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Message-ID: <39237asstr$1036923005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} (Song Fest) It Started With A Kiss (RP) (MF) ~ by DrSpin
Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2002 05:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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It Started With A Kiss (MF)
by Neil Anthony/DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published on ASSM for the first time by kind 
permission of Ruthie's Club, where it appeared illustrated by 
Lloyd W. Meek under an exclusivity period for six months. 
Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 40 
more of my new stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

* * *

Walking down the streets again, 
the star of my love story
And my heart began to beat so fast, 
so clear was my memory
I heard my voice call out your name 
as you looked then looked away 
I felt so hurt, I felt so small, 
it was all that I could say
You don't remember me do you?
You don't remember me at all

-- It Started With A Kiss (E. Brown/Hot Chocolate; BMG 
Publishing)

* * *

It was an underground carpark at a suburban shopping mall, and 
the light was muddy, and I saw her from a distance as she was 
unlocking the door of a smart, pocket-sized, four-wheel-drive 
vehicle. My heart reacted before my brain, and it fell to the 
concrete with an elevator-plunging gravity lurch. I knew it 
was Cherie. Had to be. Nobody else could do that to me.

I heard my voice call out her name. She stopped in the act of 
climbing into the car and turned to face me. My feet wanted to 
be near to her, and I approached, rushing too fast, too 
eagerly, too vulnerably.

"Cherie," I called again, close now.

She stood tall and frowned. I could read her face. She didn't 
have a clue who I was. Mother of God, she was more heart-
stoppingly beautiful than ever. But she didn't know me. 

"Ian," I offered helpfully. "Remember?"

Her frown deepened for a moment, then cleared. "Oh yes," she 
said. "Ian. Of course. How are you today?"

"Great," I lied, smiling foolishly.

"That's good," she said, jingling the car keys in her hand 
impatiently. "Nice to see you, but I have to run."

"Sure," I said, crushed, hoping it didn't show.

"Bye," she said dismissively, getting into the car. The engine 
started and I stood aside to allow her to back out. I waved as 
she drove away. She didn't wave back.

Yeah, well. Sixteen years on, and Cherie Walsingham had left 
me standing like a cold and desolate penguin minding a bleak 
and barren nest that would never hatch a chick. Some things 
never change. I had loved her like I'd loved no other. Still 
did. My fast-beating heart confirmed it, as if I didn't know. 
She had always been the only girl for me, the only girl I had 
ever asked to marry me. But I don't think she knew who I was. 
I wasn't sure she remembered me at all.

* * *

New town, new life. Three times unlucky in love, double that 
if you count the relationships that aborted before they ever 
really had a chance at life. They said it was my fault, and I 
guess it was likely to be true, but these women seemed to want 
more than what was there. I mean, you like somebody well 
enough, you're comfortable with her, you don't fight and break 
the furniture, you fit together pretty well in bed, you even 
have similar tastes in music, books and movies. I mean, what 
the hell? What more is there?

Yeah, yeah, don't tell me. I know. Commitment. Like laying 
down your life and signing it over. Like mortgaged houses 
instead of rented apartments. Like kids, like dogs and cats, 
and like in-laws and relatives. I know, I know.

Time runs fast when you keep moving. I'd reached 33 while 
still thinking I was not much older than 23. Too many jobs, 
too many women, too many towns. But this was a new town and a 
new life, and I'd been there an uncomplicated three weeks 
before I saw Cherie Walsingham in the car park. 

She looked married, and probably was. I hadn't heard a thing 
about her since I went away to be better educated 16 years 
ago. But I'd never gone back, not even for a visit, and I'd 
severed my ties with the old town and the old people. Cherie? 
Tall, good figure, shoulder-length brown hair, those trademark 
cat's eyes, so sexy. Of course she was married. She looked all 
of it -- well-groomed, prosperous, satisfied. Girls like 
Cherie didn't go begging for beaus. Oh no. She'd never been 
wanting for suitors. Not my Cherie, damn her almond eyes.

