This is a work of fiction, in which all characters are over the age of 18. If you haven't, we recommend you read Parts 1 and 2 to fully understand the context for these characters.
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The spray rips across my face as waves slap themselves up over the gunwale and shoot icy sheets across the deck. The huge wooden vessel is tossed like a toy in the tempest, careening wildly, aimless in the violent roll of the storm.
Clouds darken the day into a terrifying twilight, the horizon heaving with waves and serrated with whitecaps.
Through the wet rigging I see Jessica staggering toward me from the bow, grabbing onto whatever she can as the world tumbles, pulling herself forward. Her long auburn hair is darkened by the wet and slicked against her face. She is screaming something I can't hear over the howling winds and crashing waves.
My heart pounds in my chest, the danger we're in rushing forward to dominate my consciousness. I see no one else on the ship, and I'm standing next to the helm, the unattended wheel spinning wildly. Just beyond the wheel a giant black wave rises, and rises, and rises, like a wall. It will crush us. My heart catches in my throat.
She is closer now, her repeated cries becoming intelligible.
"
... eel!"
"
... a....!"
"
... ake!... "
"
...Take... "
"
Take the wheel! TAKE THE WHEEL!"
Suddenly I stand directly before the spinning wheel, wondering how I can can grab its slippery flying arms without destroying my hands in the process. The demon wave looms higher and higher in my peripheral vision, moments away from hitting us.
With a white-hot bolt of lightning, something in me shatters. . . and something else erupts into its place. The dizzying wheel is no longer daunting. In that flash, I know: it's not about the timing or technique of a grip. It's the will to take hold that matters. A new kind of wave rises inside me, somehow in dream space bigger than the one looming and threatening to pound down on the ship and kill us both. This new wave in me rolls through my body like an awakening - from the root of my pelvis through my guts and heart, past my throat and out the top of my head, washing the knowledge throughout my being: THE. WILL. TO. TAKE. HOLD.
With no thought whatsoever to finesse, I hurl my whole being against the wheel and grab on with everything I have.
In a dream-instant, everything is undone. I stand at that same wheel, but with the gentle roll of a benevolent sea beneath my feet, and a light breeze flapping the drying white canvas against blue sky above.
A seagull cries and glides lazily past in the sun. I feel the solid wood of the ships wheel in one hand, and a fistfull of my daughter's hair in the other. I look down.
Kitten kneels before me, tucked between me and the wheel, pulling my hard cock in and out of her willing mouth. She looks up at me with bottomless gratitude in her soft blue eyes.
She keeps sucking, bobbing her head slowly and sending delicious thrills up my spine. She doesn't speak, but I feel her voice inside me. Her voice resonates in my head and my heart and my cock.
"
Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. . . thank you. . . thank you. I need this so much. . ." A single tear of soulful joy slides down her cheek as she sucks harder, pouring her love into my cock with the silk of her tongue and heat of her mouth.
In that moment, I realize many things, but mostly: I am not who I was.
----
Nick wakes in his bed, heart hammering. He still feels Kitten's gratitude vibrating through his half-conscious body, pulsing, like waves. It's nearly noon, and he blinks as memories of the dream weave into memories of the night before and he becomes aware of himself in his room. Disoriented.
He looks over at his sleeping daughter, naked and glorious beside him.
Shaking his head, he considers the last twelve hours. Lots of things happened and there's lots of ways to frame it but the bottom line is that he. . . had sex with his own daughter. Had sex. Was it making love? Was it fucking? Memories flash in front of him like a black-and-white movie - memories of the sweat, the pounding, the tight grips, her screams and his bellows as they both came. It was emotionally and physically what she'd desperately needed. It was a supernova. It was nourishing and perfect, but there was no doubt about it.
(That, my friend, was fucking.)
He'd fucked her. Several times.
He sits up to lean over on one elbow and lets his eyes drag across her nubile young body. The burgundy sheet has pooled around her hips and Nick watches her full breasts rise and fall as she sleeps deeply, peacefully. Unconsciously, his lungs slow to match her pace.
Kitten. She became Kitten last night.
For a moment he wonders how long he'll play along with that, how long he'll encourage her pretending. But as he thinks back on the night, the realization rises and boils over in him: "playing along" isn't in the cards. She isn't pretending. What happened last night wasn't play. She stepped out of her chrysalis and unfolded her shimmering wings. She truly became someone else.
And so did he. Last night cracked him open. Last night opened doors inside him, knocked down walls between old and new, a burning spaciousness in his chest making him feel bigger, younger, more himself. Every breath comes easier and deeper.
The torment in him is gone. The handwringing and standoffish fatherly behavior is over, those worries vanished like a sigh in a storm.
He is now all-in as the man who met this little slut in her heat and fucked her hard and repeatedly. He is the man who gave her the space to confront her own needs to fuck, and to take an emotional step she couldn't have done otherwise. In the light of day, Nick is filled with a kind of . . . pride in himself, in the man he had been in that moment last night—the moment he'd pushed her right up to the edge of herself, so that all she had to do was take the leap into. . . becoming Kitten. That kind of forceful intensity was new for him, called into being by her need. She had
needed
him to push her to that edge. She had needed him to pull back the curtains and awaken her.
A streak of orange light through the window stretches languidly across her pink nipples and he muses as a mote drifts across the beam. All his senses are heightened, fueled by some sense f genesis he hasn't ever felt before. He leans on his elbow gazing at his freshly-fucked daughter, his cum probably still leaking out of her, and the pride he feels tells him something has awoken in him, too. He likes being this man.
He'd loved fucking her, of course. Her body is magnificent and she'd been a powerhouse of sexual need and energy. But that push—his moving her to her own edge and watching her willingly throw herself over into whatever lay beyond, into whatever "being Kitten" might mean—that was the sexiest thing he can remember experiencing. In that moment a new version of himself erupted into being from somewhere deep inside him. One with its own set of needs and an aptitude for sexual control. Dominance. The memory of it fills him with a feeling of power. And lust.
Nick realizes that his cock is rock hard, and the insistence he suddenly feels in his body brings him back to this present moment. But the deliciousness of the lust that thrums through his veins is not just physical. Her willing response to him demanding that she leap into the unknown fills him with an almost spiritual hunger for something he's now tasted and wants more of. It is a razor sharp need with a dark edge that is beyond his ability to fight. It's like there's something new in his blood, something now coursing through his being that feels. . . bigger than him somehow. Like a tiger that's been pacing in its cage for so long, and now has begun to step through the open door. He wonders how far this new side of him will take things. He is tempted to wake her up and use her again. To just keep fucking this willing young thing that happens to be his daughter.
A moment from the night before flashes back to him--a moment on the couch when they were grunting like animals and he'd felt something very. . . specific in how she moved, how she breathed, how she grinned in abandon.
Something he recognized.
(Whoa.)
Suddenly his mind takes him back more years than he wants to admit, to when he and Carol were newlyweds, long before the divorce. On certain nights while they tumbled in bed, she had. . . transformed. She'd come out of herself with passion. Flown into a glorious frenzy and awakening of deep hunger in her that made him feel like he was seeing her true self for the first time. They'd fucked mindlessly then, her pussy flowing with need, her skin flushed with endless release. It was those nights when they got adventurous: she'd voraciously demanded he fuck her in the ass, spank her, choke her. They'd gone for hours, moaning and screaming, afterward sleeping the deepest of sleeps in each others arms.
