Sacrificial Lamb

The last scene by which my mother and father were acquainted was a fight between the two of them over towels. My father enjoyed the forest green, while mother insisted that ivory matched the house on a "whole". For whatever reason, this debate became heated and a screaming match ensued. I, an eighteen-year-old, ready to leave for college let the fight continue without repression. Fights for mother and father were regular and often over nothing, they would, like the typical American family, make up and forgive each other. Oddly enough this "make up" for them was more of the middle school "make out" session that led to a rather long sexual weekend between them. This fight, however, was quite different: Mom left.

I heard a plate break below my room in the kitchen and I knew that this fight had instantly changed from a "make up sex" to a "get out you bastard". The plate was a hand made family heirloom from the first of us to migrate to the Americas, prior to the civil war. This plate had survived countless of my mother's generations and was to be passed down to me, her daughter, at marriage. On this plate we would cut the first piece of wedding cake and my husband and I would share it between each other. Such was the custom going as far back as Abraham Lincoln. While the debate over towels continued my father forced my mother to turn around and bent her over the counter. Brutal penetration to his doggie-style-lover was his purpose (having walked into a fight session that ended in exactly said way I knew better to stay upstairs, and put on some music); when over my music I heard the crash of the great female treasure, I knew a unfathomable grievance had taken place; by all feminine rules, this was an unforgivable mistake. In spinning my mother around my father had caused my mothers elbow to knock into the plate causing its death spin to the floor.

Perhaps the true problem is that: my mother had hit the plate and had no one to blame, my father did not immediately apologize, or both reasons mixed into one bloody tiff. Either way from this moment on a chasm was now before my father and mother, keeping them from ever reaching each other. My mother stormed out and left my father sitting on the floor with his pleated suit pants at his ankles. I came down stairs after hearing the hateful slam of the door. I looked at my father and he stared at his daughter, no words were needed.

I bypassed my father and went for a broom wishing to sweep the larger chunks into a pile. My father's hand reached out, and grabbed me forcefully at the ankle.

"Not yet." Is all he said to me.

The plate was to be treated as holy, and even in its destruction we had to have more of a ceremony then that of a broom. My father knew, before I did, that the only healing that could come between he and my mother would be for both of them to, embalm and bury this relic together. I consented to my father and returned to my room.

Not more then a handful of hours later a ring came to our door. My father willed himself out of the couch and went to the door. Mother, I had supposed, did not feel welcome in the house without being invited back in, a gesture on her part for asking for loves return to the home, the first step of healing in a relationship is always to ask for it.

The lights outside my window told me more than my mother had returned; worse still: less than. The police explained how my mother's Impala had wrapped around a tree when she hit a bend in the road going eighty-five. My mother was an emotional driver, often her emotion read her heart, both for and against speed pending on the emotion. I remember once, when my grandmother died, we went ten miles and hour home from the funeral place. Fury, was my mothers undoing, and guilt my fathers.

My father, the divine extrovert, became silent, his innermost thoughts collapsed in on himself and the voice of despair overtook him. His job left him to his solace (though his boss let me know when my father had returned that he was welcome to reapply), and his family departed after the funeral (save myself). So my father sat, a shell staring at a television that was almost always off; sat on a couch left only to the dampening whispers of his mind, whispers that explained his own guilt in his wife's undoing. At times we would sit together and stare into the kitchen, looking at the cracked and bloody mess that was the broken plate. Even as I cooked in the kitchen I avoided even the smallest bits of the plate, as if some heavenly force had roped them off. We looked upon the scene like some great crime had taken place, as if my mother herself lay bare on the floor her body mangled and left in shards, each piece of the plate was known to us, marked by some invisible police chalk. We didn't speak of it, nor did we touch. At times I was afraid that God would strike me down if I touched this Holy Ark, for I was not one of the worthy few who could clean up this mess; only husband and wife could repair the broken home, my father refused to do so alone.

One night destiny reached out its hand and began the course of healing for our family. My father, in a stupor reached out his hand and clasped my breast.

"Sherri?" my father called in a low raspy voice for my mother.

