"John, I have something I need to tell you, and it's rather awful," my wife said to me as we lay in bed. The room was dark and I could not see the expression on her face which would have telegraphed the gravity of her concern.
Instead, I thought she was joking and I responded, "You have a headache tonight, or you've decided to run away with the boy next door?" She didn't laugh but, sometimes, my humor was lost on her. "Oh, it must be real serious," I said in a feigned voice of concern. "Why, Laura! You've decided to run away with the girl next door? Well, she is hot, so can I come too?"
"John, stop joking. This is serious! It concerns Sarah," she said.
Sarah was our youngest child, the only child remaining at home. She was 18 years old, barely, and three months away from graduating high school. After having three boys, I had finally gotten the daughter I wanted and I had been wrapped around her little finger since the day she was born.
Of course, many of the boys would have loved to be close to her. Physically, she was very pretty. I'm her father and a bit biased but I will admit that she probably wouldn't win any beauty pageants but, still, she was a pretty girl. I say that she wouldn't win any beauty pageants because she was still rather small chested.
Sarah's boobs were 34A's and she had whined about wanting breast surgery for the past year, but I had refused. I hadn't seen her naked chest since she was about 7 years old, but I had seen her in bikinis. I thought her boobs were proportionate to her small frame and complemented her petite body very well. Besides, there was still a possibility that she would continue to grow.
There was more to Sarah than just small boobs. She had a cute face, an innocent face, a sweet girl-next-door face like Hillary Duff or Kate Hudson. She was 5'1" tall (or short) and had not an ounce of fat on her frame. She had blonde hair that was usually straight and fell to the middle of her back. In addition to her physical attractiveness, she was fairly intelligent. She was not the valedictorian of the class but she was in the honor society at high school and she would be starting college in the fall.
Needless to say, she was popular at school with both the boys and the girls. Now you will probably think that I am just another father who is blind to the humanity and faults of his little princess but . . . I really thought that she was still a virgin. She had dated 2 or 3 boys in high school but she never stayed out until 2 AM and she never seemed excessively attached to any of the guys. In fact, some might have questioned whether she was, perhaps, more interested in girls, but I had never seen any indications of that, either.
The biggest fault I had seen in my little girl was that she 'went along with the crowd' too often and did not stand her ground when she knew that her friends were doing something that was wrong. In fact, that is what my wife was getting ready to address.
"John, you know Bill and Freda? Well, I saw Freda at the grocery store today and she told me that her daughter – you know, Tiffany – had come to her and told her that she was getting bullied by some girls at school. Tiffany was talking to some other girl's boyfriend and the drama started. The other girl was one of Sarah's friends and you know how loyal Sarah is to her friends. Well, Freda said that Sarah pulled out her cell phone and took a picture of Tiffany in the shower after gym class and she was threatening to post it on the internet unless Tiffany stopped talking to the boy." She paused, inviting me, in her silent but obvious way, to respond and agree with her.
"Well, I certainly hate hearing that shit!" I said. "That's how bullying starts and, you know, you hear about kids committing suicide about this kind of stuff. Sarah's knows that's wrong and we've talked to her about doing the right thing instead of just following along with her friends, but she still doesn't get it."
"She doesn't seem to listen to a thing I tell her recently," my wife complained, suggesting that this was a problem that she wanted me to address.
"Okay, I get the idea that you want me to handle this," I responded. "Are you still going to see your sister this weekend?" I asked.
"This weekend, meaning tomorrow? Yes, of course!" she answered.
"I'll talk to her this weekend," I said.
* * *
Laura left Friday afternoon, after work, and Sarah went out with some friends Friday night, so I spent the night at home, alone, with time to think about how to address this matter.
* * *
Saturday morning, Sarah got out of bed about 10 AM. She was wearing one of my old tee shirts that was cut off so that it exposed her midriff and the pair of thong panties that was hiding her feminine treasure. Laura had previously told me that Sarah had started shaving her pubic hair, so it was no surprise that the tight little panties revealed a sweet looking camel toe.
"Hi, Daddy!" she said in a cheerful voice as she went to the refrigerator and retrieved the milk for her cereal.
"I'm not accustomed to seeing you in such a revealing state of undress," I said, expecting some push back from Sarah.
"Yeah, well, Mom's not here and you know what a prude she is, and . . . it's just you and me, Daddy, so . . . it's not a problem, is it?"
"It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you." That was the end of that conversation.
After breakfast, I told Sarah that I wanted to talk to her in my study.
"Okay, Daddy, just let me get dressed first," she requested.
"No, you can get dressed later," I responded in an authoritative tone. "Your Mom's not here."
"Am I in trouble, Daddy?" she asked.
