Wynter King: Daddy's Little Nurse

One

Wynter held the telephone handset away from her ear and gently rested her other hand on the left arm cast of the man on the hospital bed. The worried frown under her blonde bangs marred the otherwise flawless skin of her pretty, oval face. "Daddy, it's Mrs. Carter. She got to the drug store, but then an avalanche blocked the road, 'n' she can't get back. The sheriff says it may be two days before the road is plowed 'cause there's a bunch of avalanches 'n' it's still snowing. Do you want me to hold the phone to your ear so you can talk to her?"

Richard King grunted an ironic laugh. He almost had to threaten Kevin Taylor to release him from the hospital early so that he could finish recuperating from the latest accident at home, and Kevin finally gave in only because the leg cast was below the knee. At home he could again convert a spare bedroom into a recovery room where he'd be more comfortable, he could pass the time by helping Angie home school eleven-year-old Wynter, and things would be more convenient for everybody. Just hire a nurse--fortunately Ellen Carter happened to be available--to help Angie take care of him and things would be perfect.

Three days later--that was last Thursday--Angie's company sent her to Geneva for three weeks on one day's notice, and, yes, we're sorry about your husband's condition, but it's Europe or the door, and you can take all the time you want to think it over as long as you don't go over five seconds.

Next there was the freak spring snowstorm which to that moment had dropped eighteen inches of heavy, wet snow, and had an estimated three feet to go--though it could be more if the conditions changed, and the Weather Channel said they might. Thanks to Kevin Taylor's pathetic handwriting, the pharmacist had refilled the pain medication prescription with a laxative. Nobody noticed until Ellen had started preparing tomorrow's medicine doses from the open bottles and was one pain pill short, sending her to town in near-blizzard conditions, racing on treacherous mountain roads to get there and back with the proper medicine before the roads closed. Only she didn't make it back.

But, he admitted, at least she wasn't caught in the avalanche.

Better yet, she had discovered the laxatives before he took any of them. Obviously things could have been worse. He looked at the casts on both arms and his right lower leg and foot and shook his head, though not in response to the question, even if that was his answer.

"No. Just ask her if she can get home. If not, tell her I'll pay for a motel room for her." Wynter checked and reported that the roads in town were still reasonably good, a term that meant natives could drive on them with reasonable safety, but they would be guaranteed suicide for Texans and Californians. Richard nodded. "Tell her to go home and let us know when she's on her way back. You can call her there when we have questions. You wanted to be a nurse someday--well, someday has arrived, honey. You are now Daddy's new nurse."

When Wynter started to protest, Richard gently cut her off. "Honey, there's nobody else here except Dragon, and I don't think he'll be much help."

Dragon, sprawled in the bedroom doorway like eighty pounds of spilled coal, lifted his head and thumped his tail when he heard his name. His tail stopped when he heard the tone in Wynter's voice as she relayed her father's instructions. He slowly rose, twisting his head about while watching her. He slowly padded over to her side and looked up at her face as she hung up the phone and began whimpering. He then rubbed his head against her hip. She jumped when his cold, wet nose grazed her bare leg at the hem of her yellow knit shorts.

Wynter placed her right hand on her father's left arm cast, carefully avoiding the daisies and tulips she had drawn with felt-tip pens. Her left rose to grasp the long blonde ponytail which draped over her left shoulder and hung to the top of the small breast that he subconsciously knew was budding in a training bra within the loose, shapeless white top. Tears seeped from her large, bright, blue-green eyes. "Daddy, I don't know what to do! Mrs. Carter and I have talked, and I still want to do it when I'm grown up, but I can't be a nurse now! I'll mess it up and you might be hurt!"

Richard laughed softly and shook his head. Wynter was an incurable perfectionist who, while tolerant of other people's errors, couldn't endure any mistakes of her own. She was also far smarter and more capable than she gave herself credit, but emotionally she had become very sensitive. She would go to pieces over nothing if she wasn't handled properly. He assumed it was caused by the hormonal struggles of puberty. Little girl and young woman often struggled within her, and too many times, despite Wynter's own wishes, the little girl won. This was one of those times.

"Honey, I really don't think I'd be hurt any worse than I already am. My little truck got hit by that big diesel pickup and knocked down the hillside, but that did only this much damage to me. You're smaller than a one-and-a-half-ton pickup by at least a ton," he said with wide eyes and an exaggerated grin.

Her even, white teeth peeked through as a smile forced itself onto her sweet, coral lips, but the rest of her angelic face remained uncertain.

Richard's voice became gentle and soothing. "Honey, you nursed Dragon back to health practically by yourself. I promise you I won't be as much trouble as he was."

Wynter had found the abandoned, almost dead, Labrador retriever puppy down the hill in the ditch near their mailbox on the County Road. Both Richard and Angie wanted to put the pathetic animal out of his misery. They were surprised that Wynter, who couldn't stand to see anyone or anything suffer, insisted that he would recover. Although the vet had agreed with Richard and Angie, he gave Wynter pain medication for the puppy, some liquid vitamins, and some oral antibiotics to supplement several injections. To her parents' surprise their mother-hen daughter had the puppy on his feet in two days, though he dragged his tail for another week, thus inspiring his name.

"But...."

Richard smiled at her. "Honey, I can tell you what's wrong with me. Dragon couldn't do that, yet you brought him back from the brink of death. I'm nowhere near there. I promise."

"But what if I make a mistake?" she asked in a pleading whine.

Richard winked. "Then we'll know you're human and not some pretty, blonde sprite your mother found under a cabbage leaf, won't we? Of course, I already know that because I had to deliver you," he said with eyes wide and an exaggerated complaint in his voice. "And do you see an obstetrician's license on any of these walls? Or a medical degree of any kind? Heck no! But I delivered you anyway because your mother and I were snowed in just like this and you insisted on being born two weeks early. 'I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies!' at that time was as true for me as 'I can't be a nurse now' is for you."

His voice softened and he turned on the charming smile that usually helped calm her down. "But I did what I had to do because I didn't have any choice. And you certainly turned out okay. I will, too, because you already know more about nursing than I knew about delivering babies." He glanced at her long, slender-fingered hand. "I'm in good hands."

She smiled again, though the uncertainly remained in her eyes, and leaned down to give him a gentle daughter-type kiss with her soft, warm lips. "I'll try my hardest." Her tone told Richard she was trying to sound like an adult, but the little girl was still winning the battle.

"I already know that, honey. You'll do fine. I'm the one who's always been accident prone. If one of us has to be in charge of me, I'm much better off if it's you." Which was true. Richard had scars on top of scars over much of his trim, athletic body. It was a miracle that none marred the ruggedly handsome features of his square-jawed face. People seeing him in swimming trunks usually mistook him for a rodeo performer or stock car racer instead of a geologic engineer.

Her bright laugh suddenly faded, her eyes went wide, and a strange look crossed her face--not horror, not revulsion, but something else; something Richard couldn't define. But he knew well the look of near-panic that immediately replaced it.

"Oh, no!"

"What's wrong, honey?"

Wynter's round cheeks and even her long, slender arms turned bright crimson. The flush spread up her face and disappeared under her bangs. "A couple of days? And she said she'd had to remove the catheter this morning...."

"Oh." Richard understood, though he knew Ellen hadn't told Wynter why she'd had to remove the catheter. "Well, bedpan and urinal duty is part of becoming a nurse. You'll have had practice when you get to nursing school."

"But--I can't--You're my father! I can't....."

"No. Listen to me, Wynter! No. In that case, I'm not your father. I'm just Mister King, your patient. Okay? Or maybe think of it as babysitting, but without diapers to make an even bigger mess of things. Honey, I can't make it to the toilet for another couple of weeks, and when I can, I'll probably fall off and hurt myself all over again. I can't hold it until Ellen can get back, or I'll explode! Try explaining that to your mother when she returns and sees the condition of this room!"

The red glow hadn't abated, despite the gentle laugh the comments drew. She remained head down and eyes locked on the flowers on his cast. Richard knew she hadn't seen either of her parents nude since she was very young. She probably couldn't grasp the concept that her parents not only had genitals and a sexual relationship, they had an extremely active sex life--or did have except when one or the other was away on business. He doubted she ever thought about sex until floods of hormones began racing through her bloodstream, triggering new feelings, new growth, and new awareness of her own femininity and potential sexuality. He wondered if, even now, she thought of herself as a sexual being. He was convinced that the answer was an unqualified "No."

Thanks to Angie, Wynter knew about the academic side of sex but she was ignorant from the practical aspect. Richard was convinced that the only dick she had seen after her second birthday was when she helped her Aunt Diane change baby Christopher's diaper last summer.

All of her friends were girls, as were the other children in Angie's circle of home schooling parents that sometimes met for group lessons. She knew a few boys casually, but never spent any time with them. She spent almost no time with the girls, giving her little chance to learn from other kids' gossip. Most of her life had been spent with just Angie and himself. She knew far more about interacting with adults than with her peers.

Richard thought about that and was sad for her. She might be academically prepared for college in a few years, but she would have a difficult time with the social aspects, especially if she retained her trim, willowy figure and her beautiful, delicate facial features. Boys would be asking her out before she'd finished registration, and she would be lost.

"Listen," he said softly. She raised an eyebrow. He waited until her eyes lifted to meet his. "It will be a little awkward for both of us, but we'll manage because we have to, you as the professional nurse and me as the professional patient. Okay?"

She nodded and gave him a weak smile.

Richard relaxed back into his pillows and wiggled his shoulders to adjust them. "Now--what's for supper?"

Salisbury steak was on the menu, and she had just begun preparing it when Mrs. Carter called. Mother had done a wonderful job of passing her considerable kitchen skills on to Wynter. Still, even if Wynter could cook no better than Aunt Diane, the results would still have been an improvement over the hospital's food, which her father had described as being what the airlines rejected for being "below even their pathetic standards."

Wynter checked to see that the intercom was active, turned the television volume up for her father, and retreated to the kitchen. Dragon followed, the constant shadow that rarely left her presence except for his "doggie trips" outside.

He had to make a doggie trip near the end of cooking. He sat in front of the utility room door and yipped once. She opened the door for him. The door from the utility room to the back side of the sprawling ranch house had an insulated, magnetically sealed doggie door. That door led to a sheltered area for Dragon that was protected from all but blowing snow and to the generator shed. If they lost power Wynter knew how to start the generator, which ran off the house's main propane supply.

When Dragon returned to the utility room he again yipped once. Wynter opened the door and let him back in. "All better now, Dragon?" He wagged his tail in reply, content that she had shown interest in him, then curled up on the braided rug by the door.

She dished servings into the plates, put them on a tray along with silverware, and removed two glasses from a cabinet. She turned to the refrigerator for the milk and froze.

Dragon was sitting up, his long, reddish tongue bathing an even redder, swollen penis-thingy which was sticking from its pocket under his tummy. She didn't know if he was washing it, scratching an annoying itch, or masturbating. Mother had told her the last term and what it meant, but it wasn't something Wynter had ever done. Lately, though, she'd occasionally experienced an odd itchy sensation down there, but it eventually went away on its own in due time. She flushed almost as red as the long, hard thing that Dragon was licking, uncertain whether to stop him, as she once did, or not. While she was trying to decide, the odd, itchy sensation returned.

She was so upset that she almost forgot to get a bent straw for her father's milk.

