Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 This never happened.  I wish it had, but it's all fiction.  Yulia never
existed -- at least not in my world.  So, read and enjoy but remember, it's
MY fantasy, not yours.  Please don't steal my fantasy without my
permission.

   Secondly, no one ever writes to tell me they liked my story.  Well,
ALMOST no one.  I get maybe one acknowledgement for every 1,000 people who
read my stories.  PLEASE write to tell me what you liked or didn't like and
help me become better at this.  Besides, I like to have my ego stroked.  A
REALLY nice letter from a really sexy girl might even get me off.  Wanna
try?

   Yulia Part 4

   (I hope you have read Parts 1-3)

   I couldn't concentrate on my work the next day.  A thought would come
into my head only to be obliterated by a vision of Yulia standing naked in
my bedroom or Yulia in the nightie or Yulia's right breast up close as I
brushed the backs of my knuckles across the little pink nipple.  I saw
every pore, every contour, every little wrinkle in her beautiful nipple.  I
couldn't work.

   I tried to read but that didn't work, either.  I finally turned on the
TV and watched soaps, still dressed in my sweat pants and slippers.  I
zoned out amid the mindless prattle of daytime TV until the doorbell rang.
Holy mackerel!  It was after 3:00 and it would be Yulia at the door.

   She burst through, pushing the door open when I answered it.  She was
crying.  I closed the door as she dropped her book bag and flopped onto the
sofa.  "What's the matter?"

   "Papa is dying," she said through her sobs.

   I rushed to sit beside her.  "Oh, baby.  I'm so sorry," I said, wrapping
my arms around her shaking, sobbing body.  "Can you tell me about it?"

   "Papa has cancer in his liver and something else.  The doctors say they
can do nothing."

   "I'm sorry."

   "Mama says we will have no money soon because we will not have Papa's
earnings."

   "Do you have insurance?"

   "Mama says the union pays for hospital and doctors but we have nothing
after he dies."

   "Are you in a house or an apartment?"

   "We live in an apartment but Mama says we cannot afford the rent ok with
just her salary.  But she says she can work more hours to make more money.
She will work two shifts, from 8:00 in the morning to midnight., she says."

   "That's brutal -- 16-hour days."

   "Yes.  I worry about her."

   "Oh, sweetie.  I feel so sorry for you."

   "I know.  You are sweet man -- always worrying about me." She kissed me
softly, wetting my face with her tears.  "I was thinking," she continued,
When she is working, maybe I stay here longer every day and do my homework
here with you."

   "That would be ok but you have to promise to do your homework.  We can't
just make out every day."

   She looked up with her red teary eyes and said, smiling, "We do both,
yes?"

   "You know how much I enjoy making out with you but your schoolwork comes
first.  I've told you how important it is to get good grades so you can go
to college.  If you want a good job, one with a future, you have to go to
college."

   "Yes, but when Papa dies, Mama says she won't be able to save any more
money for college -- even if she works two shifts."

   "That's not good but there are scholarships and loans available to
students with good grades."

   "Can I stay with you tonight?"

   "You know you can't.  Your mother would be furious."

   "Maybe.  But she knows I love you."

   "How does she know that?"

   "I tell, no, told, her."

   "Sweetie, you can't do that.  You'll have me arrested."

   "I tell her everything.  She knows we "make out" when I am here."

   "Good, God, girl.  You can't do that!"

   "She's not mad.  Papa is 20 years older than her.  She told me she got
married when she was 16.  My brother was born soon after.  She says she and
papa did stuff when she was 14.  That's why she won't let me go out with
boys.  But she says you are older and responsible."

   "You have a brother?"

   "He stayed in Ukraine.  He is married with son and works in TV in
Ukraine."

   "How old is he?"

   "He is 22.  He says we can come live with him but mama says No.  She
wants me to go to college in USA."

   "So, you're going to stay here in the U.S.  with your mother who is
going to be working two shifts to pay the bills?"

   "Yes.  I tell...told...mama that I can get a job, too."

   "You can't get a job at 13.  You have to be 16 to get a real job." The
wheels in my mind were turning.  "You told your mom that we were "making
out" here?"

   "Yes."

   "And she didn't get mad?"

   "Well, she got a little mad -- for a while.  But I told mama how nice
you are and how you help me with math and english and how gentle and sweet
you are when we make out.  Then she told me the story about her and Papa.
She never told me that before.  She said she understood what I feel because
she felt it, too.  She says she still feels it -- for Papa."

   "She didn't yell or scream?"

   "No.  Mama never yells.  She is very strong woman -- like me, she says."

