Author: Sterling Title: The Innocent Edge of Forbidden Desire Summary: My son and his girlfriend came to visit us with 5-year-old Amy, her daughter by a previous marriage. We hit it off. I adored the girl, and she adored me too. Had my romantic inclinations turned to actions, it would have hurt her, of course. But they didn't -- of course. Keywords: nosex Mg cons het rom NOTICE: This story contains occasional thoughts about sexual activity. First posted 4/11/2012. I'm always eager for comments, whether good, bad or mixed. Comments to sterling27@live.com. I have written many other stories and they can all be found at /files/Authors/Sterling/ For an index see /files/Authors/Sterling/A%20%20SUBJECT%20INDE X.txt You are welcome to copy this story if you include the entire text unchanged, including this notice. If you tell me where you have re-posted it, I can enjoy knowing it is appreciated and perhaps enjoy the feedback the story gets where you re-post it. Sterling And now, our feature presentation. Enjoy! ============================================================ The Innocent Edge of Forbidden Desire My wife Susan sat in the armchair of our home in southern Maine, leafing through "Better Homes and Gardens". I sat on the sofa, laptop open, scanning the online version of "The New York Times". Now and then she stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Susan had planned all the logistics, though I had helped carry out her plans. We had removed the piles of miscellaneous things that had accumulated in our two kids' old bedrooms. Now they were spotless, each bed made up with fresh sheets. Our son Jason had chosen Caltech over M.I.T., and that had made all the difference. He felt M.I.T. was too close to home. So he'd gone to Caltech, made friends in California, put down roots in California, and was going to stay in California. We occasionally mused about moving to California ourselves, but our daughter Caroline with her two sons lived near Albany, so we couldn't live near both children. We had settled into a pattern where we visited Jason once in the winter, and he visited us once in the summer. The big news was that he had a serious girlfriend, a woman named Melanie. She had one child from a former marriage, 5-year-old Amy. We knew Jason wanted children, and we were happy to hear from Jason's email that Melanie wanted more. It was one thing they had wisely talked about early in their relationship. Now we would get to meet Melanie (and Amy) for the first time. Susan looked up from her magazine first. At 62 we were both pretty well preserved, but her hearing was a bit better than mine. A few seconds later I too heard the distant sound of tires crunching on gravel. After stashing the laptop in a safe place, I joined Susan in the doorway in time to hear the engine of the rental car fall silent. Seconds later the two front doors opened. The two adults got out and waved, then Melanie turned to open the back door and release Amy from her car seat. The little girl bounced up and down on her pink sneakers a few times and stretched. Melanie was a woman of average body type, with short brown hair and a pleasant face. Jason was Jason. But little Amy was a real beauty, with pixie-cut blond hair and blue eyes, wearing today a knee-length dress with a gray and white checkered pattern. The three of them approached the porch. "Hello! Come here, Jason, let me give you a hug... Mom, dad, this is Melanie... So nice to meet you... Was the flight OK?... Not bad for a red eye..." And so we wove the conversation to start a visit. Jason and I exchanged our pro forma hug. I waited to see what sort of greeting Melanie's body language suggested, and she zoomed right in for a hug. She seemed genuine and friendly. But my eyes were more on Amy than anyone else. She reminded me of Caroline as a young girl. I calculated that it had been 29 years ago that my daughter had been that age. Her two sons, who we saw every month or two, were four and eighteen months. But girls are different. Girls are special. During the introductions Amy hung back just a bit behind her mother. "Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson, I'd like you to meet Amy. Amy, can you say hello to Jason's parents?" "Hi." "Oh, you are such a beautiful little girl, Amy!" said Susan; Amy looked up briefly and gave a shy smile. I managed nothing beyond a simple, "Hello, Amy." Suitcases and miscellaneous parcels were retrieved from the car. Susan gave Melanie a brief tour of the house, the other three of us tagging along behind. The two women did most of the talking, with Jason and me making brief remarks here and there. We showed them the guest rooms and deposited the bags there. Within a few minutes we were all seated in the living room. It seemed only seconds later that Amy was standing in front of me with her little pink backpack. "You want to see Samantha?" she