A Fenland Romance


Editor’s note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.


I was a skinny, lanky boy with big eyes, long eyelashes and a mop of dark brown hair. I tried to avoid looking in mirrors because I thought I was ugly and, when I did catch sight of my face, I looked permanently surprised. My great, goggle eyes, stared back at me from their rim of darkness as though I had used eye-liner and eye-shadow and had painted my lashes with mascara. My lips were red and pouty and I longed to look more rugged, more masculine, like my Dad.

I only just remember my grandparents and Ma died when I was eight years old, so Dad brought me up on his own, which must have been difficult for him. He was a self-employed hedger and ditcher, dependent on the needs of farmers and landowners. He would work anywhere in the Fen Country from South Lincolnshire to The Bedford Levels. After Ma died sometimes he turned down work because it would mean he had to stay away overnight and he wouldn’t leave me on my own, but by the time I was fifteen I managed to convince him that I wouldn’t come to any harm and we both knew that we needed the money.

Even as a child I loved our life and the place in which we lived. Strangers tend to hate the Fen Country for its flatness and its bleak winters. I love the rich, dark earth and the immense skies. Others regard it as monotonous but it is ever-changing as the clouds scud across this great expanse of reclaimed land. The fen itself has been largely drained through the last six hundred years and yet it retains its sense of otherness, of waiting to revert to water and bittern-haunted reeds if man’s resolve ever falters. Once the great dykes were crowned by windmills whose job was to lift the water into the channels running down to the rivers. Now they have been largely superseded by electrically driven pumping stations and I love to get close enough to them to hear the quiet, dull pulse of the motors and think of it as the sound of the land breathing, which, in a way, it is. Without it the land, and we who inhabit it, would drown.

The flatness is punctuated by what feels like an infinite number of church towers and spires, built as landmarks to lead travellers through the great waste, as it was centuries ago. I love the litany of names of Holbeach and Spalding, Doddington and March and the joy of entering St Wendreda’s Church at March and finding the three great banks of medieval wooden angels still flying up with outspread wings and mouths open with praise, into the hammerbeam roof. Then at Ely there is the patriarch of them all. The former abbey, now the cathedral, has accorded shelter in the great waste since the seventh century. The land it occupies was once a genuine island, a long, low mound rising from the waters of the Fen, and is still called the Isle of Ely. The ‘new’ lantern which crowns the cathedral tower has proved a beacon to the weary for seven hundred years.

It is true that in winter the land can be cruel. Snow, rain, hail and sleet are driven horizontally across the flat expanses and men can still die of exposure if they are caught out and wander disoriented when visibility closes down. But then will come a day of brilliant sunshine and sparkling frost, when the breath of cattle in the byres hangs like mist and smoke from cottage fires drifts upward into a clear, blue sky and the air is, as my old grandma used to say, ‘better than any tonic the doctor can give you.’ I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Our cottage is a mile from our nearest neighbours. I went to primary school in the next village. Then, when I should have moved to secondary education, I fell ill. It took the doctors ages to make the correct diagnosis; I spent two months in hospital with them trying to get me right and then I was so week that for months Dad nursed me at home. He was as good as any mother could have been and I still don’t know how he managed it. I think he spent most of our savings looking after me. One result of all this was that he and I made a bond so strong I cannot imagine life without him.

The other result was that I went up to secondary school a year late and the teachers and pupils presumed that I had been so slow at primary school that I had been kept back a year to catch up. I took a bus to school in Cranbeech, our nearest town, where a lot of the boys looked down on me; ditchers and their children were on the lowest level in the agrarian economy, and I played up to being more stupid than I was. It came as a surprise to teachers and pupils alike when I got the best marks in the school in my GCSEs. The headmaster asked my dad to let me stay on to take ‘A’levels and he was willing but at first I wasn’t. Then I realised that two extra years would be an advantage in the situation which was slowly forming in my mind.

