Tools - Their Variety and Safe Use

Not an Accident

-or-

Tools: Their Variety and Safe Use

Brooke and I were just over an hour into a whole-afternoon crash-course to teach her the basics of hand-tools, both powered and not. The idea was to quickly render her at least relatively safe around them. Things had been going swimmingly: she was paying close attention and --what with her IQ approaching 150- she understood and remembered everything. More importantly, she was not only applying what she learned, but beginning to use her new knowledge to anticipate problems and possibilities with unfamiliar equipment.

And then came the little accident that changed things forever.

It's easy to understand how we arrived here. We met and got reasonably well-acquainted at a mutual friend's party two years earlier, to which her entire family had been invited. Her Mom had been told I'm an oceanographer and immediately called Brooke over to introduce us: it seems Brooke was strongly (not to say fanatically) interested in the oceans.

About Brooke: first and foremost, she is rip-roaring smart, with a mental age and maturity at least a decade beyond her calendar age. Her screaming-meemee brainpower destroyed every potential relationship with a male well before it could get started. Physically, she was then, and still is, a VERY pretty young woman, a.k.a. knock-down gorgeous, 50-50 Anglo/Chinese, quite small and beautifully proportioned. Much to my personal taste and luck, her family's women ran strongly to lovely, rounded bottoms, with no trace of the unfortunate flat/narrow butts carried by a great many Chinese. Brooke wasn't done with puberty yet -- seems her whole female lineage started way late by most standards, onset seldom verging on never before 17, usually between age 18 and sometimes up to 21. Hers had started almost exactly on her 18

th

birthday, most of a year ago -- and it was in control!

At our meeting, she was well-dressed, from my point of view. Her boat-necked sleeveless aqua blouse (exquisitely well-remembered!) allowed me several interesting, prolonged glimpses of her still-developing chest. She also liked flirting, and it wasn't clear to what extent her occasional momentary boob-exposures were accidents. Probably zero chance of a genuine accident, given how females of our species operate!

I have a hyperactive male imagination, and it went into overdrive -- in fact, I was a bit gaga over her by the end of the party -- not a good thing for fifty vs eighteen, but I did not the least thing to show it. Not that my instant crush (shades of junior high days!) mattered, since we had almost no chance of ever re-encountering one another. Pure fantasy material for my hormone-saturated libido.

Setting aside the interactions of her developing half-Asian boobs with both my perpetual horniness and my innate letch for beautiful but nearly flat-chested young women, Brooke was quite worthy of any man's attentions - highly educated, well-read and a fine conversationalist. And breathtakingly sexy. We got along famously and talked intensely for nearly two hours, under Mom's critical and approving gaze. It was all in all a very pleasant encounter.

I left wishing I could contact her one-on-one, and knowing perfectly well that it wasn't going to happen. And it didn't.

Not until an entire year later, when SHE took the initiative to re-contact ME -- her interest in the oceans had grown, she was about to take an oceanography course from a teacher who had no training in or knowledge of the topic. So, she asked what should she read on her own, to compensate? I recommended two texts - which she devoured.

And then came the request -- "OH, by the way," - could Doctor E be persuaded, perhaps, to come give a couple of guest lectures? Seems Brooke had taken the initiative, gotten the idea okayed by the teacher, and she had then volunteered to make contact with me. We had a good chat: I agreed readily to come teach and did so several times. She was great fun in class, and clearly the best student.

After that, once again nothing for months (except for my occasional midnight musings with her as centerpiece), until the oddball call last week. The host from the party where we met had had Brooke's family to dinner again. As part of her undergraduate work, she was headed for a several-week summer course at MIT's mechanical engineering school. It would be an immersive course -- students were to team-design and then build a floating wind-powered electric generator. And the program "STRONGLY ENCOURAGED" all students to arrive with at least basic familiarity with basic hand tools and simple power tools.

Brooke (and her family) had zero knowledge of tools -- the family didn't even own a hammer!

So the question was, where to get Brooke the needed experience, and quickly?

Our host knew I was good with tools (he and I had worked together in my shop, building complex tables) and immediately suggested asking me for help, because I was already well known to Brooke and family. He called me from the dinner table, explained, put Brooke on the phone.

