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Linnea: Father's Flower

By: SarabethW



I was born late in the month of April, when the mountains were covered with flowering dogwood and redbud. My father always told me the drive to the hospital was enough to take your breath away. He and my mother named me Linnea, which means flower.

Chapter One

I'm not sure what it means to be pretty. Advertisers spend fortunes on slogans that promise it. Magazines earn their fortunes by touting models that have it. Romance writers spend pages and pages describing it. It is the desire of all young men to fall in love with a beautiful woman. But as far as I can tell, it remains indefinable and elusive.

All my life, I have been called pretty, but I'm not sure why. Is it because of my eyes, which I believe are overlarge for my face, or is it my lips, or my nose? My mother called me pretty as long as I can remember, probably since I was a baby in the crib. My grandparents cooed and pampered me like a fairy tale princess, commenting on how pretty I was at every opportunity. In fact, throughout my life I have been called pretty and beautiful by everyone I have ever known, save one person... my father.

My father never once called me pretty. I'm not sure why. He called me something I felt was much more meaningful and significant. He always called me his flower. I don't think I've ever seen an ugly flower, so I guess his intent was to beautify me by association.

My father was an unusual man.

He was as quiet as the night after a soft summer sunset, when the brain is lilting and sleepy, eyes closing upon a long an uneventful day made restful by the siesta heat of the season. He sang to me often when I was a child, lullabies by the dozen. I could never stay awake nestled in his arms, sometimes drifting off for hours, to wake in those very same arms in which I fell asleep. He hadn't moved a muscle, not wanting to disturb his baby girl.

During the day he taught at the local university, a Classics professor, specializing in the works of Lucretius and Epictetus. In fact, as a child, I would always take my playmates into my father's library and show them the shelf full of books that he had written. He was the most phenomenal, intelligent, and loving father a little girl could want, and I loved him deeply in return.

He was tall... very tall. Towering over everyone I ever knew. If I had to guess, I would place him at about six and a half feet. He was thin also, never actually working at it though. His golden blond hair shown in the sun like a lighthouse beacon, attracting attention in a crowd. And his eyes! They were huge chocolate-pie eyes that one could drown in if they weren't careful. When I was a baby, he would dandle me on his knees and I was the happiest child on earth.

My mother was a Mexican immigrant, a wetback in reality as well as in racial insult. She had waded across the Rio in the middle of the night, carrying with her nothing but the clothes on her back and a pouch full of cornmeal. She eventually made her way up through Texarkana, and then into the Ozarks of Arkansas, working as a cook at starvation wages in any Mexican restaurant that would hire her. She couldn't dare ask for higher pay, as the restaurant owners would simply pick up the phone and dial the number that would have her sent back across the border.

One night, my father was eating at a Mexican restaurant near the college, one of the best meals he had ever eaten; so good, in fact, that he told his waitress to compliment the cook. The waitress, as soon as she entered the kitchen, began to giggle and relate to my mother that a tall, handsome man was complimenting her cooking. Rosaria, my mother, was herself suppressing a giggle as she peeped out from behind the kitchen door to see the tall, handsome hombre the waitress was referring to.

She rushed back to the kitchen and prepared a special flan, bathed in caramel, and a dollop of whipped cream on top, just enough to accent a sprinkling of cinnamon. Then, with her smallest and sharpest knife, she cut a tiny heart from a ruby-red habanera and placed it gingerly atop the confectionary masterpiece. She sent the dessert out to the table without charge, to thank him for his kindness.

Half an hour later, as my father was getting into his car, one of the periodic raids occurred, rounding up the illegals and carting them off. As my father was driving away, a small Mexican señorita with a frightened look in her eyes, jumped into his vehicle, pounding on his dashboard and crying, "Drive! Drive!" Their gazes met for just a moment, and he could plainly see the pain and fear in her dark eyes, eyes that started on the edges of their irises a rich dark chocolate brown color, and getting darker as they approached the pupils, so that one could not discern where irises stopped and pupils began. He instantly tumbled into the depths of those eyes and felt the sheer terror enveloping him, and stepped on the gas pedal and sped away. He often told me, when I listened to the story as a small child, that it was probably the single most impulsive thing he had ever done in his life.

He asked her where she wanted to be dropped off, but she was terrified to go home, in case the raid was more widespread than the restaurant. It was then he made the most important decision of his life. He took her to his home, where she was to stay for the rest of her life. But that was not the original plan. After she entered his house she sat down upon his couch, trembling with fright, and not knowing what to do or where to go. She knew little English and he knew little Spanish, although being fluent in Latin he could usually understand what she was saying through cognates.