Let me explain. Dad had not thrown away anything belonging to Ma. All her clothes were packed away in the attic. Dad worked long hours so I spent each early evening kütahya escort by myself in the house. It began with me touching her clothes to feel that she was near to me but soon I was trying them on. Wearing her dresses I was quite happy to look in a mirror because I looked right to me. I looked even more right when I tried her powder and lipstick and combed my hair forward to make a fringe. I didn’t dare to use eye makeup or nail varnish because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remove them entirely before Dad came home.

I really enjoyed preparing our evening meal, which was always simple, because I ate lunch at school and Dad was usually fed in the kitchen of whichever farm he was working at. I would put on a frock as soon as I got home from school, then I would tell myself that I was a housewife getting our meal ready for me and my husband. I would have it in the oven with just enough time to spare, before Dad came home, for me to change back into my own clothes. I longed to be able to greet him as a girl, and, even better, as his wife, but I daren’t. I had no real idea how he would react but I expected it would ruin our relationship and would lower me in his eyes. And I loved him dearly and should hate that to happen.

When Dad worked away and I had the house to myself for a day or two I lived entirely as a girl and wore full makeup, sometimes sending excuses to school so that I could luxuriate in my femininity for several days at a time. When I looked in the mirror on those days I saw a not entirely plain girl with lovely eyes and I knew that she was the real me.

If I were to leave school I should have to find a job and this would either involve moving away from home or working all hours, as Dad did. In both cases my life as a girl would be finished and that now was central to my identity. To do my ‘A’ levels would give me time to work out a scheme, or, at least, so I hoped. There was some surprise when I opted to take only two subjects, one of which was Home Economics. They weren’t to know that my ultimate ambition was to be the wife of a loving, virile man, preferably my Dad. I decided to take only one other subject, history, because I loved it and because my main study, at home, would be becoming a girl. Dad was a little bit taken aback when I announced my choice of subjects but he said nothing except, ‘Your Ma liked history.’

Dad and I celebrated my nineteenth birthday towards the end of my first ‘A’level year by dressing in our best suits and going for dinner to the only good hotel in Cranbeech. It was a lovely meal and we drank a bottle of wine between us. I had rarely tasted alcohol before and Dad usually drank very little, but he knew something about wine, having spent two years working as a wine waiter when he and Ma first married. He talked to me about the subject and about his and Ma’s early years together and I saw him remembering and then, in his own mind, becoming himself as a younger man, setting out in the world with so many hopes. His calloused hands returned to moving delicately about the linen, the silver and glass, his eyes shone and he appeared to me as a revelation, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. And I knew for certain that I didn’t just love him; I was in love with him.

On our way home in the car the unaccustomed drink got to me and I fell asleep. When the car stopped I felt Dad shaking me gently and I found that I had been leaning into his chest, that he had his arm around me to stop me falling further and that he had been driving one- handed. It was fortunate that the car was an automatic. I smiled up at him sleepily and he smiled back. I hoped he might kiss me but he didn’t and the moment passed. In bed that night I imagined my lovely Dad fucking me and making me his wife.

From then, at every opportunity I would imagine dressing for him. I had added to Ma’s clothes pretty underclothes I bought from the internet. That summer was particularly good for me to play out my fantasies. I was at home, supposedly revising, and Dad had four extended pieces of work away; twice for a week at a time and twice for periods of four and five days. Each morning I bathed and shaved my body. I pushed my balls into their cavity and secured my cock between my legs with a pair of really tight silk panties. I slid my stockings up my legs and secured them to my garter belt, and put my bra on. By now I had developed a pair of small but pretty breasts, soft to the touch, because I deliberately did not exercise in order to keep them feminine. Then I stepped into one or other of Ma’s dresses and zipped myself up.

I was now the lady of the house. I renamed myself from David to Davina, my Dad’s wife, and each night I lay in my husband’s bed and imagined him stroking me as I was stroking myself and fucking me as I was forcing the dildo I had bought into my anus, which I had renamed my pussy and my cunt. My cock and balls were now my clitie. I longed for my husband to make his babies in my womb.

