Jayne's World Pt. 26

Despite my 'me time' now being reduced as my trips to Leeds were less frequent, I still had plenty of opportunities to reflect and, of course most of that reflection was about me. Well, that's what spoiled Essex girls, rich, well ex rich now, bitches think about isn't it - mainly themselves! My main reflections were how I had got to where I am with sex. What had caused it; why it played such a large part in my life; was I unusual, and where might it take me as I burst into and possibly struggled with it through my rapidly approaching thirties? Okay, I didn't know of any of my friends who were so into sex as to be making a living from it, but then they may have been just as sexually active as me but giving it away. I too had been like that, an amateur, pretty much, until I met James, my now getting on for sixty-year-old lover. Not that he caused me to become a professional - that was just coincidental.

During those reflections, I thought back over my life generally and my sexual life in particular. Surprisingly, in retrospect I was a late starter, not really getting going on the sex bandwagon until well into my late teens, and my early appetite for it was not that large. Incongruously I suppose, I still don't really have that high a sex drive and this is where it gets complicated. I get aroused quite easily but do not need to satisfy that need as often as many of my contemporaries do. Apart from when I am posing, I can go quite some time without having sex. And even when I am working and showing off my bare body to photographers, I don't have that strong a need to actually be fucked; merely looked at. At the heart of my sexual paradigm, I have concluded, is my exhibitionism, my strong desire to be looked at and visually approved of and, preferably, adored.

The 'thing' with my dad that I am sure a psychoanalyst would suggest has conditioned much, if not most, of my adult sexual behaviour, built up over the few years in my late teens. There wasn't one big event; nothing in particular occurred that I could put my finger on and say that was the start or the cause of what happened between us. But looking back I can identify a series of events that cumulatively add up to a pretty powerful reason as to how my, and I guess his as well, attraction developed.

It had started, as far as I can recall, as his and mum's relationship began going tits up. That brought him and me closer together and pushed her and me further apart. My mum and I, being very similar personality-wise, had not got on since I had grown up. So, as their relationship blew up and fell apart, he and I got closer. We talked one to one a lot more and gossiped, mainly about the family, had secrets between us and had our own little jokes, stood closer together, touched each other more often and probably unnecessarily, though not at first sexually, held each other's gazes and generally developed a very close relationship. This closeness built up over several years and accelerated quite rapidly after I became an adult and especially after my nineteenth birthday. During that time, there were a number of striking examples which, looking back, were I guess 'stepping stones' towards the fullness of a loving, incestuous father daughter relationship.

The first major incident happened at my eighteenth birthday celebration party. That had been delayed for nine months as I had been travelling on my gap year when I was eighteen, so I was nearly nineteen at the time.

It was near to the end of the party, which was held at mum's golf club. Dad asked me to dance to a slow, smoochy number and near the end of it, when he was holding me quite tightly, I felt him getting hard. Other than him moving away a little, neither of us did anything. We continued dancing, almost on the spot and twice more I felt the length of his erection brush against my stomach.

"Sorry Jay," he whispered as we left the dance floor at the end of the number. I said something like 'not to worry' and we moved on. But of course, it had registered strongly with me and I wanted to talk it through with him, find out what it meant and get to the bottom of what to me was a bloody big deal, my dad getting a hard-on when with me. I'd had guys do that and their explanation was clear, they wanted to fuck me, and some got lucky and did. Was that what he wanted, was that what him getting hard when holding me in his arms meant? I wasn't sure and wanted to know, but I was scared to ask so I left it, but it lingered in my mind.

The second significant event happened a few months later when I bought my new outfits for the round of job and university interviews lined up for me after I finished my gap year.

I'd had plenty of practice at shopping and my mum had taught me well. So, I knew Knightsbridge with its boutiques and, of course the brilliant Harvey Nics, and the stodgy but huge Harrods as a good fall back, was the go-to area in London for proper, grown up shopping.

So, I spent pretty much the whole day in town and struggled home on the tube, laden with bags holding the stuff I'd bought - some Perla underwear, tights and a few pairs of stockings, hold ups and my very first suspender belt, two pairs of shoes and some other knick-knacks. Thank God for dad's Amex!

