Message-ID: <10866eli$9805050847@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {MKSmith}JDR"Charly the Yard Guy 2"( Mf 1st rom )[2/2] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6ik120$aln$1@sparky.wolfe.net> JOHN DARK REPOST The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk. The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week. These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way to encourage them to continue entertaining you. The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as well. ===================== [This one's just for fun, total fiction, all a lark -- but if you're wondering who "Charly" is modeled on, watch Eve Matheson in the BBC series "May to December" on PBS...!] [Oh, yeah: If all you're looking for is one-handed sex, you're in the wrong story. If you enjoy sex-and-romance with actual people instead of cardboard cut-outs, and an actual plot, then make yourself at home...] ============================ CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 2) by Michael K. Smith mksmith1@swbell.net It wasn't all talk between us, though, not by any means. Our physical relationship also continued to develop, though we took it slowly at first... just as Charly would have done with another high school student. I rediscovered the excitement of exploring inch by inch a willing young body of the opposite sex. And she had the dubious pleasure (in my opinion) of exploring a male body that had seen better days, but she seemed to take as much pleasure in being an explorer as an exploree. She enjoyed teasing me, wearing a cropped tee-shirt and no bra with tight short-shorts and thong-style sandals, to show off her smooth, muscular legs. She was very nearly as strong as I was and a good deal quicker. More than once, we wrestled playfully, with me ending up on the floor on my back, arms pinned by Charly's focused energy. Then she'd grin and brush her bare, swaying breasts against my lips and let me suck at her firm, resilient nipples. I loved to stroke that lovely, lithe body, running my hands slowly up and down her calves and thighs, squeezing her perfect buttocks, gently testing the tensions in her strong shoulders and neck. Her eyes would smoulder in shifting verdant shades and her piercing look of undoubting love would skewer my heart and soul. Then her jeans would be down, or her skirt up, and my fingers and thumb would gently probe her pussy, massaging and strumming her clit while she clung tightly to me, until she collapsed in a shaking, stammering orgasm. Nor did my own arousal go unnoticed. When our laughing loveplay gave me an erection -- which was nearly always -- Charly would matter-of-factly squeeze and massage my cock through my slacks, then unzip my fly and carefully extricate the object of her attentions. At first, methodically and with her usual concentration, she would simply stroke and pump my willing penis until the climactic moment when her hands were covered in my oozing semen. But it didn't take long before she was nuzzling my cock-head with her face and lips, licking the shaft with long, torturous strokes, and then sucking avidly on it until my climax ended up on, and then in her mouth. Less to wipe up, she said, and winked. Finally, five months into our mutual journey of discovery, when she'd spent a particularly hot, muggy April day working on the yard that spring of her junior year, she killed the mower and came up to meet me on the wooden steps of the screened back porch. And there she stripped completely, twining her sweaty, somewhat aromatic body around mine. It was the first time I'd seen her entirely naked. I glanced quickly to both sides but the aspens and the fence screened us completely from my neighbors. She nipped at my ear, then bit me harder than usual on the neck. "It's been long enough, Tom," she murmured insistently. "If you don't take off your clothes and make love to me right now, I'm going to skip-rope down the sidewalk naked until *someone* pays attention to me...!" All I was wearing was an old pair of wash pants and she had them pushed down my legs within seconds. My cock was ascending between us and she grasped it just below the head and led me down the steps to an area of newly-clipped, sweet-smelling Bermuda. There we stood and kissed, tongues dueling, hands moving urgently over trembling bodies. She was right, as usual: this was the time and the place. God, I wanted her! Charly sank slowly to her knees and lay back in the fresh-cut grass, drawing me down with her. "Do it, Tom," she said quietly. "Put it in me. I need you to fuck me, Tom." If she was trying to enhance the old guy's arousal, she was succeeding. She spread her smooth, very white legs, knees apart, and urged me on. Her rusty pubic patch shone in the spring sun. But there was something we were forgetting. "Sweetheart, what if you--" I began, but she interrupted me with a broad leer. "I started on the Pill months ago. Now, do it! Fuck me!" So I knelt between her thighs and rubbed my cockhead up and down at the already moist opening, for lubrication. She jerked in excitement and laughed at her own reaction. When I slid slowly into her, she hissed and closed her eyes tightly. Her pelvis arched upward to meet me. From what my sweet Charly had said, this was only her second time -- her first time with someone she really cared about, the extra dimension -- and I was determined to make it memorable for her. I took my time, moving slowly, though it was a struggle to maintain that discipline. On each