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Subject: {MKSmith}JDR"Charly the Yard Guy 1"( Mf 1st rom )[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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john_dark@anon.nymserver.com - or just hit "reply."
=====================
[This one's just for fun, total fiction, all a lark -- but if you're
wondering who "Charly" is modeled on, watch Eve Matheson in the BBC series
"May to December" on PBS...!]
[Oh, yeah: If all you're looking for is one-handed sex, you're in the
wrong story. If you enjoy sex-and-romance with actual people instead of
cardboard cut-outs, and an actual plot, then make yourself at home...]
============================
CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 1)
by Michael K. Smith
mksmith1@swbell.net
This whole thing started because I hate yard work. In fact, I
had way too much house and yard for my needs, but as the only child
of an only child, I was my grandfather's sole heir and he left the
place to me. The property formed the bulk of his estate, most of the
cash and investments having been gobbled by his lengthy final exit.
Don't misunderstand: I loved my grandfather. I even liked him quite a
lot. We had a good deal of respect for each other and I miss him.
We've just never been a demonstrative, huggy-kissy family. Maybe it
has something to do with being an "only."
Anyway, when my grandfather died several years ago, I was
thirty-five and still single and still living in a modest rented
townhouse. I'm a contract software developer, which means I can
mostly work at home in faded jeans, an old tee-shirt, and moccasins.
I own one sport jacket and two ties, for those occasional, unavoidable
forays into the world of commerce.
The house is a nice old place, big enough for an old-style family
of eight with a maid or two thrown in. As a family of one, I found it
simpler to have a maid service come in once a month to rearrange the
dust, do the windows, and all that other domestic crap that I'm not
very good at.
My place is located near the end of a dead-end street that backs
on the deep rough of a private golf course. The back yard alone is a
quarter-acre, edged by silvery aspens inside a tall board fence as a
windbreak and privacy measure. I almost never see my neighbors and
they probably never see my back yard, but my favorite workroom
overlooks the back and it bothers me somehow if I let the lawn and all
the flowerbeds and shrubs get ratty. Anyway, the not-quite-so-large
front yard is visible to everyone; if I didn't take proper care of
*it* I'd catch hell from the Homeowners' Association.
Since, as I say, working up a sweat behind a lawn mower is not my
idea of a useful way to spend my time, one of the first things I did
after moving in that summer was to ask around about a yard guy. The
full-time lawn care businesses -- the ones that show up with a truck
and trailer and six guys in jumpsuits with matching mowers -- charged
a shocking amount of money. I finally decided to put the money I was
going to have to spend back into the neighborhood economy by hiring a
couple of teenagers. A notice posted at the high school brought a
dozen responses and the best of the lot were a junior named Chris
Chambers and his brother Frank, who was two years younger.
The guys came around once a month and spent most of a Saturday
mowing, edging, trimming, spading, and raking. They did a very nice
job. Because the yard was so big, I paid them considerably more than
most high school yard workers got, in addition to providing all the
cokes and snacks they could consume when they took their breaks -- and
it was still only half what the professionals wanted to charge me.
Everyone was happy.
After a few months, we developed a mutual trust. The brothers
began keeping an eye on the yard on their own initiative and when it
was time, they'd just show up the next weekend. I don't usually get
to bed before about two in the morning when the creative urge is upon
me, so I would awaken at nine or ten to the deep-throated burr of the
large power mower that lived in my garden shed. I'd climb into a pair
of jeans and wander out to the screened porch barefoot, and there
would be Chris and Frank in track shorts and gym shoes, usually
shirtless, toiling away at returning my manor to a civilized
appearance. To paraphrase somebody or other, manual labor is a
wonderful thing -- I could sit and watch it for hours.
Almost a year later, though, the day came as I had known it
would. Chris would graduate in June and was headed for Notre Dame on
a major athletic scholarship. And Frank, already an up-and-coming
basketball player, would be adding varsity football in the fall...
which meant a summer filled with weekend practice sessions. I was
happy for both of them, but I was also going to have to find some new
yard guys.
When I asked Chris if there was anyone he felt he could
recommend, he and Frank exchanged glances and Chris cleared his
throat. "Well, Mr. Weeks, I kind of promised Charly I'd mention
her."
"'Her?' Who's Charly?"
He grinned. "Our kid sister, Charlene; everyone calls her
'Charly.' And she's really not such a kid any more, I guess. She's a
year younger than Frank -- sixteen and a half -- and I promised I'd
mention her name, but I also told her she'd have to audition on her
own."
I thought about it. A female athlete, probably, if her older
brothers were any indication. Anyone who was capable of doing the
yard properly was okay with me. I'm not sexist about such things.
"Who does she have in mind to help her?"
Chris's eyes twinkled and he poked his tongue in his cheek.
