My Daughter's SurprisebySlamDuncan©
Author's note: If you're looking for a one page stroke story, this isn't for you.
"My name is Kimberly Carlisle, and I believe I'm your daughter."
Those words were to change my life forever. I am Mark Regan; I just turned forty. I run a fairly successful software consulting operation out of my home office in Pacifica, south of San Francisco, on the coast side of the peninsula.
I've been divorced for ten, going on eleven years.
There has been an occasional woman in and out of my life during that time, but nothing steady, nor am I sure I want there to be. I'm never hard-pressed to find a date, whenever I want one, and count a number of women among my circle of good friends, including several fuck-buddies.
I'm 6'1", about 180 pounds, with black hair and blue eyes, as befits my Black Irish heritage, and these days I'm wearing a full beard. I try to eat healthy, but I have a weakness for thick steaks and Irish whiskey. I keep myself in pretty good shape, work out in my home gym, and try to run on the beach several days a week, with my big mongrel dog, Cooter.
I was up to my ears in a big project, and it wasn't going well. This particular client is a first class jerk who gives me nothing but grief. I was in a shitty mood when the doorbell rang, and Cooter started into his happy-dance. Some watchdog; if I ever had a burglar, his biggest hazard would be drowning in dog slobber when he got his face licked.
I looked through the window and saw a young woman, dressed in business clothes, carrying an attaché case. Crap! My first thought was that it was a Jehovah's Witness, the last thing I needed that day. Wait a minute, I thought; they always travel in pairs. Process server? She looked too young. She was also very pretty. Stunning, as a matter of fact. I let out a big sigh and opened the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Are you Mark Regan?" She looked really nervous.
"Yes, I am."
"Did you go to Columbia University?"
"I'm sorry, but I already mailed my check to the alumni association."
I started to close the door, and noticed that her chin was starting to quiver, and there were tears in her eyes. I'm hopeless when it comes to a crying woman. Instant paralysis; I never know what to do.
"Is something wrong? Would you like to come in and have a glass of water?"
"Th-thank you, yes I would."
"Cooter, SIT! STAY!"
I know my dog. He's a crotch sniffer, and the last thing this girl needed at the moment was a dog snout between her legs. I looked at her closely. Not only was she beautiful, but all of a sudden, I had a major case of deja vu. She looked awfully familiar. I motioned to a chair, she sat, and I fetched her a glass of water.
"Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?"
Then she dropped the bomb:
"My name is Kimberly Carlisle, and I believe I'm your daughter."
"I'm sorry, but I don't have a daughter, especially not one your age."
"My mother is Brenda Carlisle. Did you know her at Columbia?"
Jesus! I don't know how I missed it. She looks just like her mother, and I didn't associate her last name when she told me. She has the same auburn hair, highlighted with natural red and blond, that falls over her shoulders in soft ringlets, and a face that resembles Megan Fox, with soft, full lips.
She looks like she's about 5'7", with long legs, a slender waist, flared hips, and a full, round butt. Her breasts weren't overly large; I'd estimate a C cup, that sat high on her chest. Brenda had brown eyes. Kimberly's are cobalt blue, just like mine. I certainly did know Brenda, in both the literal and Biblical sense.
"Yes, I knew her at Columbia."
"Were you, um, intimate with her? I'm not trying to pry, but this is desperately important to me."
"Yes. We lived together for the last semester of my sophomore year. She was a senior at the time."
"Were you two in love with each other?"
"Yes, we were. We broke it off when she graduated. She was headed to grad school at Carnegie Mellon, and we both agreed we couldn't handle a long distance relationship. We were going to stay in touch, but I never heard from her again."
She seemed to be relaxing a bit. Cooter came over and laid his shaggy head in her lap. She scratched him in his favorite place behind his ears. He flopped down on the floor, belly up, looking at her with adoring eyes, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
"So, how is your mother?"
"She, uh.... she died last month. Ovarian cancer." Her voice caught, and she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.
"I'm so sorry, Kimberly. It's not fair; she was so young."
"She was sick for so long; she really struggled at the end."
"You look so much like her. But what makes you think I'm your father? It seems to me that if she was carrying my child, she would have let me know."
"She told me you were my father just before she died. I don't know why she never told you. She was pretty independent; she didn't want to get married or have a permanent relationship."
"I can't believe you never asked about your father."