stroke, I drove into her more deeply and forcefully and in seconds she was gasping in high excitement and sliding her hands agitatedly up and down my arms and across my shoulders. Her legs rose and locked around my ribs and I was aware of the long muscles tensing and relaxing in rhythm with my movements. At first, she moaned my name over and over but as we progressed she became nearly inarticulate. Having that kind of effect on her wound me up tight, too. I leaned forward over her body to increase the friction against her clit; looking down, I watched the shallow mounds of her creamy breasts vibrate seismically. And when she reached her orgasm after ten minutes or so, her legs squeezed my torso even harder while her fingers tugged at my hair. I slowed for a few strokes to allow her to catch her breath and then increased the tempo. "Oh, do it hard!" she moaned under her breath and held her knees apart for the deepest possible penetration. So I let myself go, pounding into her, making her gasp raggedly at each thrust. When I finally came, my cock pressed against the end of her hot, clasping cunt, she hung onto my neck so tightly I could barely breath myself. And with her nose in my ear, she whispered, "Tom, I love you so much... you're the only guy I'll ever want or ever need..." Any lingering doubts I'd had about my future with Charly were gone. Our circumstances were such that we were only able to have sex every five or six weeks that spring and summer. Which turned out to be a good thing, actually, because it kept the suspense and anticipation high between us and prevented physical boredom. We always made love at my house, of course, and Charly was never able to spend the night. I wanted to sleep with her literally as well as figuratively, to wake in the morning with her head snuggled against my chest, to watch her yawn and stretch. But I was glad of the time we were able to spend together. We planned elaborate scenarios in which Charly would take her closest friends into her confidence and stage a fake slumber party; they would cover for her and she would spend the night with me. Or an overnight campout in the woods -- which she would desert, to meet me at a fancy motel. In the event, we played it safe. We had all the rest of our lives and we didn't want to take chances with them now. The day after Labor Day, Charly began a serious campaign to nail down as much financial aid as possible for college, only a year away now. She ranked very high in her class and her SAT scores were atmospheric, so her chances were far better than average. The fact that she was a female with an interest in math and science didn't hurt, either. Softball, field hockey, and women's track coaches from several state universities also invited her for a visit; she went, but she was much more interested in academic scholarships. Besides, as she noted in annoyance, the money available for women's sports was nothing like the huge allotments for the guys. Her competence in computer science also had accelerated. Where I'd had to lead her through beginning database design almost by the hand only a year before, she was now looking over my shoulder and making insightful comments and suggestions on the jobs I got paid for. Her talent was driven home one October evening when I took a break from a tedious project to play around with one of the better-known social simulation games. I was surprised when my previously saved game immediately began to exhibit all sorts of emergency scenarios -- many more of them and much stranger than the game itself called for. While struggling to figure out why a smoothly-functioning city I'd constructed months before was suddenly stricken with a plague of grass and weeds, a suspicion began to dawn. Grass and weeds? "Oh, Char-r-r-l-y-y-y," I warbled while staring at the screen. A strangled sound made me look back over my shoulder. My little sweetheart was curled up in the old armchair in the corner, both hands over her mouth, tears of laughter at the corners of her beautiful, devilish eyes. When she saw she'd been found out, she gave up any attempt to smother her glee and broke into a cacophony of giggles, even drumming her heels on the chair arm in her delight. Of course, I got up and went and leaped on her, and we wound up on the floor, mock-wrestling and tickling each other. She'd set me up, all right -- and I was very impressed at the skill with which she'd done it. "Sweetheart," I said as we cuddled out of breath, "I think that little stunt was your graduation project. There's nothing more that the Weeks Academy of Computer Guru-ism can teach you!" "You mean I don't get to stay after school any more?" she laughed. "Only if you're very nice to your teacher." "Oh, I'm *always* nice to my poor old teacher!" Of course, I had to tickle her again for that. "Do you think my teacher would be willing to write me a letter of recommendation?" she asked after she had me pinned. "Berkeley's offering me a really *big* scholarship, plus a waiver on the out-of-state tuition. I just got the letter today! It goes term-to-term and I have to keep my grades high to be renewed, of course, but it *could* cover all four years." I sat up excitedly and hugged her. "Charly, that's wonderful! UC is a terrific school for the things you're interested in! And I know you'd like the Bay Area, too. I lived out there for several years before my grandfather died and I hated to leave." Then something occurred to me. "Um, sweetheart, have you told your folks about this yet? I know they were