Strange to say, I was more shocked at seeing him standing admiring his daughter, than embarrassed, and made no conscious effort to cover my genitalia,...letting him instead, see how much his little girl was a woman now. That was my first ever secret with my own father, and over the breakfast table I felt a warmth I had never experienced before, a closeness and bonding that held potential for me, an ache between my adolescent thighs that wetted that organ of forbidden pleasure, and as I cast. He had to put me in his place.“Yes!” Edvard snarled, his right hand raising up to discipline me.“Do not hit me, either!” I ordered. “And let go of my arm!”As the pain fuzzed across my mind, a small price to pay, my son released my arm. His face went pale, the anger melting into fear. He stared at his left hand, fingers flexing and clenching. His right fist, still raised, trembled.“No, no, no,” he said.My daughter’s pink lips swelled in a smile. Her features so lovely. I could see why her father. More

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