A Daughter's Tale

Whether or not, it sent me off, and I cried out a scream as I felt him filling me, and pictured his prick shooting his seed, deep within. I jerked and moaned, in ecstasy, crying out "Pa! Pa!" over and over.

Imagine, then, dear sister, the scene, after our cries subsided. Pa, kissed me, so sweetly, as he held my legs wide open, and slowly withdrew his prick.

"Good girl, Maggie. You handled your Pa," he said. "Keep your legs open, child."

He then took his prick, by now only half hard, and lovingly caressed my opening, pushing gently, smearing and rubbing his foamy white cream, all over, and mixing it with my juices, which covered us both.

***

Sweetness,

I know, after such an account, you may have wondered how dear Pa and I faced each other!

I will tell you. We lay there, spent, gazing dreamily into each other's eyes, then fell asleep wrapped in each other's arm. When we awoke, there was an even greater tenderness and solicitude than before. I turned to him, as he caressed my cheek, and kissed me.

"I love you, my sweet Maggie. Your Pa loves you."

Even then, I could feel him stirring, hardening and rising, beneath the covers. I reached underneath, and found him, and wrapped my hand around his prick.

"I love you, too, Pa," I whispered, with a kiss.

"Maggie, dear, come here," he said, and drew me to him. I was in a swoon of arousal, waking up in his arms. We kissed, deeply and passionately, as his hand found my thighs, and gently pulled them apart, reaching for me. He found my wetness, open and hot and ready, and gave a laugh.

"My Maggie is hungry for her Pa."

"Yes," I whispered, thinking of that wild delight, and craving it more than ever. I found myself turning over, and Pa scooted behind me. I barely knew what I was doing. I reared up, on my hands and knees, gasping, as I reached behind me for his cock.

"Good, Maggie. Show me," he whispered.

I took him, in my hand, and brought him directly to my opening, and whimpered, and pushed against him with my bottom, and wriggled my hips.

"Pa," I moaned. "Please."

I hunched my shoulders, waiting, like one of the mares. This position pleased me greatly, as I could better imagine him as a great stallion, driven by nature's purpose. I moaned, overcome, my belly aching with an immense craving. And when I felt him, huge, pushing into me, I cried out with moans of ecstasy.

His movements were slow and gentle, at first, as I was still sore and tender, as you can imagine. Dear Pa held me in place, his hands on my hips, as he rocked into me, taking his time, even as he felt me shake and gasp. I was in a dream, gorged on his thick cock. He filled me, pressing in, deeper, until he could go no further, and our hips were closely enjoined, his heavy sacs pressing up against my bottom. He remained there, holding me, straining, his prick growing even harder.

"Oh! Oh!"

I felt the crisis coming, and soon shook and bucked and cried out with heavenly joy. The passage now eased, my body soft and supple, Pa commenced driving his prick into me, spurred on by my enjoyment. I felt a near unceasing pleasure as he plowed into me, harder and faster. Our movements grew more violent as that singular drive took hold of Pa, to fill his mate. He held me down, as I grew more frantic, my mind bent solely and entirely on the coming infusion.

Dear sister, I didn't think such pleasure was possible. He was snarling and grunting as he plowed me, working up to a crisis. I aided him with my movements, bearing down and pushing back, my hips trembling and shaking.

"Yes, Pa, yes!" I cried.

"Give it to me, oh, give it to me," I moaned into the bed.

"Maggie!" he groaned. "Oh, child!"

Our thoughts were as one, our bodies intent on the same purpose. He was breeding me, readying me to receive his potent seed, our baby uppermost in our minds and our conjoined parts.

"Yes, Pa! Yes! Oh, Ahhhhh!"

I screamed in pleasure as I felt him, then, injecting me with his seed, in a long steady stream, his violent cries and grunts accompanying each pulse of his cock within my womb. It went on and on, as he held me down, still, to receive it.

Moments later, flushed and dazed, our hearts beating as one, I lay on my back, his soft cock still half-buried inside me. He lay propped up on one elbow, kissing me, while with the other hand he rubbed and caressed my belly, and smiled into my eyes.

It has been a week now, and I will not go into the details of the following days, except to say they were passed in the same way, in a swoon of pleasure. Pa plowed me each morning and each night, and in between we took up our daily life and tasks with newfound joy.

Only one thing marred our happiness.

It was not long after our first night, perhaps the very next day, that we took a walk around the farm. Pa talked about his plans for the crops that summer, and other things. We kissed, naturally, without thinking, and at the very same moment, glanced around us, with a look of horror and fear, though of course no one was there.

