19 comments/ 96035 views/ 16 favorites Love & Survival By: lenslord It is a commonplace that mankind deals with the vagaries of life by searching the heavens for a reason: why was I singled out; why me and not someone else; and why, after all I have done am I tortured? And there are no answers, just as there are no reasons, it is just the way it is. I am an exemplar of the phenomenon, I was tortured as no man should be when I lost Marilyn, my wife, to a swift and lethal disease. It took her from me just as I began to feel our life together could get no better. We had married seventeen years before, as we finished school and began parallel careers that progressed both successfully and profitably; we had a prosperous and happy life and we had a beautiful child, Madeline, our daughter, on whom we doted. And then fate seemed to determine that we had enough, that our happiness had to be redistributed, that someone else somewhere else was now entitled to the happiness and pleasure we had shared, and it was taken from us. My daughter and I shriveled in grief and pain, co-existing in a suddenly cold, cruel world, moving like automatons who knew the motions but could never comprehend the reasons underlying our actions. Grief is forever, but the sting lessens in time. My daughter finished high school and went away to college. Her life began to emerge from the shell we had been put into together. She did well in school, picked a career path, and met a young man who made her whole again. James drew her out and made her laugh again, and between them they began to put together a plan for a life together once they finished their educations. He had taken an ROTC scholarship to help pay for his education, and would have a commitment to the US Army when he finished, and after a few years their life would be theirs, and they could begin a family. The sadness and unhappiness of the loss of her mother would be behind her as she put her own family together. I was so happy for her, and watching her blossom again was helpful to me dealing with my loss and pain. I had looked forward to being a grandfather, and I was supremely happy to lead my daughter down the aisle and present her as my most valued possession to the man she loved and wished to be with for the rest of her life, and in their plan I saw the outlines of my life in the future, as well. I felt as though renewal had begun, and that hope could live again for all of us. My hardened heart began to thaw, and I even began to think again about finding someone to share my life, or should I say, my next life, as there could never be a replacement for the happy life I had before. My daughter and James moved to a city several hundred miles away to begin their careers, she with a large corporation as a planner, and he into the active army as a young lieutenant in an infantry brigade. He finished his training and was assigned to an active duty post near my daughter's job, and they settled into their new life. But, as always, the world intervenes. In this case, the events of 9/11 shocked our mutual world. Incomprehensible destruction and mayhem rocked the world and set this country on a war footing. James' unit was immediately put on alert, but he was not immediately shipped out. His unit began advanced training, and he was called away frequently on extended maneuvers, and then finally his unit was mobilized and moved to Kuwait, where they waited in readiness for an expected push into Iraq our leadership was planning. Against the advice of wiser men, an invasion began and the troops who had been pre-positioned over the border began to move north at high speed, out-running their supply lines and stranding units without fuel or food for days. In a breakneck rush to Baghdad, James' mechanized unit was pushed hard, flogging their humvees over the Iraqi highways near Nasariyah where they came under attack. His humvee was struck by an RPG in the middle of a bridge over the Tigris river, the driver lost control and went over the side where the vehicle landed upside down trapping all inside. James' body was retrieved once the bridge was secured and sent home to my daughter, who was once again seized with grief, as was I. Now it was her turn to question life itself, to feel as though the entire universe conspired to ruin her happiness. James had drawn Madeline out so completely from the mausoleum we had been cast into when Marilyn died, and now she was pushed back in to ask the unanswerable and try to handle the unendurable once more. I myself was crushed, the bright prospects for my future again destroyed in an arbitrary way, as though an unseen puppeteer pulled strings out of spite, or just indifference to the suffering his actions put into play. She could not speak to me for months following the funeral, she just seemed to go away, although she stayed in her home. She resumed her work after a brief period, but I could not imagine her putting herself into it as she once had. I would call her and try to draw her into conversation, but she was unresponsive and flat in voice and emotion. I was handling my world in a similar fashion, going through the motions again in my work, to the point that co-workers began to intervene in small ways, trying to draw me out and back to reality. And in those small ways, they succeeded. Though my heart was broken for my daughter, never to be restored, I began to rejoin life and slowly began to recover from this second enormous shock. I called Madeline and finally got a response. She was in a shocked shell, and though we had always been able to talk, even following Marilyn's death, she did not have much to say. She did agree to come stay with me for a weekend, the first time we would have together since James' death. I still lived in the home Marilyn and I had built and moved into when Madeline had been about six years old. It was on a rural road near a lake in a pine forest. From the road there was not much to see, but from within we nearly lived in a forest. The back wall of the home was nearly