expecting you to go to college someplace nearby." "Yeah, I told them last night. They'd prefer I didn't go to school so far away, but they realize what an opportunity this is... and also that they couldn't afford to pay for me to go someplace like that. And they're proud that I've done it all on my own, so there's no problem." She twisted around so she could look me in the eye. "But, Tom, there's something else: I know what you said before, about leaving here, but Berkeley is so far away, and--" I held her by the biceps and returned her gaze. "Charly, do you still want us to be together while you're in school? Be honest with me; I'll understand, I promise." "Oh, God, Tom -- I don't *ever* want to be away from you! But I don't want to mess up your work, either; that wouldn't be fair." "Charly, wherever you go, I'll go. As long as you want me to be there. Always." And her face crumpled into happy tears and she hugged me so tightly around the neck, I nearly strangled. I was so proud of her, and so unequivocally in love with her, and so in awe of being the one *she* loved, I would have followed her to the Moon. Charly graduated third out of 700-some-odd in her senior class -- president of her National Honor Society chapter and winner of an award from the local IEEE chapter, too. When the principal announced her scholarship to UC at commencement, she and the two or three others who had received major financial awards received standing applause from their friends -- and from me, because I was there, too. There was no way I was going to miss my sweetheart's latest triumph. We'd only had one real disagreement that spring, when Charly mentioned she wasn't planning to go to the Senior Prom. But why? I wanted to know. She looked at me oddly and declared that if she couldn't go with me, she didn't want to go. And that was out of the question, of course. It took me several days of patient talk and cajoling to convince her to accept an invitation from a boy she'd dated off-and-on for several years, someone she'd become good friends with. She explained to the guy beforehand that her "boyfriend" was in another town and couldn't make it for the prom -- and then discovered, quite belatedly, that not only her prospective date but all her friends were perfectly aware there was *someone* in her life, someone she was unwilling to talk about. The boys she knew were curious about the mystery man but respected her privacy in the matter. Her girlfriends thought it was all "too romantic." So Charly went to the Prom -- and admitted the next day that she'd had a wonderful time and was glad she'd let me talk her into it. When I asked her, with a smile, whether she'd thanked her date with a kiss or two, she hesitated. Well, yes, she had, actually -- but they'd been friends for so long and everything... And I laughed and held her in my arms and assured her that I was not going to be jealous of anyone she ever dated, then or in college. I'd already thought it out: I was busy with my work so much of the time, she was young and full of energy, and for me to smother her with even psychological monogamy was the quickest way I knew to lose her love. Charly spent June throwing out most of eighteen years of accumulated junk and adapting her wardrobe for the even but temperate climate of San Francisco and Berkeley. She had to be there for freshman orientation on August 1st. Chris and Frank, home for vacation, helped out. I spent July in preliminary conferences with several real estate agents. We'd already worked this out, as well. She was going to be extraordinarily busy for the first few months. Her scholarship included room and board and it made sense for her to live in one of the freshman dorms, at least officially. I would wait until mid-fall to dispose of my property. That would allow me to get the best price and my departure from town wouldn't follow hers too closely... just in case someone noticed a connection. Also, I had several contacts around the Bay Area and I asked them to keep an eye out for a rental of some kind that wasn't too far from the University but was still within my modest price range. The afternoon of the day before Charly was due to leave for school, I made a point of going around to her house to say goodbye to my "yard guy" and unofficial student. I gave her a little guidebook to San Francisco as a going-away present, and she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, and thanked me sincerely for two years of extra income and mentoring. Her father was also sincere when he shook my hand and thanked me for all I'd done for his daughter. Her mother added that it was very nice that I'd spent so much of my free time helping her daughter in her schoolwork; she obviously didn't have a clue about computers or Charly's proficiency with them. I smiled and waved cheerfully as I left. After dark, Charly and I met "by accident" in the farthest corner of a nearby mall parking lot and I gave her her real present: a small gold ring with a solitary pearl. (I could hardly give her a diamond solitaire.) But Charly had a weakness for pearls and this modest bit of jewelry was symbolic of a much greater depth of feeling than it appeared to be. So she slipped it on the third finger of her left hand and stood admiring it while tears flowed down both cheeks. We kept our parting kiss brief -- it could have lasted until sunrise, had we let it -- and confirmed that the next time we embraced would be in California. Then I went home to lose myself in work the rest of the night and Charly