Message-ID: <15681eli$9809290527@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/15681.txt>
From: broker6@ix.netcom.com
Subject: Jenny's Dire Circumstance, pr 1
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <360F9021.6395@ix.netcom.com>

A word of "giving the devil his due" is in order here.  I got the idea
for this story from a longish story by Terry Shulz (@hotmail.com) titled
At His Daughter's Mercy.  In Shulz's story, a father who broke both his
hands in an accident is looked after by his daughter . . . with
interesting results.   This is simply an adaptation of that idea, but
I've turned the tables, putting a daughter somewhat at her father's
mercy.

Standard cautions apply . . . if you thing stuff like this will make you
go blind, either don't read it, or get a seeing eye dog.
=================================================
Jenny's Dire Circumstance

Jenny's plaintive voice rose higher and higher until it wailed above the
drone of the gas engine of the wood chipper into which she was feeding
small limbs her father threw down from the tree above her head.

Rourke Fielding, her father, felt more than heard her screams.  It
stopped him cold.  Before he turned to look down at Jenny, he new
something was terribly wrong.

By the time his eyes focused and found her, she had become a shaking
ball of humanity lying on the ground beside the still running wood
chipper.  Without hesitation, Rourke let his lithe six-foot frame slip
from the notch of the tree and hurtled to the earth below.  In one
flowing motion, he hit the kill switch on the chipper, while
simultaneously dropping to his knees beside Jenny.

"Jenny . . . baby . . . what happened . . . let me see," he said through
lips drawn tight across clenched teeth.

Jenny stayed in her balled-up, nearly fetal position, shivering, both
hands pressed firmly between her legs. 

"Sweetheart . . . let me see . . . le'me see!" Rourke pleaded, pulling
gently at her arms, trying to free her hands.

Slowly, through chattering teeth, Jenny said, ". . . my hands, dad.  My
hands . . . " 

She allowed her father to move her arms in little movements, as though
making large moves would further injure her.

"Please, Jenny . . . I've got to see what's going on.  I need to know
how bad you're hurt."

Jenny shivered again.  Rourke recognized the first signs of shock.  He
had to act quick.  Rather roughly, he pried apart her hands and was
almost overcome.  There, in his hands, were his daughter's two very
badly bleeding hands.  The crotch of her jeans, where she had placed
them, was also bloody.

Rourke took off his flannel work shirt and threw it over Jenny.  His
earlier military experience told him almost immediately that while her
hands were both badly scraped and abraded, including a couple of deep
cuts, these injuries alone would not produce the kind of pain she seemed
to be suffering.

With her hands now apart and elevated above her chest, Rourke leaned
closer and noticed that the crotch of her jeans was not only bloody, it
appeared that the material was flapped or frayed or cut open.  Gingerly,
he picked at the fabric and was surprised when it flopped open exposing
her 14-year-old pussy.  Rourke didn't have time to be embarrassed, but
he was momentarily surprised.  My God, he thought, doesn't my daughter
wear panties anymore?

Then, Rourke realized that the crotch of her panties was folded in among
her torn jeans.  Also, there was too much blood in her crotch for it to
have come exclusively from her hands.  Her labia was bleeding, which
meant a cut or a tear.  

Slowly, it was coming clear in his mind.  There had been some kind of
accident, some kind of recoil from a branch or branches Jenny was
feeding into the machine.  The end result was that something was either
torn from her hands, or thrust back at her, or both.  The force of it
had shredded the inside of both hands, tore the crotch of her jeans and
panties and severely scratched or cut her genitals.

Without another moment lost, Rourke scooped Jenny off the ground, placed
her in the car and sped off to the emergency room where Jenny was
admitted within minutes.  The nurse looked tentatively at Rourke, a look
that said, "I'm not sure I should let you go in with . . . a little
girl."

But Rourke was used to this sort of thing by now.

"I'm her father," he said, and the nurse let him pass.  This sort of
thing had been happening for the last five years, ever since he and
Mandy -- Jenny's mother -- had split up.  Mandy had big ideas about
becoming a corporate girl in the big city.