"Well... I think she means to do it all by herself, so she won't have
to split the money." Behind him, Frank chuckled and slowly shook his
head. Clearly, they were fond of their sister and admired her
ambition, but they doubted her endurance.
"It's almost May so we'll do the yard one more time, in a couple
weeks. And we'll bring Charly along to help and to show her how to do
things. You can judge for yourself whether you think she can handle
it, okay?"
"Sure, Chris, bring her along. I just hope she's an Amazon."
Frank grinned and said half under his breath, "Do they have
pygmies in the Amazon...?"
Three weeks later, I was watching "Rocky and Bullwinkle" earlier
than usual on Saturday morning and eating a nice balanced breakfast of
Pepsi and stale donuts, when the front doorbell rang. I answered it
to find Chris and Frank, horribly cheerful for that hour of the
morning. I blinked at the glare of the still-climbing sun and waved
them in. As they entered, I realized there was a third person in a
sweatsuit who had been completely concealed behind the two boys.
Now, I'm not all that big, barely 5'10" and 160 pounds. Chris
and Frank, lettermen that they were, each had several inches and at
least twenty pounds on me, all of it muscle. The "little girl" who
accompanied them (that's how I unconsciously thought of her) was a
head and a half shorter even than me. The guys were strapping, blond
Aryan types, with short hair and beach tans. The girl was pale of
complexion with rather long coppery hair done up in a practical French
braid. Her bright green eyes and generous mouth gave her a pixie-ish
look.
"We heard the TV, Mr. Weeks, so we thought we'd introduce our
sister before she got all sweaty." Chris smiled down at the girl.
"This is Miss Charlene Chambers. Charly, this is Tom Weeks. A good
guy to work for." I was pleased they thought so, but I wondered if
their sister knew what she was getting into, even if it was only once
a month. She had a firm, competent handshake, though, and when she
smiled it went ear-to-ear and made her eyes crinkle. She was
certainly very cute, I thought.
They trooped out and I watched the three of them at work at
intervals all morning, peering through the miniblinds from my
workroom. Chris and Frank were at some pains to explain to Charly
just how the grass should be cut, the sidewalks edged, the hedges
square-trimmed. After nearly a year of caring for my yard, the
brothers seemed downright proprietary about it. I didn't know what
was being said, exactly, but Charly nodded and asked frequent
questions. Her brothers teased her about things and she teased them
back, trading playful swats, and the work progressed rapidly and
smoothly.
A little later, I saw her guiding the oversized power mower with
calm skill, apparently not even out of breath. When silence descended
about 11:00, I went down to the wide, screened back porch to find the
crew sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan, mopping
themselves off with sections of sweatsuit. They'd already fetched
some soft drinks from the kitchen. Now that she was warmed up, Charly
had peeled off her suit to reveal black spandex cycling shorts and a
snug black knit top. The dark clothing emphasized her alabaster skin
and the tight fit showed off her curves, as well as unsuspected layers
of smooth muscle in her calves, thighs, arms, and shoulders. When she
moved, things didn't jiggle -- they flexed. There didn't seem to be
an ounce of fat on her anywhere. She still seemed kind of small to do
the entire yard by herself, though.
"How's it going, guys?" Then I added "...and ladies," with a
sketchy bow toward Charly. The boys laughed and Frank prodded her in
the hip with his toe.
"Hey, you're a lady now, kid!"
Charly delicately dipped a fingertip in her coke and flicked the
droplets at him. "Of course I'm a lady, you moron!" she replied with
an infectious grin. "Not that *you'd* recognize a lady if she bit
you..."
"Hey, if you know a lady who bites, I wanna meet her!" Chris and
I joined in the laughter and Charly rolled her eyes. I was getting
the impression she'd grown up as a tomboy to keep up with two older
brothers who loved her and looked out for her but who didn't allow her
much slack when it came to individual competition. Her obviously good
physical condition and evident sense of humor seemed to indicate that
she had not only survived the experience but thrived on it.
After half an hour of cooling down, the three went back to work
raking, edging the flowerbeds, and cleaning up the hedge trimmings. I
stood at my window awhile longer, idly watching them labor as the
modem muttered to itself behind me. Especially the girl. She had a
lot of energy and enthusiasm and she moved about smoothly and with
great economy. I discovered I enjoyed simply watching her, which made
me a little uneasy. She was only sixteen, after all.
When they finished and put away all the tools, the three of them
came up to my workroom for their pay and so Chris could say goodbye.
Charly's eyes widened at all the computers and printers and
miscellaneous gadgetry scattered around the large room.
I paid Chris and Frank the usual amount and added a little bonus
as a "job well done" kind of thing, and I shook their hands and wished
them both luck. Then I turned to Charly and handed her an amount
equal to about half her brothers' wages -- which, from her surprise,
she hadn't expected. Apparently, Chris and Frank had intended to
share part of their earnings with her. My intent, of course, was just
to buy a little good will -- I thought.
