We have always been a very close family. I was indeed a lucky man to have two such loving women in my life.
While my daughter Sandra was still officially a girl, she was very mature for her age. At seventeen, at sixteen, at fifteen, even at fourteen, she had an incredible intellect, as well as a way of connecting with virtually anyone within minutes of a first meeting. People of all ages, all races, all nationalities, all languages seemed to gravitate to her, revere her, and the love she shared with me and her mother Sherry was also shared with virtually everyone she met.
As Sandra's eighteenth birthday approached, Sherry and I sat together one evening trying to think of ways to make it incredibly memorable for her. A party was already being planned, but that would occur on a Friday night; her birthday would be the previous Tuesday.
"She'll legally be a woman," Sherry said aloud, "and that's rather significant."
"True," I agreed, "but she still won't be allowed to have alcohol, and almost no car rental company would allow her to rent without a significant price increase due to her age."
"Okay," Sherry countered, "but what can she legally do at age eighteen?"
"Vote," I said instantly, given that the presidential election was very much on my mind. "She can make her own medical and legal decisions, open her own credit card and bank accounts."
"She can make her own legal decisions," my wife reinforced. "That means that Sandra can legally consent to sex."
"That's true..." I was not at all certain what point Sherry was trying to make.
"What does it take to make a girl a true woman?"
I finally understood my wife's point, and remembered fondly the night when I had transformed her into a true woman: her eighteenth birthday. Seven years of friendship had finally culminated in my confidante and soul mate truly bonding with me in the ultimate way possible. Even though I was nearly nineteen at the time and very inexperienced in sexual matters, I had recognized the incredible bond being formed as Sherry and I undressed each other, tantalized each other, and finally drew together so intimately that we could almost have been conjoined twins.
"I know how close you and Sandra are," she noted. "I know you'd sacrifice your life for her, as you did for me." (That was a reference to when I was stabbed several times in protecting her from a mugger.) "She reveres you. She once confessed to me that she's never dated because she doesn't believe anyone can live up to the standard that you've set. You're more than a father figure to her, and I know that you see her as more than a loving daughter."
"That's all true," I agreed, "but what are you implying? Do you have a plan in mind for her upcoming birthday?"
"Definitely," Sherry confirmed, "and I think it's a very fitting plan."
"And that is...?"
She paused for a moment. "I think you should do with her as you did with me on my eighteenth birthday. I think you should make her a true woman."
While my mind objected to that, to having sex with my own daughter, my own flesh and blood, my heart instantly overruled, finding it a great idea, a way that I could bond in a unique manner with someone I so dearly loved.
Yet, I wanted to be absolutely sure that this was something I truly wanted to do – and was willing to do –both for and to my own daughter. "Give me a few days to think about this," I suggested, "just to make sure that this is truly a good idea."
Sherry smiled, and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
Sherry and I planned the event. Sandra was already on birth control pills to regulate her menstrual cycle, so unlike my first time with Sherry, I could deposit my love inside my daughter's body. That prospect made me look at my offspring in a new light.
It would be easy to take the afternoon off from work, to be home when Sandra returned from school and perform her transformation while her mother was away. I would be alone in the house with my daughter – there would be no fear of someone interrupting us.
But, of course, even though I knew that Sandra adored me, I did not have much confidence that she would agree to this bizarre celebration of her eighteenth birthday, and I mentioned this concern to her mother.
"It won't be an issue," Sherry responded pointedly, and that was that.
I knew that Sandra owned some nice bras and panties. On occasion, I would see a rather aesthetic bra hanging on a post of her bed, and I would then wonder for days afterward why she would put a bra in such a place. A few times, I would be passing by the staircase as she was ascending and innocently look up to see directly up her short skirt and observe the hint of her panty. But Sherry's idea was that Sandra should wear something truly sexy on her eighteenth birthday, and so the Saturday before the big day, Sherry and Sandra went shopping.
I happened to be home when they returned, and I saw that Sandra was carrying a bag from my wife's favorite lingerie boutique. When my daughter realized that I was looking at the bag, she blushed heavily, something she rarely ever did, and scurried quickly upstairs to her bedroom.
