tagIncest/TabooDaughter-In-Law's Dilemma

Daughter-In-Law's Dilemma

bySam Jason©

"Maybe you just need another type of bra," Walter said.

"How many times do I have to say it—my breasts are too damned big! Have been since I was twelve ... thirteen tops. My back hurts, they're uncomfortable, they keep me from doing things I want to do. Should I go on?" The last question wasn't for Walter to suck on for long; it meant I wanted him to consent to the breast reduction surgery I had been begging for, the same surgery that would free my 5'3" body from these 38D volleyballs.

"I love your breasts," Walter pouted.

"I noticed," I said. "Sometimes I think that's all you love."

"That's unfair. Especially now. Now with my mother ... and my father."

"I guess I'm nervous about this whole thing," I said. "I've done lots of babysitting, but nothing like this. This is a big responsibility, taking care of your father ... alone. Alone for three days.

"Jill, it's more like a little over two days."

"Three days to me," I said. "This is Monday. Tomorrow's Tuesday. And you don't get back until late on Wednesday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: three days on anyone's calendar. And what if I can't deal with your father, if something happens?"

"Nothing's going to happen," Walter said. He didn't sound angry, but, there was a taste of disappointment in his voice.

Here he was, almost a full professor at the college before he turned 39, and I was his lowly almost-21-year-old wife who was still figuring out how to take care of herself and her new husband. I hadn't even figured out how to get pregnant, the one thing I concentrated on most since we've been married. Concentrated hard, and often.

"Nothing's going to happen," I echoed quietly as I looked out the side window of the car. We were almost at Walter's parents' apartment building. They lived on the fourth floor, but not for very much longer.

"You've got those emergency numbers?"

"Yes, Walter. Written down, on my phone, in my head. Got them."

"And, you can call Kyle—"

"I'm NOT calling your ex-wife. I'd die first."

"Just don't let my DAD die first while you're being stubborn."

Kyle was Walter's age, and they had been married for ten years until—until I met Professor Doan during my first year of college. My first year away from my small home town. My first year in big city Chicago.

I thought Professor ... Walter ... was so handsome and smart and worldly and sophisticated—everything I wanted to be (except the "handsome" part, but everybody had said I was beautiful as long as I could remember, so that didn't count anyway). Walter made me laugh and feel good about myself. And he made me think, think about important things outside myself, things that made a difference in the world.

And Walter? Beautiful me and my 38D's made him horny. And he wasn't bashful about showing it—discreetly, at first, sure. Subtly, and then more openly, and finally I found myself a naked 18-year-old girl under a naked married man twice my age.

Kyle found out, and it wasn't pretty. But, after ten years, and having no kids, they had been hanging on by a thread anyway. (That's what Walter told me, and that's what I prayed every night to believe so I wouldn't think of myself as a bad person.)

From the first night we made love, Walter told me he wanted to marry me and have babies together. That sounded good to me. I was never much of a student and that first year of college was a stretch for me, and I wasn't even the least bit disappointed to leave that behind.

My parents, bless their hearts, were glad they wouldn't be wasting any more of their hard-earned money sending me to school, and I think they were kind of proud I was marrying a Professor (technically Assistant Professor until next year).

Kyle, who taught high school math, remarried soon after the divorce too. Maybe there had been something going on before the divorce with her present husband, but I only suspected and never said anything to Walter.

"Kyle knows my father, before this, and as he progressed with his dementia. So, call her if you need advice. And, she lives close by. I know it's awkward, but—"

"I can handle it," I said, a little too loudly.

"I know you can," Walter said, patting my hand. I felt like pulling it away, but didn't.

This was tough on him too. More than me, who just had to hold down the fort for three days (yes—THREE days). Walter's mother, Helen, had fallen while taking care of Glenn, his father. At 83 years old, it was a miracle she didn't break something, but it aggravated her hip so much that she finally had to have the hip replacement surgery that she had been putting off.

Walter was flying to Denver with her. His oldest sister, Kate was going to take her into her home during her rehabilitation.

Sadly, these were the last days his father, Glenn (also 83), was going to spend in his home. Walter was admitting him to a dementia care center when he returned. He had become too much for his mother to handle. And, I was sure he was going to prove too much for me to handle—for three days.