"So," Rourke had said as she drove away those years ago, "little old
Mudville is just too boring for you, huh?"

"Tha's right, big fella," she said, and that was that.  Suddenly, Rourke
found himself in charge of not only his job, but a home, all the duties
of a mother AND a 9-year-old daughter.  The first year was the worst. 
But Rourke got onto it.  Admittedly, the way he made beds could be
better, and he occasionally singed the gravy, or the meat, or the toast
or the oatmeal.  But, little by little, he and Jenny got it running like
a -- well -- like an oiled, if not a slightly singed machine.  Over the
years, both Jenny and Rourke kiddingly referred to his cooking as "burnt
offerings."

All in all, they had come to love and rely on each other.  Admittedly,
as Jenny got older, her "hurts and ouchies" seemed to become more and
more serious.  From the occasional skinned toe and finger to this,
Rourke reflected as he sat with his arm around her while Jenny lay on
the gurney waiting for the doctor.

Moments after his arrival, the doctor, a kind looking man of about 40,
asked Rourke, "Is your wife here . . . could she come in, please?"

Rourke sighed and swallowed an urge to bark at the doctor about being
tired of hearing all this for the umpteenth time.

"Sorry, Doc," Rourke said, "I'm all there is.  Jenny's mother . . . ."
"Oh," interrupted the doctor, "I didn't know."  He said it the way
people say they didn't know your brother or sister has just died. 
Rourke was too tired and too concerned for Jenny to correct the doctor. 
Jenny had been through this "where's mommy" thing many times, too, and
didn't correct the doctor, either.  Instead, Jenny and Rourke traded
glances.

"What do you need her mother for?" Rourke asked.

By now, the doctor and the nurse had removed Jenny's jeans and torn
panties.  The nurse, awaiting the conclusion of this conversation
between the doctor and Rourke, had covered Jenny with a sterile sheet.

"Well . . . here's the problem," the doctor began.  He went on to
explain that none of Jenny's wounds were terribly threatening.  Of
course, infection could show up anytime if they weren't careful.  In
fact, the doctor was particularly worried about just that in regard to
the wound to Jenny's genital area.

"I'm going to have to take a couple of stitches, and this area is going
to have to be kept clean . . . very clean," the doctor said, stressing
"very clean."

"Yes???"  Rourke said, a question in his voice.

"Well," the doctor said slowly, "She's cut across both vaginal lips. 
Her hands will be completely bandaged and will have to stay that way for
at least a week, maybe 10 days.  Someone is going to have to clean and
apply an antibiotic ointment to her vaginal area two or three times a
day . . . "
The light came on for Rourke . . . the reason for the doctor's seemingly
addle-brained stammering about Jenny's mom.

"Ahhh . . . " Rourke sighed, and as he said it, he put his hand to his
forehead.  "Well, Doc, we live way out on the edge of town, pretty much
by ourselves.  But I'm sure my neighbor's wife would be glad to come
over and  help."

The doctor seemed relieved, but still he seemed hesitant.

"Ahhh . . ." the doctor said.

Rourke squinted and looked questioningly at him.  "Yes?"  What could it
be now, he wondered.

"Well, it might be better if you stepped out . . ." he said turning
slightly to indicate Jenny, who was laying on the table, covered with
the sheet, which had begun soaking blood from her wounded cunny lips.

Rourke signaled he understood and turned to go.

"Daddy?" Jenny said.

Rourke turned and was about to say something about how it would be best
if he left for now when Jenny, reading his face, scrunched up her face
and began crying.  "Please don't go . . . please."  Jenny shivered again
as she had done when the accident first happened.

Seeing this, the doctor nodded his head imperceptibly at Rourke, a nod
that said, "Well . . . after all, you are her father and the only parent
she has . . . I suppose it's okay . . ."