went home to try (unsuccessfully) to sleep. Charly called a few days later in a state of high exhilaration. Most of the freshman girls in her dorm, she said, were nervous and even a little frightened to be there. She, on the other hand, wanted to learn *everything* there was to learn before Friday at the latest. She'd made it into several honors courses, which meant smaller classes without TAs. She *loved* the campus already, she *loved* what she'd been able to see of Berkeley itself, and she *loved* the Bay and the view of the city on the other side. Several of the girls were going on an expedition by BART the next day and the little travel guide I'd given her was already full of paper clips and dog-eared pages. She was so ecstatic about everything, I found myself grinning like an idiot over the handset. I had a feeling I knew where our future home was going to be. Two weeks after that, one of the realtors I'd talked to called to say she had a live one: the general manager of a new company in town wanted an appropriate home for himself, his wife, and their three teenagers. They were moving from Boston and the family wanted no more of brownstones and crowded sidewalks. I shook my head: nouveau suburbanites, yet. But the guy and his wife came and examined the house top to bottom, exclaiming over all the bedrooms and closets, the huge old kitchen... and especially the large and beautifully maintained yard. Then they had an independent inspector do the same and he gave the old place a clean bill. The offer my realtor managed to get from them was considerably larger than I had expected, but a dollar's worth of housing went a lot farther in that town than in Boston. It took me another month to dispose of my own unwanted junk and to arrange for shipment of computer equipment and books and family furniture to the large studio a trustworthy friend had found for me near El Cerrito. It wasn't as close to the campus as I would have preferred, but it would do for a year or two while I reacquainted myself with the area. And then I was on my way in my old Corolla station wagon, loaded with clothes and odds-and-ends, and I never looked back. On Halloween, Charly and I took turns going to my redwood door to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. And in between doorbells, we made up for the two months we'd been apart. The two of us had been so concerned with trying to logically and rationally plan our future together, we'd forgotten one of the best things about moving out to the coast: freedom! No one knew us here and we didn't have to hide. We could hold hands at a show in El Cerrito, or play tourist in San Francisco, or attend some event on the UC campus, and *nobody cared*! We knew almost no one yet, so any friendships either of us formed came ready-made with an acknowledged lover/partner. We still took precautions against the world in general -- I stayed away from her classrooms and dorm and she was careful not to be present when I had clients over -- but the student culture of Berkeley is one of the most intellectually free places in the country. Not always the most liberal (this wasn't the '60s any longer), but certainly one of the most tolerant in terms of people-mixing. You could see "couples" of every description and definition swarming in and out of Sather Gate: mostly young people, of course, but also leftover hippies with gray hair, gay men, gay women, people with jewelry in unlikely places, people in three-piece suits and ponytails, political pamphleteers for every cause imaginable, local merchants and street- sellers, and gawking tourists from the Corn Belt -- they were all there any afternoon when the weather allowed it. I loved the place, and still do. Though I didn't mention it to Charly, I'd been concerned about my ability to earn a living in the computer-industry hothouse of northern California, but it turned out that talent can always find a home -- and I knew I had talent. Actually, as I'd explained to Charly, it didn't really matter much where I lived, as long as I had the means of communication. I was working not with hardware, which often required one's physical presence, but with software -- electrons over a wire. Most of my previous clients stayed with me and I managed to acquire a few new ones. By Christmas of that first year, I was busier than ever -- and charging for my work at California rates, too. Charly ended her first term in a turmoil about her grades: she'd managed only a 3.8 instead of the 4.0 she expected of herself. I tried not to laugh (remembering my own struggles and lack of discipline the first couple of years in college), but I was secretly very proud of her indeed. And damned if she didn't make all A's the *second* term. That first summer, my sweetheart went home for a few weeks to see her family and friends and to bask in their congratulations at the quality of work she was doing. She seemed to be heading for a career in pure math and was already at a level she had difficulty describing to her parents. Chris had just graduated from Notre Dame with a degree in accounting and was cramming like mad for his CPA exam, she said. Frank had finished his second year at Cornell, where he was near the top of the HRM school academically and was well thought of by the varsity football and basketball coaches, as well. Whatever else Mr. and Mrs. Chambers had accomplished in their lives, they'd certainly raised a trio of overachievers. Then she pleaded the need to study over the summer and returned to my waiting arms. I