"He's having a good day," Helen said when she answered the door. There was a little shake in her voice, and I imagined all the things going through her head: leaving to have an operation, being away from her husband of over 60 years, and this being the last day ever she would see him in their home.

"Are you ready to go, Mom; we have a plane to catch."

"Yes, yes, I know. Walter ... Walter, give me a minute to talk with Jill. I want her to know things, things about your father before we leave. A minute, Walter, a minute."

The frail woman with the limp took my hand and led me to the window overlooking a park. I could feel her tremble.

"He likes to look out here, It makes him happy. I hope it makes him happy ... think of things from the past maybe."

"I'll remember, Mrs. Doan. I'll do my best to fill in for you while you're gone. I know you've taken good care of Mr. Doan; Walter told me how good." I tried not to show how reluctant I was to do this or how scared I was of the responsibility. I thought what I had said was stupid now: how could I, a twenty-year-old girl, ever fill in for this woman who had taken care him all these years—especially since this mental thing had taken over?

"Don't judge him, Jill. Please don't. You didn't know him when ..." Mrs. Doan choked back a sob, then went on as I put my hand on her shoulder, "He's been a good man every day that I've known him. Even now, even now when there's not much left of that man to see the sun come up or smile or say something that will help me through my day. I try to make his less cloudy moments mean something ... still."

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Doan. You don't worry about here. You just concentrate on getting better yourself."

"He's a handful," she said. "I know it's going to be rough for you. You're not used to it like I am. Don't take anything he says to heart; he doesn't know any better sometimes. Distract him when he gets unruly. He loves Jello and there's lots of it in the refrigerator. Tell him that, that he can have some; that will stop him—"

"Mom!" Walter called. "We have to go!"

"Be right there," she called back, a little annoyed, or frustrated. She gave a sigh and a shake of her head. "I wish I wasn't going, that I didn't have to leave him. He's my whole world. We have eight children, and I love them all beyond what I can say, but that man ... I'll miss him; I miss him now when I'm with him, the man I used to know. He was sooo proud of his family and wanted Walter to know that same feeling, that pride."

I hugged Mrs. Doan and said, "You'll be back in no time, and ..." And I didn't know what else to say because I knew it would never be the same.

"Don't judge him. He can be very, let's just say, unruly in his behavior." Her face got red and I wondered what "unruly" meant.

"Helen," said a quiet voice behind us. "Helen, it's time."

"No, Glenn, it's not time yet," Mrs. Doan said. "Not time ...understand?"

I turned to see a small, frail, wrinkled man who wore clothes too big for him, like he was shrinking inside of them as we watched. He might have been a little taller than me, but not by a lot, although he didn't seem to be stooped over at all. I knew, from photos, that Walter looked identical to him when his father was young. They had been the same height just a half dozen years before.

"Dad, this is Jill. She's going to be with you for a while."

"I know," he said. "I know. Who is it?"

"I'm Jill, Mr. Doan." I put my hand out, but he didn't take it; instead, he gave me a hug that lasted way too long.

"It's time," he said in my ear.

Mrs. Doan disentangled him and I backed away, all the way in back of Walter.

"All his clothes are laid out, and I put notes, lists of things you should know here and there to make things easier," Mrs. Doan said. "I wish I didn't have to go—"

"We'll be late and we'll miss the plane and you'll never get your hip fixed and you'll walk with that limp forever," Walter said as he hustled her into her coat.

"Walter! Sometimes I wonder if I raised you right!"

"See you in TWO days," Walter said as he hustled his mother out the door.

"Don't judge him!" was the last thing Mrs. Doan squeezed out before the door shut.

That shut door left a bewildered girl and a bewildered man on the same side of it.


He called me Helen most of the morning. I quit trying to correct him when he started to get agitated.

Also, I found, on the kitchen table, an envelope with my name written on it in elegant, almost artistic handwriting. It read:

"Dear Jill—I wish we had gotten to know each other better, but I can see you make Walter very happy and I can sense that you two love each other. That relieves me and comforts me. You see, I know how much that can mean over a whole lifetime, like Glenn and I have experienced. We've always taken care of each other, and now it's no different, even though he can't recognize it. I still take care of him and see the "him" that's still there, even if only in glimpses now."

