The Apple Falls Near

"And how's that?" I asked weakly.

"With me pregnant with our son. Because that's how it works with us, with our family. Mom and her father had a son, who ended up breeding with her to create a girl... and he will give that girl, ME, a son, who will, one day, make me pregnant again with a daughter that he will breed. And each generation will be more beautiful, stronger, smarter, better than the last. With us, Dad... Mom used to say that the apple falls NEAR these trees, not far."

The exacting certitude with which she laid it out took my breath away. Almost literally, I was devoid of breath. I just gaped at her, at this creature I had made, the fruit of my own loins, who was so absolutely sure of herself and her place in our lineage that it bordered on destiny. Or fate. Or both. And perhaps it was.

But I wasn't ready to own that yet, to accept it. I wasn't ready... for any of it.

I leaned back from her and stood, my face a blank slate. I stood there for a moment of shared silence and finally said, "I... can't." And I turned to walk out of the kitchen, hungry but too stunned to feel it just then.

As my feet crossed the doorway, she said from behind me. "Yet. But you will. The game is on, Father."

Have you ever played a game against someone, knowing that there was no possible way to win against them and that the odds were stacked against you? The first time you played chess, maybe. Or hide and seek. Any move or tactic you employed was against an opponent who knew the tricks before you did.

Playing a game of seduction with a beautiful woman is like that.

And if the seductress is your own daughter, you are doomed to failure from the start.

But you play the game anyway. For no reasons you can put into words, you enter into a game where your loss is a foregone conclusion and everything will be a long process of just going through the motions. You play the game anyway.

Amity didn't play fair.

I didn't see much of her the rest of the day. And on the occasions that I did see her, she behaved as though we'd never discussed the fact that she wanted me to be her lover. And I sure as hell wasn't about to bring it up. Indeed, she was her perfectly normal self, as breezy and life-loving as she'd ever been. To be honest, it was the happiest I'd seen her since Mother died. She seemed like a puzzle piece had suddenly fallen into place in her mind and life and the tragedy of her mother's loss was, while still painful, something to put behind her. By the time dinner rolled around, which she'd prepared seemingly out of thin air and without me noticing it, I had honestly almost forgotten that there was supposed to be an air of discomfort between us, that there was a challenge before the two of us- her to seduce me, and me to resist it.

The next morning, however, was when the warfare began. And she wasn't subtle about it in the least. As per usual, I awoke to the sound of my daughter's lovely voice calling me to the kitchen for breakfast. I got dressed as I normally did and stumbled into the kitchen smelling good, country home cooking and a fresh pot of coffee. Of the three of us, Amity is the absolute master of coffee in our household, having learned from our mother, whom I thought was the world's best barista Starbucks had never discovered. But Amity took coffee brewing to a whole new artform, mixing and blending flavors and oils like a maestro. For her fifteenth birthday we had gotten her a very expensive espresso/cappuccino/coffee machine that would make most café baristas blush with envy. And she worked it masterfully. Never was a dull moment when it came to mornings in our home. Amity was able to make the most subtle flavors sing and combine in such a way that it would force you to stop and appreciate the first few sips the way you would a fine wine and, once your palate had adjusted to the taste, you'd want to chug it down and WOULD do if it wasn't for the fact that you might burn your throat in the effort. My favorite concoction of hers was a caramel/crème brulée/vanilla blend that would warm your soul and make love to your taste buds.

And that was the olfactory siren song I followed as I entered the kitchen, my vision narrowed like a laser beam on the steaming pot of coffee that sat on the kitchen table. She'd already prepared my cup for me, bless her, and as I began to pour the elixir into my cup, she happily chirped, "Good morning, Dad!"

As the brown liquid poured from the pot and into my cup, I glanced up at her- and almost dropped the pot, stopping myself at the last second as hot coffee sloshed past the cup's lip and onto my hand. I both felt and didn't feel the sensation of burning as my eyes widened in awe at what I saw.

Amity was dressed in an apron.

And that was it.

Her back was to me, giving me a perfect view of that behind I'd fantasized about for months, and she was busy stacking dishes in the sink. As her arms moved from side to side, I could catch glimpses of the outer edges of her large breasts as they too swayed with her movements. "Amity!" I choked out as I made a conscious effort to place the coffee pot back in its cradle and pulled my overheated hand protectively to my mouth. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Amity feigned confusion. "Hm? What?" She stopped stacking the dishes and turned to face me. "Oh, this? It was Mom's, but I didn't want to get myself wet."

