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Oversexed Daughter


I tripped over an air hose. It had meant to hang it from the ceiling of the shop, but never got around to it. So when I fell, I caught myself on my hands, and sprained both wrists.

I was the only one in the shop at the time. I had to call my daughter Michelle to take me to the hospital. My wrists hurt like hell just dialing the phone.

Yes, she’s my real daughter. My dear departed wife and I adopted her when she was five years old. OK, so she’s not my biological daughter, but in every other way, we are father and daughter. I doubt many families are as close as we are.

When Michele was five years old, her drunken father had burned down their house, her mother said, “I don’t like the way people look at me anymore,” and just went away, leaving the little girl wandering the neighborhood looking for food. She came to our door, and of course we fed her. We told her over and over that things were going to be alright. The police pieced together what had happened. A social worker came, we assumed to pick up the little girl. Imagine our surprise when the woman suggested we take custody of the child ‘for a while.’ My wife and I melted. Of course we’d take care of her. A year later, we officially adopted her.

Our son, Cameron, who is a year older, loved Michelle from the start. They were always together, always plotting and executing little childhood adventures.

They grew up, and joined me in the business. We manufacture a line of bicycle accessories in our own little 5,000 square foot workshop, along with about twenty employees.

Michelle looks strikingly like Gabi Butler. Even I think so. Making matters more complex, when she first saw Gabi in social media, Michele took up tumbling. Not cheerleading, just tumbling, to be more like Gabi, I guess. But on more than one occasion, people see her tumbling in the park, and gasp, thinking they were seeing Gabi herself.

However, that’s not Michelle’s most interesting quality. Oh, sure, she’s intelligent as well as athletic, but the one thing that sets her apart, for better or worse, is her sexual drive. It’s over the top, and has always worried me.

From the moment we took her in, we had trouble keeping clothes on the girl. She influenced my son, who started showing a dislike for clothing also. Pretty soon, we had two six and seven year old kids always running naked through the house. No big deal. My wife and I weren’t what you’d call nudists, but following our children’s lead we weren’t squeamish about going without clothing around the house from time to time.

We caught our kids playing doctor. We didn’t lecture them, but we did let them know in no uncertain terms what the limits are.

By the time Michele hit age eighteen, there was no longer any doubt that she was an oversexed maniac. She was masturbating all the time in her room. We caught her more than once. She didn’t seem all that concerned. She’d just say “Hi” and go on rubbing. Michelle was always talking about sex, even hung up some pictures of fully nude people on her bedroom walls.

It took me a very long time to ask, because I didn’t want to know: Had she been sexual with Cameron? Yes, just recently, they had been playing with oral sex. As to actual intercourse, she almost shocked me by saying that she had never had regular intercourse, and furthermore never planned to, with anyone. She feels that’s too dangerous.

Oh, I was so proud of her in that moment! I feel that’s a very good compromise for a nymphomaniac, and I have to admit, that’s what she is. She went into specifics, which kind of sickened me, but on another level sparked something deep and primal in me. She told me that she and Cam had been exchanging handjobs, and blowjobs. She just came right out and said “blowjobs” as easily as one says “apples” or “milkshakes.” From what she tells me, she and Cameron never really got started until shortly after she turned eighteen. She said it would have ‘defocused’ her, whatever that means. I suppose what the two of them want to do, it’s OK. They’re not blood relatives after all.

But Cammy isn’t the only one. She’s had dozens of boys, and girls, over in the past few months. They go up to her room, close the door, and who knows what goes on in there? Actually, I have a fairly good idea. I hear them trying to stay quiet and not quite succeeding. I’ve seen her visitors tip toe to the bathroom with no clothing. I’ve seen some of the young men with erections. Geez!

I no longer have my wife’s guidance. A horrible car accident took her from us a year ago. I felt something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. I convinced Michelle to see a shrink. I was surprised that she acquiesced without a moment’s pause. I think she knew that she was out of balance.

I was dying to ask how the appointment went, but knowing nothing about psychology, I wasn’t sure if I might be undoing some work if I interfered in any way. I waited three days, then finally Michelle opened up.

