Their terrarium needed no attention now.

There were no outsiders.

No one to recall old nightmares.

No one to betray, no one to lie.

No men to prey upon the two jewels of his daughters, no one to soil the perfect life he had fashioned.

He had kept them pure. He had kept them unsoiled.

He had kept them for himself.

Since she'd been aware of her body, Sherry had regularly been called upon to ease her father's tensions.

"I'm tense, daughter, yes, I'm tense indeed. Ease the tension in my loins girl, come to you father and ease my pain."

He would whisper it to her in her sleep, he would call to her in the afternoon from the porch as she played in the yard, he would read to her at night and at the close reach his arms out to her: in short, she was at his command whenever he felt need of her.

It wasn't a conscious decision on his part.

It simply evolved into the custom.

Tradition starts with a single act.

The act had been placing her small hands on his swollen cock, letting her squeeze it, pull on it, jerk it until the fountain of white jism spurted forth and coated her arms, her chest just beginning to blossom with breasts.

She stared wide-eyed.

"What happened? What did I do to you Daddy? Are you bleeding?"

She was petrified.

"Easy little girl, easy," he'd laughed, gently, calming her as only he could.

The bond, forged almost at the moment of her awakening awareness was never something grafted onto her from the outside. It was from the start something interior, something organically fused to her own developing personality, something that was innately her.

By the time she had sufficient analytical powers to try and make some sense of the situation, objectivity was beyond her.

It was a bond that could be questioned, liked, disliked, approved of or disapproved of, but never broken.