all glass and looked out onto a wall of pine trees with a glimpse of blue lake and sky about a quarter mile away. It was our dream home, and our dreams soared within it. Madeline had loved it from the day we moved in, and Marilyn and I had thrived in our refuge from the world. It was private, yet open and it had been an opportune spot for me to recover. Now I hoped it would do the same for Madeline. Madeline had always been fond of my cooking, and I made plans to feed her body and soul while she was here. She loved shrimp, and she loved pasta, and she adored green salads, and lately had discovered the joys of good wine. I made no plans outside the house for her visit, preferring instead to play it by ear and let her talk to me, if she wished, or ignore me if that worked, also. She had friends in the neighborhood, but I wouldn't tell them she was coming. She knew where they were if she needed them. I have never been a doting father who tried to please her at all costs. I have taken the approach that she is an intelligent being and can be talked to at an equal level and can be trusted to make good decisions. I have listened to her arguments, and been persuaded more often than not. I knew that this would be a crucial time for her, she was coming home for comforting, and I would see what she needed and what she wanted from me before I made any moves or plans. There was so much riding on this visit, for her and for me. She arrived late on a Friday afternoon, pulling into the drive and parking behind the row of pines that shielded the house from the road. I rushed out to greet her and to help her unload and get her bags into the house. She was so glad to see me, but I immediately worried about her, she looked so drained and, well, grey. There was no sign of the color and vitality that had surrounded her when she went away with James on their honeymoon not so long ago. But it was her, and I was so glad to see her. In the house, I helped her put her coat away, put her bags in her room, started a fire in the living room fireplace and opened a bottle of a surprising Australian Shiraz Cabernet noted for its warmth and friendliness. It had been one of her favorites not long ago, and I hoped it would bridge the devastation in the middle of our lives. I did not start dinner yet, wanting to see which way the wind blew. Surprisingly, the wine worked. She began to talk around her loss, discussing her job, the drive out, but she never mentioned any plans or hopes or dreams. She was treading water right now, and I was very familiar with that mode in life. I was glad to hear her talking, even at such an uninvolved level, and I lent her my ears and interjected when appropriate, but I wanted to let her speak, knowing that talking was therapeutic. She wasn't hungry then, but surprised me by asking me to make her a pizza-like creation I had dreamed up for her when she was very young. I would take a slice of white bread and push my knuckles into it, spread pizza sauce from a jar on it, sprinkle some canned parmesan on, and put it under a broiler until it browned. She didn't want it just then, but my plans to make stir fried shrimp and pasta were put on hold. We would make these pizzas together when Marilyn wasn't home to cook for us, and she always loved it. We would eat three or four slices apiece for our dinner. Actually, I still like it, though I never make it anymore for myself. For the moment, though, we took our glasses of wine, and the bottle, and settled into the couch facing the fire. Night fell shortly, and the room grew dark but for the glow of the fire lighting our faces and the fronts of our bodies and casting the rest of us and the room into varying depths of darkness, with absolute blackness hovering just over our shoulders. We soon exhausted the small talk and fell into a silence as we stared into the fire. Fire watching has hypnotized mankind since we learned to tame it. There is an order to flames we can not fathom, and it fascinates us into watching as though we could. It curls around its fuel, seducing and consuming. Two people watching side by side can actually communicate without saying a word, sharing experiences and arriving at a consensus without speaking. Fire watching heals damaged spirits, and renews hope for a better world and a brighter day. Madeline had been sitting beside me just out of reach, but at some point she leaned over and found my shoulder, and leaned into it. I could have cried that she had sought me out. She held her wine glass on her hip and stared into the flames. It was as though by watching the same spot in the fire our gazes had met. I had to push her upright at some point to rebuild the fire, and she did not resist. I put new logs on and took the opportunity to use the rest room. When I returned she had refreshed the wine glasses and the fire had roared back into life. I brought a lap robe over and sat back down, looked at her and invited her to resume her spot, and then spread the robe over our legs. I gripped her around the shoulders and hugged her. We sipped the wine and the fire again began to settle into its warm, dark mode, with the flames licking around the logs receding into a subdued flicker. The warmth, the wine, the robe all succeeded in seducing us into sleep. Madeline lay against my shoulder, her body stretched out on the couch, and I was somewhat upright and not long for the world of consciousness. I stretched out facing Madeline, pulled the robe over us and waited for sleep. It was not long coming. I woke once or twice in the night. As the fire died, I pulled the robe closer around us and pulled my daughter, my wounded child, closer and I put my arm around her waist and pulled her to me. Our lives depended on facing the darkness together. +++++ Dawn came in the window wall through the trees. The fire had long gone out, and Madeline and I were pulled together under the robe on the couch. I stirred first and looked down to see the top of her head nestled against my chest and her arms wrapped around