Summer Incest: My Lost Virginity

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NOTE–All persons are 18 years old or older.

AUTHOR’ SUGGESTION–If you only want to read the sexy incestuous parts feel free to skip ahead. Of course you will miss some of the comedy, jokes and background info and the penis care lecture, but what the hell, if your fervid interest is in wanking or running the vibrator, let the juices flow!


It was a warm humid summer, lazy days when there isn’t much else to do but look at girlie pictures and play with your cock. I was always careful not to sperm up the pages. I’d cut up a bunch of old mags that my older brothers had hidden in the back of the closet. The pics were organized nicely in categories: Tits, ass, pubes and then there was this one girl, in black and white photos who lay in a bathtub, her beautiful tits breaking through the water. I guess I fell in love with her, my cock was sore from our “dates” together and she looked a lot like Auntie Finn.

I never knew what a nice wet fuck was until that summer. In my family, our early sexual experiences take place within the family, at the hands of our mothers or her sisters, and sometimes with a hot cousin. Sure, call us rednecked incestuous crazies. The people who take that attitude that we are depraved have denied themselves the wonderful harmony that comes to a family that fucks together. It is one thing to say you love your relatives. Believe me, it develops into a much deeper closer warmer relationship, real familial love, after you’ve fucked them. Although, as I learned that warm summer day, jealousy can be a bitch.

I look back now on these early experiences with a bit of nostalgia. I am older now and more experienced but one remembers the encounters of one’s youth as a golden time when the first pages of the tabula rasa were written. Share with me my memories as I think back on that summer when everything was coming together so nicely…


I’ve just woken up, my body is sore. I feel dizzy. My head hurts.

Oh my God, this is a hospital. What am I doing here?

I was having such a great time with Mommy and Auntie Finn? What happened? Think, oh yes, I was fucking Mom and then Aunt Finn? Is that even possible? Was it all a dirty dream?

I fell back asleep. My mind conjuring up weird sexual situations that left a moist impression on the hospital bed sheets.

An hour later I awoke. Standing at the side of the hospital bed staring at the wet sheet was my dear first cousin, Wilson Butterworth, who said,

“You are here not even one day and you are jerking off on the sheets.”

“No, cuz, I wasn’t wanking the thumper. it was, ah ah, a wet dream?”


“What am I doing here, cuz, I don’t remember shit.”

And so, my cuz Wilson explained it to me. It seems I was attacked by Aunt Finn’s husband, my Uncle Harold. Harold. He is an ex-military with a pronounced limp from the Gulf War. Wilson said when Unk Harold discovered me in flagro delecti with his wife, he went crazy and beat me with his silver headed cane.

The same cane that his great great grandad, Preston Brooks used in the beating of Charles Sumner in the US Senate on May 21, 1856. Of course you probably recall that Sumner was an avowed abolitionist and Brooks a slave owner. That is proof the country has gone to hell, now we cane a nephew for the dubious crime of fucking his Aunt!

Wilson explained that Uncle Harold, not being a blood relative and therefore not a true Butterworth, perhaps was unaware of our family traditions of incest. Perhaps he wasn’t into incest, but I’d seen him drop in on my mom, his sister in law, for more than a taste of mint julep.

My cousin had spoken with the doctor and was assured that my prognosis was favorable. I would recover without any disability. Although, he added, it might take a month for the testicular swelling to recede.

“So that’s why my balls are killing me,” I moaned.

Wilson suggested I talk to Mom’s lawyer about suing Uncle Harold. I didn’t want to deal with our family lawyer, Lennie Ledbetter. I had started off on the wrong foot with him when by accident when I’d mispronounces his name in his presence and called him Lennie Bedwetter. To nullify my cuz, I nodded my head, too exhausted to talk to cousin Wilson any more.

I’m not sure a legal action would be a good idea? We Butterworth’s like to keep our lives out of the tabloids, even if David Pecker of “Inquiring Minds Magazine” is a relative. Once when David was visiting Mom, he said had some STD and his dick was dripping. He gave me $10 and asked me to bicycle over to Walgreens to get some Magnum condoms and an ice cream for myself.

I’m afraid if the Pecker got ahold of this caning story, I doubt if he would buy and kill. More likely he’d buy it and run it. That’s why our family refers to him as “Peckerhead.” No, I thought it best to keep this event out of the public eye.


Let me introduce myself, my dear esteemed reader.

