

Connie had set the table for a real sit-down meal, with a glass of water for herself and another Coke for me, and napkins and plates. A serving platter held three perfectly browned toasted cheese sandwiches, two for me and one for her. They were delicious.

She ate daintily, though she swung her legs back and forth as they dangled from her chair. I saw her looking up at me, though she looked away shyly when I met her gaze. She used her napkin to wipe crumbs from her lips, and wiped her greasy fingers thoroughly when she was done.

When we were both finished, I rose and picked up my plate, intending to clear the table.

"Oh, no, I'll do that!" she exclaimed, and took the plate from me.

"But you made lunch," I said.

"Of course!" she said. "But you're my owner and I want to serve you."

I shrugged and sat back down, digesting.

"And if we buy some things at the store, I can cook you stuff you really like best."

"OK," I said, and started leafing through a Newsweek. She'd made one neat pile of junk mail and another of magazines.

She was done with the cleanup in just a few minutes, and reappeared with a pencil and paper.

"So what stuff do you like most?" she asked, with a child's enthusiasm. As I mentioned some of my favorites, she wrote everything down. She bit her lip as she concentrated on writing, but she didn't ask me how to spell anything and her writing was neat and even.

Then her expression got serious, "But there's a problem."

"What's that?"

"I can't drive, and I don't have any money," she said, looking sad. "I'm sorry."

I didn't exactly expect a pet to drive or have a bank account! "Of course, I'll just take the list and do the shopping."

"Oh, I'll come shopping too and pick out the stuff. You don't have to do that part! All you have to do is drive -- and pay."

I liked this girl's -- gurley's -- attitude, I reflected as we drove to the store. But once we were inside I found I couldn't just idly stand around the supermarket while she did all the work. So I got some of the packaged items from the list while she did things like choosing fish and vegetables. She earned some looks of wonder and admiration from mothers who were out shopping. They in turn looked at me approvingly, presumably because I had raised such a competent and polite daughter. There was unmistakable envy in the eyes of a few who had a whiny brat in tow.

"She has a remarkable eye for produce!" said one mother.

"Yes, she's learned quickly," I said without thinking.

Connie overheard and turned to look at me for a moment. What I had said was at best misleading. But her reaction was simple amusement, with no hint of accusation.

The bill came to $180, but I could see she was buying lots of staples for a varied diet that would last a good long while. From then on, she prepared wholesome and tasty food for every meal. Some was simple, some gourmet, but it was all wonderful.

I went out for a run in the early afternoon, choosing again one of the more wholesome activities from my weekend repertoire. After I showered I settled down to watch Boston College play Syracuse. I was aware of the washing machine and dryer running, along with the vacuum in the bedrooms. She thoughtfully waited until halftime to vacuum the living and dining rooms. I could hear her humming as she worked, and thought she looked happy. She'd changed into jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers, presumably to keep her pretty dress from getting dirty.

In the excitement of the final minutes of the game I forgot that I had a new pet in the house. My favorite Orangemen lost by a touchdown. All was silent as I turned the TV off. The spare room door was closed, so I looked over the rest of the place first.

In the bedroom she had changed the sheets and made the bed up neatly, which I never bothered with. Opening the closet, I found that the dirty clothes had all disappeared, and then verified that they were all clean, folded and put away in my drawers. She had cleaned the bathroom so all of the fixtures shone. The whole place sparkled, and I found it lifted my spirits a little.

I knocked on the spare room door and heard a small, "Come in!" I found Connie sitting at my computer. To my horror, she was scanning my extensive collection of porn pictures.

"Hey!" I said. "That's private!"

"Oh, it's OK," she said, giggling sweetly. "I hear all men have some, and this is kind of interesting."

I found my anger melting away, though I was confused. If she was a real girl, she would be either perplexed or horrified. If she were a woman, she'd probably be disgusted and make snide remarks. But she did neither.

She announced at 9pm that she was going to bed, and I felt a little sigh of relief. For all that she had given no sign of judging me in any way -- and was my property, I reminded myself -- I felt a little self-conscious. It might have been easier if she were whiny or self-centered. I couldn't help feeling a little inadequate in comparison to this precocious little bundle of virtue.

I peeked in on her at 9:30 and found her curled up at the edge of the queen-size bed, surely occupying no more than a quarter of it, facing the wall. She had the covers pulled up to her chin, leaving exposed only her head of blond curls and her adorable, innocent face.

I went back to the living room and, without curious eyes over my shoulder, watched a dumb sitcom and part of a violent action movie. Then at midnight I went through my usual bedtime routine and came to bed as always in my briefs and T-shirt.

Connie was wearing a nightgown. I saw the covers rise and fall ever so slightly and barely heard the whisper of her breath. It was comforting to have another creature in bed with me. I enjoyed the hint of her warmth, even though there was a foot of space between us.

I felt an urge to snuggle against her back, and hesitated. Parents snuggled with children, of course, and she wasn't even a child. She was a pet -- an animal, really -- and what's more, she was mine. I had no impure intentions.

I spooned behind her and draped my arm over her. She stirred, gave me a sleepy glance and said, "Good night, Mr. Smith" in her small, sweet voice.

Feeling her warmth was wonderful. I felt something like love -- was this what parents felt for their children? I'd start to fall asleep but was always distracted by the living presence in my arms. So I turned away in preparation for sleeping without any distracting body touching me, the way I'd slept my entire life -- with the exception of two brief interludes.

She turned over to face me but stayed a foot away. Her face was beautiful to begin with, and in sleep it conveyed a peacefulness and vulnerability that renewed that tender ache inside me. We hadn't been together even a full day, and I realized later that the idea of maybe giving her back to Mike had vanished from my thoughts.

I fell asleep, calmed instead of disturbed by the little girl next to me.

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