"Well, Charly, will I see you in June, then? I'm certainly
willing to give you crack at it and we'll take it from there." She
broke into a broad smile and her brothers nudged each other. "I pay
for the job," I added, "so if you do as much as these two brutes have
been doing together, I'll certainly *pay* you what I've been paying
both of them together. But it'll probably take you sunup to sundown,
you know."
"I know," she replied. "But that's fine: I need the money for my
college fund." She looked determined about it and I decided this
might work out after all. If she didn't collapse from exhaustion.
"I'll see you in about a month, then," she said as they left. "And
thanks a lot, Mr. Weeks!"
It all turned out very well, actually. Throughout the summer,
Charly showed up once a month or so in Frank's battered old Chevy and
spent a day beating the wildlife into submission. Work that I would
have dreaded, she seemed to regard as a great way to keep in shape and
get paid for besides. It took all the daylight hours of Saturday (or
Sunday), too; when I suggested that she might want to do part of the
job on Saturday and come back the next day to finish up, she laughed
that her Saturday night dates left her exhausted as it was.
She took a couple of lengthy breaks each yard-day, being careful
not to overdo herself, and at first she preferred to sprawl on the
screened porch with a coke and just rest. But she was simply too
active and social a person to spend the entire day by herself, and she
soon asked if I would mind if she came upstairs and watched me work.
How could I mind? I discovered that Charly had been taking extra
computer science classes and that she was fascinated by the array of
test systems I had set up.
It didn't take me long, either, to realize that Charly was a bit
shy when she was away from her big brothers. The first time I
complimented her on the quality of her work, she actually blushed with
pleasure; I didn't know girls still did that. And when she came
indoors for a break, her face bright red with heat and exertion, her
flaming hair escaping in wild curls, and trickles of sweat running
down her arms and legs, I thought she was unbearably cute ... but, of
course, I couldn't tell her that.
By the time school started, just after Labor Day, and Charly
began her junior year, we had become friends. She liked to stretch
out in the beat-up old armchair in one corner of my workroom, sipping
at a cold drink or a jug of Gatorade, and observing quietly while I
debugged a graphical interface or waded through email from
contractors. And she sat there and grinned silently when my laser
decided to assert itself by printing only the top half of each page,
and I had to wrestle it to the floor until it surrendered.
I was pleased when she finally asked, rather hesitantly, if she
could experiment with one of the PCs I wasn't using at the moment.
She was learning the fundamentals of program design theory and was
anxious to try some of her own ideas, but trying to book time on one
of the school's insufficient number of consoles was frustrating.
I invited her to drop by almost any evening, if she liked, and I
could critique her programs and suggest improvements. By
Thanksgiving, she was coming over for a visit a couple or three times
a month and we talked not only about the cyber-universe but about the
world in general.
It was a little strange at first, having Charly there after dark
and without sweat stains. It turned out she had a strong feminine
side, often preferring to wear a jumper or a plaid skirt and sweater
instead of the ubiquitous jeans and sweatshirt. Her makeup made her
look older, as well, and I wondered if perhaps she refreshed it just
before driving over.
Seeing her deep in concentration, the tip of her little pink
tongue visible between her lips, I began to realize how much I enjoyed
her company. She had watched me work at the keyboard and now I
watched her. She obviously missed having Chris around and even Frank,
now halfway through his senior year, was much busier than before.
Charly was the baby of the family, and while I was more than twice her
age, I was still nearly two decades younger than her parents. She
apparently found she could talk easily with me about things her folks
were uncomfortable discussing. But my greatest satisfaction came when
friendship overpowered respect-for-elders and she finally began
calling me "Tom" instead of "Mr. Weeks."
The second week in November, she mentioned in passing that she'd
be seventeen soon -- not that she was dropping any hints, but I made a
mental note. I called Frank the next evening and inquired what the
exact date was. He told me her birthday was the 20th and I made him
promise not to tell her I'd asked. That gave me about a week to cook
up something.
I was trying to think of some non-suspicious way to sucker Charly
into the surprise I was planning, but it turned out not to be
necessary. Late on the afternoon of the 19th, she called with a
database design problem that was giving her fits, and I invited her to
come over after supper. Then I spent an hour arming my traps.
When Charly arrived, she opened the front door and called, "Tom?"
That's how relaxed our relationship had become. I hollered for her to
come on up and when I heard her loafers on the stairs -- jogging, as
usual -- I started the program.
My main system now appeared to display a FoxPro debugging session
in progress but it was actually a boss-key fake. And I had lined up
along one table the four systems I used regularly, with the
super-loaded Pentium at one end and the Mac SE at the other -- plus
the older, slower 386 I had hauled out of the storage closet and
dusted off, sitting right in the middle of the row.
