In Flower Ch 01

My daughter Jane and I live on a small farm, far from town. We have horses, some chickens, and a fruit and vegetable patch. Our land is divided on one side by a river, with a swimming hole we use in the summers, and on the other side, a valley. Once a week, I ride to town to take care of business without our vendors and pay the rent and other such things, but the rest of the time, it's just Jane and I at home. On Sundays, Jane and I went to church. Otherwise, it was just the two of us at home.

My Jane has always been the light of my life. I've always loved seeing the world through her eyes, making things easier for her, and have felt a fierce protectiveness that I thought would fade as she got older, but it never has. After her mother died five years ago, she and I got even closer. It's not easy running a farm, even a small one like ours, and Jane rose to the occasion taking over all the household tasks and the gardening. In some ways, she grew up overnight.

In others, she remained childlike, skinny and playful, until the last year or so, when she started to change before my eyes. She turned eighteen in the winter, and by spring, she seemed to blossom with a radiance I'd never seen on a flower. Her cheeks were bright, her lips rosy, her eyes blue and shining. Her long, reddish brown hair, which had always been thick and straight, hung heavy down her back. She usually kept it back in a braid and tied on her head, but at night, when we sat over candlelight reading or, in Jane's case, doing her embroidery, she let it fall down her back in thick gleaming hanks.

It was her hair that made me first notice that she was a woman.

I was reading my bible when I looked up and saw her hair, shining in the firelight, so thick and luscious, and I thought, this is why women cover their hair up. Such a display of youth and vitality felt private. It's too beautiful a sight for a woman to share with a man who doesn't have a claim on her.

This thought, though, passed innocently enough; I was Jane's protector, and it was my job to think of things like this. But in truth, I was more than her protector; I was her servant, her gentle slave, and our home was her domain. I took off my shoes as she pleased, to not track mud on her floors. I carried heavy bushels of vegetables for her, I opened the tight jars, and I sometimes, when she got scared in the night during storms, allowed her to rest beside me in my bed.

I loved the care Jane took with our home. I loved how she made us beautiful meals, cut flowers for our table, turned simple muslin tablecloths into beautiful pieces. She had a touch that made the world better, just like her mother had. The girl was goodness, embodied, and I was lucky.

I like to think I'm a good father. She seems to think so, always ready with a kiss and a kind word. Nothing makes me prouder than leaving church on Sunday with Jane on my arm.

It did not take long after her eighteenth birthday that Jane started to acquire suitors.

Our town is small, so there aren't many young eligible women for marriage. Still, Jane was popular. I never took her to the town dances, where they served drink and things got rowdy, but it was enough to take her to church each week, where people saw her, pious and sweet in the pews, and thought she might make a good wife. We were known in the area, my wife and I, and people thought well of us, so I supposed they inferred things from that, too. So men started to come to us on Saturday mornings with gifts for my girl. They would talk to me while Jane served us coffee or cakes, and I watched their eyes on her while they directed their words to me. Such glances, innocent as they might be, made my body rise in temperature, as I knew they were examining my girl's figure.

The trouble was, there weren't many young men. The ones who came to court my Jane were the younger in the bunch, but even they were in their late thirties, early forties. They came with flowers and jars of honey and even sometimes game, freshly shot, for our table. Jane always thanked them graciously but impersonally; in truth I don't think she understood why they were there. I did not want her to leave me for a man old enough to be her father.

Inevitably, talk changed to land, farm size, what they could give me in exchange for her; I always said no. I didn't want Jane to end up married to an old man, or worse, a widow. I was confident that in time, a man worthy of her would come along. Or worthy enough -- I doubted anyone would be truly worthy.

In short, Jane was my entire world, and I was happy with that. Did I want a woman? Yes, in a way; I was lonely, and a man with needs. Yet I had loved Jane's mother with all my heart, and I knew that the sweet private life we'd shared together would be impossible to replicate with a strange woman. In any case, any woman would threaten Jane's place in our house, and as I saw it, she was the mistress there. I was but a servant. So sometimes, when my need became too much, I found a corner of the barn where I could take out my manhood and rub it, thinking of my wife's sweet lips, her sighs of pleasure, how she had loved me. This made me often even lonelier.