When dad got home from work at roughly his usual time of seven, I was cooking dinner for us. I enjoyed doing that; well, as long as I didn't have to do it too often. It made me feel very grown up and, as I was starting to admit to myself, closer to him. I hadn't got on well with my mum for some time and occasionally when I heard noises from their bedroom I felt full of jealousy. My thinking hadn't gone as far as imagining having sex with my dad, but I often imagined being in his arms as I had been at the party and the feeling his erection against me often featured as I masturbated.

"Had a good day love?" he asked kissing me on the cheek.

"Yes, great and to celebrate I've cooked a real dinner so no takeaway for us tonight," I grinned as he went off to get changed.

As we ate the roast chicken I'd cooked, I told him that I'd been shopping and had got both my interview outfits and my school prom dress.

"Actually dad," I said after we'd cleared up and moved into the small lounge or TV room as we called it, "could I borrow your camera to take a few photos to send to mum for her opinion?"

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Well, she's much more up on what's fashionable and what suits me isn't she?"

"Yes I guess so and she'll be pleased, but can't it wait until she gets home?"

"Not really because if I need to change any, I don't have much time when she gets home so I'd rather get it done tomorrow or Saturday."

"Okay then I'll get my camera."

I went up to the granny annex over the garage that he'd built for me a couple of years ago, got the bags and brought them all down. Pulling what I had selected as my interview uniform out of the Harvey Nics bag, I held it up and asked, "What do you reckon dad?"

"Mmmm nice, but hard to tell like that."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd need to see it on, rather than like that, as I am sure your mother would too."

"What, you want me to try them on?" I asked, feeling a surge of excitement run through me.

"Well, yes, I think that'd be best, don't you?"

"Okay then," I said, quickly adding, "I'll just pop into the big lounge and change."

I took both the interview and proms outfits into the lounge, and slipping out of my jeans I put the skirt and jacket on over the tee shirt I was wearing. Back in the small lounge I saw that dad had his camera. "Okay dad, obviously I'd wear a blouse or smarter top," I told him as he started taking a few shots.

"Don't worry love you look great," he told me, taking shots of me in the three-button jacket and fairly tight skirt with the hem a couple of inches above my knees, which I had decided I would have shortened.

"Turn round love, let's get some from the sides and rear, shall we?"

I was enjoying being photographed and I suppose I put on a bit of show by striking poses rather than just standing there.

"Mmmm that's great Jay, undo the jacket let's get a few like that."

It didn't strike me at first but suddenly I realised I was rather flaunting myself, and in a strange and hopefully muted way, flirting with him. I even struck poses with my hand on my hip or in my hair, to which he made quite appreciative remarks before saying, "Shall we do the proms dress now then Jayne?"

"Okay," I replied, adding "I'll get changed."

As I removed the skirt and jacket in the other lounge, I realised that I was rather excited, and my heart was beating faster than normal. Both my excitement and my heartbeat increased a little when I took the tee shirt off and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was wearing a white bra and matching thong and momentarily I wondered what my dad would think if he saw me like that. As I took the 'little black number' out of the Harvey Nicks bag, I realised that the white underwear didn't go with it, that it would look odd and that mum would be only too pleased to point that out. So, slipping my tee back on, and noting in the mirror that it covered my panties, I went back into the little lounge.

"Wow, is that your proms dress? he asked smiling.

"No, silly, I need to get the stuff I bought as it's black and goes with the dress," I told him, acutely aware of his eyes on me as I picked up the bag holding the underwear and stockings and went to leave the room. As I did, he called out, "I don't suppose you want to send mum photos of your undies as well do you?"

I didn't know what to say at first, as the thought of posing for him in the Perla bra and thong came into my mind. But I kept on walking out of the room and called out, "No thanks dad, I think I'll pass on that," wishing that I could think of a way where I could pose for him in my underwear. Of course, I couldn't, and we finished the session with me in the black dress, hold up stockings and high heels and the black bra, but no panties as there seemed little point in putting them on.

That night as I masturbated, he was in my mind and I could hardly believe that as I neared my climax, I was in his arms, with him on top of me. The fantasy did not extend far enough to show whether we were fucking or not but it became a fairly regular masturbatory image over the next few weeks.

