I was in a coffeeshop, I seldom go into coffeeshops but I needed a pick-me-up. Two young women were at the next table, one was telling the other that she had to move out of her place — the landlord had fallen ill and she hadn't been able to find anywhere else to go. She said she was absolutely screwed; she sounded like it; she was near tears. "There are two months left in the term, what the fuck am I going to do?"
It's times like this that you reflect on what you have. I'm wealthy, a widower living in a big house; I could afford to be generous. Without thinking, I leaned towards their table and said, "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear what you were saying. I live alone in a big house. You can have one of my rooms for the rest of the term if you want."
She was a little wisp of a thing; she obviously wasn't but she looked like she could have been 12 — I just wasn't thinking. Her eyes grew large. "Really?"
"I'll give you some references, you'll have to check me out first but, ya, if you really need a place for a couple of months, I have the room — I'm not too far from the university; you can bike it on the Riverwalk in ten minutes."
I pulled back and left her to consider the offer but she needed less time to accept it than I did to make it. After the briefest hesitation she jumped over to a chair at my table and stuck out her hand, "I'm Clair Cambolt, I'm going to be a grade school teacher; this is my last year of school — at least on this side of the desk," she snickered. "I accept your offer. Thanks. I can move in today ... I can move in right now."
Earnest, that's the way you might describe her but why wouldn't she be, she was, as she so articulately described, screwed. She also looked too vulnerable, too skinny, too pouty and too much in need of help. It didn't feel right. I took out my wallet, insisted her friend write down all the data on my driver's licence which she did then I shook Clair's hand, told her my name is John Halstrad, repeated my address and asked her when I should meet her there, to let her in ... to give her a key — that's when I had the second thoughts I should have had at the beginning. But it was too late now.
She wasn't there at the agreed upon time, she showed up more than an hour later. I was fuming. "I own a business; this is a work day; I have time commitments. You will never keep me waiting again, do you understand that?"
She might have heard me but I doubt it. She was struggling with two bags — not a lot even for a lowly student. She pushed passed me into the house, dropped the bags and looked around. "Fuuuuuck me, this is unbelievable. I've never even seen pictures of anything like this."
I picked up the larger of the two bags and headed for the stairs. "I'll show you your room."
She followed, but only sort of, she was still looking, inspecting, marvelling so I had to stand in the hallway in front of her room waiting. Eventually, we went in together; I put the bag on the bed.
OK, I get it, it's a nice place — it's a big room in a big house; she got lucky. But is it worth all the "I can't fucking believe this" nonsense that streamed from her foul mouth non-stop?
I tried to stay calm. "My wife ... I'm a widower, she had an office downstairs. You can use that for your studies. I'll show it to you and the kitchen."
"This room has it's own fucking bathroom!" She was standing in the doorway staring into it in utter disbelief.
"This way," I said, heading out of the room. But I knew without looking back that she wasn't following, and I realized in that instant that she was always going to do whatever the fuck she wanted to do and when she wanted to do it. I waited.
"I had to try it," she said, grinning, "well, I didn't actually have to but I wanted to: my own fucking toilet." She has a nice laugh, openly joyful; it touches you; it kind of rubs off on you — makes you forget you're pissed off.
I got out of the house in another 20 minutes and thought of the younger generation as I drove back to work. I didn't know them, any of them. My wife and I had twins, a boy and a girl; they would have been about her age. They were killed in a car crash when they were three. Their mother survived but with haunting, debilitating guilt for another 20 years until she killed herself two years ago.
I am a product of routine, which I often must break, but every time I do I feel an unfailing frustration, with myself and with others because I insist on the same order and efficiency from everyone as I do from myself. I make these observations because from the moment she moved in, my order and efficiency were under attack, no, it was more fierce than that, my order and efficiency were being assaulted as if she knew how much they meant to me and she just didn't want me to have them.
She made a big house seem small. Her stuff was everywhere, anywhere she dropped it; plates and glasses stayed where she put them; kitchen towels were on counters and tables; food was rearranged in the fridge with no reasoning; lights were never turned off. If you can call a veritable stick figure, not weighing 100 pounds, a slob, she is a slob.
