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Message-ID: <50732asstr$1111101002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Cheryl Allen Tessler" <cat47@hotmail.com>
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ReSent-Date: Thu, 17 Mar 2005 15:55:33 -0500 (EST)
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ReSent-Subject: At Fourteen (Mf, cons(?), oral)
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Subject: {ASSM} At Fourteen (Mf, cons(?), oral)
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Date: Thu, 17 Mar 2005 18:10:02 -0500
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If you're offended by sotries with sexusla content, don't read any further.  
Likewise if you're offended by sex involving a minor.

Publishers won't touch stories about minors, which is why I am thankful ASSM 
exists.

This is a story about me and a man I met when I was fourteen.  My mother and 
her boyfriend lived in Emaus, a spot on the map south of Allentown.  Both 
towns are working class, as anyone who's heard the Billy Joel song knows, 
but the south side of Emaus has a certain charm.  The row houses give way to 
large, forested lots with houses set well back from the road.  On my street, 
Rolling Hills, the houses were about a quarter of a mile apart.

From school, there were two ways for me to walk home.  After going south on 
Main, I could turn left on Willow, right on McLean, then left on Rolling 
Hills.  I could also walk directly to Rolling Hills, then turn left.  The 
area had built up slowly and since our streets weren't part of the city 
there were no sidewalks.  You had to keep a sharp eye out for cars as you 
walked along the edge of the road.

About a week after I started ninth grade, I walked down Willow.  A half mile 
along, on the right, was the Redmore's house, but there were no Redmores to 
be seen.  Instead, some guy in his thirties was working in the yard.   He 
was pushing a hand mower, shirtless, and I guessed that the Redmores must 
have moved.

I walked down Willow every day after that, and every day this guy would be 
doing something in his yard.  I found out later he worked nights, slept 
until noon, fixed up his new digs in the afternoon, then went off to work 
again.  You might wonder why a fourteen year-old girl would be interested in 
a man more than twice her age.  The answer is simple.  I wanted to grow up.  
The girls in my family always grew up fast.  My mother had barely blown out 
the candles on her seventeenth birthday cake when I was born, and my 
grandmother was still sixteen when my mother was born.  This much I knew 
about them, and more besides, but I wasn't thinking about getting pregnant.  
I just wanted to grow up.

After a week or so, Ray, the guy devoted to yard work, began to notice that 
a little blond girl walked slowly by his place every day.  When I waved to 
him, he'd absent mindedly wave back, but nothing more.  For days, as I 
walked home, I resolved to stop and talk to him, but I guess I wasn't as 
anxious to grow up as I thought.  Besides, Ray always looked so busy.  He 
was forever mowing, weeding, trimming, and landscaping, and I couldn't think 
of a casual way to interrupt his labors.  It was more than a month, late 
September, before I strolled into his yard, fidgety and nervous, and 
introduced myself.  I didn't exactly overwhelm him by my presence, because 
he didn't stop working as we talked.  Nevertheless, with the introductions 
finished, I felt confident enough to stop and chat whenever I walked by.

I'm no great conversationalist.  After I discovered that his interest in 
contemporary music was nonexistent, I broached the subject that obviously 
occupied him most.   I asked him about his yard work.  In the offhand manner 
that grownups use when talking to children they'd rather not be talking to 
at all, he gave me short explanations of what he was doing, and what he 
planned to do.  It was hardly what you'd call intimate conversation, and 
after a few days I realized there was little chance that talking about weeds 
would lead to anything.  I needed a plan and a way to put that plan in 
motion.   Every girl, at one time or another, has a plan, but mine was 
perhaps a bit less well-developed than others.  I had no plan at all, either 
to get Ray to invite me into his house or to invite myself in.

Finally, I settled for the direct approach.  It took me a few days to get up 
the nerve, but one day I popped the question.

"Where's your girlfriend?" I asked.

"My girlfriend?" he asked, as though he had one and he was surprised I knew 
about her.

"Yeah," I said, "you must have a girlfriend."

"No," he said slowly, "but why would you be interested?"

"Well," I stammered, "a man can have a girlfriend, can't he?"

"Yes," said Ray, looking straight at me, "but she should at least be out of 
high school."

He had read my mind, as if that was difficult.  I didn't have a response, so 
I resorted to the one word used by all children.

"Why?" I asked.

He stopped weeding the lawn and stood up.  He was more than a head taller 
than I was, and he now seemed much taller than he had just the day before.

"Well," he said, "in your case it's against the law."

"Sounds like a pretty dumb law to me," I replied.  "Are you sure?"

Ray's voice dropped a register.  "Very sure," he said.

"Oh," was all I could answer.  Then I had a bright idea.  "Juliet was only 
fourteen, wasn't she?  She wasn't even that old."

He frowned.  "Who's Juliet?"

"You know," I said, gaining a little confidence, "Romeo and Juliet."

He arched his eyebrows.  "That was, what, four hundred years ago?  Besides, 
I'll bet Romeo wasn't much older than Juliet.  The play isn't called Romeo 
and The Little Girl, after all.  Now run along home.  I've got stuff to do."

I wasn't happy with this putdown, but I wasn't daunted either.  I had 
broached the subject that interested me, and I was confident that sooner or 
later Ray would get curious.  Summer, though, turned to fall, and as the 
weather got colder, Ray worked less and less in his yard.  I'd still talk to 
him whenever he was out, and I took to calling him Romeo.  To my surprise, 
this didn't have the desired effect.

By November, I had to wear pantyhose and a coat to stay warm.  The coat 
covered my only claim to maturity and, I thought, the argument most likely 
to bring Ray around to my way of thinking.  I wasn't kidding when I said the 
girls in my family grew up fast.