asked. "Amy, now, don't pester Mr. Anderson," put in her mother. "Oh, it's quite all right," I said to the mother. "Sure, I'd like that very much," I told Amy. "Are you sure? Amy, the grown-ups are talking now, there'll be time to show Mr. and Mrs. Anderson your toys later." "Please, call me Susan." "Yes, and call me Dave." "OK -- Susan, Dave. I try not to spoil her, you know." Whatever parenting strategy she was adopting, it seemed to me to be working splendidly. Amy produced her American Girl doll. "Samantha really is a beautiful girl," I said, quietly so as to let the other grown-ups talk uninterrupted. "Almost as beautiful as you. Look at her long brown hair." "It really is OK," said Susan. "Dave's always been a hit with the children. He'd probably rather talk to Amy than us." I looked up and shrugged. I used to wonder why little girls always zoomed over to me in a company of several adults. Apparently the genuine interest and affection I felt for them showed, and they could easily distinguish it from the polite or closed-off smiles that others gave. If a girl wasn't too shy, within fifteen minutes she was usually talking with me. And here was Amy, standing right against the edge of the sofa between my legs, showing me Samantha and telling me all about her. And I wasn't too surprised when, less than a minute later, she bounced onto the sofa and sat on my left thigh, still holding Samantha and telling me about the doll's changes of clothing that she hadn't brought on the trip. "Are you sure that's OK, Mr. Anderson?" Melanie asked. "Amy, you should ask before you go crawling over someone." "Yeah, it's just fine," I said, gently placing my left hand on the girl's left shoulder blade. She leaned back against it briefly and wiggled before sitting up straight again. Before long our living room pow-wow was over and the plans had been made. I had offered an opinion when asked, but mostly gone along with what they all suggested. I was in heaven just having energetic little Amy sitting on my thigh and chattering away at me. It was time to show our guests the yard, the woods, the garden and the pool. Amy knew about gardens and pools, but a grove of pine trees was new to her, and she was soon scooping up needles and making piles of them. We all got ready for a swim and proceeded to our circular backyard pool, just big enough to get in a couple strokes when going from wall to wall. With five people it was plenty full. I observed all three of our guests, marveling again at the strong young man in the prime of life my son had turned into. Melanie's womanly shape did not escape my male attention. But naturally it was the spritely little Amy who garnered the most attention from me and Susan both. Her zest for life was contagious. Showers were taken, suits hung up to dry, casual clothing donned once more. The women put the finishing touches on dinner while Jason and I caught up in the living room. We were both in high tech, so our conversation frequently veered in that direction. Amy sensed that my attention was on my son, and she busied herself looking through a box of toys. They were mostly some of Caroline and Jason's favorites that Susan had saved, supplemented with a few more modern ones suited to younger children. It was the box we brought out when our grandsons visited. Susan's delicious roast was enjoyed by all the adults, while Amy gobbled up her macaroni and cheese. After dinner I saw the girl checking a few times to see if she could have my attention, but it was occupied with grown-up things. She did make a point of planting a goodnight kiss on my cheek with a giggle. She bounced away before I could return the gesture. Lying in bed that night next to Susan, I replayed the day's events. To some extent it felt like taking up right where I had left off with Caroline and her girlfriends three decades earlier. Caroline was my daughter, and my love for her was deep and special -- a parent-child bond. But I recalled the extra bit of sweetness I had felt for her friends, especially little Zoe. Amy stirred similar feelings in me. But after 30 years of self-reflection, I now understood myself better. What I had felt for Zoe wasn't just the protective affection of grownup for child. Neither were the stronger feelings welling up in me for Amy. I knew what those feelings were, and what that made me. A pedophile. 