Copyright © 1997, Phil Phantom, ALL Rights Reserved

The bed rocked gently but steadily as I lay curled on my side next to my husband of fourteen years. He lay likewise, but in the opposite direction. We were back to back, not touching. The situation had become familiar, painfully so.

We were not alone in our bed. Curled up spoon fashion with Dan was our twelve-year-old daughter, Sarah. Dan sleeps in the nude, as does Sarah. The rocking gradually built in tempo and intensity until it could not be ignored. In weeks past they would not permit themselves to lose control and waited mercifully until they thought I was fast asleep. Each time, they began earlier and became more obvious until I found myself being gently rocked shortly after retiring and rudely jostled after only ten or fifteen minutes.

I lay with tightly clenched jaws having to feel the rhythm of sexual passion slowly building; having to hear the obscene wet noises and the bed's cry of, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I had to smell the heavy sensual musk wafting up from under the covers. It was the heady smell of incest that prevented sleep. The product of our love which gestated in my womb now stealing that love ounce by ounce, and doing so within arm's reach, doing so with a voracious appetite that left nothing for me, not a seminal scrap did she leave.

As I lay thinking, I remembered the days of bounty, when that special fluid ran like ambrosia from an endless spring. I could feast at my whim and often choose to abstain. I had semen to waste. I had headaches on demand, and the bed rocked to the rhythm of his hand. He cleaned the waste or slept in the stain. There was semen aplenty for me when I pleased. Those were the good old days of months ago, before Sarah returned to her childhood practice of sharing our bed. And now I kept track on a private calendar, marking the days between.

It was sweet revenge, plain greed, or just selfish need, but the endless sperm fountain was drying up for me. In our early years, I never went more than three days without sex. At first, the days between came in batches of three and four, then five and six, then full weeks. The latest was the first full month, an anniversary of sorts. They'd grown careless or just plain insensitive over time. I wanted to roll over, reach between Dan's legs, squeeze his balls, dig my nails in deep, and say, "Happy anniversary, dear!"

I rolled onto my back to let them know I was not asleep. My bare hip touched Dan's naked ass. This slowed him only momentarily. Soon, I could feel his ass muscles tighten and move, I could feel his thrusts, feel them fucking, committing incest in my marital bed. He knew I was awake; and still, he continued unabated.

I rolled all the way over and pressed my front to his back. He ignored my presence, the bastard. I rested my hand on his hip and dug my nails where I gripped. He removed my hand with a stronger grip, never breaking his rhythm. He thrust it away, overt rejection.

This hurt me deeply. I returned my hand, gently, submissively, and rested it lightly where it had been. My hand followed his motion as I snuggled closely bringing my lips to his ear. In a gentle, soft whisper, I pleaded, "Dan, don't do this to me."

He continued. I said, "This is wrong. She's just a child. She's our daughter." As if in reply, his thrusts became stronger, going deeper, a moan escaped her lips, a moan that should have been mine.

My hand moved ever so carefully over his hip and dipped low, searching. I steadily converged on the point where the crime was being committed. His lunges pushed my hand against Sarah's tight ass, my wedding ring lightly scratched her flawless skin. The warm wetness told me I was close, wet curls, then a shaft of pulsing meat. I curled my fingers around the base and he shoved them against my daughter's stretched vulva. Again and again he insulted my grasp, fucking major fingers to a minor cunt.

I squeezed gently, massaging the shaft, feeling the loose skin slide along the stiff rod beneath. Sarah, the slut, hiked her leg to let me know that she was aware of my complicity. How could she not with her father's hands full of budding tits. I unfurled my traitorous fingers and traced delicate patterns over her labia lips, clit, and tiny puckered anus. My index finger ran circles around the place where father entered daughter. Dan rolled them toward me until she was lying on his belly on her back. I had to make room.