Lindsay gives me a condescending look when I tell her what the article says, and then she flops sideways on her bed as if tired of the conversation already. I refrain from using a firmer tone with her, simply because it's clear she's upset already.
"Daddy," She says, as if I haven't listened to a word she's said, but she hasn't said much of anything other than "okay" and "all right" this entire time. "I would know if I was pregnant."
"You would?" I ask incredulously. "How in the hell would you know? Do you think you have some sort of extra sensory perception? Or do you think you've got that sense like in that movie we watched."
Lindsay glances up at me and then shakes her head. "I'm not pregnant," she says, and she stretches across her bed, her toes brushing the back wall of her bedroom, her hands extending almost to the headboard of her bed. She pulls one hand back and extends it, a little white stick held firmly in her fingers.
"What is that?" I ask, stepping closer.
"A pregnancy test," she says.
"When did you get this?" I ask, inspecting it more closely.
"I've had it. I bought a couple... just in case."
"When?" I ask again.
"The day after I turned eighteen," she says, her face turning beet red.
"They day after you turned eighteen?" I say, giving her a shocked expression. "When you went shopping with your friends at the Shady Oaks Mall?"
Lindsay nods and then presses her face into her pillow. I knew she'd gone, I said she could go, but I didn't realize what she'd spent her birthday money on, until now. I give the pregnancy test my full, undivided attention, and see the single line in the window, showing what the test would look like if she were pregnant. The other window is completely empty. I turn the test to see if there's a light line or no line, and I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. But there's no line at all. I set the test down on her dresser and then go to sit next to her on her bed.
"Sweetie. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, is all."
"I know," she says glumly.
"And if... if you got pregnant... I don't know what I would do."
"I'm not," Lindsay says, adamantly.
"I know. I know you're not."
"If I do get pregnant, then we'll have to deal with it," Lindsay says in a very strong tone, letting me know she's serious, but to me, "deal with it" could mean a lot of things.
"I'm sorry I didn't- ...think that you'd have already done your homework early," I say, using a phrase I'd used often before with her. "But we need to get serious, if we're going to... keep... doing this."
Lindsay lifts her head from her pillow, her eyes boring into mine. "If we're serious, we need to go shopping," she says. "And it's Saturday! The mall is usually packed, but, I'll make do."
I chuckle. "Making sacrifices already," I say teasingly.
"Did you clean up the mess in the front room?" Lindsay asks, pivoting on her bed and putting her feet on the floor.
"No," I say.
Lindsay stands up and rips a half-a-shirt from her top drawer, takes the one she has on, off, and pulls the way-too-tiny shirt on over her boobs. She turns to me, showing me the shirt I'd picked out for her days ago, and swings her boobs back and forth. "Maybe I'll wear this to the mall," she says teasingly, and then turns around and leaves.
I find her in the front room, a sponge and bucket next to her, washing the cum out of the carpet. She's almost done when I sit down on the couch, and she glances over at me, as if expecting something.
"When you're ready to go," I say, tapping my phone and scrolling through the information. "I've got your clothes picked out."
"What?" Lindsay asks, a wry smile on her lips. "Did you say you picked out my clothes?"
"Yup," I say, turning the phone around to show her. She glances at it and then hurried to finish scrubbing the carpet, a strange look on her face. "It says here... Trust what your father tells you in most things." I grumble and say they must have made a typo because it should say "all things" and then I continue reading. "Let your father pick out your wardrobe. You can start dressing more maturely, especially if the occasion warrants it, but remember, you are still Daddy's little girl, and you want to please him, don't you?"
Lindsay turns a deeply red face toward me and answers, "Yes Daddy."
I grin, not expecting her response, but it's fucking hot as hell and I have to cross my legs to hide my growing excitement. We are supposed to be going to the mall after all.
"Daily clothing choices show respect and trust in your father's choices. Remember, if you're embarrassed by his choices, he will see it, and it will remind him to make better choices in the future. You can limit your own embarrassment by shopping together, picking out outfits that match, or that are for specific occasions, such as crotchless panties for trips to the park, or a nice red cocktail dress for family get-togethers and holidays."
I look up from my phone as Lindsay stands up, her nipples so hard they're holding the cut edge of her shirt above them. "Am I still wearing this to the mall?" She asks.
"No," I say, but I can't resist touching her. I reach forward, grab her by the ass and pull her to me. She yelps, struggling to keep the bucket and sponge upright, and then sets them on the couch. I suck one of her nipples into my mouth, hungrily devouring it as Lindsay yanks the yellow rubber gloves off and tosses them to the side.
"Oh my god," Lindsay groans as my hands grab her ass, squeezing and kneading, pulling her apart over and over again.
"I love these tits of yours," I say as I switch nipples and a groan emanates from her belly, all the way up and out of her lungs as I suckle the next nipple, applying suction hard enough to draw a welt it if were applied anywhere else.
"I need you, Daddy," she groans, and she reaches down, grabbing the front of my boxers and pulling the length of my cock out through the folds of fabric. Her hips lower and she grabs the front of her panties, pulling them to the side, and then sliding her hand down next to her pussy where she tucks the material between her mound and her leg. She grabs my dick, slides it between her lips, and sits down on it, engulfing me in heat.
"Oh my God baby," I groan as my Steely Dan slides all the way in and then thumps that silky soft nub at the very top of her cavity.
"I love fucking you," Lindsay groans, her hands sliding back and forth over my arms, my shoulders and my neck. Her hips rotate and come up, rotate, and slide down. Every stroke is genius, perfectly aligned for both of our pleasures.