Charly came in and brightly said, "Hi!" She dug her comp sci
notebook out of her book bag and shrugged out of her school jacket.
Tonight it was a pair of tight black jeans and a hot pink sweater, and
she had her hair down in shimmering metallic waves that were probably
capable of reflecting radar.
As she came over to where I was sitting at a keyboard, she
noticed the rearranged equipment. "What's this?"
"Nothing." I waved it off. "But there's a message here for
you." I had to struggle not to grin.
"What, email? How could I be getting email? Especially here?"
I got up and held the chair for her and she sat and peered at the
screen.
"Press 'ESCAPE,'" I hinted.
She did, and the screen blanked and then flashed "LOGON (first
name only):"
Charly glanced up at me and typed "Charlene."
The computer made a rude noise and displayed, "Not good enough!
Your OTHER first name, please!"
I received another suspicious look as she typed "Charly."
At that, the screen blanked again and all five monitors
immediately lit up in the bright fractal patterns of the BEDAZZLE demo
and all five speakers began playing the "Monty Python" section of
Sousa's "Liberty Bell March."
Charly rolled the chair back a few feet and stared from screen to
screen. "NOW what?" And at that moment, all five machines lit up
with screen-filling block numerals reading "17!" while the speakers
broke into "Happy Birthday to You."
Charly considered herself too grown up to giggle, but this time
she did -- a delightfully musical sound. She gave me a big, warm
smile of pleasure. "Neat! Thanks, Tom -- that's so nice...!"
"Oh, but there's more. Hit 'CONTROL-P' ... for 'Present.'"
She gazed at me for a long moment and caught her lower lip
between her front teeth in a way that made me unaccountably
self-conscious. Then she pressed the keys. "Are you ready for your
*17th* birthday present? (Y/N)" the screen said. She snorted and
pressed "Y." Now it said "Can you GUESS what your present is? (Y/N)"
She shook her head once as she pressed "N."
The machines on each side lit up with large, multicolored arrows
pointing toward the older machine in the middle of the row -- which
now displayed the message, "It's *ME*!!!"
Charly stared at it and her jaw dropped. She finally looked up
over her shoulder at me, eyes wide. "You mean...?"
I grinned and nodded. "I figured, what could you really use that
you weren't likely to get otherwise?"
Charly gestured vaguely at the 386. "But, Tom, I can't--"
I leaned over her shoulder and rested my hands on the arms of her
chair, so I could put my head down close to hers. "Yes, you can,
Charly. That's not a new machine; it's been in the closet for almost
a year, waiting to be disposed of. It's fully depreciated, so I can't
legally sell it without having to pay taxes. I don't have any nieces
or nephews I could give it to. And it's too old and slow for the work
I do. But it's just about right for a high school student -- for term
papers, computer classes, whatever. And I'd much rather give it a
good home with you, Charly, than leave it on the curb for some charity
I don't even know. It's yours -- really."
Charly turned her head and so did I; we were almost nose-to-nose.
She was trying hard not to cry. Then she sniffed a little and kissed
me carefully on the cheek. It made me happy that I'd been able to
make her so happy, and I didn't notice until afterward the change in
her expression. But she suddenly lifted one hand to my chin and
angled my face toward her. Then she kissed me again, lingeringly, on
the lips.
I was frozen in place by surprise. Obviously, Charly hadn't
planned this, either; it just happened. I had forgotten what a young
girl's kiss was like, but my own teenage memories flooded my mind and
I found myself kissing her back. Charly's other hand gripped my
forearm -- not to push me away but to prevent me leaving. I knew even
at the time how stupid and conscienceless my reaction to her was. I
simply couldn't help myself.
Then our lips parted and I straightened and cleared my throat.
"I'm sorry, Charly. I shouldn't have done that." She stood and moved
close to me, slipping under my arm which moved naturally around her
shoulders.
"I'm not sorry," she said softly as her own arm snaked around my
waist. "And I started it, not you." She hugged me, her cheek
pressing against my chest. "I wanted to thank you for such a
wonderful present."
I opened my mouth to protest her motive but she cut me off
instantly. "--And I just *wanted* to do it, too." She looked up and
stared unwaveringly into my eyes like a cobra hypnotizing a bird. "I
knew all of a sudden that I really wanted to kiss you, Tom..."
I couldn't think of a meaningful reply so I hugged her again. I
finally managed to say, "This isn't a good idea, Charly." The
hoarseness in my voice embarrassed me. "We're friends, and I'm glad
we are. I don't want to screw that up."
A ghost of a smile crossed her face and her nose crinkled as she
suppressed a grin. "I never said anything about 'screwing'..." Jesus
God. She could play me like a fiddle. I didn't know if she was just
having a little fun or was truly unaware of her powers -- or, even
more terrifying, whether she knew *exactly* what she was doing.
"Charly... I think I hear your mother calling you."