"I did, but she told me it was an anonymous donor from a sperm bank. My birth certificate says 'father unknown.' "
She pulled her birth certificate out of the brief case she was carrying. She is nineteen, and judging from her date of birth, subtracting nine months, put me right in the bull's-eye.
"You'll have to forgive me, but this has come as a total shock to me. I'm not denying I'm your father, but...."
"Would you be willing to take a blood test with me? That way, we can both be sure."
"Sure, I'll do that. It's about dinnertime; will you stay? That way we can get to know each other a little better."
I grilled a couple of steaks, did some bakers in the microwave, and Jennifer made a salad. I opened a nice bottle of Merlot. Cooter took up a spot between us, thumping the floor with his tail, looking expectantly, in case someone wanted to throw him a scrap of food. He can mimic the look of a starving child in Ethiopia.
"I didn't think to ask, are you married, Mark? Oh, is okay if I call you Mark?"
"I'm divorced, and Mark is fine."
She looked at a framed photograph on the sideboard, of me, taken twelve years ago, with a little boy.
"Is that your son?"
"Yes, it is," I said with a slight catch in my voice.
"Gosh, then maybe I'll have a brother. Does he live with your ex-wife?"
"He died when he was six years old. Leukemia. His name was Ian. His passing kind of killed our marriage, too."
"Oh, Mark, I'm so sorry."
She put her small, soft hand over mine and left it there for awhile. It was a perfectly natural thing to do, and I was surprised at the little jolt of electricity that I felt.
"So, Kimberly, tell me something about yourself. For openers, where do you live?"
"Mom and I lived in Pittsburgh, and I really hate it there. During my search for you, I really came to like San Francisco and the Bay Area, so I'd like to stay around here. If I can find a job, that is."
"What kind of job? What do you do?"
"I'd like to find something in the computer field. I just got an Associates of Arts degree in web design, and I have a lot of other computer skills. I'm kind of a geek. I want to get my BA, but that will have to be part time."
I paused in the conversation for a moment, and did some heavy thinking. Whether she was my daughter or not, and I was beginning to believe that she is, she's smart, seems to have a good skill set, and I like her. As a bonus, she's really good to look at.
"My assistant just left my employ last week, and I need someone who has the skills that you do. What would you think about working for me? You can try it out and see if you like it."
"Are you sure? I didn't come here to get anything from you. I just want to know who my father is. I'm trying to figure out who I am, what my heritage is."
"You won't be 'getting' anything from me; if the job works out, I'll be 'getting' something from you."
"Thank you, I really appreciate the offer."
"Where are you staying?"
"Nowhere at the moment; I'm going to find a motel. I drove over from Oakland this morning. Do you know how many Mark Regans there are? Google your name and see what pops up."
"I have a guest room with a private bath, just down the hall. You're welcome to stay there until you can decide what you want to do. It's even got a lock on the door, in case you're a bit leery of staying in a house with strange man."
"I don't want to put you out."
"You're not putting me out. Besides, I'll enjoy the company."
"In that case, thank you again."
"Good! Now that you don't have to drive anywhere, you can have another glass of wine."
I went down to her car, a Ford Escort that looked to be at least ten years old, and brought her bags up. While she was taking a shower, I did a little on-line research.
She came out in her nightwear, an oversized tee shirt and a pair of boxers. From the way her breasts swayed, I could see she wasn't wearing a bra. Her nipples made two pretty little bumps in the soft cotton cloth. Her legs were long, toned, and very shapely. I'm new at this stuff; is a father supposed to notice things like that? Is he supposed to find it arousing?
"I just did some research on paternity tests," I told her. "A blood test will only rule out paternity, it won't confirm it. But there's a lab in the City that will do a one-day DNA test. We can drive there in the morning, let them swab our cheeks, and they'll email us the results tomorrow afternoon."
She didn't lock her bedroom door that night. She didn't even close it all the way, but left it slightly ajar.
We headed up to the City the first thing in the morning. It was warm, so I put the top down on my BMW Z4. I love this car. Part of the trip goes along the Cabrillo Highway, the old Route 1; it's two lane, with lots of turns and a great ocean view. Kimberly's hair shone in the sunlight as it flew out behind her in the wind.
We found the lab with no problem, and sat together on a small couch in the waiting room.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm kind of nervous."