She'd looked at me in the car park with those cool, grey eyes 
and measured me to see if I fitted in anywhere important. And 
I failed to pass muster, of course, just like always. But, 
Cherie, we pledged we'd get married. For years we said so, and 
I believed it like I believed in the sun, the moon, and 
school vacations. Then again, you were only eight years old 
when first you made me promise to marry you.

Time is in fast-forward when you move from town to town, job 
to job, and woman to woman. Then I saw Cherie Walsingham after 
sixteen years of not seeing her, and never for two days at a 
time forgetting, and time stopped, crunched gears, and started 
running backwards.

* * *  

It started with a kiss. She was eight and I was nearly nine, 
and I was thrilled to bits. There was nothing sexual to it, or 
if there was I didn't know it at the time. It was more a 
heart-warming affirmation of  camaraderie and togetherness. 
Cherie Walsingham was new in town and she was put next to me 
in the back row of the classroom, up with the smarty-pants 
set. Good grades got you the back row. The dills, the dunces 
and the dickheads were put closer to the action.

She was so pretty she dazzled me. She was looking for a 
protector, and she found one. I helped her get settled in, 
introduced her to others, stood by in case I was needed. One 
day, after a couple of weeks, she leaned across and brushed 
her lips against my cheek.

I was shocked. "What was that for," I whispered, glancing 
around to see if anybody in the class had noticed.

"For being my best friend," she said, and she leaned across 
and did it again. She smelled soft, fresh, and clean, like 
expensive and delicately scented soap.

The deal sealed with a kiss, we became inseparable. We went 
everywhere together. She half-lived at my house and I at hers. 
We went to the movies and held hands, and everybody smiled to 
see it. Life with Cherie was good. It stretched out ahead 
beyond my conception of time. She would always be with me. She 
would always be mine.

* * *  

We have a sole biological excuse for existence in this life, 
and that is to procreate. Every sweet child becomes 
dynamically pubescent and begins to move to the purpose for 
which he or she was born. Some do it earlier than others, 
particularly girls, and Cherie was a year ahead of me. Thus 
she jumped me in age in a single hormonal bound, from one year 
behind to one year in front. It stayed that way. I never 
managed to catch her up.

One minute she was shorter than me, the next taller. One 
minute she was flat-chested, the next not. Disconcertingly, 
she insisted on telling me all about it, as if she was winning 
sports medals and I wasn't. I had to hear running descriptions 
and commentary.

She was 12 when she really started to stretch in all 
directions. She shot past me in height, and anyone could see 
she was going to be a tall girl. Her breasts grew measurably 
every week. I knew because she told me. She had her first 
period, and told me that too. I knew about such things only 
via the textbook, and it seemed awesome that my best friend 
should ovulate like an adult and be involuntarily fertile. 

Cherie celebrated this momentous event by giving me a present 
-- a tiny chain with a locket containing one of her pubic 
hairs. The gesture was friendly in a confidential way, but 
also intimidating. I didn't have any pubic hairs. My voice was 
still high, clear, unbroken. She was a woman and I was a boy. 
I remember how the locket hurt. I still have it somewhere, 
packed away with other mementos of my life.

Then I had to stop going to her room. For three years I'd been 
accustomed to visiting her at whim. But one day I was sitting 
on her bed listening to her and watching as she put washed 
clothes away, and her mother came in just as Cherie was 
walking past me with a bra in her hand. It didn't bother 
Cherie but it did her mother. In future I had to wait 
downstairs for Cherie to come down to see me.

That hurt too, but not as much as the way Cherie switched 
sides. At school she still sat next to me in class, but in the 
breaks she had a new batch of female buddies. They whispered 
and shared secrets. They primped and posed for the boys, and 
laughed a lot. I'd thrown my lot in with Cherie completely. 
I had no other school friends. Not part of the female herd, 
and not one of the boys they conjectured about, I wandered 
alone.  

* * * 
 
We still saw each other a fair bit after school hours. I was 
her best friend, she said. She could talk to me. I understood 
her.