rented a small, sporty car and we indulged ourselves in a two-week drive up the coast and back, with lengthy stops at Mt. Shasta, Crater Lake, Portland, Mount St. Helens, Seattle, and Vancouver. We gaped at the scenery in the Cascades, gaped again at the Columbia Gorge, used up a dozen rolls of film in Olympic National Park, and took the ferry over to Vancouver Island to ride the omnibuses in Victoria. Each of us found a score of places where we knew we could be happy for a long time. Charly looked just enough older now, especially when she spent a little time with her makeup, that we were never cross-examined by motel managers. And there was something especially romantic about making love in a different bed almost every night. Coming and going, I estimated that I had filled up her cunt across 1,500 miles of wilderness and that she had sucked my cock in a dozen towns and cities (not counting several scenic overlooks). In fact, I made the run from Roseburg to Eugene with her copper-topped head in my lap, milking two separate orgasms from me at 65 mph. Positioned as she was in the little car, it was a good thing I never had to shift. The second year was more of the same, only better. We knew our way around now and we had acquired a small circle of mutual friends -- including two couples whose disparity in ages was nearly as great as our own. We had found some favorite restaurants in the City, and we delighted in walking through the crowds along Jefferson Street and the Embarcadero on a Saturday afternoon. We were spending much more time in each other's company now, and I was pleased (and relieved) to find that while we both enjoyed a rousing argument, we never, ever fought. I believe both of us went to some trouble to avoid fights because each of us feared the potential fragility of our relationship. Yes, we were deeply in love, more so every day, but we both were too aware of the odds against us to take ourselves anything other than seriously. But we didn't hold things back, either. Not important things. Charly once caught me watching an attractive neighbor sunbathing on the back patio of my building. The woman had very nice tits and she was wearing only the lower half of a bikini. I know my expression as I stood by the open window was one of frank admiration. Then Charly came up behind me and I fell all over myself, apologizing and assuring her that I was "only looking." My sweetheart took a peek out the window herself, clucked in apparent disapproval, and turned her back on me -- and then lost it and broke down in giggles at my guilty expression. When I assured her I loved only her, she put her tongue in my ear and whispered "Don't you think I know that, you dummy?" We spent the rest of the afternoon finding interesting ways to occupy our bodies. But then we reached a turning point that neither of us had expected. The doorbell rang one May evening as I was working online on a problem in data transfer and I was annoyed at the interruption. Charly had her own key, of course, so it was probably a salesman -- or, at this hour, a Jehovah's Witness. But my jaw dropped when I opened the door. "Frank?! What are you doing here? Uh, come in, come in..." Charly's brother was in his third year at Cornell, nearly three thousand miles to the east. He had no business being here, especially without warning, and he wasn't smiling as he entered and shook my hand. "Hello, Mr. Weeks. Funny seeing you here, too." He looked down at me appraisingly for a moment and then walked over to my favorite armchair and sat without waiting to be invited. Mr. Weeks? What had happened to "Tom?" Also, Frank, like his older brother, was ordinarily a very polite young man; such rude conduct on his part had to be calculated and I didn't like the implications. "Since I was in San Francisco for a UIL debate," he continued, "I thought I'd surprise Charly ... so I didn't tell her I was coming." He shot me a faint smile and nodded slowly. "Yep -- she was surprised, all right. She'd been sitting at her desk in the dorm room and while we were chatting I happened to glance at the writing pad she'd left lying there. She was writing a love letter." He watched me swallow nervously. "I didn't realize at first who she was writing to -- I assumed it was some guy she'd met on campus -- and I was reading bits of it out loud and teasing her a little about this new-found love interest. She got pretty upset -- which was very strange, you know? I expected a wise-crack or a zinger from her, not tears. And then I came across a reference in the letter to lawn-mowing and 'rolling in the hay,' and how nice it was to be in love with 'a more experienced man'..." He let it just dangle there and waited silently for me to respond. Jesus... With a little advance notice to form an explanation of my relationship with Charly, I was pretty sure I could make Frank understand. Charly and I had already discussed the unpleasant fact that we eventually would have to confront not only her two brothers but her parents as well. But having been caught off-guard and unprepared like this by a large young man who was physically quite capable of pounding me into hamburger, I was flustered and dry in the mouth. Moreover, Frank's unblinking cobra gaze made me feel *guilty*, and I didn't like that at all. It made me a little reckless. "Frank, I'm not going to apologize for falling in love with your sister. It happened despite my efforts *not* to become emotionally involved -- but it happened. Have you asked Charly how she feels about me?" He