We were sitting with our shoulders touching. I took her hand in mine, intending it to be a reassuring gesture, but it felt like more than that. After we were swabbed, I kept my arm around her waist, as I escorted her back to the car.
When we got home, I gave her a tour of the office, and showed her all the computer equipment I had. She was impressed with her workstation; it had a MacPro with a thirty-inch monitor.
"I forgot to tell you, this job has a dress code."
"Oh?" Her brow wrinkled a bit.
"Jeans and a tee shirt, or shorts if you want. Shoes are optional."
That was the first time I heard her laugh. Her smile was wide, with pearly white teeth that would look good in a Crest commercial.
We were discussing some of the ongoing projects that I wanted her to work on, when the little e-mail bell rang, telling us it was from the lab, with our test results. We were standing behind my desk, and I reached down and clicked the mouse to open it up. We were both holding our breaths, and then stood there in stunned silence when we saw the results were positive.
"Is-is it okay if I give you a hug?" she asked in a small voice.
"It's more than okay; it's about nineteen years overdue."
We wrapped our arms around each other, and held on for the longest time. Her hair smelled wonderful, and I was soon aware of how good her young body felt, pressed against mine; her firm breasts, our hips fused together.
I heard her sniffle, looked into her face, and saw tears running down her cheeks. My eyes were pretty misty as well. I held her face in my hands, kissed her on the forehead, kissed her tears away, and then gave her a very chaste peck on the lips.
"I'm so glad I found you. I'm so glad it's you."
"Me too, sweetie."
She plunged into work the next day. Her skill and her competence amazed me. When she wasn't working, she virtually took over the kitchen. She was also an excellent cook.
"I want to take you out on the town to celebrate Friday night. We'll go to dinner at the Top of the Mark. You'll love it, it has a view of the whole city."
"I take it that's a little fancier than jeans and a tee shirt?"
"Yeah, we'll get all spiffed up. Believe it or not, I do own a tie."
"I'm afraid that's a bit of a problem for me. Any decent clothes I had are more than four years old, and they don't quite fit anymore. Mom was sick for four years, and I did nothing but go to school and take care of her. I haven't gotten around to buying anything new yet."
"Not to worry. Let me call my friend Gloria, and she'll be your personal shopping guide."
"I'm afraid right now, I don't have the money. Mom's medical bills ate up everything we had."
"Don't worry about it. I didn't get a chance to buy you pretty dresses when you a little girl. I would have been part of your life, you know, if I'd only known about you."
"I'll pay you back out of my salary."
"No, you won't. Besides, we do have to entertain clients once in awhile, so I'll write it off a business expense."
Gloria pulled up in her big SUV. I don't know why she has a four-wheel drive; she's never been off a paved road in her life. Cooter jumped up and put his paws on the door, leaned in the window and gave her a big sloppy dog kiss. She gave his head a rub, and climbed out of her car.
Gloria is thirty-five, tall, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse. She's a great friend and, on occasion, we have tumbled between the sheets. She gave me a big hug and a long, passionate kiss. Kimberly was watching, with a look of consternation on her face. I introduced them to each other, and Kim went in the house to get ready.
"So, she's your new assistant, huh? God, Mark, she's gorgeous. Have you hit on her yet?"
"She's, uh, my daughter."
"Say what the fuck?"
I told her the whole story.
"Those weren't daughterly looks she was giving you, dude. You didn't answer my question; have you hit on her yet?"
"She my daughter for Christ's sake."
"So? Incest is all right, as long as you keep it in the family," she said with a hearty laugh. "Don't be surprised if she hits on you."
They were gone most of the day. When they returned, the whole back end of Gloria's car was filled with bags and packages.
"Don't blame her for the excess, Mark. I love shopping! Wait til you see what we got. We did her up from top to bottom, and underneath. She's got one hell of a body; Jesus, I'd kill to have tits like hers."
"You have quite a rack yourself, love."
"Yeah, they're big enough, but I'll be wearing them in my lap in another ten years, and she'll still look great. I went apeshit buying her sexy undies at Victoria's Secret; wait til you get a load of them."
"I doubt that I'll see her underwear, unless it's in the laundry."
"Uh huh," she said, giving me a lewd grin.
I never would have thought about Kimberly's underwear, until she said that. Then, I couldn't get it out of my mind.