At night, at times, this loneliness was terrible. In the dark, I seemed to remember her even better. I had to be quiet, lest I risk waking Jane. But sometimes, I didn't want to touch myself, afraid of the sadness that would overcome me afterward, which opened like a hole inside me and could swallow me if I wasn't careful. In truth, Jane filled every void for me except one, that of the physical love a wife gives her husband, and which he stokes within her with doting care. My wife and I were only blessed with one child, but sometimes I am glad; this allowed us to delight in each other over and over without the distraction of too large a family. I had loved her dearly, and I remembered the private way she would open herself to me, how, once she trusted me, she showed me her need, her more desperate parts of herself. I never felt so blessed as when my wife asked me if I could please kiss her between her legs -- she'd had a dream about it. We were but nineteen then, and I remember licking her treasure and feeling her dance on my tongue.

It was a night such as this, when I woke up in need, but afraid of missing her too badly, that I got up. I went to the living room to sit. I was about to light a candle to read, to take my mind off things, when I heard a creaking from Jane's room.

I saw that there was a candle lit, that her door was ajar. Thinking that she was awake, and perhaps I could talk to her, maybe it would make me feel better, I went to her door.

I don't know why I didn't speak out loud. My body was, it's true, already far gone with desire, from missing my wife. Maybe I felt ashamed of myself already. Maybe I just wanted to look at her -- Jane was so beautiful, so pure.

But still, even if a part of me had felt ashamed, I could not have imagined what I saw next.

I got to Jane's door, cloaked in the darkness, and saw her on her bed in her white cotton nightie. She was facing away from me, facing the wall, and she was on her hands and knees. Her nightie was tugged up, so her pretty feet and calves were visible. I wondered why. My heart was already pounding. Then I noticed that she was kneeling on something, and I saw that her pillows were stuffed beneath her, and she had mounted them like a horse.

My mouth was dry. I think I stopped breathing. I watched as Jane, my little Jane, moved her hips on those pillows. She was bent forward, her weight on her arms, that gorgeous thick hair tumbling down her back, shielding her face from me. And I watched as she moved her hips back and forth over the pillows.

My skin was feverish. I knew what she was doing. I knew because I'd seen my wife do it to my own body. But I hadn't seen a woman move like this in years. But my body understood what Jane was doing at once, as she dragged herself back and forth over the pillows, humping them, scooting her little treasure over the rough linen.

I listened as she sighed, breathing heavy. She was trying to be quiet. Trying not to wake me. I knew I should leave her in her privacy. I should let her be alone, as she obviously wanted to be. But I couldn't tear my eyes away.

Lust went through my veins, more powerful than any drink. My cock hardened at the sight of this mature young girl, ready for mating, in my midst; it did not care that she was my child, or maybe that only made it better, knowing this sweet girl was already mine in every way but one.

Maybe it should have taken months of consideration, of guilt, of bargaining, but it didn't. I saw Jane rubbing herself on those pillows, and I knew.

I wanted her.

You may think me a pervert, but I really don't think I am. I was transformed by love for this girl, my child, this little woman in my house. I felt overwhelmed by guilt as I watched her try to make herself feel good on those pathetic pillows. It hadn't occurred to me, you see, that Jane would want a man's touch.

But she so obviously did. Poor little Jane, I thought as she worked herself on her pillows, sighing, sighing. Poor little Jane is burning for it, I thought. I'd taken for granted that the sweet princess in my house was content, pure as a soap bubble. But of course not. I remembered her mother's private yearnings, how powerfully she would submit to me. It was our own private world. But before my eyes, my Jane had grown up, and while I knew she was intact, that didn't mean she was complete.

I wondered what she was picturing, if anything. What did Jane even know of sex? Or did she just want without knowing what it was that she craved?

Soon Jane couldn't stay silent anymore. A mew escaped her lips, and it undid me. Hearing my daughter's voice was too much. She sped up, humping those pillows, bucking on them, and the bed creaked just a little, and I couldn't stop, I reached beneath my nightshirt and I gripped my swollen meat.

It was instant relief, to touch myself, but nowhere near enough. I couldn't see her body, but suddenly I pictured pink folds, warm wetness, and Jane's blue eyes staring up at me, those mews coming out of her mouth because of my touch, my body, my cock. My daughter, writhing like this as I made love to her.