My name is Courtney Butterworth. I grew up in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. canlı bahis A great American small town where a seven year old could ride his bicycle down the streets and back paths with never a care about being attacked. It was a wonderful place to grow up. Our elementary school even had an art teacher who was very gay, although no one mentioned it. I remember his warm hands on my shoulder when he examined my art work, they lingered there for oh so long.

I recall fondly how the town turned out to welcome Michael Jackson’s visit, thinking he would build Neverland in our town. It turns out he preferred California. Maybe that was a good thing? Recently the “King of Pop” has taken on a secondary meaning since his popper was found to make sorties into the butts of children, but what pervert would believe such slander about Micky?

I recall how his hands sweat when he put his arm around me at our centennial event and reached into my shorts to feel my virgin butt. Turns out it wasn’t sweat but something much stickier. But as we say about OJ, sure he was a killer but wasn’t he funny in those Naked Gun movies with Leslie Neilson? Sometimes you have to forgive and forget, Michael was such a cool “Zombie” in “Thriller.”

My little ass was honored by his probing. I just wish he’d cut his long nails.


Dean Carwell Butterworth moved the Butterworth clan to Pennsylvania from North Carolina, in the year of our Lord, 1851. He wanted to exploit the country’s burgeoning need for coal. Not far from the family antebellum mansion, lies one of the largest coal fields that “The Dean” was determined to exploit, and he did. His magnum opus was energy. Pennsylvania, rich in minerals and oil, fueled the family coffers. The “Dean” had four wives, but not at the same time. He wasn’t a Mormon.

His first three wives, also of Butterworth stock ( 1st and 2nd cousins) died tragically in childbirth. Still, they produced 14 children. Great great grandad took the words, “Go be fruitful and multiply” quite seriously. (Genesis 1:28.) You might say he fucked them to death. His last child was born nine months to the day after his tragic death, a fatal heart attack occurred while having sex with his young 4th wife ( thought to actually be his daughter).

Some relatives say it was his daughter tried to jump into the coffin wearing no panties, hoping for one last chance at the old licorice stick. Several of his other daughters showed up at the funeral dressed as grieving wives. An early photograph of the funeral reveals how much alike they all looked. I must say we are a beautiful inbred family.

The “Dean” was a noted horticulturist. His hobby was breeding orchids. He introduced the rare “Strangler Orchid” to the world, a rare flower that he brought back from scientific trips to the Amazon Basin. The “Strangler” was so named because as the flower grew, the aerial roots would strangle the stalk that holds the intense blue orchid. “Dean” spent 30 years attempting to modify the plant so that its flowering might not be “suicidal” and might live to enjoy a subsequent blooming. He finally succeeded. My grandfather fought to have the “Dean’s orchid” adopted as the Pennsylvania State Flower. Since it was not a native plant it was disqualified. Instead, the Mountain laurel (Kalmia latifolia) was the winner.

The “Dean’s” approach to botany was to cross the offspring of the mother back to the mother. He believed in the ancient Butterworth credo, “De fontibus ex divina matris eius debent” which translates to “from the mother’s vagina springs all things divine.” As with his Orchid breeding, the Butterworth credo insists that children must breed with their mothers.

The purpose of incest is not always to produce offspring. Its purpose is to strengthen the moral fiber and intensify the relationship of family members. Much like the religious cults, our family practice is shrouded in secrecy. The Mormon use secret Temple Underwear, Scientologists use auditing and Charles Manson’s use of his secret involvement with the Beach Boys are examples of good things that must not be exposed to the critic’s needles.

Dear Reader, please do not think that incest is taboo or a bad thing. When I studied comparative religions at the seminary, we learned that almost all ancient religions were founded by incestuous couples. Folklore and mythology is bubbling over with sibling cum. Zeus married his sister and had a number of offspring. Phorcy, the Sea god, was busy fucking his sister. Myrrha bonked her dad. Oedipus, the most famous mother fucker went for his mom. There are more than one cum stained blue dress out there. Urban legion insists that Monica was actually Bill’s daughter.

Religious and common law have unfairly discouraged the practice of incest, but that in no way diminished our family’s instinctive compulsions. Much like the salmon who swim upstream, we carry on our incestuous relationships even if we must die trying. A fine example is the Roman Emperor Claudius, claimed as an ancient member of the Butterworth line. He incestuously married bahis siteleri his niece Agrippina. At the conclusion of coitus, Claudius inserted his digit in her pussy for a buttery treat and at that moment his wife slit his throat. The nectar did not save him but their son Nero inherited the throne.

