"Daddy, can you come and give me a hand with this? I can't get the back right by myself."
I am passing by Gail's open bedroom door and stop to watch her arrange her hair in fantastic spikes and whorls. Tomorrow night, she is going to a school Fancy Dress Ball dressed up as an alien. She has been working on her costume for weeks, and now she is designing how her hair will look. Tomorrow it will be lime green with a silver frosting and held in place by the gel she is practising with now.
It is now three months since Maxine, my eldest girl, went off University to study Horticultural Science, leaving Gail and I in the family home on the farm. At 18, Gail has one more year of school to see out, then she too will be 'gone' to Teachers Training College. Perhaps then I might be able to think about building new relationships and find a partner to fill at least part of the gaping hole in my life. But I am not all that confident that I can truly replace what I have lost.
My wife Andrea died of cancer two years ago, leaving me to finish bringing up our two daughters, Maxine and Gail. After the long drawn-out trauma of watching the person we loved so deeply slowly waste away and finally collapse under the weight of her agony, our lives gradually returned to normal. Well, not quite normal, for me, because I was constantly faced with reminders of my wife. My daughters are virtual copies of their mother in her youthful prime: short and vivacious, with soft dark hair and eyes, plump-breasted without being 'busty', and with trim hips and gorgeous legs. And they both inherited her warm, sparkling, personality.
In the months following Andrea passing away, we three made it a rule to hold a family group meeting first thing every Sunday morning. I engaged a manager to run the farm during the terminal years of Andrea's illness, while I looked after her, and that arrangement still stands. So, as pretty much a 'man of leisure' with no need to leap out at sparrow fart to do farm work, I 'held court' sat up in my bed with my daughters sitting on the mattress close by. Usually, they were still dressed in their night-clothes and dressing gowns. Our discussions were wide ranging, from farm matters, they after all have a vested interest in the property, through school experiences, problems with boyfriends, future plans, drugs, alcohol, dealing with womanhood - you name it, we talked about it. It was all very frank and free, and it helped us to cope with our loss.
Although Maxine left for University, the Sunday morning ritual continued. But then I became more conscious of Gail as a person - no, that is wrong - I became more aware of her as a woman. She took to sitting closer to me than either she or Maxine ever did before. Also, she stopped wearing her dressing gown, turning up in just her pyjamas or a nightie. And, because she was sitting closer to me, I found myself becoming more aware of her odour: that heady woman-in-bed scent that is part perfume, part perspiration, part sex-smell that all women acquire during a night's sleep. I became so attuned to Gail that I could even tell that she was menstruating.
To my shame, I usually became erect under my duvet as I breathed in my daughter's scent and eyed the subtle movements of her unfettered breasts shifting beneath her nightwear as she gestured to make a point. Every Sunday morning when I awoke, I prayed that she would wear one of her short nighties so that I could admire the smooth sweep of her thighs as she shifted position to make herself more comfortable. Sometimes I caught a flash of her panties. And once, when she had no panties on, I was rewarded with a swift glimpse of her luxurious dark pubic thatch. And, to my greater shame, I fantasised about sex with her when she left me to shower and dress for the day, rubbing my throbbing penis in my fist until I pumped my sperm into a wad of facial tissues I kept handy.
I continued to do the laundry, just as I had done when Andrea was sick. Early one morning I found a pair of Gail's panties in the hamper, just after she had left for school. They were still warm from her body where she had been wearing them overnight and their crotch was freshly damp from her natural female secretions. Shaking like a leaf, I carried them back to bed, pressing them to my face to scent her sharp, fresh-seashell, woman-fragrance and licking the crotch to try and get a taste of her vagina. Then I wrapped the silky fabric around my penis and masturbated against them, ensuring that my fluids mingled with hers when my furious ejaculation overcame me. Over the following weeks I looked out for similar opportunities, searching the laundry for her soiled underwear, turning back her still-warm bedcovers after she had gone to school and caressing and scenting the sheets where she had been sleeping. My fantasising and masturbating rightly left me feeling increasingly disgusted with myself at what I was doing; yet, I could not stop.