I came as Jane did, into the folds of my nightshirt.

*

Sadness did not come to me that night, though lots of thoughts did. Guilt, of course, for watching her, for touching myself as I did. But that did not last as long as you might think. I was very lonely. It was easy to justify; I was a man who had not experienced sexual gratification from a woman in five years, and the sight of one -- even my own daughter -- pleasuring herself under my roof was going to be irresistible.

No, I felt guilt over my neglect of Jane.

The girl was in flower, it was clear to me now. I knew the pain of lust, the lonely darkness it brought on, the irresistible pull and then the deep well of shame afterward. Jane was my sweet princess, and I her servant, and I hated to imagine her wracked by such feelings. I wanted her to feel only pleasure, only joy, only sweetness and love.

She must be confused, I thought.

And I also marveled at the beauty of what I'd seen. Jane, my girl, just weeks into womanhood. It was a privilege to see the delicate desire of a young girl, the shy heat of her, the innocent reaching for gratification that her little hips made as they humped those pillows, the little mew out of her delicate mouth. She was perfect, and I was in charge of keeping her safe.

I felt the weight of her desire in the house like a responsibility in the next few days. Jane was young, so young, just eighteen, but more than ready for a home of her own, a husband, children. And, after seeing what I'd seen the night before, I knew she wanted at least some of that. She wanted a man's hands on her, even if she didn't know it. She craved pleasure, dedication, for her perfect sweet body to be worshipped by a lover. Maybe she even wanted to serve one herself.

My cock swelled at the thought of Jane serving a man. I didn't think of anyone, just a shadowy figure, a thick, hard cock, her sweet lips giving the reddened meat a kiss.

On Saturday, a man from church came to call. He was the oldest yet, fifty, older even than I was, and he brought meat, cheese, flowers, and even a bolt of fabric for Jane. She took all these things graciously, then looked at me in confusion, a little amused. In the kitchen, she asked me why he was bringing her so many presents.

I could only laugh. This time, while I burned with jealousy and protectiveness seeing this man eye my girl, I burned with something else, too. I now saw what he did, and I could not fault him for it. She was in flower, and he wanted to pluck her, to claim her for himself. If he knew what I knew, I doubted he would have waited for my permission, but found Jane on her own somewhere, and taken advantage of that lust inside of her for his own purposes.

This thought, rather than anger me, aroused me. When I left, I went to the barn, where I pictured my Jane on a bed, her skirts pushed up, letting a man -- again, a shadowy figure, no one in particular -- kiss her where she most wanted to be kissed.

I came into the hay with a roar.

*

That night after dinner, Jane asked me why so many men were coming to visit. She was cleaning up, bustling around the kitchen. Her hair was down again. "They didn't do that last year," she said. "But since the winter, they come."

I put down my knife and fork and sighed. "Jane," I said, "those men want to marry you."

She had been able to take my plate when she stopped short. "Marry me?"

"Yes, pet," I said.

I watched her face carefully for signs of that lust I saw before. But there was nothing. Likely, Jane didn't know the sorts of behaviors that came along with marriage.

Something stirred in me at that.

"I don't want to get married," she said at once.

"Oh, don't say that. I'm sure you want to be a wife someday. Have a home of your own."

She shook her head and took my plate to the washbasin. "No. I'm happy here."

"Don't you want a husband? A man to love you?"

She turned and smiled at me. "I have you," she said.

My heart squeezed then. But still, Jane looked confused.

"How can they want to marry me? They don't know me."

"They've seen you at church."

"That doesn't mean they know me," she said. "Don't you have to love someone to marry them? Didn't you love mother?"

With that, she came to sit on my lap. I pushed back my chair and accepted her gladly on my knee. She rested her head on my shoulder. Jane was wearing a simple, modest day dress, but still, I could feel her body. I held her close and inhaled the lavender scent of her hair.

"I did love her, very much," I said. "You remind me of her."

"They don't love me. Not like you do."

"I'm sure a part of them does love you," I said without thinking.

Jane looked up. She looked amused. "A part? A part can't love me. Only the whole."