"No father, I am your daughter Lynn." I replied.

His hand fell from my chest to his side. I carried him to bed and placed him to rest.

That night I ran many thoughts threw my head. I pondered the question: Did my father violate me tonight? While drunkenness is no excuse to attach oneself to his daughter sexually (such in the case of Lot), my father legitimately thought I was his wife. I then thought over the idea, I looked nothing like my mother. My features, though feminine, took after my father: where my mother's hair was dark, mine red; she had a beautiful dark tan, and I white; her breasts were full and large, mine boasted little more then a B cup. By any means the only physical trait we shared was in blue eyes, and my father carried these as well. My father, must have, by all physical means reached out for his daughter in lust and realized her apprehension then made an excuse. My thoughts regarded my father's helpless estate, this man was a broken shell left hallowed by the haunting of hell's hounds. No, my father reached out for his wife: by hallucination, delusion, or dream my father was touching his wife.

In an instant the thought overwhelmed me! My father longed to be forgiven by his wife for the: fight, plate, and her subsequent death. He had all the repentance of any man staring at the gallows, and all the atonement he could give, yet he had no forgiveness from his wife. I, in that moment, realized I was now her conduit. Her daughter, her offspring, her progeny, had a chance to speak on her behalf, offering all the forgiveness that she would have given, yet it would I to act in her stead. I was given a chance to be more then myself, to be my mother, and heal a broken man. I would have to do so as her, and not as myself; in such a way to exemplify my mother so that she would forgive him. My body, I resolved, was no longer my own, but the harbinger of the matron who bore me.

That next night I took my father's arm and led him to his bed. There he stretched out and stared lifeless up to the ceiling, his eyes boring a whole in the white stucco. I slipped into my mother's closet. Hanging up was an outfit I knew all to well, her dress that she wore on their first date, a long black dress with a slit on the side up to the waist. I changed into the dress and was drastically aware of the difference between my mother and I, though she would have had to been my size at the hips to wear this dress, she certainly knew how to fill it better then I ever could. In preparation I had a water bra prepared, as I knew I would not come in contact with any sharp corners between the closet and our wedding consummation.

I entered the room, and realized the distance between the bed and the closet was a deep and dark chasm that I could not transverse alone. The light of the room dimmed as the opaque moonlight faded from the blinds. The darkness enveloped me and bade me not to go farther; my own moral conscience panged its thoughts reminding me that I was not my mother but the daughter of the man lying before me. The cold air around me shook my soul and I shuttered as the bumps ran up my legs and threw my spine, the cold knife of morality peered through me and punctured my heart. I was not my mother's vessel, nor was I willing to foul the sanctity of her bed. At the very moment that my heart grew faint and my soul erred, I felt the hand of someone behind me. I jumped, and turned, no one. No one, I mouthed. I closed my eyes and again felt a hand on my shoulder, this time two hands, familiar to me. I heard my mother's voice sing a melody in my head, a song from my youth:

"You are my daughter, be brave and true,

Even when the skies are not blue.

In darkness remember me my sweet

And I will be guiding the steps of your feet."

My mother confirmed me, strengthened me and walked with me over the chasm. I felt her guiding me and reassuring me, as I walked silently over to my father. At the bed I climbed atop my father and rested my legs on either side of his torso. His eyes, open, did not shift to me but rather remained staring at the ceiling.

"Lynn, what are you doing?" he recognized me.

I placed one hand on his eyes and gently bade them to close, reassuring with a gentle "shh."

"No, its Sherri." I said, moving my father's hand to the dress.

Only his hands replied to me in knowledge of the garment.

We remained silent as my hands moved and pressed on his chest, my mind racing now to recall any of the sexual advances my mother had made to my father, any movement that would reassure him that it was his wife. Without cognitive thought I felt my mother guide me to touch his face it with the back of my hand. My father reached up and held it there and in a groan gave the first smile I had seen sense our former life. His face was rough and unshaven, the coarse hair grinded on my skin sending a wave of warmth through me, my mind, body and soul relaxed.