My voice broke, I grew pubic hair, and I grew taller than 
Cherie, but at 14 she still seemed older than I was. One of 
the reasons was that she was a great looking girl, and I still 
had a long and gawky way to go.

My voice was deeper, chest deeper, interest in her lush figure 
deeper, but she continued to treat me like a mere boy. With 
other boys she had a different style. She blushed, she was 
coy, she simpered. But when we sat around together at her 
house or mine, I was just me, like I'd always been. She had 
no interest in me as a potential partner. 

This was confirmed in the most dramatic fashion not long after 
she turned fourteen. I swung cheerfully through the back door 
of her house because I knew at that time of the day she'd be 
home alone, but she wasn't. She was sitting on the couch in 
the living room, and beside her was Tommy Harmer. Her shirt 
was draped across the back of the couch, her bra was loose and 
hanging around her neck, and her cream-coloured breasts were 
in Tommy's hands.

We all froze. It was so silent I could hear a clock ticking. I 
looked at them and they looked at me, and everybody had big 
eyes open wide. Something had to give, and I was the intruder. 
"Sorry," I blurted, acutely embarrassed and incurably wounded, 
and rushed back out the door.

A little while later Cherie found me in my bedroom. I was 
sitting on the bed, looking at the wall, feeling as if my life 
was over. But I tried not to show it.

"Sorry," I said again.

She started to laugh. "Oh, Ian," she said. "You should have 
seen your face."

No doubt. I looked at her ruefully, and I could see any 
concern she had was about my embarrassment. My pain wasn't an 
issue. She had her bra back on. I could see the outline of it 
under the tee-shirt. Her breasts were more beautiful than I 
had imagined. So perfectly shaped. Such pink nipples. And so 
wasted on Tommy Harmer.

"I guess I'd better start announcing myself," I said. "Times 
have obviously changed."

And indeed they had. We began to talk much less frequently, 
which was fine with me, because when we did it was torture. 
She insisted on telling me who she was going out with, what 
she let them do to her, and what she did to them.

"Last night I took out Kenny's dick and rubbed it," she told 
me, eyes gleaming with illicit thrill.

Really great. Just what I wanted to know. Every episode swept 
over me like a bout of chickenpox, and it kept escalating. 
Inevitably, when she was 15, it happened.

"I did it," she announced proudly, arms spread, inviting 
comment. "Last night. I did it with Kenny."

"Congratulations," I said, and walked away, contemplating 
suicide.

I couldn't stop being lovesick about Cherie, but I could stop 
listening to her stories. I stopped seeking her out, and when 
she came to me I made excuses and got away from her. Any faint 
hope I had that this would bring her to see me in a different 
light faded quickly. From a distance, she appeared unfazed and 
unchanged.

I got on with my own life, after a fashion. I took out girls, 
half-heartedly, and never for long. I had no compelling 
interest in any of them. Eventually I scored, through simple 
progression. The details are sketchy in my mind, but I know it 
happened. I can remember her name. What she looked like is a 
bit hazy. She's blended in with many others over the years.

You think you can't get hurt any more. You think you've had 
all there is to take, and you've developed an immunity. It 
wasn't so. At 16, Cherie was wild for a time. She slept 
around. I wasn't hearing the stories from her any more, but 
there were plenty of others talking about it. I was divorced, 
though, and I thought I was immune.

Somebody had a birthday party, and Cherie got drunk and pulled 
a train. Not a long one. Just four or five guys. I know all 
about it because I was there. Saw it happen. Tried to stop it, 
but she was mad and beyond listening or caring. They queued 
for her outside a bedroom in the guy's house. The door 
opened for the third guy in the line-up, and I elbowed him 
aside and barged in to rescue her. She was naked, flat on her 
back, tits glorious, long legs spread, with a stupid and 
vacant smile on her face.

"Ian Mackintosh," she slurred at me as I stood at the foot of 
the bed. "Well, why the hell not?"

