A Daughter’s Tale

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From: The Annals of American History, February 2018

The following journal was recently discovered among the estate of one Matthew Smith (née Winstead, 1845-1925), a wealthy landowner from Paradise, WY.

Note to Our Readers: Many will find the contents of this journal disturbing, so a word of caution is in order. It includes sexual content that is graphic and incestuous in nature, though we stress that while the journal itself has been authenticated, we cannot yet speak to the truth of much of what lies within. Our editorial board debated whether to publish, and in the end decided that the document’s historical interest outweighed any controversies which may result. It is up to the reader decide whether it is a true account of events, or only a fanciful tale that will someday take its place among the annals of erotic fiction.


Dearest Sarah,

How I miss you. I have no one to talk to, no one to cuddle with on the cold nights, no one who understands me as well as you. I have begun this journal trusting that you can hear me in heaven. I feel your spirit in these blank pages, and in our beloved plains outside the window. And there is so much I need to tell you.

In the year since you left, our outward life has not changed. The farm is doing well. The garden, the horses, the house, are just as they were. The Johnston boys helped in the fall, and the wheat fetched a pretty price on the markets—enough for Pa to begin work on the new barn. The pantry is full and well-stocked for winter, the house clean and warm. I visit the neighbors and go into town once a month, and of course there is Sunday service.

But now that it is only Pa and I in the house, things have changed in other ways I would not dare breathe a word of to anyone alive on this earth. I am writing now, after a whole year, because I can no longer keep my secret to myself.

Sister, with the nights so lonely, and the days that go by with only the two of us, we have grown closer to each other, closer than I know a father and daughter should be.

I know it is wicked, but it is the truth. And is it so wrong?

Pa works so hard. He arrives home from the fields exhausted and covered in dirt. Without you anymore to pet and spoil, it just seemed a natural thing to take special care of him. I made the house beautiful and cozy. I got his bath ready and cooked his favorite things. I wanted him to be happy the moment he walked through the door. And before long, tending to him became my greatest joy. I started visiting him in the fields during the day with some treat—lemonade, or fresh baked bread. He was always so happy to see me. We would sit in the meadow chatting and laughing, enjoying being together. We talked about you, or his plans for the farm. It was so gratifying to see him smiling again. He is like a new person!

When he gets home, now, he gives me a kiss and tells me he missed me all day. Then he takes his bath, and gets cleaned up for dinner, and I put on a pretty blouse and fix my hair.

Our nights are quiet and happy. I sit in my chair, sewing, before the fire, and Pa sits next to me, holding my yarn and talking sweetly, about anything at all. Sometimes he fetches me a treat or makes my tea. He is so nice to me, so loving and kind.

And now, I have something to confess.

Sometimes, I stand at the window in the kitchen, washing the dishes or clothes, pretending that I’m his wife—his own, dear wife! And—forgive me! —I even wish, sometimes, that we had a baby—that I was carrying his girl or boy! Oh, it sends such a thrill of pleasure all over my body! I know it is sinful. I know no daughter should be thinking such things, but I can’t help it. I think of my belly swelling up, and Pa, coming home, and putting his arms around me. How blissful it would be!

These thoughts possess my mind at night, when I cannot sleep, and Pa is in his room right next to me. I wonder if he is sleeping, and if he is thinking of me. It seems silly that we should be alone in our cold beds, and many times I’ve had to stop myself from getting up and opening his door.

I will tell you something else, something which makes me tremble even now.

Last night, I was awoken by a sound. It was Pa. I heard his door open, and the creak of his steps past my room. I heard the crunch of his boots on the snow outside as he relieved himself, then the kitchen door closing as he came back in. But this time, his footsteps stopped, right outside my bedroom door. Oh, I could barely breathe! I listened and listened, and thought I heard him sigh. He stood for about ten minutes, before returning to his room.

It is because of the wickedness of my own heart that I know, now, he is possessed by the same thoughts as me.

It is February, and cold. Tomorrow he is taking the horse into town and will be gone all day. For once, I am glad. I look forward to a day alone.

I am so happy I thought of the idea of writing to you. I know I have a friend in heaven, wiser than I, who will take pity on my human weakness, and üsküdar escort not judge me.

I pray for you every night, sister.

With love—Maggie.