My father, being a gentleman of the type rarely seen nowadays, insisted that she sleep in the master bed, and he slept upright in the wing-backed reading chair of his library. One night turned into two, then three, then a week. He didn't intend for her to stay that long, at least not before she began to cook. There is an old adage that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Of course that probability is directly proportional to the talent of the cook.

She cooked, he ate, and within weeks his lawyer was busy filing papers to make her residence legal, culminating in their eventual marriage, by which she gained her citizenship. They were truly in love, and his respect for her was immense, as was hers for him. If you will allow me the benefit of a cliché, it was a match made in heaven.

Three years into the marriage, I was born. Mother wanted to name me Maria, but father wanted a name that would stand out in a crowd and define a difference attached to me as their daughter. They settled upon Linnea (the accent on the first syllable) because it was the most beautiful spring either had ever seen, and the flowers were resplendent upon the mountainsides wherever one looked. Father always called me 'flower,' which is what the name signified.

Chapter Two

That was twenty years ago, when life was new, and aspirations were endless and infinite, when one had no limits upon either their imagination or dreams. But life sometimes deals harshly with our hubris and pins us down despite our dreams.

Shortly after my graduation from high school, mother grew ill. A weakness possessed her vibrant and boundless frame, making her listless and subdued. At first she shrugged it off, saying she was just getting old, or she was tired from so much to do around the house now that I had left for college. The University was about two hours away by the interstate, so I was able to visit every two months or so, and each time I returned home, she was noticeably weaker. I always gave the house a thorough and energetic cleaning, like mother had always taught me, because she was incapable of doing so, and it worried her to see the house not kept up.

At the end of my sophomore year, two weeks prior to final exams, I received a call from father. His voice was slow and heavy, laboring to tell me that I should hurry home. He told me that mother, madre mia, was not long for this world. I talked to my professors, working out how I could finish my exams if I wasn't able to return before the semester ended, then packed all my belongings in the car and left that night. It was a long drive home, interspersed with crying fits that made me turn off the highway until I recovered my composure. I remember sitting at a diner off the highway. It was after midnight. Rain had begun to spatter on the restaurant windows, as if it was trying to say something to me, but I could not translate. The other diners were not paying attention, all lost in their own worlds, their own grievings and sorrows, their own happinesses and celebrations; some just exhausted and tired from their long travels.

I always wondered, in situations such as these, if I was all alone in this world, and others were but extensions of my existentialistic ego. If so, why weren't these people realizing my pain, my premonitions, my deep and penetrating ominous signs? The answer was simple. They were all the centers of their existentialist worlds and really meant nothing to me, as I meant nothing to them. My hospitalized mother was not a part of anyone's world but mine and my father's. My father's world was literature and academia. My world was also literature, but instead of classical, I preferred Early English literature, and in our hectic wanderings through life, our center was home, and mother. No matter how far afield we ventured, we always had a lifeline to that center.

And now there was the distinct possibility that those lifelines were about to be severed, leaving no gravitational pull as our orbits were sent whirling into the vast maelstrom of time and space.

She died a peaceful death, but far too young. My father held her hand as I stood behind, trying not to cry. She was conscious long enough for me to arrive and say goodbye. She told me to be brave and look after my father. She apologized for having to leave us, but that God had called her to Him and she couldn't say no. She closed her eyes and struggled with each and every breath for another half an hour before exhaling her last.

The next three or four days were a swirl of activity and planning, as a funeral had to be arranged with all the intricate details that one never thought about, dwelling amongst the living. Funeral homes, coffins, obituaries, accommodations for family and friends, not to mention the most intense need to grieve and breathe when it seemed impossible to do so.

She was laid into the ground with words recited by a Mexican Oblate priest:

"Yo soy la resurrection, y la vida..."

I sat graveside next to my father, unable to contain my tears, and grasping his arm as though he was the only person on earth. I had just turned twenty the month before, finding myself now deprived of a mother. My father was forty-eight, finding himself deprived of a wife. I've always thought that at that moment either of us would have rather been the one being lowered into the earth, rather than having to struggle with the feelings that were inside of us.

That was two years past. Her death changed us both. My father lost weight, unable to eat. He shut himself up in his study for days, unable to function as a social human being. I quit school. My father needed me. That's all I can say about it. Besides, the world needed his expertise and knowledge more than mine. It was a matter of priorities.

Up in the mountains my father had bought an old cabin on a few acres of land, tucked away in the hills apart from the world. His intent was to fix it up so the two of them could retreat when they grew older and retired. He hadn't had the heart to go up there after she died. I thought often of the poor little cabin and the lost dreams it represented, always hoping he would come around enough to go up there and escape into the beauty and the serenity of the mountains. He never did, and it lay empty and untended for two years.