Friday came around, and I was getting dressed for the evening. For some reason, I took extra care of my appearance. I put on a pair of tan slacks, a blue chambray shirt with a Jerry Garcia necktie, and a blue blazer. I even trimmed my beard. My grandma always said, "He cleans up nice."
I poured myself three fingers of Bushmills Black Bush, dropped in some ice, and waited for Kimberly to get ready.
I was stunned speechless when she made her entrance. She was wearing a red cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, that molded to her waist, hit her about mid-thigh, and had a flared skirt. It was low-cut and showed a nice amount of cleavage. Her hair was brushed out, with long auburn ringlets that fell across her breasts. And she was wearing real hose. She was blushing, and obviously not sure of herself.
"Wow! You look so beautiful."
"Do you like it? I've never had a dress anything like this."
"It's absolutely stunning. And so are you, by the way."
We drove into the City and rode the elevator up to the Top of the Mark, atop the Mark Hopkins Hotel. It was clear and the view was spectacular. The bar at the Mark boasts 100 different martinis.
When I held the chair for her and she sat, I couldn't help but look over her shoulder, down the front of her dress. Her creamy white breasts spilled over the top of her black lace bra. I have a definite underwear fetish, and I wondered if she was wearing matching panties. I felt my penis start to swell.
We ordered dinner and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Nobody that looked as good as she did was going to get carded. We chatted amiably over dinner. Besides being smart as a whip, she also has a wonderful sense of humor. We had definitely become comfortable with each other.
There were several couples on the dance floor when we had finished eating, and I asked her to dance. The music at the Mark wasn't fast or raucous, it was slow and romantic. Kimberly is an excellent dancer; she told me that her mother had insisted she take ballroom lessons when she was in middle school.
We started out in the conventional position, my hand around her waist, hers on my shoulder, holding hands with the other. We did a pretty mean foxtrot, and when I swung her out to twirl, her skirt flared out, revealing sexy lace garters.
When we danced to the next slow tune, she pressed her body tight against mine, her firm breasts mashed against my chest. Both her arms went around my neck; mine went around her waist, then moved lower until they rested on the upper swell of her buttocks.
We swayed together, cheek to cheek. I could feel her soft hair against my face, and I inhaled the scent of the perfume she was wearing. Her hips pressed firmly against me. I had a full-ledged hard-on, and I knew she could feel it. When we finished the dance, we looked into each other's eyes. I kissed her on the forehead. She pulled my face to hers and kissed me firmly on the lips.
Several days later, we were finishing a bottle of wine after dinner. Our conversations were getting more and more personal.
"Is Gloria your girlfriend, Dad?" She had graduated from calling me Mark.
"No. We have a little history, but we're just friends."
"I really like her; she's told me all kinds of interesting things," she said raising her eyebrows. I could swear she was flirting with me.
"So, did you leave a boyfriend back home? A girl as gorgeous as you are must have had to beat the guys off with a stick."
"No, I haven't even dated since Mom got sick."
"I'm sorry to hear that; you missed a lot of good years."
"I had a boyfriend when I was fifteen. We just made out a lot, which I really liked, and one time he felt me up, over my clothes, but that's as far as I ever went. I'm still technically a virgin because I've never had sex, but I don't have a hymen; my mother had her gynecologist surgically remove it, right after I started having a period. She said it was totally unnecessary, and one day I'd be glad it was gone. I'm not ignorant about sex; Mom told me a lot, and I've seen some porn. I just haven't had any experience."
That was more information than I really wanted to know. Or was it? And why did I find it titillating?
The next morning, Kimberly was talking to one of her girlfriends in Pittsburgh. I wasn't eavesdropping, I just was walking by her room, and I heard one side of her conversation. I stood out of sight of her open doorway, and listened. I guess that does make it eavesdropping. I put one foot on Cooter's tail to keep it from thumping on the floor and giving me away.
".....God, Shelly, he's a total hunk.....if he wasn't my father, I'd jump his bones......so what?....... You mean do it anyway? That's what his friend Gloria told me to do......you WHAT?? You've been fucking your father, and you didn't even tell me about it?...... yeah, I guess it would be a secret......I don't know Shel, I'd sure like to......we were dancing together and my panties were all wet......how does he feel?.....I don't know, but when we danced close, he had a hard-on......go for it?.....I'm kinda scared.... maybe I will.....yeah, I'll let you know.....Bye, Shelly."