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Another note of personal thanks to Bernard Lyons, a dear friend in Dublin, Ireland who once again has provided me with his generous and timely editorial insight. Thanks B!
Of course all actors in this script are of legal age. I hope you enjoy the story!
It’s funny the things you find to occupy your time when you’re bored. I recently tried to calculate the percentage of my high school and college friends who were actually fortunate enough to still have their biological parents living together in some degree of marital bliss. I wrote down the names of just about every friend I was able to remember, both close and those who were not so close, and I came up with 102 names. I’m sure there were a few more, but I wanted to limit this rather mundane exercise to the fifty minute break I had before the start of my final exam in Molecular Biology of Human Disease, or actually the 42 minutes I had left after eating an orange and drinking a 500 ML bottle of icy cold spring water.
Alongside each name I added either an uppercase ‘Y’ to indicate that their biological parents were still together, or an uppercase ‘N’ to indicate — well, you get the idea. After going to school with most of these people for the past eight years I thought I knew them well enough to fill in my little matrix without conducting any sort of unofficial poll. All told, I came up with 73 names with an ‘N’ and 26 with a ‘Y.’ I couldn’t remember the specifics regarding 3 of those people, so I actually thought I was doing pretty well, as far as mathematical percentages were concerned.
I included my name on that list and unfortunately I had to insert an ‘N’ along side it. Yup, I’m one of the casualties along with the other 72 people with an ‘N’ on that list whose biological parents were unable to remain together due to infidelity, bad judgment or just bad sense. Once that happens the kids are inserted into an unfathomable grid connecting them to people and sometimes places that they never heard of before. All-in-all, I can’t remember knowing anyone who fared better as the result of such marital misfortune, me included.
Zachary Preston, my biological father, met and married Samantha Curtis, my biological mother, while they were both in their last year of medical school in Galveston, Texas nearly 22 years ago. I was born a year later and my mother was forced to take six months off from her surgical residency due to complications involving her pregnancy, as well as eventually giving birth. That was a major sacrifice for her, but she loved and adored my father more than life itself and as the saying goes, no sacrifice is too great where true love is concerned. Unfortunately, we all now know how true that love actually was — at least on his part.
My dad was one of those rare men, gifted with great looks, an exceptional I.Q. and a seven figure trust fund. He was near the top of his class in both undergraduate college and medical school and he was selected as the chief resident in the last year of his residency. Even when he was married he was considered quite a catch by all the females at the hospital and from what my mother told me, women were always throwing themselves at him.
Zach Preston is 6′ 4″ tall, with medium blond hair and deep blue eyes and he has the physique of a swimmer, that’s to say he’s both long and very lean. He plays a lot of golf and racquet ball and he has remained in excellent shape, I suspect much to my mother’s chagrin. His face has those finely chiseled features that could only come from a superior gene pool and if he hadn’t specialized in Gynecology and Obstetrics, he could probably have been a successful model.
My mother was an entirely different story, coming from a much more modest background. In fact, from the perspective of my father’s family, she was literally from the other side of the tracks.
If you looked at my mother’s earlier adolescent photos, at the very best you’d probably think that she was an average looking female. She had the natural platinum blond hair and killer blue eyes going for her, but when she started high school she would not have been on anyone’s list of hot or even luke-warm dating prospects. However, in her senior year all of that seemed to change.
After her junior year her body began to mature and at nearly six feet tall she started to morph into a true goddess. By the time she was a senior in college she was simply stunning by anyone’s standards. When she met my father two years later it was almost as if they were two characters from a fairy tale who were simply destined to meet, fall in love and then live happily ever after. And while my father is still a great looking man, my mother just continues to become more beautiful and sexy as she matures. At 44 years old I can honestly say she looks barely 30 and has the body of someone in her mid-twenties.
A week after she finally returned to work she caught illegal bahis my father fucking some 23 year old nurse with really huge tits, or perhaps I should say really huge implants, in a mini-van parked in one of the hospital’s lots. I’ll never know what kind of wife she would have been to my father had they stayed married, but as an ex-wife he always affectionately referred to her as ‘that fucking cunt.” So as a consequence of his infidelity, he took the one person on the planet who could have been his greatest asset and made her his worst nightmare and in their divorce she did everything she could to neuter the poor bastard.
During the divorce and custody proceedings my father always swore to the judge, my mother and anyone else who’d stop and listen that he loved me more than life itself and he wanted to help raise me and remain an active part of my life. Then before the ink was dry on their divorce decree, along came marriage number two to that buxom now 24-year old nurse. Then three years later, along came his third marriage to a 25-year old pharmaceutical rep similarly endowed. Now my father was getting ready for marriage number four, but I’ll get into that situation in greater detail a bit later.
Through it all, my father always remembered to send me a Christmas present via Federal Express and a check in the amount of $500 within ten days either way of my birthday. It left me with the distinct impression that he never quite knew the actual date.
As I seem to recall, I think we spent a total of about 12 days together in my entire life, but we hadn’t actually seen each other since I was 7 years old. By the time I was 9 even the occasional telephone calls eventually stopped and when I graduated from high school the Christmas presents also mysteriously stopped.