For the first time since this had happened, Rourke felt a knot of anger
in his stomach, followed by a tightening in his throat.  This was, after
all, his daughter, his flesh and blood.  Damn all this false modesty. 
Hell, he and Jenny had been the only occupants of their home for years. 
In that time, in one way or another, they had seen each other, and so
far nothing had happened.  But more than that, Rourke resented the
implication in the doctor's voice.

Rourke turned and put his hand on Jenny's forehead and stroked her
hair.  "It's okay, baby.  I'm here . . . and I won't leave, no matter
what."

Jenny stopped crying, but her shivering continued.

"Nurse," the doctor, "why don't you give Jenny, here, a mild sedative .
. . something to help her get through this."

Within minutes, Jenny was visibly relaxed.  The doctor attended to her
hands first, cleaning the wounds, disinfecting, applying medicated
ointment and bandages.   When finished, Jenny's hands looked like
bandaged baseballs.  They were going to be useless for several days.

By now, the sedative had taken full effect, and Jenny lay quite still. 
Her eyes drooped every now and then.  The nurse and doctor traded
glances, a knowing look that said things were okay, that Jenny was just
where she needed to be from the sedative.

Gently, the nurse lifted the sterile sheet from Jenny's mid-section. 
Jenny stirred, but the doctor calmed her.  "You may feel a tiny poke or
prickly feeling, Jenny.  But it won't last long . . . okay?"

"Umm-hmmm," Jenny moaned.

With that, the doctor picked up a loaded hypodermic needle.  He
stretched one of her pussy lips slightly, dabbed on an antiseptic, and
slid the needle under the skin near the cut.  He did the same on both
sides of the wound on the left labia and then repeated the procedure on
the other side.

Rourke both sensed and knew just about what was going to happen, and
trying to satisfy what he thought the doctor was after, he made a
conscious effort "not to watch."  But, of course, with all this fresh on
his mind, including the anger that still knotted his gut, it was almost
impossible not to see.  He would have had to turn completely around and
face the far wall not to see.  "Damned if I'm going to do that," he
thought.  "Hell, I'm an adult and this is my child and there's a doctor
and a nurse present . . . Damn!"

So, Rourke did not turn away, but he did not make an effort to "see." 
Still, the harder he tried not to, the more he saw.

The doctor, having finished injecting the pain killer into Jenny's pussy
lips, waited a moment, and then gently pinched each lip, rolling it
between thumb and forefinger.  Blood oozed from the wounds.  The nurse
produced a razor and soapy liquid.  Together, the nurse and doctor,
acting very carefully, began shaving Jenny's pussy lips.  It was not a
complete shave.  It was designed more to remove her soft and still downy
pubic hair from the wounded area.  With that done, the doctor made a
more thorough inspection and discovered the minor labia had also been
scratched, but the delicate skin in that most moist and pink areas had
not been cut.  More to himself than to Rourke or the nurse, the doctor
said, "Ouch . . . that's going to be sore for awhile, too."

As the doctor continued his search of Jenny's mound and all it's folds,
Rourke could not help but notice her hood and clit.  It was, by fully
grown adult standards, still somewhat tiny, all tucked in.  But no
mistake, a hood and clit it was.  He wasn't sure whether it was swelling
or not.  If it was, it was probably involuntary, due to the doctor's
manipulations.  Or is this just my way of  . . . of what? he wondered.
One thing for sure, he thought, it really had been a long time since he
had seen this part of Jenny.  A couple of years, at least.  He would not
have admitted it to anyone, especially the doctor, but the sweet little
pussy being manipulated before his eyes looked very much like "a loaded
gun" to Rourke . . . that is, very much like an instrument that could
capture the attention of any man anywhere on the planet, and just now,
it had captured Rourke.  In his mind, Rourke envisioned himself raising
his hands above his head and saying, "I give up . . . take me.  I'm your
prisoner."

As quickly as this thought came to him, he fought it.  He tried to beat
it back.  But not thinking about it was like putting out a pesky brush
fire.  Stomp it out here, it springs up over there.  As awful as it
felt, as much as he tried, Rourke was mesmerized as the nurse and doctor
put a couple of tiny stitches in each labia.