Two

Richard washed down his six o'clock pills with a sip of milk and then complained that Wynter had overcooked them and they were tough. He was appropriately apologetic when she replied, "Smarty-pantses get sent to their rooms without supper." She accepted his apology with a big smile and kissed the end of his nose, a special ritual between them that was almost as old as she was.

They talked about her music lessons, Ellen Carter, and nursing school as she alternated feeding bites to him and to herself. It was a chore she had assigned herself upon his return from the hospital, and neither Angie nor Ellen had tried to change her mind. She was quite good at it, though in her own fussy way she always used separate forks and even separate knives, despite her father's assurances that they wouldn't give each other cooties. When they were finished, Richard complimented her on both her culinary skill and her skill at feeding him. She dropped her head and focused on the empty plates, embarrassed by the praise, but pleased as well.

She put the utensils in the dishwasher before they watched a half-hour nature program on The Discovery Channel, and then Richard said he wanted to be entertained. He was willing to listen to her play the piano down the hall, but she refused, saying the acoustics would distort the music. Instead, she reluctantly fetched her flute. Richard smiled to himself; his plan had worked.

Wynter normally practiced her flute lessons softly and with her door closed or, in the summer, down the hill where she sat on the big flat rock and dangled her feet in the creek. The only way her parents usually heard her play was when they'd sneak next to her door and quietly listen. She was embarrassed that she wasn't as proficient on the flute as she was on the piano. It was bad enough that she had to hear her own errors, which usually produced a strong, "Drat!" that also could just be heard through the closed door. She didn't want others hearing them as well. Thus she was predictably upset when, at the end of a half hour, she had made five errors, though none were major.

"That's the problem with listening to recorded music instead of live performances," Richard said. "The engineers cut and paste, editing out the errors on the music they sell. I'm sure that when they were eleven years old Jean-Luc Ponty, James Galway, and Ian Anderson made just as many mistakes, and they still make some. You just don't know because you haven't heard them live."

"Jean-Pierre Rampal," she corrected with a sudden laugh that chased away her growing frown. "Jean-Luc Ponty plays the violin."

"See! Speaking of making mistakes. Anyway, I'll bet Ponty made them, too."

He had deliberately switched the names, and he knew that she knew it, but the laugh had preempted her funk. He hoped it would make the next thing easier.

"Wynter...."

The smile vanished, she stiffened, and the blush returned with a vengeance. Something in his tone had tipped her off, despite his attempt to sound normal. The speech he'd been silently rehearsing for the past five minutes evaporated.

"I'm sorry, honey, but I've waited as long as I can. The urinal should be under the foot of the bed."

He guided her through putting a flat, firm pillow below his butt to raise him slightly and then had her raise the upper part of the bed until he was sitting almost upright. She had to pause twice to adjust the suspension of his arm casts, but because she was such a perfectionist, he experienced less discomfort than when Ellen did it.

Slowly, gently, but with some sense of urgency because he had waited until he thought his bladder was about to explode, he talked her through removing the limp three inches from his pajamas, uncovering the head of his uncircumcised spigot, inserting it into the neck of the urinal, and then holding everything steady with the tips of her long, gentle fingers while he voided his urine. He spoke not as a father to his daughter, but as an instructor to a student. The professional tone appeared to ease a little of her anxiety.

A soft groan of relief vibrated in his throat as the hydraulic pressure eased. For a moment he had thought she would go looking for rubber gloves, and he knew he couldn't wait for her to put them on, even if they'd been beside him on the bed. When his piss tank was half-empty he was able to resume thinking. It was as if the top of his bladder had been squeezed against his brain, paralyzing his mind.

Without looking directly at her he was able to observe that she was carefully avoiding looking at him, yet her eyes were being involuntarily drawn to the unusual fleshy object in her right hand. She'd immediately look away, but her eyes would creep back on their own. His sympathy grew as the pain from his distended bladder shrank. Her prim and proper side was fighting with her curiosity on a fluid battlefield.

He almost laughed at the unintended pun, but that would have been disastrous for Wynter's fragile--he almost thought the word "grip," but then he would have laughed. He forced himself to wonder if "id," "ego," or "superego" was correct. He should have paid more attention to his college professor in that elective psychology class, but he took that only to pay more attention to Mickey Adams and her round, firm, high, B-cup...

NO! Change the subject!

He began pondering what to say to Wynter after his piss break. It didn't really take his mind off his dick, but it helped keep him from thinking about what he wanted somebody--anybody!--to do with it. Richard didn't want to draw unwarranted attention to what she had, of necessity, done, but he also didn't want to say nothing to her. That, in itself, would draw immediate attention because he always praised her actions. He also didn't want to treat the incident as if it weren't "normal" nursing duties like feeding him. The teacher/student tone had helped earlier, and he used it again when he was finished.

"Men have extra valves and angles that women don't have, and it causes a small amount of urine to remain trapped inside the penis." His eyes remained steady on hers. "It eventually leaks out, causing a sanitation and odor problem for both the patient and anyone else in the vicinity. Move your thumb next to the body on top and one or two fingers across from the thumb at the bottom." He paused while she did so, her eyes dropping to watch what she was doing. "Now squeeze gently and push it out the end."

He waited while she slowly pulled forward. "That was a little bit too gentle. Do it again, but squeeze harder. You won't break it."

He almost repeated the last instruction, but, to his horror, realized that her light grip was more like a gentle caress to the increasingly horny Beast, and that his body was about to react normally to that stimulation. Instead, he said, "Okay, put the urinal down and put everything away."

She kept his organ lightly gripped in the fingers of her right hand while her left put the urinal on the roll away table. She used her left hand to hold the fly open while she replaced his slowly swelling syphon tube. Richard saw her eyes suddenly widen and incorrectly assumed that she had noticed that it was beginning to swell. What had actually surprised her, keeping her from noticing the slow expansion, was the scar tissue she saw and its location.

Both exhaled in almost-silent relief when she pulled the sheet up to his waist. Richard decided to say nothing about the boner throbbing in his pajamas. He hoped it wouldn't be noticeable through the sheet. It shouldn't be while he was sitting up.

"That was very professional and well done, Nurse King. Ellen couldn't have done a better job." He hoped that was the right thing to say, and it appeared to be no worse than anything else, though she remained a bright red. "Go empty that first, before some accident-prone patient finds a way to knock it over, and then you can readjust that patient's bed."

She gave him an embarrassed nod, but she did meet his eyes, and then took the urinal to the hall bathroom. Dragon, of course, followed her, leaving him alone in the room with his thoughts.

What was he to do next time? He couldn't tell her not to strip the last of the piss out of his dick, not after the explanation he'd just given her for doing so. What if it exploded into a throbbing, blue-steel diamond cutter right in her warm, soft, gentle hand, before she could put it away? What if she had actually noticed that it was about to do so this time and had recognized it for what it was? What if, what if, what if? There were a hundred questions, and he could sit up all night without resolving any of them.

He would just have to manage the best he could. He should ensure that she understood she was supposed to squeeze harder. Make her understand that his dick was tough as a garden hose, not weak as overcooked spaghetti, before she stripped it. Most of all, maintain the detached, professional patient/nurse relationship that--so far--was working with Ellen.

But, by damn, her little hand had felt so good!

Three

Richard surrendered, realizing he wasn't about to win. Wynter refused to sleep in her own bed, even though her room was directly across the hall. "What if you need me, and I don't hear you. I don't want to explain that to Mother." That was her one and final argument to end the "discussion." She briefly disappeared into her room--with her four-legged shadow following, of course--closed the door, and emerged after a few minutes cocooned in a shapeless, cream-colored, long-sleeved flannel robe that reached to mid-calf. She had her sleeping bag under one arm and an air mattress and pillows under the other.

Ellen had slept in the guest room next to Wynter's and depended on the intercom to bring her if Richard needed her. Wynter, of course, worried that the electricity might go out, and the intercom would cease working.

When her bed was ready she gave Richard his pills. He had her replace the pain pill with ibuprofen, rationing the stronger medication for when he might desperately need it. Then she brought out the urinal again. Somehow he managed to avoid erecting in her soft little hand when she again failed to squeeze the monster hard enough, though it sprang up in his pajamas as she was carrying the urinal out the door. Not only was he hornier than a priest at a convention of altar boys, his "problem" was growing more painful.

Richard would have given almost anything to have his fingers, if not a whole hand, free at that moment, but Kevin Taylor had insisted that his fingers and hands remain immobilized for another week to ensure that he didn't permanently lose any of their function or range of motion. Could he think of an excuse for her to put the pillow in his lap, where he could hump it after she went to sleep?

No, and besides, how would he explain the mess the next day?

After she had replaced the urinal, removed the pillow, and lowered his bed to his satisfaction, she disappeared to brush her teeth and free her hair from its ponytail. When she was convinced that there was nothing left for her to do for him, she kissed him goodnight after a quick kiss on his nose. The fresh spearmint smell of her breath reminded him of how funky his own breath must be. He found himself wishing his own breath was as fresh for her because he didn't want to offend her. However, it was late, and in the morning she would brush his teeth after breakfast, as usual. In her mother hen mode, she reminded him to awaken her if he needed anything, then turned out the light.

Richard was barely able to see her slip out of her robe and into her sleeping bag. She was just gray, shapeless movement in the dark rather than discernible features. For an instant he wished he could see what she looked like in her pajamas, but quickly put that idea out of his head. He attributed the thought to extreme unrelieved horniness aggravated by the gentle touch of her sweet lips to his.

He heard, rather than saw, Dragon sniff her to see if something was wrong since she was on the floor instead of her bed, then curl beside her and heave a massive sigh. Lucky dog! screamed across his mind unbidden.

He was still worrying about how the morning would go when he drifted off.

It was a little after six when he called to her. He'd been awake for several minutes, waiting for the erection left over from his erotic dream to subside, but it was also a piss-hardon and was slow in deflating. A little light was coming through the curtains, but the room was not as brightly lit as it would have been if not for the snowstorm.

She was slow to awaken enough to understand that he needed her. When that sank in she became wide awake.

"I'm sorry, honey. I waited as long as I could, but I need the urinal. Quickly."

She sprang up, startling Dragon, who prowled the room and then the hallway looking for danger, then sat watching her when he found none. In her haste she hadn't bothered reaching for her robe. Richard rarely saw her in her pajamas. Because the occupied rooms in the house in general and his recovery room in particular were kept warm, she was comfortable in a loose, pink babydoll that he'd never seen before--unless maybe he'd seen it in the laundry basket, but not on her. It was thin but opaque and had roomy armholes and a scooped neckline. She hadn't quite grown into it yet.

She stood between him and the lamp, and when she switched on the light the opaque babydoll became translucent, outlining the slim body it covered. She turned and went to the foot of the bed to retrieve the urinal. Her pajamas regained their opacity with her first step, but the picture had been imprinted in his memory as if he were an instant camera.

He fought to clear his mind of the image of the narrowing of the waist above her hipbones and the apparent ripple of her rib cage--unless that last was an effect of the cloth. Most of all he struggled to clear the image of the small mound capped by a smaller cone thrusting proudly outward from her chest. By the time she had him upright, with the pillow under his ass and his arms suspended, he had the Beast under control.

She used the index finger and thumb of each hand to daintily separate his fly, then pulled out his organ with two fingers and the thumb of her right hand. She held it that way while she picked up the urinal from beside him and mated the spigot to the receptacle. She was blushing, but not as brightly as before. This time she spent only half as much time looking away from his dick. For some perverse reason, Richard found that exciting, and he had to again fight the urges of the Beast.

