tagIncest/TabooWho's Your Daddy?

Who's Your Daddy?

byscouries©

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?"

Shorter than her sister by maybe two inches, Sam was still a tall girl at five-nine and as her long, curly, auburn hair billowed around her head in the breeze I was captivated by her beauty, a beauty that had snuck up on everyone, so that she now exuded a sexual aura as strong as her older sister. "So where in Boston did you find the magical lantern?" I asked as she sat opposite me.

"What do you mean?" she asked, a quizzical frown crossing her smiling face.

"Here I thought my summer assistant was going to be that thin, coltish, giggling, high school teen who's been prancing around the island for the last four years and now instead, voila, magically you've turned into this gorgeous young woman," I said grinning. "Gosh, poor Izzy, having to live in the shadow of a beautiful younger sister."

Every summer I brought with me to the island a student, an English major from the University, someone who wanted to be a writer, someone who was willing to do my 'Joe' jobs in exchange for being in my presence, a chance to learn from the master. They were always girls, always pretty and I always eventually slept with them, the sweet young things oh so eager to share the bed with the famous author.

Samantha Butler, my next door summer neighbor had written me in January, asking if I'd consider her for the position, that she wanted to be a writer, that she so wanted to see how a real author worked. I was pissed off at first, having had already narrowed my choice down to two incredibly hot University of Georgia sophomores, either of whom I knew would melt under my tongue, thrash under my hard cock.

I was pissed off because I knew immediately that I'd give her the job, that I was incapable of refusing her anything. After a couple of letters and e-mails during the early spring I had offered her the job and now here we were.

"Yeah right!" she said blushing, but I could see she was happy with the compliment. Shy and studious, Sam had lived all her life in the shadow of her blond sister and I knew not many men had ever compared her looks favorably to Isobel. "Like Izzy is ever going to have to worry about another girl. And besides, if I had found a Genie I wouldn't have wasted a wish on my looks."

"No, no need to," I complimented her, my eyes caressing her, and then asked, probing, "What would you wish for Sam?" wanting to know every secret of this darling girl.

"That's for me to know professor," she said laughing as she stretched sinuously in her seat, her full, round breasts testing her t-shirt tops tensile strength as she arched her back. "I am going to College in the fall you know Professor," she finally added. "Bryn Mawr."

"Your mom's school."

"Uh huh, English major – I want to be a writer," she said shyly, "like you... well you already know that of course... When do you want me to start professor?"

"Whenever you're settled honey. No rush, I'm sure you have lots of friends to see, things to do."

"I'll start tomorrow sir. I want you to treat me just like you would anyone else."

Right, I thought, as if that was possible. "All right Samantha. Why don't you come over first thing, say eight, and we'll get organized. I'll probably need you til one-thirty or two most days Sam, and then you'll be free for all your boyfriends every afternoon. OK?"

"Yes sir," she said beaming, "You won't regret letting me work with you sir, I promise."

