Painting Cass
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 5: Composition
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 5: Composition - When Cass told her father she was gay, he didn't get angry. He smiled, and decided a girl who wants girls just never had the right man — and that he'd be the one to prove it. To both of us: she was mine and I was hers, in secret, and had been for a year. He used my paintings to get close. Made me watch. Then made me part of it. By fall he had both our bodies and thought that was all of us. It wasn't — and the part he never reached is why we'll never get out.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft ft/ft Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Oral Sex Pregnancy Voyeurism AI Generated
The afternoon he first touched her like that — the two fingers, the wet already, the wall she turned to when it was over — she scrubbed herself raw and wouldn’t look at me. That same night she was up in her room reading me somebody’s idiot post in a voice that made me snort water out of my nose, and I lay on her floor and laughed till my ribs hurt. Both of those were Cass. I never once got level with how both could be true in the same girl in the same day.
The funny didn’t go anywhere that summer. It just grew a blade — the way she did, mean and fast — and went everywhere now except the two or three places that mattered, which it steered around like a car around a hole in the road. She’d joke about anything but the thing. You don’t pull the pin on what you’re both standing on.
We still had the between-times, too — never the studio now, he owned the studio, but her room, the porch roof, a phone lit between us on the grass after dark. Ten minutes here and there where it was like nothing, where I got all of her back, whole and mine and funny. That was the cruelty of it: she stayed entirely herself right up until the two of us walked in to him.
He was there ahead of us most days now — he’d taken to getting to the studio first, the good light his now too, apparently. That day he had the reading chair dragged around beside the daybed and his shirt off over the belt, big and brown and easy, a towel on one shoulder like he’d come straight off the grill.
“Put a shirt on, oh my God.” Cass, pulling her top over her head. “Nobody wants your nipples in the art.”
“It’s a hundred degrees. And I want one of the two of us today. Something nice. For the wall.”
“‘Something for the wall.’” She stepped out of her shorts and lay back into the light — that part she did without a joke, the undressing part; it had stopped being anything to her months back, and there’s nothing to say about a thing that’s nothing. “Very Norman Rockwell, Dad. They’ll hang it at church.”
“Smart mouth.” He said it fond, lowering himself onto the daybed beside her, and she made room for him without thinking, the way she made room for me, and rolled her eyes at me over his shoulder — see what I live with — and it was so nearly a normal afternoon that I could have wept, because the eye-roll was real, the old eye-roll, and she was still doing the bit even as he pulled her in against his bare chest and hung his hand down over her shoulder with the fingers resting at the top of her breast.
“There,” he said. “Father and daughter. Paint that.”
So I painted it — my girl tucked under her father’s arm, the smart mouth still going, his hand resting where it meant to go next.
His thumb started while I worked. Just the thumb, slow, back and forth on the top of her breast, and I watched the bit die in her by degrees. She got a sentence out — something about framing it for Grandma — and then the thumb kept on and the sentence didn’t finish, and she went still against him, and her eyes came and found mine and stopped being funny at all. That was how you could tell where the line was. Not that she went quiet. That the funny ran out mid-word, like a tape cut.
I painted the thumb. God help me, I put it in, because leaving it out was a lie, and I’d lost the way to tell him no in any language, so I told the truth on the board, where it couldn’t do her the smallest bit of good.
It stopped being father-and-daughter a few sessions on, the way none of it ever stopped being anything, only slid. By then he sat with his shorts open, the thing out along his thigh. I’d drawn them off plaster casts and out of art books and never once seen a live one; the live one was his, and there was no gentler word for it than the blunt one. A cock.
“For the composition,” he said the first time he wanted it in her hand. “An artist ought to know one from life. You can’t go a whole career pretending half the world isn’t standing right there in the room with you.”
“That’s not—” Cass started, and it had teeth in it, the start of a real one — that’s not composition, that’s not a word that works like that — and then he lifted her hand off her own leg and folded her fingers around it, easy, and went back to telling me about the Delgados’ countertops, and whatever she’d been going to say went where the rest of it went. She sat there with her hand on her father’s cock and her jaw set and said nothing, and the nothing was loud. That was the closest she came to fighting, that whole summer: the joke she didn’t get to land.
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