   "So she says she understands what we are doing?"

   "Yes.  She says, like her, I must make my own decision.  But she says I
must never do anything that will hurt my education.  She says I must always
think of college.  She wants me to be a doctor.  She asked if you used a
condom.  I told her I was still a virgin."

   "Geez, what a conversation!"

   "Mama says young girls in Ukraine often marry older men but they don't
go to college.  It is custom mainly in countryside."

   Yulia's crying had stopped.  "Sweetie, I want you to consider
something."

   "Consider what?"

   "I want you and your mother to consider coming to live with me." Yulia
stared at me, dumbfounded, speechless, unbelieving." I had just uttered a
life-changing sentence.  Until I did, I wasn't sure if I loved Yulia but
somehow, subconsciously, I had made the decision.  I wanted to protect her,
nurture her, love her.

   "Steven, I love you!" Yulia cried.  She threw her arms around me and
buried her head between my neck and shoulder.  I could hear her sobbing
again.  Her body shook as she completely lost it.  I held her gently and
let her cry.  She lifted her head to look at me.  Her eyes were red, tears
were streaming down her cheeks, nose running.  She mouthed almost silently,
"I love you, Steven," and a large bubble covered her mouth.  She was a mess
-- a happy, sobbing mess."

   "I love you, too, Yulia.  I wasn't sure before but I know now.  I want
to be with you forever.  I want to be your teacher and your lover until we
can be married and then I want to be your husband -- if you'll have an old
man like me."

   "I want you, I love you forever.  Please, we make love now."

   "It's almost 5:00, sweetie.  You have to go home."

   "I want to stay here and be your lover, Steven."

   "You can't, baby.  We must talk to your mother first."

   "Mama will say, 'Yes.'"

   "We don't know that.  Go into the bathroom and wash your face,
sweetheart." She did, reluctantly.  I sat alone on the sofa and pondered
what I had just done.  I hadn't realized how tense I had been but I
suddenly felt the air and the tension go out of me as I waited for Yulia.
Her mom would either agree to my proposal or have me arrested as a child
molester.  That's not a very smart risk-reward arrangement.  I'm not used
to making such longshot bets.  This horse better finish!

   Yulia came out of the bathroom looking radiant but red-eyed and flashing
a big, toothy grin.  "I will tell mama tonight.  She will say, "Yes.'" She
pressed her body against mine and turned her face up for a kiss.  Her soft
lips met mine in a very gentle, very hot kiss.  I felt her hand squeeze my
butt as we kissed.  She turned and strode toward the door.  "Bye, lover,"
she said over her shoulder.  This was a 13 year-old girl??  Yeah, 13 going
on 20!  God, she was a walking wet dream.

   The phone rang about 6:30 that evening.  It was Yulia.  "Mama says you
come to dinner tomorrow," she said.

   "How did you get my number?" I asked.

   "I call information."

   Shit, yes.  How simple.  "Ok," I said.  "How is she acting?"

   "What do you mean?"

   "I mean is she angry or happy or sad or what?"

   "She is not angry.  She wants to talk with you.  I will make the dinner
because she gets home late.  I am good cook.  You will see."

   "What time and what address?"

   "Come at 7:00.  I am making special Borscht for you.  You will like my
Ukranian cooking." She said it as if it was an order: "You WILL like my
Ukranian cooking." She gave me the address; not far from my house.

   "I'll be there if you promise me your mom won't be standing there with a
big stick."

   "You worry too much.  You are safe."

   "Ok."

   "Bring wine," she said as she hung up.

   This was the second or third night in a row that I couldn't sleep. 
There was no way I could reconcile in my mind how a mother could accept the
news that her 13 year-old daughter was intimate with a man more than twice
her age.  On the other hand, as Yulia had explained, her mother had done
just that and had been happy with her choice.

   ----------------

   I was loopy in the morning, partly from lack of sleep and partly from a
combination of confusion, fear and longing for Yulia.  My work was
suffering while Yulia and her parents consumed my thinking.  Visions of her
swirled as ghostly images before my eyes.  Speculation on what her mother
would do now that she was aware of our trysts sent shivers down my spine.
Two subjects monopolized my time: the prospects of having sex with Yulia
and avoiding jail.

   I went over and over my impetuous offer to have Yulia and her mother
move in with me.  The more I thought about it the more I believed it to be
the right thing to do.  First, I wanted Yulia.  Second, I wanted to do
something for her and her mother, who would be facing an extremely hard
future to provide for Yulia what she had vowed to do -- send her to
college. There was no way she could actually do that without help. 
Bringing the two of them under my roof was the answer that solved all the
problems, if Yulia's mother would only consent.