I cooked and cleaned and ran a household that was for the most part empty and solitary, but my father had to eat and function whether he liked it or not. I would eat alone at the kitchen table on most nights, taking his supper to his study, where it was more or less consumed on a daily basis.

At times I feared that he had so disconnected himself from life as to not even recognize that I was there. It seemed as he was in a world totally separated from reality. I would sometimes hear crying come from his study, as though he was pleading with destiny. Other times there would issue deep groans, which I never intruded upon, as they had the trappings of sexual yearnings, too private for my perusal.

I had toyed, as most college freshmen do, with sexual discovery, sacrificing my virginity (no big deal, actually) to a Chicano student, who could barely understand English. He was clearly more interested in stroking his macho image than pleasing me. I didn't care. He served my needs and we went our separate ways once the deed was accomplished. It was more of a learning curve from adolescence to adulthood than anything personal anyway. Before we split up, he sexted me once with a picture of his cock, which I never quite came around to deleting.

Sex was something for which I had no cravings after my mother passed away. As time passed though, the feelings gradually returned, but I was too busy taking care of my father to pay them much heed. Sometimes when all the chores were done around the house, and I was sure my father didn't need me for anything, I would bring the picture up, my fingers wandering to my soft nether regions, where they would please and satisfy my inner yearnings.

Chapter Three

My father's only contacts with the outside world were his students at the university... two in particular.

Tabitha was twenty-eight, tall, and slender. She was an expert in ancient Greek languages, and particularly specialized in Herodotus and Thucydides. She was working on a new and innovative translation of Thucydides for her Doctoral thesis, with an educational publishing company seeking her for a contract. My father was helping her with her final translation.

Aiden was working on a new translation of Caesar's Gallic Wars, emphasizing his masterful use of pluperfect tenses, and providing fresh annotations with other contemporary authors to strengthen his text. He was twenty-six, five foot and ten inches tall (my height), and muscular.

One cold winter night, they were both invited to dinner.

Not having a great facility in classical languages myself, I listened to the conversation flowing from Latin to Greek, and then English, with very little understanding of anything I heard. It was pleasant though, hearing the ancient languages come alive, and contemplating the amount of knowledge surrounding the supper table.

As I was clearing off the supper dishes, they all retired to the library. When I joined them, Tabitha was leafing through several volumes on my father's shelf, the same shelf I used to take my childhood friends to gawk. She was particularly interested in a small book on Linear B Greek, the language of Homer's first anthologies. It was an early effort of my father's and I shouldn't have been so sensitive when she asked to borrow it, but I kept my mouth shut, even when my father, with a shrug of his shoulder, simply gave it to her. I quickly withdrew from the library to my room, where I sat on the bed shaking my head. I always saw those books as coming to me someday. Yet my father was giving them away to another. I felt betrayed.

It began to snow quite heavily outside and my father, feeling it a bit dangerous to drive, invited our guests to stay the night. It was then I decided that as soon as everyone was asleep, I would steal the book and hide it. I knew it was a childish thing to do, but I so loved the books. I didn't want to see any given away.

There were just enough places to sleep for everybody. My father had the master bedroom with its own bath. The next door down the hallway was a guest bedroom, although we hadn't had a guest since mother died. Tabitha would sleep there. I dusted and plumped up the pillows for her. Aiden would take the couch for the night. I brought some extra pillows and a blanket for him, and made up the couch as best I could. My bedroom was next down the hall from Tabitha's, and we shared a bathroom between us.

I dressed in a flannel nightgown and left another in the guest room for Tabitha, then went to bed. I kept myself awake until I was sure the others had drifted off to sleep, then snuck down the hallway, past the living room, to the dining room, where I found the book with others on the table. I tucked it into my gown and looked behind me into the living room, expecting to see Aiden asleep on the couch, but much to my surprise, he was not there. Thinking he might be using the bathroom I shared with Tabitha, I hurried with my prize back to my room.

In my bed I could hear the familiar stream of a man pissing into the toilet. I smiled as Aiden's stream seemed to take forever, not to mention its strength and force. The light was turned off and I listened for the creak of the bathroom door into the hallway, but never heard it. Figuring my father might have oiled it, I took the book in hand and began to browse its pages, when to my surprise, a hastily scribbled note fell out. It was in my father's hand.

"My sweet Tabitha," it said, "I can hide my feelings no longer. I must have you. Every time I'm near you, my arousal is inevitable. Please have pity on me. I have a cabin in the mountains, and I am going there next weekend. Please... will you meet me there?"

I couldn't believe it. I mean, I didn't expect him to remain celibate forever, but...