That done, the doctor placed what looked like a panty liner over Jenny's
half-shaved little pussy and taped it at both ends.

"When you get her home, help her put on a clean pair of panties to hold
this in place.  It wall collect what little blood there will be from the
wound and provide protection for her for a few days.  Have her use these
liners for at least a week.  The stitches I put in are self absorbing. 
They will disappear in a few days.  Ask you neighbor to watch for
infection . . . you know, red streaks, oozing . . . puss . . . things
like that . . . okay?" the doctor said as he released Jenny and Rourke.

On their way out, the doctor handed Rourke a large tube and explained
that this was the antibiotic he -- his neighbor lady -- was to apply to
Jenny's wounds.  "Have her apply it liberally, and work it in.  We need
to keep that area protected and soft."

On the ride home, Jenny seemed to be running on about half her
cylinders.  She was groggy from the hypo, and seemed to slip between a
light sleep and a dazed consciousness.  She roused when she noticed her
dad passing their house.

"I'm going down to the Larson's . . . see if Mrs. Larson can help us out
for a few days," Rourke smiled.

Rourke pulled to a stop and knocked on the Larson's door.  Jack Larson
answered and showed Rourke in.  In less than a minute, Rourke piled back
into his car, a look of consternation on his face.

"What's'it, dad?" Jenny asked.

"Mr. Larson is not home.  She's on one of her religious retreats.  Won't
be home for a week or so,"  Rourke said into the darkness of the car, a
bleak look on his face.

"Aw, don' worry, dad.  We'll manage somehow.  We always do . . ." Jenny
sighed, and slipped back into her stupor.

"Yeah . . . somehow . . ." Rourke repeated, thinking, "What now . . .
What now?"

Rourke got very little sleep that night.  Jenny, of course, passed out
from the pain pills.  She would sleep well.  But with the problems that
faced him in the morning, Rourke slept fitfully.  He finally fell into
sleep somewhere around three in the morning, but awoke around 7 a.m. to
the sound of his daughter calling his name.

In a flash, Rourke was on his feet and halfway down the hall.

"Jenny . . . where are you . . . what's'a matter?"

"In the bathroom, dad," she called.

However, like radar, Rourke had located her by the location of her
voice, and had already begun striding down the hall toward the
bathroom.  Her voice reflected concern and frustration.  What could it
be.  Torn stitches?  Rourke burst into the bathroom to find Jenny
standing helplessly beside the john, a look of total frustration on her
face.

"What is it, baby," he asked.

Jenny, dressed in a little hip length nighty, avoided her father's eyes.

"Dad," she stammered, "I . . . I . . . can't go to the bathroom . . ."

At first, Rourke thought Jenny was having trouble because of the
stitches, and instinctively, he craned his neck as though looking at her
genital area, which, in fact, he did.  He noticed she was still wearing
the panties he  had helped her struggle into before going to bed the
night before.

"Wha . . ."  Rourke was going to say something like, What should I, or
what can I do when Jenny interrupted.

"Dad, I can't get my panties off . . . can you help me, please?"

"Oh sure, baby," Rourke said.

Jenny turned to face her father, her two baseball sized hands hanging
uselessly at her side.  Still, she used her club-like  hands to try to
raise her nighty so her father could get at the waist band of her
panties.

Rourke slipped his fingers into the waistband and began tugging. 
Slowly, they panties slipped down over Jenny's hips.  Rourke couldn't
help noticing that these were not the straight, almost little-boy hips
he was used to seeing on Jenny.  And suddenly, one more thing bothered
Rourke:  He had come up out of bed so fast and was so concerned for
Jenny that he forgot all he had on was his shorts.  Not that he and
Jenny didn't occasionally run into each other in brief attire, but that
was usually one of those moments when one or the other was diving into
or out of the bathroom or their respective bedrooms.  But suddenly, as
Rourke began removing his lovely daughter's panties, he became quite
aware of his near nakedness.  Furthermore, from his squatting position,
he could see clearly the outline of Jenny's two perky cone-shaped
breasts beneath the flimsy material of her nighty.  But Rourke fought
bravely on.  Don't think . . . don't think, he commanded himself as the
panties finally slipped past the wide part of Jenny's hips and slipped
down her legs.  They fell in a puddle at her feet.

