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Message-ID: <50598asstr$1109664602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
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
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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                              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
       
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State of Confusion

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