We once again hit it off perfectly, and voila! Arrangements needed for imparting wisdom were easy. She would bus the ten miles from home to a stop near my place at noon Tuesday, then call from the bus stop and I'd come pick her up. I told her we should expect to get mildly dirty, hence she should wear old clothes, preferably snug to prevent being caught in machinery. She needed to provide nothing else except an attentive brain.

I picked her up as planned -- and had to keep my eyeballs (not to mention my cock) firmly under control. Two years earlier she had been superb fantasy material -- but now, she was absolutely gorgeous, although still far from being fully developed -- small, slender, enroute (obviously, when one studied Mama) to becoming significantly busty, already she had that simply stunning bottom. And long, shiny jet hair done up in a no-snag bun. And perfect skin.

She carried a small backpack slung over one shoulder... and as to the "old clothes" idea? Well, there was sensible footwear -- old running shoes at the ends of very shapely legs topped with the shortest variety of short-shorts worn snug to just shy of scandalous (i.e., worn to perfection!). Plus a yellow sleeveless tee shirt, ditto. Coat-of-paint snug. No visible trace whatever of a bra, and not the least need, for her developing chest hadn't yet discovered gravity.

Dressed thusly, for a day in the shop?! "Actually," a bit of my brain insisted, "...she didn't choose too badly..." -- there was certainly no flapping cloth to get snagged! (I can rationalize with the best of them...) If the clothes were "old" it was only because they were sized to fit her when we originally met two years earlier, not today. In other words, she was showing herself off quite blatantly. I wondered if Mom had seen her in this outfit, and decided 'probably NOT!' Anyhow, I was instantly turned on beyond belief, and more than a little flummoxed, but certainly found no grounds for complaint.

Brooke scanned me coolly as she settled into the seat, shook my hand, thanked me. Her eyes seemed to hold something unfathomable, beyond the greeting. When I said "Very nice! Not much danger of getting those duds caught in the drill-press. Bravo!" she clearly knew what I actually meant, blushed, looked pleased and mildly embarrassed, and said nothing.

As we pulled up to the house, I pointed out that it was almost lunch-time, asked if she was hungry yet -- I had pate, truffle oil, brie and smoked salmon. Purchased, in fact, specifically for the occasion, in hopes of precisely what I wasn't at all certain. "Thanks, Doctor E, but I'm not hungry now. I'm sure I will be in a little while. If it's okay with you we can start the lessons, then take a lunch break."

Then she did a prolonged, pregnant pause, at the end of which she suppressed a giggle: "Those are interesting groceries, Doctor E: why did you pick those things, anyhow?"

I grinned: "I remember pretty clearly the details of what you were eating the day we met. Do you?"

She searched her memory: "Yep! I remember how, before we got called to the dinner-table, you kept fixing crackers with goodies for me to try, and handing them to me -- it was almost like some bird's courtship feeding behavior."

I felt myself blush: she giggled, patted my arm, said in her very best 'seriously now' demeanor and voice, "Don't be embarrassed! It was quite a compliment, really. It was also so incredibly CUTE! No offense intended or taken, believe me. I'd have returned the favor if I hadn't been so shy. I've always regretted not doing so, too!"

With that, we proceeded to the shop, which in anticipation of this event was now squeaky-clean for the first time in recent history.

As in teaching yoga or any body-activity, even shop, many details are best conveyed by touch. Over the first hour, I made increasingly frequent, and increasingly close, use of that modality -- whenever I could invent a reason for touch, I took it. By hour's end, I had among other things practically wrapped her in a whole-body embrace whilst standing behind her, demonstrating how one's entire body participates in proper use of a simple hand-saw. My face was close to her neck, she had on some very subtle and enticing perfume, and it was all I could do to keep from nuzzling.

Throughout, not only did Brooke fail to protest or display discomfort, but rather I got a strong sense of enjoyment, with tinges of response and even initiation or encouragement -- she was body-flirting, and at a far, far more sophisticated level than reasonable to expect for her age and presumptive experience. My cock was perilously (delightfully!) close to being out of control... not that I've ever been able to actually control the darned thing.

However, the fact that the first hour's training went so well didn't prevent her from cutting her finger while she was learning to change blades in a box-cutter. It happened after my demo, while my back was turned, so I didn't see precisely what went wrong.