When we got back inside, we were both melancholy. I sat on his lap, as we approached the inevitable truth.

"What are we going to do, Pa?"

He clasped me to him, tightly, and with a strangled voice, said, "I cannot be without you, Maggie. I can't!"

We did not speak of it again, though it was there, a terrible shadow over our happiness. However, we were forced to confront it today—Sunday. Church day.

This time, feeling heedless, and perhaps reckless, we simply did not go. We did not discuss it, between us. We just carried on. It seems clear, in retrospect, that we knew, and the decision already made, without us fully being conscious of it.

In any event, around suppertime, we were surprised by voices, and a knock on the door.

"Matthew! Matthew Winstead!"

It was the pastor, and his wife, and some of the women neighbors. I recognized their voices.

I turned, fearfully, to look at Pa. I was dressed only in my gown, and my hair mussed and wild. He put his finger to his lips, and whispered, "Don't fear, child. Go fetch your quilt and comb your hair."

I did as he bade, and when I came back out, he glanced at me once before calmly opening the door. In burst Mayweather, eyes angry and wild. Do you know, he looks like a walrus, or some other fat creature, with those hideous white whiskers on his jowls?

"And what's this, Matthew?" he demanded. I tell you, I could see him looking at my breasts as he took in my disarray. Someone—I believe his wife—hissed out, "Hussy!"

Pa was quiet, but his hands were bright red as he clutched the edge of a chair.

"Yes, Pastor? What could be so important that you interrupt our Sunday supper?"

"Isn't it obvious? You were not at service. We assumed one of you must be ill. But I think we can all see," he said, with a glance at me, "You are in perfect health!"

"We chose to stay home, today. Is that a crime?" said Pa.

"Oh, you are one to talk of crime, with the flagrant sin going on in this very house!"

"Of what do you speak, Pastor?" said Pa.

"Of her. Of your slut!"

The women with him nodded and shot looks of hate in my direction.

Pa's hands flexed, and his shoulders shook, but he kept calm, and came over to me and put his arm around me.

"You must not speak of Maggie that way."

"It is only the truth!"

Pa was so angry, his hands were in fists as he stepped towards the pastor.

"Get out. Now, Pastor. Go and never return."

"What! How dare you speak to me that way?"

"You will go, or I will wipe the floor with you. Maggie has decided she no longer wishes to attend your services, and neither do I."

Mayweather looked at Pa looming over him. Knowing he was no match for him, he put on his hat and made ready to leave. His voice was venomous when he spoke.

"Is that the way you want it, then, Matthew? And what of your Pa and Ma? Your family has been here for generations. What would they think? You know what this means. You know what happens to anyone who crosses us. You will be shunned, and despised! You and any of your . . . offspring. You will never be allowed back into the Fellowship. You will be cast out. You will get no help with the farm. You will be turned away from the markets. Not to mention what will happen to your soul! What of God, Matthew?"

Pa spoke, with a quiet fury such as I have never seen.

"The farm? Ma and Pa? We made you. We did, through our own hard work. Maggie and I will be just fine. The question is what you will do, without my money!"

"Blasphemy!" screamed a woman's voice. "You know we don't talk of such things."

"Aye," said Pa, calmly. "Because the pastor has been robbing you blind. Robbing all of us. He's nothing but a huckster--a Confidence Man, like all the pastors before him. He's got you all under his spell. And I have been a fool for allowing it."

"And you dare to speak to me of 'God," with your lecherous ways? Oh, I've heard the stories. Lottie, would you like me to elaborate?"

My head turned, like lightening, to Lottie Johnston. She was crying, and shaking her head, and pleading with Pa with her eyes not to go on.

"Lottie could tell some stories about the state of your 'soul,' Pastor. And several more of the women here today. Bah. I've had enough. Now, I only have God to show mercy on my weakness and forgive my abiding a snake in our midst. I want you gone from my sight. All of you. Now!"

"You'll regret this, Matthew," said the pastor. "I swear to God, in front of these witnesses, you and your little slut."

"No, Pa!" I cried out, as he lunged for the evil man. "No!"

My heart was in my throat, terrified of what he might do. I went to him and put myself in front of the mob.

"Pa, let them be. Just let them go."

"Out!" he shouted. "Get these damned fools out of my house!"

When they were gone, at last, we stood, frozen for a minute, staring at each other, our eyes wide with shock and fear.

"Pa," I murmured. "Oh, Pa!" And threw myself in his arms.

It is now late, and quiet. I sit here writing, with a prayer in my heart. Look over us. Watch over us. We will need you more than ever.

