Present Day:

“Dad… Dad, are you in there?”

Silly question really because I know he is in the house somewhere.

I work as a Family Physician in a local medical clinic and visit home a couple of times a week to check on my father who lives alone. This evening when I enter the house, it is dark, no lights, and the heating is set excessively low. I turn up the thermostat and switch on the kitchen and living room lights.

I find dad asleep, sitting in his recliner in front of the switched off television.

He is sound asleep with his sweatpants pushed down around his knees and holding a pair of my panties in his lap.

~ ~ ~

I owe my dad everything.

I was twenty-one years old and in my third year of medical school when my mother, Barbara, died. She had been sick for two years before the end, and then our small close family of three became a traumatized family of two. Although her eventual passing was expected, it still came as a hammer blow.

I do not know where my Dad found the strength to continue, but he did so in spite of his loss and pain. Perhaps my struggles to complete my medical education gave him purpose because he provided me unconditional love, emotional support and paid the bills even as his furniture business was going through difficult times. He funded my years of medical school and residency. Thanks to my father, I fulfilled my mother’s hopes for me, responded to his devotion and achieved my own aspirations.

I am now twenty-eight years old and thanks to my dad, I am a Doctor.

So I should understand what is going on with my dad, right?

~ ~ ~

Three Years Earlier:

This particular situation had its beginnings a couple of years earlier when I was twenty-five years old and trying to survive my second year of residency at a local hospital. The hours were brutal, but I had divided my living arrangements between staying in the student apartments adjacent to the hospital and going home for a few hours each week to check on my dad.

On one of my days back home, I was doing what I habitually did, cleaning up after my dad. Those chores consisted mostly of tidying the house, washing dishes and doing laundry. I had just hung my dad’s freshly laundered shirts in his closet and had begun vacuuming the carpet in his bedroom when I moved a couple of pairs of shoes out of the way to run the vacuum cleaner under his bed. It was at that moment I discovered a little pile of female undergarments.

The second I saw them and realized what I was seeing, I was surprised, and then I burst out laughing. Oh my god, dad had finally found himself a girlfriend. A secret one at that, because he had never mentioned a word to me about meeting someone special or dating anyone in particular.  

To my knowledge, dad had no women friends at all in the years since mom passed. In my years of residency at the hospital and earlier at university he had never mentioned other women, had never brought one home and in fact, he did not seem to have a social life what so ever.

It was always a concern to me.  

Although I felt some guilt over the time I could not spend around home, my chosen career demanded my full attention. I had my mom’s wishes to honor along with my undying love and gratitude to my father who was breaking his back in his business to ensure that I received that medical education.

After mom passed, I had hoped dad would join a men’s club, take up fishing or god forbid, buy himself a pair of lime-green trousers and an orange shirt and learn to play golf or at least something requiring social interaction outside of his work, but he did not. He just worked at the store every day, went home each evening and then returned to work the following morning.

As for that small pile of intimates, I had inadvertently discovered...

I felt it extremely important that I respect my father’s privacy and so giggling like a schoolgirl, I carefully vacuumed under his bed being extremely careful to steer around the pile of nylon and lace trophies my dad had collected. When I completed cleaning under his bed, I could not resist an amused glance at the little collection.

I switched off the vacuum cleaner and poked the pile with the end of the hose, and as the little heap fell apart and separated, the items lost their anonymity, and I could recognize each individual garment.

They were all my own panties.

I seriously doubted that my dad had taken up cross-dressing and from their scrunched up appearance it was evident that my panties were soiled. If I eliminated the possibility of another woman wearing, staining and discarding them under his bed, then my dad was using them for his pleasure.

There I was, a twenty-five year old, reasonably well-educated and levelheaded woman, not knowing whether to freak out screaming or pretend I had seen nothing, close his bedroom door and run away.

I sat down on the side of dad’s bed and tried to draw a breath. I attempted to think of a harmless, simple explanation, but there really was not one.

Dismissing the obvious was difficult. My underwear had not migrated themselves from the dresser in my bedroom to the carpet under my father’s bed.

I was reasonably well trained working as I did in a medical field and yet found myself lost as to this situation. It was proof positive that one can be educated to the point of inertia.