As she skipped away, calling to her sister up the road, I watched her rear wriggling firmly under her skimpy, white silk shorts and knew I'd never regret my decision.

~~~~~

The Von Scourie house was a large one, and while the front door stood facing inland and the driveway, the very last house on the road, the real orientation of the house was towards the beach and all the important rooms faced the ocean. A ten foot wide balcony ran across the second floor of the house and gave a perfect view of the Atlantic and the next island in the archipelago, three miles off, from the comfortable wicker sofas that were scattered along its fifty foot length.

Below the balcony, was a deck with chairs and table and barbeque, and farther down a rectangular pool surrounded by a grassy lawn, and then three stairs leading to a path that twisted through the sea grass and led to the forty foot wide beach that fronted the ocean.

But the houses name, at least what the locals called it, 'Von Scourie's Tower', was derived from its most unusual feature, the structure that jutted twenty-five feet upwards from the roof of the house, a tower that dominated the surrounding area.

My great-uncle James, Jimmy to everyone on the island when he was living, had added the tower some sixty years ago, to the derision, I might add, of the whole populace. But now it was quite famous, and now most of the island paintings and seascapes displayed in the tourist shops of Eastport included the Von Scourie tower somewhere on the horizon.

My writing room, my sanctuary, was at the top of the tower, a room that was all windows and bookcases, a fifteen by fifteen foot space some fifty feet in the air, which from my desk gave me a view in all four directions with just the turn of my head.

"WOW," was Samantha's first word when her head poked through the hatch and into my workplace after climbing the steep stairwell of the tower the next morning just after eight. "We always wanted to come up here and see the view and play," she explained, and went on to tell me the various things her sister and she imagined.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I laughed, "I would have let you in anytime."

"Oh look, you can see our house. And all the way over to the north side." She turned and took in the view in all four directions, the ocean, the dunes, the seagrass, the soaring pines that were mirrored by the tall, pine bookcase in each corner that stood flanking the windows, the pond sitting tranquilly in the Park, the seagulls soaring by, the... "God, wait til I tell Izzy, she'll be so jealous," she laughed as she skipped around the room, touching the desks and the computers, the books and the large telescope sitting facing the sky, almost as if she was just making sure it wasn't a dream.

She finally slowly began to inspect one bookcase and after a quick study exclaimed, "These are all books you've written aren't they? Gosh, in French and German and, what language is this sir?"

"Bulgarian," I finally announced after looking at the book. "I'm one of those vain authors Sam, I work surrounded by all these first editions of my novels."

"You should be proud sir," she whispered, just a little bit of adoration creeping into her voice, "I've loved all your books, they're so good."

"And these?" she asked as she danced to the opposite corner and pulled down a couple of books. "You like science fiction professor?" she asked quizzically as she leafed through one.

I'm Professor Emeritus at the University of Georgia in Athens these days, the University my home since they offered me the chance to be writer-in-residence for one year, all expenses paid, thirty-six years ago when I was a struggling young writer. Athens, Georgia is a great town to live in and the people at the University treated me grandly that year, making me feel so welcome that I never left, even when I became successful and fairly famous.

They appointed me a Professorship in their Department of English and basically left me alone to write, my only duty one that I loved, which was to lead a seminar in creative writing for the Schools most talented young minds.

I had written twelve 'Von Scourie' novels over the years, novels set in Boston and the islands of the sound, novels which over the years had won both critical and popular acclaim. I wasn't a Hemingway but there wouldn't be many Modern American Lit courses in America that wouldn't have one of my books on the reading list. And they sold, so what the hell?

But... but I had also written other books, books written under a variety of pseudonyms, and the Sci-Fi book Sam was now holding was one of them. "This is your first trade secret Sam," I whispered conspiringly in her ear.

"What sir?"

"I wrote it, in fact all of them," I said pointing around the room, my finger pressed against my lip, begging her silence in the future.

"What! All of them?" she gasped as she danced to the next bookcase, pulling out a couple of mysteries. "Gee, I've read some of these," she laughed, and then added as she flitted to the final bookcase, "how many books have you written anyway?"

"Uhhhhh," I stalled, my eyes intently watching as she pulled a volume from an upper shelf, wondering what her reaction would be.

"EROTICA TOO!" she gasped as she looked up at me after reading a few lines, startled by her discovery.

"Maybe it'd be better if you don't read those ones," I replied as I stretched my arm to grab the book from her.

"Oh no sir, I want to read everything you've written," she proclaimed with the eagerness of youth, a sly twinkle in her eye as she pulled the book back out of my reach, her body taut against her thin dress as she arched away from me. "All this is so exciting, I'm so happy to be here Professor," she beamed as she swung her arms to encompass the whole room.

It only took me a morning to realize my luck, to understand Sam would be the perfect assistant for me, that my fear that she'd somehow hinder my work had been completely groundless. I slowly took her through what I expected of her and of how I worked. "I'm always working on various projects at one time Sam, I explained. "I try to write four-five hours every day, eight til ten, then a quick swim and breakfast, then til one-thirty or two. I'll often reread and plan during the afternoon or night but I'll be constantly finding jobs for you."

"You're going to have to do a lot of research. For example, you may have to look up the best route from one place to another, street names, distances, what noted buildings on the route, etc., etc. Or how far to Pluto from Mars. Just type whatever you find right into the text in green."

"You're going to have to read all my current stuff, and my background notes so you know where I am and where I'm going. You may have to read a couple of the earlier books in each genre so you understand my style, etc. I also want you to read what I write daily and let me know where my mistakes are, when my writing is crap, when I go off track, when..."

"But Professor, I'm not..."

"You're also in charge of backing up the work, making sure back-up copies are in secure places, handling my web site, my fan letters."

"Golly Sir!"

Even though she was slightly overwhelmed, I also saw that she was more than competent. Two minutes explaining the computer system were enough to show me that she not only understood how I used them, but that she would be capable of easily improving my system, her computer skills far outdistancing mine. Her concise, to the point questions on everything I explained immediately allowed me to see she understood what was required.

Within a half hour we were both hard at work, a record compared with any of her predecessors over the years. Looking up after about twenty minutes I regretted I wasn't writing one of my erotic tales that morning. Watching her sitting in front of her flickering screen at the desk facing me, the morning sun backlighting her thick, rich hair, a pen dangling between her lips, her glasses raised high above her forehead, her breasts heaving; I immediately saw her as 'teenage temptress personified' as a complete sexual story flashed before my eyes.

At some point she had unbuttoned the top two buttons on the demure summer dress she had worn this morning, having earlier explained her choice of clothes as, "I let Mom choose today. She insisted I look proper on the first day of my first job," she had confessed, a slight blush on her face.

"You look perfect Sam," I had complimented her, letting her know she could basically wear any of her summer clothes in future. And now as I looked over at her I could see the top of the valley between her breasts, could see the edge and straps of a lilac colored silk demi-bra, and with each movement she made, from computer to reference book to computer and back, I could see her breasts dancing under the thin material.

I was stroking myself under the table, daydreaming, wondering if I dared lower the zipper on my shorts and let him free, wondering if I could slip under the desk, in search of a dropped pen, to look up between her golden thighs, when she looked up and smiled and said, "I'm enjoying this sir."

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