Through the muffle caused by my hand as I tried to nurse it with my mouth, I replied, "I'm not talking about what you have on. I'm talking about what you DON'T have on!"

Amity played it like a pro. "Dad, I'm not going to run the risk of getting hot grease and water all over my naked skin if I can help it. Pain isn't my thing." Glancing behind herself, she grabbed a wash towel and tossed it to me. "Speaking of which, are you okay?"

I glanced at my injured hand and shook it gamely. It hurt still, but the burning sensation was going away quickly. I hadn't burned myself with the hot coffee too badly, just enough to wake myself up, really. "I'll be fine. But you still haven't answered my question, young lady."

Amity blinked at me. "Yes, I did, Dad. You asked me what I was wearing. It's Mom's old apron. Are you sure you're okay? You didn't hit your head, too, or something, did you?"

"My head's fine!" I barked, not sure WHY I was losing my temper all of the sudden. It was so totally out of character for me. I think I might have raised my voice to my daughter maybe ten times in all her years, and maybe half of that in frustration, never anger. I closed my eyes in an effort to calm my nerves, only to find the image of my near-naked daughter seared into my retinas, a vision that was quickly being sullied by my imagination. With alarm, I opened my eyes back up. "It's... fine. I'm just... WHY are you wearing JUST the apron and not your normal clothes under it?"

"Oh, that's simple," she said with a wave of her hand and turned back to doing the dishes, once again showing me her perfect ass. In that early morning light I could see just a hint of her young pussy lips and I could swear that there was a slight sheen as the sunlight glinted off it. Was she wet? I wondered. "I want you to know what I look like naked and start fantasizing about having sex with me. I thought we settled this yesterday?"

"Amity," I began carefully, "I know you're eighteen now and you're probably as wound up as a girl can get at her age-"

"Understatement, Dad," she interjected.

"But if you keep this up, you're going to be an orphan before you're made a woman." Translation: you're going to kill me with a heart attack, young lady!

Amity arched an eyebrow at me. "Too much?" The false façade of seduction was gone from her face and she was genuinely curious. She pulled out the chair across from me at the table and sat down in it.

"Much too much," I replied. "Look, Amity, I get it. I do. And I appreciate what you're trying to do. But this..." I gestured at her near nakedness, "is too much, too fast. It's like..." And I paused to grope for the words, trying my best to give her fatherly advice on, of all things, the subject of how to seduce men. Well, how to seduce me, really. Which was weird and counterintuitive. "It's like walking into a restaurant and having the chef rushing you to eat his world-class meal. You don't get enough time to savor it or... learn from it. The experience of the meal gets completely side-stepped. It tastes great, but it doesn't last."

Amity looked down at the table in contemplation for a moment, her eyes roaming over the freshly-cooked meal she'd prepared as she thought about the analogy. Then she looked up. "So you're saying I should dial it back a bit?"

"A lot." I paused a beat and went on. "It doesn't matter who your first is, you should always cherish it and make it the best possible experience."

My daughter narrowed her eyes at me. "That's not what happened with Mom," she said.

I took a deep breath through my nose, recalling the first time I'd had sex with our mother and nodded. "No, you're right. It isn't. That case was unique. EVERY case is unique. With Mother there was... it had always been just us. Father died when I was a boy, so really she was the only woman in my life."

"Just like you're the only man in mine," Amity put in.

"Stipulated. But Mother and I had a lifetime of experiences that were limited ONLY to us. With you and me, the story is a bit different. Our mother was here for most of your life, thank God. It's a different dynamic. And you so resemble her that, sometimes, it's almost like she's still here. But she isn't. And I know that. And as much as I love you, I loved her, too. She was my mother first and foremost. So we had a relationship that was exclusive to us. When we first made lo- had sex, the passion and love that we had for each other, one that grew with time, hit us full-force and we didn't have the time to think about it. We just... reacted, in a way. But my relationship with you is... different."

"You don't see me in the same way that she saw you?"

"I..." and I gave some real thought to that question. "I don't know."

