The Shape in the Mist

So it went on for two weeks. Paul had not returned to work, and calls from his workplace went unanswered. Hannah began to take on the household tasks and cooking. Not that Paul ate much anyway. All his hunger was for that which he had lost and would never return.

One night Hannah awoke from her spectre in the mist dream. It had been more vivid and threatening than ever. She was bathed in sweat, and decided to take a shower. Finishing her shower, and clad only in her flimsy nightwear, she made her way to the kitchen to get a drink. As she approached the kitchen she saw the light was on, and on entering saw her father sitting at the table.

Paul, like Hannah, had decided to get himself a drink, and had come to the kitchen clad in his pyjama shorts. Before him was a cup of coffee gradually growing cold. His elbows were on the table and his head in his hands. Hannah had approached with bare feet, and Paul had not heard her. As she entered he did not move.

Hannah hesitated, wondering whether or not to disturb his reverie. She stood for about a minute in silence, then said softly, "Daddy!" He looked up and she saw his face streaked with tears. "Oh daddy," she whispered.

With those words the floodgates of his grief came crashing down. Great gulping sobs were torn from him. He beat the table with his fists, and cried out again and again, "Why, oh God, why?"

Hannah went to him and knelt on the floor beside him, holding him in her arms. This contact did not abate his outpouring of pain and anguish. "Oh Hannah, I loved her so much, so very much," he wept. "I know, daddy, and she knew you how much you loved her," sobbed Hannah, now weeping herself.

They clung to each other, for how long they never knew, crying out incoherently, soaking each other with their tears.

Emotions are strange. Psychologists may categorise them neatly, but emotions are not inclined to obey neat categories. They seem to flow at will, moving from one form of expression to another almost without warning.

As the grieving Paul and Hannah began to calm down from their outburst, Hannah was surprised, to say the least, to see that her father had an erection. His large sexual organ was clearly visible pushing against the thin cloth of his shorts.

That Hannah was surprised is a surprise in itself. They were both in a state of high emotion. Her young body had been pressing against her father. Her large firm breasts had been close to his face as he bent forward in his misery. Paul had been long deprived of sexual release.

Paul saw her glance at his hard organ and flushed. "Sorry, darling," he muttered, "I don't know why…I'd better leave you and go to bed."

He made as if to rise, but Hannah restrained him. "Its all right, daddy, I understand," she murmured, smiling at him. "He can't have had a sexual intercourse for nearly a year," she thought. "If he is anything like as virile as he was with mother, the abstinence must have been agony for him."

Hannah smiled at him again and said, "Let me, daddy." She moved his penis out through the slit in the front of his shorts and slowly and tenderly began to caress it. Paul tried to protest, "Darling, you…we shouldn't…" It was too late. His need had been so urgent, his deprivation so long, and his daughter's soft hand made it impossible for him not to come. Within seconds of her gentle touch, he was shooting out great floods of sperm. It splashed against Hannah's face and flowed over her hands as the great globules fountained upward.

As he finished Hannah felt him relaxing, and he said very quietly, "Thank you, darling." His gratitude nearly brought Hannah to tears again.

Paul rose and said, "We are a bit of a mess, darling. We'd better clean up." They went together to shower. As he was drying himself Paul tried to apologise. "Darling, I'm so sorry. I don't now how I could let you…" Hannah cut in, "Don't, daddy. Please don't spoil it. I wanted to do it for you." She kissed him, and he went back to his bed.

Hannah lay in her bed tossing and turning restlessly. Handling her father had aroused her, as she had never been aroused before. Understanding her father's powerful sex drive, a black thought came to her. She conjectured that one-day, however distant that day might be, he might remarry. "No," Hannah cried out in her head, "There will be no stepmother." She had held his manhood, the organ that had fascinated her since first seeing it, and now no other woman would touch it…"except…"

Memories came flooding back to her: The night of the fire when she first saw her father's penis with the "white cream" erupting from of it. The times she listened to the cries of ecstasy. The time she saw them in the act of love, and saw her father's huge sex organ enter her mother. Her teenage years when she first desired him and tried to tempt him to take her.

Now she knew whom the spectre in the mist was, whose penis pressed against her. She knew who and what she craved for.

"It will be for me only," she whispered to herself.

She was now determined to take the initiative. She rose from her bed and went unhesitatingly to her father's bedroom. As she walked up to his bed he awoke from the early stages of sleep. He started to say, "What is it, darling. Is something…" "No, daddy, nothing is wrong," Hannah said firmly, "Everything is fine, and its going to get better…for both of us."

Hannah clambered into bed beside her father. She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered, "From now on you are my lover as well as my father." Paul tried to pull away from her, but she held him and she would not let go. He began to protest, "Darling, we can't. Its wrong…"

His protest was useless. Hannah's hand had found his penis, and for all his protest, it was rigid and pulsating with desire. As she began to stroke him he surrendered to her touch, and when her lips closed over the head of his penis he was finally lost. He was beside himself with craving for her, and dragged her to the edge of the bed. He knelt on the floor before her and pulling her legs apart, licked and sucked her femaleness like a man possessed.

Madness seemed to sweep over them. They bit and tore at each other. They were like two people fighting rather than making love. It was as if they were punishing each other for some offence each had committed against the other. This, of course, was exactly what they were doing.

Hannah had admitted to herself that almost since puberty she had wanted her father. Paul, the long time subject of her attempts to seduce him, had through his love for Jemma, been able to deflect the arousal his daughter had inspired in him. Now he too had to admit, if only to himself, that he had not been able completely to redirect his desire for Hannah. Such situations often give rise to a love-hate relationship. The victims of these emotions want to punish each other for arousing such feelings in them, and then denying them fulfilment.

Now, in their first coming together, there was this boiling cauldron of love and lust, fear and hate, seething and scalding them as they poured out their long pent up and denied emotions. In the morning the scars of battle would be clear. Bite marks and scratches would cover their bodies. Hannah would have bruised nipples. The head of Paul's penis would be raw and sore from her bites. But that was the morning, and now they must make war on each other before they could finally find peace and the love both longed for in each other.

They must struggle with each other, punishing and wanting to be punished, hurting and wanting to be hurt.

Finally Paul thrust his length into Hannah. She had never had so large an organ inside her, and she was at last to resolve the mystery of how her mother could take it all in to her. She screamed out, not in pain, but in ecstasy, "Daddy, oh daddy, I've wanted…oh daddy, deeper…all the way…hurt me, daddy, please hurt me…"

Paul took her brutally, responding to her pleas. He thrust into her like a madman until, at last, he released himself into her, filling her up with his "white cream," crying out, "Hannah, darling Hannah. Oh God, I love you."

When, in the end he withdrew, and they lay, their arms about each other, exhausted by the power and agony of their climax, Hannah smiled a secret smile, and said to herself, "No one else shall have him, ever."

She dreamed no more of the spectre in the mist.