She sighed and squeezed me again before letting go. "Okay,
okay -- I'll behave." She moved back to the work table. "You'll have
to show me what plugs into where on this thing so I can get it set up
right at home." So I identified the cables and connectors for her and
she jotted down the pin types and plug numbers. Then we took
everything apart, packed it into a couple of cardboard boxes, and
lugged it down to her car. When I followed her back up the stairs, I
found myself fantasizing as I watched the swaying of her tightly
denimed bottom. Not good, not good at all.
She collected her notebook and purse and stuffed them back in her
book bag, her original programming problem forgotten. Then I held her
jacket while she slipped her arms in... and she managed to lean back
against me as she did so. It was torture. I enjoyed the attention
she was giving me and I loved the feel of her warm, young body against
mine -- but she also scared the hell out of me. If she were a junior
in *college*, I might be censored by some for engaging in mutual
seduction, but I probably couldn't be arrested or harassed. A
dalliance with a girl just turning seventeen was dangerous.
So, part of me wanted badly to put my arms around her and squeeze
those just-ripening tits, to hump that firm little ass pressing into
my groin, to kiss that smooth, white neck and stick my tongue in her
ear. Another part of me wanted to run screaming from the room, down
the stairs, and into the night.
"Charly -- sweetheart, please, uh... look, don't do this, please?
God, you're making me crazy... Charly, I know it's not very original,
but I *am* just about old enough to be your father. And *your* father
would call the police if he walked in here right now. And Frank
wouldn't bother -- he'd just break my back!"
She turned around and leaned against me again, and that was even
worse because I was now extremely aware of her unharnessed breasts
poking in beneath my ribcage. My fantasies were jumping up and down
and salivating.
"I'm not a virgin, you know, Tom." She was carefully studying
the design on the front of my sweatshirt.
I couldn't tell whether she expected a comment from me or not so
I settled for "Mmm?"
"Nope. I let a guy fuck me for the first time a couple months
ago." She pronounced "fuck" very carefully and deliberately, making
two syllables out of it like she was studying for a vocabulary test.
Then she raised her eyes and began, "Wouldn't you--?" and I
hurriedly put my finger to her lips. It was going to be a question I
probably couldn't, and certainly shouldn't, answer. I was so nervous
I hadn't gotten an erection, even under the provocation of Charly's
cybernetic body abrading mine.
I finally put my arms around her and hugged her again. A kiss on
the forehead would combine rejection with paternalism and I wanted
desperately to avoid both, so I swallowed and kissed her as softly and
gently on the lips as I could, without shaking too badly.
"Sweetheart, you really have to leave; I think I'm going to need some
privacy for my breakdown." Fortunately, she didn't misunderstand.
"Charly, I want you to think very carefully about everything
that's been said and done here this evening. Be sure you understand
what you really want -- and what the consequences might be. Okay?
And whatever conclusions you come to, we're going to remain friends, I
promise." And that was as noncommittal as I could force myself to be.
"I'll think about it," she promised, as I walked her down to the
door. She turned to me one last time before she left and said, "Tom,
thanks so much for the computer. You're the nicest, most thoughtful
guy I know -- and it has nothing to do with how old you are." Then
she gave me a quick peck -- more like the chaste "thank you" kiss I
had originally expected -- and was gone.
I went back in and stood at the bottom of the staircase looking
up before I finally gave in to my turmoil and sat heavily on the
bottom step. I had thought Charly was cute and vivacious since the
first time I'd met her. That didn't bother me and I certainly didn't
feel guilty about it. But then I'd begun having daydreams about her
that became more and more sexual as they progressed. Still normal
enough, I thought: a thirty-five-year-old man could experience a sexy
little fantasy even about a strange teenager he saw on the bus and
just write it off to unfulfilled horniness.
But now I was facing the actual possibility of access to the
source of my arousing fantasies and it was making me very nervous
indeed. My cock was belatedly straining the front of my jeans as my
runaway imagination concocted pictures and situations featuring the
athletic little body that had just bopped out the door. It was her
age -- or lack of it -- that was driving me wild! Physically, Charly
was certainly a woman. And most people would not be very surprised at
a sixteen-year-old girl losing her virginity to a boy her own age.
But because I was so much older, I would be branded a "dirty old man,"
even though I was still in my 30s. I sighed and stared at the front
door and wondered if I should just sell the house and leave town.
On Friday a week later, Charly called for the first time since
her birthday -- and with a comp sci problem. She seemed to have
returned to our previous, "merely" friendly relationship. I was a bit
regretful about that -- I couldn't deny it -- but I was also relieved.
I told her to come on over that evening. And it didn't even occur to
me to wonder why she was doing schoolwork on a Friday night.