I have promised myself I will be honest with you in these pages. I will hide nothing. I will open my heart, for good or ill.

It is true that on many days I am burdened with feelings of sin. I am worried, anxious and troubled. But on other days, I am light as a feather, and glowing with happiness and wonder. Today was such a day.

Pa left very early, so I didn’t see him before I awoke and started my chores. As I scrubbed and swept, I only had one thought in my mind–what happened the night before. Today I felt nothing but a keen pleasure, knowing that he thinks about me! I had a smile on my face from the moment I woke up and hummed and sang through my work. I so love making the house pretty! I placed dried herbs from the summer garden on the mantlepiece and a pot of apples to simmer on the stove. The house soon smelled of sage and cinnamon.

All day I looked forward to a good, long bath, and when late afternoon came I put the kettles on to boil. I still have some of the bath salts you gave me, and when I added them to the steaming water they foamed up almost to the top. I pinned my curls on top of my head and settled in for a long soak. It felt heavenly to slide into the hot water!

Sister, I said I would tell you the truth.

My bath time is when I most like to think about Pa. Oh, it is wicked, but I cannot help the visions that swim before my eyes. I see his smile, his blue eyes, and his body which is so muscular from working in the fields. I tell you, even though he is not handsome, he is more beautiful, more attractive to my senses, than all the young farmhands, or any man I have ever seen. I cannot resist the temptation of touching my own flesh, as if it were his hands, all over me! I look down at my white, creamy breasts, burgeoning through the foam, and imagine he is watching. The tips get hard and flushed, and I caress them as if he is right there, with his rapt gaze fixed on my body. I arch my back in the deep tub, pushing my breasts high, trembling with excitement, as I am now, writing this.

But the best part—oh the best part —is when I tell myself I am his wife, his own wife, and he is my own beloved husband. That my body is his, completely, in the sanctity of our home, and he may do with it as he wishes!

Today, I spread my thighs, wide apart, overcome with pleasure. The aching in my belly was too much! I caressed myself, all over, thinking of my stomach getting big with his child, and it made me cry out, and my thighs shake. I am young, and fertile. I could give him a tender babe. Oh, it gives me such a terrible, secret joy. My stomach flutters with exquisite sensations. I imagine him seeing me, knowing he has his own baby, growing in my womb!

These thoughts leave me so overcome, I do not know what to do, and I can only whisper, “Pa! Oh, Pa!”

After my bath, I hurried to my bedroom, wrapped in a quilt. I knew he would soon be home, so I had little time to dry off and get dressed. I had only a moment to gaze at myself, in the tall mirror, flush and rosy, my skin glowing. I know I am pretty. My hair cascades in curls down my back, my hips are round and smooth, my bottom, my breasts, shapely and firm. The downy hair between my legs would tempt any man. It is as soft as a kitten’s!

Just as I was buttoning up my calico dress, I heard him come in, and perhaps it was my mood, I ran to him, at the door, and threw my arms around him in a close embrace.

“What’s this, Maggie?” he said.

“I expected you sooner.”

“Well I’m home now, child. And how nice everything looks!”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course, I do.”

I didn’t want to let go, and I could tell, neither did he. He held me, tight, and I was still so warm and pink from my bath, with my hair curling around my face.

“My little Maggie,” he whispered, as his hand caressed my cheek.

I gave him a smile and made him sit down. And, well, I don’t know what possessed me. I still craved his touch, his nearness. I did something I know I shouldn’t do, and sat on his lap, and buried my face in his neck, something I have not done since I was a child.

“I love you, Pa . . .” I whispered, with as much feeling as I could muster.

His arms tightened around my waist, and he drew me close. He squeezed me tighter, and we both laughed.

“I love you, too, my little rose,” he said.

It was wrong. I know it was wrong, to be sitting and giggling on his lap like that. I looked at him, and touched his face, which was thick with whiskers he hadn’t shaved off, and wrinkled my nose. He laughed.

“My little Maggie doesn’t like my beard.”

“No, Pa.”

“Well then I will shave it off, just for you,” he said, with a squeeze.

I smiled, and blushed, and we gazed at each other. His hand slid into my hair, and he stroked tuzla escort my silky tresses.

“How pretty you are, today.”

Well, I would say that a stranger walking through the door would never guess that we weren’t a married couple, right at that moment! I felt sure that from now on, I could touch him, and pet him, and sit on his lap, and give him kisses, just as if we were!