He reminded her to squeeze harder this time when she stripped the last of the urine from his penis. But Wynter had realized that her previous efforts had been less than adequate. Instead of squeezing it between thumb and fingers, she wrapped her index finger and thumb around it, squeezed, and pulled. Twice. While doing so, she leaned forward.

All his efforts to fight the Beast failed with his view through the arm opening: a firm, white mound less than half the size of a baseball and the sweet pink nipple thrusting out from its center. His dick felt the strokes that almost duplicated Angie's when she masturbated him. His cock hardened with an explosive speed that he'd not experienced since high school.

"Oh my god!" Wynter cried.

Until that moment Richard had never heard Wynter say anything stronger than "Drat," and her outburst stunned him. He was more stunned by the realization that his daughter was standing there with a urinal of piss in one hand and his throbbing cock rocket in her other. She hadn't released her grip on either, and was staring wide-eyed at the six-plus inches of the latter. Her lower jaw and lip were trembling.

"Daddy?" The brittle tone of panic permeated her voice.

Richard's face flushed as crimson as hers. "Oh, honey, I--I am so--so sorry that it happened," he stammered.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, honey, you didn't do anything wrong. Did--uh--did your mother explain men's--uh--erections to you?"

"Sort of. You mean that's all this is?" She held it without movement in her soft, warm hand and continued to stare at it.

In other circumstances Richard might have taken offense at his magnificent boner being referred to as "that's all?" by any female, but he was still too distressed to think about that. The heat of her touch was maddening and exciting, but Wynter was a juvenile and she was his daughter. He tried to will the Beast into submission, but the warmth of her touch and the lingering vision of her budding young breast were stronger than his will.

"Honey, it's something that just happens sometimes when we have no control over it. It's a--a reflex. Like a yawn that you can't control."

Her blonde eyebrows drew together and her mother hen worries began to assert themselves, overriding her panic. "Does it hurt?"

Richard still couldn't tame the savage Beast, but he gained some control over his own embarrassment. After all, he was the one who had said she shouldn't be embarrassed while being his nurse. It would be hypocritical to tell Wynter not to be embarrassed, yet for him to do so himself. Richard hated few things more than hypocrites. He might as well use the opportunity to answer questions Angie couldn't in an adult-to-adult manner. She's not my daughter; she's my student. "No. Well, it's not a pain-type hurt, anyway. It's more like--I don't know. Hunger? That's really not a good example, but it's the best I can think of."

"What should I do now?" she asked in a soft voice tinged with uncontrollable concern, if not worry. Fortunately the panic had left her voice.

"Well, first put the urinal down before you spill anything, and then put it away like you did before. It will go back down eventually."

"It will?" she asked, still in the soft voice. Suddenly she seemed embarrassed by what she had asked, though her face was already red, and turned to put the urinal on the stand. Her warm little hand never released its grip on his turgid cock, and the turning of her body caused her hand to tug slightly. The sensation was better than any handjob he'd ever had, even the unforgettable one from Betsy Richards in the tenth grade.

Not if you keep that up, he thought, but aloud he tried to ease her worries with a joke. "What goes up must come down."

Wynter gave him an odd, undefinable look, then turned her attention to his fly and the erect Beast in her right hand. Her left tried to pry the opening wider.

Richard was wearing the one set of pajamas with the small fly--obviously designed by either some short-dicked loser or somebody too old to get it up now--and she had to struggle. When he jerked involuntarily, and a wince of pain flashed across his face, she saw it and froze.

"You said it didn't hurt!" Her tone was a damning accusation.

"It didn't. It doesn't. Normally. It's just that.... Well--it's a long story and, uh--well, I guess you're old enough to know. You might need to know some day when you're married." He didn't even want to think the phrase, "When you begin dating."

A flash of fear passed over her delicate features. "I will?"

"Honey, I said you might. Do you see all that scar tissue where my penis and scrotum meet?"

She nodded. "I saw it the first time I... uh--the first time." Her eyes dropped to look again, but flicked back to his face almost immediately.

"Skiing accident when you were about a year old," he said. "In addition to breaking my leg, I broke the ski, and the jagged edge jabbed me there. I gave myself a vasectomy--that's an operation that keeps men from making babies any more--without benefit of an anesthetic or a doctor. The emergency room doctor said that I was lucky that I could still... uh--that your mother and I could still make love because I'd almost severed a nerve that helps cause the erection. But that's the reason you don't have any brothers or sisters."

Wynter said nothing, but she was awestruck at the idea that her father was actually talking to her as if she were another grownup. Meanwhile, her grip on his penis-thingy--no, just penis, what a grownup would call it--remained firm, unintentionally causing it to remain firm, too.

"As a result of the damage, plus what the doctor had to do to keep me from bleeding to death, I--well--I have sort of a permanent problem now. The doctor says it sometimes happens to men who have had vasectomies, too, so if your future husband has one some day, then he might have the same problem."

Wynter wondered why on earth her future husband would want to have a vasectomy "some day," but said nothing to keep from destroying the magical feeling of being treated like an grownup.

"A vasectomy keeps a man's sperm cells from being released in his semen, but semen is made up of liquids from several different glands. They keep producing the liquids all the time, and eventually the pressure causes discomfort, especially if there's some damage left over from an accident or operation. I guess it's sort of like the discomfort your mother feels just before her period, when other fluids accumulate in her tissues. Maybe it happens to you, too."

Wynter flushed slightly with embarrassment as she lowered her eyes and nodded, and then flushed again in anger with herself. Here was her father talking to her like she was a grownup, and she was reacting like a child!

Her eyes had landed on his erect penis in her hand. She was still holding it! Should she release it? Her father hadn't said anything about it, so perhaps if she did release her grip she would appear to be acting like a child again.

Besides, it had a--well--a nice feel about it, all warm and, oddly enough, both hard and soft at the same time. It was a pleasant sensation and....

Maybe it was because the comment about the discomfort of her period caused her to think about there, but she suddenly realized that the odd itchy feeling had returned. She tried to ignore it and looked back into her father's loving green eyes.

"So it's a monthly problem for you, too?" she asked, hoping she sounded grownup.

Richard chuckled. "I wish. It gets uncomfortable after about five days."

"Oh my goodness! Every five days?" She thought that sounded very grownup and was pleased with herself for not blushing.

"Well, not exactly. Five days or so after it starts building up again."

She looked puzzled at him for a few seconds, but then her eyes widened as she realized what he meant. "Oh. And since Mother isn't here...." She didn't finish the sentence, hoping that would keep her from blushing again. Then she frowned. "But when she goes out of town for a week or two, you hurt while she's gone?"

Mother hen had returned. Wynter hated the thought that her father had to suffer whenever her mother was away. She hated for anyone to suffer, but especially someone she knew and most especially somebody she loved.

"Uh, not exactly." It was Richard's turn to try suppressing the red face. He also fought to suppress the urge to hump his aching dick in her fist. His daughter's hand was warm and snug around the middle of his shaft, and the tension in her outstretched arm caused it to move slightly, sending tiny waves of pleasure pulsing outward through his body. He could just imagine what it would feel like if she were to tighten her fist around it and pound her arm up-and-down. Which, of course, was why his erection was refusing to subside. "When it gets too uncomfortable, I can relieve the pressure myself. Or could when my hands and arms were free."

"Daddy, Mother won't be back for two more weeks, and you'll be in those casts for another week. I don't want you to hurt until then!" Her eyes seemed to flick involuntarily to his cock and they back to his eyes before she asked in a low voice, "What--what can I do to help you get better?" The young woman lost the inner struggle to the little girl then, and her gaze shifted aside, locking on the corner of his pillow so that she didn't have to meet his eyes, even though she was furious at herself for doing so.

Richard licked his suddenly dry lips. "Honey, there's nothing you can do now. I'll just have to wait. The pain pills help some."

"Some? Just some? But you're almost out of pain pills. Does the ibu...--ibu...."

"It helps a little. Honey, please put it away before I change my mind."

Wynter grasped what that statement implied. "If--if you can change your mind, then--then there is something I can do! To help," she stammered, angry with herself because she couldn't control her blushing like a child. "If--if you could make it better with your hand, then--uh, I--I--I can do it with mine. For you. To help you. Just tell me how."

Each refusal Richard made was more difficult than the previous, both because he knew she was seriously trying to help him and because he wanted the relief as much as a junkie wanted heroin. He smiled to keep his words he didn't want to say from sounding like a rebuke. "Honey, you can't. I'm your father."

"NO!" The intensity of her refusal surprised them both. "You're not my father, you're my patient! You said so yourself." The picture of how Dragon's tongue licked his hard, red penis-thingy floated before her. The odd itchy sensation also reappeared, but she was practiced at ignoring that.

She gently released his erect member, lowering it to his abdomen rather than letting it snap back. Although he knew that she had done the correct thing, Richard wasn't sure whether he was grateful or disappointed. Then he gasped. Wynter had started stroking along it the way Dragon's tongue moved. She lightly pressed her fingertips against the hot meat near the head, gently stroked downward to his balls, and then lifted her hand to repeat the process.

When he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned with pleasure, she misinterpreted the sound and stopped. Her blonde brows came together and she started at his tightly-squeezed eyes. "Am I doing it wrong? Did I hurt you?" she asked, worry roughing the edges of her words and tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. "It seems to be getting bigger. Is it s'posed to do that?"

He focused on her sweet young face, not wanting to encourage her to continue, but, in absolute honesty, not wanting her to stop, either. For the first time in his life, Richard King really did understand the saying, "A hard dick has no conscience."

"No, honey, it felt really good. There is no 'wrong' way to do it," he said, trying to encourage her without encouraging her, "unless it's something that's painful. I've never felt it done like that before, but that doesn't mean it's bad. One of the nice things about sex is that people can always find something new that feels good."

"What feels best?" Wynter asked, still frowning. The thrill caused by his talking to her like she was a grownup was cancelled by the thought that she wasn't using the best possible treatment for her father's--her patient's--need. She kept her fingers pressed against his penis-thingy--his penis, she corrected herself again--and wondered whether she should pick it up. It occasionally throbbed against her fingertips, and each time it did, she felt that odd, itchy sensation intensify down there, where she also seemed to be growing wetter. But she didn't need to go potty that bad yet. She wondered if her "friend had come to visit" early, but if so, she wasn't flowing rapidly. She could spare some time to care for her patient before she had to go find a pad for herself.

"What feels best?" Richard almost groaned at her question. Best was the way Angie could deep throat him while purring. When he was really horny, as horny as he was now, she could have him creaming her tonsils in thirty seconds, unless she chose to prolong the act. She could play his skin flute the way Wynter could play her metal one. But he couldn't tell Wynter that. Besides, her question had actually been the best way to handjob him. He was rather partial to the warm massage oil that Angie used for stroking her right hand on his throbbing boner while.... Well, he couldn't tell Wynter that, either.

Richard capitulated to his desire. He talked her through the steps of picking it up, wrapping her hand around it at the right spot, and jacking his joint without ripping off his foreskin on the down stroke. When she had mastered the procedure, he leaned his head back into his pillow, closed his eyes, and sighed. He knew he'd give himself hell after he'd shot his wad and reason returned, but he was going to enjoy every moment of his handjob while it happened.