'Dave, you're a pedophile' I said to myself silently, feeling a touch of dread in my stomach. I did not like the sound of it; it was such a loaded term. But it was true. It just meant attraction, of course, and nothing about actions. And I was not a child abuser. No friend of Caroline's could possibly remember a straying hand or even a peculiar conversation. Nor would Amy, of course. I thought of Amy and the feel of her sitting on my left thigh, the warmth of her body. There was also her faint smell, her voice, and her little hands. What made my breath catch most was contemplation of her friendly, affectionate personality as revealed in her conversation and smile. Susan lay on her side, back to me, chest gently rising and falling with each breath as she slept. Sex between us was pleasant enough. It had become a monthly affair, if that, when the circumstances were just right -- and the presence of company meant it was not a possibility. Feeling a bit like a hormone-crazed teen, I crept into the master bathroom and locked the door. It was OK to think about Amy, I told myself. It really was. Lust overcame lingering guilt, and I was soon rewarded with release of the tension. Back in bed, I fell asleep quickly. --------------------------------------------------------- I had taken time off work for Jason's visit. The plan for each day included sightseeing. On Wednesday we saw the White Mountains, driving the Kancamagus to Franconia Notch and looping back through Crawford. On Thursday we got up bright and early and walked part of the Freedom Trail in Boston. After an early supper, we took a brief excursion along the rocky Maine coast. On Friday the three Californians took off for a day to visit one of Jason's high school friends and his family in Connecticut while Susan and I restocked the house, cleaned, and rested. Susan discussed Melanie's every word and mannerism at great length. She thought Melanie would make a fine wife for our son, and I agreed. I noted that Jason was kind to his prospective stepdaughter and she seemed to like him well enough. That brought us to Saturday. There was a special exhibit at the MFA in Boston that Melanie was dying to see. Susan wanted to be wherever Jason and Melanie were. Young Amy was not going to be a happy camper at the MFA, and it was plain that all the grown-ups would enjoy the exhibit much more if the girl was somewhere else. I would have enjoyed the exhibit, but I knew I would enjoy Amy's company more, and by then the other grown-ups did too. Having seen Amy and me having fun in the odd half-hour here and there over the several preceding days, Melanie was comfortable leaving her with me for the day. And so it happened that Jason, Melanie, and Susan took off in the rental car for Boston at 9:30 on Saturday morning, while I was left with the sweetest 5-year-old girl in the world. --------------------------------------------------------- Amy waved goodbye to her mother, but before the car had turned off the gravel of the long driveway onto the paved highway, she was pulling me by the hand to the living room to play once more a modern version of "Go Fish". After a couple rounds of that, I suggested we play owner and doggy. Her Labradoodle was staying with Melanie's friends back in L.A. I offered to be the doggy, and she trained me. I sat, lay down, and shook hands as commanded. She didn't know about the 'speak' command, and I explained it. After getting most of her commands at first, I sprawled on my side when told to sit. She got the silliness at once and started laughing. I offered to shake hands when told to lie down. When told to speak, I replied with a muffled 'Hi, Amy'. When told to stay, I rolled onto my back, exposing my belly and half-barking, 'Rub tummy!' She did, and I responded with the canine's patented twitching leg. Her amusement turned to hilarity at that, and in a fit of giggles she collapsed onto my stomach, wriggling and laughing. So here we were, I reflected. We were alone. She liked and trusted me to the point of initiating hugs and more. And I had the pedophilic impulse, I realized with the faintest twinge of nausea in the pit of my stomach. It was the classic pedophile setup. If we had been in an erotic story for pedophiles, I'd start kissing her on the lips, she'd kiss me back, I'd get an erection, she'd notice, one thing would lead to another ... and we'd be having lots of happy sex all day long. Yeah, right. If it were a horror story of evil pedophiles, I'd lure her from one grope to another with ice cream and candy, a cynical leer creeping onto my face from time to time. I'd make the confused, disheartened thing perform oral sex on me, and would be sure to fondle and stroke all of her intimate anatomy, surely penetrating her with a finger if not worse. This would all be followed by dire threats not to tell anyone, leaving her deeply troubled for life. But it wasn't either of those situations. I was a pedophile who was determined to do nothing sexual with Amy. I was determined that she should never know I was a pedophile, even recalling our visit later in life. I adored the smell of her hair, I loved feeling her warm body against me, feasted on the sight of her small limbs flailing about, and above all on her giggles that told me I had created an environment where she was happy. Had I enjoyed all those things with Caroline, decades earlier? Yes, I thought I