We had a nice dinner, and afterwards, Pa built a fire. He fetched my quilt, and tucked it around me, and throughout the evening I cuddled into his shoulder as he read his almanac.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and we must both be up early for church. It was strange, when we turned in, and said goodnight to each other. We stood in the hall, where we usually part, quiet and serious, until he whispered, “Off to bed, now.”

I swear I saw Pa blush as he kissed me quickly, and firmly shut his door.

I am tired, now, after writing to you. How quickly I have become used to it, and how silly of me not to have thought of it before. It is just like when we would whisper and talk, every night, until we fell asleep.

You are my dearest friend, my confidant, my savior!



I told you my days are uneven. My moods change with the weather. After such a lovely, wonderful day, today, church day, was dreary and sad.

It seems I have many things to confess. Here is another.

Darling, I do not doubt the love of God. I know you are safe and secure in his arms. I feel his presence everywhere, especially in the landscape outside my window, where you and I spent such happy days. I feel it in this house, which is blessed with health and prosperity. I love God as much as I love Pa.

But I do not love church. I am resentful of it, and do not want to go. I do not want to leave our comfortable house only to bounce for miles in the wagon, as the icy wind blows, then sit for hours, tired and hungry, on the hard pews. All that I could tolerate, if I cared for the sermons, but I do not. It is still old Pastor Mayweather, and he is just as boring as ever. I think he is more than that. He is evil!

Today he was talking about sin, conjuring up such horrible visions of hell and damnation. I do believe he enjoys it! His face gets animated, red and passionate, when he is talking about “torture” and “torment” and “temptations of the flesh.” When he said those words, I swear he looked right at me!

I hate him. I only pretended to listen, while meanwhile I looked around instead at all the people, gazing up at him like a flock of sheep—even Pa, who twists his hat and clenches his fists. It makes me so angry. Mayweather is nothing but a bully. He wants to make this life a hell!

I felt such rebellion in my heart, I had to stop myself from getting up and screaming! I cannot help but feel there is something so wrong, something dark and twisted, in such a man speaking in the name of God. It makes me feel so very lonely and afraid, for I begin to wonder what sin really is—what if everything he’s ever told us is a lie?

Pa got quiet, on the way home. He was unhappy, though he tried to hide it.

I would prefer not to attend services at all, but I know there is no question of that. Already, people talk about us. I know the neighbors whisper. I know they are saying I am 19 and should be married by now. I do believe they would run us out of town if we didn’t go to church every Sunday. Or perhaps they would just shun us and stop helping and supporting the farm. I know that worries Pa.

Afterwards, he avoided me, and went to bed early.

Tears are welling in my eyes as I write this. I hate seeing Pa unhappy! I can’t bear it! He has enough grief to suffer, without this blasphemous pastor to torment him! His mind is not as questioning as yours and mine.

Was there ever such a loving, hardworking man, as Pa? Was there ever anyone so gentle, yet manly and strong? If I could, I would tiptoe down the hall and into his room and wrap my arms around him. I am aching to do that, right now, but instead I must sleep.


My dear Sarah,

It has been three days since I last wrote. Something has happened. I am shaking and trembling as I sit here writing, with just a single candle in the darkness.

Monday was extremely cold, yet Pa insisted on spending the day outside. I watched him through my window chopping wood, his breath visible in icy clouds. Again and again he swung the ax, high overhead, and brought it so violently down I could feel the ground shake. His face was as red as the pastor’s during the sermon! After that, he was in the shed, sawing and hammering. I brought him some hot coffee, and he barely glanced at me when he took it.

We didn’t sit, as we usually do, after dinner. He went back out into the shed, to do more work, and didn’t return until late.

It was the same on Tuesday, and again, tonight. But this time, I did not allow him to creep back in after I was fast asleep. I made tea before bed and stayed pendik escort up, to be ready for him when he came inside.

I dressed only in my white nightshift under the quilt I wrapped around my shoulders. My breasts were half exposed, my hair loose and free. I pinched my cheeks to make them pink and dabbed lavender oil on my lips and across my eyelids. Then I sat by the embers of the fire, with puss in my lap, waiting.

I told you I would be honest in these pages. I would be lying if I said I didn’t know I made a very pretty picture.