At last, Tuesday morning was upon us. As the two most important females in my life finished eating breakfast, I gave them each a loving kiss to the forehead before heading out to the office to get an early start to make up a bit for the lost time in coming home around lunchtime. My last glimpse of Sandra that morning was of her hair wrapped in a turban-styled towel, her favorite white terrycloth robe, and the Hello Kitty slippers she had worn every morning for several years.
Because of those slippers, it was the last time that I would see my daughter as a girl.
When I returned from work around lunchtime, I was nervous. I was even more nervous than I had been some twenty-one years earlier, when I had transformed my future wife from a girl to a woman on her eighteenth birthday.
I was nervous because I was about to repeat that experience, this time with my own daughter. I would transform my own daughter from a girl to a woman.
Sliding the key into the lock, I took a deep breath before finally stepping into the house.
First, I heard the music: slow jazz, rather sensual. Then I became aware of the scent: vanilla, Sandra's favorite scent. When I stepped into the living room a few moments later, I became aware of something else, something extremely significant:
My daughter looked absolutely stunning as she seductively undulated in a pale violet sheer transparent flyaway babydoll and matching g-string. The thin silver bracelets and anklets she wore seemed to accentuate her movements, and the smile she wore upon her lips was full of sweetness and love.
I did not know what to say, nor did I know what to do. Sandra took care of the latter for me, gliding across the carpet toward me, her nails the same color as her scant clothing, her eyes radiating her love and adoration. As she reached me, she wrapped her arms around me, pressed her ear to my chest, and stilled at last.
My daughter's perfume was subtle and enticing. Her soft breasts pressed against me in such a way that I was truly aware of them for the very first time. A few fingernails gently stroked along my spine, sending slight yet wonderful shivers through me.
...and I began to harden.
"Daddy," she whispered, tilting her head to look up at me. The love in her eyes melted my heart, but the desire in her eyes surprised me.
"I know about the plan," she acknowledged sweetly, "and I want it. I want you, Daddy."
I kissed my daughter's forehead. "Are you sure about this?"
"Very sure," she replied.
I kissed her lips for the first time since she was a little girl sitting in my lap. From her kiss, her curves, her touches, her perfume, it was clear that my daughter was no longer little.
...and soon, she would no longer be a girl.
She looked up at me again once our lips had separated. "Please make me a true woman, Daddy."
From the expression in her eyes, her request was indeed genuine. My daughter wanted me to make her a true woman. The love, the respect, the reverence she felt for me was all evident in her expressive brown eyes. She clearly wanted me inside her, despite one of the most stringent taboos in our society.
I had a vision of my daughter: curled into a fetal position, crying, my semen and her blood tricking onto the pink fitted sheet upon her bed, her eyes displaying a pain far beyond the physical.
I flinched. She must have felt it, for her hold upon me tightened. "Please, Daddy," she whispered, "Make love to me, please. Please, Daddy..."
While I would not say that Sandra was a spoiled child, it was always difficult to deny her something she truly, genuinely wanted and desired. It was particularly hard now to deny her this request, because each second she was pressed against me, my mind was becoming overrun by the fact that she was a woman who truly genuinely loved me and desired me.
I nudged my daughter away, and the reluctance was evident in her eyes as her grasp loosened and her arms fell to her sides. She pleaded with her eyes, her lips moving but no sound emerging from her throat.
And then I took her hand in mine and lifted it to my lips for a gentle kiss. She smiled with her entire being as she realized that I had not nudged her away to refuse her, but to begin the next step in the process of her transformation.
"You know that you'll always be Daddy's little girl, right?" I whispered, afraid to profane the moment by speaking any louder.
"A little girl with a grown woman's body?" Sandra responded. "I can live with that, Daddy."
I kissed her lips, holding her hand to my heart. There was a definite throbbing within my slacks, and she was very much its cause. As the last vestiges of doubt and reluctance and taboo were cast from my mind, the kiss lengthened, deepened, my free hand rising to the back of my daughter's head and holding her in place to better kiss her, her free hand gliding down my side with her fingernails scratching so gently yet so insistently...
