This story is completely fictional. If you are easily offended by incestuous relationships then please do not read- find another story! All characters are fictional and any likeness to any living person is purely coincidental. The story is purely imaginary and, to the my knowledge, bears no relationship to any factual occurrence.
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My story, dear reader, starts a few months ago when I came home from university for my summer vacation with my father. My father's name is John and he's a professional freelance photographer. But, before I tell you my story, a little more about myself and my immediate family.
My name is Becci, I'm 21 and studying English and History at a university in England. I'm quite a pretty girl, even if I say so myself. I'm of average height with long blonde hair, blue eyes and a good looking trim figure with 32B boobs. I get my looks from my mother and my brains from my father. I have two brothers both older than me who have flown the 'family nest' - if you can call it a nest! My mother destroyed our nest on my fifteenth birthday when she went to live with her lover in Manchester leaving my father devastated and virtually a broken man. At this time my father had me going through the latter stages of puberty and important school exams and my two siblings going away to university. Although he has quite a good job it was difficult for him to look after us all, but he did his very best both morally and financially, and for that I will be eternally grateful to him. It's funny, because I think the difficulties and the hardships he endured to care for us all actually bonded us into a more solid family unit.
It had been a difficult year at university and I was pleased when my father agreed to come and collect me to take me home for my summer holiday. When I saw him arriving in his Ford Estate I ran over and threw myself into his arms and gave him a hug and a kiss which I think embarrassed him in front of some of the other graduates. He might have been embarrassed but he certainly held me tight - tighter and closer than I ever remember him doing before.
He whispered in my ear, "Oh Becci! I've missed you so much these last few months. It's so nice to see you again."
"And I've missed you Daddy," I replied hugging him even tighter. I sensed that there was something 'not quite right' with Daddy compared with the other times he had come to pick me up. He broke the hug and kissed me on the cheek as he held my arms down by my side. I noticed as I looked at him that his eyes had a tear or two in them. I've never seen Daddy this way before: he was always strong. Always there for me. He was my rock! When I was younger he had cuddled and tended me when I hurt myself, and when my first boyfriend ditched me for my best friend he was there again to pick up the pieces. No, this was a different Daddy: a Daddy that I didn't know and a Daddy that I was determined to help.
While I was saying goodbye to all my friends Daddy loaded the car with all my luggage including carrier bags, cardboard boxes, laptop and books and then came round and opened the door for me to get in the passenger seat. As I went to get in he bowed and waved his hand towards the car and said, "My Lady. Your carriage awaits." A little enough gesture but my heart filled up with pride to think that my father was acknowledging me as a 'lady' and not a daughter or just a young girl. "Thank you driver," I said with a smile as I took my seat in the car.
We drove down the motorway discussing just general tit bits - about my year in university and my exams and how his job in photography was going. Also about the time Aunty Pam came visiting him a couple of weeks ago and how she ran my mother down into the pits of hell! Although Aunty Pam was my mother's sister she had no time for my mother! "That little hussy deserves everything she gets," was her comment on the situation. I think deep down my aunt had a soft spot for my Daddy.
Every now and then as we drove the long way home, my father would put his hand on my knee, squeeze it and say, "It really is nice to have you back. I have missed you so much these last few months." In return I would place my hand on top of his hand, squeeze it and say, "It's nice to be home again, Daddy." The feel of his hand on my knee, especially when he squeezed it, would send a shudder up my thighs until it reached my love chamber where a little love juice was released in anticipation of more stimulations.
After a couple of hours driving we stopped at the motorway services for something to eat and some fuel. Daddy, as usual, complained about the prices and how anyone who goes to those places are being ripped off because they are a 'captive audience'. But the break was welcomed as was the food and the refreshments.
We arrived home at about 8:30 in the evening. It was still light and the house and garden looked immaculate - just the way my father always kept it. "You go in Becci and put the kettle on for a cup of tea while I offload the car. There's fresh milk in the fridge." I don't know if he saw the disappointment on my face but he suddenly added, "Or there's a few cans of lager if you prefer." I think the smile on my face told him what my preference was. "And you can pour me a stiff whisky while you're there," he added with a grin. "And don't forget the ice!"
While Daddy unpacked the car I was 'popping' and drinking a can of ice cold lager. I had already poured his whisky - I'd made it a really large one because I thought he needed relaxing. Tomorrow was Saturday and he didn't have work, so the drink driving issue didn't enter into the equation. He finally joined me in the lounge, a little hot and bothered, but basically unscathed from unloading all my stuff. I handed him his drink, raised my can of lager and said, "Cheers!"
We both flopped down on the large brown three seat leather couch, just like we had when I was a small girl. Him on his middle section and me to his right. The lager was going down well - a habit I managed to acquire in the student's union bar at university. My father had finished his whisky in just a few sips. I snatched the glass out of his hand and went to the kitchen to pour him another. "Don't forget the ice", he shouted to me as I reappeared with his large whisky, complete with ice in one hand and another can of lager for me in the other.