I was struggling with my feelings when I heard a sound issuing from the guest room. It was a rhythmic creaking of the seldom used guest bed. I crept quietly into the adjoining bathroom and peaked through the door which was slightly ajar. The angle was such that I couldn't see the bed, but I could see it reflected in the mirror over the dresser. Tabitha was sprawled supinely across the mattress, with Aiden's head nestled between her legs. The nightlight cast just enough of a glow to see them in their full nakedness. Aiden rose from between her thighs, exposing a very long, thin penis.

Tabitha seemed to purr as she crawled around in a circle on the bed, eventually burying her head deep in the comforter, and exposing a beautiful ass and pussy for Aiden to do with as he wished. He knelt down on the bed behind her and slowly positioned his cock at the entrance to her cunt, which was dripping wet in anticipation. I couldn't take my eyes off the scene before me, even though I knew I shouldn't be staring at their private lovemaking.

His penis slid effortlessly into her waiting vagina as man met woman in their primeval state, flesh upon flesh, in a procreative rhythm of thrust and counter-thrust. It was sensual and mesmerizing. I found myself hypnotized by the pure physical display before me. The feelings inside me had been pent up for so long. I wanted the contact that Tabitha was experiencing. I wanted again to be filled with a man's flesh between my legs. My juices were dribbling down my thighs thinking about it, desiring everything I was seeing from my voyeur's position in the bathroom.

I was also thinking about the note I had just read. Did my father know of the relationship exposed before me? If so, would he still have written the note? My eyes wandered about the room, alighting upon the hallway door on the other side. I saw some movement I couldn't quite make out. At first I thought it was a trick of light upon the mirror, but then I realized what I was seeing.

It was my father! He was staring into the mirror, his eyes fastened on the same scene I was enjoying, but he was much more exposed to my vision than I was to his. In fact, I don't think he had seen me from his vantage point. Why should he have noticed me? After all, the action on the bed was much more interesting. The hallway door was nearly half open, exposing him to anyone who might have looked his way, as if he were daring the fucking couple to notice. His robe was wide open and he was stroking himself. I stared, transfixed, by his cock. I put my hand to my mouth to silence any sounds I might have accidentally made, and looked back up at his face, to find his eyes were transfixed upon the fucking couple, like mine had been before I noticed him.


Linnea: Father's Flower



I silently withdrew to my room, visibly shaken and trembling, not knowing what to make of all I had seen. This wasn't like my father. But then, I had never really thought of my father before in a sexual context. He had always been, well... my father. I struggled most of the night with my thoughts. He deserved to have sexual fulfillment. After all, it was his choice, not mine. And yet, I had taken the book with his attempt at communicating his desire toward Tabitha. Again I became confused. Would he withdraw the invitation after what he had just seen. If so, I had to return the book to the table immediately. I waited until the sounds ceased, and when I thought it was safe, tiptoed from my room, retracing my previous journey to the dining room table, and returned the book, complete with note.

I noticed Aiden sound asleep on the couch and all was perfect stillness throughout the house. I hardly slept a wink, reliving over and over again in my mind, all the different emotions I had experienced that night.

Chapter Four

Rosaria, madre mia, had receded to the back of our memories. Life goes on, and time heals the scars of death and separation from those we loved. The human body and mind are constantly in a state of renewal and healing. The sun came out the next day and the snow quickly melted. We bid farewell to Aiden and Tabitha. I noticed my father's invitation still tucked between the pages of his book as she left, giving him a smile, as if to say she accepted the offer that she was clasping tight in her hands.

Through the coming week I thought often of that smile, seeing in my mind all its meaning and consequences. My father seemed to walk with a lighter step than usual. There was a happiness that was evident... a palpable awakening from a long sleep. Who was I to judge? Who was I to step between them and tell my father she was twenty-two years his junior? As much as I wanted to say something, it was not for me to interfere. Besides, he was more outgoing than he had been for two years, and I certainly wasn't going to deprive him of that.

The week passed quickly, as you could well imagine, and father grew more and more preoccupied with the business of the weekend. He had not been to the cabin in months. I was hoping it hadn't fallen over. It was in an advanced state of dilapidation the last time I had seen it. Hopefully it could survive and provide a shelter for two trysting lovers at least one night. I was honestly happy that my father was moving on with his life, although I was not sure of his choice of partners, but he would see the folly eventually, then move on to a more practical and permanent partner.

That Thursday night I was washing the supper dishes when I heard a conversation in my father's bedroom... indiscriminate mumblings impossible to discern. I went into his room and found him at the dresser mirror, staring at a picture of mother, and talking to her as if she was there in the flesh.

