It started as an ordinary day. I got up early, dressed, checked in on my beautiful 18-year-old daughter (still sleeping at 6:00 AM; it was summer break and she liked to sleep in a little), and headed for work. The down economy was really hitting the construction industry; those of us who survived the layoffs at the small plate glass company where I worked were diligent about showing up early, working late, and making ourselves indispensable.
That's just what I was doing three hours later - appearing indispensable while Tim Hastings, the company President, talked to the shop foreman. One of our shop guys was busily laying out work for a non-existent job, another was going through the last three month's work orders (a depressingly small list), and I was inventorying the stacks, where we stored the crates of tempered glass. We all knew there was nothing going on and more layoffs were coming; none of us wanted to look idle.
Hastings and the foreman were about 10 feet away from me, and I was straining to hear what was being discussed. It sounded like there might be some government contracts coming, which would be a godsend for us. That was when all hell broke lose.
Tempered glass is treated so that when it breaks, it goes into little squarish pieces rather than large pointy shards. It's much safer, but tempered glass can also have a lot of stress in the sheet. Sometimes, if the sheet of glass has a flaw in it, the stress can cause the sheet to explode; if the sheet is still in the case, the whole case can go. It's something every glazier has encountered; sometimes it's just a (very expensive) mess to clean up, other times it can be dangerous.
The case that blew was on the upper rack of the stack, and it blew with enough force that the case flew apart. The case was right above where Tim Hastings stood. I didn't even think; I dove forward and shoved Hastings out of the way. And then my world went dark.
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"Now remember, young lady, if there's anything you need, anything at all, you have my private number."
"Yes, Mr. Hastings, I have it right here."
"Just make sure he gets better. All the time off he needs, full pay, he's got it. Medical bills, they come to me. And if there's anything else...."
"I've got your private number."
"Yes, exactly. Okay. Well, and tell him I said.... Tell him I said thank you. That's so inadequate, but...."
"I'll tell him, sir. Thank you."
The door closed. I was laying propped up on the sofa, eyes closed, head spinning. It was the day after the accident; I had been held at the hospital overnight for observation, and just got home after being released. My left wrist and right shoulder were broken, three ribs were cracked, and I had a minor concussion. My left arm was in a cast from fingertips to almost my elbow; my right arm was immobilized from my shoulder to elbow - they left me the use of my right hand, but I could only reach from the navel to my chin. I was still on heavy-duty pain meds, and was drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Oh, Daddy, what am I going to do with you?"
I opened my eyes to see my daughter, Julie, standing over me. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail; her green eyes sparkled with forming tears as she looked down at me. "Daddy, I've been so worried. Why did you have to...." Her voice stopped as she choked back a sob.
"Hastings.... He would have...." I couldn't keep my thoughts straight long enough to complete a sentence, but I got enough out.
"Yeah, I know, he would have died. Everyone told me that. But Daddy, YOU could have died!"
"No... never... leave you... alone..... Take care of... baby girl."
It was something I said to her when her mother died 12 years ago. She had clung to me so hard the day of the funeral, and made me promise to never leave her alone. And I had, meaning every word. "I'll never leave you alone. I'll always take care of my baby girl."
I repeated the promise from time to time, when she was in pain or stressed out. The words usually comforted her, but now they made her cry. She dropped to her knees and carefully laid her head on my chest, not wanting to cause any pain. I carefully placed my left arm on her back, trying to comfort her with my cast. After a few seconds, she straightened up.
"Um, thanks, Daddy, but the cast kinda hurts." She smiled at me as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I guess it's baby girl's turn to take care of my Daddy hero."
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"Uh, Julie? I... I need your help." It was the next morning, and I was discovering just how big of an impact my injuries were having.
"Daddy? Where...." The bathroom door opened part way, and my savior stuck her head in. "Daddy, what are you doing?"
"Um, trying to go to the bathroom. But I can't undo my pants. Or my belt. Or anything else. But look, I lifted the lid. With my foot." It seemed a silly accomplishment, but I was still proud of it. "And I think I can probably flush it when I'm done."
"Oh, Daddy...." She open the door the rest of the way and came in. I had obviously called her when she was getting dressed, as all she had on were her bra and panties. She did her own shopping every since she turned 16, and usually did the laundry, so I hadn't noticed when she changed from the plain cotton panties and bras I used to get her. These were lacy and totally grown up, and for the first time I realized that my baby girl was becoming a beautiful young woman, with perfect curves, well-proportioned breasts, nice hips flaring out below a flat stomach.
Whoa, Bill, I said to myself. This is Julie, your daughter! Stop leering at her! Don't look at how the bra holds her full breasts, how her hips sway as she walks towards you. Don't try to guess the size - C-cups, at least. Don't stare down into her luscious cleavage as she loosens your belt. Don't notice how her firm tits jiggle as she unbuttons and unzips your pants. Don't think about how her soft lips would feel on your hardening cock.
She was saying something to me, looking up at my face. I tore my eyes away and shook my head. "Sorry, sweetie, I'm still a little out of it from the pain pills. What did you say?"
"I said, can you take it from here or do you need more help?" She looked concerned. Did she know what I was thinking? Where I was looking?
"Oh." Her hands we still holding the front of my pants open. Looking past her face, her breasts, I could see my underpants shifting as my cock continued to stiffen. "Um, I think I can handle it from here." Handle your tits, my drug-addled mind screamed. Handle my cock.
"Okay, Daddy, I'll give you your privacy. Let me know if you need anything else." She stretched up to kiss me on the cheek. As she did, she let go of my pants, letting them drop to the floor. My cock tented my boxers, and then was trapped between our bodies as she pressed hers against mine for a brief hug, her breasts mashed against my chest. She looked up at me with concern written across her face, then she walked out, shutting the door behind her.
"Shit," I muttered. "I was seconds away for molesting my daughter." I thought I was saying it with disgust, but there was a hint of frustration in my voice.
I managed to hook my left thumb (the only usable digit I had that could reach past my belt line) in the waistband of my boxers, and gingerly pulled them down. My cock sprang up rigid in front of me, a lewd 7" testament to my perverse desires. I managed to press it down to where it looked like it was aimed at the toilet bowl, but then it slipped and I ended up peeing all over the place. Once my bladder emptied, the swelling began to go down until my cock was flaccid again, dripping into my pants and boxers that were around my ankles. I bent down to pull them up and almost fell over. I tried to squat to grab them, but couldn't get a grip with just my thumb. My shoulder and wrist were throbbing, my ribs were beginning to. I stood there in a pool of pee, naked from the waist down.