But it wasn't just that. It started about three days after she moved in — the way I was beginning to calculate it, 57 days before she'd move out: she started bumping into me whenever she got a chance, in the kitchen mainly, just glancing brushes but when they started they happened every chance she got and she created a lot of them. Fine, confusing but no big deal ... until she started to do it overtly — she'd just come up to me and stand so close we touched. Was it just an odd bit of behaviour, an invasion of space or was it flirtatious? I soon found out.
I like to watch hockey games on TV when I get a chance. I sit back with an iPad and share my time between it and the game, concentrating on neither. One time early on she pulled up a straight back chair beside me, and, I'm not kidding, reached over and held my hand. Or tried to. I pushed it away but as she asked me questions about the game she knew nothing about ... and I didn't doubt, cared nothing about, she would sneak her hand down my arm to my wrist and then to my fingers. I had to shake her away. Weird, and I told her so.
Friendly, she said, what's the big deal?
By the fifth day together any time we were in remote proximity she was rubbing herself against me, deliberately, she was making no effort to pretend otherwise. Why?
"I like touching you, so? What's the big deal?" As if that was a serious answer.
"Wear a bra," I told her when I pushed her away from me ... from yet another too close encounter. She hadn't been wearing one for a few days, I could see the bumps which were often quite pronounced; now I could even see through the thin fabric the outline of nipple.
"I don't need one."
"You need something. Wear it."
I knew she wouldn't; I knew she was entirely indifferent to anything and everything I said. Turn the lights out? As if. Clean the kitchen? A cup, maybe, maybe a plate but the kitchen? Not a chance. Pick up your stuff! I didn't even bother. With her around I was gaining a whole new insight into parenting and that was encouraging a whole lot of sympathy for a whole lot of people.
I was reading when she walked into my bedroom, lifted the covers and got in beside me. "This house is too big. It scares me ... hope you don't mind."
This was so unexpected I lay there senseless ... I had no way of relating to it. "Of course I fucking mind! Get out of here!"
"I can't sleep out there. Ignore me ... I take up next to no space. And don't snore. I hate that."
I pushed at her shoulder. "Get out of here."
I pushed her again.
"Don't, I'm trying to sleep."
"OK, then I'll leave." I made to get out.
She looked at me like I was nuts. "Why would you do that, then I'd be scared in here, too. That would defeat the purpose."
Her logic didn't make me stay, my determination not to be pushed around might have but it was just so wrong.
I made it through the night in a spare bedroom then had to dress in the bathroom. I knew her beady little eyes were watching me as I was leaving. "That's the last time for this," I said to her. "Afraid," I laughed dismissively. "I can't imagine you being afraid of anything."
"Then why am I here?" she shot back.
That stopped me in my tracks because that's the question I had been asking myself all night. "Good question. Do you want to answer it?"
"Fear," she said, turning over. "It's fear ... I have a huge fear ... of demons."
I thought about it all day, and little else. She was the first woman to have been in my bed since the accident ... since I started doubling my time in the office.
And I doubled the time today to avoid her, which proved pointless because she wasn't at home when I arrived after 10 but she arrived in my bedroom 10 minutes after I got into bed at 11.
I'm hardly proud of it but I got an erection soon after she came in so I was too busy holding down the sheet so she wouldn't notice — she's the type to look, so it didn't immediately register that she was taking off her shirt as she was getting in, dressed only in a pair of skimpy white panties she made me notice.
"You're kidding me."
"You're a big guy, you put out a lot of body heat, I'm not used to that, it's hot in here."
I knew she'd say something like this. "Your bum doesn't get too hot?" I said deliberately slathering on the sarcasm.
"Good point." In seconds she was dropping her underwear on the floor.
What do you say? What do you do? I could have got out of there but I had an erection and anyway what would that have accomplished? I vowed to sit her down the next day and read her the riot act; tonight, I just turned out the light and turned away from her.
"What are you doing?" It was 4:40, I was looking back at her to see if this was really happening. She was curled around my back, her pelvis pressed hard into my ass.