After letting my hand go I slithered down my father's chest, dragging the silk of the dress down to his pants. He had on the same pants that he had worn when his wife left, and so he now in the same pants welcomed her return. I undid the belt and the zipper, pulled his pants to his ankles and began to massage his balls through the boxers. His penis' head looked out from his boxers, awakened from the lifeless shell it now inhabited, like a turtles head peeking out timidly for safety. My father was not instantly hard, but rather was willing to be; I removed his boxers. There before me was my husband's cock, thick, slowly engorging. I knew my mother's body better then my father's, naturally, but I in a moment realized why my mom wanted to rammed so hard by this, my creator. I would be lying if I did not say the daughter in me surged forth and bade me to suck, but I suppressed and tried to re-channel my mother; begging that, as my lips lowered, this blow job would feel seasoned, that he would not feel his daughters young tongue as it enveloped him for the first time, but the tongue of his lost lustful lover. And so I took him into my mouth: the woman within me moaned as I felt him harden, the daughter within me became excited at the taboo of the father's pre-cum, and the wife whimpered as her cunt watered.

My father arched up "Sherri!" he exclaimed to his wife. My heart leapt for joy knowing that my father now knew his wife was enjoying his body. His balls tightened and I knew he was on the verge of arrival. I quickly removed my head and rested it on his stomach; with my right hand I continued to massage him. My father reached out for my breasts and felt them covered by the dress, I sat up and unzipped the top and removed my large bra. I knew this was the final test, I could not fake my mother's size, but perhaps as a man he was too aroused to care about details. His calloused hands sought me, I lowered myself down to him and he began to fondle his daughter. Whether or not he was conscience of the difference at this point, I do not know, but for the moment he continued to massage and lick my chest. He bit down and sucked on my nipples; I closed my eyes and enjoyed his painful caress. His cock in full fashion pressed against my covered ass and began to braid itself over and in-between my cheeks, carefully at first in a slow buck, back and forth and slightly to each side. I longed for the dresses removal to feel his cock against my naked flesh instead of through a veil. His intensity grew, and I knew that I had only just awakened the beast.

As my father's lust grew, so did his intensity. He pulled my neck down to him and bit like a vampire hard into it, he then moved to a soft nibble on my ear. He bit on my ear causing me to scream, a cry which only fueled his passion. His hands became as claws to my chest, the nails scraping at me, and in my mother/daughter fusion the pain made the lips of my sanctuary shutter. I am not woman who longs for the hard and violent side of sex, but my mother was and her heart now beat inside me. With each scrape I felt my husbands beast become full rage, his kisses now a flourish over my entire upper body. Then at once he stopped. He looked up and our eyes caught. I was sure he saw a wife, for I saw a loving husband. He then kissed me at the exposed waist, then my belly button, and up to my red slashed chest. His kisses were soft and gentle, loving and caring; each one drew me closer to a climax. My husband had not even begun to tease my vagina and still it was overwhelmed with desire. At my chest he was careful not to inflame any of the marks he had left; his tongue left a trail as it traveled from left mountain to right and back again. His kisses continued up my neck then he turned my head to the side and licked the inside of my ear. One soft nibble and his gentle love finished.

My father climbed out of bed leaving me straddling and empty grave, the shell that was my father died as the beast rose behind me. Two claws grabbed my ankles and pulled; they yanked me from the bed and onto the floor. He grabbed me at my shoulders and raised my midsection to the bed, their he bent me over and admired his lamb. The daughter now a willing sacrifice to the father; a sacrificial lamb to awaken the beast and heal his heart. Proudly his chest heaved as he exhaled behind me, his paws grabbed the lower hem of my dress. He lifted it the bed and tucked it under me as to keep it from falling to the floor during his onslaught. I laid on the bed, my head pressed into the sheets, my arms spread and my legs at his mercy. He lowered his head to my ass and pressed his nose to my lips and inhaled. The beast could smell his bitch was in heat. He began to lap my juices like a dog, long licks from the top of my exposed vagina to the opening of my anus. Licks, that as they continued, became ferociously harder giving away to the bearing of teeth, my father scraped me as he sipped in my desire. As quickly as he had began to drink me in, he disappeared. I felt as if I were alone. I felt nothing of my father against me, nor did I feel a husband, or a beast. At this my cunt whimpered like a lost puppy, it began to cry and fill with lustful tears. I turned my head to the side to look back, as I did one giant hand grabbed my hair and pressed my face back into the bed.