"Forgive me, Rosaria," he implored, his eyes moist with tears, "I have to move on. Don't think it is because I have ceased loving you. I will always love you and carry you in my heart until the day I die, but sometimes I am so lonely without you. If I were on the other side, I would wish you to be fulfilled in this life. After all, it is the only life we'll have. I hope I made yours happy. I hope..."

His voice trembled and trailed off into the empty space around him, space that had once been filled by my mother.

I sidled up behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders. Our eyes met in the mirror, reflecting the soft incandescence of the bedside lamp.

"It's ok," I assured him, "she would want you to be happy."

He placed his hand on mine and squeezed it.

"You know?" he asked.

"Yes."

I related how I attempted to steal the book and hide it, and how I had read the note unsuspectingly. He thoughtfully told me he didn't know I prized his old books, and that he would never give another away. He promised.

He smiled for the first time that night.

"I guess you think your father is a dirty old man."

"No, not particularly. I just hope..."

I stopped, not wanting to stick my nose where it didn't belong.

"Hope what?" he asked.

"Well... I just hope you're not let down if it doesn't turn out the way you want."

He smiled again, assuringly.

"I just hope the house doesn't fall down on top of us!"

We both laughed as I kissed his head and bid him goodnight.

Our short exchange helped me in many ways. It opened us up as confidants to each other in matters of life and partnerships, love and even sex. It was nice being able to talk about things like that with my father, since my mother, whom I think would have guided me safely through my relationships, was not there to confide in.

And I felt he was going into this weekend with eyes wide open. I certainly didn't need to say anything more. I never felt closer to my father than I had that night. I sat in my bed with a book and looked out my bedroom window. Scattered flakes of snow were beginning to flutter aimlessly to earth, like tiny little fairies dancing pirouettes to the pavement of the street beyond. I can't remember closing my eyes. I was so contented.

Chapter Five

The next morning the ground was covered by a soft snow. I woke up before my father and made some cinnamon toast and fresh squeezed orange juice. We both sat around the table and talked a while. I asked him his plans. When was he heading out to the cabin? Was she meeting him there?

"We decided to go separately so as not to raise any suspicion. I'm heading out soon to fix the place up a little so it's livable, and Tabitha's buying some groceries and bringing them up a little later."

"Sounds like a plan!" I kissed him on the cheek and told him I needed to buy a little food for the house myself, and I would be leaving before he left, to get to the store early.

I was leaving as he was taking a shower, so I thought I'd go into the master bedroom and yell through the bathroom door that I was going.

"Bye, Dad," I called, "and good luck!"

I turned to leave when something caught my eye on the bed by his one set of clothes he had set out for the whole weekend. My father wasn't good at packing. Lying by the trousers was a small package of Viagra tablets. I couldn't believe it. He was only fifty. Surely he didn't need it. I realized, though, that he was probably a bit insecure since he hadn't been in the action for a couple of years at least.

"Well," I thought smiling to myself, "He'll get his confidence back in no time I'm sure. Especially with a girl like Tabitha!" I was snickering to myself as I shut the door to leave.

I spent a lot of time shopping. The snow was beginning to accumulate and I wanted to make sure I'd have everything I needed for a few days, in case I got snowed in. I went to the hardware store and bought a snow shovel. I needed some snow boots, but couldn't find any, as all the stores had had a run on them. I figured I'd just have to stay inside. Finally, when I felt I was prepared for whatever, I went to the grocery store. It was getting late and the snow was falling thicker. I heard on the car radio that it was expected to be a heavy snowfall.

You can imagine my surprise when I found Tabitha in the parking lot at the food market. She should have gone up to the cabin at least two hours ago. I went up to her car, which she was sitting in with the heat running, reading a magazine, and I asked her what she was doing here. I hopped in the passenger side. Books were everywhere; my father's book was sitting on the dashboard with the invitation still sandwiched between the pages.

"You didn't seriously think I'd go up a mountain and stay in a cabin with weather like this?" she said.

"Well, yes," I replied. "My father's expecting you to bring up the food supply for the weekend."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be ok," she countered.

I took my father's book and pulled the invitation out and threw it at her. I was furious. I left the car, slamming the door, and strode into the store muttering to myself.

"I can't believe it! She stood him up!"

The snow was turning into a full-fledged blizzard, and I realized that my father might be stuck up in the cabin for three or four days without food. I couldn't let that happen. I bought what supplies I could: candles, matches, flashlights, things I thought might come in handy. I made sure there was enough food for three days at least, and on a whim I bought a bottle of wine, just to make sure we felt a little civilized up there in a blizzard. I packed everything in the two duffle bags I had bought, and headed straight out to the cabin without stopping by home to pack anything else. Time was critical, as the roads might not be passable in another hour or so.