“The shrink said I’m a perfectly normal woman,” Michele told me. “Oh, yes, I have a sexual appetite, but I told her the truth, that I don’t want to fuck…” I cringed at how easily she said that word, “and that I love masturbation and mutual masturbation.”

“She said that since I’m so good at maintaining that balance, I can masturbate five times a day if I want to, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“That’s it?” I asked, wondering if the $225 for the appointment was well-spent.

“Well, she did give me a list of warning signs, which she had me write down. Like, if I show up late for work because I have to rub one out first, or if I start doing things that physically hurt my body in the name of sexual satisfaction.”

And that was it. That was a month ago. Everything has been fine in our household until the fall. I fell and injured my stupid wrists. Well, Michelle took me to the hospital, and they X-rayed my wrists, and nothing was broken. But I was wrapped in ACE bandages, and couldn’t even drive my own car. It would hurt way too much.

Michelle took me home. She settled me on the sofa, and told me to watch TV. She said I’d been working way too hard. She and Cammy would take care of me. He came downstairs and agreed. They’d do whatever I needed until my wrists healed.

I thanked them, and promptly fell asleep. It must have been the drugs they gave me at the hospital.

I woke up in the early evening to the aroma of a wonderful dinner, which Michelle hand fed me, like a little baby. I have to say I rather liked the attention.

As night came, Cameron and Michelle helped me up to my bed. My wrists were getting painful as the medicine was wearing off. I was determined not to take more medicine. I’ve never liked any sort of altered state.

In the morning I awoke, and discovered I couldn’t even pee. Although painful the day before, I had been able to do that. But now the drugs had worn off. Couldn’t get my penis through the opening of my pajamas. This was shocking, and I really, really had to go. I yelled for Cammy, but he had already left for the shop. That boy does like to get up early, and loves going to work. He’s certainly turning out to be a responsible – and happy – individual. Michelle yelled up, “He’s gone. I’m here. What would you like?”

“Oh, nothing.”

In a moment she was up the stairs staring down at me in bed. “Really, what can I do for you, Dad?”

What does one do in such circumstances? I really had to pee. As I’ve told the kids many times, the easiest way is always the true way. Tell the truth. You’ll be rewarded.

“Well, Mich, I have to pee.”

“Oh, I see.”

Then after only a brief hesitation, “Let me help.”

“Oh, gosh, I mean…”

“Come on, Dad. It’s not like your wiener is going to fall off in my hand if I help you to the bathroom. What’s the alternative?”

What was the alternative? I really had to go. And, I didn’t have to cringe because she said “wiener.” She was always forthright about sexual matters, nudity, and genitals. That’s my daughter, for better or worse.

“Come on, let me help you up…” She said, reaching into the bed.

“It’s my wrists, not my feet. I think I can get myself to the toilet.”

I tried to get myself out of bed, noticing at just that moment, I couldn’t do it without pressing down on the mattress with a hand, and that hurt something crazy.

Michelle helped me up, and walked over to the bathroom with me. Then it got weird. Without saying anything, standing behind me, she pulled down my PJ bottoms to my knees, leaving me totally exposed to my own daughter.

She was all very clinical about it. Still without words, she just reached over, grabbed my penis and aimed at the toilet bowl with one hand, while lifting the seat with the other.

“Go ahead, Dad.”

Now you’d think, with me needing to urinate very badly just a moment ago, that I’d start peeing right away. Not so. I had a severe case of ‘bashful kidney.’

We just stood there, frozen in time. Michelle holding my penis with one hand, and me not peeing. Something else started to happen instead. I started to become erect. This was horrifying! One simply does not get an erection when being assisted in an intimate way by one’s own daughter! But I was.

Then, it started to happen. The pee started flowing. My erectness subsided, and nothing was said about it, although Michelle would have to have been blind not to notice. Plus, I’m sure she could feel the swelling in her fingertips.

She led me back to bed, and helped me to recline without using my hands. She fluffed some pillows and started to leave, but not before this parting remark, “Hey Dad, It was cool feeling the piss flowing through your dick.”

“Um…” How does one answer that?

That’s all that was said, as she left the room and went down the stairs.