I didn't have time to physically react to his cock. He plunged within me deeper and faster then I could have imagined, from the moment the head touched my sanctuary his pelvic bone ground into mine. I screamed once the pain caught up to his action, he left his cock deep within my womb surging with life. He, with a handful of my hair, lifted my head so that my scream could echo throughout our house. He let go of my hair, and my head bounced off the mattress and came to a rest. His hands took a strong grip of the dress at my hips, a grip strong enough to leave deep finger marked bruises. Then the pounding began, the relentless pounding of flesh against flesh. So the father pierced the daughter in short, rough, and hard strokes. I tried to clench myself around him but his pace was to fast and strong, he tore through my muscles and forced them to relax. My sanctuary screamed in pain from the foreign invader, singing a new glad and joyous hymn to the pleasure that followed its exit. Yet it would return, with a greater pain, and an even greater pleasure. Two more violent thrusts caused my head to lift off the bed; my moans of pleasure and screams of pain danced in symphony throughout the walls of our consummation chamber.

I knew what was coming next, as I felt the monster swell inside me. Then, the invader left me wanting. My father's cock removed itself from my wet womb. He collapsed on my back and began to weep.

"Sherri..." he gasped for air "I am... so... sorry." I turned and wrapped my arms instinctively around the broken child whose head rested against my exposed chest.

"I know... shh." I cooed.

"I didn't mean... I didn't mean to." His tears rand down from his eyes to my chest and danced silently on my nipple till they droped to the sheets.

"I know."

"I didn't know."

"Shh." I held his head tightly to me.

"Sherri, forgive me."

With a soft squeeze to his head I replied, "All you had to do was ask." I paused and pulled his eyes up to mine. "You are forgiven."

With the air of grace filling our chests we both cried and held each other. A cold shiver rand down my spine. The moment passed and our breathing synced, then our hearts pounded together as one. My father held me close listening to his daughter's heart, knowing only that his wife was now alive longing for him. He pushed me back against the bed, my legs bent over, and hanging off the side of the bed. He spread me open again, and this time slowly inserted himself into my welcoming womb. My temple praised the gentle guest as it searched through the inner most parts. I could feel the beast clawing to escape as some of his thrusts hit, but my father contained the beast, he subdued it for the pleasure of his wife. He entered me again this time renewing his commitment to love. Gently his prick pieced back together the shards of his soul, as he softly pierced his wife. His speed increased and he let out a sigh, his bucking into me quickened and his cock swelled. I let out a scream of pleasure as the orgasm over took my body.

"DADDY!"

His fucking stopped. Our hearts stopped. He looked down and I stared up. Our eyes locked and I knew I had made a fatal mistake. My mother left us, her spirit was gone. How long had she been absent? Then I realized she left when she had forgiven him. Mother was gone the moment dad was set free from his prison. At that very moment the beast that held the mind of my father captive died along with my mother; they, together, went to the immortal beyond. Now only father and daughter were in the room, pressed together as one. My father's gentle fuck was not the love of a husband to a wife but a father to a daughter and we both knew it. He had been fucking me the way I wanted to be fucked. I reached one hand up, and with the back of my hand I rubbed his face. Then he continued. Pumping into me; with my triumphant orgasm now finished my father wished for a blissful release. His cock engorged itself in my sanctum and then with the last fierceness of his strength his semen punctured me. Softly it splattered against my womb. He removed his cock and looked at the picture he painted. His daughter's lips dripped with his life. The aroma of my cunt mixed with the pleasure of his juice, a new scent wafted through the air, a combination of: a wife's completion, a daughter's love, and a father's relief. My father fell on the bed and climbed under the covers, tired and spent.