The drive out to the cabin was risky at best. Indeed, I didn't even know if I could make it. Cars were in ditches on the sides of the highways, and some were simply abandoned, buried in the rising drifts. Luckily, I had my car dealership rotate a special set of snow tires onto my vehicle every December, and they certainly came in handy that day. The blizzard was intense, not only for the heavy snow, but for the wind which swept the flakes to a frenzy and caused snow drifts the size of small hills.

I was so relieved when I saw the cabin, but the drifts prevented me from getting any closer than about thirty or forty yards from the door. The snow was so heavy that I could barely see, but I discerned some smoke rising in wispy curls from the chimney. I hauled both duffle bags out of the car and began the final ascent to my destination, but it was more than I could handle. I hadn't dressed for the cold and had nothing on my head. Add to that the fact that I sank into the drifts up to my waist. I began to panic.

"Dad!" I screamed as loud as I could, "Help me!"

The wind was whistling and bending the conifers surrounding the cabin, making me realize he probably hadn't heard me. The more I strained, the more I sank into the unforgiving snow. I would struggle to the surface only to sink back before I had traversed a few yards. I didn't think I would make it. I stopped for a few moments, heavily breathing in the frigid air that stung my lungs. I started to cry. I couldn't move.

"I tried," I told my father, who was but twenty yards away by a warm fire. "I love you."

I shut my eyes, exhausted.

Chapter Six

A set of strong hands gripped my shoulders and wrenched me from the snow drift in which I was quickly being buried. I was laid practically lifeless on the surface while my father retrieved the duffle bags from the accumulating powder. We were both covered in snow and looked like two snowmen making our way past the last few yards remaining between us and the door.

Inside the cabin, it was a different world. Through my numbness I could feel an instant blast of heat. The drifts that surrounded us provided an insulation and protection from the wind. My father had stretched some waterproof tarps over the roof earlier, so it was quit cozy, all things considered. We had food and supplies to make it through a few days, but we were both soaking wet from the snow that had at first clung to our clothes, but now melted and left us drenched, like we had just stepped, fully-clothed, out of a shower.

We sat by the fire, but we were still shivering. I was still in a slight state of shock.

"That was close!" I exclaimed.

"I heard someone call out," he said. "I thought it was Tabitha. I didn't know until I pulled you out of the snow that it was you."

I couldn't hold my feelings in any longer.

"The bitch stood you up!" I yelled, taking the book, now soaking wet, from my pocket, and tossing it on the table. "I could kill her."

"It's ok," he replied, trying to soothe my rattled nerves. "At least you're safe and warm."

"Warm?" I countered, seized by another shivering fit. "I don't think so. You wouldn't happen to have another set of clothes here?"

The look in his eyes belied the fact that he wasn't expecting to get snowed in and the only set of clothes either of us had were on our backs. As I said, he didn't like to pack.

All I could do was laugh and throw my hands up.

"Great!" I said, "This is like some plot from a formulaic romance novel: Two people are soaking wet, stuck in some inaccessible situation, with a warm fire. Gee, I wonder where this is leading? Aaaargh!"

I paced back and forth in front of the fire.

"Well, at least we're related, and not horny romance characters. I think we can handle this. Don't you?"

"Sure," my father replied in a most unsure manner.

It was a small, one room structure with a tiny water closet connected to it by a lean to. There was no real way to be private, so I just decided what had to be done... well... had to be done.

"So," I started, "it's like this. I'm going to take my clothes off and wrap up in a blanket by the fire. You're going to take your clothes off, and I guess you're either going to be naked, or maybe find a towel or something. Is that ok?"

"Sure," he muttered, a bit embarrassed.

"For the next day or so," I continued, "this is just the way it's going to be. I need to cook. We need to get up and do things. Are you ok with all this?"

He shrugged his shoulders and stared into the fire.

I saw he was having trouble with this, but it couldn't be helped.

I turned my back on him and began stripping off my clothes. I couldn't keep my back turned forever though, because I had to hang them up somewhere near the fireplace. I began to search, stark naked, around the room for various places to hang my jacket, dress, stockings, bra, and panties. I dried myself off a little with our only towel and tossed it to my father.

"Your turn," I said, matter of factly, figuring the sooner we got this over with, the better.

He slowly removed his coat, his shirt, shoes and socks, then hesitated. Then, with a deep breath accompanying his reluctance, he removed his trousers and boxers.

"Just what," I asked, "is that?"

He blushed as he realized I noticed his rather prominent erection.

"Well... uhh..." he seemed at a loss for words. Then I understood what was happening.

"You took the Viagra, didn't you?"

He leaned against the mantle and nodded his head.