I don’t know if the our unique sperm is a genetic link to our compulsive need to fuck our mothers, aunt and sisters or if it just simply buttery sperm. In our family, incest is a heterosexual activity. However, there are some back stories of homosexual incest as well. I’d prefer not to bring them up at this point.

If you want to research the gay Butterworth clan, look up President Lincoln’s cousin, David V. Derickson (son of Alice Butterworth) He was a bodyguard and aide de camp to President Lincoln and shared Lincoln’s bed whenever Lincoln traveled and was out of sight of Mary Todd. The stains on the two men’s bed sheets were a constant reminder of their warm wet friendship as well as a source of embarrassment when the maids came to change the sheets. Several of these stains have been framed and are available occasionally from Christie’ Auction House. A recent DNA certified offering hammered down at $42,000.

As mentioned, Butterworth sperm has a distinctly buttery taste. Honest Abe, after his nightly trysts with Derickson, used to purloin a spoonful of Derickson’s cum out of his presidential butt cheeks and drizzled it on freshly popped corn, his favorite snack. Even to this day popcorn is served at Republican fundraisers as a tribute to Lincoln. In keeping with tradition, our current president orders fried chicken with a popcorn batter.

The incestuous activities of the Butterworth’s have been documented throughout history, notably from the time of Henry VIII. Anne Boleyn, when offered a glass of wine before her beheading asked instead for a glass of rum with a dollop of Butterworth sperm. Her last wish infuriated Henry who immediately called out the Butterworth ancestor (aka John of Tomough) to the royal bedroom to participate in a threesome. Henry, who enjoyed giving a good blowjob, learned first hand that the fine taste of Butterworth sperm was not a myth, but it was a fact he kept close to his cheek. (See: Henry VIII, Love Letter to Anne Boleyn, August of 1528, Vatican Library, available on the internet)

The royal friendship came to an end when John of Tomought bested Henry in a sexual event based on a gambling game. Each had to bed and penetrate three virgins in the shortest time.Talk about bloody sheets? John, who won the contest suggested that the bed sheets be promptly washed or used to make a victory flag. Henry VIII, always the sore loser, was embarrassed at his loss and became vindictive. In a vengeful decree he ordered John of Tomought to be drawn and quartered.

As a sign of respect, Henry requested that John’s nut sack be preserved in its entirety and brought back to Windsor Palace on a slab of winter ice from the cold storeroom below the palace. As for the fate of the nut sack’s contents, the chief sommelier, Robert Bolognese, prepared a special elixir mixing the Butterworth sperm with spices and French cognac. Henry VII shared the drink with his wife Jane Seymour on their honeymoon bed.

The beverage was so appreciated that Jane secretly searched for additional Butterworth donors who were quick to step forward, behind a curtain, to offer up their donations into Ann’s anxious mouth.

The origin of the expression, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” is said to be the result of the customary binding of the sperm donor’s eyes so he would not know it was the Queen who was receiving his penile donation. John of Tomough’s nut sack still exists in the Royal Crown’s Jewelry collection as the pouch that holds the extra large gem, the Cullinan Diamond.

But enough of our family’s long boring history. As a young man, unlike the royal suitors of yesteryear, I was inexperienced with sexual matters. I had arrived at the age of eighteen years and was still a virgin. My only involvement with my erect member was a nightly bout of sleep inducing masturbation. Was it not Pliny the Elder, who we studied in our latin class, who wrote in his Natural History, “A sound sleep is preceded by the emptying of testicles?”

I recently graduated from the Mt. Bismuth Seminary for Ordained Priests where I studied various Latin texts. The most interesting parts were invariably underlined by previous students.

I had won a scholarship based on the intervention of our family priest, Father Tomas. His personal recommendation won me the entrance. Besides his wonderful testimony my dad gifted a good number of cases of holy wine, to the admission’s officer.

I want to be clear, Father Tomas never laid a hand on me in my younger years. I was never molested in grade school by any of my priestly teachers, although some student grab ass in the swimming pool did take place and was rightfully deemed horseplay.