I said nothing to my father about my discovery and returned to my apartment at the hospital the following day.
 
Don’t get me wrong. Yes, I was confused and more than a little freaked, but I did seek advice. I was in the correct career to be able to tap into research, co-workers, and friends to find answers.

Posing the question as a hypothetical, or a possible hospital related inquiry, I asked various friends and co-workers about an unidentified client’s dilemma, i.e., a grown daughter discovers her dad has been using her underwear for sexual gratification.

The answers were quickly forthcoming from both female and male co-workers. They ran the gamut from intellectually obtuse, to outrage, and lewd snickers.

‘It is totally inappropriate for a father to have taken a pair of his daughter’s underwear, for ANY reason.’

‘There may be people who would rationalize such behavior, but I can't think of a single one.’

‘I don't envy your client’s position. It sounds as if her dad has some issues going on.’

‘Wow, that dad is a total sicko.’

‘Obviously a case of misplaced affection possibly related to his lack of any familial, social, or romantic intimacy.’

‘It sounds to me that he is deranged.’

‘Perhaps he has a sexual attraction for his daughter, or perhaps not. The underwear perhaps may simply be a generalized symbol representing all females, not necessarily his daughter. But it sounds fucked up to me.’

‘A father using his daughter’s underwear, that’s like so fucking gross.’

Now even though many people would find the behavior to be gross, the term “gross” actually means ‘to the naked eye,’ so that opinion was from someone who did not even know the English language.

After a few more of those helpful insights, I reached out to a mentor I had studied with during my internship, and who I respected. She was a long-time psychiatrist.

Her advice was direct and to the point.

‘THAT WOMAN NEEDS TO CONFRONT HER FATHER ABOUT THIS!   It is unconscionable for him to steal his own daughter’s clothing. One might argue a thin line between admiration, and unhealthy obsession, and by that, I mean some form of comfort item may be excusable, but the theft and sexual use of a daughter’s underthings is inappropriate at the least and foul and disgusting at worst. It would be my considered opinion that her father has an ongoing father-daughter incest fantasy and is in need of immediate, professional psychiatric help.’

Now, where was I to go with advice like that?

This was my own father who I was attempting to analyze and diagnose. God only knows we had both suffered from mom’s passing and yet he had sacrificed and done his very best for me. Did I really want to confront him about something as silly as panties?  ‘Hey dad, do you enjoy getting off with my underwear?’  

Another glaring possibility was that if I attempted some form of psychiatric intervention and it became public knowledge, it could well destroy whatever was left of my father.

Should I tell him that he has a mental problem and that his behavior is morally reprehensible, plain wrong and disgusting or dismiss the use of pieces of material for emotional comfort as inconsequential?  

The choices appeared to be to say nothing, or the alternative, an ultimatum to, ‘get help or I will cut you out of my life.’

It seemed that the more I learned, the less I knew. I do not care if it emanates from years of clinical research or a group of guys talking over beers in a bar, what you do learn is that everyone has an opinion and it does not necessarily follow that it is right or wrong. What it is; is just an opinion.

What did I learn from all of that advice?  I learned what everyone else intrinsically knows. Opinions are like anuses, everybody has one. It is easy to make a judgment on people when you do not know them, but he is my dad.

I cared about my dad.

I loved him.

~ ~ ~

Okay, it did not make it right; my dad should not be using my underwear in that manner. Was it disgusting and depraved, an incestuous perversion or something relatively harmless?  I decided to put some distance on it, and I stopped worrying about it. It pleasured my father, it was private and of no one else's concern. What the hell, it was just a pair of panties.

You can overthink, worry too much and drive yourself crazy when perhaps the simplest thing to do was to give it some room and lessen the emotional factors associated with it.

I did allow some time to pass. However, I eventually spoke to my father about it. It was inevitable. I did wish to clarify issues in an understanding and nonaccusatory manner.

I began with the obvious, the one over-riding concern, the primary question that I felt needed answering. I was compelled to ask even though I already suspected the answer.

I asked him quite plainly. "Dad, how can you be using my underwear for sexual gratification, without it being some form of incestuous fascination?”