She didn't want to be rescued. Didn't give a damn. I stood 
there and was tempted cruelly, but only for a second or two. 
She was not my Cherie any more. She was not the girl who had 
kissed me in the back row of the classroom, who had smelled of 
soft soap and talcum powder. I turned away and left the room. 
Behind my back I heard her laughing.

* * *   

Some guys fall in love over and over, every time struck afresh 
by the wonder of it. Guess I'm just unlucky. I fell in love 
with a sweet and pretty eight-year-old girl and never found it 
again.

I looked for it. I suppose I looked, anyway. People do. Some 
women fell in love with me -- three for certain and maybe more 
would have, had they the chance. Nothing stuck, however. When 
you look for faults and excuses, it's amazing how easy it is 
to find them. They stand out like traffic lights at dusk.

I put Cherie behind me and went away to get a university 
degree. But I didn't stick at that, either. I drifted here and 
there, doing a bit of this and that, making friends and losing 
them, taking joy and comfort as they happened, always learning 
and gaining experience. Sometimes at night, lying in bed 
seeking sleep, I would reconstruct my life, trying to repair 
the broken parts retrospectively. If only I had done this or 
that, I told myself, maybe, just maybe, things might have 
worked out differently. A loner's life is all about future 
hopes and past regrets. What's here and now doesn't seem to 
matter.

Sixteen years on in an ordinary town, Cherie Walsingham was 
back -- older, organised, careful, cool, and still beautiful. 
She was more beautiful than I hoped she would have been. It 
would have been better if memory had been kinder than reality, 
but it was not so. I remembered her so well, and either she 
did not remember me, or did not want to. The hurt had been in 
remission. It came flooding back.

Wisely, I stayed away from her. Unwisely, I stayed in town. I 
was back selling real estate, after a break of a few years, 
and it was profitable. The town was booming on the back of a 
military base build-up, and I was earning more money than I 
had for years. Sooner or later, though, I was going to see her 
again. The town wasn't that big.

I was coming out of a hardware store, my arms full with 
packages, when the burnished gold four-wheel-drive hatchback 
pulled into a parking bay. A man got out, then two children, 
and then Cherie. She was right in front of me on the footpath, 
and our eyes met, and I saw a flash of interest from her. 

Maybe she did remember me after all. Maybe it had come back to 
her. But I couldn't face it all over again. Not now, not with 
her family standing around. I walked on by and didn't look 
back.

The kids seemed to be aged about seven and four, two girls. 
The seven-year-old was a perfect small doll who would grow up 
gorgeous. The husband was putting on weight where he 
shouldn't. He was bluff, cheerful, hearty, prosperous. Cherie 
was wearing black trousers and a maroon high-necked, 
long-sleeved sweater. Her breasts were fuller than I 
remembered. I kept walking.

* * *

It was a dinner-dance at the golf club, and I was partnering a 
woman as a social favour. No more than that. I worked with 
her, she was pleasant, her boyfriend was out of town, and she 
was definitely not my type.

The night was three-quarters over when Cherie turned up. I saw 
her coming through the door of the room. Sensed it. Turned 
around on impulse and saw her arriving. She seemed impatient 
and irritable, and she was alone.

I watched her for a while. She seemed to know a lot of people, 
but she was dodging here and there, paying lip service to 
conversation. She was wearing a long dress of grey-violet with 
a heavy cloth that hung straight and smooth on her long 
figure. It had a deep vee separating her breasts. She looked 
bloody marvellous.

The woman seated next to me was a local. "Know her?" I asked, 
pointing out Cherie.

"Cherie Black," she said. "Nine handicap, hits a long ball. 
Husband is a dentist."

My partner was talking to people she knew. She'd only needed 
me for an entrance. I got up from my chair and hovered near 
Cherie, waiting for an opportunity.

"Mrs. Black," I said, from behind.

She turned around. She smiled in recognition, my heart melted, 
and I forgave her everything in a split second. "I was 
wondering when I'd see you again," she said.

"I'm surprised you remember," I said.

