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o  The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories.  o
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Charly the Yard Guy 1 (Mf, rom, affair)
by Michael K. Smith (c) 1994

**

This whole thing started because I hate yard work. In fact, I have 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 find 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)

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Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere
for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
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Michael K. Smith mksmith@metronet.com