Dark angry clouds hung low in the sky, pregnant with rain, threatening. A strong, blustery wind blew in off the Celtic Sea bringing the sharp smell of brine, dampness and cold; a bone-chilling cold only felt in Cornwall in winter. Far below the cliffs wind harassed and harried the waves, urging them towards shore, kicking up white caps in excitement, white feathered peaks that stood out from the dark gray unsettled sea. Waves marched towards shore with metronomic precision, nature's troops girding for battle.

As they neared the shore, one by one, they gathered courage, rising and hunching before hurling themselves violently against the defiant rocky cliff. Exploding, they roared and frothed loudly in anger at the resilience of the granite before melting away meekly, hissing in defeat. Taking a break, followers collected themselves and gathered for another assault. The next wave of nature's troops rose from the sea, hunched and rushed forward as if to punish the cliffs for defeating their comrades, exploding in violent anger and indignation only to fail again, fading away.

I was blind to the never-ending battle playing out hundreds of feet below. I had one of my own churning inside. Gusting winds buffeted and rocked my body, icy-cold fingers finding weaknesses in my cape, cutting through my jacket, waistcoat and shirt to chill my skin with its touch. I wanted the sharp wind to cut through my body like an ethereal surgeon, incise the agony inside me and carry it away. But even Mother Nature was incapable of penetrating my tortured soul, of providing the release I sought with such fervour. Shivering from my thoughts, I turned away. Salvation would not be found at the bottom of the cliffs.

Weariness dogged me as I left the cliffs and crossed the heath in the growing evening darkness, walking through my estate towards Darkfold Manor, my ancestral home. It stood resolute in defiance of the weather as it had for over a hundred years; solid granite walls and a heavy gray slate roof were impervious to anything nature could throw at it. Behind it the dark Oak forest loomed, pressing in with sinister malice, branches like claws reaching out; a reflection of the struggle being waged inside the home; inside me.

In the late evening dusk all the mullioned lead-glass windows, rectangles aligned with military precision, were dark; all except for two, my study which flickered with the light of a warming fire in the hearth, and Christine's room on the second floor. I knew she'd be up there reading in bed.

With my cape flapping about me as I walked through the formal garden, the wind gusted, pushing and shoving me in my back with a cold whisper of disapproval. I could picture Christine in her four-poster bed clearly. She'd have brushed her long reddish blond hair until it glowed in the light castoff from her bedside oil lamp. I could picture the slight frown of concentration as she read her book on raised knees, her clear blue eyes avidly following every sentence. In the evening light her ivory skin would appear paler making the small sprinkle of freckles on her soft cheeks and slim nose stand out.

At sixteen, Christine was in the full blush of adolescence. She'd taken her mother's countenance and my physique; tall and gracefully slender with long legs. She was the light of my life, everything to me, all I cared about. She was my heaven and my hell.

Striding into the study, I shucked my damp cape, rested my silver-handled walking cane against the wall, dropped my hunters cap and gloves, and headed to the side board to pour a Scotch, shivering at the warmth that soaked through my clothes. The room flickered, flames from the hearth casting dancing shadows. The lead-crystal decanter sparkled in my unsteady hand as I poured. I was agitated. Settling in front of the roaring fire, comfortable in my deep green leather arm chair, I stared at the flames trying to remember when my soul had last been at peace or what it had been like before the insidiousness had invaded me. Perhaps alcohol would help me sleep and keep the sylphic singer that haunted and goaded me at bay. Sighing, I kicked off my knee-high black leather boots.

It was seven years ago when Christine's mother passed away from consumption. I hadn't even known she was ill. Tending to the family's shipping interests, those inherited from my father, I had returned to London from abroad and had received the hand delivered message too late. Her mother was gone by the time I returned, my nine year old daughter devastated. The event had brought home how distant I'd been, how inattentive I'd been to Mary, my wife. I realized I'd never given her a second thought, taking for granted she'd be there, and that she'd manage the day-to-day duties that made my life easier. It hit me hard when I admitted to myself, despite loving my wife, I'd accepted her devotion and support and given nothing in return, not the attention she deserved, nor the love I felt. I'd been obsessed with growing our family fortune.

Guilt had torn at me; guilt for not being able to comfort my child when she had needed it, guilt for not telling her mother I how much I loved her, guilt for not being with her in her suffering, guilt for her passing without the presence of her husband, and perhaps worse, guilt for the way I had taken her for granted. Had she had a good life? Had she known happiness? Had she even known how much I loved her?

Black days followed as I punished myself, days becoming weeks, weeks months.

I overcompensated for that guilt, dedicating myself to Christine, despite her being only a daughter, not the son I had hoped for. She was all I had left. In the months that followed, I discovered some small joy again. It came in the form of a charming daughter with clear blue eyes, one who helped me bear the weight that rested heavy on me, the guilt I carried daily.

I took the subtle jibes from business colleagues with equanimity, politely shrugging off their veiled comments about a father too doting, too attentive. "Mr. Darkfold, your daughter is in good hands with a governess, she does not need so much of your attention," I was advised, and "Erik, you can't run a business successfully from Darkfold Manor." I proved their prognostications of my financial decline wrong; my fortune growing from acute attention whenever my daughter rested or took her lessons with the governess. I didn't miss the hectic bustle of commerce in London. I found remarkable clarity in business affairs that only comes with distance.