Ray, of course, did come around.  After all, I said this story was about him 
and me.  The Friday before Thanksgiving, he was in his yard, wearing gloves 
and a lumberjack shirt, trimming his hedges.  When I walked up to him, he 
didn't look at me.

"Want some hot chocolate?" he asked.

A knot suddenly formed in my stomach.

"Sure," I managed to say.

"I think there's some in the kitchen," he said.  "Why don't you go look?"

For me, this was the equivalent of him saying, "Why don't you go in house 
and take off your clothes."  I wobbled over to the front door, which faced 
the east side of Ray's property rather than the street, and found the 
kitchen.  The ten minutes I waited for him, while fumbling with the tea 
kettle and the Ovaltine, were filled with wild imaginings.  I was pretty 
sure I knew what he wanted, and equally sure of what I wanted--wasn't 
I?--but just how we would get from point A to point B now focused my mind 
completely.  I pictured several scenarios, none of them the least bit 
romantic, at which point my pop-music-saturated mind began playing Pat 
Benatar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot."  Until then, the song evoked the 
image of a short, blond, confident girl, sneering at some guy's claims of 
sexual prowess.  At that moment, the lyrics suggested someone standing in 
front of a firing squad.

I stood, leaning against the drain board next to the sink, facing the 
entrance to the kitchen.  Very soon, I said to myself, Ray is going to walk 
in here.  What if he tells me to strip?  I don't know if I can take my 
clothes off for him, just like that.  But he'll definitely want me naked.  A 
guy always wants the girl naked.  What if I strip and he tells me he isn't 
interested?  Gawd, I'll just die if that happens.  What if I strip and he 
tries to tie me up?  Ohmygawd, what if he does?

At this point, Ray walked into the kitchen, picked up a cold cup of coffee 
from the kitchen table, emptied it in the sink, and made another cup with 
instant coffee and the water I had boiled for the Ovaltine.  He hadn't 
looked at me, hadn't said anything, in fact had acted like I wasn't even 
there.  Then he took of his lumberjack shirt and sat down at the table.  He 
had instantly transformed himself from a virile woodsman into a nondescript, 
working class stiff in a tee shirt.  He hadn't shaved.  If he had been 
drinking beer instead of coffee, he would have looked every inch like an 
unemployed factory worker ruefully pondering life's vicissitudes.  Finally 
he looked up at me.

"Just what is it you want?" he asked.

I continued to lean against the drain board because without it I probably 
wouldn't have been able to stand at all.

I shrugged one shoulder a little and pulled down one corner of my mouth.  
"Just the usual," I answered.

"The usual," he replied, his voice rising and falling.  I could tell he was 
mocking the notion that I even had an idea of what the usual was, much less 
experienced it.  He put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his 
hand.  "So, uh, show me what you wear for the usual."

He delivered this line in a weary voice, as though it was a waste of time, 
as though he expected me to run away.  He easily could have scared me away 
by gruffly ordering me to strip so that he could fuck my brains out, but he 
either thought this was unnecessary or a small part of him wanted to see me 
naked.  I, of course, took it as a challenge.  So, I said to myself, you 
think I won't strip for you?  I'll show you.

The double meaning of this last thought didn't dawn on me.  I awkwardly shed 
my clothes, pausing only before I pulled down my panties.  These I draped 
over the rest of my clothes which I had hung on a kitchen chair.  And then 
there I was, naked in Ray's kitchen, looking down at the floor, waiting, 
while he examined me.  I glanced up at him, once, quickly, trying to gauge 
his reaction, but I didn't have the wherewithal strike a pose.  I stood 
stiffly, twisting my feet up to avoid contact with the cold kitchen floor.  
I would have made a great picture, but the caption would have been "Customer 
and Merchandise" instead of "First Meeting."

Ray stood up, and I was momentarily terrified that he was about to tie me 
up.  Instead, he dropped his pants and his shorts to his ankles and sat down 
again.

"So," he said, sure that his words would cause flight, "show me the usual."

This, to his great surprise, I did.  Every time he said, "Oh, yeah," in the 
slightly gasping voice that only sex elicits, I could tell he was amazed 
that I was sucking his dick, and even more amazed that I was doing it well.  
It's the only time I've heard a note of wonder in a guy's voice.  Everything 
I did, from giving him head to bringing the tip of his dick to the back of 
my mouth, surprised him, and I began to feel a little smug.  What was meant 
to be the last surprise though, swallowing, was, by the time I did it no 
surprise at all.  By then he expected it, and his attitude had changed.

"That wasn't your first blow job," he said, as I slumped backward and sat on 
my haunches, "definitely not your first."

The smug feeling that had briefly overtaken me evaporated.  I knew what was 
next, and I again felt like a little girl, naked in front of a grown man for 
the first time.  Now, though, he knew something about me that he didn't know 
before.  I lost my nerve.

I stood up, retreated behind the chair supporting my clothes, and began to 
put them on.  Now, again, he was surprised.

"You're leaving now?" he asked.  "Why?"

I mumbled something unintelligible, mortified that I was chickening out.

"Well," he said as he stood up and pulled up his pants, "at least now I know 
what `the usual' means."

I was bent over, pulling up my panties, and I glanced up at him.  He smiled 
a little.

"But it was nice," he said.

I managed a wan smile, finished dressing, and left.

Copyright 2004 by Cheryl Allen Tessler, cat47@hotmail.com  All rights 
reserved.  Not to be reproduced without written permission from the author.

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