IED
by MicaMeesha
Copyright© 2026 by MicaMeesha
Incest Sex Story: I was in the army in Afghanistan, and I got my legs blown off by an IED. I ended up back at home with Mum and Dad and ended up being very sore in my crotch as it was constantly rubbing. Dad had to take a mould and help me out in my most intimate area.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Incest Brother Sister Father Daughter .
Our patrol had been in northern Afghanistan; why we were there was not our concern. The British army was there; I was in the British army, and so I was out on patrol. Our vehicle was a Foxhound four-wheel-drive armoured vehicle, supposedly one of the best out there, and that gave us some comfort. In truth, we just went where we were told, where the insurgents were believed to be. Our weapons usually worked, and we assumed our patrol vehicles would too.
We had been going about thirty minutes when Taff, the driver, slowed and held his hand up; we braced, and something had unsettled him. There was a loud bang, some shaking, a bright flash, and the fox rolled, and that is the last thing I clearly remember.
My memory had sounds of guns, of shooting, pain, lots of pain, darkness, a hospital tent, and more darkness, and I think I remember flying and then bouncing off roads, more darkness, and then I woke up in a British hospital. Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham. That told me it was serious; whatever it was, they don’t tend to take you to the QE for minor injuries. This could be the end of my army career. There was a lot more darkness and pain, a lot of pain. I couldn’t tell where exactly; it seemed everywhere – more drugs, doctors and then the news.
My room started to fill up. There was a nurse, I think, a doctor and someone that I had no idea of, and then the specialist. The specialist checked the board at the end of my bed and then looked at the monitors.
“Right then, Mica,” the specialist said, his voice soft. “I am Mr Davidson; I am your consultant. Your legs were shattered in the attack. Both femurs were badly splintered, as were the ball joints at your hips. Luckily no major artery damage, and no damage except to your two legs; otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There were also no other injuries to your body. Our only viable option, I am afraid, is double amputation. Now I know that you must be worried about that, but the operation is very straightforward, and we have a lot of confidence that there are unlikely to be any complications.”
Fuck. I had no words. All I could think of was when I go to the pub, no one will buy me a drink. “Can’t get her a drink; she’s already legless.”
“We will remove one leg and then two days later the other. This gives your body the best chance to overcome the operating theatre trauma. I will do your left leg tomorrow, and then the right, assuming nothing unforeseen, two days later. We cannot delay, I am afraid. Do you have any questions?”
I couldn’t even speak, never mind ask questions; I shook my head. They all filed out, except the one person I couldn’t identify. She spoke.
“Hello Mica, I am Doctor Jansen. I specialise in non-physical trauma, and it is my job to help you get through the loss of your legs.”
Why couldn’t she say she was a shrink?
“Now I know,” she said, “that this must be frightening, the end of your life, etc., but really it isn’t.”
I said nothing; I didn’t know what I was thinking, to be honest. A wheelchair for the rest of my life – that was depressing enough.
“Well, Mica,” she said, “I will let you think about it; I will come by the day after your first surgery, and we can talk then.”
She got up and went; I just lay there trying not to think of anything. A little later Mum and Dad came in.
“Baby,” Mum said, “they just told us.”
I looked at Mum, and I cried. She came across, and together we were sobbing. Dad just stood there not knowing what to say or do; he always was rubbish when Mum cried; it’s no different now.
The next day they removed my left leg, all of it from the hip joint down. It was odd, because I could still wiggle my toes. I cried; I cried a lot. The day after they left me pretty much alone except for Dr Jansen, whom I ignored, I did not want to speak to her; what could her words say that would help me? And then the next day they took my right leg. All of it.
The next day the painkillers began to wear off, and I had terrible pain in my legs; the legs I don’t have any more.
“Phantom Neuralgia”, Mr Davidson said, “it is difficult because drugs have little effect on a limb that isn’t there anymore. We will try you on some strong NSAIDs, that is, nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. I think with indomethacin initially, we will see how your body reacts to that. When you are home, you can get ibuprofen from the chemist without a prescription or higher strength from your GP.”
“How the fuck can I get to the chemist without legs? No one taught me to fly; come to think of it, I haven’t actually seen anyone fly.”
“I know it is difficult, Mica, but you will adjust; people do. I and my team will be here and available for you until you are discharged, and we won’t discharge you until we know that your home has been suitably adapted.” Looking back, I can admire his patience; I wasn’t exactly being pleasant.
I wanted to lash out at him again, but the rational part of me knew that it wasn’t really his fault; all he had done was remove my shattered legs. If he hadn’t, then I would have died. A part of me would have preferred death. I started crying again. My dad stood up and came over to my bed and put his arms around me.
“Baby,” he said softly, “I can’t do much, but whatever I can do to help, I will. I will make it so that you do not have to rely on me or Mum, that you will have a life after this. It will take time, a whole lot of time probably, but we will get through this. I give you my solemn promise.”
I just cried. I knew Dad was trying his best, but what could he do? There wasn’t even a stump to attach a false leg to. I was fucked. More accurately, that was the one thing that was unlikely to happen ever again, being fucked, that is.
I was in hospital for another three weeks. The phantom pains had reduced such that I could almost ignore them. Dad had been doing alterations at home. What was the downstairs dining room? It was now my bedroom. The downstairs loo had been expanded and converted into a wet room and a loo. Ramps had been installed at each of the outside doors. A wheelchair had been sourced that I could drive using a joystick. Oh, deep joy, I had mobility.
My GP had signed forms saying that I was permanently disabled, and I applied for PIP, the replacement for mobility allowance, and also for compensation, as I was injured on active service in the armed forces. None of it will give me my legs back; all of it takes a stupid amount of time.
The wheelchair was a challenge. I was basically a rocking robin; I had nothing to stop me rolling in the chair, and it made me sore. It hurt my fanny, to be honest; my fanny rubbed on the seat. I had seat belts to keep me strapped in, but little to soothe my groin.
“You look in trouble, sweetheart,” Dad said as he looked at me squirming in my wheelchair. It was lightweight, it didn’t need any footrests, and it was battery powered.
“It’s nothing you can do to help Dad.” I had given up being embarrassed; my dad had seen me pretty much naked so many times since I came back from Afghanistan. I think he knew my anatomy better than I did.
“Tell me.”
“All my weight is on my groin. My groin is not designed to support my weight, and I am getting sore. In fact I may be getting blisters or sores.”
“Ah. I see. Let me look.”
“I will hold the armrests and flip myself forward. You can pull my knickers off and see what I mean.”
I held my body weight up, and Dad pulled my knickers off; that didn’t take much effort, to be honest. I was thinking of giving up on knickers; they were pretty useless anyway with their redundant leg holes, and start just wearing long skirts.
Dad started looking closely, and then he told me to relax, and he looked again at what was sitting where.
“Right then, baby. May I touch it? Only if it is your intimate area?”
“Yes, Dad, of course,” I answered and pulled myself up again and off the wheelchair. Dad touched me, my petals and the scar tissue that was where my legs used to be. I got a bit of a tingle when Dad touched me, and that was the first time since the incident. I may have blushed; I didn’t expect it, but it happened. And then Dad touched me again, and then he was moving my petals about, and I was getting hotter and hotter; pressures were growing, electrics were building, and all I could think of was, ‘But it’s my Dad, I shouldn’t react like this.’
And then the unthinkable: Dad touched my nubbin, and I exploded, trying desperately to suppress the scream that needed to escape my mouth. My arms gave way, and I fell back into the chair, Dad’s finger sliding down my crease and somehow ending up inside me as I landed on his hand. I was gasping, my chest heaving as I struggled to regain my breath.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Dad said, looking at his hand buried beneath me, and then when he wiggled it, realising where his finger was.
“Dad, don’t worry. Biology.” I managed; the last thing I needed was Dad not being too embarrassed or reluctant to help me. “Perhaps I needed that, Dad. Thank you.”
I lifted myself up, and Dad slowly withdrew his finger, almost giving me another moment. I gasped and looked at Dad, trying to smile as his finger left and he pulled his hand from beneath me.
“Dad, don’t worry, there is no boyfriend going to be angry and looking to wreak revenge.”
“But I shouldn’t have; it’s wrong.”
“Dad, no one knows Dad, and no one will ever know.”
I did notice that his trousers had bulged; perhaps I should help him out. But not now. I did hear the subdued sounds of their lovemaking at night; it seemed every night. I wonder if it was a reaction to seeing his daughter’s fanny every day. Did Mum object, or did she understand his need, or did she simply want it as much as him? I had no idea what older people did in terms of frequency of sex. I did sort of think that they slowed down, but not my folks; they fucked every day.
“I have a solution,” Dad said. “I will make a mould that we can use on the cushion of your chair. It will put most of your weight on the horns of your pelvis, leaving the weight off your, er,” he paused.
“Fanny, Dad,” I said, “Fanny.”
“Er, yes, off your fanny. I will get the mould materials today, and we can probably make it later or tomorrow. You will need to shave, though; the mould material will stick to your hairs.”
“Okay, Dad. I will have to ask for help with that probably.”
Dad nodded. “Yes, probably Mum would be best; that might be a bit too close for comfort or me. I will ask your mum to put shaving stuff in your wet room.”
“But Dad, you are the shaving expert of the house.”
He looked at me aghast. I smiled and blew him a kiss. Dad had installed a hoist next to my bed. It had a remote that I could use. It wrapped around my torso and under my bust, and I could swing from the bed into my chair. I could then go anywhere I liked in my chair. The floor in my bedroom was wooden, so the chair moved easily. There hadn’t been room in the wet room for a hoist, but Dad had installed a load of ropes with handhold loops on that I could use to get from my chair into the shower or onto the toilet. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked, and Dad said he was designing a compact hoist and travel system that would work better, but it would be a while.
At least now I could shower and go to the loo without help; I still hadn’t ventured out of the house. That was still a challenge too far for me. Mum and Dad had talked about perhaps a commode-type wheelchair so I could use the disabled toilets when I did eventually go out.
I got myself into the bathroom, wheeled into the shower, shut the door, hoisted myself into the shower seat and prepared to shave my fanny. Well, what a rigmarole. I guess you don’t realise how important legs are when you are trying to sit and manoeuvre and shave down there; I was rolling around like a tenpin. I called Mum.
“Mum, I have to shave my fanny so that Dad can make a mould, but I can’t see down there, and I keep rolling around.”
“No problem, sweetheart. Yes, let me help. I think we might get you an electric razor; they are much easier. Or perhaps we could try waxing.”
“Whatever you think, Mum, but for now, can we just shave me?”
Mum rubbed shaving gel everywhere and then put the showerhead on the lower hook so that she could rinse the razor. Bizarrely the manual razor that they had got for me actually vibrated, and how I managed to control myself I do not know. I knew I could have fun with it when I was alone, but not at the hands of my mum. It was a very close-run thing.
Finally shaved smooth and rinsed, Mum left me to it, and I completed my shower while I was there. I had let my hair grow ever since the injury, and it was now down over my shoulders. I hadn’t decided how long I would let it grow; maybe as long as it would. I didn’t know, but it meant more of a chore with shampoo and conditioner, but then, I had little else to do.
Because I couldn’t bend over a sink, I had to sit under the shower water and rinse all the suds off my hair onto me and then off me onto the floor. It was, in a way, quite sensual. The shower that Dad had installed also had a hot air feature, and I usually used that to dry my body rather than a towel, but it also worked on my hair, after a fashion. My hair ended up damp rather than wet, but that was an improvement.
Dad came back with his mould-making stuff.
“Okay, sweetheart, I have gone for an alginate system; it is finer and will get more of the finer details of you down there.”
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