He smirked and spread his hands a little too dismissively, replying, “You don’t think that most young boys haven’t been curious about their sisters and mothers panties, or husbands looking through their wife’s lingerie. I know you are disgusted with my behavior, but at least I am honest enough to admit it….  

“I found your hidden collection, Dad.” I snapped back. “I’m not so sure that makes you honest. If you needed… ah… comfort items of that nature for sexual stimulation, you could have bought items for you to use. We could have gone to a department store and bought items for you.”

Dad looked at me. “I didn’t want store bought things, Mary. I wanted something more personal. Not a piece of rag, Mary, but something pretty of yours.”

That was not what I wanted to hear. It changed dad’s fascination with a conventional universal female symbol and made it personal, extraordinarily sexual and potentially incestuous.

I tried to address it head-on. “But Dad… you aren’t supposed to use your own daughter’s underwear for sexual pleasure… it’s… “

“Perverted and kinky?” He broke in. “That I’m a sick old man? Do you know how much you resemble your mother… your hair, your smile, even your voice… You know I hoped you might wear some of her dresses, you know, just sometimes, at least around the house.””

That was the most chilling moment. Had dad’s loneliness and grief finally taken him to a place where he envisioned his daughter as a surrogate, a look-alike… wife?

For my soul, I could not be angry with him and strove for some understanding. “DAD… dad, please… Dad, I am not Mom, I am not Barbara. I am your daughter Mary.”

Dad reached out and took my hand. “I know hon, I know.  You just look so much like your mom when we were dating…”

“You need to find yourself a girlfriend, Dad.”

Dad had tears in his eyes. “I really do miss your mom.” He replied.

“You miss mom, so you take my panties. How does that explain anything?”

As long as I live, I will never forget his eyes.

He reached out and brushed my hair with his hand. “You have her hair and face, you smile the same way, and you even laugh the way that she did. You look just like Barbara did in our early years of marriage.”

“But I can’t be Mom for you dad. I am your daughter, Mary.”

“I know that, Girl. I’m not crazy. But please understand that so much of you, is your mom.”

~ ~ ~

When my father has sexual interludes with my panties, the sexual nature of his behavior was undeniable. He was sexualizing me, his daughter, whatever his protestations that he was only missing mom.

It was evident that my father had a sexual interest in me. Some form of transference from a lost wife to a look-alike daughter. Yes, I understood the whole dad-daughter incest connotations and the potential dangers of such relationships.

I do love my dad, and he had never hurt me or ever done anything to make me fear my safety. It was not as if I was a young child living at home and in danger of being forcefully taken advantage of, manipulated or molested. I knew that would never happen.

The other half of that was the plain truth that I was a twenty-eight-year-old, reasonably mature professional woman who harbored no sexual feelings for my father, what so ever. Never the less, I did have an abiding concern for my father’s health and well-being. I could recognize a lonely man. The sad part about it was that since we lost my mom, my dad had isolated himself from most human contact beyond that what was required to run his furniture business.

I understood that he was very lonely.

~ ~ ~

Present Day:

Dad was sound asleep in his recliner with his hand clutching a pair of my panties. Before falling asleep, he had apparently been fondling himself but had achieved no relief. The undies were dry, so his attempts at masturbation had apparently failed.
 
Letting him sleep I busied myself in the kitchen making coffee. When I returned to the living room dad was awake. He had pulled up his sweatpants and looked embarrassed.

He looked ashamed. “Sorry, Hon. I thought I could get it done before you got home.”

“No success Dad?”

“Too tired I guess.” He gave me a rueful smile. “It doesn’t work very well without you.”

I stood by his chair sipping my coffee. It followed a long day at the hospital and felt a desperate need for some rest. I looked at the flat front of his sweatpants.

 “You will have to do better than that, Dad. I don’t think there is enough there to wrap a postage stamp around, let alone a panty.”

He smiled. “Perhaps you could wear one of your mom’s dresses for a while.”

“No Dad, I am not going to wear one of mom’s dresses. I am your daughter, not your wife.”

He nodded. “Okay Hon”

He reached inside his sweatpants and began fiddling with himself.

“You might as well push your sweats down dad; you can't get a panty in there.”

Yes, we were a few years passed any embarrassment of his nudity in front of me.