I chuckled, and pulled her back down. "Oh, sweetheart. You know so little about men."

Jane didn't like that. I saw her playing with the ends of her hair. "So tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How can a man love just a part of me?"

"Well," I said. "I said a part of the man loves you. Though I suppose what you said is true as well. But Janie, sweetie, there's a part of man that loves differently than his heart. A part of him that really loves a pretty woman. And you, my darling, are just so pretty."

She kissed me for that. I'll admit that by now, the part of me that we were talking about was swollen with desire.

"Does that part of you love me, daddy?"

"Oh yes," I said, and by now my voice was a bit hoarse, "but all of me loves all of you too, sweetie. I'd never let a man have you who didn't deserve you."

"So that part loves that I'm pretty?" she said. "And that's why those men want to marry me?"

"They want to have you in their homes. To make babies with you," I said. And then I thought of Jane, swollen with child, and pressed her closer. "Share your bed."

"My bed?"

"Yes, pet. You would sleep in bed with your husband."

"I remember when you and mama shared a bed," she said. "She was always so happy. Maybe I should get married."

"No." I pushed her off me, startled by my anger, and not wanting her close when I felt such a wave of fury. Jane stepped off, and I saw in her face that I'd hurt her feelings. I softened at once. "Not yet, Janie."

I opened my arms and she stepped into them. If she felt me stiff against her, she didn't say anything.

"OK," she said. "Whatever you think is best."

*

That night, I heard her again. This time, I was waiting, sitting outside her door, listening, hating myself, but unable to stop.

I didn't have to wait long. Her door was closed this time, but maybe because of that, she was a bit louder. She whimpered, tiny, high-pitched sounds of need that had me hot and hard for her.

I felt privileged to be living beside this budding girl, this unveiled lust. But I also felt as if I was sitting on a gold mine, wasting it. Or worse, because I knew other men noticed, and I knew she had need of one, and I knew that sooner or later, her need would meet a willing partner, whether he be honorable or no. I knew that soon I would need to find Jane a man, or else risk her falling into ruin. But I couldn't imagine letting my girl go.

So instead, I listened to her little sobs of ecstasy, pulling at my cock outside her door.

*

A few days later, I needed to mate one of the mares. I told Jane to stay away from the barn, it wasn't anything for a girl to see, and then set off for the work.

The mare was agitated, in heat, and she tossed her head. I patted her neck and spoke softly to her, remembering my wife when she was lusty. And then I thought of Jane, how softly I would speak to her, so softly, so gently, like the princess she was, worshipping her as I penetrated her sensitive flesh.

I shook my head to get this image away. Jane was not my bride, she was my daughter.

But I'd never burned for anyone, not even my wife, like I burned for Jane.

I brought in the stallion. Unlike me, he knew exactly how to proceed, and took his place. He mounted the mare, and I stood back.

Suddenly I heard a noise. I turned and saw, just for a moment, my Jane, watching the horses with her eyes wide, half-hidden behind the barn door. I looked at the horses, mating in the pasture, rutting now.

I turned again and Jane was frozen, her eyes on them. Then she saw me, and she gave a little cry, and she ran off.

I stayed out late that evening, until dark. When I got home, Jane was in her room, but she'd left me a plate. I was sure she was embarrassed, for either disobeying my orders for by what she'd seen. I ate what she left me, then went for a bath, all the while thinking of what I should tell her.

When I was clean, I knocked on her door. She was awake, and told me to come in.

Jane was in her nightie, her candles lit, reading a novel. She put it down when she saw me.

I sat on the edge of her bed.

"Jane," I said. "I know you came to the barn today."

Jane looked down, ashamed. I didn't want to focus on her transgressions and make her feel ashamed. Instead, I apologized.

She looked at me with her large blue eyes.

"You probably have questions. When I said it wasn't for girls, you got curious. Is that right?"

She nodded.

"That makes sense," I said.

She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. God, her mouth was beautiful. Red and wet and...

I closed my eyes.

"Does a man have a thing like that?" she asked softly.

I opened my eyes. "Like the horse?"

She nodded.

I nodded too. "Yes he does, pet. And it gets big when he's near a beautiful woman."

"Is that the part that the men in town love me with?" she asked.