I malatya escort ought to describe him. He was five feet ten inches tall, very broad at the shoulders and in the chest, with powerful arms and legs. He had dark brown hair and eyes and was a very hairy man, with a full beard which I longed to stroke. I thought his cock and balls must be big because of the way that his underpants, which I washed, were stretched. I would breathe in his scent before I washed them and I tried to get a glimpse of his genitals but Dad was a modest man and I never could until fate gave me what I wanted and far more than I expected.

Things began badly. A week before I should have returned to school Dad came home feeling unwell. He was never ill and didn’t know what to make of it.

‘I’ll be all right tomorrow,’ he said and went to bed.

The next morning he was delirious and I phoned the doctor. He came and immediately packed Dad off to hospital. He was there for two weeks and they intended to send him to a recuperation place at the other end of the county. I objected and said I wanted to look after him at home. At first they refused to countenance the idea but I persisted and Dad supported me. He really hated being away from the Fenland and they saw that being in an institution made him fretful and impeded his recovery. At last they agreed and arranged for the district nurse to come the first day to show me what I needed to do and for her to come when she could to help me. I told the social services that I had decided not to return to school and that I was free the whole time until I found a job. In the event Dad and I were alone together for most of the three months it took me to get him fully restored. In that time besides doing the cooking and washing, which I often did anyway, I washed him; I toileted him and cared for him in every way; and in bathing him I achieved my desire to see and handle his cock and his balls. I took great care to hold them gently and to clean them and his anus and his buttocks with a sort of rapt adoration.

At first Dad was embarrassed. ‘You shouldn’t have to do any of this for your father, David,’ he said over and over again, until I told him that I wanted to because I loved him. We had never been verbally demonstrative, and that embarrassed him too, but very soon he told me that he loved me also. His recuperation reached the stage where I was certain he could have done his washing himself, but he allowed me to continue and I felt that he was enjoying having my attention as much as I was enjoying giving it. One day, when I was washing his cock with a loving attention to detail, it twitched and started to grow. Dad and I both tried to pretend that we hadn’t noticed or that it didn’t mean anything. When it happened again the next day Dad tried to make a joke of it but on the third day, when it started to grow as soon as I removed his pyjamas, I took his cock into the palm of my hand and stroked along its uncut length. I bent down and took the head between my lips and Dad let out such a sigh.

‘Oh Davy. You mustn’t. I’m your father.’

‘Don’t you like it? Your cock says otherwise.’

His cock was now its full eight inches and I adored everything about it: its luscious foreskin now drawn back to expose the purple helmet head, the thick veins running along its length; the smell and taste of manhood. I licked a pearl of pre-cum from his slit and took his head in my mouth. I tried to take as much of this pillar of manhood as deep as I could into my throat but my unaccustomed gag reflex would only take him part way at first.

‘Baby,’ said my Daddy, and by his using that name I knew that a new and wonderful relationship was being born between us, ‘even your Ma never did that.’

His breath was becoming harsher as I sucked and stroked the eight inches which had become the centre of my world.

‘Don’t stop, baby. I’m going to come. Oh fuck.’

I had never heard him use that word before and he shot jet after jet of his cum into my mouth. I pulled out sufficiently to taste his cum on my tongue and then I greedily licked the residue from his still twitching penis, fondling his balls to make him spurt into me every last drop. I continued to lick and caress him until he recovered himself sufficiently to pull me up into his arms and kiss me deeply.

‘I didn’t know love could be this good,’ he said and my joy was complete.

‘Can I be your girl and will you be my man, Daddy, please?’ I asked.

‘Sweetheart, anything you wish, just don’t stop doing that to me.’

We moved from the bed to his chair. We were both naked. I sat on his lap, my arms around his neck, and whispered in his ear. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Daddy?’ He kissed my ear and whispered back, ‘My little girl shouldn’t have secrets from her Daddy, should she?’

‘When I’m at home on my own I dress as a girl. Now I am Daddy’s girl can I do it all the time?’

He released me and said, ‘Show me.’

Rapidly manisa escort I dressed and returned to him in one of Ma’s prettiest dresses.

‘See, Daddy.’

‘You’re so like your mother, Baby,’ he said. ‘Surely I remember her in that dress.’