"Uhmm... it doesn't seem to be going away," he sheepishly replied. "I thought she'd be here any moment. I'm such a fool."

"You're not a fool," I consoled him. "You're just human. What does the package instruct you to do in a case like this?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I can never understand those directions."

"What?" I asked, amazed. "Dad! You can read Linear B... and you can't read a pill package?"

I was learning a lot I didn't know about my father.

Trying to make the best of the situation, and empathizing somewhat with my father's predicament, I invited him to sit with me on the couch, and shared the blanket with him. Both chairs were covered with wet clothes and the couch was the only place left, and my poor father was beginning to shiver.

He sat down and I wrapped the blanket around us both. I know this is where the formulaic romances get all steamy, but it was nothing like that for us. We were more concerned with just driving away the chill, and the fire was cozy and warm. Ever so often, he would rise and stoke the fire with more wood.

I tried not to stare, but he was hard not to notice, towering over everything in the room, and face it, it was hard ignoring his pill-enhanced member sticking out. I was trying not to giggle. The poor man was embarrassed enough already. An hour passed, and his condition wasn't going away. We somehow had to get past this.

Chapter Seven

I rose to cook something for supper, walking about, trying not to care that I was nude, but it was an uncomfortable experience all around. Finally we sat down together on the couch in front of the fire, our dinner plates in our laps. It was a simple affair of soup and crackers, but it was delicious after an exhausting day. At first, he couldn't hold his plate in his lap because of... you know, but we solved the dilemma by grabbing one of the pillows from the bed, which he used as a lap table for his meal. I sat upright and bare breasted, but I was getting used to it, and it didn't seem quite so sexual or embarrassing as it did at first.

Sometimes I could feel him staring at me, but I didn't want to check to see if it was true, as I didn't want to embarrass either him or myself. I rose from dinner and cleared the plates, uncorking the bottle of dessert wine and pouring each of us a big glass. I thought maybe it would ease our discomfort with the situation, if not helping to ease his condition somewhat.

The conversation diverted us to other less volatile subjects.

"I think this place needs a little more attention," I told him. "Maybe we can come out in the spring and start fixing it up a little."

"The dogwoods are beautiful in the spring," he replied. "I'd like that."

"In fact," I continued, "I'd like to spend more time up here."

"When it's not buried in a blizzard, it's quite a restful place to be," he countered, anything but relaxed.

I don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was the wine, which was rather strong, or maybe it was just my concern for my father's discomfort.

I reached under the blanket and took his bare penis in my hand.

"You know Tabitha's too young for you?" I piped up, wondering where that came from.

"You really think so?" he asked.

"Yes I do," I replied. "Besides, Aiden is quite a bit bigger. I'm not sure someone like Tabitha would give him up for an old guy like you."

I let out a little snort of laughter, as a few drops of wine dribbled from my nose and onto my breasts. I blushed.

My father chuckled to see me in my state of semi-intoxication. He laid back, enjoying the feel of my hand gently squeezing his shaft.

"How would you know how big Aiden is?" he inquired. "You two aren't..."

"Oh my God, no," I interjected. "I was watching the two of them the other night from the bathroom, and noticed you in the hall doorway."

Now it was his turn to blush.

"I didn't know," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I..."

"Don't sweat it," I said, putting an end to the matter. "It was making me a little excited too, to be honest."

It seemed as though his penis grew a little harder with the last statement, contemplating our combined voyeurism. I began to massage his cock, hoping to resolve the situation, but I was feeling a bit flushed by the process, and the conversation.

My father laid his head back, looking up at the ceiling, letting out little groaning sounds as my hand stroked him up and down.

"I know you're just trying to help, and I shouldn't be enjoying this, but..."

"Enjoy it, Dad. It will help you to cum that much quicker, and this whole embarrassing situation will be in our past."

I couldn't believe I was actually giving my father a hand job, but it really didn't seem as awkward as I thought it would be. It had only taken a few hours for us to get used to being completely naked around each other. So what if his penis was erect because of a pill. It could simply be taken care of and put in the past, along with our nudity when our clothes dried out. Eventually this all would be a memory we could laugh about every time we came up to the cabin.

After half an hour of steady stroking though, it was obvious he wasn't going to have an orgasm in my hand, and I still can't believe what I did next. It was like something I had read about in cheap romances dealing with situations like these. I'd always laughed when I read the pulp crap publishers dared to call literature, yet here I was, a prisoner in my own pulp fantasy, kneeling between my father's legs and telling him to close his eyes and think about Tabitha.