He let his subconscious argue over whether to prolong the pleasure or seek immediate release and let his daughter put the Beast away. Thanks to her musical training, Wynter was able to maintain a constant rhythm as her hand glided up and down his staff, coaxing a symphony of pleasure waves from his organ and into his body. After a minute she stopped and he sensed her body moving. He opened his eyes and gasped in surprise, delight, and overwhelming desire as the strokes resumed.

Wynter had carefully followed her father's instructions, adjusting the tightness of her grip and the length of her stroke until he was satisfied and lay back in his pillow. A few seconds after he closed his eyes, she lowered hers to watch what she was doing to his penis. She fought the urge to look away by telling herself that a grownup woman, a real nurse, wouldn't look away, and besides, she needed to look or she might pull too far down.

At first she was glad he had his eyes closed and couldn't see her red face. The red faded and she was quickly spellbound by the way the foreskin partially covered, then uncovered the larger, purple, mushroom head in time with her stroke. The knob appeared to swell slightly with her upstroke. The network of veins along the shaft gave it a lumpy texture that could be seen but not felt. She frowned slightly as she concentrated on the way that the shaft felt as her hand moved along it. The odd itchy sensation intensified.

The cast holding her father's arm, suspended in front of her, was just in her way enough that she was worried about nudging it and causing him pain. She stopped stroking but retained her grip on the thingy--the penis--while she moved a little further toward the foot of the bed. She had to bend forward to keep her grip on her father's erection. She braced a hip against the side of the bed and rested some of her weight on her left arm atop the mattress. As she resumed stroking his penis-thingy, she heard him gasp and looked toward his face as the erection seemed to swell bigger in her hand.

She looked toward his face and saw his eyes staring...--where? Her father was looking down the neck of her top! It sagged enough to leave her growing young boobies displayed despite the hair streaming over her shoulders. She flushed in embarrassment and looked back to his eyes, but continued to stroke him as the odd itchy sensation seemed to consume her lower body.

"I'm going to cum," he said, and she wondered if she understood him.

His eyes lifted to her red face, and he realized he'd been caught gaping at those small, sweet titties that had crowded everything else from his consciousness. "Oh, honey," he said, "I'm sorry I was staring at you."

Then, as if having their own independent mind, his eyes dropped to feast on her tender young boobies again. "Don't stop rubbing until it's over," he begged. "Oh my god, that feels wonderful!" he said before his words were replaced by a low, guttural rumble and his body stiffened.

"Okay," she said softly in response to his request, pleased by his subsequent comment. She wasn't sure of what to expect, but, like a grownup, she would manage if it would help her father--her patient, she corrected herself--find relief.

Her gaze flicked back and forth between Richard's eyes and his hard penis. Even as his body tensed, to the point that his hips were rising, thrusting his throbbing pole higher, his eyes remained fixed down her neckline and on her boobies. Somehow, that was helping him, so she hunched her shoulders forward to drop the neckline lower. Her odd itch became maddeningly intense, and she squeezed her thighs together, causing a new sensation that was much more pleasant than the itch.

The stiff penis swelled in her hand. She looked down and saw the skin of the head stretched so tightly that it was shining. A thick, clear drop had formed at the opening, and it was displaced by another pushing upward. Shaken by her hand, it began trickling erratically down the tube. "My god, you're so sexy!" her father gasped in barely recognizable words before an animal growl forced its way out of his throat. Again she squeezed her thighs together to combat the distracting itch. And then it happened.

She held his throbbing penis upright and continued to stroke with the same rhythm. It pulsed in her hand. And again. And again. It kept pulsing as thick white liquid shot out the tip, hung in mid-air near eye level, and then dropped down the same path to splash on the penis head and her still-pumping fist. A second shot rose almost as high and also splashed down. The third was half the height of the first. The fourth rose only a couple of inches. Another two or three rose slightly and flowed down over her slimy hand to puddle with the rest soaking into the front of his pajamas. Her slick hand, coated with the hot, gooey stuff, began sliding on the rigid pole, and he gasped with more pleasure. Wynter smiled. She was being a good nurse and helping her patient.

The aroma of his semen reached her nose, and the itchy sensation exploded anew. She squeezed her thighs together again and wished the dratted distraction would go away.

He finally said she could stop. She was surprised to discover that she didn't want to stop, but he was the patient. Her hand slowed for two more strokes and then stilled. She kept his slimy penis-thingy in her grip and looked at his eyes, which were struggling up from her neckline. "That's awesome!" she said, then realized she'd sounded her age again.

Richard gave her an embarrassed smile. "Actually," he replied, "that's exactly what I was about to say. I feel a whole lot better now."

She tried to sound grownup as she asked the question foremost in her mind. "Daddy, uh--will I--you know, have to--to do this often when I'm a nurse?"

Four

Wynter gently removed Richard's pajama bottoms, wiped most of the semen off his penis and scrotum with them, and put them in the washer to soak. She reclined him at a forty-five degree angle and fetched a washcloth, a dispenser of liquid soap, and a basin of warm water to finish cleaning him. She wheeled the bedside table into place, put her load on it, and hopped onto the bed beside him. He'd seemed to recognize that she was struggling with something, so he had remained quiet while she sorted her thoughts while soaping his penis. As she began wiping it with the washcloth she found her courage. In a hesitant voice she said, "Daddy, I--I have a question. If you don't mind."

He gave her an exaggerated frown. "After all that, you have only one?"

She looked up at the funny look on his face and giggled, releasing her nervous concern that he might object. "Nah. I have a bunch of 'em."

"Ah!" he said. "Then that's more like it. What do you want to know? And Wynter, you can ask anything you want. I'll try to answer the best I can."

She smiled and turned back to the task in hand. "Tell me if I wash too hard," she said. Then the smile faded. "Daddy, did looking down my top help?"

Richard blinked in surprise. For a moment he wondered how to answer that. Wynter had, of her own volition, just given him a handjob--and one of the most satisfying handjobs he'd ever had--because she was concerned for him, for his comfort and need. She had done so not out of prurient interest, of that he was certain, or because she wanted something, but simply because she cared about him. She deserved no less than the most honest answers he could give her, for this and all other questions.

"Yes," he said. "Honey, I'm really sorry if that embarrassed you."

She shook her head. "No. Not really. But how did it help?" She turned to rinse the cloth in the basin before resuming her task.

"It's kind of hard to explain, honey. Different guys get turned on by different things. I'm what other guys call a 'tit man.' I like to look at women's breasts of all shapes and sizes, and especially on the pretty ones like you."

"Women's." Not "girls'." She sat a little straighter and smiled. "So, you liked them?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely. Actually, I could see the outlines through your top when you turned on the light. That made me very horny. You know; turned me on. I could barely keep it down. Then I saw one through the sleeve opening and...." His voice trailed off. "Uh, oh."

She froze in mid-stroke, afraid to move. "What's wrong? Am I doing it wrong? Does it hurt?"

"No, honey, it definitely doesn't hurt. It feels really good when you wash me, and that plus the thought of what your breasts looked like are starting to turn me on again."

A look of surprise crossed her face, but she forced it into what she hoped was a grownup expression. "Then I'm doing okay?"

"Oh, yes! In fact, if you aren't careful it might get hard again."

Her brows arched. "Really?" As he nodded, she smiled brightly and looked at his limp noodle to see if she could see any change in its size. Finding none, she resumed wiping it in silence, rinsed the rag again, and asked in as conversational a tone as she could manage, "What does it feel like when you get--turned on?"

He shrugged. "It's probably the same for me as it is for you."

Wynter avoided his eyes. "I don't know what that is," she said in a quiet voice. "Mother didn't tell me."

Her father watched her for a moment, his mouth open in surprise. "You don't know?" She shook her head. "Honey, have you ever--uh, masturbated?"

Her voice was almost inaudible. "Mother didn't tell me how to do that, either."

"Well, most mothers don't. You haven't learned to do it on your own?"

Wynter's eyes were moist as she looked into his and said, "No." Was this something she was supposed to teach herself, but had been such a child that she hadn't done so yet? But she didn't have the first clue as to how to begin. She didn't have a penis-thingy she could grasp the way she did her father's.

Richard guessed her thoughts. "Well, a lot of girls don't," he said, hoping she didn't ask how many since he had no clue to the percentages. "I would guess, based on what your mother and other women have said, that it's probably an empty or itchy feeling up between your legs, especially near the front. A feeling that demands some sort of attention."

Her hands stilled. "Is that what that weird feeling is?" she asked. "I've felt it before, but I didn't know what it was. Some times it won't go away for hours."

Richard was amazed at what she did and did not know. Surely she had friends who had by now discovered the delights of fingering the furrow. But, of course, Wynter spent much time isolated from them. His and Angie's needs were fulfilled by their jobs and their home. They hadn't consciously considered what Wynter's needs might be. Guilt swept over him, and not the guilt from letting his daughter handjob his joint to orgasm. "Well," he said softly, "now you know what you can do about it."

She shrugged. "But I don't know how. I wish your hands were loose so you could show me."

That did it. The image that rushed into his mind rushed a torrent of blood into his cock.

She felt movement in her hand and dropped her eyes to watch his erection sprout. "That has to be the neatest thing I've ever seen," she said with a trace of awe. She squirmed and added, "Daddy, that feeling is back. Am I getting turned on, too?"

The apology for erecting again died in his throat. "Probably. Well, this time you can do something about it." He hoped he didn't sound as eager to watch that happen as he actually was. Then he moaned as her hand encircled his rigid rod and pumped a few cautious strokes.

"Didn't I get enough out of you the first time?"

Richard explained the difference between sexual excitement and seminal pressure, and how they weren't related. "So it's a reaction to an emotional need, not a physical one. Understand?"

"I guess," Wynter said. She no longer made any attempt to avoid looking at her father's--her patient's--throbbing penis-thingy. His erection. She gazed at it openly and without embarrassment as her hand moved to show it from several angles. "But how come I feel it--I guess that's what it is--since I don't have any emotional need like you do with Mother gone?"

Richard shook his head. Wynter had always been brilliant, but sometimes she couldn't see a floodlight shining in her eyes. "Honey, I don't think you understand. Your mind and body are telling you that you do have an emotional need."

As her eyes lifted to stare at him, her hand lifted his pole and started jacking it with slow, gentle strokes. "But I'm not, well, having to do without."

Richard laughed gently. "You said you weren't masturbating. If you aren't hiding a boyfriend in your closet and letting him out at night, then you are doing without."

"DADDY!" She flushed a brilliant scarlet and looked away.

"'Daddy?' I thought I was your patient. Honey, your hormones are doing more to your body than just making your breasts grow and turning you into a woman. Well, no, I guess that those feelings are a part of them turning you into a woman. Anyway, they're what's causing the feeling."

"Oh." Wynter dropped the subject and began stroking his stiff stick, causing him to abandon the topic as well. The soft moan escaping from his throat made her smile. After several seconds her eyes wandered back to his. A thought struck her. "Would it help if you looked at my, uh--at me again?" She winced when she realized how childish she must have sounded.

Richard discovered he was staring at her top, trying to see through it. He met her eyes. "Honey, not if it makes you uncomfortable."

"I already said it didn't," Wynter reminded him, a smile flickering across her lips. And it didn't. In fact, the thought was causing the itch between her legs to intensify. She guessed that must be what it was like when he looked at her boobies. Her breasts, she corrected herself, not wanting to sound like a child.

