Raising Chelsea

Raising Chelsea
by
Sinturian

Chelsea’s mother died of breast cancer when Chelsea was eight, and I was left to raise her on my own. Fortunately, her mother and I were both working professionals; she had been in real estate and I was an architect, and we had been able to spend a great deal of time at home raising our daughter. She was the spitting image of her mother, with bright strawberry blond hair and just a very light dusting of freckles on her nose. She was extremely smart and tested almost off the charts on intelligence tests.

When she was a baby, we took turns taking care of her such as changing diapers, bathing and powdering her and reading her stories. At about five or six years old, she started taking baths by herself, but about once a week, her mother would sit with her; sometimes bathing her, but mostly just talking. A few weeks after this ritual started. Chelsea asked her mother if I didn’t love her anymore. Her mom was shocked by this question and assured her I loved her very much, so Chelsea asked why I never gave her a bath and talked with her; after all, she related, she had things she only wanted to talk to dad about! So the next week, I gave Chelsea her “bath”; there was absolutely nothing erotic or sexual about it, and Chelsea really didn’t have anything earth shattering to discuss with me, but we talked and she giggled and it was a fun evening.

After her mother passed, I didn’t bath Chelsea for a couple of weeks; she took her own bath, but she acted very depressed and unhappy, but I didn’t realize what was wrong. Finally, after the third time I asked her what was wrong, she told me it was because I hadn’t given her her bath, and we didn’t “talk” anymore! Of course we talked all the time, but she apparently felt the baths were the only time we “really” talked. So the next weekend, I resumed the bathing ritual. I even fancied it up by lighting a candle or two, feeding her grapes and warming her towel in the clothes dryer before she got out. After a few weeks, I bought some bath oil and bath bubbles to put in the water, occasionally. We talked about a lot of things; originally, about her mom and how much we both missed her, but as the pain died away, she told me all about school, about the boys that were such jerks, the girls who were very silly, and other things that pre-teens like to talk about. Occasionally, she would ask me something very adult or serious and we would have a serious conversation.

One such question had to do with sex and babies. She already knew (from her mother, I think) that a boy put his “thing” into a girl’s “thing” and she got pregnant and had a baby. She wanted to know if I had put my thing into mommy’s thing and mommy got pregnant and Chelsea was born. How and where this question came from, I’ll never know, but I told her in adult terms; yes, I had put my penis in mommy’s vagina, mommy had gotten pregnant and Chelsea was our beautiful baby daughter. I didn’t tell her that her mother had an extremely difficult pregnancy and as a result, we had decided Chelsea would be an only child.

When Chelsea was about six, her mother had observed her rubbing herself on her vaginal area, so during their weekly bath discussions, her mom had told her that stimulating herself in that way was OK, but that she should only do it in private and not where others could see her. They talked a long time about this, with her mother trying to explain the “why” and “why nots” to a curious and precocious little girl. Later on, her mother told me all about it and we had a good chuckle. Childhood masturbation is normal, we both knew, and as long as it remained private, we saw no harm. Lord knows, her mother and I were extremely sexual people ourselves and enjoyed masturbatory games as a regular part of our sex life.

After my wife died, I kind of lost interest in sex and didn’t date anyone; mainly because I was too busy raising Chelsea and because I worked a great deal out of my home office, I didn’t have the opportunity to meet women. When Chelsea was ten, during one of our bathing rituals (which I had tried to stop, but Chelsea insisted), she asked me about touching herself “down there”. I asked what her mother had told her. She repeated what her mother said, and I assured her it was “normal”, but should be kept private. I started to drop it, but then asked her if she was still doing it and if it felt good. She told me she did it “once in awhile” and it felt OK, but she thought something was “wrong” because she never felt like it was at the “end”. I told her that when she was older, her body would fix that problem and not to worry about it and we didn’t talk about it anymore.

Chelsea started to have periods when she was twelve, and with help from the school nurse, I was able to buy the right sanitary pads and small Tampons, and the nurse explained to Chelsea what was happening and how to use the new items. She was bleeding lightly during one of her baths, and we discussed her periods and her body changes (not too graphically, but enough that she understood) and that was about the end of it. At no time, during these years, did I thing of Chelsea in a sexual way. Yes, she was very cute and very smart, but my mind was simply turned off about sex.

Then one day a year or so later, I walked past her room and the door was open about a third of the way. Chelsea was lying astraddle one of her pillows and was humping away as hard and fast as she could go. She was wearing little white panties with pink polka dots and a tee shirt that was pulled up around her middle. I heard her grunting, moaning and whispering something into the pillow, but I couldn’t make out any words. Then, her body stiffened and she ground as hard as she could into the pillow and it was obvious she was in the throes of orgasm. I watched as she stiffened and arched four or five times and then began to relax. I quickly stepped away from the open door, and slipped down to my room and into my bathroom. I was almost ashamed that I had stood and watched my daughter cum, but the erection in my pants was as hard as I’ve ever been, and I needed relief in the worst way. I stood over the sink and stroked my throbbing cock fast and hard and in less than a minute, I shot a stream of jism into the wash basin and onto the back of the sink and onto the lower part of the mirror. It was the hardest orgasm I had had in years.

I was shocked, amazed and a bit ashamed that I had gotten so aroused; in fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had masturbated. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy it or thought there was anything wrong with it; I just hadn’t been in the mood.