Those two relatively major incidents were in addition to several minor ones. For instance, several times our feet touched as we lounged around watching TV. Usually, he was wearing socks as sometimes I was, although at other times I had tights on and once hold ups. On one occasion with mum dozing off on one of the big chairs with me in another and dad on the settee we both had our feet on a pouffe and his toe touched the sole of my foot - I was wearing tights at the time. Usually, especially when she was awake and sober, any touch was only fleeting and either he or I would pull away. This time, however, neither of us moved our foot away and he slowly ran his toe along the bottom of my foot from heel to toe than back again. I looked at him and our gazes met and locked as I pressed against his toe. It didn't last that long, just a minute or two I suppose, but by God it was so sexy. That happened a couple of other times over the next few weeks, with perhaps the most sensual being when he was barefooted and I was wearing a skirt and hold up stockings, having been to a 'milk round' university presentation. That time lasted for what seemed like ages, probably five minutes or so of foot caressing; it was lovely. It was only as mum was waking up that I really noticed that the skirt had ridden up and I was flashing part of my stocking tops to him.

The next significant situation between us happened just a couple of weeks later. Mum was out somewhere and wasn't expected home until late and dad, as usual, was at work. It was a lovely warm and sunny day so I thought I'd top up my tan in the garden. I was lying on a sun lounger and to avoid the white lines and patches I'd removed my bra and I dozed off. I had no idea how much later it was but suddenly through the mist of my slumber I heard dad saying something. Looking up he was standing at the end of the lounger looking down at me. I had no idea how long he'd been there.

"Oh dad, what are you doing here?" I blurted out, wondering why he was home so early.

Smiling at me as I reached out for my bikini bra and held it against my breasts he said, "Well I do kinda live here Jay, or had you forgotten that?"

"No of course not, sorry dad."

"What for?" he asked his gaze seeming to be boring in on where I was holding my bra.

"Oh I don't know, asking a daft question I suppose," I replied, sitting up straight and wondering how I could put the bra on without flashing my tits to him? As I did that, I was looking at him and I could hardly believe my eyes for I saw movement in his stylishly tight trousers and it flashed into my mind that he's getting hard.

"Well never mind, love," he said turning away and adding, "Don't worry, I won't look Jay but you do have lovely boobs."

As he said that, our gazes caught and locked. Neither spoke for a moment or two, we just stared at each other with his words crashing into my mind. I was confused. But I was also aroused and intrigued as my mind took in that my father had just told me that I have lovely tits. Well, he didn't actually say tits, but he had said he thought I had lovely boobs. As my mind tried to compute what this all meant, I guess my response was rather silly and very girly for, to my absolute horror, I heard myself saying, "Do I dad, do I really have nice boobs?"

His response sort of put me at ease yet, at the same time excited me even more for I could see now that without doubt he was becoming erect and my mind crashed on the thought of, 'My dad's getting hard because he's looking at my tits,' as he said quietly, "Yes darling, you do have lovely breasts."

Again, I was at a loss as to what to do but somehow the burgeoning woman in me came to the fore and I said in almost a whisper as without thinking I slid the bra away from them a little. "And do you like looking at them dad?"

"Oh God, Jayne yes, yes, yes of course I do."

Then there was silence as he looked at them and I looked at him looking at my breasts. "Oh dad," I said in almost a whimper.

"Oh Jay, oh my God, what am I doing?" he groaned.

As he almost broke down and certainly lost his usual cool demeanour, I seemed to find an inner strength that I didn't know I possessed. I said quietly, "Just telling me that I have nice breasts dad," as I let go of the bra so that it fell onto my legs baring my breasts completely.

"And darling you do but I shouldn't be saying that."

"Why not if it's true?"

"Because, well it's as if er, no um, you're oh my god, you're my daughter Jayne and a father shouldn't say that about her, it's wrong."

"Is it, dad, is it really wrong?"

"Yes, oh Christ, oh shit I don't know, perhaps not saying it but looking at them is."

"Is it, even if she doesn't mind?" I somehow managed the pluck to blurt out.