When our lips finally separated, Sandra looked up at me with a smile in her eyes. She clearly wanted this, wanted me, wanted me inside her, and I wanted to make it a reality for her at last.
But, a thought crossed my mind. I turned around and dropped to one knee. With a soft girlish giggle, she understood why I was in such a position, and mounted my back, just like she had done so many times when she was much younger. With her arms wrapped firmly around my upper chest and her legs enveloping my waist, I carefully rose to a standing position, turned, and made my way to the staircase.
Somehow, this one last "girlish" moment shared with my daughter seemed quite appropriate. In fact, I happened to glance toward the fireplace and upon the mantle noted the picture of us in a similar pose during one of our family vacations in Florida, the water of the Gulf up to my knees as a six-year-old Sandra clung to my back with an expression of complete joy upon her innocent face.
Sandra was definitely no longer six years old. At three times that age, she soon would no longer be innocent.
Once we reached her bedroom, I dropped to a knee so my daughter could slip off my back with relative ease. It was almost strange to be in her bedroom, yet it was a most fitting place. Decorated primarily in pinks and whites, it was clearly a girlish haven, with a few posters and a calendar of shirtless guys to reinforce her appeal toward the masculine form. I could not compare with anyone featured in the posters, but the twice-weekly workouts had definitely prevented me from looking like some of my colleagues.
The white lacy curtains were parted, offering a nice view of the large backyard. The sun was shining brightly, providing plenty of lighting, yet I would have preferred the dim glow of a few candles for this act. Faintly, I could still hear the music from downstairs, and it helped to calm me in advance of what was to happen.
Stepping up behind my daughter, I allowed a hand to alight upon a breast. She gasped softly as I squeezed her, her back instinctively arching to maximize the contact. "Daddy," she whispered, her arms reaching up and back, her fingers intertwining behind my neck.
It was an obvious sign, and I followed her unspoken plea. With both hands, I fondled her, enjoying the feel of her breasts, admiring their gentle weight, learning their feminine curves. The babydoll was so sheer that it may as well not have been there, already banished to the floor, such was the prominence of Sandra's proud nipples.
As I groped my daughter's chest, the illicitness of the moment washed over me. Thirty-nine years of living in this society had deeply ingrained in me the notion that one does not engage in any sexual chatter or view or act with someone who shares one's own blood, and for just a moment, that stilled my hands upon her breasts.
"You're making me wet, Daddy," my daughter breathed, bringing me back to the moment. I was making her wet, just like her simple presence was making me hard. The way she moved against me, across my erection, back and forth, was sending shudders of desire through me, and I would not have been surprised if she could feel that desire being transferred through my hands into her chest to pool within her heart.
Touching Sandra was soon not enough. Gently, I turned her around, my hands on her shoulders, making her face me, making her look up at me with her wide hazel eyes. The love within her was almost intoxicating, and as we drew together, deep in the back of my mind, I wondered if I was in over my head.
With her hands on my chest, I kissed my daughter in a most unfatherly way. As a bird in the tree near the window called out to the world, so did her whimper call out to me, begging for more.
I gave her more. The kiss lingered, extended, as our hands began to roam. My clothes felt tight, overly warm, and she must have sensed it as well, for Sandra began to undress me, releasing my lips only when necessary, ultimately rendering me topless with my belt unbuckled and my slacks obscenely open.
It poked up from within my underwear: the part of me which had been inside her mother, the part of me from which had been launched the sperm which had helped to create her. She was clearly fascinated, enthralled, touching the tip gently and causing me to shudder and involuntarily inhale. With wonder and curiosity, she slowly knelt before me, touching the tip again, stroking the soft bulbous head, stroking the shaft through my underwear as my hands glided through her hair.