me, as mine were around her. I don't think I have held my daughter this way since she was a tiny little girl. We had napped together when she was very young, and I felt so proud and important to be her bulwark, her strength and protector at those times. I felt the same way now. I rose and went to the kitchen and began quietly making some coffee. I didn't want to wake her. Sleep was the next most important healer, only following love. I took my coffee and quietly went through the sliding glass door to the deck on the back of the house. This was always a time of wonder for me, watching the day begin, hearing all the creatures in my world waking and beginning their days, too. I wondered what I could say to her when she woke, how I could let her know I felt her sorrow and shared her questions and begged for the same answers she was seeking. Just being out there was good for me, and I sought this time as often as I could. The night mists were beginning to lift from the woods, the colors of daylight were emerging from the dark greys of dawn, and the sun was beginning to warm the world. I went back in for more coffee and found her just rising. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and stretched her lithe frame. "Morning, love", I said to her. "Hi Dad, good morning", she replied, "did we sleep here on the couch?" "I think the wine was drugged, you fell out like a baby and I was right behind you." "Well, I should try that more often. I haven't slept well in months" "Would you like some coffee?" "Please!" she said. I went to the kitchen and got her a big mug of coffee. She used to take a large dollop of half and half in her coffee, so I took the risk and diluted her coffee to a familiar shade of beige. I took her the coffee as she continued to sit on the couch with the robe wrapped around her to fend off the morning chill. "Want some breakfast?" I said. "Wasn't there a plan for pizza slices in the works?" she asked. "Food like that spoils the dawn. What you want now is stuff fried in grease, heavy food to hold your day down. How about home fries and sausages and bacon strips and eggs poached in butter. . . " I had always been able to get a rise out of her with these suggestions. She was a sensible eater, and didn't start the day with heavy foods. And it showed on her. She was as slender as when she was thirteen, but she had just become mature. She was now a woman, a slender woman, but there was no doubt about her mature physical stature. Perhaps that was genetic. Her mother had been slender, and I have held off gaining unwanted weight with no apparent effort. I don't work out, never belonged to a gym, and yet I am still slim and trim. "Dad, that is not gonna work. If you don't feel like making them now, then let's do them a little later. That's comfort food to me, that's part of what I came here for. I'll just have coffee for now." She was talking a little now, so I sat beside her with my coffee. I looked at her and smiled. Her hair was stacked kind of weirdly around her head, so I took it upon myself to straighten it out a little. She absorbed my ministrations patiently, and smiled back at me when I was done. Madeline was just a beautiful girl, and I know she is not the only one: all people are beautiful, but when you plant one, watch it grow and see the splendid result you get proprietary about it all. She was gorgeous, the fruit of my loins, the little miracle that had grown out of the love of her mother and I, the special little radiant being who illuminated the darkest corners. She was the reason the world existed, making it right for her was why her mother and I planned her, it was for her to walk on this earth that we labored, we prepared the way for her to follow our lead and create her own radiant beings. And here was my wondrous child darkened by grief, and not for the first time. I looked at her face and saw her intelligence, and knew she was turning over a million questions a minute, as I had in my depths. I smiled at her and pulled her head to my chest and patted her. I had no immediate answer for her. "Do you have a plan for the day?" I asked her. "None, I am just a visitor on this planet" she said with a smile. "Well, stop to smell the roses. I hear they're wonderful" I said. She finished her coffee and said she was going to shower and clean up. I puttered in the kitchen, washing the cups and cleaning up and laying out the ingredients for the famous pizza slices. I wanted them to be hot from the broiler when I served her, which I planned to do when I had showered. I didn't have a plan for the day either, but I felt a walk to the lake would be pleasant and soul-soothing. I would see what her feelings about it were. I went to my room and stripped down and got ready to shower. Whether I didn't remember that I was no longer alone in the house, or whether I might have calculated she would be out of the shower and in her room, I am not sure. But when I, naked, stepped into the bathroom to shower, I was surprised to see her still there, also naked, looking in the mirror over the sink. I had not seen her naked since she was a pre-schooler. I was quite shocked to see the changes since then. She was perfectly womanly in all ways. There was no denying her beauty, and no denying that I was more than surprised to see her this way. She apologized to me as I backed out of the bathroom as though shot from a cannon. I couldn't get out soon enough, and she was apologizing. "I'm sorry I took so long, I'm sorry" even though there was nothing for her to apologize for. I went to my room, closed the door and marveled at what I had seen. She was my daughter, but I was a lucky man for having seen what I saw. Soon she shouted that she was out of the bathroom and I could go in, and I heard the door to her room close emphatically. I went in and showered and returned to my room and dressed. I came out and went to kitchen and found her watching some news on the counter top TV. The news of Iraq was on. I thought this might be the last thing she would want