He pushed his sweatpants down to his knees, and I could see that his penis was flaccid.

He seemed more embarrassed with himself this evening. He tried to fondle himself but achieved little response. I placed my coffee cup on the side table, reached down and moved his hand away from his genitals. I took the little bikini panty that he had been trying to use, lay them across his cock and gently fondled him through the panty.

The moment I placed the panty across him and touched him, he began to stiffen.

Once again, I told myself that I really should not be doing this anymore…

He needs a girlfriend.

“Are these treatments covered by Medicare?” he suddenly asked.

“No Dad, it is by my extended coverage under the medical group I work for. It is under prosthetics.

“Oh, that’s what it’s under eh.”

I wrinkled my brow and pretended to give the matter some thought. “Let’s see now. If I remember correctly, prosthetics are derived from the Greek prosthesis. An artificial device that replaces a missing body part.”

I gave my dad my best clinical evaluation look.

“What body part are you missing, Dad?”

Dad rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “Your patient respectfully chooses to invoke the protection granted to him under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution. I cannot be forced to provide testimony that may incriminate myself.”

Now that response made me giggle. Sometimes, you just have to laugh.

“Well all right, Dad, be that way then. However, I am not convinced that a panty would be considered a viable replacement for a certain body part that you are wanting.”

He cracked a broad smile. “Oh, I have a smart daughter.”

“Yes you do, and you can blame yourself for that, Dad. You put me through medical school and are legally considered fiscally and emotionally responsible for my degree in medicine.”

“And these are the perks for my investment?”

“I am not sure its listed under perks, more likely found under, Prescribed Restorative Therapy for the Partially Disabled.”

“Are you sure this isn’t covered under Medicare?”

“No Dad. It is under the same category as hearing aids, eyeglasses, and motorized wheelchairs. Now it’s been a long day at the hospital, and I need some sleep, so are you going to cooperate in this procedure or discuss your medical insurance plan?”

And the… er… physical part?”

“It’s somewhere in the small print, I believe it is under required physical exercise, like being on a treadmill.”  

My dad laughed. “Sure beats going to the gym.”

In the past year, my father has recovered his sense of humor. It is good to hear him laugh.

“Shut up Dad. Now do you want your treatment, or do you want to call my office tomorrow and reschedule?”

He laughs and closes his eyes, and I fondle him through the panty for a while until he begins to harden.

These little lace bikini panties may look cute, but they really are woefully inadequate to the task when my dad is fully erect. I pause dad’s therapy long enough to make a quick trip to my bedroom and return with a pair of my high waist satin briefs. They have no lace or frills but are more substantial and very soft and silky. I wear these on long days when the demands of comfort exceed the need for cuteness.

Dad looked at the silk briefs dangling from my fingers. “Are those what the Doctor is ordering?”

 “Yes, Dad, look at it as a medical prescription. They are practical and more suited to the job at hand.”

“Job at hand or handj…?”

“Shut up, Dad, you are much too perky this evening. Yes okay, I made a funny.”

I put aside the little lace bikini undies he had been struggling with, and I lay my high waist silk briefs across dad’s stomach with the waistband at the root of his cock and the crotch towards his chest. Then I lay his cock down against his tummy; folded the gusset over the head of his cock, bringing the sides of my panty across and around his shaft and tie the waistband gently around the base of his cock.

Dad has been carefully watching the procedure. “You do that like an expert.”

I give him a rueful smile. “You give me a lot of practice. You really do need a girlfriend, dad.”

“But I like you doing…”

“Don’t say it, Dad. Don’t go there.”

He relaxes and lays back into his recliner, and I begin pulling on his panty-wrapped cock. He quickly swells to fill my satin undies.

“Your panties feel beautiful Hon.”

“Shush Dad.”

 Being careful not to disturb the wrapped panty, I grip the center of his shaft and give him gentle strokes to awaken his soft penis.

"Oh, my god.” He gasps. “Oh god, yes!"

I tighten my grip and continue gently pulling on him. He stiffens quickly, and so I slowly and deliberately lengthen the stroke.

Dad turns his face towards me, his eyes tearing. “I want to remember your mom… won’t you wear one of her dresses for just a few minutes?”

