A Father, Floodwater & Daughter

by Lisa Smiles

A dilapidated farmhouse is a dark and uncanny place to be trapped with a daughter, especially one like Brianna, so focused on her studies that her sexual being has not been awoken. With the internet down she is desperate to complete her assignment, on the male organ, and dad is the only one with the resources she needs. A southern Gothic tale of forbidden love, love making and making babies.

A 6000 word story.
A father and his daughter have been trapped at their weekend farmhouse by city-wide flooding. His wife is at their main house in town, unaffected. They’ll be okay. They’ll just be without electricity or the internet for a few days.

That’s a big problem for 18-year-old daughter Brianna, who is in her first week at university, studying to become a medical doctor. She has an assignment due soon. Sure, it’s just a warm up assignment to enthuse the new students. The topic is the male genitalia. Still, it is worth five percent and will need to be completed without her having access to published resources. Her dad is going to have to answer some interview questions and be a live model for drawing, and that's just to help her achieve a bare pass. But average grades have never been enough for Brianna.



We put the blanket behind us and I push my backside to the edge of the bench so I can undo my top button. I’m clearly more nervous than she is; I’ve never had so much trouble with a zip in my life. I don’t mind if Brianna one day mentions this to her mother, but if she goes and types it in her next text, well that’s just the limit.

“There you go: Willy.”

“Hi Willy,” she grins and comes closer.


Alright, so I’m fifty-four and in really good shape. That’s just who I am: a dude who works out. And while the mess of pubic hair and scrotal confusion I keep in my pants looks pretty unruly, having dark skin and fair hair means I’m looking alright in the red hue left by that sunset. If there’s one thing making me a little bit nervous it is that Willy, might become Stiffy. Of course I’m glad there has been no visit from Floppy. It’s really not good though that Stiffy, who by now must be wreaking of smegma, has opened a gap in the end of my foreskin.

“So that’s flaccid, right?”

“I should hope so, Brianna!”

“Not fully though.” She has a dubious look.

“True. They get smaller when they get cold.”

“So it ought to be getting smaller now that it’s out in air.”

Well I fucking hope so, I think.

It’s five miles to the other side of this flood plain but I’m considering the remote possibility of someone in one of the houses over there having some crazy big telescope and being able to see this. And I know the sky these days is filled with satellite cameras. I wouldn’t feel guilty except for the fact that I can’t bring myself to put it away and Brianna is giving no indication that she’s finished either.

She asks, “Can you sit there while I draw it?”

“Like a life-drawing class? Sure.”

I guess the only thing I can do while enjoying my brief time in the naturist movement is lay back with my head on the back of this wooden swing bench, close my eyes, feel the fresh country air and listen to her scratching away in her workbook. In the life of this old house, how many occupants have found themselves trapped? Funnily I never even thought of that as a flood plain. I always just called it “our view”. It’s a shame my wife has never really gotten into the vibe. I think she’s trapped by her comforts.

My step-daughter Holly only came to stay once. She wasn’t impressed. Of all the people, it’s this real daughter of mine who likes it out here. She can shut herself off. Focus on her studies. Eighteen-years-old now and she’s never had a boyfriend. Never even seen a dick before mine. We’ve got enough food there to last us for ages.

Thinking of the height of that water, and what it must have done to the road, we could be here for… In a simultaneous jolt to the bench and run of feet on the old wooden decking, I’ve almost been toppled. I manage to get a foot to the floor to stop the bench tipping right over. What’s up with her? I just heard her door. Oh god no. My jeans are undone. I’ve got an erection.


About the Author

In their physical details, taboo acts can sometimes be no different from boring old honeymoon love scenes, but that's not my main focus. What fascinates me are relational details, or the way girls do their makeup, or the way incest is bass jumping compared to other sex that's just cricket. Why is that? It's precisely because of the fear. In the arts that fear is called The Sublime. You might feel it in your chest when you read me.

Please, reach out to me however you can. I want to work with you to provide unique reading experiences and valuable products that you will store and return to again and again.

Join our Mailing List and instantly get a free bundle that’s not available anywhere else!