Instantly, Rourke noticed the little panty liner that was still held in
place with tape.  Whew!  he thought.  Saved.

Rourke scooted back as though to stand and go.

"Dad . . . " Jenny called.

"What . . .?" Rourke asked.

"That, too," Jenny said, dipping her head in the direction of the panty
liner.

"Ah . . . baby.  I . . ."

"Oh, c'mon, dad.  We can't stand on ceremony, here.  I gotta go.  It'll
be okay.  Just don't look . . . okay?"

Look or no look, Rourke knew he had to do this.  But he was becoming
quite concerned because as his reached gingerly for the little piece of
tape holding up the panty liner, his hand shook visibly, and worse, he
felt his cock begin to stir.  After all, it had been several years since
he had been this close to any female, and daughter or not, biology was
biology.  Perhaps she will be so busy getting herself situated that she
won't notice my half a hard on, he thought.

He gently tugged at the tape, which by this time had become quite stuck
to Jenny's tawny, still slightly wispy pubic hair.  Rourke tugged, but
the tape held.  Finally in exasperation, Rourke went to both knees in
front of his daughter and began using both hands, one to hold and push
the soft flesh of Jenny's mound and the other to pry away the tape as
gently as possible.

"Damn . . ." Rourke  muttered.  "Does that hurt?"

"A little," Jenny said, adding, "can you hurry, please.  I really have
to go."

"Okay," Rourke said.  "Hang on.  I've about got it," he said, tugging. 
Then, mumbling, he added, "We're gonna have to get you shaved if this is
how it's gonna be."

"Jenny giggled, but added, "Ooohhhh, hurry dad."

Finally, the tape surrendered it's last pubic hair and the liner fell
free.  Suddenly, Rourke was nose to nose with Jenny's budding hooded
clit, a pink little pearl of a thing nestled in that wispy pubic hair. 
Rourke froze.  His cock had begun to do some serious growing.  He had to
get out of there.  He turned again, wheeling on his knees hoping Jenny
was so intent on peeing that she wouldn't notice.

But Rourke spun too fast and as he came around, he banged into the tub. 
He lurched backward and fell onto his butt, legs spread apart, and
elbows back to catch himself before his head hit the floor.  From that
position, all he could see was that glistening little pink clit shining
out at him, and when he looked down, his shorts formed a perfect tent
from his now nearly rigid cock.

Without looking at Jenny, Rourke bounced up off the floor like a rubber
ball.  He tore out the door, calling to Jenny, "There you go, darlin'. 
Call me if you need anything."  Rourke strode down the hall to his room,
tucking furiously at his cock, trying to get it to behave.  But it
refused, and once in his room, he gave up trying to tuck it away, and
began stroking it furiously.

"My God," he thought, "what am I doing?  Jacking off to over my
daughter.  My injured daughter.  What the hell's wrong with me."  But
even this self-shaming had no effect.  Instead, it had the opposite
effect.  Rourke's cock grew more, the head became purple, and half a
million new nerve ending came alive in the head of his cock.  He could
feel an impending orgasm when, like a distant and irritating noise,
Rourke became aware of his name being called again.

Rourke listened.  It was Jenny, calling from the bathroom.   Rourke
stopped his stroking, but his cock continued to quiver in his fist.

"What is it, hon?" Rourke called out.

"Daddy, I need help . . . again," Jenny whined.

Rourke sighed, released his cock, grabbed his old terry robe and headed
down the hall.  He stopped just outside the door.  "What is it,
sweetheart?" he called into the bathroom.