And over the year that followed I found myself beginning to enjoy life again, to look forward to the day, and look forward to Christine's company. She offset the weight of guilt that held onto me, a claw buried in my soul. My life interests narrowed to two; Christine and family business. I politely declined social invitations, having no patience or use for them.

A hint of trouble in my future came when Christine was ten years old. Unfortunately, I did not recognise it for the warning it provided. I wish I had. I happen to be passing the room used for Christine's schooling when I heard my daughter's tinkling laughter. Glancing into the room and seeing my Christine's face alight with happiness made me smile, until I heard the governess' laughter as well. Christine was paying rapt attention to something Miss Somerham was doing.

An unaccountable anger flared within me at the sight of my daughter having fun with hired help. I didn't dwell on it, but the discomfort lingered.

"Papa," my daughter said with excitement as we sat eating supper in the formal dining room, her clear blue eyes sparkling with merriment, "Jillian drew a really funny face today. It was a pig standing on two legs smoking a long pipe!" Her giggle warmed my heart.

"Christine, you know better. It's Miss Somerham, not Jillian," I corrected gently, carefully hiding the stab of jealousy I felt.

"Sorry, Papa," she replied subdued, the twinkle fading.

I chastised myself for bringing her spirits low. It hurt me deep inside to see her smile fade, watch the twinkle die in her clear blue eyes. It hurt.

I did not question what made me dismiss Miss Somerham the next day. I just knew she had to go. But when I dismissed her replacement seven months later, I knew why; I understood. The thought of Christine becoming close to anyone other than me tore at my heart. I couldn't stand for anyone dividing her affection. I just couldn't share her precious gift. I wouldn't.

It was the first hint of trouble in my future and, had I been more honest with myself or been brave enough to trust my position as her father, accepted she'd always have a special place for me, I might have behaved differently. Why? Why had I not? How could I have been so blind?

Over the next three years, I kept close track of Christine's attitude towards people around her; governesses and house staff alike. And with grim determination, I weeded out those that infringed on my relationship with my daughter, those that threatened to take part of her precious love from me. I was unwilling to share the joy of her affection. She was the only thing that held my guilt for her mother at bay. She was my daughter; mine.

Christine was an endless source of pride; bright, intellectually agile, quick and inquisitive, with a stunning smile that filled my heart with warmth. At twelve years old I taught her to ride, spending endless hours with her even though we had stable hands who were more than capable of teaching her. She took to riding like an Otter to water and, with the exception of unexpectedly damaging her maidenhead when attempting a particularly challenging jump, something I rued for letting her try, she was a natural on a horse, seeming to be able to communicate with her mount mysteriously. I rode with her whenever I could, needing to see her smile, hear her unrestrained laughter, and watch her beautiful long reddish blond tresses stream out behind as we galloped across the heath. Her excitement at racing her father and the brisk coolness in the air brought an attractive rosy flush to her cheeks. I jealously guarded Christine's attention, watched like a hawk, seeking and removing anyone who dared distract her.

The trouble started when Christine was fifteen, almost sixteen. Nature had graced Christine with a delicate beauty. But as childhood faded, displaced by onrushing maturity, Christine started changing, gaining a sculpted beauty in her face that hinted at the adult she would become. Her maturing personality began to emerge, a sharp wit, determination and wilfulness offset by charm, thoughtfulness for others, and a pleasing sense of humour. Conversations with her were now interesting to me, demonstrating the rewards of an extensive and ongoing education, and the careful attention I had paid to her.

She was growing as well, suddenly gaining height and gracefulness. Pubescence had announced its arrival with gentle mounds, a subtle flair of hips, and the arrival of her womanhood; her monthly demonstration of fertility.

I found my love for Christine evolving. Now it included an appreciation for the person she was becoming; I liked her. Now it included pride, an intense pride of a father for a daughter. And had things continued, I would have been a happy man.

But they didn't.

It was late-winter, the wind punishing in its chill and rain slashing down, battering against the lead-glass windows to find a weakness. I'd fallen ill with a cold and, despite the warm thick barley and lamb soup Cook swore had healing powers, I was running a fever, my body aching.

With a fire roaring in the hearth, I shivered in bed, alternately feeling too hot, then too cold. Christine had dismissed Harriet, the upstairs maid, insisting she'd take care of her father. Her presence and the concern in her clear blue eyes provided more comfort than the soup.

"Papa," she said softly as she dried my sweaty brow, "can I get you a cognac? It might help the chills."

"Thank you, Christine, no. I don't need one. Your company is enough." It was. Her presence brought peace to me, the love in her face more warmth than a snifter of cognac. I loved my daughter's concern. In my weakened state I noticed, since turning sixteen, she'd blossomed into a beautiful young lady. I could see so much of Mary in her.

That night as I slept, tossing and turning, and my fever running high, a sylphic voice drifted through my mind, singing, softly bewitching me. It sounded vaguely familiar, tickling some memory buried deep . . .

'Night-time sharpens,
heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination.
Silently the senses abandon their defences . . .'