"Let's go in the study and talk," I said, avoiding a direct answer to her question.
I sat down at my desk and motioned for her to sit in the chair in front of the desk.
"Honey, I know that you are concerned about, or maybe a little embarrassed about, the size of your boobs." As I said this, I could see her face beginning to turn a bit red. "You've told both your mother and me that you wanted to have a boob job and, so far, my response has been 'no.' Frankly, I don't see anything wrong with the size of your boobs and I think you are very attractive just the way you are."
"So, then, why do we need to talk about this again?" she inquired.
"Well, your mother has talked to me about it recently and she asked me to reconsider it, and I told her I would. In fact, she suggested that it could be our graduation gift to you. So, I told her that I would talk to you this weekend, while she's off visiting her sister. So, this is your chance to convince me that you should get a boob job."
"Daddy, isn't it obvious that my boobs are small. I feel like a little girl when I'm in the locker room. If I was ever with a guy . . .." She abruptly stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that she probably shouldn't encourage me to conjure up a mental image of her naked with a boyfriend.
"Sweetie, what is your bra size?" I asked even though I knew the answer.
"34A," she immediately replied.
"Do they sell 34A bras in the stores where you shop or do you need to special order them?"
"No, they sell them in the stores, Daddy. What's that got to do with it?"
"Do you know why they sell 34A bras in all the stores? It's because there's plenty of women who go in and buy 34A bras. That means your boobs are just like a lot of other women's boobs. Of course they're small, but they're boobs and, as far as I can tell, they're normal in all respects, so I just don't get it," I uttered with a sound of exasperation in my voice. "Women think every man on the planet wants a woman with big tits but that just isn't true."
"Daddy, you haven't even seen my 'tits' since I was a little girl so how would you know?" she retorted. I didn't offer any immediate response, so she continued. "Is that what you want? Do you wanna see my boobs?" she said not as an offer but as a query.
"Honey, if I was gonna pay for a boob job for you, I would want to see them before and after. Your Mom says that a boob job costs between 6 and 8 thousand dollars. If I spend that kind of money, I'd wanna know why I'm spending it and then I'd wanna see what I got for my money!"
"Daddy, I love you, but you're my father. I'd feel kinda funny seeing you look at me naked," she explained. "Can't you just trust me on this one?"
"Well, you don't feel funny running around in a half of a tee shirt and a little thong that doesn't hide more than 2 square inches of pussy, so what's the big deal. You know, in some families, people see each other naked all the time and they don't think anything about it at all. Families go to nudist resorts and spend the whole weekend naked and it's no big deal. It's just a matter of what's in your mind," I explained.
"No, Daddy, it's what's in my eyes. I can't stand here naked and look at your face while you look at my body. I just can't!" she explained.
"Well, you've gotta decide how important it is to you," I very calmly declared. "It's not like anyone else is gonna see you . . . or even know about it. Would it help if you were blindfolded so you didn't see me face?" I asked only half-jokingly.
"That wouldn't do any good, Daddy. I'd freak out and just yank off the blindfold!"
"What if your hands were tied up so you couldn't do that?" I suggested.
"Daddy's aren't supposed to see their daughters naked," she said, as if she was going to trump me with an accusation about morality.
"And people aren't supposed to get surgery to change their appearance just because they can," I responded. "If you change your mind, I'll let you have a glass of wine first. It'll help you to relax." After a few seconds, I ended the conversation with "let me know if you change your mind. Okay, go on, get out of here."
Sarah had a look of disappointment on her face and a look of defeat. She could usually get whatever she wanted from me but none of her charms had worked this time. She trudged out of my study with shoulders slumped.
About ten minutes later, I was still sitting at my desk when she knocked on the door. I looked up and acknowledged her presence.
"I might need more than one glass of wine," she said.
"Okay, but it's too early to start drinking, so we'll do it later this afternoon. Why don't you just relax and lay out by the pool for a while. I might come out and join you in a bit, if you can put up with an old guy like me."
"Oh Daddy!" she said in that voice that usually indicates that she thinks she's having her way with me.
A few hours later, I poured two glasses of wine and changed into a swim suit. When I walked out to the pool, Sarah was laying on a chaise, getting sun on her back. She was wearing a bright yellow bikini that shouldn't have been legal. The panty was a thong-style bikini that clearly showed everything except her bumhole. It was the style that ties on the sides. Her top was untied so, essentially, her entire back was nude and exposed to me.
"New bikini?" I asked.
"Yeah. Do you like it?" she asked.
"I wouldn't want you going out in public wearing that unless you had a police escort, but it's okay around here," I responded in a very paternal voice. I softened my tine as I added, "I brought you a glass of wine."