And now Gail is sat on her heels in a kneeling position on her bedroom floor dressed in just a thin cotton nightie. She has propped a large mirror up against the end of her bed and is shaping her hair into fantastic peaks and whorls,
Tonight might be the night it happens - I do hope so. I've put on one of my oldest nighties; it's so thin it's almost see through. You're standing in the doorway now. Poor Daddy, you've been so lonely since Mummy died. You haven't taken up with anyone else for fear of upsetting Maxine and I. It's such a waste, you're only thirty- eight, still young and very fit from working on the farm. Still nearly as fit as when you were playing provincial football off the side of the scrum. Sean's father says you would have been a New Zealand All Black if you had played for a more fashionable province. And you're so handsome in a rugged, battered sort of way. I'm glad you haven't found another woman yet; it gives me a chance. I've wanted to feel your big leathery hands stroking me ever since I got the first sexual feelings in my pussy when I was ten. And I've been trying to tempt you to take me into your bed every Sunday morning since Maxine left home, but you always keep your distance. Come into the room Daddy, come closer.
"Daddy, can you come and give me a hand with this? I can't get the back right by myself."
With my heart thumping like a jackhammer I enter Gail's room and drop to my knees behind her. I am dangerously close to crossing that final forbidden line. My mind is flashing a continuous stream of messages at me: For fuck's sake, Derek, don't touch her! Don't mess up all our lives! Gail is your daughter! Don't do anything stupid! Don't fucking touch her, no matter how much you want her!
Gail looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are trusting, clear and innocent, and she smiles, nearly tearing the heart out of my chest. As she turns back to the mirror, I glimpse the bare curve of one breast down the neckline of her nightie and my penis surges to an aching erection.
For fuck's sake, do not touch her!
My daughter coaches me in what I must do and, with trembling fingers, I try to follow her instructions. I am shaking so much I make a complete mess of it, but Gail is very patient and we start over. I have never experienced anything quite as erotic as this in my whole life before! Manipulating my daughter's gel slippery hair and touching her fragile-seeming skull beneath her scalp makes her appear so vulnerable. Surreptitiously watching the lift and fall of my daughter's hard-tipped breasts in the mirror as she raises her arms to work on the front part of the hairstyle, I can see the dark shadows of her nipples through her nightie. Smelling her body fragrance; feeling her glowing animal heat; and listening to the soft sounds of our breathing, and her soft laughter as I mess up for a second time is overwhelming.
My erection is a screeching nerve begging for release. For fuck's sake, do NOT touch her!
Ohhh! You are here, kneeling right behind me! I can smell your man-smell and feel the heat of your body! My heart is beating like mad and I am getting very wet between my legs. I tried to tell you how to fix my hair, but my thoughts are in such a jumble I didn't do it right and you made a mess of it, but that's Ok. It means you will stay close and try again. It is only on my hair and my head, but you are touching me! And you are looking at my breasts in the mirror. Do you like them? Are they big enough for you? Come on Daddy don't be scared. Can't you feel me wanting you? I don't care if your hands are all sticky with gel, take hold of my breasts. Please!
We get it almost right the third time and Gail leans back to get a more distant view of her reflection, resting her warm upper back on my chest. Her lower back presses softly against the tip of my penis as it strains vertical in its prison and I pray that she cannot detect what it is. She rests trustingly on me, turning her head from side to side, and gazing in the mirror. Meanwhile, I am staring at her body under her nightie, down her cleavage past the glorious inner curves of her breasts, almost to her navel. And then outside the garment, further down to where her nightie had ridden up to expose the smooth tops of her thighs and a slip of pale pink panties at their fork.
For fuck's sake, don't touch her!
I have to encourage you somehow! My nipples and my pussy are on fire! I wonder; is there a nerve linking the two? I leaned back on you just now, with my shoulder blades against your strong chest. It was heavenly! You have got an erection! I can feel it, hot and stiff, poking into my lower back. If you don't make a move on me soon, I am going to put my hand on it.
"What do you think Daddy? Do I look nice?"
I manage a strangled response that her hair looks just about right. Gail kneels upright to make a final adjustment to the central spike she had built up in the front of her head. I cannot see her face in the mirror but I can see her breasts raising again as she lifts her arms. And her nipples are massively erect, sticking out under the sheer cotton of her nightie and with every detail of their contours open to my gaze.
