For the real Mike
*
More than three years had past since I had 'met' him. The man that stood outside my front door, the man that had stolen my heart with his words, more typed than spoken. My 'graduation present' was a convenient disguise for his nine-hour trip to finally meet me.
I had been a child of fifteen, almost sixteen, when our conversations started and he swore up on down on not-so-rare occasions that he would only always see me as that. Then I would turn the conversation in
that
direction and he would not have the power to say no to me. Or he didn't want it.
I was fidgety -
god
, was my knee bouncing when he called me from the road. Now I wasn't sure that I had the physical ability to reach out and open that door. My parents, family, and other guests were floating about the house and spilling out of the large glass sliding doors to the generous porch and lawn. Cars were parked all the way down our lengthy driveway, but I had saved a special spot in front of the driveway for his beloved Monte Carlo. Twenty-three year old girlfriend with expensive tastes, as he had often joked.
I was now eighteen, on my way to nineteen and college, and he, my beyond-beloved guide for the ages, was waiting for me to open the damn door.
I did and stopped. I had to look up, but only a little, but the smile on my lips could not have been any more natural.
"My God," was all I could manage, and I forced the door open a little more. His familiar and amazingly sensual deep chuckle was his response to me wrapping my arms around his warm body. I wouldn't have moved for all the money in the world when his arm curved around me. The only thing that could have perfected that moment would have been a kiss. The peck on my forehead would have to suffice.
"Yes?," he laughed again, hugging me tighter briefly and just holding me. After a moment, one that wasn't nearly long enough, he pulled my back a little with his hands on my upper arms and kissed my forehead again. "Not quite what I was expecting...and I mean the greeting."
"I know what you meant, kid," I stuck my tongue out and looked him over a moment before I couldn't hold it in and hugged him again. It was too good to be true and there was no way I was going to give up the change to hug him like I had always wanted to. "You have no idea how much I've always wanted to do this..."
"I think I do, my dear," he smiled again and hugged me until propriety required me, as the guest of honor as well as the hostess, to introduce him to the rest of the party.
There are something like four motels in my little town and the one that was the closest was the one I had put him up in - I refused to let him pay for it, no matter how much he protested, because it was not his fault that he was male, nor that my parents refused to allow him to stay in our house.
Well, that wasn't entirely true - my parents didn't have much of a problem because they weren't aware that Mike, at thirty-four, would be even remotely interested in me. I was 'legal' now, a concept that had not entered their heads. They had, actually, offered to let him stay.
I
was the one that wanted him elsewhere.
For the express reason that I was standing outside his motel room door, dressed in something that I had always promised him.
He liked breasts. My breasts, I hoped, would suffice. There was surely enough of them to do so. Now at the end of high school, I had topped out only slightly smaller than my mother - a forty double-d was stuffed haphazardly into the white button-down top. I loved the school-girl concept, and so took it to an extreme. A low extreme, as the small numbered of done-up buttons could attest to. I had always been a fan of black bras - only color I owned, minus a white one for the occasion that I needed to dress up 'properly'. As it were, this was not one of those 'properly dressed' situations, and so I was clad in a barely-buttoned white collared blouse and a demi-cup black bra beneath it. I had purchased the blue and black tartan-patterned pleated skirt back in my Freshman year and, aside from Halloween, had never had any real need for it.
I even had the Mary Janes and the knee-high socks, to boot. No pig-tails, but my long, straight hair - once a chestnut color and curly, now a much darker brown with red hints as Mike loved redheads - was down in my favorite wear. My pale green eyes, his proclaimed favorite physical feature, were properly accented with tasteful black liner and lash-elongating mascara.
And now, my dears, it was time to knock.