"And you don't mind Jayne?"

"No dad," I said sounding far calmer and confident than I felt as, at the back of my mind, I wondered where this would lead us. He solved that, though, and not in the way I thought and maybe hoped.

"No Jayne, stop I mustn't, I have to go."

"Where you going?"

"To my room and I won't want dinner, sorry Jayne this is my fault."

Then he was gone, and I was once more lying on my sun bed topless.

Being only a few months over nineteen and still relatively sexually inexperienced, I didn't know what to do. I was aroused, confused, scared and, I guess, rather traumatised. I didn't know whether I was happy at what had happened at first or, pissed off that he had, as I felt, rejected me. No boy had ever done that to me and with my immature thinking I couldn't get my head around what all this meant nor, really what had just happened.

Although matters of the heart and sex are inevitably complicated and I was acutely aware that I had a lot to learn about men and, obviously, even more about sex, I knew that what had just happened was wrong. I was not so naïve to think that anything at all sexual between a father and daughter was okay as I knew it wasn't. Since having this, what I thought was a crush on him, I had spent ages on Google searching for family romances and incest and I'd learned a lot but clearly not enough. Most everything I read said it was wrong, immoral, banned, illegal or some other accusatory condition. But other than the medical considerations should incest lead to childbirth, there was little or no information on why it was considered to be so bad. It seemed to be another one of those things that was bad just because it was bad and there was no rhyme or reason given for it being so. And the more I researched and thought it about it, the more I could think of reasons for it being given a green, rather than the red light it had traditionally received.

I was tempted to go and knock on his study door and confront him but I knew that in reality I wouldn't have the pluck. I thought of phoning or emailing him, but what on earth could I say? The idea of seducing him or perhaps being naked or just in my bra and panties when he came down, if he did, crossed my mind. But as I shrugged myself back into my bra I was thinking c'est la vie, perhaps that's just how things are in the grown up world of incestuous sex?

In any case, if I had confronted him by whatever ruse I chose, what would I then do, and what did I want him to do? Alright, in my masturbatory machinations we occasionally had wild, abandoned and wonderful sex, but face to face, in real life, would it and could it be like that? Could I abandon myself to seek my sexual nirvana with him, my father, my dad? More importantly maybe, could he? Could he let go as he'd need to, indeed as we both would need to, could we relinquish our father and daughter roles to become lovers? God the questions and considerations seemed endless.

So, I didn't see him that evening, and the next day he left for work early and got home when I was out, and he was in bed when I got home. Over the next few days, the event in the garden, particularly but also the photography, was rarely far from my mind. However, with 'her' stubbornly around most of the time dad and I were rarely alone in the house together and even had we been I guess I wouldn't have done or said anything, I hadn't got the balls to do that, yet! But other things were happening. I was being more forward with him, making almost suggestive and certainly come-on remarks. I wanted to flaunt myself at him. He'd told me I had nice boobs, he'd seen my tits in the garden and had taken photos of them in the tee shirt and the black dress. I caught him staring at them a few times and when that happened, I pushed them out in a rather juvenile but, nevertheless, I hoped, a very feminine way. I got bolder or maybe things got worse. I started dressing to impress him. Well maybe not impress, but more arouse and interest him and make me more attractive to him. Deeper down in my thought process I prepared for evenings in front of the TV with both of them, or weekends in the garden when we all sunbathed. That was occasionally all three of us but more often there were various pairings with unfortunately rarely it being just him and me and never when she was out for any length of time. I had begun to think with a light increase in my heart rate that was because dad was worried about being alone with me. Worried at what he, or maybe I, might do? Just in case, and as a sort of flag of convenience as I thought of it, I always wore the yellow bikini, the one I had been half wearing when he first saw my tits in the garden.

At first unconsciously, but after a very short while, quite knowingly, I began dressing for him, wearing clothes with him in mind: shorter skirts, tighter tops, skimpier tee shirts and no bra. I flaunted my, fairly prominent for a nineteen-year-old, nipples at him, wore tight, low-cut jeans so I showed a fashionable band of flesh around my stomach and wore, more often than I visited the gym, skin tight yoga pants with nothing under them.