Looking forward to the joy of summer recess, I accepted a graduation gift from the kind priest, who bahis şirketleri invited me to spend a wonderful weekend in Atlantic City at the famous Trump’s Taj Mahal Casino? (currently shuttered). Sadly, my joy and expectations were shattered when father Tomas spent the first evening of our holiday pursuing me in his nightshirt, with his bottom bare and a rather large red penis pointing in my direction.

I had partially put on my pajamas when he grabbed me. I broke free of his strong hand and escaped his initiation. Although some spray of his effluence did touch my skin, I still considered myself a virgin. I was unsure of what the dear man had in mind, but I suspected it was more intrusive than bible class. But we must not prejudge. Like Michael Jackson, Father Tomas had a wonderful singing voice.

Not knowing exactly what Tomas had in mind, I precipitously grabbed my clothes and ran. I got to the elevator and pushed the down button. I could hear a torrent of Latin shouted in my direction by Father Tomas. I assumed they were to wish me good luck. Latin is a written language, few scholars speak it.

When the shiny elevator door opened, I jumped inside. In the corner of the cabin a rather large man in a suit was trying to put his tongue down the throat of what looked like a very sexy youthful escort. I guessed they weren’t father and daughter unless he was a Butterworth.

Hearing my noisy entrance amid the latin curses, he looked up. The large gentleman’s head was covered with orange hair and he had a deep tan although the skin around his eyes was white. He looked like he was part Orangutan and part Raccoon, but he was too big to argue with. I sensed a warm kinship immediately.

“Hey kid,” said the stout fellow wearing a bright red tie, “the young lady just asked if you’d like to join us for a threesome. Here, feel her tits,” and with that he pulled down the front piece of her dress so her pretty white breasts jumped out.

“Come on up to the Penthouse and let’s give her a try. Your choice, pussy or butt?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m going to be a priest. That is I was going to…”

The big guy turned to the half naked girl and said, “Must be a fagot.”

The elevator door slid open and I raced out of the cabin without further comment. I was in my pajamas with my street clothes under my arm. To the right of the elevator I could see a bathroom with a gold placard that said “Gents.” I ran right in. I looked back as the elevator door shut, getting a quick glance at those nice bazzoons as the big guy waved me a kind third finger goodbye. I realize now I may have missed a presidential opportunity.

I thought I’d put on my clothes in the casino restroom. I figured I’d better urinate before leaving as I’d been taught aways to take advantage of every opportunity to lighten the load. I went over to an empty stall and just as I got my cock in hand and began to pee, some older man who looked familiar came and stood at the stall next to me. Instead of urinating he made a pssst sound and when I turned my head, this guy, who looked like Merv Griffin, he had taken out his wrinkly cock and was waving it around trying to breath life into it.

“Can you give me a hand with this,” he said.

“I don’t think I can help you Sir, it looks like it already died.” Then as an afterthought I added, “Is that a jeopardy question?”

That didn’t go over too well. He began to shout “Homo, arrest him,” and as he reached for me he grabbed my rolled up PJ’s out from under my arm`.

I ran out of the bathroom abandoning my pajamas with the teddy bear motif. What the old guy did with them, I don’t want to know.

I got out of the casino, which wasn’t easy, running in circles past the many slots and blackjack tables and attractive half naked cocktail waitresses. Finally 20 minutes later, I found my way to the front door. What architect had built that maze?

Fortunately the warmth of summer had given me comfort. I had no jacket. I stuck out my thumb as soon as I reached the curb. By luck, almost immediately I hitched a ride with a blond headed Mormon family. They were very friendly and offered me several nice pathlets they suggested I read. They dropped me off at the bus station where I bought a $27 ticket and several hours later I was back in the Poconos, my virginity still in tact and I now possessed some really convincing religious pamphlets.

Our Saint Bernard, Frieda, greeted me at the gate, kissing me affectionately and wetting my face with a pound or two of slobber. No one welcomes you home like a canine. Much like those who shared Wacko Jacko’s bed, my love of Father Tomas compelled me to make no mention of the sordid events of that night at the Taj Mahal Casino. I felt an odd need, like many victims, to keep his reputation intact.

Unfortunately, my dream of becoming a Jesuit Priest was extinguished after that tumultuous evening. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life being chased around dormitories by priests with crimson hard ons. At that moment I realized my mission in life, as a Butterworth, involved pussy, not cock. I was double thinking my decision to the tall guy’s invitation for a threesome. That babe’s lily white tits were imprinted on my mind. A sign that I’d developed a budding interest in females.

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