“Love me, Fan! Love me and let me love you!” he whispered at length, as he sucked and bit at her well-formed, tiny ears, brilliant as pink pearls.
“I love you, pa! You know I do!”
Sandcross fingered at her stays. She disengaged herself from his arms for a second, and unclasping the busk, threw the corset behind her. With insane delight, her father pressed the hard globes, and found both nipples erect. He pulled down the chemise to kiss and lick the twin strawberries, one by one. While he did so, she dragged her arms out of the straps of her filmy garment, and was about to unfasten her petticoat and drawers, when the sucking caress of Sandcross produced the effect he wished, and with a lowing, loving, cooing sound, she fell on his lips again. He tugged at her petticoat. She understood, drawing it off and her drawers too. She was naked with the exception of stockings and shoes. He stood her up erect, admiring her unveiled frame, worthy of being copied in marble, and falling on his knees before her, kissed her thighs, and passed the end of his tongue through the mossy bush that concealed the sign of her sex. She clipped her legs fast together at this soft embrace, and placing her hand on his face, tried to close his eyes with her soft palm. Weak with the awaken-encroaching feelings of lust that racked her virginal body, she fell over him, about to faint with rapture, from the effects of the wave of unknown voluptuous sensations submerging her being. He lifted her up and threw her gently on her back on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge. Standing between her unresisting thighs, he parted them widely. His trembling digits tore at his trousers and braces. He felt that if he tarried but another second or two, nature would betray him. Hastily clutching a towel from the horse on his left, he lifted up his girl, and slipped it under her. She reclined with closed lids, one arm flung over her face, to hide it, and protect her eyes from the strong, searching electric light which made her white body look whiter still. He threw himself upon her. This contact caused her to shudder with delight, and fresh elixir sprung from her hidden source of future motherhood. She pushed up to meet the coming onslaught. Her sex prompted her, but she did not know what was in store for her, as she held out her arms to her father. He bent down and she clasped him to her breast, seeking always for his mouth. His tongue gambolled with hers. Now she shrank from him, and bit her left wrist to stifle her groan of pain. He held her fast now and gained at each powerful thrust. She writhed in agony, and was no longer moist. He panted with delight, feeling the commencement of his climax.
He fell on her breast, exhausted, half unconscious swimming in a sea of satisfied lewd joy, while Fanny sobbed partly in exquisite agony, and feeling a rending pain in each groin.
Sandcross rose at last, and drew the towel, now stained with blood, between her legs, trying to wipe the ensanguined secret recess. This caused her to sit up, and she hid her tearful face on her father's breast.
Now only did he feel a little uneasy. The door was actually ajar. They might have been heard? No, all was quiet. He whispered to Fanny to move gently from the bed, and placed her on the bidet. He kissed the toilet napkin with its scarlet spots, and she smiled through her tears while he did so, and as she saw him fold it up and place it in his pocket. She was not surprised, nor disgusted at seeing her father thus standing before her, his gradually shrinking instrument shamelessly dangling before her eyes.
“Do you forgive me?” he said, one tiny ray of remorse -the first and last-illumining the depths of his soul, obscured by the black clouds of incestuous lust.
“Yes, father. I love you! I regret nothing. I only want you to love me always!”
“Hush, Fan!” he rejoined, fearful as she raised her voice in her excitement. “I swear never to fail you. You're mine, doubly so, by mutual love and right of relationship. Trust in me and your life shall be one dream of happiness.”
And so they kissed again. He put her in bed and tucked her up comfortably, whispering how he had done that when she was a tiny little baby girlie. She smiled at him, gratefully and happy as an angel, as he enquired if she was in pain.
“Down there-you know, pa-between my thighs- legs, I mean. And behind too! Oh! how you hurt me! I never knew your hands were so hard!”
“Poor girl! I'll never slap you again!”
“Oh yes, you may!”
In most childish confusion she threw her white tired arms around his neck, her lips skimming over his moustache, as she murmured: “I like it! It was that spanking which made me feel I loved you, darling pa!”
As her nervous system gradually reverted to its normal state of quietude, so the babyish look returned to her violet eyes, and her face was as full of innocence as heretofore.
“Good night, my own papa! Good night, dear love – my father- and my love!”
With a last kiss – a pure, chaste touch of her closed lips this time – she turned and slept like a child, sinking at once into hearty slumber.
Sandcross looked enraptured at her for a second, and switching off the light retired on tiptoe to his own room. Two or three times did he return in the night to kiss his loving girl, who still slept on, until he dared no longer show himself as the servants arrived through the kitchen at six o'clock.
Next day, Fanny stayed in bed, scolded tenderly for her love of theatres and suppers by her affectionate mother, although she could well understand the allurement of a coup of iced consomme and a truffle or two after the enjoyment of a new play.
The guilty couple now sailed on a calm and laughing lake of unmitigated wanton voluptuousness. Sandcross and his daughter lived through a perpetual honeymoon, and the electrician's wife was charmed to see such a perfect union, suspecting of course nothing whatever. A mother is always the last to grasp the guilt of her children. Sandcross's wife compared the life of their daughter with that of other girls in Paris; fretful, bickering, coquettish maidens, suffering from green sickness, and perpetually worrying their poor parents to get them a husband so that the wayward up-to-date damsels shall be at liberty to love – other men of their own choice.
Fanny grew exceptionally obedient and meek. Her chorus of “Yes, ma!” and “Yes, pa!” would have made the recording angel retire from business, had not the devil been there to whisper in his ear the secret of incestuous lechery that kept Fanny so outwardly calm. Indeed, when matrimony was mentioned it was she who consoled her mamma, impatient to see her daughter smothered in orange-blossoms and white faille.
“What are the men about?” she would sigh, and worry her husband to leave France, and settle in England, Saxon suitors not being so mercenary as the sons of Gaul.
In the meanwhile, Fanny and her father slipped into each other's rooms at night whenever it suited them, and that was very often.
From the point of view of simple salacity, it is perfectly certain that nothing can equal the enjoyment to be found with a young girl, really loving the man who has deflowered her. Her sensual being gradually develops in the arms of a male who is, for the time being, all in all to her-the one man in whom every thought and desire is centred. The surprises of slowly approaching womanhood, and the first thrills of ravishing, immodest pleasure and pruriency have all arisen in her under his influence. She becomes his devoted slave, thankful for a kiss, and brimming over with gratitude for the deeper insidious final caress when he chooses to bestow it upon her.