Her attention was diverted to my shoes – untying them deftly, helping to remove them from my feet. My socks were next, removed with little effort and banished to the pile of clothes beside us on the floor. And then, in one motion, she rendered me naked, looking up at me with awe and with love, with appreciation and with devotion, my proud manhood prominently in her line of vision as she kissed her way up a thigh and ultimately took my dripping tip into her small mouth.
Until that moment, only one person had ever allowed me inside her: Sherry. In addition to having her mother's lips, Sandra appeared to have inherited her mother's skill, for if I had been blindfolded, I do not know that I would have been able to discern between my wife and my daughter, such was the similarity in the feel of their mouths and the actions of their tongues and their hands.
The exquisite pleasure of my daughter's dainty mouth was only experienced for maybe a minute at the most before Sandra began to kiss her way up my body. I could not tell if she just did not enjoy giving fellatio or if she just wanted to move on to the main event that much faster – she did not seem displeased with having taken me into her mouth, yet she also did not seem to be in a hurry to have me elsewhere inside her youthful body.
We embraced again, my prominent arousal pressed firmly against her, seeping onto her violet lingerie. Soon, it was my turn to undress her, and as the babydoll fluttered to the top of the pile of clothes on the floor beside us, it made me remark that the last time I had undressed her, she was just a toddler and I was getting her ready to go visit her mother in the hospital following the gall bladder surgery. Sandra had changed so much, had very much grown from a little girl into a stunning young woman.
...and she was about to lose the final vestige of her girlhood.
Stepping out of her embrace, I knelt before my daughter, kissing her through the violet g-string as I kneaded her fleshy rear. Her fingers curled into my scalp, and I recognized that she wanted me to remain there for a few moments. I gave her exactly what she wanted, realizing that there was no pubic hair on the other side of the thin barrier. It surprised me in a way, and was another sign that my little girl was definitely no longer a little girl.
"Daddy..." she breathed.
Drawing a hand to her front, I nudged aside the damp crotch of her g-string, and for the first time ever touched her flowing sex. The sound I heard from her mirrored the sound her mother had made on the night when Sherry and I instinctively knew that we were about to conceive a child. For the child to make almost exactly the same sound tugged at my heart in ways I had not anticipated, and when my tongue finally made contact with my daughter's wet womanhood, again the parallel nearly overwhelmed me as she shuddered against me, pulling my head forward, forcing my nose to inhale her lustful musk. "Daddy!" she cried softly between gasps, shamelessly rocking against my face, wantonly giving herself to me.
With my free hand, I stroked myself. Having my daughter so clearly enjoying this illicit sexual interaction was causing me to truly need to be inside her, to claim her in the same way that I had claimed her mother on her eighteenth birthday. Thirty-nine years of social conditioning was crumbling like an imploded building. Of the two most important people in my life, one of them had already given me her virginity, and the other was about to do the same...
My hands worked at Sandra's g-string, and a moment later, I looked up at her, seeing her fully nude for the very first time as a woman. She was an impressive sight, making me very aware of my masculinity, and for just a moment, she was not my daughter, and I was not her father – for just a moment, I was a primal man, ready to plunder an available woman.
She must have recognized the primal being within me, for she made a simple, quiet plea:
This woman had spoken without calling me "Daddy." Perhaps the primal was starting to seize control of her as well, for those two simple words and the lack of "Daddy" indeed appealed to the primal man within me, but I knew that I needed to keep him at bay, that his presence was reserved solely for Sherry's carnal delight. I stood, quickly seizing my naked daughter, hugging her fiercely as I tried to quell the primal within me.
When I released her at last, it was to take my daughter by the hand and guide her the final few steps to her own bed – not to tell her a bedtime story, not to tuck her in for sleep, but to transform her in a way which no one would ever be able to repeat, giving her a memory which she would hopefully cherish for the rest of her life and beyond.
As Sandra lay before me, her legs spread and her knees pointed toward the ceiling fan, her eyes wavered. Nervousness had crept back into her mind. She was right to be nervous, for I was about to do the one thing a father is never to do with his daughter – and more, I was about to transform her in a way which society claims is only to be performed on the night of a woman's one and only wedding.