Mistress Bridgette of the Fortworth Manor gazed at the stars that spotted that warm April sky. The year was 1920. The stars never failed to lift her spirits - not that they needed to often, for she was always cheerful enough, but their vast presence awed and amazed her. These were pretty much the same feelings that she had for her father, but she knew it was not mere hero-worship on her part. Lord Burnstein was well-known in the region for his fairness and openness. Unlike other contemporaries, who stuck their noses up at the site of the commons, Burnstein was a friend to them - he was a part of them, although the royalty had been in his blood for generations. Sundays were spent by the Lord, his beautiful wife and their bright and sparkling daughter. The age difference between mother and daughter being only a scarce fifteen years, the pair were almost always mistaken for sisters - And Lord Burnstein took pleasure in escorting such lovely ladies over his happy and contented land.

Among his people, one particular case that he had dealt with remained foremost in their minds, always. A man and his twenty-year old daughter were being tried for incest - in spite of the fact that the mother of the girl had made no complaint - at a neighbouring court. As per laws set down from the archaic centuries, incest was punishable with death. The case was sentenced against the poor family, and the execution was set for the following month. It was at this point that the girl's mother approached the Lord for a reversal. Being the openminded fellow that he was, he was able to hear with compassion as the mother pleaded for the life of her husband and daughter. By the time that she was finished, it was evident to Burnstein that the coupling was a result of love - after all, if the state could permit adultery with strangers, this too should be treated with at least a similar yardstick, if not smaller. Setting aside conventions, Burnstein pardoned the father-daughter pair. To make a long story short, a study of the country life proved that it would be better off to dispose with almost all the legal obstructions to incest - save that of sixteen as the age of consent.

On this night, Bridgette thought of the stars and of her father. She was seventeen, and while most of the girls her age had been married off, she was still a virgin. She loved her parents even more for the fact that they let her remain unmarried until she found the right man for her. Somewhere in a corner of her heart, she felt she had already lost her heart - to her father. She knew his faults of course. Her father liked to flirt, but she also knew that only one woman could score with him, and that was her mother. God, how she wished she was her mother! At the same time, these were suppressed feelings, something Bridgette was afraid to bring to the surface. Sure, incest was legal, but she couldn't bear the thought of failure. Moreover, she didn't want to be a threat to her own mother...

The night was warm, and a gentle breeze wafted into the room. Bridgette stretched, and felt the thin cloth of her nightgown press against her breasts. They had been stitched keeping in mind her mother's figure, which was not so rich were the breasts were concerned. Hers were bigger than her mother's, while her curves were not as full. The nightgown therefore gave the impression of an hourglass frame, which served only to attract every eligible suitor in town.

"Oh," Bridgette murmured, as another current of air kissed the exposed top part of her breasts. Silently, she stood near the window, and unbuttoned the top of her gown. The strap around her waist held it from falling around her satiny skin, but it slid off her shoulders nonetheless, moonbathing her firm mounds. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the winds playing with her body, creating feelings as if someone's hands were caressing her gently. Absently, Bridgette thought about her father and instantly, that somebody became her father. As much as she wanted to suppress the image from her imagination, her father started to ravish her - his fingertips brushed across her nipples and pinched them, they trailed to the waistline of her gown and tugged them down, and his lips found hers...

"Bridgette, my darling, where are you?" It was Lord Burnstein who had come to wish goodnight to his only daughter. Unlike the teens of today, Bridgette loved her parents' company - more so that of her father. On weekdays, this was probably the only time they got to be aslone with each other, although they would spend alternate Saturdays riding off into their sunsets - and it was during one of these rides that Bridgette became acutely aware of the fact that she was in love with her own father. Hence, the goodnight was a sort of a sacred ritual between father and daughter.

Bridgette had, in her moment of poetic resignation, forgotten about her father's visit being due, and therefore was standing before him, nude from the waist up. For a moment, she stood still in front of him, not knowing what to do. The light in the room was certainly bright enough to accentuate her youthful and beautiful body - a fact her father apparently did not miss. He stared at her breasts, admiring their firm looks, and for a guilty second, wondered about their texture. Bridgette noticed her father's interest in her anatomy, and in spite of a rising passion within her, made a silent effort to cross her arms over her breasts. Unfortunately for her, her pretty arms could not provide any significant cover, though as a consolation, they did cover her nipples.

Neither of them spoke.

Suddenly, a gust of wind entered the room, and lifted her gown off her legs. Since she had nothing underneath, her father was treated to the arousing sight of a dark bush, well-trimmed. The instantaneous glimpse of her feminity was enough to make him hard - Lord or no Lord, he was a man after all. Poor Bridgette blanched, before clamping her hands firmly down on the roguegown.

Lo! Her breasts were now free to her father's eyes. There is nothing else to do, the girl thought resignedly, I guess I better let him have an unhindered view. Burnstein took this opportunity to drink in his daughter's loveliness - a part of him was screaming for him to get out of the room, and another part wanted him to look on as long as possible. Ultimately, the latter won, and neither of the two moved, one subjecting the other to an intense and loving gaze.