to see, but this was not the case. Her reaction to James' death, and the deaths of all the others in Iraq, was that this was a tragic misadventure and could have been prevented if not for the impetuousity of an ill-informed and impressionable president who was in the thrall of obsessed cold-warriors who had not entered the humane universe. "This is such a waste" she said, "all this death for nothing. I feel that James was just thrown away as though he were a used tissue. It was a criminal waste." I fully agreed with her. I know that her world had been wasted as well. Where there had been a vibrant couple with plans for a better world, now there was a widow, an achingly young widow, who was now scarred forever by the folly of foolish men. "Would you like to take a walk to the lake?" I asked. "Lets eat something first. I'm starving" she said. And so we ate white bread with pizza sauce and parmesan and watched the news of the world, in a somber and reflective mood. She did not mention my walking in on her, nor did I, but I did look at her differently now. The trail through the woods was committed to memory for both of us, and we could have done it in our sleep. But we took our time. We came to a place we had always called "The Hollow" because it was a clearing in the woods with a fallen log to sit on, and in the springtime a vernal pool where frogs were born and learned to croak the night away in summertime. Now it was dry, but the log was there and we sat for a while. "Dad, do you feel cheated by life?" she asked. I knew what she meant, and at some other time I might have listed the ways. But right now, I didn't. I had my life, I had my daughter, who needed me more than ever, and I was groping toward a future regardless of the hurdles. I felt oddly optimistic about life right now, all things considered. Love & Survival "I have at times, I feel it has been needlessly cruel to me. . . and to you. I know that it doesn't balance, it tips against you sometimes, regardless of what you do or how hard you struggle, and I don't know if it is ever fair. Fairness may not be a quality of life. I don't know. There is no way I can tell. How do you feel about it?" "I feel cheated. James was everything to me, and he was stolen from me. Mom was my best friend and I loved her more than life, and she was stolen. If she were here I would have someone to hold onto while I try to stand up again, but I feel so lost. You're all I have left, but I don't know if you are enough. You have always been there for me and given me more than I could ever repay, but just you and me. . .I don't like our chances." I was sobered. I admit I have felt rudderless since Marilyn passed away, and I have felt like a lost soul myself. I recall the sailors lament: "O Lord, my boat is so small and the ocean so large". "Honey, you are all I have left, too, and we will just have to get by with that." I'd have liked to say something profound, but I have never found profundity in this situation we are in. It is brutal, and it displaces finer feelings with a sense of being mugged. In time, we rose and continued our short hike to the lake. By this time the sun was well up in the morning sky, and the day was beginning to warm. There was a small pier along the shore that several neighbors shared, and a rowboat that was communal property. Madeline and I boarded, set the oars and I began rowing out to the center of the lake, a perfect spot to drift under a cloudless sky. The silence was only disturbed by distant bird-calls, and the plop of itinerant fish plucking an errant fly off near the surface of the water. We put the oars away and sat in the boat, she in the rear seat facing me in the middle seat. She was wearing a down vest and shorts, and soon took off the vest. She had a sleeveless blouse on under it. She still retained some tan, although I am sure she had not been in the sun since James died. Her long limbs stretched out, and she lay back and closed her eyes under the arching sun. I also stretched back and put my arms behind my head and stared into the light blue void overhead. From time to time I looked to check on Madeline, and she didn't seem to move much. I studied her and marveled at her perfection of form, the lanky grace of her, the toned and glowing skin, and I could not help but notice the bifurcated bulge of her womanhood stretching the crotch of her shorts. If I were a different man I would seize this opportunity and find a way to make a move, but I was her father. Studying the empty sky, I pondered what was to become of her, and what was to become of me. We were orphans now set adrift, and our futures were uncertain. I knew it was imperative we stayed together somehow. Alone we were weak, but together at least we could support each other and make our own chances. Madeline finally roused herself from her reverie and dragged out a baggie of soggy pizza slices. She offered me one, and we sat there eating a comfort food from long ago, grinning at each other as we ate. We rowed back, tied up the boat, and found a grassy slope on the bank where we could stretch out. The sun was quite warm. Madeline stretched out with her arms over her eyes, and I could not help but notice how her breasts rose with her arms, and her nipples notably added to the mystique. I lay back trying not to stare and shielded my own eyes from the sun. I thought we might nap there, but Madeline began speaking. "Dad, I never saw you naked before. I thought you would look. . . old, but you don't. You're still a good looking guy." "Well, I've seen you naked," I said, "but I remember you as being so young. I never imagined you would grow so beautifully". "That's so funny. I remember when you used to bathe me, and we would have so much fun. Mom was always so business like, she'd get me washed and in bed, but you played around and threw my toys in the tub. It was always a party when you washed me." I remembered those times, too. And that was the daughter I remembered then, her laughter and happiness, the glow of her