A fierce wind blew the door wide open as Pa stepped inside, bringing a flurry of snow right into the kitchen. Pa saw me right away, and I don’t think I have ever seen such a look of agony on any man’s face! His eyes were ablaze with pain and anger, his mouth twisted into a grimace. Despite the cold he was red and sweating, and his powerful shoulders were still shaking with exertion.

“What are you doing up, Maggie?!”

He yelled at me! Our Pa, who has never raised his voice to us in his life!

Then he saw the tears, running down my cheeks, and he came over and stood by me.

His voice was gentler, as he said, “What is it, child?”

I sniffled into my handkerchief, and yes, I was crying, but perhaps less than I let on.

“Are you angry with me, Pa?” I said in my most plaintive voice, as I turned my eyes up to his.

Oh, I felt so bad when I saw the look of regret and love on his face. I assure you, my tears were then positively real!

“I’m sorry, Pa!” I cried.

He then fell to his knees, on the floor, and threw his strong arms around me. His hands found my waist, and clutched me, tight, his hands still freezing cold.

“No, Maggie, it’s not your fault.”

Oh, his breath was right at my breast, hot and wet. His cheek pressed against my soft bosom, and I held him there, like a babe, soothing him, as I stroked his hair.

“Then what is it, Pa?”

His whole body was trembling, and all he could do was hug me tighter to him, as if he never wanted to let me go!

“Maggie. . . daughter . . .” he whispered.

I was on fire. His hands roamed over my waist, hips and bottom.

“Is it the pastor?” I said, as I hugged him back.

He nodded. “I hear his voice, in my head. It confuses me, child.”

I didn’t know what I was thinking or doing. It seemed the most natural thing to let him stroke my body, and he did, though I’m not sure he was even aware of it. His big rough hands grazed my breasts, just touching where they swelled up, lush and full, under my shift, and he let out a painful moan.

“Shhh, Pa, it is me, your little rose.”

He clasped me tighter, and my breath turned slow and heavy. I bent over, let him bury his face in my lap, and ran my hands over his back.

“It’s not a sin to love,” I whispered. “And your Maggie loves you. Don’t ever doubt.”

After a moment, he seemed to come to his senses, but something had changed. When he helped me up, his hands were firm on my waist, and he pulled me to him, pressing my breasts, which were almost spilling out, against his chest. One hand grasped my head, and his eyes were fierce and strong. I met them without fear, and leaned in, and kissed his sweet lips.

It lasted only a moment, but he did not resist. His whole body shook, as did mine.

“My little girl,” he whispered. “You love your Pa, then?”

“Yes, Pa,” I whispered, against his lips, as I pushed my breasts into his chest.

Then I pulled back to gaze at him, sternly.

“Will you be unhappy, and angry tomorrow?” I said.

“No, Maggie.”

“Will you spend all your time in the shed, instead of keeping inside with the one who loves you?”


“Goodnight, then, Pa.”

I left him, and came to my room, where I began to write this to you. But the night was not over.

Some minutes later, I heard sounds from within his room. Before I even understood what they were, my body was alert and aroused. My breasts ached so, I gasped! The tips grew instantly stiff, poking out through my gown, and my hips wriggled of their own accord, grinding into this chair.

Oh, sister, the sounds! I heard slapping, fast and urgent, I heard him moaning, whining, and grunting from the base of his throat. I was fixed in place, my every sense heightened, unable to breathe or move! The slapping and stroking, like the snap of a belt, over and over, touched me deep inside, awakening such a craving! I felt sure he wanted me to know and hear!

I can hardly describe my feelings. It was as if I was right in his room, so clear and loud were his cries—a mixture of pain and ecstasy, I do not know which was uppermost. I had to put down my pen and throw myself on my bed, where I grabbed my pillow and hugged it tight to my chest as I writhed and listened. I heard everything.

His cries grew louder, the slapping grew faster, his breath almost in my ear! Such wails, like an animal outside in the wilderness! I pictured the horses, in the fields, when they mate, their enormous members swollen and wet. I was in agony, riven by longing such as I have never felt.

“Pa! Pa!” I whispered, over and over.

His moans came to a head, and then I heard him cry out with deep grunts of pleasure. I blush to tell you the thoughts that were going through my mind!

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