seemed nonplussed that I'd strayed from the defensive. "Charly's not old enough or experienced enough to--" "I could say the same thing about you, Frank. You're only a year older than she is." He stood up and glared at me. "The point is that you're *twenty* years older than my sister! We trusted you, Mr. Weeks, and you--" And at that point the girl herself charged through my front door looking both worried and pissed. "Tom, I tried to call, to warn you that Frank was in town, but your phone's been tied up forever!" Oh, yeah: my modem was still running and the call-waiting was disabled. She turned fiercely on her brother; her fears that Frank might have punched me out had dissipated, to be replaced by rising anger. "Frank! You have no business harassing him like this! I'm an adult now, remember? I'll make my own decisions!" Her face was red with furious determination and when she clenched her small, hard fists and stepped between her brother and me, Frank actually took a pace back. "Charly, this guy's old enough to be your father!" "Hey, now *that's* really original!" she shot back. "He's just taking advantage of your youth and inexperience!" Charly stared back at him and took a couple of deep breaths in a conscious effort to calm herself down. She visibly set herself and her voice took on a tone of quiet, serious anger. Hell, she even scared me. "Now, Frank, I want you to listen to me very carefully because I mean every word I say: you're my brother and I love you very much. The same for Chris. You guys have always been there for me and I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you. But I also love Tom Weeks and I know he loves me." She glanced back, reached for my hand, and squeezed it. Frank was a bit bewildered by Charly's blistering attack. "But he's twen--" "--he's twenty years older than me! So what, Frank? He's also seven or eight inches taller than me! So what? And don't forget, he has brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes..." Frank obviously was at a loss how to respond to his sister's blunt challenge and she knew it. Charly shifted gears and her voice softened. "Frank, please understand. You'll have to trust my judgment on this. I admit it -- I'm so crazy about him, it keeps me awake at night." She gave me a warm, melting look and squeezed my hand again. "But I've thought this through, over and over again. I'm not stupid, Frank: I know the statistics are against us. And there's something else you don't know." She shot him a wry smile. "I'm the one who started all this, not Tom! He tried to talk me out of what I said I wanted. He worried about all the very same things you're worried about. He tried so hard to convince me it was a bad idea to fall for him." I was the recipient of another soft smile. "And he did that against his will, kinda ... because I could see it in him. Poor Tom... It caused him pain, I realized that later -- but he was doing what he thought he *ought* to do, what he thought was best for me." Charly turned to me and linked her wrists around my neck. "You were wrong, darling. The best thing for me is *you* and it always will be." Even though I knew this little display was for Frank's benefit (neither of us was in the habit of calling each other "darling," for one thing), my emotions were climbing nevertheless. When she pulled me down into a kiss and wound her fingers in my hair, I returned it for all I was worth. As we came out of our clinch, both of us with foolish smiles, I became aware that Frank was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, abashed, a little embarrassed, trying not to watch us too closely... and maybe beginning to be convinced that his kid sister wasn't crazy. He groped for a chair and sat, and Charly and I took the sofa across from him. He studied his hands and the coffee table and a speck on the arm of his chair. Finally, he visibly squared his shoulders and looked at his sister's face, then at mine, then back at her. "Well," he began, "I still don't think I approve of all this -- but you're right, Charly: Tom Weeks has always been an honest, conscientious guy ... and somehow I can't picture you being seduced against your will by *anyone*." Charly beamed at him. "So, uh, should I be expecting a wedding announcement, or what?" "No, Frank, not yet." Charly interlaced her fingers with mine as we held hands. "Didn't we just agree that I'm not stupid? If I *really* wanted to get Tom mad at me, I'd quit school and forget about a career." "Damn right," I interjected with a grin. "Frank, I don't think I'd be bragging to say that I'm pretty good in math and logic and computer software design. But your sister puts me in the shade! She has a tremendous talent and she'll pass me by long before she graduates. To waste a mind like that would be criminal." Charly picked up the explanation again. "We have each other already. We spend most of our free time together, naturally, but we don't even live together, Frank! Tom has more work right now than he can find time for. He's successful at what he does and that makes both of us happy, believe me. And *my* work is getting through school. If we got married right now, it would just complicate our lives even more and we don't need that. I have another two years before I get my B.S. After that -- yes, you can expect an invitation. Also," she added practically, "I'll be twenty-two. Our marriage won't be so difficult for people to deal with." Frank shook his head slowly in disbelief. "A two-year engagement? That's hard to