http://www.mrdouble.com



This story is published with the permission of the author.
The author may be contacted through mrdouble@ix.netcom.com

Content-Disposition: attachment; filename="Forbidden.txt"

Author grants permission to distribute this story 
for public domain, but only to appropriate sites
or arenas for 'adults only' material.

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This is intended for adult audiennces, only for those
over 21 and NOT for younger ages and/or anyone who
finds this subject matter offensive or objectionable.
It IS fiction, entirely the product of imaginary
storyform and any similarity to anyone anywhere is
strictly coincidence.

WARNING: Contains controversial explicit sexual
situations! DO NOT read any further if this kind of
material has no appeal to you.


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       FOREVER FORBIDDEN

          By: Ms. X

Hi. My name is Chandra, I'm sixteen. And yes, I'm
considered pretty, sort of the All-American girl,
healthy and trim, athletic, a cheerleader. I know it's
corny, and I know what you're thinking: 'Oh wow,
not another one of those blue-eyed blondes!" And
it's true I was named Chandra for the Sanskrit
meaning: Moon, moonlike... Or as  my mother
often quoted Shelly, "That orbed maiden
with white fire laden..." At least I didn't inherit
her stigma from having been named after 'Princess 
Grace', since I'd heard her called 'The Ice Princess' 
behind her back. She did look like Grace Kelly...

But back to my life,  just listen, okay...just listen to 
what's been going on with me -- and you'll know I'm 
not the average teenage girl, though I may seem 
to be from outer appearances.

Because, see, I've got this god-awful sexual thing
for my very own daddy! I mean, most people would
think this is sick, sick, sick! They even have laws
against this kind of stuff -- and it's not like anything
has actually happened yet. It's just, I think it might
if I keep feeling the way I do around my daddy, the
way I've felt since I was only about ten. 

But let me explain how it was when I first started
having these intense feelings, what I think brought
it on. When we were at home, my bedroom was nowhere
near my parents.  No, my room was at the other end of 
a very, very long upstairs hallway; I never heard any
sounds from their room, ever!

One summer, the year I turned ten, we went to the
beach in Florida; some friends had lent mom and dad
their cottage. It was a real small place, beautiful spot
on a secluded, private beach (the friends were rich, and
my daddy was their lawyer in some kind of messy
lawsuit). My daddy was only 35, tall, lean, in great
shape, handsome in a thin, intense way, his angular
face somehow always seeming sad, melancholy.

 Anyhow, the very first night there, I realized my
bedroom was separated from my parents' room only
by a thin wall. And when I got into bed, I began to hear
these whispery sounds coming from their bedroom. I
couldn't make out exactly what they were saying, but
soon I heard my daddy's voice clearly say, "Grace,
you'd think you had a gold mine down there, the way 
you guard it."

I didn't know what he meant, and their voices lowered,
with only an occasionally loud grunt or groan from
daddy, my mom's light whimpering like she was in
pain. Then I heard a slow, rhythmic pounding begin,
the creaky bedsprings noisy, louder and louder as
a hard, thrusting sound repeated, over and over, the
muffled sobs of my mom making me wonder what on
earth daddy as doing to her?

I was shocked when I heard a loud thud, then my 
daddy's voice angry voice, "Have it your way, I'll
just finish it myself."

Then the bedroom door opened, I heard him pad
across the hall to the bathroom, and slam the door
behind him. I was dying of curiosity, and got out
of bed, feeling strangely excited, almost shivery
with anticipation.

I crept across my room, slipped open the door and
watched through the tiny opening, wondering what
daddy was doing in the bathroom? I stood there
a long time, and there was no sound from the bathroom,
only the dead quiet of the cottage, a low roar of ocean
surf in the distance.

Finally, I saw the bathroom door open, and daddy
came out into the hall; he had on a robe, and it was
slightly parted in front. As he turned, I could see
the massive knob of hard flesh sticking out; he
seemed dazed, his eyes glazed yet bright and his
hand went down to touch the thing between his legs,
making him groan.