"OW! Damn!" I heard her say. The cut was deep but short, in the middle pad of her left index finger, bleeding nicely, already dripping slowly onto the floor. Her face was brilliant red, she looked far more embarrassed than hurt. She shrugged, held out the hand for inspection, said "I got clumsy. Sorry about the little mess on the floor. But it's kind of fascinating, isn't it? I mean, I've never cut myself like this before, so I've never seen my own blood, not really. And it hardly hurts at all. Very odd."

She looked at the finger, wiggled the digit almost as if to encourage the flow.

I took hold of the finger, studied it briefly -- the wound was more a puncture than a slice, a genuinely minor injury. I said so, then put the finger to my mouth and licked off the little trickle. She was thoroughly startled, then flushed bright red and muttered "You're being way too romantic, Sir Galahad! Or being just plain silly. But please don't stop!"

For ability to flirt, functional age about, let's say, forty-five?

As ordered, I didn't stop, not immediately, for the blood continued to flow. After a few seconds, with half of her finger in my mouth, I looked up at her face, wondering where I should go from there. She forestalled any decision by saying very calmly, completely out of context for the moment, "You know, there aren't JUST the tools you have here in your shop. There's another kind of tool that I should get familiar with. Tools I should be trained to use correctly. As soon as possible. I need to get really familiar with them, because they can be awfully dangerous -- very long-term consequences for misuse."

I was puzzled, and showed it. She didn't skip a beat, just looked me squarely in the eyes, seemed to gather herself, extracted her still-bleeding finger from my mouth, took a deep breath and quite deliberately wiped it across the front center of her yellow tee-shirt, from navel to between her breasts. The move was over before I could react. It left a spectacular bloody smear.

She held up the hand -- the cut, tugged open by the swipe, continued to ooze. "Gee," she said, holding eye contact like a tiger on its prey, "I shouldn't have done that! I couldn't possibly go home like this -- Mom would faint, literally, because she hates the sight of blood! I guess I'll have to take off this shirt immediately, so that I can rinse the blood out in cold water."

I still couldn't manage a reply, and as I fumbled about mentally, she lowered the hand, wiped another three-inch smear across the front of her beige shorts and said softly "Oh, my goodness! The shorts, too! And we'll have to do the rinsing pretty quickly or the stain will set even against cold water. I'm sure you have cold water somewhere in the house."

An incredibly incendiary pause, then very softly "HOWEVER, as you can plainly see, I'm injured and can only use one hand now -- do you suppose you could help me off with the shirt and shorts?" She grinned, and it was suddenly the infectious expression of a thirty-year-old seductress: "I'm going to HAVE to take these things off, for the cold-water rinsing. After all, we really wouldn't want to upset Mommy, would we? I mean, by confronting her with blood-stains. She's been known to faint."

Through all this, nonstop eyelock. Without breaking it, she reached for a paper towel, tore off a chunk, wadded it up and made a miniature pressure bandage, held it in place with her thumb. The bleeding stopped instantly. My mind was in a whirl: a few seconds of displacement activity were very badly needed! I reached for her hand again, uncovered and studied the cut, put the wad back in place, grabbed a band-aid from my workbench and wrapped it around the wound -- the bleeding stayed stopped.

Given the little recovery interlude -- during which she watched me closely, with a tinge of amusement. I finally managed to get my voice going, and put my hands around her waist just at the hem of the shirt, pulled her towards me: she swayed forward effortlessly, like a dancer. "SO - tell me, my beautiful little Miss Brooke -- are you absolutely, totally certain about what you're doing? And also about how I might respond? I believe that you're mentally thirty-something, but by your own admission, you've no experience. Any idea how to handle whatever my response might be? Don't forget, I'm not some little teenage boy, and this is NOT a game. We both know what's going on. Are you dead sure about what you're up to?"

No blinks, no flinching, no hesitation: "Yes. To all your questions. Absolutely sure. Dead certain. Is that clear enough, Doctor E?"

"Perfectly" I said, and put my arms around her shoulders, full-frontal embrace impending from about a ten-inch separation. But I didn't pull her to me, not yet. I held her firmly and said "This feels awfully good already. And I believe it's going to feel even better soon. I wonder if you have ANY idea at all how close I came to nuzzling your neck a few minutes ago, when we were working with the hand-saw? How much self-control I had to exert to keep from doing so?"