Charly showed up about 7:30 wearing a new, rather short, very red
skirt and a very pretty red-and-white angora sweater -- birthday gifts
she wanted to show off, she said. Her hair was drawn back in a
gleaming, rust-colored ponytail, brushed and silky. Her lipstick was
a metallic dark red that matched her hair and her carefully-drawn eye
shadow made her large luminous green eyes seem even larger. Her warm
smile was private between us.
"I lied," she said with a sidelong look as she shucked her
jacket. "I don't have any computer science assignment. I just wanted
to see you, Tom."
My antennae extended to their full length, quivering and
cautious. I should put her jacket right back on her and push her out
the door while I still have a chance, I thought. But she had linked
her arm through mine and was steering me toward the living room sofa.
As we sat, she looked at me very seriously. "I've been thinking,
like you asked me to. About you and me, and the difference in our
ages, and everything." She paused and turned unexpectedly shy. "Am I
assuming too much, Tom? About 'you and me'...? I don't want to push
myself on you; that's one of the things I decided this week while I
was thinking."
She seemed suddenly unsure of herself and I felt the need to
reassure her, so I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a
little squeeze. "Charly, if you were twenty-seven instead of
seventeen, I wouldn't hesitate a second; I'd be wining and dining you
and sending you flowers."
Her face lit up as she leaned against me. "Really? You'd do
that?"
"A little charmer like you? You bet I would!" I smiled at her
fondly and wondered why I was putting myself on the line that way.
Charly ducked her head and the tips of her ears turned pink. It was
hard to believe this was the same girl who had come on so strongly the
last time we were together.
"But I'm *not* twenty-seven," she countered in a low voice.
"Does it really matter that much? Anyway, in another year I'll *be* a
legal adult. And I wouldn't tell anybody anything until then,
honest..."
Tell them what? Was this sweet young thing offering herself to
me for real? And was I really prepared to accept such an offer?
Without considering what I was doing, I found myself stroking her
head, like a kitten. God, she was so cute. And she was right about
her deceptive age: I had to keep reminding myself that I had been
finishing college the year she was born.
"Charly? What's the matter, sweetheart? Let me see that pretty
face..." I chucked her under the chin, which made her smile as she
tilted her head back against my arm. She still wore an unhappy
expression but the gaze she fixed on me burned away my optical
insulation.
I stroked her cheek for a moment, staring back into those wide,
impossibly green eyes. In them, I could see the reflection of my
burning bridges. I leaned over and kissed her wet, inviting lips.
She made a small whimpering sound in the back of her throat as
she bunched up the front of my shirt in her fist. She leaned into me
and her eyebrows rose as her eyes widened still more. Then her lashes
fluttered and her body melted into mine. It was the most exciting and
soul- satisfying kiss I'd ever participated in.
As the long chord of our kiss faded away, she scrambled around so
she could bury her face in my neck. I heard an "Ohhhhh..." in a
breathy, little girl whisper that gave me shivers. She was up on one
knee, her arms around my neck; my arms had wrapped themselves around
her narrow waist. Her breasts were mashed against one side of my
chest and when I ran one hand across the back of her sweater I
encountered no evidence of a bra strap. All I found was shifting
layers of smooth muscle.
Charly had shifted gears and was nuzzling my throat, scattering
steamy, aggressive kisses up and down my windpipe. Her hot little
hand clutched the back of my neck and my own hands pushed her sweater
up until they reached her volcanic tits. My thumbs moved over her
hardening nipples and she moaned against my Adam's apple, flicking her
tongue out to stab me in the throat -- and the heart. She was
drowning me in wet kisses and I loved it.
Then she was straddling my lap, pressing her breasts against my
face. I snagged one hard, stiff nipple between my lips and swirled my
tongue around it. Charly gulped twice and her fingers sank hard into
my shoulders.
"Oh my God, oh my God, ohhhh... oh, Jesus, that feels *so* good!"
she whispered thickly and tried to push more of herself into my mouth.
I switched to the other nipple and she moaned again. My hands were
moving on automatic, caressing her slender waist and polishing her
lower back. I was vaguely aware that I was avoiding her taut
buttocks, nor did I try to push that short skirt farther up. I didn't
quite know why I was denying myself that, but I never argue with my
unconscious.
After a few minutes of savoring the taste of each young nipple
alternately, I realized that Charly was trembling. I got her to bend
at the knees, squatting on my lap, so I could see her face. She was
crying, not loudly but damply, and she wore an unfathomable
expression.
"Sweetheart, what is it? If all this scares you, we'd better
stop, Charly. I would never do anything to frighten you, please
believe me."
Her fingers moved from my shoulders to gently stroke my face.
"No, no -- it's nothing like that," she replied shakily. "I just
didn't know it was possible to feel like this. It's wonderful...!"
She blinked away her tears and licked her lips in indecision. "I... I
have to say it, Tom. I'm in love with you. Not 'puppy love' or a
'crush' -- I really love you." She took a deep breath. "Have I
scared *you* away now?"