had. They were more intense today because I hadn't hugged a girl lately, while Caroline had been a day-in, day-out fixture of life. Was that the only reason they were more intense? No, not at all. I wanted to enfold Amy and cover her with kisses as a small token of the love I felt for her -- not love, really, but infatuation: That feeling of being in love, the kind that makes you feel faint. As a teen or young man with a female of my age, that feeling was always conditional on the young woman accepting it. She would know what I felt, and would reject my offered embrace if she didn't feel the same way, but she just might -- oh, please, please let it turn out this way -- kiss me back, recognizing the love I offered, accepting it, and matching it with her own. What would Amy do? Probably accept it, because she liked me a lot and kissing is fun. But she wouldn't know what I felt; it wouldn't be mutual. It might feel a little strange to her, something a little different. She'd file it away and in some distant future wonder what it meant. It might be an uneasy reflection. I rested my hand lightly on her shoulder blade and patted. She looked at me briefly and we shared a smile. Then she rested her head on my chest and sighed. I gently brought up my other hand to rest on the small of her back. Oh, if only Amy could live with me and we could do this every day. This would be just the innocent beginning of caresses that would gradually become more and more intimate. Sigh. No, of course not. We lay in that position for approximately three seconds before she wriggled off and stood up, insistently chortling that I needed to work more on learning to sit and stay. When we tired of that game, I suggested a sort of puppet show. Sitting on the floor behind the sofa, I raised Samantha and a little stuffed bear so they just showed above the back to act and speak to each other. Amy laughed out loud and climbed right up over the sofa. On the way over, for a few brief moments, I had a view up under that same checkered dress she'd worn on the day of their arrival, a view between her thighs to her white panties. It was a classically erotic view, the sort that teens and women make sure you never get -- unless they want you to think erotic thoughts. It's erotic because of what is partly revealed while so much remains covered. The erotic potential is there even in young girls, who are trained not to let themselves be seen in that way. But Amy hadn't quite mastered all the fine points of modesty yet, and a small gap revealed itself as she climbed over a sofa to someone she trusted. I confess I did feel the faintest glow between my legs, imagining Amy sharing those parts of herself with me. I imagined feeling the satin of her thigh beneath my fingers, the cloth of her panties, and gently intruding my fingers into the slightly damp cavity between panties and private parts. I imagined Amy knowing of those parts, of what they were for and how they would affect me, of how her own pleasure was just waiting as a natural outcome of the interplay of our two bodies... but it was just imagination. She knew only that that was where she peed from, that it was different from boys, and that she was to keep it private. None of the rest would make any sense to her at all. And that was all just the first obstacle; the more profound one was that even if she was somehow totally with me in the moment, it might well cause her delayed harm. The fantasy and its demolition lasted all of three seconds. Joining me behind the sofa, Amy unceremoniously snatched Samantha from me and we continued the puppet show, now each of us having our own puppet to control. When the energy for such active play faded, I suggested reading her a book. As I settled onto the sofa, she plopped into my lap. Susan had started reading "Little House on the Prairie" to Amy the night before, one book we had saved from Caroline's youth. Amy had been captivated by the story and was eager for me to continue. The girl sitting on my lap was warm and cuddly. Her bottom rested on my upper thighs. Although intervening layers of cloth provided modesty, our sex organs were in fact only inches apart. I imagined sliding my hand up under her dress, cupping her warm mound through her panties and massaging oh so gently. I imagined her gradually squirming and pressing against me, turning to me in passion born of lust and kissing me... Total fabrication. However much affection she had for me, she could never love me in that way. So on the story went, with Laura and Pa and Mary. My hand that wasn't holding the book rested on the sofa, touching nothing. Amy's lunch was peanut butter and jelly on white bread with milk to drink. I had exactly the same thing, to her delight. Maybe I enjoyed in my mind returning to a time when I might have insisted on exactly that kind of meal myself. Early afternoon, the warmest part of