She went pink and coy: "I wish you hadn't. Had so much self-control, I mean. When you were behind me and we were sawing. I suspected something, though, at the time." She giggled slightly, and made an offer: "Would you like another chance? EVERYBODY deserves a second chance once in a while! You could exhibit a whole BUNCH of loss of self-control. I wouldn't mind. Not at all!"

She didn't wait for an answer, just turned slowly within my arms until we were plastered together back-to-front. My palms wound up holding the bottom of her ribcage: she was dissatisfied, and authoritatively moved them to cup her breasts. Her nipples were hard points, hyper sensitive -- my explorations made her gasp repeatedly. Her bottom pressed firmly, but not motionlessly, back against my bulge -- and what a bulge!

Under authority of my newly-received permission, I nuzzled, nibbled, licked, and explored thoroughly the whole back of her neck, hairline, earlobes. She made appreciative nonverbal noises, wriggled and squirmed as phalanxes of goose-bumps rioted on her arms.

Finally she said back over her shoulder "Can I turn around again? Please?" The turn settled her buttocks in my hands, a perfect designer-fit. Only our faces were separated now: between knee and collarbones we were like two adjacent leaves in a book, and her breasts were orange-hard, pressing into me through two whole layers of tee-shirt material. Lovely sensations. She muttered "I like your hands there! On my butt." She paused, and then, while ever so slowly writhing her chest against mine, "I could give you a little explanation, if you'd like, about those 'other tools'. It'd help you understand our current situation."

She waited expectantly.

I took a deep self-control breath --marginally successful- and said "Please do. And THEN, madam, unless you do something quite drastic to stop the parade, I am going to kiss you. And HOW! Thoroughly. Properly. For real. All over. And in case you haven't gotten my message yet, the answer to your question about 'Will you help with the stained clothing?' is very definitely YES. Soon - before the stains set. So go ahead, explain."

"Kissing would be good. Kissing all-over sounds a bit scary but it's a kind of scary that appeals to me. I like it! But first - those 'other tools' have to do with some --well- some "social problems" that I have..."

We kept our developing habit alive, stared into one-another's eyes without blinking. I waited: finally she got going again.

"Um... it's not really complicated, Doctor E. It's almost all related to age. Age and experience. Or, really, to my age and

IN

experience! I've skipped so many grades, and started college so oddly, that everyone thinks I'm a FREAK. All my so-called classmates at university nowadays are perfect strangers to me. Which makes me a social misfit, totally. And they're WAY more experienced, too, of course, than me -- at least, from what the girls say. The girls are okay, mostly -- they seem to like to talk with me, sort of an 'advising and educating little-sister' thing I suppose. They don't see me as any competition for the BOYS once they realize that the guys are not going to pay any attention whatever to me. And they're right, too, about that. I can be objective even when it hurts, and I know that no male person in his right mind would choose ME to ask out when they have all those pretty, well-developed, boobsy experienced older girls around. Not just 'around' but totally available - they almost all seem to like to put out. I'm an old-maid wallflower already, that's what I am! Just an old-maid!"

Her breath was warm across my mouth and cheek, the air between us was redolent with pheromones and full of electricity. She paused, made an 'icky-thought' face, and said in a somewhat different tone, "On the other hand, just what WOMAN in HER right mind would WANT to date those dumb, rude-crude-lewd boys, anyhow? Frankly, even the older ones seem awfully..." She hesitated, searching for an adjective, and came up with a beauty: "...puerile! And

completely

unattractive! I certainly don't see what the girls see in them! Of course I don't tell them that's what I think, but REALLY! Ugh! Anyhow, the result is that I've never, EVER even been asked out, much less gone on a date. My whole life."

I let her catch up with herself, meanwhile considering what I might possibly say that wouldn't sound platitudinous or condescending -- I wanted very much to be supportive. Before I could get going, she kept on: "I think there are really two things involved. The first is age - I'm too young for the boys I have to deal with. That's the easy part, it'll go away when I get older. But the other part is more important and harder -- namely that I'm so much smarter than they are."