personality, the joy of being with her. "Well, sweetie, those are my favorite memories, too" I said to her, although her mentioning Marilyn brought back so many others. There were memories I could not share with my daughter that were as pleasurable as hers, but were private and precious to me. She turned on her hip to face me and said: "I want to get some sun. I'm taking off my top, you don't have to look, but you've already seen my titties today, so it doesn't matter now." And she pulled off her blouse and lay back with her breasts bare in the sun. I did look. Breasts are breasts, all women have them, and they are always a joy to see. It is my theory that our fascination begins when they are delivered to our mouths for sustenance. The first thing we see when we are born is our mothers putting them to our mouths, and then for a glorious year or so we suckle and are nourished by them, and then they are put away, and we cannot see them again. The well-springs of our existence are taboo, and they are not to be shared with us again until we marry and find a woman with breasts like mother. If we are lucky, we do. If we are not lucky we continue the search. Madeline's breasts would satisfy any search. I lay back and tried to think of England, but it wasn't easy. And it got harder when Madeline said she was taking off her shorts, too, because the sun felt so good. She then asked me if I would shed mine as well, since we were so well known to each other by now. And so I did. We lay side-by-side, naked under the early afternoon sun and we kind of baked there. I occasionally looked at her, and once or twice I found her looking at me, but we didn't talk much. Finally, she asked me to massage her back, and I agreed I would. I straddled her hips and buttocks and began to rub the flesh of her back in circles, up and down and over and around, anyway I could move it. My prick was moving around in the cleft of her ass, and I tried hard to control myself. Then we reversed positions and she sat on my back and pushed my flesh around for a while. I was hyper aware of the small brush of her pubic hair sliding into the crevice between my buttocks. It was immensely stimulating. I began growing hard while she worked. When she had done enough, she stood and said: "Well, time to get back and have some lunch, don't you think?" I rose kind of sheepishly, hoping she would not notice my tumescence, but she did. "Dad! You got hard!" And it was true, my penis was semi-erect and was kind of bobbing about. I pulled my shorts on and put my shirt on while she did the same. She looked at me with a wide smile as we gathered our gear and began walking back on the path. We got back to The Hollow, and she wanted to stop. We sat on the log, and she looked at me keenly. "Dad, have you . . . made love since Mom died?" she asked me. I admitted I hadn't. It was way down on my list of priorities, and frankly there hadn't been many opportunities since then, anyway, at least none I noticed. "James and I were never apart when we were home. James was the only man I ever had, and he and I were sexual soulmates. I can't imagine another man ever being as much to me as he was." "And your mother and I were like that, too" I told her. "We were so made for each other. She knew when I wanted her when we were in different rooms, and she knew when I wanted to be alone, not often I remind you, but that's important, too." She looked down at her feet for a while, then looked back at me and said: "I hope you find the woman who will be that for you again, Dad." "I do too, sweetheart" I said. We walked back to the house as the afternoon light began to fade. +++++ Back at the house I began getting busy with dinner. Tonight I would stir fry shrimp in oil, butter and garlic and toss it into angel hair pasta, always a favorite with her. There would be a green salad made of baby radicchio, arugula, and butter lettuce with capers, anchovies and boiled eggs, among other things, a meal in itself. And more Australian wine to provide a tasty communion for our evening. Madeline excused herself to shower again and dress for dinner. I was thrilled that her spirits were recovering and that she was beginning to talk to me about her feelings. I took a glass of wine and settled on the couch, then realized we needed a fire again. I gathered the logs, the kindling, and set myself to the task of warming our house again. It was roaring soon, and I settled back and watched the magic show again for a while. I had the inklings of a plan in the back of my mind, but I needed more to flesh it all out. First, I thought, was to get Madeline to move back here and try to regather her life. She needed me, and I obviously needed her. We were all that was left of our families, and we needed to gather the pieces and set out again to make it against the world. She could find a job locally, and my job was already secure and amazingly productive and lucrative. Money would not really be a problem, even if she did not want to work. Her room was here and ready, and I could go back with her and help her pack and move. Her roots are shallow since James died, and she didn't have many friends where she lived, whereas she had many friends here. And I was here. Madeline came out for dinner soon, and I was surprised to see she hadn't dressed up for dinner, but there was really no need to anyway. She wore a T-shirt and satin gym shorts and flip-flop sandals. I knew it would be chilly later, but it wasn't a problem now. We ate at the dining room table, and she loved it all, finishing everything on her plate, and emptying the salad bowl, too. We had ice cream for dessert, and then took our wine to the living room in front of the fire again. She sat close beside me with her feet up on the coffee table, and savored her wine. She was nearly jovial now, and I was so happy and relieved to see the change. We laughed and joked and talked about Marilyn. I told her many things she didn't know about her mother from our courtship and early years. I told her how ecstatic