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   The Standard Legal Stuff Disclaimer: This story contains sexually
graphic and explicit material and as such it is not suitable for minors. 
If you are a minor, please leave now as it is illegal for you to be here.
If it is illegal for you to read or view sexually explicit material in the
community you view such material, please leave now.  This story and
characters are purely fictional and any resemblance to events or persons
(living or dead) is purely coincidental.  If you are offended by sexually
explicit stories, please read no further.  If you are offended by stories
featuring group sex, bisexual situations, incest, sex between minors and
adults, or any other situation, please check the story code before reading
the text.

   Author's Note: I like to pay particular attention to both character
development, and to story lines.  For that reason, some readers may be put
off, as you won't find "the good stuff" until I'm well into the story.  If
you prefer to get right down to the hardcore action, then skip at least the
first two or three chapters.  If you have no interest in character
development or story lines, then this material probably isn't the story for
you - nor is pretty much anything that I'll be posting here likely to
interest you.  You've been warned.

   Sweet, Sweet Amy ~ Chapter I ~ Amy (M/g, Incest, Romantic, Consensual)

   By

   Daddy's Little Slut-Muffin

   I'm going to tell you all the story of how I first learned about sex.  A
part of my story might seem kind of sad, but I'm not looking for pity or
sympathy.  Things happen in life, some of them just happened to me when I
was really young.  But all in all, my life turned out to be pretty good,
with what I like to remember as a mostly happy and well-adjusted childhood.
I'm thirty years old now, married to a nice guy, have two kids, one of each
variety, and I'm happy.  I give lie to the rampant opinion that a child who
has sex with an adult will be inevitably and permanently scarred.

   I don't have a lot of memories about my biological Dad.  I remember him
only vaguely, but the memories I do have of him make me feel warm, even
though they're nothing more than a blur, and a rush of warm and happy
emotion.  He was killed in a car accident very soon after my fifth
birthday. All I remember of that was my Mom in pieces, crying and sobbing,
and an immense sadness because I knew that Daddy wasn't going to be coming
home again.  I had only the vaguest concept of death.  While my Mom tried
her best to make sure that I understood that he wasn't gone because he
wanted to be gone, it took me some years to fully comprehend the
significance of his death.  When I finally understood, at about the age of
eight, I felt again that immense, overwhelming sadness.

   My Uncle Steve, who is my Mom's brother, began to spend much more time
with us than he had in the past.  I had always worshipped my Uncle, and
while I still felt the same, somehow his visits didn't seem to be quite as
bright to me anymore.  He tried his best to look out for his sister and for
me, to make sure that we didn't go without anything, and that my Mom never
had to work herself to death in order to make ends meet.  In short, he took
care of us, helping out around the house and yard, slipping Mom some extra
money whenever she was a little short, and just being a "man around the
house" for us.

   Slowly, I began to come around, and I looked forward to my Uncle Steve
coming over to visit, or to do some yard work, or to have dinner with us.
He could always make me smile and laugh, and he always took everything I
said to him seriously.  He acted as though my thoughts and the things I had
to say were important to him.

   One evening, after we had eaten dinner, and I was in the living room
watching television, I heard my Mom and Uncle Steve talking in the kitchen.
They weren't arguing, but my Mom's voice was insistent, so I tuned out the
sounds coming from the television and focused on what they were saying.

   "Heather," Uncle Steve said, "don't you think it's kind of morbid to be
talking like this?"

   "No, Steve, I don't think it's morbid.  I think it's something that I
need to be able to know has been arranged, just in case."

   "But why do you even think you need to ask me something like that?  You
know the answer."

   "Damn it, Steve!" Mom's voice rose a little.  "I just need to hear you
say it, okay?  I need to know for sure that this is taken care of."

   "Alright, Jesus!" Uncle Steve was as close to shouting as I had ever
heard him.  "I promise you, if anything should ever happen to you, I will
take care of Amy.  I will raise her as if she were my own daughter.  You
have my word on that, Heather.  Is that what you needed to hear?"

   I didn't hear anything more of the conversation.  Mom and Uncle Steve
suddenly got very quiet, and then I heard Uncle Steve begin to cry.  I got
up, and crept towards the kitchen.  I didn't have any idea what was going
on, or what was wrong, but if my Uncle was crying, it had to be very bad.

   My Mom was sitting at the kitchen table.  My Uncle Steve was standing
behind her with his hands on her shoulders, sort of massaging her shoulders
and neck.  There were tears on his face, and I was suddenly very afraid,
although I had no idea why.  Neither of them had noticed me.

   "How long?" he asked my Mom.

   "They think maybe eight months, at the very most."

   "You're sure there's nothing that can be done?"

   My Mom shook her head.  "It's spreading like wildfire, Steve.  Now it's
just a case of what they're calling `comfort care.' Beyond that, they can't
do anything."

   Both adults fell silent.  I stood there for a few long moments more,
then retreated back to the living room.  I had no idea what was going on,
but that sense of fear was growing huge within me.  A few minutes later, my
Uncle Steve came into the living room, and sat down next to me.

   "Hey, Punkin, don't you think it's time for you to get ready for bed?"

   I didn't know what to say.  I felt like my mouth was glued shut.  I
desperately wanted him to tell me that I had nothing to be afraid of, but
at the same time I was afraid that if I pressed him, I'd hear something
horrible that I didn't want to hear.  So I just looked at him for a moment,
then nodded my head, got up from the couch, and went up the stairs to my
room to get ready for bed.

   As I stood brushing my teeth, I began to feel more and more afraid.  I
didn't know what I was afraid of, all I knew was that if my Uncle Steve -
my wonderful, strong Uncle who always knew just what to do to fix anything
- if he was crying, then he must be afraid.  If Uncle Steve was afraid of
something, then it must be very, very scary.

   I didn't cry.  I went to bed determined to be a big girl, and be very
brave, no matter what might be wrong.  Eventually, I fell into a troubled
and restless sleep, jumbled nightmares finally waking me.  My big girl
determination forgotten, I padded out of my room and down the hall to my
Mom's bedroom.  I slid quietly into her bed, and snuggled up next to her,
finally feeling safe enough to drift back to a less troubled sleep.

   Six months later, my Mom was dead, the pancreatic cancer having made
short, fast, and painful work of decimating her.
   ~ To Be Continued ~