Her tits. That thought caused the odd itch to surge in intensity. She squeezed her thighs together involuntarily and released his rod long enough to strip her top off over her head and flip her hair back.

Richard's eyes feasted on his lovely daughter's half-naked body as she twisted to show herself from several angles. She was long in the torso, the way he was, and slender like her mother, with arms that were skinny like a child's. The interplay of light and shadow made her ribs stand out below the small, wide-spaced hemispheres that looked soft yet firm, at the outer edges of her chest. Darker pink, quarter-sized circles drew his eyes to the small, round nipples that stood out as if inviting lips and fingers to caress, to worship them.

Her waist pinched in between her ribcage and her hips. Above the top of her pajama panties, her navel sat at the top of a small mound of--muscle or baby fat? He wished his hands were free to determine the nature of the filling under the smooth, creamy skin. And what lovely skin! Either she used moisturizer all over her body, or the dry mountain air hadn't begun to affect her the way it had Angie and himself. Her skin glowed with a smooth, translucent softness that made him want to sandpaper his fingertips to make them more sensitive before he stroked them over the surface of her body, her arms, her legs, her face.

"Honey, you are absolutely beautiful," he said, unable to keep a tone of awe from his voice. "I mean, I knew you were pretty, but a field of columbines growing in front of a waterfall would pale in comparison."

As he expected, she ducked her head and blushed at the comparison to her two favorite things. While she enjoyed compliments, she never knew how to react to them. Something else to discuss with Angie, he told himself. His list was growing.

Richard wished desperately that his arms, or at least his hands, were free of the casts and that they were large enough to touch her everywhere at once, the way he wished his eyes could focus on every square inch of her at once. Later he would wonder what she looked like under the pajama panties. At the moment, what he could see was more than enough to fuel his desire for a month. She was a superb blend of innocence and eroticism, the innocence of youthful beauty and the eroticism of blossoming sexuality. If I'm to be struck blind in this life, let it be now so that this would be the last sight, locked forever in my mind, he thought.

She reached for his dick and began pumping again. I wonder if somebody else masturbating me would make me go blind, he wondered. She froze when he suddenly laughed. "It's okay," he said. "I just thought of something funny, sort of a variation on an old joke." She gave him an uncertain look. He told her what it was and then had to explain it to her.

She looked confused but relieved. Apparently she had thought he was laughing at her, and he remembered her emotional roller coaster. "Never mind about the joke," he said. "We'll discuss it later. You're doing just fine, honey. It feels every bit as wonderful as you look."

Wynter blushed again and whispered, "Thank you," so quietly that he read it on her lips more than he heard it. Realizing she had slumped in girlish embarrassment, she straightened, thrusting her--her tits out for her patient to see. She squeezed her legs together because of that dratted itch as she turned to unblock the view caused by her right arm crossed over her body. The combination caused her thighs to rub that place and send a small, pleasant wave throughout her body, but she forgot about it when she realized she was in danger of bumping the suspended cast of her father's left arm.

She switched hands. "I'm sorry," she said after a minute. "I have trouble keeping the beat with my left hand. Do you want me to move to the other side of the bed where I can use the right one?"

The question brought Richard back from teetering on the brink of release. "No, honey, that's not necessary. I know sex has been called 'The Symphony of Love,' but you don't have to stick to any beat. You can think of it as a syncopated symphony, if that helps."

"Okay," she said in a small voice, wondering if her ignorance had made her seem childlike again. Well, one thing was for sure: hunching down every time she made a stupid mistake certainly made her seem so.

Again she straightened and thrust her tits--the word sounded strangely grown up to her and made her itch tingle more--forward for him, flipping back the hair that had crept around her shoulders when she hunched like a child. She watched her father's eyes roam about her body, always returning to her tits before wandering down another path. Every time they returned to her tits, the tip of his tongue crept out and swept along his lips. That triggered a forgotten thought which triggered a surge in the odd itching sensation. It was something she'd heard her mother say one night when she couldn't sleep and was about to knock on their bedroom door. "Daddy, would you like to suck my tits?"

"Oh, yes, honey!" he said in a gasp. "Oh yes! Oh, fuck! I'm cumming!" His penis-thingy swelled and began throbbing in her hand, the way it had when he had shot his semen earlier.

Fuck? Susie Middleton had told her that word. Susie didn't know what it meant, but she said that it was a naughty word that only grownups said to each other, and Wynter had better not use it around them. But Daddy had used it with her, just like she was a grownup. She smiled and swelled with pride just like his penis-thingy had swelled with--with what? She guessed it was the semen that made it swell up, since it went down after he shot it out.

And shoot it out he did! Again she held it to shoot upward, and again it splashed down all hot and wet and thick and sticky over her hand and wrist and his belly and legs. There wasn't as much as before, but she was still surprised at the amount. Even though it was one of the most exciting things she'd ever seen, she worried that the quantity meant she hadn't done it right the first time.

Wynter continued to pump her small, slick fist up and down the shrinking tube until he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Honey, that felt even better than the last time. You can stop now, because it's starting to get too sensitive."

Fear crossed her face. "Am I hurting you?"

He laughed weakly. "Not at all. It feels really, really good when you keep rubbing after I cum, but after a while my dick gets too sensitive. I have to tell you when that is, and then you can stop before it hurts." He looked sleepy, but there was another, happier, look on his face that she hadn't seen since his accident. Not counting, of course, after the first time he--he came. And he'd called his penis his dick. She wondered if she should start a notebook of all these new terms and what they meant so that she could use them properly.

"Oh, good grief!" he said in an exaggerated, playful voice. "I've really made a mess, and you'd just finished cleaning me up. I must be the most difficult patient you've ever had."

"Yep," she agreed with a bright smile that showed her perfect teeth. "I can truthfully say that except for Dragon, I've never had a worse one."

Five

Dragon decided it was time for his early morning trip outside. Wynter let him out while she replaced the cold water in the basin with warm water and rinsed the wash cloth which held most of her father's semen. She put her hair in a ponytail and went back to the kitchen to let Dragon in. He paused at his water bowl, but stopped drinking and tore across the kitchen floor when Wynter disappeared down the hall.

She opened her father's bedroom curtains. They watched in silence as the heavy snowflakes tumbled down from the gray sky. After a few moments she returned to his bedside. Since it was warm in the room, and since looking at her tits made her father happy--and that other word, horny--she left her top off, thinking she could put it back on if he said anything negative. She could just pretend she had forgotten about it.

She washed and rinsed his--his dick, he'd called it; another word to remember--and cleaned away the other traces of his semen. This time his dick stayed soft, though she noticed he spent much of the time looking at her tits. Perhaps this time she had done her job correctly. But she couldn't know unless she asked.

She didn't replace his pajama bottoms because he said she would have to bathe him after breakfast and would just have to remove them again. She put the wash rag in the bowl, toweled him dry, and sat on the edge of the bed, carefully turning to give him a good view of her boobies--no, her tits.

She looked him in the eye, because that's what grownups would do, though she desperately wanted to look anywhere else. "I have a stupid question."

His green eyes were looking directly into her blue-green ones, just like she was another grownup, but the smile that spread across his face was part of the loving gaze that a father gives his daughter. She hoped that fathers gave that same look to grownup daughters because it made a warm, tingly feeling spread throughout her, and she never wanted to stop seeing it.

"Honey, there's no such thing as a stupid question."

Her face melted into a sorrowful look that made him want to hold her in his arms and comfort her. "Well, this one is 'cause I don't know the answer."

Despite himself, he laughed. "Wynter, if you knew the answer, you wouldn't have to ask the question. If you asked anyway, then that might qualify as a stupid question."

She shrugged. "I just--I feel so ignorant about things I should already know."

He understood. "Really? Do you know how to do an F-seventh augmented fifth chord?"

"Sure."

"I don't. I don't know how to make any chords on a piano. I don't know an F-seventh augmented fifth from a C-major."

Her face brightened and grew animated. "I can show you. Just as soon as you get the casts off, I can ...."

'Maybe later," he said, cutting her off gently. "But since I don't know the difference, does that make me ignorant?"

"Well, no."

"Of course it does. No, let me finish. Being ignorant of something just means nobody has taught you yet." He emphasized the last word to be sure she heard it and understood. "Honey, everybody is ignorant of a whole lot of things, but over time they become less ignorant because they learn new stuff. Look how much you've learned since you woke up yesterday morning."

Wynter thought about that, then became angry with herself as she felt her cheeks warming. She sat straighter and thrust her tits forward, hoping they would keep him from seeing that her face was blushing like a child's. His eyes dipped to look at them, but quickly returned to hers.

"Wynter, it's not the same thing as being stupid, where people tell you things over and over and over and you still don't remember them. Smart is trying to learn the answers to your questions; stupid is living in ignorance when you don't have to. So don't you ever be afraid to ask somebody a question because you want to learn something. Especially of me. Okay?"

"Okay," she said in a small voice. "I love you, Daddy. Thanks for helping me."

"I love you, too, honey. Helping each other is what family and love and all that mushy stuff is about. Now: what's the question? Let's get it answered so we can get on to breakfast!" He gave her a wink and a grin.

Her head dipped slightly and a small smile spread across her sweet lips, causing the corners of her eyes to crinkle. The smile faded. "Why did you get, uh--horny?--erected that second time. Is it because I didn't to a good enough job the first time, 'n' all the semen I missed made it stiff again?"

"We're going to bypass college and go straight to graduate school, eh?"

The warm feeling tingled through her whole body again. Whenever her father said that, it was because she had surprised him with a grownup question, not something a child might ask. It really wasn't a stupid question after all!

He made a face. "If you'll scratch the side of my nose where it itches, I guess I'll have to go on a diet long enough to answer all your questions. Uh, you do have more than one question, don't you?"

Breakfast was late because her father had spent over an hour talking with her and answering all of her questions. He didn't try to hurry her, and he didn't duck away from any answers. She couldn't believe how wrong some of her assumptions had been, but he told her that her assumptions made perfect sense based on the knowledge she had at the time. Some people, he'd said, could watch the sun rise in the east all their lives and still assume that it might rise in the west tomorrow, ignoring what they knew.

She thought of more questions while she cooked breakfast. He answered those while they ate. She liked the way he talked to her as if she were a grownup, but still managed to tease her just enough to show that he loved her and was trying to make her comfortable. It was like the way he teased Mother. She thought about that while she loaded the dishwasher and then brushed his teeth and shaved him. When she was a nurse and had to train students, or when she was a mother and wanted to train her children, she wanted to talk to them just the way her father was talking to her so that they would feel comfortable and would want to learn from her.

Then it was time to fetch the bedpan. After all that had happened since she became his nurse, that was less difficult than either anticipated. She put the empty bedpan back in its place, gave him more coffee, and then kissed him before excusing herself to take her shower before his sponge bath.

The most difficult part of sponge-bathing him was removing and replacing his armless, one-legged pajamas because of the suspended casts. She took much longer than Mrs. Carter did, but he said that she also caused him much less discomfort. After that praise, her feet didn't touch the floor for hours. Wynter also took extra precautions to insure that she didn't wet the plaster casts and was gentle where the stitches had been removed the day he came home. By the time she was finished it was almost noon.

She was buttoning his pajama tops when her mother called from Geneva. She barely had time to tell her mother that she was now the nurse when the cell phone rang. She held the handset to Richard's ear with one hand and answered the cell phone with the other. It was Nurse Carter.