we were that she was going to join us, and all the plans we made for our forthcoming miracle daughter. She seemed to like that a lot, and she had a happy smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes as we talked. I told her about her grandparents who had died before she was born, and I tried to tell her what they might have thought of her, and how proud they would be, even now. I refreshed the fire and she refreshed the wine. We both took potty breaks, and then resumed on the couch. We pulled the robe over us, and she snuggled up against me again. We were quiet again for a long time. She finally spoke. "Dad, I want you to know I love you very much. I didn't know how to handle James' death, but you have helped me get back on track just by being you. I didn't even know if I wanted to live anymore, but I couldn't leave you, ever." I hugged her so hard I thought I could have hurt her, though she didn't protest. "And I couldn't live again if I didn't have you," I told her. "We are in this together, whether we want it or not. And I couldn't imagine anyone I'd rather be in it with." She gripped me so hard I could hear my ribs creaking. She let loose a deep sigh, and I could feel her heartbeat she was so close to me. And that was the way we fell asleep. I awakened again in the middle of the night, not of restlessness, but of a strange feeling I had a hard time understanding. Madeline had put her hand under my waistband and was holding my penis. She had quite a grip on it, and it was responding in the only way it's limited intelligence allowed: it began to grow and throb. But she seemed to be asleep still. I still had an arm around her, but it too had gone to sleep and needed some relief. I reached over with my free hand to help free my arm, and my hand strayed over her left breast. And lingered. I got my arm free, but my hand stayed where it was, and I marveled at what it had discovered. I will repeat that a breast is a wonderful thing, and I reacted as any man would. I explored my daughters breast thoroughly, but carefully. I did not want to wake her, but I had to check this out. That level of my curiousity was satisfied, although many others had opened in my mind. I finally returned to sleep, Madeline still had my penis in her grip, but that I liked and could sleep with. When I awoke I was alone. The robe had been tucked around me so I wouldn't get a chill. The house was quiet but for a shower running. As I stirred myself up I realized there was something different going on. My shorts were sticking to me, and they felt stiff. I soon realized that my shorts were covered with my cum, and it had dried and glued my pubic hair to my shorts and my stomach. It was quite a mess. I didn't know if I had had a wet dream, or if perhaps. . . hah, couldn't have been that. I went to the kitchen and started coffee, then ran to my room to get the shorts off and head for the shower. As I went by the bathroom I saw the door was open and Madeline was in the shower with the curtain half open, and I could see her washing her body, rubbing the soap into her crotch and lathering her breasts. I tried not to stare, but she was female beauty personified. In my room I tried to take stock. I had certainly cum in my shorts last night, first time in a mighty long time, too. Pleasing myself had slipped from the agenda with all the tragedy recently, and if I had indulged it would have been a poor second to sex with Marilyn. I was somehow miffed that I had had a good time and didn't know it. The wet dreams I could remember, so long ago, were always vivid and unmistakable. And Marilyn would wake me from sleep with her mouth on my penis often, but she wanted me awake. I was trying to put all this together when the door to my room opened. Madeline stood there, naked, still a little wet from her shower. I was naked, my ruined shorts in my hand. "Dad", she said, "I jerked you off last night, and I am sorry I did. I should have done something else." "What?" I said. "This," she said, and walked to me and pushed me down on my bed. She put her hand on my chest and held me back as I tried to rise. Her other hand gathered my penis in and began to stroke it. She lowered herself into position and put her mouth on my prick and sucked it in. She was skilled, and she wanted to do this. She was unstoppable. My prick rose like a tower and hardened like an oak. The more it rose the more she swallowed it down. Her head was pumping like a piston over my groin, and her lips were impacting the dried cum still in my pubic hairs. She glanced up from her labors and caught my eyes. I was shocked and amazed but deeply involved in her intervention. I would not, could not stop this. It wasn't long before the pressure rose and this hydrant had to be relieved. More and more, higher and higher, I could stand no more and suddenly the relief valve burst and I sprayed my load out. Madeline's mouth was engulfed, and my spunk spurted out around my member and down her chin, then off her chin to her breasts, and in an opalescent rivulet to the hair of her pussy. She gathered the loose ends in as well as she could, and used her fingers to gather more from her chest, which she licked and swallowed. I was gasping like a fish on the riverbank, and trying to catch my breath and wits at the same time. She finally stood beside the bed and looked at me with an impish smile on her face. "Now let's get some coffee and talk," she said. +++++ I showered and put on shorts and a t-shirt and slipped into some moccasins. She was sitting at the kitchen table when I came out, two cups of coffee steaming in front of her. She had put on a robe. I pulled up a chair and looked at her. She seemed composed, but maybe a little apprehensive. I made a small drama out of creaming my coffee and stirring it just so. "Well, do you think I'm a slut, Dad?" "No, no. I am surprised, it's a little bit of a bolt from the blue," I said. "But it didn't kill me." "I just thought you needed it. Also, . . .I think I needed to do it. I love you so