"We're both adults for crissake, we both need it, come on."
"Behave yourself." I pushed her away, not caring that I was pushing her naked chest.
I waited for a protest, I didn't get one. Instead ...
"What are you doing?"
"Masturbating? How many times do you think I've been in bed with a man?"
I turned away. But I listened ... and grew.
Her lips were on mine when I woke up and she was actually licking them. "We're going hiking today," she said as I sat up pushing her away.
"OK, I'll go alone — I'll find a way out to the trail. How? I have no idea. And I'll hope like hell I'm not raped in the bushes."
We had walked for almost two hours when we took a break — I was impressed, as a stick figure she looked like she'd be too frail for stamina, but she had no problem keeping up, even when I was pushing it ... which I was most of the time to piss her off.
I was sitting on a big log, she was lying against it, so close to me it felt like I was wearing her. "This has to stop and right now. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't." At least she didn't deny the subject, I thought she would. No, instead she had been waiting for it. "You're a really attractive man, I'm a horny girl ... young woman, I think I've made it perfectly clear that I want to get laid, like I desperately want to get laid by you. What am I supposed to do?"
"You're supposed to behave yourself."
"Tonight, we'll get it out of the way, then we can relax, the tension in that house is unbelievable; you need it as much as I do, you just won't admit it ... no, no," she held up her hand to stop my protest, "you're a smart healthy guy, it's impossible for me to believe you aren't smart enough to know that I desperately want it and not smart and healthy enough to want to give it to me ... me, a young healthy 22 year old — everyone knows every man in the world wants to fuck young healthy 22 year olds, even an aging man who doesn't seem to understand that if you don't use it, you're going to lose it."
I punished her in the next three hours, punished myself, sure but my pace had to punish her ... had to but didn't. She sat in the fucking car every bit as perky on the way home as she had been on the way to the trail.
She made dinner while I soaked in the bath; I ate it knowing that I was going to have sex with her. "Are you excited?" she asked with a slight grin half-way through the meal.
I said nothing.
How could she be so proud of her body? She came in late, pushed her panties down, pulled her t-shirt off and stood there wanting me to look at her. I've called her a stick figure, she is, noticeably, with little floppy breasts and quite a hairy crotch. I didn't look at her for more than a second so I wasn't paying attention so when she pulled the sheet away she expose my erection. I went to pull it back when she knelt on the bed, "Oh, no, no, no."
She took my erection in her little fingers and inspected it. "Is this bigger than normal?"
I could feel it growing which felt odd, I never let it do what it wants. I took hold of her wrist but she shook me off then bent down and gave it a lick then a little suck.
'Is that wrong?' I remembered the George Castanza line, laughably uncertain when he was caught having sex with a cleaning lady on his desk. 'Would this be wrong?' I had asked myself that question a hundred times as we were walking and never found the answer: she's an adult ... but is she really?
Her lips were back on me sucking deeply. When I put my hand on her back I notice that my outstretched hand all but covered it.
Is it wrong? It didn't feel wrong, her eagerness, her insistence, her need. "What are you doing?"
She was lifting her leg over me. "I've washed; I'm clean." She lowered her pussy on my face and took me in her mouth. This was too much, too fast. I lasted less than a minute.
She was looking back at me and about to pull away, my cum on her lips and dripping down her chin as she let it all fall out of her mouth onto the sheets. "Sorry," I said, as embarrassed as I've ever been and about as ashamed.
She wasn't actually spitting my cum out, gravity had it all over her chin.
She sat down wiping her face with the corner of the sheet. "I'm no expert at this but that seemed like a lot, like you've been storing the stuff up for ages."
Her breasts were fuller than I first noticed which made them appear conspicuously big on such a tiny body ... like the grin on her very wide mouth.
"Now that we've got that out of the way we can relax ... you can recover ... I can wait ... not for long, I really want this; you really excite me." She was playing with my prick; it loved the attention. In a minute it signalled it was ready and she wasted no time, she sat up on her knees and turned as she put her leg over me as if she fully expected my cooperation.