"I was worried," Mrs. Carter explained. "I hadn't heard from you, and then when I tried calling on the house phone I got a busy signal."

"Mother called. Daddy's talking to her now. We're doing great so far. He says I've been a good nurse. He says I'm a natural!"

She thought she heard Mrs. Carter laugh softly. "Well, I've been telling you that, too, haven't I? And that you'd also be a natural at being a doctor, too, if you wanted to go to medical school?"

"Yes, ma'am," she admitted, keeping her eyes on the handset she was holding to her father's ear. "But everything's okay here. We had breakfast, 'n' I gave Daddy his pills after I checked all his vital signs, just the way you showed me how to do them, 'n' I wrote everything on the forms. Everything was normal. I just finished his sponge bath. Oh, he's taking ibu...--i-bu-pro-fin instead of his pain pills because he wants to save those in case he needs them 'n' you can't get back here yet." She was gushing. She told herself to slow down and speak professionally.

"Very good," Mrs. Carter said. "Sheriff White said they should have the road clear late tomorrow afternoon, but I may have to park by the mailbox and walk the rest of the way. Did you have any problems with the bedpan or the urinal, since he's your father?"

Wynter liked the crisp, professional tone that Mrs. Carter used. She sounded just like one grownup nurse talking to another. "No, ma'am. But he's not my father, he's my patient."

Again she thought she heard a soft laugh, but the cell phone always had some static noise here, and Wynter couldn't be sure. "That's exactly the way to handle it," she said. "You really are a natural."

"Actually, it was his idea," she confessed.

"Only because he thought of it first. I know you. You'd have realized it yourself if you'd had some time to think about it. Can you interrupt to ask if he needs anything from me?"

He didn't. "That's nurse business," he explained. "You have to handle that. I'm just the patient, after all, and you are my professional."

Wynter's heart suddenly felt as if it were too big for her chest as the warm tingly feeling spread throughout her body again. "I guess that's all now. No, wait. When you talk to Dr. Taylor, ask him what's the soonest we can get Daddy's fingers out of the casts."

She had been afraid that Mrs. Carter would ask why, and she didn't know what she would say in reply, but there was no question. Mrs. Carter must have assumed that there was a good reason, and that was enough for her.

Ellen Carter stared at the phone on her desk, leaned back in her chair, and silently sipped her honeyed tea. Nervous tension slowly seeped away. She was certain that she'd have heard it in Wynter's voice, even over the noisy connection, if there had been any problems. The girl really was "a natural," but she was also a perfectionist, and her voice revealed when things weren't going perfectly. Professions with critical personnel shortages, like nursing, needed people who could do the job quickly and accurately enough for the current situation. Perfectionists, even the naturals, burned out rapidly.

Ellen worried about Jack's "problem." She'd had to remove the catheter because he was having frequent erections, and it was causing him additional pain, along with the pain from the semen buildup that stretched the damaged and weakened vas deferens. That would be why he wanted his fingers free.

She knew that she was within a day or so of having to find some solution for the problem, even if it meant masturbating him herself. Unfortunately, that was the only solution she could think of. Not that she'd have minded if he wasn't married--he was an attractive man, after all, with a wonderful sense of humor and a way of putting everybody at ease even before he said a word. But she couldn't afford to become involved with another married man the way she had in Pennsylvania. She liked where she was and the people around her.

She didn't want to be forced into moving again.

"We'll talk about it when you get back," her father was saying as she turned the cell phone off. Her eyes jumped back and forth between the phone she was holding to her father's ear and the one she was trying to place in the charger on the night stand. "But start thinking about where." After a moment of listening, he said, "I love you and miss you, too. Here's Wynter."

Her mother sounded pleased with the job she had done as the new nurse, and the warm tingly feeling spread again. Wynter gave her some of the highlights of her nursing activities, omitting any reference to certain new skills she had learned, updated Dragon's situation, reported that she had finally memorized that piano sonata, and told her what Mrs. Carter had said about the roads. She noticed that it sounded more like a conversation between grownups than their usual mother-daughter exchange.

"Well, darling, I'm counting on you to keep Daddy safe and comfortable for me while you're in charge," her mother said. "If I'm lucky, I might get to come home a day or two early, and I hope so, because I really miss both of you. I found a perfect present for you yesterday, and I'll bring it, too. The silly meeting's running after dark again, and it's about to resume. I have to go. I love you."

"I love you, too. Daddy and Dragon and I miss you. Bye." She hung up the phone, determined that this time the tear wouldn't trickle down her right cheek the way it had the last two times she'd spoken to her mother.

Richard recognized the struggle within her. "Wynter," he said to distract her, "let's not bother with the pajama bottoms. They're too difficult to put on because of the cast, and the covers keep me warm enough anyway."

She glanced to the sheet that was pulled up to his waist, happy for the distraction. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't want them in the first place. They were your mother's idea, and, stupid me, I never thought to tell Ellen that I'd be happier in a hospital gown after your mother left. Besides, it's plenty warm in here. You seem to be comfortable enough without a top."

He watched her eyes drop and widen. After her shower, she had donned frilly yellow pajama panties, but had left the top in the drawer. She'd been so busy that she actually had forgotten she was nude from the waist up. He was trying to forget that himself, which wasn't easy with her standing just a foot from his shoulder and him reclined at an angle that put her sweet, firm breasts at his eye level. Those beautiful, fresh young orbs, pushing their way out from her juvenile chest like new spring growth, were a mixture of child and adult that he found maddeningly enticing. And that very thought was about to awaken the Beast.

"Oh. Uh, do you want me to go put my top back on?" she asked in a hesitant voice.

No way in hell! he wanted to shout. Instead he kept his voice steady and said, "It's up to you. If you're more comfortable with it on, I understand."

"Not really," she said, with a casual air that convinced him she meant it. "You said you were a 'tit man.' Well, there aren't any other tits around for you to look at. Or do you only like to look at tits when you're, uh, horny? Is that the right word?"

"That's the word, though when you're in polite society instead of here alone with me, the word is 'excited' or 'aroused.'"

Wynter nodded. She felt no embarrassment or unintended reprimand at his words. He had covered that aspect of the names and nicknames of sexual objects and activities in their talk earlier that morning. He wasn't correcting her; he was only "reinforcing the lesson," the way he had said all of her teachers would do in nursing school.

"And as for when I enjoy looking at titties, honey I like looking at them anytime, even when I'm not horny or excited or aroused." The way he emphasized those last words and his facial expressions when he spoke them caused her to laugh. In a softer voice he added, "Sometimes just looking at them can make me horny when I'm not."

Wynter's eyes shifted to his crotch, half expecting to see the sheet move. That odd, itchy sensation down there suddenly returned. When she looked back to his face, his eyes were on her chest and the tip of his tongue was disappearing back into his mouth.

She remembered. "Daddy, when I was--uh, jacking you off?--that last time, you said you'd like to suck on them, but then you--uh, came? Do you still want to?"

Richard struggled with both the physical Beast that he could feel beginning to swell and with the emotional Beast that desired his lovely pre-teen daughter. He knew that the answer had to be a resounding "No!" It's the only possible, permissible answer. It isn't morally right. She's my daughter. She's only eleven years old. She's innocent. She has the most exciting body I have ever seen in my life. No! Bad argument! She's illegal jailbait that could land my ass in a sling for years. She's....

"More than anything else in this world," he heard himself saying, even though he wasn't finished arguing with himself. His argument might have been more successful if he had conducted it while looking at her face instead of her delicious young pink sweater-fruits. The battle between reason and desire, he suddenly realized, was unconventional warfare, and desire always fights dirty.

Wynter stroked his face with her left hand and smiled. "I guess you know you'll have to talk me through it," she said, liking the way she managed to avoid sounding childish.

"Huh uh!" he grunted. "Remember what I said earlier. As long as it doesn't hurt, there's no 'wrong' way. Honey, part of the fun of sex is learning about not only your partner but yourself, too. You experiment together, rather than following a script, to discover what pleases both people the most."

Wynter had remembered that and was pleased with herself for having done so. "Oh, I knew that part," she said in her most grownup tone. "I meant you'd have to talk me through it because of your casts, 'n' the ropes 'n' things."

"Oh. Well, let's see here...." Within two minutes they had the bed adjusted to an angle that placed his head where Wynter could comfortably lean forward, brace her hands on the other edge of the mattress, and have her small, pink nipples hover just above his face. The look on his face as he looked at the soft little mound in front of his nose made her heart swell with joy because she knew she was making her father--her patient--no, this was for her father--happy.

It also made the odd, itchy sensation explode down there.

The itch grew even more worse when she saw the sheet stir with movement because his dick was hardening. She wished she could help him with that immediately, but the suspended arm casts were in the way. She would have to wait until after he was through sucking her tits.

Sucking her tits. She liked the grownup sound of that, but she wondered what it would feel like for her. Her nipples were sensitive, though not as sensitive as when she was about to have her "friend visit." No! That wasn't what grownups called it. Like her father had said, when she was about to have her period.

She hoped that her father's sucking on her tits wouldn't be painful or even uncomfortable, but if it made him happy, she'd suffer through it as long as she could.

His voice interrupted her thoughts. "Honey, you can still change your mind if you want to."

She didn't want to, and the sound of his voice said he didn't want her to, either. She twisted slightly at the waist, rubbing the tiny knob of her left nipple across the tip of his nose. She had just invented a new version of her special kiss for him! He let out a moan that she now recognized as desire. Horniness. The itch down there became harder to ignore, and she squeezed her sleek, slender thighs together to try strangling it.

Richard was surprised by the coolness of the hard, pink nipple that brushed across his nose. Desire flooded through him in a torrent that almost washed away his guilt over what he was about to do. He was glad that Wynter still wanted him to do this because he wasn't sure she could have stopped him if she had changed her mind.

Well, that was stupid. All she had to do to stop him was stand up straight. But she didn't. And if he guessed correctly, she was as horny as he was, though she clearly didn't know what to do about it without his help. That thought triggered an onslaught of forbidden ideas that made him gasp and made his cock hard as iron as it pulled upright, tenting the sheet, and then continued on until it was aimed at his head. Despite himself, he wondered how many of those ideas he would be able to try with his daughter before Angie returned.

He also wondered how he would explain them to Angie. She had correctly assumed from one of his answers that his pain had been relieved by a handjob. She had incorrectly assumed that Ellen had provided the relief, which Ellen would have done if Richard had asked her, and he was on the verge of asking for that very favor. It was why he had wanted Ellen as his nurse: he had suspected that Murphy's Law might separate him from Angie for a few days. Angie didn't mind his using Ellen for relief because she understood the sharp pain that stabbed through his groin if the built-up semen wasn't released. She also knew that release through a wet dream was rarely effective for more than a few hours. She would understand that a handjob from Ellen was simply a medical procedure.

However, Angie was certain to be pissed that he'd used his own daughter. She'd get over it when she understood that Ellen was trapped in town, that he was in discomfort and Wynter knew it, and that it was Wynter's idea. Angie knew how determined Wynter would be once she realized that her father was in discomfort, if not pain, and that she might be able to help him somehow.

Angie would also be pissed that he hadn't done more to discourage their daughter, but she'd eventually calm down enough to understand there was little he could do about it. She would....