much, but I don't want you to think less of me," she said." "Well, nothing's changed. You are still you, and I am still me." "And Madeline, you've made me so proud. Watching you grow was a privilege. When you married James I knew you would get the happiness you deserved. Including children. I wanted your kids, too." I said. Mention of James seemed to sober her for a moment. "You know I married him because he reminded me so much of you, don't you, Dad? "I didn't know. I know he was good for you. We both needed a lifeboat, and he was yours. He pulled you up when you needed it." "I hoped so much there would be a boat for you. I felt guilty you might think I'd taken my boat and just left. Now you are my boat when I need you. You're my rock, Dad." I looked into her eyes and saw all our history within. My connection to my daughter transcended time and space, all the archeology of my life was buried in her, all my imagined futures were unbreakably bonded to her. "Well, make up your mind. Am I your rock or your boat?" She laughed then, and suddenly it was like the sun shining. "You're silly, Dad." She was quiet for a moment, then spoke again. "Dad, I want to move back here. I've already left my job, and I sold or gave away everything in the house. Everything I want I brought with me. I don't want to be a burden on you, but I'll find a job near here. I just don't want to be with anyone else right now." I knew she was my daughter. I had planned to ask her to do just that, and her plan was exactly mine. "You will not be a burden, and you don't have to get a job. I can support you as long as you like. There is no one I would rather be with than you, now, either. You are home, and I don't think I will let you leave, so just plan to be here now and forever." The look on her face was of such grand relief. I had lifted darkness from her, and her glow continued to return. And I felt the light return to me again, as well. When Marilyn died I had felt abandoned and cast out of the universe. I knew the dark heavens above began with all energy bursting out and rushing toward an end as cold, dark, dead matter. I could not understand why it was necessary for us, sentient mankind, to be here to observe it happening. The process could have occurred without our witnessing it, and we would have been spared the sadness of life itself, with it's range from giddy elation to blackest despair. Having my daughter back close to me, rejoining life was more than I could have hoped for, more even than I could have asked for. It was a beautiful Sunday morning outside, the blue of the lake was sparkling through the trees, the green pines shone, and their shadows receded into deep blue. "Let's go to the lake, take some lunch with us, and get some sun," I said. "Great idea! I'll put some lunch together after I change clothes." I went to the sliding doors and opened them and took a deep breath of the cool air, noting the scent of pine, the faint waft of a blossom of something, heard the birds singing and the quiet coo of a mourning dove in the rafter-ends above. The dew was steaming off the grass in the small pasture between the house and the tree line. We had moved here for just such things. I hadn't noticed them in a long, long time. I heard her in the kitchen and turned to see she had donned shorts and a t-shirt, and I could see she had no bra on. Her breasts looked larger when she was naked, but their form was perfection either way. She was wearing sport shoes with no socks. She had a backpack in which she had put fruit, crackers and cheese, and what looked like a bottle of wine. Love & Survival "Let's go." She said. So we set off, walking through the grass that gently swept our ankles and left just the slightest trace of the last of the dew. We dawdled along, not pushing the pace and followed the path we had marched along so many times before. It was a glorious morning, and we both seemed to want to drink it in and savor it slowly. We reached The Hollow and Madeline said "We've got to rest, we can't keep up this brutal pace or we'll die!" and I laughed at her joke. We took up places side by side on the log. She dropped the backpack and we both sat and looked around. In a few moments I noticed she was quietly sobbing. Tears were running down her cheeks and she sniffled a little. Her mood swing seemed abrupt, but I thought I knew why she wept, and I kept quiet and let her tears flow. In a moment she leaned against my shoulder and I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me. She pulled in tightly and continued to weep, her shoulders shuddering in spasms. I kissed her forehead and stroked her hair, marveling at the softness as I brushed it down her back with my hand. Slowly, her sobs ended and her body seemed to rest against me. She looked up at me. I looked down into her eyes and bent to put a kiss on her lips. I lingered with my lips on hers, and pressed in a little. I tasted her tears as her tongue came out and pushed into my mouth. I did the same, pushing in her mouth gently, and then the dam broke. With simultaneous urgency we fed on each other, all stops out, all reserve surrendered. In my arms, as though in déjà vu, was a woman I had loved without reserve, my soul mate, my eternal partner. That she was my daughter and this wasn't an approved affection did not cross my mind, it had no meaning to me now. Our kiss grew more urgent and I began to stroke her back and sides and slowly worked to her breasts and pressed them hard, feeling her nipples grow in urgency to push hard for my affection and approval, for my tenderness and touch. I slipped my hand under her t-shirt and felt the warmth and polish of her skin, the swell of her breasts and the nubble of her aereola and the nipple crown. She pulled away for a moment and began to remove my t-shirt, pulling it over my head. She began to rub her cheek against my chest, her tongue playing ever so lightly over my nipples, which stiffened exactly as hers had done under my touch. I felt my prick stiffening and pushing against