"For the first time ever we'll be away from each other. I have to rely on your care and kindness to fill in for me while we're apart. I can feel you will rise to the occasion and make Glenn know he's safe and cared for."

"There are many basic things he can do for himself still, and yet there are some simple things that confound him and frustrate him, things he needs help, guidance, and understanding to navigate through. Help steer him along with these things, please, my dear. Be gentle and understanding with him, and interpret his needs as they come to light."

"Glenn has always shown affection and I have shown it back to him in abundance. That seems to calm him now in his affliction, so understand that part of him. I know it will be difficult with almost a total stranger, but please go the extra mile to give comfort to an old soul who has earned it through his constant attention and sharing of wisdom and aid, not only to me, not only to his family, but also to friends, and even strangers who have needed it."

"I wish you could have known him in his prime, even a few years before this devastation started invading his humanity. You would have loved him, and he would have loved you."

"I know we—my son Walter and I—are asking a lot of one so newly come into our wonderful family. My greatest wish for you is to add to Glenn's family. That would have made him so proud. I should say that WILL make him happy and proud and fulfilled, to have another child carrying on his name, especially one raised by his only son. I know Glenn gladly and willingly would do anything to make that happen. He would love to contribute to the continued growth of his family and happiness of his son, and of course you too, Jill."

"Give Glenn a chance, Jill, and I know he will make your stay with him memorable and satisfying. Have patience and give him an opening to share of himself with you. I know that would pay lasting dividends for him, and for you and Walter."

"There are many things Glenn cannot do for himself, and many things that he is still surprisingly good at—as good as ever. What these are change from day to day with his varying states of awareness. What interests him not at all one day can become a fervent desire that must be fulfilled another, and then vice versa. Do your best; that's what I imperfectly do."

"All I can say is: thank you, thank you, thank you—and love, love, love."

The letter was signed simply "Helen, Glenn's loving wife."

I read it over again. Those words made me want to do my best to make Mr. Doan as comfortable and at ease as I could.


I tried to keep Mr. Doan busy by turning on the TV, but he wanted none of that. He would rather look out that window, so I stood there with him. He reached out his hand, and even though I felt a little strange, I reached out mine and took it. He squeezed a few times like saying "I'm here and I know you're here."

He would speak a word or two, and sometimes try to string a sentence together, but never could get very far. I could see the anguish in his eyes when he didn't succeed, and he would start to get angry. I found that a hug would stop that. Maybe I was better at this than I had given myself credit for. Each time I calmed him down, I felt good about myself, like I was actually accomplishing something.

Then, it began: at the end of each hug, he would say "Helen" and try to kiss me. I successfully maneuvered out of that a few times before he started to feel rejected, I think. There was a pained look in his eyes and he would say "Helen" again with a sad tone.

I figured it was no big deal so I offered my cheek, but he would settle for no less than a kiss on the lips. The first few were light, but then started to last longer and become more forceful. I few times he would say "It's time"—whatever that meant.

I didn't want to agitate him, so I thought I would go along with that behavior until I could figure a way around it. Mrs. Doan had said he was affectionate, so I didn't want to cut that off completely. But, it kind of freaked me out to be kissed like that by an 83-year-old man.

But, I would have settled for just the kisses instead of being shocked when he strung these four words together: "Helen, suck my cock."

"WHAT! Mr. Doan, I'm not Helen. Don't say that again!"

My tone must have startled him. He started saying "NO! NO! NO!" and patting his head hard with the palm of his right hand.

I stepped forward and caught his hand on the downswing while saying, "There, there. It's all right. Everything is all right, Mr. Doan. Everything's okay."

He immediately quieted and held his arms out for a hug. I gladly traded a hug for his calmness, and after a few seconds, he said again: "Helen, suck my cock."

This time I didn't react, other than trying to escape from the hug. He held tight until I said, "I'll go get us some Jello." He didn't let go until I kissed him. The tip of his tongue brushed the center of my closed lips. Although it shocked me, I tried not to react and upset him further.