She has surprising long labia and they're oddly coloured, greyish with a blackish border. She took her time positioning herself like she might have been waiting for me to object. I didn't have it in me. When I bent forward sucked her labia into my mouth she lay down, got comfortable and I took my time as it took me back to college and the weekend I met my wife.
I worked hard at university — it was costing me a fortune to go so I took it seriously. Right from the start I broken all my costs down into a weekly, daily, hourly sum and planned my time to make the most out of it. With no money to spend that meant lots of books, no booze; lots of classes, no parties; lots of profs, no students until the end was near and I met Jennifer in a fast food restaurant. "Do you know what the ratio of girls to guys is on this campus?" she asked me as we shared a table. I didn't, she did and she knew the odds of a not very attractive woman landing a guy, one of the reasons she had decided to go to college in the first place.
We ended up back at her place were over a weekend we both made up for lost time. We got married three months later when she was already showing.
Wendy would have been this age at the time but that's where the similarities ended. She was strong, robust and, once she had landed me, compliant, the exact opposite to this one. I was fascinated by this one's boney hips, her tight, taunt stomach, the navel that made no dent, the hair that ran amok into her legs. I wondered how my prick could possibly fit into something that tiny. And I wondered if I'd ever find out. I wasn't going to now.
Her juices flowed onto my face in what seemed like a torrent as she insistently fucked me with her mouth and pussy, lightly and roughly riding my lips and chin and cheeks and forehead, her little ass with the cute muscular cheeks happily bobbing over my head as she groaned with delight, groaned as she sucked me this time slowly to time our climaxes together.
I warned her, she ignored me, she had been cumming on my face for what seemed like a long, long time. Mine was instant. The moment it was over she collapsed on her back in laughter and just lay there, her legs still open, her oddly floppy breasts slightly heaving with her spent exertion.
"Pass me a pillow," she said, obviously not wanting to move.
I did, obediently and she propped herself up so she could look at me, grinning as she lifted her right breast. "Whadda think? Pretty crazy, eh?"
"They suit you ... that's a compliment."
"I'm one of those who should have looked like the mum but ended up a carbon copy of the dad. My mum is really pretty with great tits. My dad was a skinny little poet who deserted us before I could remember him ..." she literally sprang to her knees, climbed on my thigh humping it. "He's the one who gave me my passion, my creativity, my beliefs." She stopped as fast as she started and went back to where she had been, lying down, her legs shamelessly open, her pussy just inches from my face. "I got lucky, I may not be very pretty, nowhere near as pretty as mum, but I like the way I think ... I have a theory, do you want to hear it? It won't take long ... and I'm not sure it's mine, I may have heard it somewhere, anyway, it works for me."
Whether wittingly or unwittingly she told me that we all create our own story. We start building it when we're very young, shape it and solidify it through the years until we have it petty much defined when we're in our 20's. From then on, all our actions, all our decisions, everything we do we do to conform with and support the story we created for ourself. Fashion? We can wear anything, but what we choose to wear is the style we have created in our story. College? We go, we don't, to conform with out story, like every other decision we make. All our decisions fit into our story — they give our story of ourself definition and texture while our own, unique story dictates our actions.
She explained her theory in more depth, then said, "My mother created her story quite early, then it was so radically dashed when dad split she had to create another one to survive. The first story was full of promise and hope and fun and mystery. But in the second story she just circled the wagons ... that's been her story for the last 20 years."
Her legs are sinewy, unbelievably smooth to the touch. "Have you written your own story, at least in your mind?" I asked.
"We can get trapped in our story; my mother is trapped in her's; there are mysterious, centrifugal forces that make it very hard for us to break out of the story we create for ourselves. Sometimes that's great, sometimes it isn't, like with my mum. I was thinking of inviting her to visit, would that be OK ... that she stays with us for a bit," she laughed, "we have lots of room."
"Sure," I said, having no choice.
Immediately she scrambled off the bed and almost fled the room. She was back in a couple of minutes, grinning. "She'll be here tomorrow on the 10 o'clock bus — she has Mondays off anyway. She'll be staying for a week. God, I'm excited," she laughed. "Hope you have a great sleep." She was gone.
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