the day, was swimming time. I found Amy's dry one-piece suit on the line outside and brought it in. It was light blue, with ruffles and a picture on the front of some make-believe princess unheard of in Caroline's childhood. In her room, Amy stripped out of her clothes and bounced up and down eagerly. She stopped bouncing long enough to aim her left foot into the leg hole I was holding open with my hands. A quick glance to the side showed me her naked little girl parts, simple, smooth, and unremarkable. But what a yearning lurked in me just below the surface. Perhaps if you saw enough little girl parts, you'd learn to distinguish the details that differ from girl to girl. I had seen Caroline's plenty, of course, and occasionally one of her friends. But it was what they had in common that tugged at my innards -- more a yank than a tug, actually. All that was a mere second's thought based on a millisecond's glance. Her aim was true, the foot plunging through to the floor. Our teamwork was just as flawless with the other foot. I pulled the fabric up until the crotch of the suit rested loosely against her own crotch. Oh, what a lucky piece of cloth! Getting her arms through the shoulder straps was even easier than the legs, and we were all done within seconds. I had previously changed, and I will note that the bulge in my trunks was no bigger than the mere presence of male anatomy required. We proceeded out to the pool to splash and play. She donned her water wings. When she swam up to me, treading water, face brimming with enthusiasm, it was impossible for me not to love this little dear. Susan and Melanie did -- I'd seen it during swim time on other days. As a loving mother, Melanie's heart melted in one way that no one else's did; I'd felt something like that for Caroline. But Amy made mine melt in a different way. A pedophilic sort of way, I reflected -- and swallowed. The sun shone on the back of her head, illuminating her wet hair and making the stray strands glow. Drops of water dotted her face, a few running slowly down her cheek as I watched. If only my tongue could trace the path of the water droplet. If only she could understand why I'd want to do that and what it would mean... But she couldn't understand, so it was out of the question. My feet touched bottom, while hers didn't, so she threw her arms around me and hung on to my front, giggling and smiling, using me as a safe place to rest -- but not for long. She splashed backward away from me and continued to frolic. Later I offered her rides on my back, which she accepted with glee. I swam a lazy breast stroke in a circle, her arms around my neck. Occasionally her wet bathing suit bumped against me long enough that I could feel the heat of her body. I was intensely aware of the sound of her breath in my ear and the occasional giggles and bursts of enthusiastic chatter. After an hour I'd had enough. I'd seen her argue briefly with her mother every day when told to get out of the pool, but she didn't argue with me. It was then time for a bath to rinse off the pool chemicals. She managed to peel her suit off all by herself, leaving me with the task of returning the sodden knot to the shape of a bathing suit. I didn't mind in the least. When the tub was full, I washed her hair. She was old enough to recline and hold her head way back so both suds and rinse water stayed out of her eyes. With eyes scrunched shut, her face wasn't all that appealing, but I had a beautiful view of her neck from the underside of her chin down over her chest. With her eyes shut I took several extra milliseconds to look at her tiny nipples. I could imagine sucking them fervently, imagine her moaning in pleasure... Forget about it. She wouldn't feel pleasure. It would just be weird, something to make her uneasy for its novelty, something to be recalled with horror years later. No, it was not to be. She was incapable of that sort of relationship. She splashed in the bath for some time while I supervised, enjoying the sight of her playing with the few water toys Susan and I still had. When it was time to get out, I offered my hands, and little Miss Amy took them as she stepped out and onto the bathmat. There in front of me, dripping wet, was the girl, the whole girl, and nothing but the girl. It was my job to pat the towel over every part of her body, drying each in turn. It included of course a brief pat between her legs. After a gentle tug to get her to lift one leg a bit, my towel-covered hand reached in to pat each inner thigh and then her little girl juncture. The entire motion for that last touch lasted less than a second, but for me time slowed and then froze. Recorded in my mind was the instant when my hand pressed the cloth against her private parts. I might later replay the instant in fantasy, imagining a magical version of Amy, imagining the absence of the cloth, and imagining