She brought me breakfast and lunch. She brought me her laptop computer so I’d have something to do besides watching TV. I shouldn’t have been shocked. I found a folder with a thousand pictures of naked people. Judging by the pictures, I could tell my daughter seemed to have a special fascination with male and female peeholes. I quickly closed that folder and got back to looking at random YouTube videos. I had to pee once more in the middle of the afternoon. Once again she helped. This time, I didn’t become partially erect. I became fully erect. I felt quite a degree of shame. Neither she nor I said anything about it.

After dinner both Cameron and Michele came to my bedroom to clear away the bed tray, and keep me company. We just enjoyed some small talk. Then Michelle, bless her weird heart, asked, “Dad, do you masturbate often?”

Good God! She just came right out and asked that. After what I’m certain was a long time of blushing and starting to say things, then changing my mind, I finally figured out the best answer would be the truth. First of all, it was Michelle. She was a sexual expert, if not a sex freak. The truth certainly wouldn’t hurt her innocence. Same with Cameron, really. He wasn’t a sexual fanatic like his sister, but he’d certainly know about, and be accepting of masturbation.

“Well, yes. Yes I do, especially since your Mom died.”

“You mean like daily?”

“Well, yes.”

“What are you going to do about it?”


“I mean you can’t jerk off with your wrists like that, can you?”

Where in the hell was she taking this conversation?

“Nothing, I guess.”

“But you would if your wrists weren’t broken?”

“They’re only sprained,” I quickly corrected.

“But you can’t jerk off like that, right?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Would you if you could?”

“Um, I guess… I suppose so.”

“Well, let me help.”


“Remember when you were peeing, and you became erect?”

The funny thing is that at this point, I was extremely embarrassed for Cameron to hear that.

“Yes, OK… well, OK, I did become a little bit erect.”

“It seemed like really erect to me.”

I was totally embarrassed. Chagrinned. Flustered.

“Cammy, help me get Dad’s pajamas off.”

I didn’t know what to say. What to do. Like an idiot, I just laid there as my son approached, and my two children started tugging on the elastic of my pajama bottoms. Worse, I scooched my butt up an inch in the air so they could complete the task.

And there I was, naked in front of my two kids. For some reason, Cameron’s eyes were as big as saucers as he just stood there looking at my penis. I wondered if he was thinking that he started there. That he was nothing but a sperm shooting out of my penis into his mother’s vagina.

The warm touch of my daughter’s fingertips took me out of my reverie. My God, she was handling my penis, and right there with Cameron watching.

She was an expert already, and only eighteen years old. She was touching me ever so lightly, tickling my frenulum and barely brushing her fingertips over my scrotum. My penis shot to attention almost immediately. This girl knew what she was doing!

She started earnestly giving me a handjob, and I was shooting sperm on my belly within 30 seconds. A handjob from my own daughter, and with my son watching.

“There, now isn’t that better?” She asked.


I was at a loss for words. It was indeed a spectacular orgasm, but the flood of emotions that filled me was beyond words. Embarrassment to be sure. But also some sort of horniness, some kind of pride – of what, I’m not quite certain. There was some fear, like I had opened a Pandora’s box. And finally, a sense of relief. No, make that freedom. It was that a ridiculous barrier had been broken. Why can’t a man get jerked off by his daughter if everyone is in agreement?

Only a day later, my wrists had started to heal. The bandages came off, and I could do light things, like feed myself. Pushing the toilet lever still hurt, and every now and then I’d roll over in bed to screaming pain. But I was definitely much better.

The next night, Michelle did not repeat the performance. Late at night I awoke, and just had to jerk off, remembering the situation from the day before. Wanking hurt my wrist a little, but I came hard, and it was worth it.

Weeks went by. I healed fully and got back to our little factory. You can bet I hung all the hoses, cords, and everything else that snaked along the floor. But here’s the thing: Our family dynamic changed. I wished my wife could have seen. She would have approved and probably even participated.

Now, many evenings finds the three of us in front of the TV, or just sitting around the living room discussing weather, business, or whatever comes up. But as we’re hanging out, we’re all nude, and one, two, or sometimes all three of us are masturbating. Why not?

1 thought on “Oversexed Daughter

  1. The daughter that every man needs. Kind of an erotic story. Gave me an erection. I liked her matter-of-fact attitude.

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