Amity was quiet for a moment before she hit me with the next question that would hold my heart hostage for the rest of my life. "Are you not in love with me the way she was with you, when you first... fucked?"

"Of course I love you," was my immediate reply.

"No, Dad," she said softly with a shake of her head as she stood to leave. "Not that. IN love. Because I spoke to Mom about this at length before she died. Maybe you didn't know it, but she was IN LOVE with you long before you got together. And maybe I can't compete with that." I could see tears welling up in her eyes and the color in her cheeks was rising. Even as naked as she was under that apron, our mother's apron, she was even more naked to my gaze then, her heart open and aching. Nothing hurts like a heart in search of love and she was that personified.

Without another word, she was the one to leave the kitchen, too overwhelmed to say anything more.

If there's one thing you can't do, it's to compete with a ghost. It's impossible. Because a ghost isn't real and what you're competing against is actually just an idea of a memory. But Amity wasn't deterred. She didn't give up. She knew what she wanted, even if I didn't... yet. Oh, to be sure, the male in me wanted her the way a dog wants a bone, but the father in me was at odds with the MAN in me. It was beyond question that I loved Amity more than life itself, but she'd posed a serious question that I couldn't answer: was I, COULD I be, in love with her?

I think she realized that that was the one hurdle I'd have to leap before I'd consent to taking her as my... my what? My lover? My mate? I think the relationships in my family kind of defied real definition in those terms. At any rate, I believe she realized that before I could make love to her, I'd have to be certain that I was in love WITH her- first. And I think she wanted it that way, too. A passionate, animalistic sexual exchange appealed to her youthful lusts, but she was no dummy. She knew that a healthy relationship between a man and a woman, regardless of their relations, would need to be built on a genuine love that was more than just what a parent felt for a child and vice-versa. Any love I felt for her outside of our family dynamic would need to have a life of its own.

So she dialed it back- WAY back!- but she didn't give up. Or maybe she just developed new habits. It was hard for me to tell. For days after that painful conversation, whenever I saw her, she was nowhere near as bold, but she had just a hint of tease to her. Low-cut shirts, skin-tight shorts, barely-there skirts with thongs underneath... that kind of thing. But when I saw her in those outfits, she didn't make an obvious show of it. She just moved and acted like normal. This was how she dressed now, skimpy, almost bordering on slutty, but not depraved. The male in me ate it up. And, I have to be honest here, the father in me felt proud. She was learning balance in the delicate art of seduction, learning how to wield the weapon that was her beauty like it was a well-honed knife rather than a sledge-hammer.

Amity was persistent, if not relentless. Nevertheless, our original father/daughter dynamic was slowly coming back into firm setting, despite a palpable tension that was felt by both of us. Never again did she broach the subject of whether or not I was or could ever be in love with her. Meanwhile, it was all I ever thought about... until I didn't. I don't know when, exactly, I stopped thinking about it, but I did. We fell back into our routines, I guess, and eventually it was a concern that I didn't focus on anymore. I remember one night in bed alone, thinking about the situation, when I thought to myself, "For now, I love her. Every piece of her. And, for now, all I can do is hope that will be enough."

Laughter and jokes, two things you quietly wonder when they will come back into a home that's been struck by tragedy. Time heals all wounds, as they say. And while I don't think either of us would ever fully heal from the loss of our mother, the wounds were no longer as fresh or painful. We adjusted to her absence over time. And, in due course, over a period of months, the laughter and joy returned. Jokes at one another's expense, laughter while watching a movie on TV, smiling genuinely at each other... those were the best, if you ask me, the smiles. At first they were warm and supportive, but at some point they had a hint of playfulness about them. She'd read something online while we were in our shared office/computer lab and I'd glance up to see her glance at me self-consciously and, when she caught my gaze, her eyes would twinkle. And seeing joy in her face always made my heart swell. Seeing happiness in her gave me hope, which was something I desperately needed.

Maybe it had happened sooner and I just hadn't noticed it, but one day I did: Amity stopped wearing panties. She still wore the short skirts and sexy shorts and tight pants, but one day, when she walked by me and I dropped something, she bent down to pick it up for me and, not a foot away from my nose, I got a very clear eyeful of my daughter's sex. The first things that registered in my mind was that my daughter's pussy was small, clean and very inviting. When she stood upright again and turned to hand me the pen, she noticed the befuddled look on my face. "What?" she asked.