Images flashed unbidden through my mind; Christine running towards me in mid-summer, twelve years old, hair streaming, sweet face beaming with pleasure from her first horse ride; Christine leaving all decorum behind in her excitement and throwing herself at me; Christine in my arms hugging me, "Thank you, Papa," feeling so small, so sweet, so attractive, her luscious red lips curling into a glorious smile.

The sound of gentle breathing wakened me. Shocked, I found myself standing in the open door of Christine's room. I could hear her gentle breaths as she slept peacefully. Inhaling, I smelled her scent, young and spring-like. In the flicker of the oil lamp in my hand I studied her pretty face, her long eyelashes resting on rosy cheeks. I wondered how sweet her breath might be as I watched her nostrils flare gently. I looked at the delicate curve of her lips and the way her reddish blond locks spread over the pillow.

I stood in her doorway imagining combing my finger through her locks, feeling its silkiness, imagining her sweet breath against my cheek, imagining her soft lips kiss my cheek gently; I imagined holding my daughter to me, her young body against me.

When she rolled to her side gently it shook me out of my stupor. Turning, my mind confused, I returned to my bed.

In the cold light of day I dismissed the unusual event. I convinced myself fever had brought on the voice I'd heard singing to me; it was illness that played tricks with my mind.

But two nights later the sylphic voice returned as fever still plagued me, singing quietly, seductively.

'Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour.
Grasp it, sense it - tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away
from the garish light of day,
turn your thoughts away
from cold, unfeeling light -
and listen to the music of the night . . .'

Images flashed through my mind as the sylph sang gently; Christine sitting demurely on the edge of the couch, back straight, just fifteen years old, body turned slightly as she gazed out of the drawing room window, needlepoint ignored and resting in her lap. Bright sun streamed through the window casting her profile in stark relief, the delicate curve of her cheek, the slenderness of her neck, thick reddish blond tresses cascading to her waist shimmering with youthful health in the light, her yellow dress showing her pubescence with a small swell of young breasts, dainty ankles crossed. She looked so demure, so sweet and innocent, so desirable; pubescence cried out to me, so tender, so appealing.

Again I woke to find myself standing in Christine's room, this time by her bed, looking down on her sweet face, listening to the sound of her gentle breathing. I was feverish, my cold still plaguing me, my body shaking.

She looked so pretty in sweet repose. I felt myself become tumescent when I wondered what it might be like to caress her soft cheek. I bent slowly and, with my face close to hers, inhaled deeply, savouring her scent; sweet, innocent and tender; very desirable. It struck something deep inside me, familiar yet new. I wondered what it might feel like to be held by my daughter, her slender arms wrapped around me; how warm, how splendid it would be, how exciting, how arousing. Christine was a natural beauty, her youth attractive, her innocence alluring. With a trembling hand, I caressed her soft hair, kissed her crown lightly, and studied the small swells of her pubescent breasts under her nightdress, wishing I could feel them in the palm of my hand.

"I love you, my child," I whispered quietly so as not to disturb her.

Her scent stayed with me as I returned to my room, my penis firm and tenting my nightshirt. I lay in bed trying to understand. What had drawn me to Christine's room? Why was I hearing this sylph singing softly? Why was the sylph's song striking a chord deep in me? Why were my feelings changing? For, as I lay in bed, my erection strong, I could not deny the effect my daughter had on me, the growing attraction I had for her as a blossoming young lady.

As I drifted into a disturbed sleep, I decided it was the fever that was playing games with my mind.

Yet the next day I could not look into Christine's eyes. Guilt and shame punished me when I felt myself become tumescent at the bright, bright smile she gave me when she brought me breakfast in bed. The memory of her sweet sleeping scent made me tumescent, rigid. Watching her approach in her day-frock, one that seemed to emphasize her attractively small breasts and swish seductively with the movements of her slender hips, brought an embarrassing flush to my face.

"Papa, are you feeling worse?" Christine asked with concern in her voice. "You're more flushed today. Should I call for the Doctor?"

I turned my face away, deep shame wracked me. My reaction to my daughter was inexplicable and unholy; completely unacceptable. I felt another wave of shame hit me. How could my body betray me like this? How could I find my sixteen year old daughter so attractive?

I asked her to leave, let me sleep even though I wasn't tired. I prayed my unusual behaviour and discomforting thoughts would depart with the cold.

But it wasn't the fever from a cold playing with my mind. Three weeks later, almost to the day, the seductive sylph returned as I slept, singing so softly in my mind, so quietly, so seductively.

'Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!
Close your eyes,
let your spirit start to soar!
And you'll live
as you've never lived before . . .'

Images flashed through my mind; Christine, looking at me from the end of the dining table, the flicker of candle light casting glints off the polished rosewood and playing shadows on her sweet face as we ate supper. I saw the resemblance; I saw her mother's intelligent eyes, her mother's attractive mouth, full red lips. I saw the delicate way she opened her mouth, the sterling silver fork entering, her lips closing and compressing. I saw her slender neck move as she swallowed, and I saw her gentle smile, so full of love, as she noticed my attention. I wondered what it might feel like to hold her in my arms. I saw myself rise from my chair at the head of the table, walk to her, my hand out. I saw myself helping her stand, clear blue eyes shining at me with intense love. I felt her slender waist, my hands almost circling it as I pulled my sweet daughter to me. I felt her petite body against mine, her pretty face upturned, innocent desire in her eyes glistening. I imagined my eyes closing as I bent and kissed her tender lush lips, so warm, so soft. I imagined her stomach against my tumescent penis excited me. I imagined slipping my hands down, holding my daughter's sweet posterior, perfect globes in my palm.