Since graduating from high school romance, I'd had serious
affairs with two women, both of whom I'd eventually broken up with. I
had proposed to the first one and she'd turned me down, gently but
firmly. She had career plans that didn't allow for marriage just yet.
The second one, I *should* have proposed to but didn't, and she got
tired of waiting.
I suffered badly both times and in the nearly ten years since my
second defeat, I had carefully kept my relationships with women
physical, with friendship and neutral affection added wherever
possible. That seemed to work, especially with the women I dated
regularly and slept with occasionally. By mutual understanding,
"love" never entered the equation with them.
While these affinities were quite satisfying sexually and filled
a mutual need, I guess I'd deluded myself about avoiding love.
Charly's forthright declaration, not insisting I reciprocate, not
demanding anything for herself ... was it really what she thought it
was? Was it really possible for a girl of seventeen to be genuinely
in love with a man who was nearly thirty-five?
Equally important right now was how I really felt about her. Was
my strong attraction to Charly only sexual? No -- absolutely not.
That was part of it, of course, but she was intelligent and cheerful
and witty, and I thought about her every day ... a realization which
had only just that moment dawned on me. If I sent her away, or if she
left, and I never saw her again, how would I feel? And the answer to
that question, I knew immediately, was that I didn't even want to
consider the possibility of never seeing Charly again.
Was I in love with this astonishing young girl? Real, true love?
And did the rest of the world give a damn about "true love"? Was I out
of my fucking mind?
I came out of my thoughts and saw that Charly was studying my
face and biting her lower lip. She'd just taken a huge chance.
Because she was right: I might get spooked by the implications of this
situation and chase her away. She was actually worried about losing
*me*... and I knew, too, that if I did end this thing, it would never
even occur to her to seek adolescent revenge by hollering "rape!"
Her hands had moved to her lap and she was anxiously intertwining
her fingers. I took each of her hands in one of mine and squeezed a
little.
"Charly, I don't know what to say..." A sad, dejected look began
to appear on her face. "No, sweetheart -- I mean I *really* don't
know what to say. I sure wasn't prepared for all this, you know. And
I don't think 'love' means the same thing to you that it used to mean
to me. Seriously, Charly: are you thinking 'going steady' or 'having
babies?'" Her cheeks abruptly flushed. I wasn't doing this very well.
"I'm not making fun of you, honest. But the idea of digging out
my old senior ring -- if I could find it -- for you to wear on a chain
around your neck..." The image was so ludicrous I stopped and
grinned. She saw the humor of it, too, and smiled as she squeezed my
hands in return. "And you don't really want to get married before you
can even vote, do you? I know you want more from your future than
that, Charly." Her smile turned serious and she glanced down.
"Can't we... um... have an affair or something?" she asked
softly. But I'd had affairs; she hadn't.
"Sweetheart, 'love' means more than an affair. It has to. Trust
me on this, okay? Hiding our relationship from everyone wouldn't last
very long, either. Things like that just don't stay secret." She
nodded slowly.
There was something else, though. "Charly, you haven't asked me
how I feel about you."
"Well..." She took a deep breath. "I'm still sitting on your
lap, so I guess you don't hate me too much." The bright smile flashed
on and off again. "I know you like me, Tom. I think I turn you on,
too, don't I?" The second smile was much more confident. "But if you
don't love me... well, that's okay. I can live without that as long
as you *like* me and just let me be around you." She was studying my
sweatshirt again and my heart climbed up into my throat. I didn't
deserve someone like this feeling this way about me.
I stroked her cheeks with my thumbs and felt some of the tension
drain from her muscles. "Charly, it's important that I be completely
honest with you. I'm not sure I know what love is any more. I know
my feelings about you are much stronger than I realized until this
evening. I've thought you were cute and sweet since the first day
your brothers introduced you. We've become good friends, and I value
that a great deal. You have a mind and a force of character I can
respect -- and that's important, to me, anyway."
I shrugged. "But is that 'love?' I don't know, Charly. If I
were twenty again, without the life I've experienced since then, still
full of enthusiasm and with fewer battle-scars... hell, yes, I'd be in
love with you! I'd neglect my work to write you love poems. My
friends would make jokes about my lapses of attention. I'd lie awake
all night thinking about you, your beautiful eyes, those luscious
lips, and especially that radiant smile!"
Another shrug. "But I'm not twenty, Charly, any more than you're
twenty-seven. I'm almost thirty-five, and my friends would make very
different jokes. Your father would probably go to court and get an
injunction to keep me from coming anywhere near you. And your
brothers... well, I hate to think how they'd react. And I'm sitting
here wondering if all of them wouldn't be right."
But I was still backpedalling and Charly knew it. She scooted
closer on my lap and slipped her wrists around my neck. And she gazed
at me very seriously indeed. "Tom... do you think you *could* love
me? Eventually?"