At some level I’m sure it all really hurt me and my already fragile ego. But it seemed as if my relationship with Sam grew closer all the time, and that closeness filled the tremendous void and minimized the loss I felt from not having a caring and nurturing father figure in my life.
In the process of losing a father, I collected a half brother named Zachary, Jr., about a year younger than me from marriage number two, who I always suspected was conceived in a Toyota mini-van. Personally I have never met the guy, but people who know him describe him in less than flattering terms. As they say, I guess the apple never falls very far from the tree.
I understand that I also have two adorable half sisters from his third marriage — Katherine and Kristin, identical sixteen year old twins, who will be in their last year of high school in — of all places, Lucerne, Switzerland. I’ve never met either of them, but reliable sources tell us that they’re absolutely gorgeous and obviously much too good for our Texas public school system.
Unfortunately, it seemed to me that Sam – my mother – never got over the betrayal and loss of my father and she elected to pursue a different path. She seldom dated and never remarried and simply poured herself into her work, becoming one of the finest plastic and restorative surgeons in south Texas. In fact, I have a perfect 36D size pair of boobs that attract attention everywhere I go, that are a fitting testimonial to my mother’s outstanding surgical skills.
I still live with Sam in a large 4,500 square foot house in a Houston suburb that cost her over two million dollars seven years ago. We have a rather interesting and very close relationship that would be hard to explain to anyone else who didn’t really know us or know our history. For the time being, let’s just say that I love my mother more than anyone else in the world and I would do absolutely anything for her. We’re always there to take care of each other’s needs and I’ll delve into that in much greater detail shortly.
My name is Tracy Preston and I’m in the final two days of my first year of medical school at my parents’ alma mater. I’ll be 22 on my next birthday, which is in six months and twelve days. Within ten days of that date I’m sure my $500 check will be in the mail. After all, that’s the going rate for remaining an active part in my life.
After giving the matter a great deal of thought I think I must be my mother’s clone. Until high school I was pretty low on everyone’s radar screen and then in my junior year all hell seemed to break loose. When I showed up after the summer break barely anyone even recognized me. I was starting to look more and more like my mother and for the first time in my life I was the subject of relentless male pursuit. The jury is still out on whether that’s a good or a not-so-good thing.
Initially I was overwhelmed, but then I was helped along by my girlfriends and I soon morphed into quite the social butterfly. After my junior year I was one of the most popular girls in our high school and I was even dating some of the most attractive and popular guys. Along with Erin Jameson, I also served as the co-captain of the cheerleading squad and in high school illegal bahis siteleri that’s about as close as you can get to royalty. It was something I initially did on a dare, but I quickly grew to love it.
By the time I started college at the University of Houston I had actually considered a career in modeling. I was 5′ 11″ and with my mother’s platinum blond hair that fell past my breasts and my crystal blue eyes, terms were now being used to describe me such as ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ and ‘a walking wet dream.’ I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy those descriptors or all the attention I was receiving, but as my looks continued to evolve I still remained my own worst critic. The simple truth is that it’s really tough being a female in our society today.
There are always little things a woman wants to change about herself and I certainly had my own list that I only shared with my mother. At the very top of that list were my boobs. In my opinion they were not full enough for a woman with my frame. At 5′ 11″ and 130 pounds, my chest measurement was 35 inches and my cup size was barely a C, all of which I considered woefully insufficient. I was certain that an increase in my cup size and at least an inch to my bust line would give me the fuller look I thought that I needed to be better proportioned.
I begged Sam to fix them for me since I was a junior in high school and she always declined, telling me I was absolutely gorgeous and I had no need for plastic surgery. But when I finally graduated from college with highest honors and I was admitted to medical school with a near perfect MCAT score, she had made a strategic blunder by promising me anything I wanted as a gift for my academic achievements. When I told her that I wanted my boobs reshaped, she tried desperately to alter the original offer, but I knew I had her and she was too honorable to back down. Once she completed her artistry I thought my body was finally perfect — well almost perfect, and I was nearly as beautiful as my mother.
I just have one final comment about myself before I get to my story. When it comes to my sexual orientation, I’ve been really struggling for years. I’ve been with males as well as females over the past four years and I believe that I’m probably bisexual, although I detest that term with a passion. I do, however, have a very strong preference for women and I’m really trying to get past this indecisiveness, since I think it’s more confusing than rewarding.
Okay, that should be enough background to whet your appetite.
During the last week of the semester I happened to see a small piece in the Houston Chronicle about a prominent local physician announcing his engagement to Vicki Lee Metcalf, a late thirty-something woman who was the heir to a large interstate trucking fortune. The physician was none other than Zachary Preston, my loving and devoted father, and there was a picture of the happy couple at a recent hospital fund raiser that the betrothed happened to chair.
I studied the photo for several minutes and became slightly confused. Each of the three women that my father had married had been really beautiful or even stunning in the case of my mother and wife number three. My father was like that, he always needed a beautiful woman at his side and in his bed. But as I closely studied Ms. Metcalf’s photo, she didn’t come close to fitting the usual profile. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t unattractive at all. In fact, I found myself somewhat attracted to her, but she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would normally attract my father.