I pulled away slowly and patted him on the chest gently. "I'll get that Jello."

He responded, kind of in the same way. If you want to call cupping my breasts the same as a pat on the chest.

I backed out of reach and rushed to the kitchen for some distance as well as the Jello. In my mind were all sorts of conflicting thoughts, ranging from "don't upset him" to "run!"


The veins cast shadows. The dark blue veins were bulging enough to make shadows on Mr. Doan's penis. That's the same penis that was pointing straight (well, not completely straight, because it had a noticeable upward curve to it) over the coffee table.

In the short time it took me to scoop some Jello into two paper bowls and return, Mr. Doan had skinned out of his shirt and dropped his elastic-waisted sweatpants and shorts down to his feet, so he stood there essentially naked with his fully (and I mean fully) erect penis pointing to the opposite wall.

He stood over the glass-topped coffee table, which frightened me because I didn't want him to stumble with his clothing bunched at his feet and fall onto the shiny, potentially-dangerous glass.

"Helen, suck my cock," he said. "Helen, suck my cock."

He said it twice like I didn't hear him the first time. Maybe he thought that because I couldn't move.

"Mr. Doan," I finally blurted out. All the while I was looking at him. Here was a man who had shrunk—obviously. He was wrapped loosely in pale skin that wrinkled and hung around him, like it had originally been filled fully, but now that the contents had been deflated, hadn't followed but remained stretched out.

His body looked thin and frail and every bit of the 83 years he wore. Every bit of him was aged and deflated—

Except his penis: that looked factory-fresh. It was long and thick and throbbing. That would have been remarkable enough, but overshadowing all of the obvious super engorgedness of his erection was the enormity of what was at the end of it.

I had seen few penises in person, but had seen plenty online. This one was nothing like any of those. The heads of those looked like a mushroom or a helmet; this one looked like a plum.

It was more round than tapered and it was clearly much wider than the rest of the shaft. It made the rest of his penis look shorter than it really was, because it was much bigger and thicker than any I had ever seen.

On this shriveled old man, it looked like it was some kind of prosthetic, something artificially hung on him.

I put the bowls on the floor and stepped toward him.

"Helen, suck my cock," he said.

I wanted to get him away from that coffee table, away from the possibility of falling and breaking that glass.

"Mr. Doan, let me pull your pants up for you." I knelt beside him and took hold of his shorts and sweatpants.

"Helen, suck my cock," he said while taking it in his hand and directing it at my face.

That bulbous head hit my cheek and the sticky tip brushed across my lips. I yelped and fell back on my butt.

Mr. Doan's hand never left his penis and began a slow jacking up and down—slow and steady until the head of his penis expanded to an impossible diameter and he yelled: "NICE! NICE!"

A long thick jet of sperm shot all the way across the coffee table. Then he pointed his cock downward and the next five or six eruptions from that abnormality puddled into one concentrated space of opaque tapioca about the area of your palm.

I never saw so much cum in my whole life. And I don't mean at one time. I mean all of it—all my life—if it was all pooled together. I don't think it would have equaled what Mr. Doan had unleashed there in front of me.

Walter's ejaculations were laughable compared to his father's.

I hadn't moved; I had been mesmerized (or paralyzed) by the sight in front of me—so shocked was my system. At first there was almost an embarrassment, seeing a stranger in a lewd sex act like this. Next a fascination over the size and shape of this old man's cock. Then there was an anticipation, a kind of wondering what was going to happen. And finally, there was a shock of seeing that flood he had inside of him and the pressure of its release, almost a violence in his ejaculation.

Of course all that analysis and evaluation came to me later when I had time to think about it all. At the time, I was just amazed at the surprising vitality the old man had in him.

Another thing that occurred to me was that I was reacting differently than if it had been a normal person and not one with dementia. It was almost like watching a video, like being alone. Without Mr. Doan being able to remember what he had done or what I was doing, the whole scene had an anonymity that I had never experienced before. It was almost like a role-playing game that you could shut down on your computer and forget about.

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bySam Jason© 7 comments/ 50937 views/ 75 favorites

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