There it was. And without thinking any further, I knew the
answer. "Charly -- sweetheart -- I think I *am* in love with you. I
think I've been falling in love with you for months now, God help me."
She blinked rapidly several times and pulled my lips to hers. I've
never been kissed like that in my life, before or since. The alarm
bells that had been clanging in my mind for ten minutes fell silent.
I didn't know how we were going to work this out, but we would. At
least, we'd certainly try.
Then Charly brought me back to the here-and-now with a snap.
"Tom... are we, um... are we going to make love?" Her voice was low
and excited and her squirming transmitted itself to my groin like a
telegraph key. There should be rising violins in the background, I
thought absently. Of *course* I wanted to make love to this marvelous
girl. I wanted to strip her bare and bury myself in her within the
next ten seconds -- which was exactly why I couldn't do it, not yet,
not after our revelations to each other. It would be too much like
rape under psychological duress.
I slid my hands up and down her smooth, firm thighs and sighed
in frustration. "I don't think we should, Charly. When I was your
age -- God, there I go! -- the common wisdom among the guys I knew
was, 'if you can't get her to fuck, tell her you love her.' That's
what I'd feel like I was doing, sweetheart."
Charly laughed lightly and her eyes sparkled. "They still say
that, Tom; we just don't believe them any more! But I understand what
you're saying," she added quickly. "It's okay; I know you're trying
to be careful. But it doesn't really matter, because we have all the
time in the world -- and you're going to be seeing a lot of me from
now on..."
The next few months went by in a blur. I felt fifteen years
younger, which worried me a little when I mulled my unconscious
motives for this unlooked-for romance. I was both breathlessly
starry-eyed and worried to the point of indigestion every time I
thought about Charly. And I thought about her *all* the time. The
refrain spun madly around in my mind: you're too old for her! / Age
difference doesn't matter when you're in love! / You're not in love,
you're just flattered that she thinks *she* is! / But she's a
wonderful girl! / Yes, and you're going to mess up her life! / She
wants me! / You want her body! / SHUT UP!
Charly didn't seem visited by such doubts at all. In fact, she
was amazingly calm and sensible. She didn't tell her girlfriends that
she was involved with an older man. She went out on social dates with
boys her own age, just as she always had. When we bumped into each
other in public, she would pause and chatter brightly about
computers... and only I could see the longing hidden behind her
youthful smile.
I'd met her parents once or twice -- nice people, unfortunately --
and Chris and Frank apparently had vouched for me as a "good guy,"
so no one objected when Charly continued her periodic visits, in
between yard-work days. Her grades, if anything, rose even higher and
she was invited to apply for both academic and athletic scholarships
at one of the state's more prestigious universities. But she didn't
want to go if it meant being separated from me. That required a
heart-to-heart talk.
"Charly, you still have a whole year to go before you finish high
school and I'm willing to bet you get additional offers during that
time. Take the best offer from the best school and go!" I touched my
finger to her lips to stave off the protest I knew was coming.
"Sweetheart, if you stay away from college because of me, you'll come
to hate me for it. You have to think of yourself first in matters
like this." She looked stubborn, though, which perhaps is why I said
what I said next: "Charly, there's no rule that I have to stay here
when you go off to school."
She stared at me blankly as if she had assumed I was chained to
this house. "You'd move? Just to be with me?"
I reviewed in my mind what I'd just said. "Um. Yes... I guess I
would. Yes, of course I would! As long as I have electricity, a
phone line for the modem, a mailbox, and access to UPS, what else do I
need to do my work? It's not like I have to put on a suit and go to
an office every morning." That got me a neck-crushing hug and a rain
of passionate, joyful kisses.
Every couple of weeks thereafter, Charly came over for the
evening. Sometimes we went out to eat -- not in our part of town,
though -- and sometimes I cooked for her. We cuddled on the sofa and
talked about all sorts of things. She explained to me her aspirations
in math and science and I encouraged her enthusiastically. I was sure
Charly had a greater natural aptitude for this stuff than I had and I
wanted to witness its blooming. I wanted stardom for her, of some
kind.
I explained to her, without embarrassment, what I thought had
gone wrong with my two earlier serious involvements with women and she
said intelligent, sympathetic, soothing things. Words that, to my
amazement, I'd needed to hear and never realized it. It was like she
possessed an ancient, natural wisdom to balance her bouncy, optimistic
personality.
The deeper my knowledge and understanding of Charly grew, the
deeper I fell in love. I no longer argued with myself about the
ethics of what we were doing. I became convinced -- gradually,
completely -- that what I had come to feel was not infatuation nor
simple lust, but a quiet, thorough acceptance that this was the person
I wanted to be with permanently.
(continued in Part 2)
========================================================================
Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted
elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
========================================================================
============================
CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 1)
by Michael K. Smith
-30-
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