different things following. But what actually happened was a brief moment of towel pressed against labia, a totally unremarkable moment. I spent more time on her hair, getting it dry enough so it wouldn't drip too much. Then it was time for her to step back into her panties, leg holes held open just as for the suit. I pulled the panties loosely into position, one choice part kissing against her one and only part of distinctively girlish anatomy. Though it was slightly stained from previous contacts, it was an even luckier patch of cloth than the one in her suit. Her dress went back on. And there she was, a decent little girl once more, presentable to company, looking at me with her usual friendly curiosity -- What next? What next? I read more of "Little House on the Prairie" as she snuggled against my left side. Her damp hair against my shoulder wasn't our most exciting interaction, but I treasured every touch of this little creature. Between the excitement of our morning's play and the time frolicking in the pool, she was tired, and I could see her fading. I asked if I should maybe read to her in her bed, and she nodded once. I lifted the sweet bundle, left arm under her upper back, right arm under her knees, as her sleepy head tilted slightly, her half-shut eyes lazily scanning over nothing in particular. I treasured the moment, trying to memorize her weight and just how it was distributed. I lay her on the bed, and she turned onto her side facing me, wriggling to get comfortable. I pulled down the shades, turned on the bedside table light, and pulled a light blanket over her. I then sat in front of her on the bed, my feet on the floor, and took out "Little House" once more. I read, and her eyes drifted almost shut before she opened them with the slightest twitch, keeping herself awake. At the end of the third page, I thought she was out. When I stopped reading, she didn't stir, so I reached down to set the book on the floor. As I sat on the bed with her behind me, I relaxed. Now I could without any potential ill effect feast my eyes on every curl of hair, every shape formed by her smooth, tight skin. I could memorize the curve of cheek, lip, and nose. Looking over my shoulder just a bit more, I could see the blanket rise and fall slightly with her every breath. I supposed I could gently lie down behind her, spooning against her back. She probably wouldn't wake up. If she did awaken and note it, what would she think in years to come? If she reported it, what would her mother think? I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to find out. What would be the point, anyway? In the distant past, Caroline and Jason both had spooned back against me as we slept. I knew what it felt like. I spooned against Susan's adult back all the time. What would make it different? Just the fact that it was Amy, who took my breath away? Amy, who I would spend forever with if I could, trying to make her happy in every way, just to see her smile? After a few last glances, burning the picture into my memory, I slowly rose, turned out the light, and left. I could have retreated to my bedroom for sexual release behind a locked door, but I wasn't in the mood, not then. I wanted to stay close to Amy's understanding of what happened between us. Sure, in my mind I had followed my own thoughts, but I didn't feel like making it real with my body, even in private. Not then. I tried to read in the living room but couldn't concentrate, and found myself drowsing on the sofa. When I woke and looked at the clock, I realized I'd been asleep 45 minutes. After rising and stretching I decided to look in on Amy. Standing in the doorway, I saw she was still asleep, but she'd kicked the blanket off. She had also scissored her legs, left knee raised and bent, so the dress rode up and there was a clear view of her panty crotch. There she was, a sleeping girl in an unchaste position. I could sit below her on the bed and study that intriguing part of her. I could lower my head and stare at it from inches away. I could place my fingers right above the cloth close enough to just barely feel the fabric, to sense the heat of her private parts through the cloth. I could probably even touch, maybe even inside; I could fashion some excuse in case she awoke. I could furtively stroke myself as I watched, and I felt a glow between my legs as blood surged into my organ. But why? Why would I do that? The blood started draining away. Amy had no desire for me to attend to her private parts, no way to understand what it would mean to me, no way to accept it freely. I imagined the most daring fantasy I could -- actually ejaculating onto her lovely bare leg as she slept, then hurriedly cleaning it off before she woke up. How tawdry. It was Amy's body. Even if she wanted to, even if she was awake, she couldn't freely offer it to me in that way because she couldn't