Quickly, he went back to their bedroom, and I
couldn't help it, I wanted to see what was happening.
I waited till he'd gotten into the room, then slipped
quietly along the hall, hardly believing he'd not closed
the door all the way. I crept up to look through the
narrow crack, seeing that daddy was standing over
mom, holding that thing and asking her in an agonized
groan, "Dear God, help me, Grace, please? Can't you
see I'm hurting..."

She mumbled something from beneath the pillows
where she'd covered her head; he seemed to stiffen,
his body going rigid, and then he got a wild look in
his eyes, snatched the covers off her. She had her
nightgown on, but he pulled her upright, took the
gown off over her head, and she was naked...and I
knew I shouldn't look, shouldn't watch...but I was
feeling so strange, like my body was on fire, that
I needed to be touched, or rub against something.

But I just couldn't move, I stood paralyzed, and
saw daddy force mom to stand, then he began
kissing her -- very softly at first, and she moaned,
then harder, his mouth opening and his arms going
around her tightly, his body pressing into hers,
forcing her back, back, back down onto the bed.
He parted his legs, shrugging off the robe and I
couldn't believe how big, how thick and long that
thing between his legs had grown; it was huge!

Daddy put his legs on either side of mom, and
he straddled her, grunting as he took hold of that
thing and told her to open up, let it inside her.
And she did, but gave a weak protest and slid up
a little, as if trying to escape him.

Unaware of what I was doing, I suddenly realized
I was rubbing my crotch on the doorframe; it felt
so good, so warm and throbbing between my legs
as I watched daddy shove that pole hard, harder 
into my mom, her legs parting and going round him
as he grunted, then began the steady pounding,
pounding, over and over, his groans as he went
deeper, buried as far inside as possible, mom now
squirming, seeming to hate what he was doing to 
her.

But I felt so good, for a second, I wanted to be
in her place, having daddy doing that with me,
sticking his stiff flesh between my legs, now dripping
wet with something slick and hot that oozed like
honey from a secret depth. My hand went down,
slid into my pajamas and I touched the flesh there,
so sweet and thrilling.

Suddenly daddy pulled out of her, and stood up,
taking hold of his own flesh, beginning to roughly
rub and fist it, harder and harder, all the time
looking at mom with an almost sick, pained look,
as if he hated what he was being forced to do...
and  then he heaved forward, groaned and the
thing he was stroking started to spurt a white stream
of thick, hot juice that hit my mom's belly as she 
said, "Get back, don't come on me!"

And he turned around, almost facing me where I
watched silently, wildly excited, at the doorway,
seeing him thrusting into the air, that thick stream
of spurting juice still pouring, his fist pumping the
jerking, burning flesh between his legs.

That's how I first knew he was so terribly unhappy;
that he wasn't always the remote, controlled, 
unemotional father who had always seemed the
staid, respectable lawyer. That he was not like
my mother, icy cold, remote and inaccessible,
though he always treated me that way. Neither of
my parents ever hugged or held me, not from my
earliest memory. It was as if they'd given not 
only my physical care over to a nanny, but
my emotional development as well. As an only child,
I was lonely -- and no one could fill the empty void
in my heart, no one but my parents. 

That summer was a revelation to me; I learned
as I watched my parents that they were as unlike
as day and night. And they had a very bad marriage;
yet the idea of losing either of them was too scary
at my age. So I hoped they'd work out their differences;
and if not, at least they'd stay together until I got
older.

I learned, most of all, that my father was more
emotional than I'd known, he was alive -- for 
those intense moments I'd secretly watched him, 
he was more vibrantly alive than I'd ever seen 
him.  And I  wanted to learn how I could make 
him feel that  way -- even though I knew it was 
probably  impossible. But I also knew I'd have 
to try....whatever happened as a consequence. 

And though nothing happened for the next 
six years, I was always watching, waiting for
an opportunity. Shameless, I guess; but it is
true...and it was what I wanted more than 
anything on earth.

I knew, yes, that it was forbidden, perhaps
wrong...but I felt that I had to find a way to
reach out and become part of that passionate
intensity I'd witnessed in my daddy's eyes that
summer at the cottage.

                 To Be Continued...?
 

