Hardwood 1

Tuesday

It was more than the sound and vibration of a power tool that accosted my senses as I walked in the back door of our house; it was the smell of sawdust in the air; the aroma of progress. I hung up my coat and inched into the construction zone: our kitchen.

My parents had been planning this project with a local cabinetmaker for well over a year. Why my parents had decided to be away the very week they were to start installation was a baffling mystery to me. But the stars had aligned so that I'd be the only one around for the heavy-lifting portion of the schedule and my parents had asked me to keep an eye on things for them.

As a first semester junior at our local state university I am not particularly qualified to oversee construction, but at least I maintained a human presence in the house during the main installation process. Fortunately I was living at home again. After two years in a dorm on campus, I had had my fill of rowdy parties, boring drunks and sophomoric boys. And since I was planning to spend the second semester abroad in Paris, I figured I'd escape the cacophony of dorm life and save money by living at home. My parents had let me hole up in the back guestroom suite, so I had more privacy than if I'd been in my old room upstairs. Plus it gave me a lot more freedom to come and go as I pleased.

I had not been around on Monday when most of the cabinetry installation had occurred. But when I had returned home at 7 pm the previous night, I was duly impressed with the progress that had been made. The old cabinets had been removed and most of the new base and wall cabinets had been installed. The island also had been removed and new base cabinets stood in their place with a temporary plywood top. There must have been an experienced crew working all day to have accomplished so much.

So I had arrived home mid-afternoon that Tuesday and expected the same: a swarm of workmen pounding nails and sawing boards to a boom box pumping out country favorites or heavy metal. I was surprised to see that there was but one lonely workman in the kitchen that afternoon. There was a soft background of finger-style acoustic guitar that could be heard when a power tool wasn't in use. I could only assume that this was the gentleman my parents had been working with, and had spoken so highly of.

I saw him before he saw me. I was immediately struck by his form, bent over a temporary workbench in the middle of the kitchen, using some sort of power tool, a router, I think, to do something to a long cherry board. I watched his lean, taut, yet powerful, physique wrapped over the tool, using it with care and precision. He had a very nice body; that I could see right from the start. He was wearing a pair of tight faded jeans that hugged his butt very nicely, and what looked like a very old black corduroy shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was black with shards of gray, and was swept back straight over his ears. He wore small round wire rim glasses and had a short salt and pepper beard. He looked to be of Mediterranean descent, probably Italian, with a dark olive complexion and fine skin. I watched, feeling like my feet were nailed to the spot.

He finished whatever it was he was doing to the board and sauntered into the corner, squatting down nimbly to see if it fit. His shoulders were broad, but his waist was tight and I observed the hair on his forearms as he held the board up to where it would eventually live. He deftly pulled a short yellow pencil from behind his ear, made a few marks on the board, and stood to return to the workbench. It was then that he saw me and did a quick double-take.

"Well, hello there," he offered in a deep friendly voice as he continued back to his temporary workbench.

"Hi," I said in return.

Well, this is off to a good start, I thought. I've never really had a gift for casual conversation, and I suddenly felt completely inadequate to offer any further thrust to our dialogue, if that is what you could call it. He made a few more whirring passes over the board, brought it back to the corner and we both watched it slip right into place.

"Voila," he said proudly, turning to stand and eyeing me a bit closer now as he extended me a crinkled smile.

"So, you must be the daughter, Molly?" he stated rather unequivocally. I grinned and nodded in agreement. "Well, I'm Michael," he stated gently. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

With that he came around the island to shake my hand. I stood rooted to the spot, like I'd stepped in glue and was stuck to the floor. He approached with his hand out and a beautiful smile on his face. He had a weathered, but very handsome face, with eyes that just dripped with kindness.

"Hi Michael," I said in return as he took my slender white hand into his big paw. His hand enveloped mine, but his grip was soft and gentle and warm. I felt a little flutter that was hard to ignore, and the flutter seemed to transfer itself into my eyelids, which blinked several times in acknowledgment of his presence and proximity.

"The kitchen looks beautiful so far. Is this oak?" I inquired with no idea what I was talking about. He looked at me with a patient look, his eyes wrinkled in amusement.

"No, Molly. This is cherry, Native American cherry. It's a beautiful hardwood and wonderful for cabinetry -- and a pleasure to work with," he said with patience.