"How could I forget? Ian Mackintosh, my very first boyfriend. 
You promised to marry me, but you ran away."

"You promised too, Cherie, yet you married a dentist."

She frowned. "Now is not the time to remind me," she said. "My 
problem is that I married a fisherman, and he's still out 
there on the water." Her mouth twitched in annoyance. "Fishing 
always comes first, unfortunately."

"Dance, Mrs. Black?"

She accepted my arm. "Delighted, Mr. Mackintosh."

The long, slinky dress was smooth and slippery under my hand. 
We danced close enough to be on good terms but not close 
enough to be scandalous. "You're not married?" she asked.

"Not even partly."

"Lucky old you," she said.

"Cherie, you appear to be doing okay."

"Perhaps," she said. "But I don't like being stood up."

"Don't take it out on me, Mrs. Black."

"Why not? I always did."

Yes. Indeed. She always did, when I was around. We danced, we 
talked, we sat, we talked, we danced again. I learned the 
names of her husband and her children. I heard about her 
leaving home, the courtship, the wedding, the births. All 
around us people were leaving, going home. My social partner 
for the evening approached, looking hopeful. Cherie said we 
were talking about old times, and she'd drive me home.

I directed her to where I lived, in a rented two room place 
above a carpet showroom. She noted it and parked her car 
around the corner, down a side street. In the dark she sat 
there, looking at me, saying nothing. I thought maybe I should 
be getting out of the car, but I didn't. I sat there, looking 
at her.

"I'm waiting for you to give me a kiss for old times' sake," 
she said eventually.

For old times' sake. Sure. There's always a place for 
sentimentality. She leaned across and so did I, and our lips 
met. She wriggled closer and an arm wrapped around my neck. 
She gave me an inch, and that was all I needed to take a whole 
yard. I moved in and kissed her to make up for sixteen years 
worth of unfulfilled dreams and lost causes.

Men and women can kiss one another in times of happiness and 
sentiment. It happens all the time. It's like a spontaneous 
expression of thanks and appreciation. It doesn't mean a 
thing. But I wasn't like that with her. She stayed kissing a 
fraction too long, and things changed. In a trice she changed 
from kissing for happy times to kissing me. I kissed her 
desperately, fuelled by the frustration of having being held 
back from her for far too long. When we broke she kept her 
arms around my neck. "Well, goodness me," she said softly. 
"Ian Mackintosh, you are the best kisser I ever knew."

Her big wide mouth with lips so full and round was in my face 
and I kissed it again. Cherie. Complex and swirling emotions 
overpowered me and all of them flowed from me to her. The 
genie had escaped from the bottle. Oh God, Cherie.

She pulled away. "Mercy," she said jerkily, sweeping her hair 
from her face. "Ian, get the hell out of my face and out of my 
car before I do something I might regret."

"I was going to invite you upstairs," I said.

"No offence, but no way in the world," she said. "I don't do 
this sort of thing, Ian, and tonight it's just too tempting."

It was a big enough victory. I got out of the car and she took 
off fast. If I could have shaken my hand, I would have. After 
21 years on the sidelines, I was back in the game.

* * *

I was pretty sure she would come, but it took seven days. I 
was starting to doubt it seriously when I opened my door just 
after five on a Saturday and saw her standing there.

"I can't come in," she said. "That could put me in all sorts 
of trouble. But come for a drive. I'll show you the sights."

As a grand tour, it was not much to write home about. We sat 
in silence as she drove directly and with purpose to wherever 
she was taking me. She drove out of town, turned down a dirt 
road, and then shifted the gears to go off-road. We bumped 
along a semi-track until the way was blocked by a small 
stream. She stopped and pulled on the hand brake.

"This is pretty," she said. 

"Sure," I said. "But why are we here?"

"Don't you want to be with me?"

"When have I ever not wanted to be with you, Cherie?"

