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.

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