From the heart

A/N: Enjoy ^^
————————————————————————————————————————————————-

I guess the time my life started to take a turn for the
better, was when I got my new apartment. Previous to this, I
hadn’t been able to stay put for more than a few months, before
someone recognized my name, and I was forced to move again. I
had begun to regret my appearance on the TV show, even if it had
been responsible for my getting the high-powered legal help that
allowed me to be free, instead of locked up behind bars, where
the life-span of men who were known to like little girls was
short and brutal.
At least the last place I had been at, the owner had been
fairly decent; returning my deposit, and the unused portion of my
rent-money, when he told me I had a week to be cleared out. The
previous place I had lived had just dumped my belongings in the
carport, and when I came home from work had told me I’d better be
gone before morning, or he’d tell everybody in the apartment
building who I was. I was in no condition to face a lynch-mob,
so I left. It was over a year, before my lawyer was able to
collect the rent I had already paid, and I never did get my
deposit money back.
It’s not that I really needed the money. The work I do,
pays fairly well. My boss knows who I am, but doesn’t care WHAT
I do for a sex-life, as long as I don’t bring it to work. Still,
having to move every month or so, when people found out who I
was, was not pleasant. THAT is the main reason I was so happy to
find the “Open Arms” apartments. There were other advantages as
well.
When my lawyer heard about my having to move again, he
wanted me to sue the landlord. After all, it’s not as though I
were a convicted felon or something.
Well, in a way I was. I was convicted. Then the Marshall
foundation stepped in, with their high-powered legal staff, after
someone saw our family interview on TV. They got me an appeal,
and not only did they manage to get the case dismissed, which
would have left the possibility of it being reopened, they
managed to force the judge to give a directed verdict of “Not
Guilty.” I was free.
So, the interview on TV was both responsible for saving me
from the slammer, and my difficulties retaining an apartment.
When most people found out that I had not only fucked my own 10,
12, and 14 year old daughters, but had gotten all three of them
pregnant, they didn’t seem to care that it was the girls who had
tied me down, and made me squirt incestuous cum inside them,
until I gave in, and let them have their fun.
After fucking the two older girls for almost a month, I
began to like it so well that I didn’t raise too much objection,
when Lisa (the youngest) came into her big sisters’ bedroom one
night, where I was fucking Terry, and demanded to be let in on
the fun.
Within 3 months, I was a confirmed pedophile. The feeling
of my little girls’ tight little pussies, swelling bumps of
breasts, and bare little cunnies, was too much for me. I still
loved my wife, but it was only because I DID love her, that I
continued to have sex with her. I hated to cheat Mary, when it
wasn’t her fault. Besides, as I said, I still loved my wife
(Still do, for that matter.) so while it didn’t have the illicit
thrill of screwing a cute little pre-teen, the fun of knowing the
woman you loved was turned on by you, was still enough to make it
enjoyable. Enjoyable? Oh heck! I loved it. No matter how much
I liked fucking my little girls, Mary was the one who had loved
me enough to give them to me, and it was still fun to try to make
another one in her still sexy little belly.
There were two troubles, however. You would think that I
would lose interest in fucking my wife, what with three little
girls all vying for my sexual favors. Well, surprisingly, that
wasn’t the trouble. It seemed, that the more and more varied sex
I got, the more I wanted. No, the trouble was, that I wasn’t
superman. All that sex was tiring, and it affected my work,
until I was caught falling asleep on the job, and almost got
fired.
The other trouble was one you might suspect. Terry got
pregnant. I didn’t dare put the girls on birth-control, and they
wouldn’t have stood for it anyway. So, when my eldest daughter
told me she had missed her period; it wasn’t really a surprise.
What WAS a surprise, was my wife’s reaction, when I finally
confessed. Yes, Mary was mad at me; but not for fucking our
little girls, as you might think. No, my wife was mad at me for
sneaking around, and not letting her know. After all, they were
her kids too.
It was only when Terry, Denise, and Lisa all told her how
much I had worried about her, and how I had wanted to tell her
from the beginning, but they had all talked me out of it, that
she relented.