It was my turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow at my beautiful daughter. "Playing The Game again, are you?"

Amity's brow furrowed for a moment in confusion and then realization dawned on her. "Oh. Oh! No. Uhm, no. I... I just... I think I gave that up."

"So why aren't you wearing any panties?" I asked bluntly.

And she just shrugged. "Don't want to anymore. I quit wearing them months ago, found I liked the feeling. Now I only wear them when I'm on my periods. You really didn't notice until just now?"

It was my turn to shrug. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. "Not really, no." Feeling uncharacteristically bold, I flipped up the front of her skirt to get an unobstructed look at her mound from the front. Like her mother's, Amity's pussy was completely bare, not even so much as a whisker. "Can't say I disapprove," I added.

And she jumped back in surprise, pulling her skirt from my light grasp and once again hiding her cute little snatch from view. "Dad!"

"What?" I said defensively. "You see a nice painting, you admire it. That's how it works." As explanations of sexually harassing your daughter go, yeah, that was pretty lame.

"Maybe for perverts," she retorted archly, "but not for respectable people."

At that I scoffed. "Then call me a spade. And a pervert. I had sex with my mother, knocked her up and now I'm lusting after my daughter... who is also my sister. If there was a meter that measured perversion, I'd be in the red, Amity."

And that seemed to shut her up. For about five seconds. "...you still lust after me?"

"I never stopped, Amity," I answered honestly, "There isn't a day that goes by where I don't look at you and thank God for placing such a beautiful woman in my life."

"I..." she began and then clapped her mouth shut and simply stared at me searchingly for a few seconds. Finally, she said, "Thank you." She planted a chaste kiss on my forehead and went on her way.

I didn't think twice about it.

She most certainly did.

I think I've made it clear that Amity is very, very smart. And when it came to seducing me, she applied her intelligence like a surgeon. After that day, I began to notice, more and more, that she wasn't wearing panties. She stopped wearing pants and shorts altogether and wore only skirts, usually short ones. She never missed an opportunity to bend down to pick something up or look under a piece of furniture for something. And every time, I was treated to a perfect and clear view of her backside. But here's the thing: she made a show of it without actually making a show of it. If she caught me staring, she'd just give me an admonishing look or say something like, "Stop staring, Dad. That's not polite."

And then I began to notice that she had stopped wearing bras, too. My glimpses of her ass and pussy naturally got my libido back into high gear and, of course, I started taking a more careful look at her entire body. It wasn't long before I realized that her breasts, which looked so large on her short body, swayed more freely and her tiny nipples were more prominent under her shirts. Along with the skirts, she took to wearing white button-down Oxfords. In due course, her normal attire was that of a Catholic schoolgirl, despite the fact that she was no longer doing home-schooling and never left our property. I don't know if she was aware of it, but that look was an extreme turn-on for me, something that haunted my dreams and fantasies for decades. Mother was aware of that fetish, but I highly doubt that she'd shared THAT kind of detail with our daughter before she passed away. Nevertheless, Amity was getting my attention like never before and, for once, I wasn't objecting at all. Hell, I looked forward to it.

Her wardrobe seemed to evolve over the following weeks, slowly and imperceptibly, until she'd reached the pinnacle. A delivery box arrived and, when we opened it, we found a new pair of shoes inside. They were white high-heeled numbers, with a single strap that could hold the shoe in place on the foot and that screamed for attention. When Amity saw them, she squealed happily. "Oh, goody! They're here!"

I glanced at her in confusion. "Since when are you into shoes?"

Amity played it cool. "I dunno. I just... am. Now." She reached into the box and pulled them out. Without waiting, she sat down at the kitchen table and put them on. Of course, when she lifted her knee so that she could set her naked foot on her other knee, I got a clear line-of-sight look at her nude pussy. I tried not to stare and instead watched what she was doing. I noticed that her socks had a little bit of fringe on them as she slipped on the shoes one at a time. With the shoes on, the sexy factor was upped several notches. She admired them for a moment and then looked up at me, her hands on her knee caps and the front of her little pleated skirt flipped so that it showed even more of the pussy I wasn't supposed to be staring at. "What do you think, Dad? You like them?"