I woke suddenly. I had to go to Christine's room, something tugging at my soul, a primal urge deep inside of me to see her again, to study her pretty face, to be near her, to smell her sweet scent. Rising, I gave in to a powerful, driving need.

Once again standing over Christine, I bent, and without the excuse of a fever, I closed my eyes and inhaled Christine's sleepy aroma, drawing it deep into my lungs, feeling a slight dizziness from heat of arousal that pervaded my body. I listened to her gentle breathing. Up close I looked into her face and, for the first time wondered if I might kiss her tender lips without waking her. Carefully resting my hand on the covers I could feel her stomach rise and fall with each breath. I saw her mother in her; I felt the same magnetic attraction she'd had on me. My nightshirt tented as tumescence arrived, my erection strong as I dreamed of kissing her gently, dreamed of those lush lips against mine, dreamed of tasting my daughter. She was an angel. I dreamed of her waking, smiling gently and pulling her bedcovers aside, blue eyes inviting me.

My hand reached for the edge of her covers. I had an urge to pull them off, reveal her to me.

Straightening, I left Christine's room with a firm erection growing stronger as I dreamed of how she might look in her nightdress. In bed I replayed the feel of her stomach, remembered her sweet innocent scent, her lush lips. I stroked myself dreaming of my angel waking, smiling at me, arms reaching out. I dreamed of seeing her young breasts mounded under her nightdress, of my darling taking my hand and, with a shy smile, bringing it to her small breast, inviting her father to touch her intimately, to give her pleasure, to give her Papa pleasure. I ejaculated strongly at the alluring and seductive images floating through my mind.

Post-orgasmic release took me to sleep.

Morning brought pain. My chest constricted, heart thumping painfully as memory of my inappropriate behaviour came back. Why? Why did I go to my daughter's room? A war raged in my soul, a father's shame slashing at me. I fought each memory, pushing them away. With mounting horror I remembered pleasuring myself to visions of my sweet Christine, remembered my desires. With abject horror I felt myself become tumescent again.

What sort of monster was I? What father could do such a thing? There was an insidious presence deep in my body I could feel it writhing, seeking freedom, seeking acceptance. With grim determination I resolved to ignore any sylphic songs in future. And through force of will, I devoted my day to Christine.

We rode the cliffs despite the cold winter wind. It put a rosy blush on her cheeks and her blue eyes sparkled as we raced each other back. My Christine was magnificent, her adolescent beauty singing to me. But now I was losing the joy of my daughter's company; there was a dark presence in me, a constant reminder of my transgressions of thought; a war had begun in my soul.

"Papa," she said breathlessly as she dismounted in the stable, handing the reins to the stable boy, "did you see the sea? Those whitecaps looked like plumes of feathers. Wasn't it spectacular?"

"Nature is a marvel, Christine. Man will never match the magnificence of nature." When she smiled at me and reached for my hand to head to the Manor, my heart tripped. Suddenly I wanted to take her hand and pull her to me, kiss her sweet lips, hold her slender, delicate body to me. A black cloud of self-disgust descended. "I should check with the grounds keeper. Why don't you go on ahead?"

I turned away suddenly, not wanting my daughter to see my shame.

I thought I had won. For two weeks I slept undisturbed. But despite my firm will and strong resolution, the sylph returned, singing to me in my dreams.

'Softly, deftly,
music shall surround you . . .
Feel it, hear it,
closing in around you . . .
Open up your mind,
let your fantasies unwind,
in this darkness which you know you cannot fight -
the darkness of the music of the night . . .'

Don't, don't! Please! Go away! She's my daughter!

Images flashed through my mind; Christine riding tall, her small alluring breasts moving seductively with the motion, Christine bending forward to race, her compact rump rising from the saddle, small yet curvaceous, Christine's long skirt flapping in the wind, leather riding boots appearing and, with a gust of wind, slender bare thighs, the frill of white bloomers, Christine's clear blue eyes sparkling with excitement. I imagined her pulling the reins, halting suddenly as we approached the cliffs and turning to me, a soft, sensual smile curling her young mouth, cheeks flushed in excitement. I saw her slip from the saddle, a flash of ivory leg. I saw myself dismount; felt the tumescence brought on by my daughter's adoring blue eyes.

Reaching for her, the horses wandering away, I pulled my darling to me crushing her tender body to mine, bent and kissed her passionately, moaning as I forced my tongue into her delectable mouth, need building like a tidal wave inside me. My knees felt weak when my daughter moaned, her delicate tongue responding, forceful with her desire and thrusting into my mouth as she pushed her pelvis against my tumescent penis. I reached for the buttons of her frock . . .

I woke, shaking with need. Don't! Don't! For God's sake Erik, don't, I demanded, I pleaded, shame and desire waging a war inside me.

I left my bed, an unreasonable, uncontrollable need compelling me, an addiction. Standing in Christine's room I looked down at her pretty face in repose, admiring her delicate features. Bending, closing my eyes, I inhaled her sweet scent of youth, an innocent and addictive aroma. With a tremor in my hand I touched her soft cheek, warm and silky. My daughter.