I put the newspaper down and stared out the window of the medical school library for several minutes thinking about the announcement I had just read, trying to make some sense of it. I can still recall my mother telling me several years ago that she believed that my father was in severe financial distress. Initially I thought her observation odd until she reminded me that he had many millions invested in Enron stock before its collapse and she had heard from reliable sources that he never recovered from that debacle.
In addition to Enron there were also rumors of other bad investments that he’d made. There was a bankrupt restaurant in Galveston that didn’t last a year and the Volkswagen dealership in south Houston that has never met financial projections. Then there was also the gossip columns a couple years ago that couldn’t resist talking about what his third divorce had cost him.
As I started to mentally put all the pieces together, I began to wonder whether my father was marrying Miss Vicki Lee Metcalf for an entirely different reason: the man’s financial survival. I knew that he had created a lavish and opulent lifestyle that he could no longer afford and suddenly it seemed as if her fortune might actually be the real motivation for their nuptials.
The wedding was scheduled for late September and I would be out of school for most of the summer. I began to put together a plan that I thought would not canlı bahis siteleri only be fun, but I was sure it would also provide a measure of revenge against a callous and insensitive beast who hurt my mother, left me totally scarred and was about to inflict misery upon another victim. For the time being I decided not to share my plan with my mother. In the event things went awry I wanted her to be able to maintain plausible deniability.
Finally, ready to implement my plan, the following Monday I called my father’s office and scheduled a routine OB/GYN appointment for myself the next afternoon under the name of Nikki Miller, a name I just happened to pull out of thin air. My father hadn’t seen me in more than fourteen years and I suspected that he would never make the connection that I was the daughter he discarded years earlier.
I shopped at several stores for the occasion, including Victoria’s Secret. On the day of my appointment I spent the entire morning getting ready. I took a long bath and shaved my legs and pubic area as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Then I blow-dried my hair and spent some extra time on my make-up and used a great cranberry colored lip gloss that I think looked incredible on my full lips.
I slipped on a white tank top, a white Lycra mini skirt that really showed off my long tanned legs and a pair of white Candies’ slides that had a 4½” heel and then I headed across town to my appointment.
It felt rather strange walking into my father’s office. As I looked all around at the décor, in many ways I felt terribly cheated. He had never taken me here or even invited me to come and visit him at his office. I was denied all the memories that a daughter typically has with her father and the more I thought about it, the more it just seemed to anger me.
I entered a pale yellow painted waiting room that contained four large sofas and eight leather wingback chairs and a dark thick pile green carpet. A nice collection of landscape photos of different sites located throughout the state decorated the walls. There were two lamps illuminated on end tables in the far corners, but no glaring overhead lighting to hurt the eyes. I hated to say it, but it was a pretty impressive waiting area.
Scattered around the room were four other women already seated, each one mechanically thumbing through a magazine. They all appeared to be in their twenties or very early thirties and one was definitely in her last trimester of her pregnancy. I was sure that I was getting the once-over from all four women when I arrived, wondering why in the world I dressed the way I did for a doctor’s appointment.
I headed over to the receptionist’s counter to check in for my appointment. When I got there and peeked over the wall, I nearly had to contain myself. Leave it to my father to hire a twenty year old receptionist who looked like she could be working in a topless bar. I had to admit that she was a real hottie. I couldn’t resist checking her out and then I realized that I was staring at her.
When she finally looked up I identified myself and she smiled, showing off a mouth full of white, perfect teeth, the obvious result of some impressive orthodontia. She handed me a New Patient Questionnaire on a clipboard to complete, so I filled everything out and from that moment on Nikki Miller was born.
I turned in the clipboard about ten minutes later and I was asked to have a seat. The incredible hottie behind the counter added that the doctor would see me as soon as he could. It was 1:15 and my appointment was for 1:30. As I looked at my watch and then the four women who were scattered around the room I realized that I’d probably be there a while.
Over the next forty minutes several women came out of the office and they were replaced by the ones that had preceded my arrival in the waiting room. During those exchanges, empty seats were replenished as new patients entered the waiting room and by 2:20 I knew I was finally next.
At 2:30 the 20 year old hottie leaned over the counter and smiled at me as she called my name: Nikki Miller.
For a moment I actually forget that I was Nikki Miller and I just sat there smiling at her. Then I realized my gaff and I quickly stood and moved towards the door that was adjacent to the receptionist’s area.
I was ushered inside by a thirty-something nurse who politely asked me to follow her back to the examination room. As I passed the receptionist I could not resist taking another quick look at her seated at the desk before I headed down the hall. She looked even better then she did over the partition and I felt a faint stirring below.
Once we were in the exam room, the nurse took my height, weight and blood pressure and recorded that information on the chart. Then she told me to change into one of those fashionable paper gowns that we all know and love and wait for the doctor, who she said would be with me shortly. Then she left me alone in the room.
Everyone knows the first waiting room is really the ante-waiting room and then you’re lead into the actual waiting room. Of course every physician is different, but when they tell you that the doctor will be with you shortly, that generally means anywhere from ten to at least thirty more minutes.
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