Mary insisted that we put the two younger girls on birth-
control right away, before it was too late. Only, it was already
too late, as you have probably guessed. There I was, with three
daughters ranging in age from Lisa at 10 years old, to Terry at
14, all pregnant by me. Oh shit.
Still, we might have been able to bring it off, with no more
than a minor scandal, if some nosy neighbor hadn’t overheard one
of my daughters talking to the other, and figured out who the
father was.
The rest, you probably know about. My arrest. The big
scandal in the tabloids, about the unidentified father, whose
daughters had “raped” him. It was only because the legal fees
had mounted so high, we were about to lose the house, that the
family agreed to do that interview on the “Opal Winter” show.
They kept my face darkened, so people wouldn’t recognize me, but
my name became almost a household word for a while.
At first, the interview concentrated on the girls. The
people couldn’t believe at first, that all three girls actually
wanted to have sex with their own father. It took most of the
show, to convince them, that all three girls not only wanted to
have sex with me, but they were all delighted that I had gotten
them pregnant, as well.
After that, they concentrated on me. What kind of father
was I, to fuck his own daughters, two of whom weren’t even
teenagers yet? If they had almost forced me the first time, why
hadn’t I told my wife? Why hadn’t I at least put the girls on
birth-control?
On and on the questions went. I fielded them as best I
could. I could tell that some people in the audience, including
a surprising number of the women, seemed to feel some sympathy
for me. After all, I hadn’t raped my little girls. In fact,
they had almost raped me. It was that “almost,” that did me in.
The last question, was the one that damned me.
Opal knew the answer, from talking to my daughters, but she
was trying to improve her ratings, like any talk-show host.
“Mr. Jenkins,” she asked, “I know you were forced into it
the first time, but what about now? I’ll bet you really like the
feel of having sex with a little girl, don’t you?”
I blushed, which thankfully the audience couldn’t see, but I
started to answer truthfully. “Well yes, but I wouldn’t do it,
now that I’m not being pressured to any more. I love my little
girls too much for that.”
“Well,” Said Opal, “there you heard it folks, from his own
mouth. The man who got his own daughters pregnant, just admitted
that he is a pedophile. A man who likes to get his sex from
little girls.”
The nasty thing, was what they did with the tape of the
show. All you heard of my remarks, were the words, “Well yes, I
love my little girls.” The bastards cut out the middle part,
then broadcast this edited version all over the country.
In a way though, I was lucky. One of the directors of the
Marshall foundation was in the audience; where she heard both my
original answers; then saw the aired tape the next day. I
understand she was furious, and directed their lawyers to help me
out, by suing the show.
In the meantime, I went to trial, and predictably, lost.
The DA managed to get the judge to admit a recording of my
wife’s discussion of the girls’ pregnancy with the doctor on the
grounds that it wasn’t protected by a doctor-client relationship,
as it was her daughters she was talking about, not herself.
The trial was paused for almost a month, when Terry and
Denise had their babies.
It didn’t become completely clear why, until the prosecuting
attorney had DNA tests done, which while they didn’t PROVE I was
the father of all three little girls, showed that there was at
lest a better than 50% chance that I was.
The worst part, was that while the court was recessed, there
was a news-report on the Opal show, and the lawsuits they were
fighting. Including mine. They showed the edited version of the
tape, saying that this was one of the items Opal was being sued
for. It turned out, that over half the jury saw that tape. Even
though the judge instructed them all to ignore any outside
testimony like this, I could see that they all looked at me with
disgust, after that.
My lawyer tried to get the case dismissed on prejudice, but
the judge wouldn’t do it. Personally, I think he saw the edited
tape himself, and had decided to convict me anyway he could.
The judge thought he was being lenient. He only gave me 8
years. He told me that was because of the mitigating
circumstances, of the girls forcing me. He told me, that I
should have found some way to stop, if I really loved my
daughters like I professed to. The public had to protect itself
against men like me, who wanted their sexual gratification from
little girls. Eight years, and he was being lenient.
Some leniency. I read in the newspaper about a month later,
where he sentenced a man for raping his girlfriend at knife-
point, to only 5 years. “After all,” he said, “it wasn’t as if
it was the first time, the two of them had sex together.”
