Message-ID: <50598asstr$1109664602@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <hoisingr@hushmail.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Message-ID: <200502282343.j1SNh7Iu060117@mailserver3.hushmail.com> From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2005 15:42:59 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} REV Wynter Part 1 01/02 {Hoisington} (Mg rom ped inc mast) Lines: 1100 Date: Tue, 1 Mar 2005 03:10:02 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2005/50598> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: hoisingr, akalexis, dennyw WYNTER by Russell Hoisington ************************************************************ This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are purely imaginary, and this story is NOT intended to be a guide for actual behavior. Any similarities between this story and actual people, or actual events that you should be ashamed of, are purely coincidental. If it is illegal in your part of the world to access and read erotic fiction, or if you are underage, or if you don't like sex stories, then stop now. This story is copyright 2003 and 2005 by Russell Hoisington. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. That does NOT mean that they are in the public domain, nor does it mean that I give permission for you to use them in spam advertising. I reserve the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by MY definition, not yours or anyone else's. Thank you for your consideration. ************************************************************ This is a 2005 revised version of the story with errors corrected and with a new chapter added to PART THREE: MOTHER'S LITTLE HELPER. WYNTER PART ONE: DADDY'S LITTLE NURSE One of Six 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 Nurse Carter. She got to the drug store, but then an avalanche blocked the road, and 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 and 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'd 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, looked up at her face, and began whimpering as she hung up the phone. 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! Nurse 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 for, 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 her 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 sudden awareness of her own femininity and latent 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 Nurse Carter called. Mother Angie 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 onto 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 of Six 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 and lips, 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 of Six 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 insure 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 and lips. 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-hard-on 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 a camera. He fought to clear his mind of the image of the narrowing of the waist above her hipbones and the ripple of her rib cage. 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 fewer 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 in her way just 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?" (Continued in Chapter Four) Copyright 2003, 2005 Russell Hoisington ************************************************************ We who write the stories you like to read have received, and continue to receive, a great amount of support from the people here at ASSTR (The Alt Sex Stories Text Repository). ASSTR's major service is the archiving of our stories to make them available to you, the readers. ASSTR is a non-profit organization and is staffed by volunteers. This operation is costly, and the only source of operating income is from donations. I ask that you consider donating if you have enjoyed my stories. Your donation will help insure they remain available for all to read at no cost. You can learn more about donating at this link: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html -- Russell Hoisington State of Confusion Stories archived at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/www http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/ http://www.storiesonline.net Concerned about your privacy? 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