For those of you who voted for my last story, 'Daddy, I whispered', I want to thank you all very much. The story has received an incredible total of 1300 votes so far in just 15 days. This is more votes than I've received for any of my previous stories. In fact the story received more votes in a shorter period of time than any story in the history of Literotica. Thanks!!
The following story is an incest story set on an island near Nantucket – I hope you enjoy it...I had fun writing it!
The Island – Summer
The sun was high in the deep blue sky as I sat watching from the outdoor terrace of Emma's Café as the old car ferry slowly approached the dock of Eastport, a hundred eager passengers lining its newly painted, white rails. I could see the two of them now, waving, happy, broad smiles on their faces, their bodies so ripe, their breasts taut against their wind blown shirts, their hard firm bums and thighs stretching their silk shorts.
The annual migration from the cities to our island had started, a migration that annually transformed our sleepy Atlantic island of one thousand people into a bustling, crowded tourist destination.
I knew the locals, who had spent the winter on the island, trying to rest up for the frantic three months of summer when another five thousand people, mostly Bostonians and New Yorkers, descended on the island, would be both elated and disgusted by these arrivals.
Elated because they knew these mainlanders allowed them a standard of living unthinkable to their ancestors, those tough, hard men and women who had struggled to wrestle a living from the sea for three hundred years before the tourists had arrived.
But angry and disgusted also – they simply didn't like these foreign mainlanders, these bossy, rude, crude know-it-alls whose orders they had to take from Memorial Day til Labor Day in order to earn their living. These people who regarded them as little more than simpletons and treated them as if they were their slaves.
I was one of the few people who knew and interacted with both groups, both local and summer people, moving easily between the two solitudes. My family had been here for generations, my island house sat on a land grant issued to the Von Scouries' more than two hundred and ninety years ago. Every local knew my family, our history and even though I now spent nine months a year on the mainland, they all regarded me as one of them.
My name is James Roderick Von Scourie and I had been born here sixty-three years ago, in the same house I came home to every summer, a house built on the foundations that my great, great, great, great, great grandfather had first put down so long ago. The present house dated from about 1875, and although it had endured many additions and modifications over the years, expensive alterations that had made the house as modern as any on the island, no one would ever mistake my house for one of those millionaire's monstrosities that had sprung up everywhere on the islands.
Ours was a long thin island, one of a group that stretched outward from Nantucket and my old house sat on its less habited south coast, the last private property before the State Wildlife Refuge that took up the last three miles on the western end of the island.
I had been back for three weeks now, and had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of this very ferry for every day I'd been here – it was of course carrying my two favorite girls in the world.
I had always watched the two girls over the years, had watched them growing up, watched them running on the beach, watched them slowly mature, each summer watching them slowly metamorphose from girls to young women. I can't wait any longer, I thought, as I watched the two skip down the gangplank from the ferry, chatting and giggling as they went, their Mom and Dad trailing slowly after them.
I could see the joy on their faces at being back on the island, their fancy private school and their elegant house in the big city forgotten. They had always preferred casual dress and manner I knew, continually challenging their father's patrician family's sense of decorum and correctness. Taking after their Mom, I thought smiling, quickly glancing at the beautiful Mrs. Butler who trailed behind them.
I can still easily remember the first day Miss Brigitte Nilsson, an innocent looking eighteen year old Swede, who had just finished first year at Bryn Mawr, had walked down this same gangplank she was descending now, giggling on the arm of William Butler the 3rd, scion of one of Boston's most distinguished families.
That year he had just graduated from Harvard law, a nice boy/man who had the world at his feet, but he'd had a bemused look on his face that day, as though he couldn't believe that the goddess at his side had chosen to accompany him. I could see that even twenty-some years later he still seemed surprised that she was with him.
And even as my eyes returned to their young daughters and watched as they in turn jumped the last step onto the cement pier I couldn't stop the image that flashed almost painfully through my brain – the girls mother standing naked on the deserted beach, her straw colored hair dancing in the breeze as she dipped her toes in the surf, her perfect, pink tipped breasts dancing on her chest as laughing, she kicked a rivulet of sparkling water toward me.
Christ it's already twenty years since that day, I mumbled to myself as the girl's parents stepped onto the pier. Watching I saw the old Rolls turn through the gate and edge toward them, and couldn't help smiling as the car lumbered to a stop and 'Old John' slowly emerged. Jesus, he must be close to eighty, I thought, the handyman and driver for the family as long as I could remember, one of those constants in island life that somehow defined it.
Minutes later Mom and Dad were safely ensconced in the back seat and all the bags safely stowed in the trunk but the girls danced off, I could see them miming to their parents they'd get home later. The two seemed to talk to everyone on the dock and everyone they met as they moved onto Main Street and towards the outdoor terrace where I sat with my late morning coffee and cinnamon bun.
They left a sea of goodwill in their wake as they proceeded along; they had their Mom's ease and friendliness that disarmed everyone and even the locals accepted and liked those nice 'Butler Girls' as they were always referred to, almost as if the two were indivisible.
And yet they were two very different girls, both physically and mentally, their only common trait was their obvious happiness with each others company. I could see that Isobel, the eldest by a year, the blond extrovert, the more obvious beauty of the two, was listening intently to her younger sister as they approached me.
Seeing me they came over, "Hi professor," they both sang out, happy, friendly smiles on their faces as they leant over the waist high rail that separated the terrace from the street.
"Hi Isobel, Samantha," I sang, unable to keep the love I felt for them out of my voice.
We talked for minutes, the girls friendly, comfortable even when speaking to an old man like me, charming me effortlessly without even a conscious effort. They just plain liked people, no matter their class or age or race, and of course everyone who met them recognized this niceness almost immediately and responded to it.
"I'm going to stay a minute Izzy," Samantha told her sister, "I need to talk to the professor for a sec," and then turning to me asked, "Is that ok sir?"