   I thought back to my college sociology class, where we studied several
widely disparate societies from around the world.  The class drew us to the
inescapable concluson that there was absolutely no reason why a functioning
society had to be like ours.  Marriages could be arranged by parents or
random, as in our american society.  Brides could be stolen from
neighboring nations, bought or given as reparations.  Some societies
married early, some late, some just swapped around.  May-December marriages
are not uncommon, which cheered me somewhat.  Marrying Yulia would be more
May-August, I rationalized.

   Because our society looks down on early teens marrying anybody, let
alone a man as much older as I was to Yulia.  I never understood why some
people insisted on forcing their own beliefs on others when there was no
harm to either.  It's the "What's good for me is good for everyone"
misguided attitude.  But the U.S.  has gotten paranoid about men loving
young girls.  One girl gets molested in Michigan and the whole country ends
up chafing under the risk of jail time punishment for loving someone under
an arbitrary age.  I still believe in "No harm, no foul." Apparently, I'm
one of the few.

   I decided to dress in coat and tie for dinner and to bring two bouquets
of flowers, one for each woman.  Oh, and the wine.  I went shopping for
wine and flowers mid-afternoon, since I couldn't be sure of finding what I
wanted on my way to Yulia's house.  Borscht and something else, she had
said.  Red or white wine?  I chose both so we could drink white before
dinner and red with dinner, if that seemed appropriate.  I got roses for
Yulia and lilies for her mother -- Stargazers, with their heady fragrence.
A little PR never hurts.  And it wouldn't hurt to get mama a little drunk,
either.

   I wouldn't want to know what my blood pressure reading was when I
knocked on their door.  My pulse rate was similar to what occurs after I
run up two flights of stairs.  I'm not in the shape I was when I was 19.

   Yulia opened the door with her mother standing behind her.  Mama's face
didn't show anything when Yulia threw her arms around me.  She hooked her
arm in mine and turned to her mother.  She spoke in ukranian and her mother
smiled and extended her hand, responding, also, I guess, in ukranian.  She
gave me a firm grip and a single shake of the hand, still smiling.  Well,
she didn't greet me with a stick or a gun.  That was good.

   Yulia led us all into the living room -- a dark, somber room with dark,
heavy drapery, an oriental rug, upholstered chairs in a dark maroon velvety
fabric.  It looked like a room where you would go to hold a seance.  Very
eastern european.  Old-style eastern european.  I handed the flowers to
each woman and the wine to Yulia.  "The white is cold, Yulia.  Perhaps we
could all have a glass now."

   "Mama lets me have a little," she said, "but it has to be diluted with
water 50-50." She said something to her mother, indicating the wine, seemed
to get an ok.  Yulia took the flowers and the wine to the kitchen while
mama and I stood facing one another, unable to converse.  Soon she waved me
toward the sofa.

   Mama sat in the big chair facing the sofa and we looked at one another
for several minutes.  Once, she said something, forgetting, I suppose, that
I wouldn't understand.  Then she smiled sheepishly at her own mistake and
we sat silently waiting for Yulia to return.

   Yulia brought in a tray with the three wine glasses and served each of
us.  She sat next to me.  Close to me.  She spoke to her mother first and
then translated to me, "I told mama what you said yesterday."

   "And what did she say?"

   "Like I told you, she said 'Yes.'"

   "Just like that?"

   "No.  We talked for a while before she agreed.  But she knows how
difficult it will be for us without your help and so, in the end, she
agreed.  But she has some questions.  That is why I asked you to come for
dinner -- so you could talk to her." Yulia laughed.  "You talk to me and I
talk to her." I started to sweat.

   Yuilia said something to her mother, who responded with a short
sentence. "She says, 'Do you love me?,' Yulia asked.

   "Tell her 'Yes, I do.'" Yulia relayed the message and mama asked
something else.

   "Mama says, 'Will you make sure I go to college?'"

   "Yes, I will."

   Mama spoke again.  I guess she understood 'Yes.' Yulia translated, "Will
you marry me?"

   "Is that you or your mother asking?" I asked.

   "Mama asks but I ask, too."

   "Yes, I will," I replied quickly.  Yulia threw her arms around my neck
and kissed me hungrily.

   "I love you, Steven."

   "I love you, too, Yulia, and I want to marry you and be your husband
forever.  But we can't marry until you're 16, even if your mother
approves."

   "She will say ok." Yulia then had a long two-way conversation with her
mother.  Finally, "Mama wants to know if she can have her own room."

