In Her Place
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 1: The Grudge
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Grudge - A girl who barely knew her dead mother teaches herself to become her: the voice, the walk, the way she went first at everything. She studies the dead woman until she can be the wife her father is still grieving. And he lets her. She'll do anything to reach the mother she lost, even to the last place that woman is still alive: in the hands of the man who loved her most. A first-person descent into grief, willful blindness, and taking a place that was never hers. Complete.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Reluctant Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Oral Sex Pregnancy AI Generated
Dad knocked on my door before I was up. Three knocks, a pause, one more. Same as always.
“You decent?”
“It’s my room, Dad.”
“That’s not a yes.” He put his head in anyway. His hair was doing the thing it does when he sleeps on it wrong. “Did the soil come?”
“It’s a bag of dirt. I didn’t sit up all night waiting for it.”
“Big weekend riding on that dirt.” He was already gone.
By the time I got downstairs he’d been out to the tomatoes and back. I could tell because the watering can was wet.
“You watered them,” I said.
“They looked dry.”
“You watered them last night. You’re going to drown them.”
“They looked dry from the window.”
“They always look dry from the window.” I sat down with my toast. He stole a bite of it on his way to the coffee, the bite I’d already buttered. “Get your own.”
“Tax.” He’s called it that since I was old enough to fight him for it and lose. I let him have it. I always do.
Claire came down while he was rinsing his mug. “Morning.”
“Hey.”
“I’m doing a grocery run after work. You need anything?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay.” She wiped a spot on the counter that was already clean.
Dad kissed the top of my head on his way out. I heard the truck start before I’d finished my toast. Claire watched him go from the window. She does that — watches this house a step back from the glass, the way you’d watch a place that wasn’t quite yours. Five years in and half her boxes are still taped up in the garage. I filed it under cold, same as the rest of her. I didn’t say anything and neither did she.
Ravi dropped Priya at the stop on his way to open the shop, like most mornings. He leaned over and said something that made her roll her eyes, then gave me a wave through the windshield and pulled off. Ravi’s been my dad’s friend since before Priya and I were born. That’s the whole reason we’re us — two kids handed to each other at somebody’s cookout before we could talk. He’s been on his own since Priya was little. The kind of good-looking that makes the moms at pickup find a reason to walk over.
Priya was already half out of her skin.
“Okay. Tyler. From my cousin’s thing. He asked Danny for my number last night.”
“Tyler who almost got thrown out of camp?”
“That’s the one.” She said it like it counted in his favor. “He hasn’t texted. It’s been sixteen hours. I’ve checked my phone maybe forty times.”
“You could just text him.”
“No. Absolutely not.” She grabbed my arm. “What if he’s boring, though. What if he texts and he’s boring.”
“Then he’s boring and you’re free.”
“See, that’s so easy for you to say.” She meant it as a normal thing to say. It landed anyway. Priya’s kissed four people. I’ve kissed one, in eighth grade, on a dare, and we both said sorry after. Somewhere around fourteen she came back from a summer grown into herself, easy in it like it had always been hers, and the boys who used to just ride past started slowing down. They slowed for her. I was the one holding the bag while she talked to them. She gets to worry a boy might be boring. I don’t have that problem.
She didn’t notice. She was already back on her phone, writing the text she wasn’t going to send.
I had the closing shift at the nursery, which is the one Hannah gives me because she trusts me to lock up and doesn’t trust the college kids to water without drowning something.
I like the place empty. Last customers gone, the misters off, the big greenhouse quiet and green and warm even when it’s cold outside. I moved the trays of mums in under the lights, pinched back the leggy ones, pulled the yellow off the ferns before anyone else would’ve noticed they were going. For an hour I wasn’t anybody’s stepdaughter and wasn’t anybody’s problem. I was just the one who knew which plants were about to turn and got to them first.
Hannah’s new girl — seventeen, sweet, still asks before she uses the bathroom — asked if my mom was coming to get me.
“Stepmom.” I let her read the rest off my face.
She didn’t ask again. Nobody does, after the first time. I’ve gotten good at making the first time enough.
Hannah found me in the back on my phone, on the trade board I’ve been on since spring — people two and three states over posting cuttings, whole plants sometimes, photographed on their kitchen counters like grandkids.
“You’re on that thing again.”
“There’s a swap at the end of the month. Fairground out past Dell. A woman’s bringing something I’ve wanted for a year and she won’t ship it — which is how you know she actually knows what she has.”
“You’re not driving an hour for a plant.”
“Watch me.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.