We talked, in my bed, for hours, facing facts. Even if we managed to keep the farm, and the house, and, Pa found markets for the crops elsewhere, it would not matter because we cannot stay here, or anywhere in Nebraska, and be together. For, to be plain, sister, what happens when I am with child?

For now, I cannot keep up with this journal. We have too much to do.

Pa has heard of a place, in the north, a place called Wyoming, with abundant land, horses, and a great need of able-bodied men---and women. All are welcome. We plan to leave this place and live as husband and wife, and throw ourselves on the mercy of this great, God-given land. His Ma and Pa did it once; now it is our turn. We will undertake a journey. It will be difficult, and full of danger. But we only have to make it once. Pa is sure he can sell the farm for a handsome sum, and it will be enough to get us settled.

I trust in him, as I trust in you and the love of a just God.

I promise, when life and time permits, I will write again.

Until then, I remain your devoted, loving sister,

Maggie

***

Editors' Comments

1. Biographical Note

Just how much of this journal is true and accurate remains a source of debate. Our research, conducted in Nebraska, Wyoming, and various western states, has turned up the following facts:

--There was, indeed, a man, known as Matthew Smith, born and raised in Central City, NE. He was the eldest son of the Winstead family, who had settled there in the mid-1700s. He was married, young, to Elizabeth Ward (1845-1875), who bore him four children ( two of whom died in infancy): Matthew II, James, Margaret (1875-?) and Sarah (1846-1862). After 1863, all trace of Margaret (Maggie?) Winstead disappears.

--Matthew "Smith" first appears in a land deed from Paradise, WY, in 1865, where he lived, with his wife Mary until his death in 1905. Wyoming was undergoing an economic boom at the time, and the "Smiths" did very well as ranchers. They had three children, and Mary became a teacher and advocate of women's rights. Due to the scarcity of settlers, women were highly valued in the state and Wyoming led the nation in advancing their social status, becoming the first to grant women the vote, in 1869.

That much is established fact. Many will wonder, then, if Mary Smith was indeed the mysterious Maggie, said daughter of Matthew.

It is claimed, among the town, that Margaret was a rebellious, willful child, who gave her parents endless trouble and consternation. Some say she was disowned, or ran away, years before this story supposedly occurred. Others (a minority) argue that she is the very "Mary" who conducted an incestuous marriage with her father.

An interesting fact in this regard: Matthew Winstead did sell his farm and leave Nebraska. What is not as well known is that another woman, who was married, also mysteriously disappeared from Central City at the same time. Aurora Jackson, a local beauty, was never heard from again.

It is the opinion of this Board that the widower Matthew Winstead took up with Aurora Jackson, and fell in love. Unable to divorce, and pursued by her angry husband, they fled the region and took up a new life under pseudonyms in Wyoming. We believe Aurora wrote the above manuscript, mostly fictional, certainly the most salacious parts, as an erotic gift for her husband.

Discerning readers will note that some of the language in the journal bears a distinct echo, and even exact phraseology, of erotic fiction known to be circulating at the time, such as the infamous Fanny Hill. The underworld of Victorian pornographic writing is one of the great untold stories of the age. We believe this story should be included in that canon.*

2. Historical Note

Ultimately, the editors of the Annals of American History decided to publish this work, despite its literary qualities, because of the fascinating glimpse it gives us into Nebraska history.

Before the discovery of this journal very little was known of the Fellowship of Heavenly Delights, though subsequent facts have come to light.

It was one of many crackpot religious cults, with dubious leaders, that flourished in the settling of the West. As pioneer life was lonely and dangerous, towns often welcomed these travelling "preachers" and "pastors" who set up money-making schemes, in the guise of religious fellowship and instruction. Having left the comfort and security of their own churches behind, the settlers were easy prey for the so-called "evangelicals," who preached a doctrine of extreme self-denial, intolerance, and prudery.

The scenario "Maggie" describes, of what amounts to a kind of brainwashing, is well-established from other accounts of the period. This aspect of the journal has the distinct ring of truth, and we suspect provides an accurate account of Matthew's life. The Winsteads were deeply involved in the Fellowship, and its major financial support, until he left.

The reference to Pastor Mayweather confirms at least some of the historical accuracy of the text. Francis Mayweather (née Frank Giovese) was a known criminal, before he escaped justice as a thief in New York and assumed a new identity in Nebraska, where he amassed great wealth as the leader of the Fellowship described.

Giovese subsequently made history as the first man hanged in Nebraska for known "sexual crimes."

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*Just before we went to press, several more journals were discovered in the attic of the Smith Estate in Wyoming. No doubt they will shed some light on this ongoing debate.