   "Yes, she can.  I have three bedrooms.  You can each have your own
bedroom."

   "I don't want my own bedroom," Yulia said.  "I want to sleep with you --
even before we get married."

   "What would your mother think?"

   Mama spoke without being asked and Yulia laughed before she translated.
"Mama says 'NO BABIES' until after college."

   I laughed, too.  "No babies," I answered.  I had to laugh, too.  "But
lots of practice."

   "What you mean, 'practice?'"

   "I mean we will practice making babies a lot."

   Yulia blushed.  "I will not tell her that."

   "Good."

   Mama spoke again.  "Mama says we eat now." Mama raised her wine glass in
a toast and smiled.  We each raised ours.  Mama and Yulia said something in
unison and raised their glasses to their lips.  "I will need to teach you
ukranian."

   "Yes.  You can be my tutor for that."

   "You will teach me many new things, I hope," Yulia said with a glimmer
in her eyes.

   "I plan to," I said.

   Mama was already on her way to the kitchen.  Yulia took me by the hand
and showed me where I was to sit at the dinner table.  She kissed me again
after I sat.  "Is that it?" I asked while mama was in the kitchen.

   "You want more kisses?" Yulia answered, her face becoming even brighter.

   "Yes, no.  I mean is that all there is to it?  No argument?

   "No.  She already said ok before you came.  I tell ...told...  you
that."

   "I didn't expect it to be that easy."

   "Well, she and I have a long talk.  She knows it will be very difficult
to save money for college and she worries about working two shifts every
day and I tell ...  told...  her how good you are and how much I love you
-- so she says ok."

   Mama came back into the room with a large, steaming tureen.  She served
the borscht and topped it with a dollop of sour cream and some chopped
green onion tops.  "Mfstltphcht," she said -- or something.  She raised her
spoon as the go-ahead to eat.  It was delicious!!

   Mama said something.  Yulia translated, "Mama says to tell you that I
made the soup.  Yulia made it."

   "It's wonderful."

   "I'm a good cook.  You will see.  Mama is a good cook, too, and she can
sew curtains and will keep a clean house.  You will see."

   "I don't want her to be a maid for me."

   "I will help her.

   "You will study hard so you can go to the best school."

   "That, too.  And make love with you."

   "I'm sure glad your mother doesn't speak english." Yulia laughed.

   We finished the soup in silence.  I was wondering how we would keep
Yulia's living arrangements secret for the two-plus years until she turned
16.  I didn't want any legal problems.  Yulia cleared the soup bowls and
returned with a large casserole of wide noodles with spinach and cheese. 
Mama brought in a large green salad and some bread.

   "I cooked the noodles," Yulia said.  Mama made the salad.

   We ate and drank both bottles of wine.  All three of us were tipsy by
the end of the meal.  Later, as I got up to go, mama said soething to
Yulia, who snickered and blushed before she translated.  "Mama says I
should go home with you tonight so we can have our honeymoon." I looked at
her mother, who was standing next to us beaming and making little pushing
gestures with her hands.

   "Are you sure?"

   "I am sure...  and it's what I want, too."

   "I wasn't sure what to think -- for about ten seconds -- before I
agreed. Yulia disappeared and left me standing near the door with her
mother, still beaming.  I shrugged and smiled and then stepped forward to
kiss her on the cheek.  Her grin got wider as she put her hand to where I
had kissed her.  Yulia returned with a paper grocery bag packed, I guessed,
with her overnight clothes and toothbrush.  She kissed her mother and we
left.  What a night!

   ------------- more to come ------------

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   Needless to say, this story belongs to me.  You can share it with
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   -------------------------

   I write, usually about a young girl and an older man, for my own
pleasure.  My stories usually have a kernel of an actual event in them but
they are sheer fantasy.  I will sometimes see a young girl at the market or
riding a bicycle or waiting in line with friends for a movie and my body
will literally twitch with excitement.  Not just ANY girl; some girls. 
There is no way I would ever approach one of these girls but I do fix an
image in my mind of their faces, figures, clothes and body language.  I
then dream, like a perverted Walter Mitty, about what might have happened
had we actually met.

   Sometimes true stories are better than what you can imagine.  Several
readers have emailed me to tell me their own true stories, just like this
one.  If YOU would like me to turn your true story into a peice of erotic
fiction, let me know.  I'll write it if I think I can do it justice.

   I always enjoy comments, good or bad.  Nice things encourage me to write
more.  Critical things encourage me to write better.  Please encourage me,
one way or another, by emailing me at:

   CYBERGUY20038@YAHOO.COM Thanks.