We have been here many times, and in spite of dad beseeching me with that teary look, he is asking for something he knows I absolutely will not provide. I know that if I dress like my mother, he will see me as his wife, and it will escalate into a place where I refuse to go.

I will give my father some time and affection, but I absolutely refuse to masquerade as my mother.

I do not answer, but continue to squeeze and relax my circling fingers around the wrapped panty.
 
I hear him groaning as I gently pull on his shaft from the base to the tip. It hardens his cock and awakens the semen demanding to be released, but not yet. It is much too early.

Dad responds to my touch and the comforting silky softness of my panty wrapped around his penis.

He closes his eyes, and his breathing deepens.  

When I masturbate my dad, I know every sound he utters, every nuance, throb, and twitch of his body. He does not often have me to take care of him, so we both know that he wants it to last. I try not to masturbate him too fast because he does not want to cum too soon.

He begins panting and gasping.

I pull slowly and purposefully on his cock, pausing every so often to allow him to quieten down. Like any man, he wants it all now, but likes it better if I can stop occasionally and prevent him from cuming too soon. I try to make him last as long as he can hold out.

Oh, Baby . . . that is so good.”

“You need a girlfriend Dad.”

“No, all I want is your…”

“Don’t Dad... I mean it. Don’t go there.”

Yes, we have rules. We exchange some talk, but I seldom want to know what he is thinking.

I pause and hold him gently. I can feel his hard cock throbbing in my hand as I gently squeeze his shaft.

Dad fights to control his breathing, less panting, taking deeper breaths. He wants it, but he wants to wait for it more.

We take it in cycles. I try to bring my father close to the edge and then let him calm down, close again to the edge, and back down, all without going over.

I can see that portion of the folded over panty that covers the head of his cock is slowly dampening with precum. As much as he wants his relief, he fights to control it.

Dad lays flat on his back with his arms splayed out to his sides. He alternates between closing his eyes completely, and wistfully staring up at the ceiling or watching my hand minister to his panty-wrapped cock.

I am careful to feel his body language, his twitching and writhing, and the beginnings of his fucking motions into my hand.

I know from his face and body when he cannot take too much more delay.

“Are you thinking of Mom?”

“Yes Baby, I’m thinking of your mom.”

Do I believe that?  No, I don’t think so, but I can never honestly know what dad feels when he masturbates, or who or what he fantasizes about when he cums. It might be mom, or it might be some television actress, and of course, it might be…

I think I am probably better off not knowing.

Moaning now, Dad begins lifting his hips and thrusting his panty-wrapped cock into my hand. He becomes more animated, pushing and fucking my circling fingers.

Dad’s groans are now more vocalized and urgent. His hips buck, and I can feel him growing and throbbing within my grasp. I try to pump his cock in unison with his thrusts as he fucks my hand more aggressively.

No more pausing, no more delay. My dad wants his climax and wants it now.

He gasps, and I feel his testicles contract and pulse as semen rushes up through his throbbing cock. He raises his hips and begins frantically fucking my hand as his warm cum erupts from the head of his cock into the soft silky substitute vagina made by my underwear.

As he fucks my hand, I try to match his spurts and ejaculations with my stroking. I pull, stroke and tease, squeezing and milking him into my panty.

More careful now, I hold the panty to his cock and gently match his exertions. I take my time with him, softly now, softly as his ejaculations continue until his hips slowly sink back into his chair and his exhausted body goes limp.

Only when I know he has ejaculated all of his cum, do I gently remove the wet panty from his softening cock.

What can I possibly say to him?  

I do not receive any sexual gratification from masturbating my dad, but I do receive personal enjoyment from caring for and merely loving him.

As he rests, I can only push his tousled hair back from his forehead and kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

He invariably goes to sleep after masturbating, and I leave him to his dreams.

Perhaps because I have always been interested in emergency medicine, it is more appealing to me to be able to know what to do in almost any scenario rather than be super focused into one specific area of medicine. Being a family physician does require a doctor to be somewhat eclectic, a ‘jack-of-all-trades,’ (yes, pun intended)

While I firmly believe that my dad badly needs a girlfriend; I love him and am eternally grateful for all that he has done for me.

Giving him some panty seems little enough in return.