She sat still, looking out the front window. In profile, she 
was calm, controlled, sure of herself. I could smell the 
tension, however. She was wearing a yellow dress with a small 
reddish-brown floral print. Her fine bust pushed out the front 
of it, curving away invitingly under the neckline. She wasn't 
wearing much make-up. She never had.

"I've been thinking about you this past week," she said 
eventually.

"And I you, for most of my life."

She nodded absently, seeming to take it for granted. "Ian, I 
don't want to have an affair with you. I like my life here. I 
can't afford to risk it by being selfish and stupid."

"But?" The qualification seemed to be hanging in the air.

She sighed. "Sometimes I miss the old days, when I didn't have 
to be so careful. I miss the attention." She sighed again. 
"I'm not old enough yet to be taken for granted."

"He takes you for granted?"

She smiled sadly. "We've been married nearly ten years. Of 
course he does, and it makes me vulnerable when somebody like 
you comes along. But I know you, Ian, or at least I think I 
do. You're going to want more of me than I can give. You're 
still the boy who wants it all."

"Maybe," I said. "But maybe experience has taught me to expect 
less."

"I'll sleep with you, Ian, but that's where it stops. There 
will be no long-running affair. We won't fall in love. We 
won't run away to start a new life."

"I love you, Cherie. I've always loved you."

"Yes," she said. "I know. That's why I'm making things clear."

"I understand," I said. "So let's have sex."

"Not now. Not today. Soon. I'll come to you when I'm ready."

"Okay," I said. "But I want something on account."

She turned her head and studied me. "What is it?"

"Show me your breasts."

"What, now?"

"Now."

Watching me, and with a slight smile on her face, her hand 
moved to a buttercup-yellow button on the front of her dress. 
She paused. "If I do this, will you be less angry with me?"

"Probably."

She flicked open the buttons to her waist and spread the top 
of the dress over her shoulders and down her arms. The bra was 
white and fancy, with a front clasp. She unhooked it and drew 
the cups to the side. Her breasts fell forward and down.

The sun was behind the trees, on its way to the horizon. The 
light was soft, caramel, mellow, and I looked, greedily, and 
she watched me. "It's a long time since anybody looked at me 
like that," she said reflectively.

"You're bigger, heavier, fuller," I said. "Your nipples are 
darker."

"You remember me that clearly?"

"Yes."

"We change. We all change, Ian. You're much better looking 
than you used to be."

"So are you, Cherie."

"You lie. But I'll take it."

* * *     

Three days later we had sex in the afternoon. Cherie slipped 
nervously through my door shortly before one o'clock. "I have 
to be gone by three," she said. A qualification. There would 
be more of them, I knew.

She stood by my bed and took off her clothes. Bigger, heavier, 
fuller all over, and darker. She'd lost the honeyed highlights 
of youth. She remained, however, a fine figure of a woman.

I thought I would be, but I wasn't nervous. When it came down 
to it, she was a woman like any other. She had small flaws. 
She wasn't quite perfect. I had nothing to lose because she 
didn't love me. Never had, never would.

"You're a great kisser," she said afterwards. She meant, no 
doubt, the sex had been clumsy, awkward, far from wonderful. 
The kissing had been the highlight. But life's like that. 
Great expectations invariably preclude excellent outcomes.

* * * 
 
She visits me now and then, sometimes as much as three times 
in a week, sometimes not once. I would have thought we'd talk 
more, like old friends should, but mainly we just go to bed 
and fuck.

It's got much, much better. I fuck her good now, and she fucks 
back. It's good sex -- as good as ever I had. She says it's 
good, too.

I open the door and let her in. She moves straight to the 
bedroom, usually, telling me how long she can stay. Sometimes 
it's no more than 30 minutes. She always comes in the 
afternoon. It will never happen at night. She will never sleep 
over. She comes, she goes until next time.

My latter life with Cherie started with a kiss in the front 
seat of her four-wheel-drive. We have no relationship other 
than in my bed. She does not love me, but she enjoys the sex.

Me? I don't know. But I know I don't dream about her any more.

Funny. I never thought it would come to this.

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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