Facing my father allowed me to switch hands as I slowly kept massaging him while wrapping my lips around the tip of his penis. The sensations that I felt while doing this were... well... sensational! A small trickle of vaginal juices dribbled down my thighs. I can't believe I was being turned on by this. After all, he was my father. My original intent of relieving his Viagral erection was giving way to a more intense, animalistic, primal need. My insides were beginning to churn, and my mind was taking me to a different place, a place where feelings and sexual needs displaced all reason and boundaries.




Linnea: Father's Flower



Another half an hour and my jaw was tiring, as well as my hands. I had told my father to close his eyes and think about Tabitha, but when I looked up he was staring at me, drinking me in with his gaze, running his eyes over my different body parts as if he wanted to violate every inch of my being, inside and out.

Against all reason, against all decency, against all common sense, and against all propriety, I stopped sucking his cock, and with a gentle kiss to the tip, I rose and turned my back on my father, giving him a bird's eye view of my butt, which I lowered without an ounce of shame, onto his throbbing cock. We both, simultaneously, moaned as I slid down over his member, taking it all in, repeatedly lifting myself until he was almost free of its confines, only to slide down again, plunging him inside me to the hilt.

I didn't know quite what to make of my feelings at that moment, or how to bring them under control. It made no sense to me that we were doing what we were doing, but it certainly felt like nothing I had ever felt before. He gripped the cheeks of my ass and spread them apart so that he could take in the sight of his cock sliding in and out of his daughter. I began to hump his shaft harder and harder, bringing myself down on him with loud pouncing noises that drowned out the wind beyond the walls of the secluded cabin.

Every time I landed square on his lap, his testicles would fly up and slap my pubic protuberance, kissing my clitoris repeatedly, until I lost all control of myself. My father was no more my father in my excited state. Like a bitch in heat, I cried out for any dog's prick to put out my fire. Fuck the situation. Fuck the consequences. Fuck the fact that I was fucking my nearest relationship. I needed to be filled with a man's meat. I needed to be drenched, inside and out, with a man's cum.

My steady humping soon became a frenzied free for all, as I began to fuck his cock with more force and speed, until every thrust pushed against my diaphragm and expelled the air from my lungs. I had lost all but my elemental and primal senses as I removed his hands from my butt and wrapped them around my nipples, manipulating his fingers to pinch my tits quite hard until they hurt.

Then I came.

I can't quite describe it in words. I know I screamed. Not just some pretended porn-video scream, but something deeply savage and curdling... a primal scream that shook the cabin and contended with the noise of the blizzard outside. I began to shake in a seismic orgasm that would have thrown me off my father's lap had it not been for the fact that he was pressing me against his groin with his bare hands upon my bare flesh... everything bare, everything exposed, everything...

Seconds later his medicated member exploded, flooding my insides with sperm. I couldn't hold it all. There was too much... an overabundance that never seemed to end.

When he was finished I collapsed into a spooning position on the couch, my father moving in tandem so that he never left my pussy. I could not stay awake nestled in his arms, drifting off for hours, to wake in those very same arms in which I fell asleep. He hadn't moved a muscle, not wanting to disturb his baby girl.

"How is my little flower?" he whispered in my ear when I woke.

I didn't need to answer. I just nestled closer in his arms. He was still inside me, only half his fully aroused state, but still sustained by the medication enough to remain inside for a while longer.

...and I was the happiest child on earth.

Chapter Nine

I learned many things about myself that night. I learned that I had a great capacity for self-sacrifice when it came to taking care of the person I love best in this world.

I learned that outward beauty carries with it a selfishness. It is the inward beauty of a person that makes him or her truly attractive through any lens. I learned to call on that inward beauty, while Tabitha, as pretty as she may have seemed, sacrificed a truly caring partner for a big dick and the comfort of her own bed when another needed her.

I learned that my mother, madre mia, was probably one of the most amazing women I had ever had the opportunity to know.

She had once told me to be brave and look after my father.

My father often commented on my bravery, driving through a blizzard and struggling through impossible snow drifts to bring food to him in that isolated spot. I never thought of it as bravery though. It was just how my mother raised me. What else could I have done?

I learned that love conquers all, a cliché that I have never ceased to see as anything but remarkable. I went back to school and received a degree in English Lit, then a master's, then a doctor's, and now I teach at the same university as my father, and I still live in the same home as my father, and I still sleep in the same bed as my father.

We keep our physical relationship to ourselves because, believe it or not, it is illegal for two consenting adults to make love to each other... if they are near relations. We fixed up the cabin so that it is a treasured spot we escape to when we want to get away from it all and be truly uninhibited and alone in the isolated hills of the Ozarks.

And lastly, I learned that true happiness cannot carry a label. It is above all judgment, approval or condemnation, and I truly believe that I am the happiest child on earth.

THE END