And to be sure, Sherry got a lot out of giving her father sex. She got sex for herself, for one thing, and that was something that she had long since learned to value greatly.
But she also got the satisfaction of knowing that she was helping a great man resume his position of greatness in the world.
About her father's past, the past she was too young to remember, she knew virtually nothing.
She knew only, at the moment anyway, that her pussy was beginning to ache badly for the feeling of that hard cock in her mouth. She wanted it to be in her pussy.
She wanted to be fucking him. Sometimes she would let him lick her cunt, leave her pussy suspended above his lips for what seemed like an eternity while his tongue and lips and teeth gladly wandered each minute part of her pink flesh.
But not tonight. Tonight she wished only to be fucked.
She'd long ago learned that her father was glad to trust her judgment. Whatever she felt like doing, that's what he felt like doing.
It was a very convenient relationship.
She slowly slid her body around, letting her breasts drag across his body and then the head of his cock was at the lips of her pussy, lips spread and parted by the angle of her thighs as they straddled his waist, but spread also from the sheer force of her mounting passion.
It was at her, moving at her, in her, sliding through her.
Deep.
Deeper still.
Down, down, all the way to the bottom of her cunt. All the way into the back of her cunt wall. She gasped, for no matter how often he rammed his swollen cock into her, the feeling of a cock first entering you still carries echoes of the first time a cock ever entered you.
It was like rediscovering what your pussy was really supposed to feel like, as if in those dull moments when the rest of the world intrudes and you aren't fucking, you somehow forget it's purpose.
But she always remembered.
Now, he began to slide it in and out, her thick juices providing perfect lubrication.
In and out, faster and faster, he began fucking her like it was the first time he had ever fucked, like it would be the last time he would ever fuck.
Fucking her the way he always fucked her, with passion and desperation.
Harder. Harsher. Hips slamming against hips, sweat mingling, her breasts crushing down on his body beneath her…
She came, five times, ten, a dozen… she had no idea. She knew only that this was why she kept it up, why she found finally, nothing wrong with her relationship with her father.
The bottom line was that she couldn't live without these massive jolts of orgasm that left her body limp every single time they made love.
Again and again his cock crashed into her, splitting her cunt in two, splitting her body in two, driving orgasm after orgasm from her ravaged pussy.
At last, she felt him come. She always knew when he was coming, because he started to plunge his cock in and out of her a lot faster, and suddenly the friction eased up as wad after wad of thick white cum shot from his prick.
And then, surprisingly, he was still.
Could it be that he wanted no more tonight?
It seemed so, because he simply rolled off of her after gaining his breath and held her hand for long moments of silence. Then he started to stroke her hair, but she thought that he seemed… almost distracted.
Something must be on his mind, she thought, after he gave her a kiss and strode from the room. Perhaps his work is going well, she thought. She hoped so.
CHAPTER TWO
The breeze blowing through the open window brushed over her bare nipples. It was cool but not yet with the biting chill that would signal the true onset of winter. For now, it was still comfortably in the dying gasps of summer, or, to be more exact, Indian summer. A month ago there had been a sharp cold spell and she had feared the warm weather gone till spring.
But now, even with the leaves the brilliant shades of red, orange, purple and yellow like giant dollops of paint dripped on the mountainsides, she could still enjoy the countryside as she liked best.
The breeze blew a little harder, rustling the window shade which was pulled a few inches below the base of the open window. It was a light sound, but during the night she had somehow unwound herself from her covers and had been shivering slightly through her dreams for the past hour. The added sound of the shade was enough to finally arouse her.
Carrie Simpson sat up the way she did everything, all at once with a sudden jerking motion, fully alert and at attention.
She was as striking a girl as her sister, smaller of body, blonde where Sherry was a brunette, but with the same full breasts, the same lithe supple form.
She yawned once, shook her head to clear it of the last remaining traces of slumber and was on her feet with a single graceful hop, into her shorts and shirt, and checking to see that her bedroom door was still locked, she was out her window and onto the damp grass outside. Her bare feet left a chain of oblong smudges in the coating of dew that she knew would vanish with the first rays of the sun. But now in the grey half-light of false dawn they stretched back from dancing figure as it raced down the slope of the yard towards the woods, the only proof that life stirred in the mountain retreat.
She had no need really to be so furtive and clandestine. It was simply part of her nature. She was a private girl, one who kept the major portion of herself hidden from the rest of the world, choosing instead to serve portions of herself to others as she saw fit. She understood the first rule of the theater: leave them wanting a little more. She also understood the mind of the poker player and knew instinctively the value of keeping your true self hidden.
Strange, that one kept sheltered and secluded from the world and from other people could have such a worldly outlook, but Lucus Simpson had done right by his daughters, at least in terms of preparing them for maturity. Why, is anybody's guess, because Sherry's secret conviction that he never intended for them to leave their shelter was probably correct. Still, he must have realized that he would not live forever. And in the meantime, if he was successful in keeping them with him, he would obviously want minds as aware and as sharp and knowledgeable as his own.
In Carrie, he had molded a mind that was perhaps too much aware. Too sharp.
She was, unlike her sister, her own person and no one else's. She respected her father, even loved him and allowed herself to go along with his desires, but that intimate bonding that had so affected Sherry had never taken hold with her. At the center of her soul burned the conviction that what she did with her father was wrong, that ultimately she would have to escape, flee their hermetically sealed box and break out into the world beyond, a world that till now had filtered to her only through books and her father's lectures, both of which were available in abundance.
Her feet skipped lightly over the rough terrain, the bottoms turned slowly thick and hard by endless summers of climbing up and down the mountainous landscape, of racing through the limitless forests, of wading through the rocky stream beds with their frigid crystal waters… she was a child of a natural environment. It was perhaps the greatest gift her father had given her and she was so much at one with the land around her that she probably wasn't even quite conscious of it.
She knew only that her solitude was the most precious thing she had. She sought it out often.
Particularly in the past several months. That was the reason for the locked door. Let them think she slept late. By the time she returned, her father would be in the laboratory cooking up God knows what and Sherry would be blissfully involved with whatever satisfied her.