Warning voices in my mind were ignored, an unstoppable need inside tore at me. My body shook as I waged a battle, a father protecting, the seductive lure of Christine attacking.

I couldn't. I couldn't fight the driving urge inside. I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough. Reaching for the bedcovers I drew them down, becoming more tumescent at the sight of her delicate body, so much more slender in a simple white nightdress. My erection strengthened as I took in the gentle flare of her young hips, the swell of her small bottom pressed against the feather mattress. My erection throbbed as I looked at the outline of her slim legs. I felt a sudden urge to grasp my erection when I noticed Christine's proud young breasts pressing against the thin cotton, a slight shadow of her areolae. It took all my willpower not to reach out. But the allure of her young breasts was powerful. They rose from her chest, perfect small mounds that appeared to be unaffected by gravity or her supine position. Small bumps of her nipples were clearly visible. My angel was so attractive, so sensual in sleep.

I moaned quietly at the vision laying before me, picturing myself laying with my daughter in her bed, picturing myself caressing her young breasts, picturing myself unbuttoning her nightdress and revealing her to me, her father. I wondered what her areolae looked like, would they be pink, would they crinkle in arousal? How might they feel against my lips? How might they taste?

Christine stirred and rolled slightly, her nightdress slipping up to reveal beautiful calves, delicate ankles. With a trembling hand and an unholy desire fuelling me, I pulled the hem of her nightdress up, revealing small knees and, oh Lord, slender, soft silky thighs. Christine stirred again.

Quickly I covered her, leaving her room silently. In bed I pictured my daughter's body in my mind, reviewing every illicit inch that had been revealed to my eyes. I pictured the way her cotton nightdress gently outlined the seductive swell at confluence of her legs. I stroked my erection imagining seeing under her nightdress, the sexy curves of her thighs, wondering what she might look like where they met; would she have pubic hair, what would her pudendum look like? What would it feel like to gently touch her? Stroking myself I ejaculated hard, breath whooshing out at the pulsing pleasure that flooded me.

Relief descended, released from my burning desire. Guilt returned to haunt my dreams.

I cut myself shaving in the morning, such was my rage. It felt good to punish myself. I had transgressed every social more. I had invaded her privacy. I had tarnished my daughter by gazing on her partially dressed form. I had degraded her by wilfully pleasuring myself to visions of her.

I was going to Hell and I deserved it. I was vile, depraved, and unfit to be her father. And, when she came to breakfast smiling so brightly, so pleased to see me, shame flooded me when I became erect. I felt my soul tear. How could I betray her love like that? And yet, looking at her, fresh, young and so beautiful, how could I not love her, desire her? I frowned at my egregious thoughts.

"Papa, is there something wrong? Have I done something that displeases you?"

"Of course not, Christine. You could never displease me," I responded immediately, trying to behave normally. Yet the worry on her face made her so attractive, so vulnerable, I wanted to go to her, hug her to me and reassure her everything would be alright. I wanted to hold my daughter tight to me. Unconscionable!

As Lillian, our downstairs maid, cleared my breakfast plate, I rose, stopping by Christine as she ate. Bending, I kissed her soft reddish blond locks, lingering to inhale deeply, filling my soul with the sweet scent of her youth. "I have to go to London for a few days. I shall return Friday."

"Can I go with you, father?" she asked, excitement making her clear blue eyes stab me in my heart.

No! No! No! I have to be away from you, my child, for your own good!

"Of course you can, sweetheart. I'd love your company. You can shop for some new dresses while we're there."

"Thank you, Papa!" she said breathlessly, her eyes seemingly adoring. "Lillian, tell Cook we will be away, instruct Harriet to pack." Turning to me she smiled, Lord so pretty. "I'll pack right away, Papa," she declared, rising, breakfast forgotten. My heart burst and my soul cracked when Christine hugged me and kissed me on my cheek.

As the household prepared for our departure, I could feel the physical effects of my anguish; my heart racing, sickness in my stomach, and muscles twitching. I was unusually short tempered with the staff as we prepared to leave and from their looks, they knew something was deeply wrong with me. There was. I could only hope that a change of scenery, that being in London, I might feel some respite from the agony in my soul.

For the next three days I achieved respite. My days were hectic, dealing with shipping agents, checking the accounts, and signing new shipping contracts. My evenings were busy, escorting my beautiful daughter to different social engagements I needed to attend for business purposes, events I found tiresome in the extreme. But the fatigue helped, my nights undisturbed. That is until the dance.

Daphne, the Mortimer's daughter, had turned sixteen, a celebratory dance and party arranged. Despite strenuous objections, Christine wore me down until I agreed to escort her there.

"Thank you, Papa," she exclaimed, throwing her slender arms around me, hugging me in an unseemly show of affection that I found abnormally pleasurable. "I have a new gown to wear, too. Just wait till you see it. I know you'll like it."

Dressed in black tails and top hat, fiddling with my white gloves and cane, I waited for Christine to descend, little tendrils of dread coursing through me at the thought of yet another social engagement.

But those feelings fled suddenly when Christine walked down the curving staircase. My daughter was stunning in a floor length white formal gown, delicate lace around the wide collar and hems, tapered lustrous silk showing her impossibly small waist, full ruffles adding a seductive flare to her young hips. The look of expectancy in her blue eyes made my heart ache; my daughter waiting for a father's judgment, his opinion, the only opinion that mattered.