That was his idea of justice.
It was about this time, the lowest point in my life up to
that time, when I contemplated suicide. The only thing that
saved me, was the constant support I received from my wife and
daughters. Even though I wasn’t allowed to see the girls, Mary
kept me informed.
It was Mary, who introduced me to Mark, my new lawyer.
I was in the process of being fitted (if you can call it
that) for my new prison wardrobe, when I was told to get dressed
again, and hauled out to the visitor’s center. My wife had a
very businesslike man with her, who she told me was a lawyer who
had taken over my case, If I would accept him.
Well, what did I have to lose? Of course, I said yes.
On the spot, Mark pulled out a writ of Habeas Corpus, from a
circuit-court judge; and after 15 minutes of paperwork, I was
back out on the streets.
It was there, in a coffee-shop, across from the prison, that
I learned the downside. Mark was fairly sure he could get me
off, but he couldn’t protect me from an overzealous DA who would
feel that he had been cheated.
If I went back to living with Mary and my daughters, people
would think I was still fucking them, whether I was or not. They
would then charge me with a new crime, and this time I wouldn’t
get off. And if any of the girls turned up pregnant. . . I’d
probably NEVER get out of jail. So, Mary and I would have to
divorce. We would have to be careful to not make it final, until
after the upcoming hearing though.
That’s the last time I saw Mary, at least, for over 5 years,
anyway. Then. . . Well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I almost decided to go back to prison, rather than give up
the woman I loved. Not to mention our daughters.
It was only when Mark pointed out to me, that I would lose
them there, in an even more permanent manner, that I accepted.
I kissed my wife one last time, tasting the salt of her
tears joining mine then I watched her go. Somehow, she managed
to make it to her car, and drive off. I don’t know what I would
have done, if she had weakened.
The next two weeks were a blur. What a difference, having a
GOOD lawyer, and money to use him.
Mark explained that the Marshall foundation specialized in
cases where people like me had gotten a steamrollered by the
judicial system. It was set up by some woman who had more money
than she knew what to do with, who got mad one day, when a friend
got convicted for stealing something that the self-confessed real
thief was acquitted of.
The woman set up the foundation to pick out 5 or 10 cases a
year of this nature, and fight them. She wasn’t as big or well
known as the ACLU, but the foundation had a much higher success
rate.
Mark got the circuit-court judge to order me a re-trial, on
the basis that my wife had been forced to testify against me,
when the judge had used the doctor’s tape without her consent.
>From there, the prosecution’s whole case fell apart like a house
of cards.
Mark got a ruling from a supreme-court judge, that they had
improperly obtained the blood-samples from Terry and Denise’s
children. They couldn’t get new ones, without the mother of the
baby’s permission. No way, were my daughters going to help them
convict me, when they didn’t think I had done anything wrong.
They all felt I had only done what was right for them. (In fact,
I learned many years later, that they all wished that I had been
able to give them each more than one child, before our family got
broken up.)
The tape of the Opal show was ruled inadmissible on two
grounds. First, self incrimination. Second, it had been
altered. By this time, one of Mark’s fellow lawyers had won an
out-of-court settlement from the Opal show, for almost $250,000.
They didn’t care. They had already made more than that, from the
tape, and the increased audience, was easily worth three times
that.
Even after paying legal fees, and taxes, there was enough to
set up Mary and the girls, so that I didn’t need to support them
any more. One less tie, as Mark pointed out, to get me in
trouble. I wanted more ties to my family, not less, but knew he
was right.
Even the original neighbor who had overheard my daughter’s
conversation, was no longer around. Her family had come into
some money suddenly, and they had all vanished. My daughters
wouldn’t testify. My wife wouldn’t testify. There were no
witnesses. They couldn’t use my own admissions on the Opal show
against me. They couldn’t prove the babies were mine. The whole
case against me collapsed.
Since there was no case, Mark moved that the judge make a
directed verdict of “Not Guilty,” which I could tell that he
didn’t want to do, but was forced to.