‘Yes, Daddy. Let me take care of you, please.’ And I knelt down and took his cock into my mouth whilst I gently clasped his balls.’

He closed his eyes and said, ‘I’ve always been faithful to your mother but it’s as though she’s come back to me in you.’

‘I’m glad I remind you of her, Daddy, but I’m not her, I’m me and I need you to love me as myself.’

I held my breath for I feared I might have destroyed everything. My darling Daddy opened his eyes and said, ‘Little girl. Suck your Daddy off again and then I’ll be sure of the difference.’

So I did. It took a long time because my Daddy was over forty and he had come in my mouth such a short time ago, but by the time he shuddered a new, smaller jet into my mouth, he admitted that he knew the difference between my Ma and me. So began our honeymoon. We went back to what would now be our bed.

Daddy undressed me. It was clear to me that my Daddy was now much better than he had been making out. When I was naked he made me turn around so that he could see and handle each part of me. He took my cock and balls in his hands and then kissed each ball. His beard brushed deliciously against my scrotum and the inside of my thighs and I made a high-pitched, girly sound. He put his fingers in my mouth for me to lick them then he massaged my pucker before approaching her with the head of his cock. He stroked his pole against her lips and teased me with promise, then he pushed and my rosebud opened to receive her master. He went slowly at first for he realised I was a virgin and as I became accustomed to the eight inches penetrating my tunnel he picked up pace and, at last, he was fucking me and I shouted with joy as he shot his man juice into my womb.

‘My sweet girl,’ he said. ‘Daddy didn’t know he was keeping himself for the love he already had at home.’

‘Daddy, I know that I have been keeping myself for you and now you have taken me I am the happiest girl in the world.’

That day we made love without thought to the future but the next day my Daddy said that we must consider how I wanted to spend my life and we should plan our lives accordingly. He feared that I was spoiling my chance of having a better life than our life in the Fen if I didn’t return to school and then, possibly, go to college.

He sat in his usual chair by the fireplace in the main room. Staying in bed was now a thing of the past, except for making love and sleeping, and I discovered that my naughty Daddy had been exercising whenever I was out of the house so that his muscles would not weaken or atrophy. We spent much of our time naked since he loved to handle me and for me to handle him without clothes impeding us. The day I discovered for sure that he had been pretending to be too week to help himself, I sat on his knee and pulled his beard, but very gently, so that he knew I was pretending to be angry with him, but wasn’t really angry. Then I kissed him all over his face to make it better. He fondled my breasts and kissed me deeply. I could feel his cock starting to rouse beneath my crack and I decided I must tell him how I envisaged my future before we forgot all about the future in our passion of the moment.

‘I am old enough to make up my own mind. I love our life here in the Fen and I don’t want to leave it. I want to be your wife and for you to be my husband. I know the work is hard on you and there will come a time when you cannot do it any more and then we shall have to rethink, but you seem quite strong enough to me for a few years yet.’

Daddy interrupted me by grabbing my clitie and saying, ‘A girl as cheeky as you is asking to be punished. I’m not too weak and old for that yet. What shall I do to you?’ I told him and he did. So, despite my original intention, passion overtook us and he fucked me, bouncing me up and down on his fuck pole until we came together.

We went back to bed and as we lay entwined he said to me, ‘You called us husband and wife, sweetheart. Is that what you would really like us to be?’

‘Yes, Daddy, it is.’

‘Then that is what we are, my darling wife.’

Our life was now settled. I let school know that I should not be returning, telling them that I had taken a job. I didn’t tell them that the job was to be housewife to my Daddy. It is quite hard work, cooking and cleaning and making sure my husband has suitable clothes to go to work in, whatever the weather. I have got good at darning and sewing and Daddy often compliments my cooking. It can be hard work, maintaining my man and our home and serving my husband’s needs, but the rewards are immense. His cock, his balls, his great encircling arms and his welcoming hairy chest, thighs and pits keep me permanently entranced. I am a lucky girl. As we lie, drained after making love, and he gently strokes my buttocks and my pucker and I nestle down in the hair on his chest and, perhaps, suck one of his nipples, I know that life doesn’t have anything better to offer than this.

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