The tiny hard berry of his daughter's nipple brushed across his lips, and they automatically parted to enfold it. The little pink cone and some of the surrounding velvety white pad eased into his mouth as he applied gentle suction with his tongue, stroking it from her left to right because she was leaning over him from the side.

His nose drank in the faint, heady aroma of her freshly-scrubbed skin beneath the subtle bouquet of perfumed soap. He could imagine no sweeter aroma--except, perhaps, that of her virginal young cunt. He wondered if he would find a way to test his theory. As if from a vast distance he heard the gasp of her sudden intake of breath that pushed her sweet, sweet young breast gently downward toward the suction.

He'd have traded ownership of all the world for a mouth atop his head to suck the breast pressed there. He'd have traded twice that much to have his hands free. He wanted to hold his daughter, to squeeze her, to caress every part of her slender, nubile body at once. He wanted to run his fingers gently over every inch of her. He wanted to run his tongue over every inch of her.

God help him he wanted, to the very core of his being, to fuck her.

His hips began an autonomous primeval thrusting, rubbing the underside of his steely cock against the roughness of the sheet. If he hadn't already cum twice that morning, it would have been enough to get him off. For a moment he was almost angry, but then he was grateful. He didn't want the sheet to get him off, he wanted his daughter's gentle young hand to relieve him. Again.

Wynter was startled when her father's mouth swept around her nipple, taking it and part of her underlying tit into his mouth. Immediately afterward the wet roughness of his tongue pushed against her tender flesh and pulled across, suctioning a wonderful hollow feeling that ran from the tip of her breast--her tit--through her supple body to--there, where the itch was. The feeling both relieved the itch and made it grow stronger. That effect there made her gasp, and she gently leaned into him.

As her father alternated between sucking and licking, the hollow feeling throbbed. This, she knew, was being horny, and now she really understood why it was so necessary for her to give her father the relief he needed. But what about her own need?

Later, she told herself, after I take care of Daddy. The patient's needs come first. I'll ask him after that.

She closed her eyes and bathed in the fascinating new sensation her father was giving her through her nipple. It flowed through her body, warm and exciting, like the feeling she got when she was treated like a grownup, but even better. Eventually she opened her eyes, and realized she was moaning softly. When had she started that? It was what her father did when she jacked him off. She really was horny! That's what that feeling was down there.

Movement to her left. She looked. Her father's hard dick was outlined against the sheet, and he was slowly moving it up and down the sheet using his hips. She wondered if that's how fucking was done.

Wait a minute. She was also thrusting her hips. They were slowly moving, just as her father's were, and she was squeezing her thighs together as she pulled back. It felt really good down there, near the front, where her--her--what was that "c"-word?--was located.

Her father was also moaning--whimpering, really. It was in time with the rhythm of his rubbing against the sheet rather than sucking and kissing and licking her breast.

"Daddy?"

"Wha?" he asked without releasing her from his mouth.

"Would you like me to jack you off now?"

A low moan escaped from her throat as he again sucked and licked his mouthful before grunting a yes. As she lifted, he said, "But first I want to kiss and suck the other one, too, for just a second."

As she moved her right breast into place he said, "Wynter, you have the sweetest titties I've ever seen. They are every bit as wonderful as the rest of you. Oh, honey, I love you so very much."

"I love you, too," she said as she eased the nipple down to his mouth. She meant it with all her heart.

Five minutes later she watched less than a tablespoon of cum dribble down his upright cock and over her hand. "Better?" she asked when he opened his eyes.

"You bet!" His voice was exhausted but happy. "How are you doing?"

She stopped stroking and let her father's dick grow soft in her hand. It wasn't as much fun as feeling it grow hard, but still it felt nice, too. "I think maybe I'm horny."

"Well," he said with a yawn, "if you aren't, you did a superb job of acting like you were."

"I did?"

His head fell over to his shoulder, as if he hadn't the strength to keep it upright on the pillow, and he smiled at her with sleepy eyes. "Yep. It was fun watching you masturbate--what little I could see with your chest in my face. Not that I'm complaining about the view, you understand."

A look of surprise exploded across her face. "Masturbate? Me? How?" She was so surprised that the questions blurted out before she could think of a grownup way to ask them.

He looked as if he were trying not to laugh, but he did, though it came out as a strangled chuckle. A flush spread against her will. Drat! It was the first time she'd blushed in over an hour.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't laughing at your question. It was the look on your face, and I shouldn't have laughed at that, either. It's something all parents do at different times, and you'll do the same with your kids someday. You'll feel bad about it afterward, just like I do now, but you'll do it. If it makes you feel better, I'll tell you a secret: you'll do it because you love them so much that you can't control it. No, that doesn't make sense, but it's true. I didn't believe Grandpa King any more than you believe me right now. You won't understand until it happens."

"Daddy," she said, her eyes wide with horror, "I didn't say...."

"No, you didn't say it, honey, but you thought it. You forget that I used to be a kid, too. I'm not so old and senile that I've forgotten those days, you know. Now: let's answer that question and then you can clean me up.

"I think it's called 'thigh masturbation,' where the woman squeezes her legs tight against her clitoris..."

That was the word!

"...and releases, over and over. Supposedly some women can get off while seated in a crowded room and nobody will notice. Unless she starts screaming with joy, of course."

Wynter laughed, her eyes sparkling with both humor and understanding. And with joy of a different sort: her father was once again talking to her like she was a grownup.

His eyes flicked to her hand still wrapped around his soft dick and the wet love goo, as he had once called it in their talk, covering both. "If you'll clean us both up, then I'll talk you through getting yourself off with your hands. It's much easier that way."

"Okay." Drat! She had whispered again, like a kid. She gave him a big smile with lots of even, white teeth to let him know how she really felt. He smiled back at her, and she rose from her seat on the edge of the bed. She held her cum-slimed hand out for him to see. "There wasn't much at all this time," she said.

"Well," he said, trying to look apologetic and making her giggle, "that's the third time in just one morning. I haven't done that in--oh, I guess since before you were born. But I'll certainly make more, and you'll have to help with that, too."

"Good!" she said. That had sounded like an excited child, but she didn't care. She was playing, just like he was. She bent to kiss him, first on his nose and then on his lips, holding her ponytail in her right hand while her left hand hovered aside, carefully not smearing his semen everywhere.

She thought she felt his tongue gently caress her lips just before she straightened and turned for the bathroom. She wasn't certain, but it sure did leave a tingly, horny feeling there. In her "clitoris." Then she remembered. Susie Middleton, who had also called it a "clitty," had told her about "French kissing." As usual, Susie knew the term but not the reason for its name. Maybe it was how people in France kissed. It didn't sound very good, but apparently grownups really liked it and did it a lot, so she supposed she'd have to learn how to do it.

She was about to stick her hand under the running water when she noticed that the aroma of his semen--his "cum"--was making her horny clitty throb more. She brought her hand to her nose and sniffed. It was odd, but not unpleasant. She sniffed twice more before realizing she was doing thigh masturbation again, just like she'd been doing when Daddy was sucking her titties. Well, she was about to learn a much better way than thigh masturbation!

She washed her hand and filled the rinse bowl with warm water, putting it, the liquid soap, and a wash cloth on the tray.

Lost in thought, she almost tripped over Dragon as she left the bathroom.

Six

Exhausted by his third cum of the morning, her father had dozed off while waiting for Wynter to return with the wash cloth and warm water. She put the tray on the roll-away table and stood beside the bed, watching him for almost a minute.

He lay there at a forty-five degree angle with his green eyes closed and his head tilted down toward his left shoulder. His arms and right leg in their suspended casts looked terribly uncomfortable, and she supposed they were, but he never complained about them to her. The hem of his pajama top was pushed halfway to his rib cage, and his exposed, semen-coated dick hung over the left side of his scrotum--his nuts, or his balls, he had called them--the way his head drooped to his shoulder. His left foot and ankle were under the rumpled pile of the sheet.

His dark hair was in desperate need of a trim and shampooing, but he was still the handsomest man in the whole world to her. With as much gentleness as she could manage, she washed away the cum, dried him, and pulled the sheet into place. At the last second she leaned forward, holding her long blonde ponytail to keep it from tickling him, and placed a gentle kiss on his limp dick. Her father never moved, but she almost jumped out of her skin when the horny feeling exploded there between her legs as her lips touched his limp flesh.

The horny itch was more intense than ever while she rinsed out the wash rag and cleaned the washbowl in the bathroom sink. She wondered if "thigh masturbation" would help, and realized she was already doing it. It was helping--some.

She hung the wash cloth to dry, pushed the bowl to the back of the vanity top, and then braced both hands on the front of the sink. She began thrusting her hips and squeezing her slender legs together, really hard. It still helped some, but she knew she could do it easier with her hands. Her father had said so.

She wished he hadn't fallen asleep before he could tell her how.

No! She immediately took that wish back. That wasn't fair to him. He was, after all, badly hurt, and she was being selfish. She should have wished instead that he hadn't had the accident in the first place.

Okay, she would just have to teach herself. Or try to teach herself until he woke up. He had said that some girls taught themselves, so maybe she could, too.

Where? Her room? He might wake up and need her, and it was her responsibility to be there with him if he needed her. Okay, then: his room. But what if she made too much noise and disturbed him while he was getting his rest? He really did need to rest so his body could heal. Mrs. Carter had explained that part of healing to her. And he had said something about "screaming with joy." Would she do that and wake him up? Maybe she should just wait.

But the--the horny feeling was so strong!

Okay, she decided as she entered his recovery room, I'll just experiment. If I can't be quiet, then I'll stop until he wakes up.

Now where? Her sleeping bag or the chair? Her sleeping bag, she decided, would be best because she didn't know what would happen when she did it. She might pass out or fall over or something strange. She didn't know if that was possible, but a nurse was supposed to be prepared for anything.

She slid off her frilly yellow pajama panties and carefully spread them in the seat of the chair. Her white cotton panties joined them, and then she lay down on top of her sleeping bag, spreading her legs so that her knees were at the sides of the bag. Dragon watched briefly from where he had sprawled at his door guard station, then lowered his head.

Wynter felt strange lying there naked on the floor. It would have felt strange to her even if her sleeping father and Dragon weren't in the room with her. No, that was being childish, she decided. After all, she had already been half-naked in the room with her father awake, and she'd seen--she'd handled--his sex stuff. And she'd been eager to let him teach her how to masturbate with her hands. What did she think she was going to do--sit in her room and listen to him over the intercom?

She arranged her pillow and a fold of the sleeping bag to raise her head. She looked down the long, white distance between her titties and across the slight rise of her tummy to the small fluff of blonde hair on the bulge right there at the beginning of her vaginal region. Her split. What else was it Susie had called it? She had forgotten to ask her father what adults called it, but she was too horny to care now. She idly wondered if her father would like looking at her down there, too, and felt the horny sensation grow stronger.

She ran the fingertips of both hands through the fine hair that looked like corn silk where it grew just above the point of her split and down the fat little pads on either side of it. That felt nice and made the horny feeling stronger, but it didn't give the relief that thigh masturbation had.

Her fingertips pressed down on the fat little pads and slid downward. That felt better, and it helped a little more. She slid her fingers back to the beginning and then pushed them toward each other, squeezing her clitoris--her clitty--between them. Her clitty was hard. Her father had said it was like a tiny version of his dick, and it sort of felt like it. Her fingertips met and squeezed her hard little clitty between them.