When he handed down the verdict, the judge looked me square
in the eye, and told me, “Mr. Jenkins, I’d better not see you in
MY courtroom, for even a traffic-ticket. Do you understand me?”
I did, and told him so. If the local DA even caught me
jaywalking, I’d probably go to jail.
Mark told me, that I could probably sue the judge and win,
for threatening me like that. We both decided that it wasn’t
worth the cost. Better to retain the threat as a weapon, in case
the judge or the DA DID try something sneaky.
As soon as I could, I moved out of state. Mark agreed that
this was a good idea. No only to get me away from the District-
Attorney’s wrath, but to protect both me and my wife from
suspicion that I might be sneaking around and molesting them
again. As if I EVER “molested” my daughters. They molested ME!
Not that I fought them all that hard.
It was afterwards, that I found out the real downside of the
Opal show. People recognized my name, as a self-admitted
pedophile.
I’d barely get moved into some new apartment, when I’d start
noticing people looking at me funny. Then the notes, or
telephone calls, or other threats would start. Sometimes within
a month, sometimes even sooner. The longest, was only 4 months,
before someone almost burned a whole apartment-complex down,
including their own apartment, where their two daughters were
sleeping, just to “protect” them from the “pervert.” Some
protection.
Almost killing his own children to “protect” them from a guy
who wouldn’t hurt a child to save his own life. Right!
Somehow, I received the blame for the whole thing, and it
was only the police investigators who came to arrest the nut who
started the fire, who kept me from being lynched.
I was told by the lieutenant, to leave town, as they
couldn’t protect me for very long. He was the only one, who
seemed to be as disgusted at the jerk for almost killing his own
daughters, as he was at me. Somehow, I felt the rest of the
police wouldn’t have been too unhappy, if they had been a little
late in rescuing me from the other angry tenants.
Seven times, in two years I had to move. That’s why it had
been so pleasant to move into the “Open Arms,” and why I dreaded
the time when someone would recognize my name again. By now, a
lot of people had forgotten who I was, and I surely made no
effort to remind them.
There was another reason I liked the “Open Arms.” It wasn’t
only their arms that were open. Almost every thing else, except
the gate in front was open, as well.
The first time I entered the complex, following the striking
figure of the apartment-manager, I almost died of embarrassment
when a gorgeous redhead came out of her apartment, waved at the
manager, and dove into the pool, wearing nothing but a smile.
“That’s Gloria,” said Anne, when she noticed my gaping jaw,
“she lives in the apartment next to yours.”
“Didn’t she forget something?” I asked, “Like maybe her
swimsuit?”
Anne looked at me with some amusement. “I thought you knew
this place was C/O,” she said, “It was in your contract.”
“C/O?”
“Clothing-optional.”
“Oh!” I was too dumbfounded, to say more, so I kept quiet
and followed Anne to my small apartment.
It was the smallest apartment in the complex. Barely three
rooms and a bath. Anne explained to me, that all the apartments
were partitioned so that they could be made smaller or larger, as
needed. The rooms in any adjoining apartment could be made part
of that one instead. Locked doors kept the tenants apart. One
person in the complex rented out three whole sets, for his
extended family. The place next to mine, used to be the
manager’s apartment, before she took over, and the people there
needed extra room. That left the place she was renting out to
me, cut down to bare-bones.
I didn’t object. The price was right. I was now a
bachelor; and besides, the view was great. Of course, I didn’t
know just HOW great it was, at the time; but I soon found out.
The “view” was of the pool. Being right up in front, next
to the original manager’s apartment, put my main window directly
overlooking the big pool, where almost all the women liked to sun
in the afternoons. WHAT a view!
I soon grew to love my new digs, and wouldn’t have moved
out, if somebody else paid my rent for a place twice as big.
I had never heard of a “Clothing Optional” apartment before.
The biggest difference, was the entrance and lobby. You couldn’t
come in, without either a key, or being admitted by a tenant.
There were strict rules, “NO nudity in the lobby,” that they
tried to enforce. Not always successfully, as sometimes someone
would dash down there naked, just to pick up their mail.
Once I got used to it, I found I liked it. It wasn’t a
swinger’s paradise as you might think.