understand. Yes, I wanted to possess Amy in every way, but even the fantasy was based on her enthusiastic consent, at the very least her desire to make me happy while understanding what it meant to me. But that could never be. If that obstacle were somehow magically overcome, I would need to know that the memory of our little encounter would not harm her in the future -- and neither I nor anyone else could ever be sure of that. Later, after Amy, Melanie and Jason were safely back in California, I could spin all the fantasies I wanted, without guilt. But not with the real Amy, a real little girl who loved her mommy's boyfriend's daddy because he was so kind to her and understood her and kept thinking of new and exciting games. She loved him as a caring grown-up, one trusted to watch out at all times for her best interests and to shield her from dangers, including ones she might not understand. From the doorway, seven feet away, I stared at her scissored thighs and the strip of panties covering her private parts. After perhaps ten seconds, I turned and left. --------------------------------------------------------- "It was so nice you could come visit!... Oh, I hope we can see you in California before long... You could move out there, you know -- the winters here are so depressing... We've had a wonderful time..." The grown-up conversation of parting flowed in typical fashion. Amy was fastened into her car seat, Jason in the driver's seat ready to go. Melanie stood behind the open passenger door, her hand on its top, sharing final thoughts with Susan. "Dave!" came the voice from the back seat. "I didn't get to hug Dave!" I leaned into the open back window. "We did this morning, right?" "Not really." And in a louder voice to her mother, "I want to hug Dave!" Melanie turned her attention from Susan. "You want to hug Dave? You've really enjoyed Jason's daddy, huh? Would you like it if he came to see us some time?" "Yeah! And I wanna give him a hug!" "Well, OK, I guess we can do that." I heard Jason give a faint sigh from the driver's seat. "You sure?" I said over my shoulder to Melanie. "Sure, if she wants." I opened the door, reached in and found the buttons to free Amy from her contraption. I leaned down, intending to hug her as she knelt on the seat. But the scrambling girl had other ideas. She pushed me back away from the car and leapt up at me. I had no choice but to catch her, right hand under her bottom and left behind her back as she wrapped her legs around me, plastering herself to my front and squeezing me tightly before leaning back a little and grinning at me, her face inches from mine. She gave me three quick kisses on the cheek, and I gave her three in return. She gave me two on the other cheek, and I gave her two. She gave me four on the first cheek. "OK, Amy, you've had your hug," said Melanie. "You're going to hurt Dave's back." I got in two final cheek kisses as I lowered Amy to the ground. I was dimly aware of Amy crawling back into her seat, Melanie fastening her in, the final goodbyes, the turn of the motor, and the sight of the car retreating down the long drive. But mostly I was reliving that hug, because it was another moment from the visit that I wanted to remember forever. "Aww, Dave!" said Susan. "That's not like you to cry." That was an exaggeration, though my eyes were wet. "She's so nice, don't you think?" "Yes, very nice." "I hope Jason's finally ready to settle down. And isn't that Amy something? Well, she sure took a shine to you. You always were good with the girls. She reminds me a little of Caroline." "Yes, a little." "Do you miss our little kids? Our Caroline? Is that why you're sad?" I hesitated for a brief moment. Despite our long and happy marriage, there were some things I could not share with my wife. "Yeah, that must be it. She reminds me of Caroline." 'Those were the days, weren't they?" "Yeah, they were." --------------------------------------------------------- Jason and Melanie broke up, and I never saw Amy again. But I never forgot her, either. Our time together played in my mind -- so many images, over and over again. Often I played the scenarios out, assuming a different little girl, a girl who could love me back in just the way I wanted to love her. My memories of her were mine to weave into any fantasy I wanted. She herself grew up, of course, but my memories were always of the 5-year-old. The fantasies were not chaste, and I achieved release, over and over again, week after week, year after year. It was the closest I could ever come to realizing the love I felt for the real little girl Amy -- or any girl like her. But Amy had nothing to remember but a fun day alone with a fun old man. ============================================================ What did you think? I'm always eager for comments, whether positive, negative or mixed. Comments to sterling27@live.com.