Had I found her attire displeasing, I would have reacted the same way; the only way a father can. My Christine was simply beautiful. Her soft reddish blond locks were plaited into a French braid, eschewing the unattractive dense curls of today's fashion, her hair topped with a small lace hat. With her naturally flushed cheeks, Christine had no need for rouge. My daughter glowed.

I smiled, very, very proud, and offered her my arm to lead her to the Hansom cab. "Christine, you are quite simply the most beautiful lady in London."

"Oh Papa! You're just saying that," she responded with a delightful blush of pleasure.

No. I wasn't just saying it for her pleasure.

I danced that night. I danced with only one lady. As I twirled my gorgeous daughter in my arms, I realized it was the first time I had danced since Mary's passing, over seven years ago. I drowned in Christine's attention, her smiles, her laughter. I frowned and squinted at the constant flow of young men who had the effrontery to request a dance with her, and felt love in my heart when she chastised me with a laugh. I let her consume some wine, at her insistence; I just couldn't deny her anything, except for dances with others. That I would not tolerate.

I saw Mary in her as she twirled lightly on her feet, her cheeks flushed from the effort of dancing and, no doubt, from the excitement of the event. Holding my sixteen year old daughter in my arms, I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt I loved her in a way no father should.

I knew I should not have taken her to the party; it was a mistake. That night, the soft song of a sylph stole into my dreams, taking advantage of my already weakened state. I was helpless as I listened to her seductive voice.

'Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world.
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.
Let your soul take you where you long to be.
Only then can you belong to me . . .'

Images flooded my mind, unbidden, involuntarily. I knew the danger, I knew the soul-wrenching agony they'd bring and I was helpless to stop them; Christine smiling so shyly on the stairs, her father's opinion so important to her, so pretty, so beautiful; Christine dancing in my arms, gorgeous face turned up, looking at me with such strong love burning in her blue eyes, so happy, so pretty; Christine dancing closer, pressing herself to me despite decorum, her tender body so petite, so lovely.

I saw everyone else in the hall disappear, just Christine and I dancing to an invisible band. I saw Christine look up at me, seductive lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed, her desire piercing my heart, her love almost inducing tears. I saw myself bend and kiss my darling, soft, soft lips parting, slender arms clutching me. I heard her whisper, "Papa," when the kiss ended, her soft cheek pressed to my chest, her arms clutching me to her.

I felt my tumescence, and felt Christine recognise it, pushing her body against it, her face turning up to look at me, a delicate shy blush suffusing her. I felt myself shudder when she reached up for me, her small hand caressing my cheek, "my papa," said so, so lovingly. I melted. I needed my daughter. God help me, I wanted her.

I woke and, without thinking, rose and went to Christine's room. I stared down at my angel, so peaceful in sleep, long lashes on her cheeks, soft breaths. I ached for my angel, my erection hard and tenting my nightshirt.

Bending, I kissed her soft cheek, inhaling her sweet breath deeply, absorbing her aroma, burning it into my mind. I caressed her reddish blond hair gently so as to not wake her. Gently, I lifted her covers, drawing them aside to gaze at her in her nightdress. The thin white cotton draped over her body outlining her youthful shape, small pubescent breasts mounding seductively, slender waist, gentle flair of developing hips.

The thin white cotton fell naturally at her groin, outlining her prominent pubis underneath, my erection straining at the sight and tenting my nightshirt. With a trembling hand, helpless to stop myself, I reached for the hem, voices inside me screaming in disapproval as her slender legs were revealed. Sweat coated my brow, my penis damp with arousal. I fought, I fought. Don't Erik! It's your daughter. She's so innocent. Don't defile her!

Groaning in anguish, dizzy from the battle raging inside me, I pulled her nightdress back down. But, standing over my darling, my body shaking, I couldn't resist. My heart beat like a war drum in a constricted chest. Gently, I trailed my palm up her slender leg and felt the sensual shape of her thigh. I trembled when my palm slipped over her mounded pubis, her most private place, so soft and alluring, so desirable, my erection pulsing with need. Holding my breath and damning myself, I touched her tender small breast, firm in my palm, feeling her tiny nipple.

Desire and passion burned in me. My body shook. I wanted to kiss my daughter, I wanted to undress her, show her my love. Yet she was my baby, my child, trusting and loving.

Standing abruptly I covered her, turned and left her room closing the door quietly. In bed I grasped my erection, need and desire pounding me, punishing me. To the conflicting emotions of condemnation and passion, I stroked myself, replaying the feel of her plump pubis, wondering what it would look like, how it would feel to kiss her between her legs. Did my daughter get aroused? Was she old enough to feel the rapture of an orgasm? How would her arousal taste?

I imagined stroking her, building her passion, teaching her the delights of arousal. I imagined touching her vulva, spreading her moisture, caressing her centre of pleasure. I imagined my child moaning in pleasure, her hand over mine, urging me on, her soft whispers, "yes, Papa," as she felt the rapture of an orgasm for the first time.

And, with the vision of kissing my daughter's sweet lips, of her gently urging me on top of her with a shy smile and parted legs to welcome me, hot semen exploded onto my stomach. I heaved in pleasure, ejaculating hard, wishing fervently.