She gasped at the wave of pleasure that radiated outward from it like heat from a candle. It was like the warm feeling when she was praised for acting like a grownup, but lots more intense.

She pulled her fingers back and then pushed them together again. And again. And again. She began to understand why her father liked having her stroke his dick so much--it felt so good that she didn't have words to describe the sensation. She was making the horny feeling grow stronger, yet she was also relieving it at the same time. That seemed odd, but she could worry about the reason for that later. Or she could ask her father. He would know, and he wouldn't think it was a dumb question, either.

That noise--she was making a squishing noise when she squeezed and a smacking noise when her fingers pulled back. She hadn't urinated--peed, the grownups would say. Then she remembered: had her period started early? Drat!

She slid a fingertip into her split and down to her vaginal opening. Cunny was what Susie had called it, and no, Susie didn't know why it was called that, either. As her fingertip slid along her clitty the wonderful feeling seemed to grow ten times better. Her eyes made big circles and she gasped, but she had to check her cunny. She didn't want to get blood all over her sleeping bag if her period had started, and as much liquid as she found between the two flaps inside her split and at the entrance of her cunny, she just knew that this was her strongest period yet.

She steeled herself before removing her finger, reminding herself that nurses couldn't be squirmy about the sight of blood, and then lifted it to where she could see...

...that it was covered in a clear liquid, not blood, that felt something like her father's cum, but slicker. It must be her "natural lubrication" that he had mentioned when she asked him about the mechanics of sex, sort of like the natural lubrication that oozed out of his dick after he got hard but before he came. She jumped up and rushed to the bathroom for a towel to place under her butt to keep from staining the sleeping bag. Then her fingers moved back to her split.

She slid one finger between the two flaps and noticed that they seemed not just thicker but also longer, too. Normally they were even with her split, but now they seemed to stick out a little bit past the edge of it. She slid the finger along her clitty again. This time the wave of pleasure was like heat from a fireplace.

After a little experimentation she discovered the most comfortable way to rub her clitty that gave her the most pleasure. Strange: it wasn't the same as the way she rubbed her father's dick. But he had said there were different ways to do it. After a while it became uncomfortable, but she could dip her finger in the slippery wet pool of natural lubrication and then go back to rubbing. Strange how the horny feeling got better, yet got stronger and more demanding at the same time. Strange, but fun because it felt really good!

She began to understand her father's reactions as she jacked him off. She must be experiencing the same feelings. But what made him cum, and how did that feel when he did it?

Without conscious thought on her part, her fingertip dipped for more lubrication and resumed rubbing along the side of the tiny hard stick of her clitty. It felt really intense when she rubbed the tip of it, but she could take only a few seconds of that before it became uncomfortable, even with lubrication. But along the side and bottom like this--that must be what her father felt when she rubbed the sides and bottom of his dick.

The feeling got stronger whenever she thought of her father's dick. Her mind replayed the times she had jerked him off, and her whole cunny felt like a giant spring was being tightened inside it. She remembered the feel of his dick in her hand, the sight of the cum shooting upward, its hot wetness as it splashed down around and over her hand, how slick his dick was when she began sliding her hand along his shaft instead of working the loose skin up and down it. The spring grew tighter and her clitty seemed to swell.

She thought of the kiss she placed on the dick of her sleeping father.

The overwound spring exploded in a thousand pieces, each one surfing through her body on a wave of super-wonderful pleasure that she never dreamed even existed, let alone could be felt by anyone, especially by young Wynter King. She felt her cunny spasm like a charley horse in her leg, except that in her cunny it felt good! Her clitty was the center of the universe, and wave after wave after wave of pure, absolute, wonderful pleasure was pulsing out from it, and she never ever wanted it to stop.

Richard awoke, though his eyes remained closed against the light. The twist in his neck was becoming painful. He twisted his head to the right and stretched it to relieve the kink that was developing. He should have Wynter lower the head of the bed so he could sleep comfortably, but she wasn't in the room. If she had been, she'd have jumped to his side when he moved. Perhaps she was preparing lunch. His stomach said it was time....

Soft, faint whimpers reached through his drowsiness and slapped his mental face into full consciousness. There was no mistaking what they were. His eyes opened. The noon sun was almost poking through the clouds despite the heavy, wet flakes that were still cascading from the clouds. He turned his head back to the left and raised his head as much as he could.

Because of the bed and his left arm cast, he could see just Wynter's head, shoulders, and the very upper part of her chest where she lay on her sleeping bag. The swell of her growing breasts was hidden by the arm cast, and there was no way he could move enough to see around it. Damn. Her sweet sweater-meat excited him more than any other pair of knockers he had ever seen, large or small. He wasn't certain whether that was because of the forbidden aspect of his family relationship to her, the forbidden aspect of her pre-teen age, or just because they were so goddamned cute. All of the above, perhaps.

Her eyes were squeezed shut and her lips were drawn back in a grimace. Her right shoulder was moving, responding to the movement of her hand which he knew was buried in her young furrow--he could hear the liquid, slurping sounds of her fingers moving in her wet flesh. She was panting like Dragon on a warm day, with an occasional moan or grunt slipping softly from her throat like an escaped prisoner seeking freedom.

Richard suffered from mixed emotions. He had anticipated having her sitting in the chair beside him where he could watch her fingers discover the pleasures to be found in the honey-drenched valley at the bottom of her delicious naked body, where he could watch the expressions on her beautiful young face as she felt each new thrill that her fingers could coax from the slippery wet toys she had owned for eleven years but had never played with.

He was also happy that she had discovered the joys of masturbation on her own. Children should make that discovery themselves. He'd been half her age when he discovered that he could have more fun with the Beast than with the entire contents of his toy chest. If she weren't so damned isolated during parts of the year, then perhaps she'd have heard about the act from some little friends who had already discovered that a finger in the right spot beat a Barbie doll hands down.

He again was shamed by his guilt over the disadvantages Wynter had experienced because he and Angie had wanted to indulge themselves with this isolated house. But that would be corrected soon enough. He'd told Angie that they would be moving when he was able to resume a normal life and to think about where she wanted to move. She hadn't understood why, and she didn't have time to stay on the phone to talk, but she knew that he was serious; she knew he had already decided for Wynter's sake, and that nothing she could say would change his mind. Not that she would try to change it once she understood.

His attention was jerked back to the present by the strained groan coming from below the foot of the bed. His daughter's dark red face was now turned toward him. Her blonde eyebrows had been pulled together by the grimace distorting her fragile beauty. In the quiet of the room he could just hear the squishy sounds that indicated how rapidly her fingers were now moving in her juicy young twat. A soft, "Ah!" was repeated and then stretched into a long "Eeee!" sound as her head thrashed back to her left.

And then she came.

If his hands had been free, Richard would have been trying to beat the Beast back to life, but it was as dead as last Tuesday's road kill. But then he'd have been distracted from the spectacle barely visible to him.

He thought words were mixed in with the soft grunts, groans, and gasps that his young daughter voiced as her first ever orgasm rippled throughout her, but they weren't clear enough for him to be certain.

She slowly wound down, and her "aaah"s of pleasure devolved into happy giggles that made him ache to hold her while she was still a child and told him that her childhood would end far too soon to suit him.

Her shoulders showed him the progress as tension left her body. Soon the vowel sounds ceased, but she continued to pant for air. Her head lolled back to her right, but her eyes remained closed for several more seconds.

Dragon had arisen when she started whimpering. He stood by her head and sniffed. Deciding she was apparently okay, he lay down by the top of her sleeping bag, just in case he were needed for an emergency. He put his chin on his forepaws and watched her.

When Wynter's eyes opened, they were looking directly into Richard's. They went wide and she gasped.

He had anticipated it. "I see we left the classroom and went to the lab exercise," he said with a huge, heartfelt smile. "We did good!"

The moment's hesitation on her face vanished in a smile all white toothed and coral lipped and beautiful. "The classroom was closed," she explained, pleased with how grown-up she sounded, "but I didn't want to get farther behind on my lessons."

"I liked that last chord. Was that an F-seventh augmented fifth?"

To his surprise she didn't laugh. Instead, her face jumped to the panicky expression she wore when she decided she had made a mistake. Now what have I said?

She bolted upright and scooted back so that he could see her face. He told himself to concentrate on that and ignore those heavenly young titty mounds for a moment or two. "Oh, Daddy, I didn't mean to make noise and wake you up!"

"But you didn't, honey. A neck spasm woke me up, otherwise I'd have slept right through it." Well, that might not be exactly truthful because her orgasm itself was a little loud, but perhaps he might have slept through that, too. He was exhausted, after all. But her face returned to normal, then to mother hen's look of concern.

"You have a neck cramp? Do you want me to rub it?" She rose quickly to her feet.

His eyes locked on the small blonde thatch. The hair next to her slit gleamed wetly. Peripheral vision noticed that her head dipped as she froze in place and looked down.

"Oh." Her head came back up, but his eyes wouldn't--couldn't--rise to meet hers. The Beast stirred, and she smiled. "Do you like looking at me like this, too?" she asked in true innocence.

Richard's mind raced to find the right thing to say, but his mouth opened and blurted, "That has to be the cutest little pussy that was ever created. It never occurred to stupid me that you were growing hair on it."

Wynter felt the warm glow spread through her. "Pussy." Another word for her to remember. "I'm glad you like it," she said with a shy smile, forcing her head to stay up so that she could look him in the eye like a grownup. His eyes however were still locked on her split. Her pussy. "But Daddy, what about your neck?"

"Huh? Oh. It's okay now."

She wanted to get closer to him, but then he wouldn't be able to see her pussy, and he really seemed to be enjoying looking at it, the way he liked looking at her tits. Her mind raced for a solution. "Daddy, do you want me to sit on the edge of the bed so you can see my pussy better?"

"Yes," he whispered. She was surprised because her father suddenly sounded like a kid, and looked like one, too, the way he stared with wide eyes.

She perched on the edge of the bed with her left foot on the mattress, then flopped the leg over his left leg, but not bumping the right one in the cast. She had just enough room to hook her heel onto the edge of the mattress and spread her legs for him to see her pussy. When she did so, the horny ache in her clitty returned to life.

"Guess what?" she said in an excited voice. "I think I came!"

Her father's eyes roamed over her pussy. It was all wet with her natural lubrication smeared over the half-inch long, fine blonde hair around her split, and she wanted to go wash and dry it for him, but he seemed to enjoy looking at it anyway. "Honey, I know you did."

"Really?" Her wide-eyed smile faded into a look of satisfaction. "It was awesome! Thank you for telling me that I could do that. I never knew it would feel so--so--awesome!"

"It was my pleasure. Yours, too, I see," he added in an exaggerated voice. They laughed together, and then he spoke quietly, as if embarrassed. "Honey, next time you need to get off, maybe--maybe you could sit where I could watch?" If he had tried to hide the hopeful tone in his voice, he had failed miserably.

"Sure," she said. "I just wish your hands were free so that you could do me the way I do you. If--if you'd like to, I mean."

She watched his eyes change to the way they looked when he was trying to decide something hard. He was quiet for many long seconds, not moving except for his eyes. She guessed that whatever it was, it must be something very important, so she remained seated there with her legs spread and the itchy horny feeling growing stronger. She was thinking about rubbing her clitty with her fingers when he finally spoke.

"Wynter," he finally said in a quiet voice, "have you ever heard of oral sex?"

© Russell Hoisington 2003