my shorts. I removed her shirt and her breasts bobbed in the sunlight. I fell them like a starving man and licked and sucked on her nipples. She threw her head back in pleasure and closed her eyes. I pushed one hand into her shorts and felt the pubic brush that had electrified me the day before. I worked the button open and the zipper down with one hand, and pushed her shorts down her thighs and over her knees where gravity pulled them down and she stepped out of them. One of her hands did the same to my shorts and she freed my prick to stand straight out saluting her beauty. She began stroking my member and knelt before me, then slowly pulled me deeply into her mouth and throat. Now I closed my eyes and looked to the heavens. The blowjob she had delivered in bedroom was wonderful, but felt brusque and hurried compared to her pace now. It began to be an unbearable task to hold myself back and I pushed away before I came in her throat. I wanted to hold myself in reserve and make love to her for all eternity as our climaxes rose. I kept my arms on her shoulders as she rose and looked at me. I found a smooth spot in the grass and pulled her down with me and spread her before me. I lowered my head then and assayed her from neck to groin with my tongue more slowly than I imagined possible. I found her navel and dipped my tongue then moved further down, finding the downward pointing arrow of her pubic pelt. Her hairs were fine and all angled to the center and down, as though an arranger had been at work there. I explored, looking for surprises hiding there, and found only fine hair. The cleft of her labia began in a small keyhole-shaped depression and moved down in a straight line through the puffy mound of her cunt. I spread her legs and found the cleft, then pushed my tongue into her and began finding my way like a blind man through the folds, illuminating the recesses therein. The sweetness of her taste took me away in an oceanic memory, adrift in a sweet, sweet cosmos, and the movement of her hips talked to me, saying she too was there, afloat with me. I pushed my tongue within her guarding flaps and found her clitoris, standing solid and sturdy to greet her visitor. I tongued it in microscopic strokes and swirled its tip. Her excitement was mounting, as was mine, and I reluctantly rose from her and prepared to take her to the temple with me. I moved up between her legs as she watched me, one arm behind her head and the other lying on her stomach. The look on her face was one I had never seen, but then we had never come close to this place before. We were at an inevitability, a junction, the point of no return. She looked impatient. I know I was. I placed my cock at her entrance and rubbed it a little with the tip. I pushed slowly in and heard her grunt slightly. In an inch I found a universe. The first time the head of my cock is engulfed in a pussy has always been a near religious experience for me, and it was again now. The enveloping heat and moisture are nearly enough, nearly but then not enough, and I pushed my way slowly further in. I heard her draw in her breath as I progressed, and I reached my hilt before I began to withdraw, pulling back as slowly as I had entered. As I re-entered she began to move a little under me, rising to pull it in further, putting fuel on the fire again. As we progressed I threw back my head and looked around at the pine trees, the green grass, the blue sky and noted how it all became the experience, there was no other place this should have happened. The Hollow was our grotto, our tabernacle, our temple, and we were at the altar. My daughter and I were marrying in the sunlight. My passion was rising to the final point and her motions told me she was there, too. I began the final pushes, putting myself as far into her as I could, wanting to be totally, completely within her until I disappeared. And then I was there, and everything held within burst out, a singularity of sperm that blew through me like a cosmic wind and into her. Her cries told me she had gotten there, too, and the strong spasms of her vulva finalized her orgasm. I collapsed on her with my face pressed into her, and felt her hands on my back, tracing lightly from my buttocks to my shoulder. My cock shriveled and finally popped out, though I wanted to stay there within. She giggled just a little when it made a noise like a finger popping a cheek. I pulled up and sat beside her and looked at her. Fluids were seeping from her pussy, and I noticed that there was a thin ring of cum frosting her inner lips, which protruded now. It looked like an iris in pink, with white edges, a flower we had made ourselves in our workshop. She slowly sat up, too, and then knelt before me and put her arms around me and hugged me. I put my arms around her and hugged back. She looked in my eyes and I knew my next question was answered. After a while she pulled up the back pack and put our lunch out. She sliced some cheese while I opened the wine. There were no glasses, so we passed the bottle back and forth as we ate. I noticed her looking at me once or twice, and she would look away smiling when I caught her. "Well," I finally said, "what do you think?" "We'll only need one bedroom now," she said. And so it was. My bedroom became ours. Over our bed hung framed photos of my wife, her mother, and her husband, James. Our bed is a platform to perform love before them and for them. I frequently make love to her, and she as frequently makes love to me. So far, she has not even sought a new job, and that's just fine with me. We have discussed a child, and we have worked our way through the issue of doing it ourselves. I think we will. Besides, there are no prospective candidates for that job even being considered. Our home now glows with a new light, as though I had added windows to let more light in, but I haven't done that. As I putter around inside I frequently find myself singing a refrain from an old song: "Love is love, not fade away", but now I know what it means.