Our journey back to Darkfold Manor was slowed by torrential rains and cold blustery winds that found every opening in the carriage. Despite a thick blanket over our laps, we both shivered. Christine was thankfully oblivious of my deep morose, chatting with excitement, recounting every small detail of the dance. The more her attractive blue eyes shone, the deeper my pain. Her sweet smiles lanced into my heart, and I stabbed myself with a moral knife to each smile.

I knew Hell. I knew Heaven. I was deeply, deeply ashamed.

Warmth slowly permeated my body in the study. As I finished my scotch, fidgeting in the leather armchair, the fire slowly dying in the hearth, I wondered if I had the strength to get through the night. Would the sylph leave me alone or punish me further? Perhaps I should have thrown myself over the cliffs. It seemed my resistance was weakening.

I could feel Christine's presence upstairs. I had to protect her. Perhaps I should send her away to stay with distant relatives. Yes, that was the answer. No matter how it might hurt to be separated from her, it was for her and my good.

With some relief at an acceptable course of action, I rose and retired to my chambers.

A sylph sang a soft song, so quietly I had to listen intently, straining to hear her words. Deep inside me, I was beginning to like the sylph's soft voice.

'Floating, falling, sweet intoxication.
Touch me, trust me savour each sensation.
Let the dream begin,
let your darker side give in
to the power of the music that I write -
the power of the music of the night . . .
You alone can make my song take flight -
help me make the music of the night . . .'

Slowly, very slowly, I heard the tone, familiar, something I should recognise. Realisation dawned when I recognised the sylph's voice. It was Christine singing to me, her voice, my daughter bewitching, hinting, calling.

I saw her open her eyes, thick reddish blonde hair spread over the white pillow. Clear blue eyes looked at me and a flush of heat grew inside when she smiled, my daughter so, so pretty.

"Papa," she sighed, her arms rising, reaching out for me, love and adoration burning in her eyes, "you heard me."

In a trance I walked to her bedside, sat on the edge, the feather mattress dipping. I cupped my darling's cheek, rubbing her soft skin with my thumb. "I love you," I said softly, my heart aching.

Christine put her hand over mine, smiling gently. "I know, Papa. I love you, too."

Leaning over I kissed my daughter's sweet lips, watching thoughts echo through her eyes before they closed slowly, her arms slipping around my neck. I felt Christine tilt her head slightly as her lips parted and I became tumescent at the touch of her tongue. I tasted my daughter, clean, youthful and sweet. I inhaled her fresh breath deep into my lungs, my heart thumping.

When our kiss ended, an incredibly arousing kiss, I sat up, staring at her, desire punishing my body. I wanted her so much.

Christine smiled shyly, a rosy blush gracing her cheeks as she drew the covers back. "Come, Papa," she whispered to me.

Helpless to resist, I slipped into my daughter's bed pulling her to me. I felt the small mounds of her young breasts press against my chest through her thin cotton nightdress. I kissed my darling, letting my hand caress her slender back, slipping down to feel the swell of small buttocks as our tongues touched.

I cupped her firm buttock, traced the crease between with my fingertips. Christine moaned into my mouth, her knee rising to rest on my thigh. She pushed herself against me, her pubis pressed to my erection making me strain with desire.

"I've waited so long for you, Papa," she whispered in my ear. "Touch me."

Christine took my hand, rolling onto her back, blue eyes looking into my soul. With a soft smile she brought my hand to her small breast. "Here, Papa. Feel me here."

I felt the guilt and the shame that had plagued me physically release me, felt peace return to my soul. I felt my daughter's small firm breast, felt her arousal in a hard, tiny nipple. As I caressed her breast over her nightdress, I heard her music, the music of the night, my Christine sighing, murmuring.

Slowly, with her love blinding me, I unbuttoned her nightdress, surrendering to my darkest dream. I drew her nightdress down and gazed at her adolescent breasts, gorgeous breasts, perfect mounds topped with small pink areolae and tiny hard nipples. Groaning, I closed my eyes and let my spirit soar, bending to her chest, kissing, licking and caressing her succulent breast. I felt her hands caress my head, heard her music surround me, gentle moans.

Rising, looking deeply into my darling's glistening eyes, I slipped her nightdress down her slender body. Looking deeply in her seductive eyes, I slipped her nightdress off her. I could feel the intense tug inside me, an intense desire to see my child's body, see its adolescent splendour.

"Please, Papa. I want you to see."

"Sweetheart . . ."

"Look at me, Papa. Touch me. It's all for you, just for you," Christine whispered, her palm holding my cheek.

I groaned deeply as I gazed at Christine's young body. Her pubis rose like a mountain between the peaks of her hips, dusted with a light coating of reddish blond pubic hair. Nestled between plump labia the long hood of her pink clitoris was visible. Her seductive bottom swelled out at the sides, giving her a seductive shape.

With a trembling hand I reached to touch her pubis, pausing without touching her. I shuddered when her hand took mine and guided it down, shuddered again when I felt my daughter's warm pudendum, silky soft pubic hair and, groaning, felt the moisture of her arousal as she parted her slender legs for me.