"Daddy . . . I need help . . . can you . . .  wipe me?"
Oh my God, Rourke thought.  It never ends.  Not that he minded doing
anything to help his injured daughter, but this . . . never in his
wildest imagination would he believe something like this would come up. 
And worse, that something like this had so many . . . so many what?  . .
. levels of unbelievability . . . of new "duties" . . . of little tasks
that could only be done by hand.  Quickly, Rourke went through a laundry
list of reasons, excuses why he couldn't come in and wipe his daughter. 
But, in the end, it had to be done.  And very reluctantly, he had to
admit he wanted to do it.  As he gathered himself to go in, he was
already seeing in his mind's eye that sweet, tiny little clit poking
between Jenny's pussy lips, swollen now due to her injury.

Rourke bunched his robe in the front, hoping it would disguise his still
half-hard cock.  He might secretly enjoy his new position, but there was
no reason to rub Jenny's face in his "appreciation" of the situation.

"Okay," he said, entering the room, "what . . . how . . . what do I do?"
he asked, obviously embarrassed.

"Oh, daddy . . . I'm sorry, but it has to be done.  That's just the way
girls are.  Besides, you heard what the doctor said about keeping
clean."

Rourke nodded and gave Jenny an "I know . . . I was there" look.

With Jenny's instruction, Rourke folded the paper, squatted and
tentatively reached his hand between Jenny's legs.

"Now," Jenny instructed, "pat . . . that's it . . . pat gently.  Right, 
Now . . . be careful, it still hurts . . . press the paper into . . .
into  my . . . folds."

Following as best he could, and feeling his cock rising to new heights,
Rourke dabbed, patted, and pressed.
At last, Jenny said, "That's nice . . . er, fine, daddy.  Fine."

Rourke dropped the paper and moved as if to leave.

"Daddy?"  The question in Jenny's voice stopped him.

"Yes," Rourke replied.

"Uh . . . daddy . . . it's kind of stinging . . . you know . . . hurts a
little.  Can you look at it for me . . . make sure my stitches are
okay."

Rourke's cock pulsed, but still, he blushed.

Still reluctant, Rourke countered with, "It's probably because you went
to the bathroom . . . got it wet.  That's all."

"Daddy . . .!!!"

"Okay, hon . . . let's have a look."

Jenny half stood, put down the top lid, sat again with her tail bone far
forward on the seat.   She leaned back against the top bowl and let her
legs fall open.  Again, in less than five minutes, Rourke found himself
face to face with the most beautiful little pussy -- albeit a bruised
pussy  -- he had ever seen.  Quietly, he smiled in his head at the
thought that, no matter what the situation, he was behaving like a proud
parent. 

Trying to maintain an "adult" demeanor, Rourke tried to inspect Jenny's
pussy in a professional manner.  However, he thought, what the hell is a
"professional manner?"  The best Rourke could do is hunker down on his
haunches and peer intently at Jenny's pussy.  On closer inspection, he
could see the tiny stitches through her downy hair, which was half way
between the down that first appears, and the  more bristly adult hair
that come in later.

"Well . . .?" Jenny asked.

"Well . . . it seems to be okay . . . can't really see that well . . .
to much hair."

"Look closer," Jenny ordered in typical "in charge" female form.

"Yes Ma'am," Rourke retorted with a snicker.

Rourke peered closer, pushing his face to within inches of Jenny's
pussy.  He was so close he could smell the remnants of the disinfectant,
and Jenny's sex.  The musky scent of her sex overrode the medicine, and
Rourke gave thanks for his bulky old robe, which now hid his raging hard
on.

"Well?"

"Honey," Rourke said softly, "the only way I'm going to be able to see
anything is to move your hair a little bit."

"Well, go ahead then, daddy."

"Darlin'  . . . " Rourke said in a tone that sounded like someone
begging off.

"Daddy," Jenny interrupted, "listen to me.  Just listen to me for a
minute.  We're alone here.  We're in this thing, and there is no one
around to help us . . . just like always.  Now, let's just try to ignore
the obvious.  I need help.  You're my daddy and I love you.  You love
me.  Everything will be okay . . . c'mon . . . please, daddy."