believe, man." Charly glanced at me and quietly corrected him. "It'll be more like four years, Frank. Or five. We've been in love for quite a while now." Her brother nodded without comment; nothing more could shock or surprise him now. "Okay -- whatever. I just don't want you being hurt, Sis." He glanced at me and I saw the warning. "Frank," I said quietly and seriously, "if I ever do anything to harm this girl in any way, I hope you'll come and beat me to a soggy pulp." His slight nod seemed to mean he would take me at my word. Then he smiled, a bit wearily. "Well... anything I can do to help, let me know. I'm always on your side, Charly. Both your sides, now, I guess." He stood and Charly jumped up and hugged him aggressively. "We were going to tell everyone, you know. Just not yet and not like this. So Chris doesn't know about us, either. Or the folks." Frank grinned ruefully. "Well, I think I can smooth the way a little with ol' Chris. I'll be seeing him at a Knicks exhibition game in a few weeks and we're planning to get together for a pizza afterward, before I go back to Ithaca. I'll break the news to him and get him to think about it before he gets angry. He always said I was the emotional one, anyway." He touched his finger to his sister's nose. "But *you* have to handle the folks, kiddo. And I don't even want to be in the county when you tell 'em!" "Yeah, that'll be interesting, all right," Charly admitted. "We'll have it planned out by then -- I hope." She didn't ask Frank not to say anything to anyone else because it wasn't necessary. As it turned out, when we went to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Chambers the afternoon their daughter graduated from the University of California with High Honors, I discovered they were much more astute than either Charly or I had given them credit for. (Well, Charly and her brothers had to have inherited their brains from someone, after all.) They'd heard from a mutual acquaintance that Charly seemed to have a steady romantic interest. They knew she was still living in the dorm and they trusted her uncommon common sense, so they made a conscious decision not to worry. Then something or other that Frank or Chris had said that winter caused them to think back, and to wonder about my departure from town two months after Charly's. That had alarmed them, so they'd bluntly asked their sons what was going on with their sister. The guys had broken down and explained to them, as best they could, that Charly really was in love with an older man. Serious, twenty-one-year-old love. The man in question was just as much in love with her. And the two of them were being as cautious and forethoughtful as they could think to be. Well, at least Charly's folks knew me and had -- at least to that point -- a good opinion of me, so they decided, after much late-night discussion, to reserve judgment and not to say anything to their daughter. I was frankly amazed at their level of confidence in their progeny. So, as they sat on a bench in a hillside grove of redwoods that afternoon, and Charly was tense and I was nearly sick to my stomach with apprehension, her parents just looked at each other and smiled. I think they actually enjoyed our discomfort -- in justified retribution for their nights of worry, I have to admit. And when Charly carefully explained to them her feelings for me -- omitting the age at which she had first felt those feelings -- the now- elderly couple nodded in unsurprised satisfaction. Her father looked up at me with a rather piercing gaze. "And do you feel the same way about Charlene, young man?" It was so long since anyone had called me that, I was too startled to reply for a moment. When I replied that I was very much in love with their daughter, he smiled and said, "I'm glad you both had the sense not to do anything precipitous. Charlene's mother and I were married in college, you know. Neither of us would change that now, but it did make things a bit more difficult for awhile." And he shook my hand and hugged his daughter, and my relief was so profound I nearly fainted. It was a very small ceremony in a Unitarian Church in Berkeley: just Chris and Frank (as ushers, at their own insistence) and Charly's parents, and a few of our own close friends. The bride didn't go in for lavish bridal gowns, considering them a pointless extravagance, but she was heartbreakingly beautiful in a white lace cocktail-style dress and a veil. I could barely get through the vows, the lump in my throat was so large. Frank said afterward that the expression on my face resolved any lingering doubts about my sincerity. But I think I proved my sincerity to Charly that night. Beyond question. We have a small, comfortable place near campus now, since Charly is well into a Ph.D. program in an area of mathematics I don't even pretend to understand more than superficially. I have a couple of comp sci grad students working for me part-time and several independent software contractors, and business is... well, perhaps not "booming," but certainly very adequate, and extremely satisfying. We've also begun browsing around the Bay Area for a house. One with a small yard. END ======================================================================== Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved. ======================================================================== ============================ CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 2) by Michael K. Smith -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |