Chrissys proposal sequel to nude beach dream
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Chrissy's Little MistakeChapter 1 free porn video
“Daddy?”
I was sitting at the computer, finishing up some work. I turned to look at Chrissy, my seventeen year old daughter and one of the lights of my life. Her brother, Bobby, was the other one. He was in his eighth week of basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, in what he called the scenic Ozarks in the one phone call he’d been allowed so far. He said he’d finally found that place everybody talks about where you can’t see the forest for the trees. The locals all called it “Fort Lost-in-the-woods.”
“What’s up, pumpkin?” I asked. She looked worried. In fact, now that I looked at her more closely, she appeared to have been crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked, worriedly. Parents always fear the worst for their children and since Marie had left us to “find herself” I was doing double duty in the parent department.
“I think I made a mistake,” she said, her voice sounding very young.
“OK,” I said. I had images of her having broken something. I just waited for her to go on.
“Please don’t hate me, Daddy,” she pleaded.
“I might get mad, Chrissy, but you know I could never hate you.”
“Maybe you could,” she said. A tear ran down one cheek.
“Just tell me, baby,” I urged.
Her fists clenched, and then released. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Finally she blurted it out.
“I think I might be pregnant.”
As I said, parents always fear the worst. Usually, the ‘worst’ involves some horrible disease, or drugs, or prison or something that unalterably changes a promising life into something more along the lines of a trial. But this one caught me off guard. I mean I knew she was a vibrant young woman, not gorgeous, but awfully attractive ... in ways a father isn’t really supposed to view her. And while there had always been an undercurrent of uneasiness in my thoughts since she’d started looking more like a woman than a girl, I knew she was sensible with boys. We’d had several conversations about boys.
OK, I’d given her several lectures about boys.
But she’d taken them pretty well. I suddenly remembered one such time when her response had been “I know what boys want, Daddy, and I know how to handle them. Don’t worry.”
Of course I had still worried. I wasn’t happy that it turned out I had been justified in that concern.
“You think you might be pregnant,” I said. Denial is always the first step.
“I missed my period last month,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I’m late again now.”
I remembered how Marie had acted when she got pregnant both times.
“Nausea in the morning?” I asked.
She looked at me peculiarly. “No.”
“Any vaginal discharge? Are your breasts tender?”
Her cheeks stained red. At least she wasn’t crying any more. “Daddy!” she moaned. I raised my eyebrows. “No,” she finally said.
“I’ll call the doctor,” I said.
“No, Daddy! I don’t want anybody to know!”
“Sweetheart, believe me, if you’re pregnant, in a couple more months everybody’s going to be able to tell. This isn’t something you can keep secret.”
She slumped. “I know. It’s just that...” She trailed off.
I was surprised at the fact that I felt sorry for her ... kind of. I mean it takes two to tango. That led to the realization that she had ... tangoed. I looked at her again, this time with male eyes instead of Daddy eyes. At five-six or seven she looked a little taller because she had the slim body of the cross country runner that she was ... had been. She bought her own clothes, and did her own laundry so I didn’t know her sizes, but I estimated her to be maybe thirty-four or a little bigger in the bust. Her breasts rode high on her chest. Standing there in jeans and a T shirt her legs looked long and slim. There was nothing about her appearance that suggested she was with child. Her hair was down now, though she often had it up in a pony tail.
“Who’s the father?” I asked, eager to find out who I was going to have to kill.
“I can’t tell you,” she said. She looked scared again.
“Can’t ... or won’t?” I didn’t want to even think about the possibility that she didn’t know, but it was one of the options and couldn’t be ignored.
She dithered again and the tears were back. “Won’t ... I guess,” she said.
“But you know,” I said. The inference that she might not know was clear.
She looked surprised and then something like shock or maybe anger flitted across her face.
“I’m not a slut, Daddy!” she yipped.
“Well that’s good,” I said. I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt, to be honest.
“I only did it once,” she complained.
“Once is all it takes,” I said. “I seem to remember saying that, one time or another.”
“I knoooow,” she moaned. “It was an accident. Things just got crazy and it just sort of happened.”
“I seem to remember telling you about that too,” I said tightly.
That’s what had happened with Marie and me too, though I hadn’t told our children that. When Marie told me she was pregnant I did the right thing, which turned out to be the wrong thing. Marie and I were never really in love. We tried, but you can’t force that kind of thing. That brought to mind another question.
“Do you love him?” Yet another question popped into my mind. “Does he love you?” Then I realized both were stupid questions. How would they know? Whoever he was they were both too young to know whether what they felt was really love or simply lust.
“Yes,” she said. She said it with that firmness youth have when they think they know what they’re talking about. Of course in reality they are probably clueless.
“Well, I guess we’ll see about that,” I said. “Have you told him?”
“No.” Now there was a wary edge in her voice. “Aren’t you going to get mad and yell at me?”
“Trust me, pumpkin,” I said wearily. “That won’t make you un-pregnant.” I sighed.
My daughter must have heard something unsaid because she backed up. “I won’t get an abortion, Daddy.”
I didn’t know how to feel about that either. I hadn’t even thought of that until she brought it up. I knew I should think about that, but the concept wasn’t attractive to me on the face of it. There would be time to think about that later, if need be.
“First, let’s find out if you really are pregnant,” I said. “We can decide what to do after that.”
“I won’t get an abortion, Daddy,” she said again.
I already knew she’d inherited her mother’s gene for stubbornness. I also knew that she had a lot of thinking to do ... whether she was pregnant or not.
We both did.
She was pregnant. The doctor delivered the news in a peculiarly flat and unemotional voice, like he was trying to be as neutral as possible. He looked at Chrissy.
“You’re in good health. You’ll need to come back for regular checkups, depending on what you decide to do.
“I’m not getting an abortion,” she said firmly.
“Tell the nurse I want to see you again in two weeks,” said the doctor, without blinking an eye. “She’ll have some pamphlets for you about vitamins and exercise and a proper diet. Read them, Chrissy. This is a stressful time in your life and it can affect your health ... and the health of the baby. Your job for the next seven months is to take care of yourself and your baby.” He looked her straight in the eye.
“I will,” she said, seeming to relax.
It was very quiet on her side of the car as we drove home. Actually, it was pretty quiet on my side too. It was beginning to sink in. I was going to be a grandfather. At thirty-six I was going to be a grandfather. It didn’t make me feel any better that I’d actually be thirty-seven when he or she actually made an appearance. I looked over at Chrissy.
“You sure you want to do this?”
She looked back and her eyes glistened.
“Yes, Daddy. I have to have this baby.”
“You need to tell the father,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to say it. I hated the little bastard who had done this to my little girl. I hoped he choked on the next French fry he crammed in is mouth.
“I can’t,” she said. The tightness was back in her voice. “He can’t do anything about it.”
I had a horrifying thought. “Don’t tell me he’s married,” I groaned.
“He’s not married!” she said quickly.
“Then why can’t we tell him?” I moaned. “Help me out here, Chrissy!”
“I can’t, Daddy,” she said softly. “You have to trust me.”
“I have to trust you,” I repeated angrily. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing the last four or five years? I trusted you not to get pregnant, didn’t I?”
“Please, Daddy,” she said. I could hear sobs building up inside her.
I thought about what the doctor had said. All I was doing was adding to her stress level.
“OK, pumpkin,” I said, trying to force myself to relax. “I love you, no matter what happens. We’re in this together.”
She did cry then, but it was the good kind of crying. I actually felt a little better. Little did I realize how prophetic my words were. I did love her.
And we’d be in it together in ways I had no concept of. Not then, anyway.
It’s kind of strange when you’re trying to prepare for your whole world to change, but the change comes so slowly. It was different, somehow, than when Marie and I had been waiting for her to give birth. Maybe that’s because Marie was supposed to have a baby. In her case, the anticipation was part of the fun.
But Chrissy wasn’t supposed to have a baby. Not yet.
So for the first couple of weeks or so there was still some tension between my daughter and me. She took the doctor’s instructions both literally and seriously. She checked out books at the library and spent a lot of time on the internet getting educated. She started eating better, which meant I started eating better too.
As a CPA I ran my business from home. I could pretty much work when I wanted to, unless it was tax time. It was July, though, so the crush was over and I could take it easy for a while.
About a week after the doctor’s visit she came into my home office again. She was dressed for a run.
“I need somebody to run with me,” she said. “Bobby was doing it to get ready for the Army, but now he’s gone and I’m tired of running alone. Will you come with me?”
“You’re going to run?” I asked skeptically. “In your condition?”
“My condition,” She stressed the second word “doesn’t prevent me from doing any of the things I’m used to. Not yet. The experts say that you should keep doing the things you normally do, including exercise. You’re out of shape, Daddy. You should come with me.”
“Why would an old man like me want to publicly embarrass himself by lurching along, gasping for air, looking like I’m chasing after a cute young girl?” I asked.
“I’ll take it easy on you,” she said. “Come on. I don’t want to run by myself. You said we were in this together.”
There it was. She was testing me. We still hadn’t said more than half a dozen sentences about the fact that she was a woman now, whether she wanted to be or not. My grandchild was developing in that barely pooching belly of hers and she was taking him (I don’t know why I decided it was a him, but I did, ) along for the ride. And she wanted grandpa along for the ride too.
“Do you know CPR?” I asked, standing up.
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