Need to have my daughter, to love my daughter, was tearing me apart, my erection painfully hard. All the fantasies, all the dark dreams that had haunted me, fuelled my desire. I wanted to experience the splendour of her young body; experience the tenderness of her love. I desperately wanted Christine.

Removing my nightshirt, I rolled on my side and gathered Christine into my arms, kissing her passionately, my damp erection slipping silkily through her crotch, sliding along her warm cleft. Reaching behind her, I held her sweet little bottom, pulling her to me, the crown of my erection emerging out behind her.

Kissing my child passionately, tongues intertwined, I caressed her small breast. Christine started moving, her murmurs music in the night. She started moving her hips, sliding her hot, damp cleft along my erection, her arms holding me tight, sweet bottom moving, flexing.

Slippery moisture from my erection had it gliding sensuously between her tender thighs, the crown scraping along her tight cleft. I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't.

Rolling us over, I rose on my arms, looking down at Christine below me, my adolescent child, my goddess, my daughter. She smiled, a beguiling seductive yet shy smile. My heart contracted painfully. I felt silky soft calves slip up my legs, up over my thighs. I felt my daughter's legs wrap around my thighs, the tip of my erection touching wet, warm labia.

I watched, breath bated, as Christine reached up, hands on my neck. "You belong to me, Papa," she whispered.

Yes I did. Moaning, heart pounding, desire and love crashing into me, I lowered myself onto her tender, petite body. Without need for guidance, my crown pressed into her slippery cleft, plump labia parting.

"Yesss," she whispered, "right there, Papa."

"Oh God, Christine," I moaned as labia stretched, the tip touching her small moist entrance, a tiny opening. Her firm breasts pressed against my chest, her slender arms hugging my neck. Slippery moisture oozed from my throbbing erection, excitement punishing my body.

I felt my darling's legs tighten around me, felt her curl her pelvis up. I pressed. I heard my daughter cry out as I took her innocence, her opening slipping over the swelled crown, a tight velvet vice squeezing me.

Tears prickled my eyes, love hurting me at the gift my daughter bestowed on me, the ultimate gift of love. "I love you, Christine," I moaned, pushing gently, holding her slim shoulders. Dizziness overcame me as my erection slipped slowly into her exquisitely tight sheath, velvety softness parting around the crown, her opening a tight seal sliding down my rigid shaft. Slowly, slowly I sank into my daughter, slipping deeper until her pubic mound pushed against my groin. We were joined, fully.

"So good, so good," I whispered.

"Papa," Christine sighed, moving her pelvis slightly, my crown caressed by her deepest part. "Papa," she sighed, music to my ears as she moved again, slipping me out and in slightly.

I kissed Christine gently, stared into clear blue eyes and drowned in my daughter's love. Staring into each other's eyes, we started to move, withdrawing from her tight sheath, sliding in, pleasure, pleasure. Withdrawing, Christine sighing, sliding in, pleasure, so good, erection swelling.

Gradually our pace of love increased, her velvety sheath gripping and releasing me, her moans and sighs sweet music of the night. Passion built, kisses more urgent, hips moving firmly, hands clutching with growing desperation; withdrawing from heaven, sliding in, pleasure, pleasure. Our love strengthened, passion cresting, firm thrusts, deep thrusts, her little mewls music to me.

Breath panting, now writhing against each other, a storm gathered. Christine's arms tugged my neck, her sweet bottom curled up to meet me, legs tightening, "Papa, Papa."

I felt my rapture begin, feeling heaviness in my groin, my testicles tight, Christine's tight sheath caressing and squeezing my swollen crown. Desperately I tried to hold off, tried to wait for my darling, but she was too good, too arousing, reality so much better than my dreams.

Hunching into her petite body hard, thrusting deep, my erection swelled painfully. "Oh, Christine," I gasped as semen charged up my shaft. I froze, my erection lodged deep inside my daughter and pleasure crashed in. I ejaculated, sweet bliss overwhelming me, pure bliss, beautiful release.

My darling cried out loudly, her sheath gripping me, her small body shaking under me as she climaxed. My orgasm exploded. I thrust into her, ejaculating with intense, intense pleasure flooding me. I thrust and spurted, drowning in exquisite pleasure, climaxing hard, hot semen spurting deep into my child. I came, experiencing heaven, floating, falling, sweet intoxication, listening to my daughter's sweet cries of happiness, her music of the night. Peace settled in my soul.

Sleep crept over me, my body completely relaxed. I thought I heard Christine whisper, cuddled to my side, "You belong to me, Papa."

Morning sun streaming in through the window woke me. I was in my bed. Memories stormed back at me. Reaching down I felt my long nightshirt gathered at my waist, my flaccid member itchy, coated in dried semen. I wasn't in Christine's bed! I was in mine! Had I pleasured myself in bed again? Had I made love with my daughter?

At breakfast, picking at the eggs and fiddling with the toast, I looked at Christine sitting at the other end of the dining table, her face so stunningly radiant, so attractive. My love was so intense it hurt in my chest. Was it a dream? Had I really made love to my daughter? I looked for a sign, anything. Christine smiled shyly as she looked at me, love shining in her clear blue eyes. Her eyes dipped back to the table, a small blush rising.

I would like to thank a fellow author Centaur for his input and guidance in crafting this story. Without him, it would never have been completed.

"The Music of the Night" lyrics written by Charles Hart.