Despite his roaring hard on, Rourke saw the wisdom in Jenny's words.  In
fact, her grown-up approach had a dampening effect.  Rourke felt his
cock deflate to a hard "soft-on."  Of course, she's right, Rourke
reasoned.  I can do this.

"Okay, hon, hold still," Rourke said, gently picking at Jenny's soft
pubic hair.  "Does that hurt?" he asked, continuing to push the hair
around.

"No," Jenny said.  "Go ahead."

Rourke continued his inspection.  Sure enough, there was her bright pink
little clitty shining out like a light on a foggy night.  On each side
of her clit were two sweet little pussy lips, sweet despite the fact
they had a somewhat bedraggled look from a bad shave and stitches.

"Well, the stitches are okay . . ." Rourke said quietly, still peering
into Jenny's little love nest.

"What about the scratches . . . the ones the doctor talked about last
night?"

Rourke tensed.  "Well, honey, they are . . . kind of up there, almost
inside of you.  I can't see them just now.  I'll have to . . . touch you
. . . if I'm going to look at . . . at that."

"Well, go ahead, then, daddy," Jenny said matter of factly.

Gingerly and tentatively, Rourke reached in and began unfolding Jenny's
little pussy lips from her large one.  Jenny flinched imperceptibly. 
"That hurt?" Rourke asked.  Jenny laughed and said that his fingers were
cold.  Rourke gently peeled her lips apart until he had exposed her
labia minor -- her little inside lips.  As he continued separating her
parts, Jenny hunched her pelvis upward slightly.  It caught Rourke, and
he glanced up.  Jenny's head was back and her eyes were closed.  As if
it were a cue, his cock began rising again.  Rourke couldn't tell if
Jenny's eyes were closed out of disinterest, modesty or ecstasy.

"Hmmm," Rourke mumbled.  "These little lips are scratched, alright.  A
little inflamed, too, if I read it right."

"Well . . . then we'd better put on some of that antibiotic cream,"
Jenny said matter of factly.

Again, Rourke felt the tension rise, felt his diaphragm tighten in
readiness to speak his refusal.  But, just as quickly, he relented. 
Jenny was right the first time.  They were alone with no one else to
help.  It had to be done.

Rourke reached into the medicine cabinet and retrieved the tube of
ointment.  He applied a dime-sized squirt to his fingers while Jenny
scooted out a couple more inches so that her ass and crack were
completely over the edge of the toilet seat.

Using his left hand, Rourke reached in and spread Jenny's large lips and
began applying the cream to the little lips nestled there.  Slowly, he
began spreading the medicated cream.  It was very slick, and combined
with Jenny's velvety inner pussy, his fingers glided though her crack. 
He worked it in up and down motions, all the while trying to "think
professional," and all the while, his cock taking on the feel of
high-tension steel.  Then, very gently, he moved to her outer lips and
applied lotion to her stitched area.  Jenny flinched again, so Rourke
returned to the inner part of her pussy.
Up and down, up and down, Rourke continued moving the lotion around the
little lips.  Occasionally, his slippery fingers slid farther up and
bumped into something hard.  Suddenly, Rourke realized it was her little
clit, and that it wasn't that little any more, that it was growing.  He
glanced up, and again, Jenny's eyes were closed, and this time, her
chest was moving up and down rapidly, her tea-cup sized breasts riding
her rib cage.

Again, guilt gripped Rourke.  Should I quit?  I should, but that would
be too obvious, he thought.  My God!  Jenny was obviously enjoying this
beyond the level of receiving medication.  In an effort to maintain his
parental role, Rourke decided to lighten his touch.  Perhaps that was
the problem.  Too much pressure.

Lightening his touch to feather-light, Rourke continued working the
cream into Jenny's scratched lips, occasionally and accidentally
slipping too far up so that his greasy fingers slid over her hard little
clit.

"Mmmmmm" Jenny sighed.  Then, as though realizing she had given herself
away, she added, "that seems . . . to  . . . be really . . .


-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>