Now, of course, I remembered that my parents had mentioned cherry numerous times, but my brain was too addled from admiring this handsome man to be hitting on all cylinders. He asked about my school and we began a long conversation which revolved mostly around him asking questions of me. He seemed genuinely interested in what I was studying and my thoughts on school. His eyes widened when I mentioned Paris and he had numerous recommendations on what to see, what to do, and where to have a perfect glass of wine. He was an easy conversationalist and I found myself opening up to him.

My inquires of him met with somewhat measured and limited responses, but I did manage to find out that he was divorced and had two grown children; one of whom was also at the university. This gave him an interesting perspective on the vagaries of college life.

He had started his life in the business world, but had changed careers in his mid-thirties and pursued his first love of woodworking and carpentry. Based on his comments and appearance I guessed that he was in his mid-forties.

As we talked I admired his easy posture and comfortable way of speaking. He seemed so sure of himself and moved with a grace that came from self confidence and maturity. I've always found myself attracted to older men, but have never really wanted to admit it to myself. But if I was honest, my fascination stemmed all the way back to middle school and Mr. Barnes, my 8th grade gym teacher.

Yet despite that undeniable attraction, I had continued to beat my head against the wall with the young boys on campus. I had lost track of the number of drunken dates I'd had in the past year. And even the few fellows who managed to get me into bed had been utter disappointments. I kept thinking there had to be something better and this attitude partly explained my desire to go to Paris for a semester. Perhaps there I would find men worthy of falling in love with and giving myself to. Or, at least, I'd have fun trying.

But, I wasn't in Paris right now. I was in my kitchen, suddenly having somewhat embarrassing fantasies about Michael as he stood there leaning back on the counter, his arms and ankles crossed. My eyes flickered down ever so quickly to his crotch, which for some reason seemed like a focal point -- the way he was standing, the way his jeans gathered into a tight round bulge, the way he was looking at me.

I looked away, embarrassed that he might have seen me look at him. Yet he seemed to be looking at me in turn with a casual bemusement. Several times I felt his eyes wash over my body, drinking in my long lithe frame, and I watched his eyes smile kindly. The blood rushed to my brain and I felt just a little dizzy.

I finally grabbed my backpack and excused myself, knowing he had to get back to work, though I would have liked to continue our conversation. We had talked for a good half hour and for someone who had such a big job still ahead, he seemed to have found the time to chat with me like he had all the time in the world. Before I took my leave and headed for my room, I asked him one more question.

"Will you be back tomorrow, Michael?" I inquired, trying not to sound too eager, but hoping I'd find him upon returning from classes the next day.

"I will, Molly. Yes. I had the whole crew here this morning, finishing up with the main installation. But now I will be here the next few days dealing with all the fine points and details. So if you're around tomorrow, I'll see you then," he stated with a big grin.

I couldn't help but smile myself, hoping I wasn't exposing myself too much.

"Good," I stated emphatically. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I went to my room with my head spinning. I threw my backpack on the bed and looked at myself in the full length mirror; somewhat embarrassed that I hadn't arrived home looking a little more stylish. The yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt surely didn't show off my body very well, I thought. I would have to change that tomorrow. But right now, I needed to shower.

I began to take off my clothes to the soundtrack of a router and a screw gun. The thought that Michael was so close by and that I was taking off my clothes and exposing my body sent shivers down my spine and made me tingle with excitement. I pulled off my sweatshirt and pants and stood before the mirror in a cotton bra and panties; trying to observe myself as a third party might; trying to be impartial in my assessment.

As with any woman I could always find fault with my body. For me it wasn't so much that there was anything wrong; it was more that I just didn't feel like there was anything special, other than, perhaps, my ass. I was of average height, average stature, pretty, but not beautiful, with medium length dark red hair that I often wore up, as it was now. Like all redheads, my skin was creamy and pale with a few freckles here and there. But my hair was a dark shade and contrasted nicely with my skin. I unpinned my hair, shook my head and let my tresses fall over my shoulders.

I had been blessed with good genes -- thank you parental units -- and had a slender, but curvy body that didn't need excessive workouts to maintain its slim shape. Certainly my few past boyfriends, if you could call them that, had always remarked on my body in an admiring way. More than once I'd been told that I looked better out of my clothes than in them -- or that my body, once exposed, was rather a pleasant surprise.

My breasts filled out a 34B bra quite nicely and had a wonderful up-sloping shape to them. I reached behind to unsnap my bra as I continued my reflective assessment. There was no visible sag whatsoever, and my light pink nipples began to harden slightly as I cupped my breasts and lifted them together. My thoughts wandered to Michael, working just steps away. I wondered what he would think if he could see me at this very instant. The thought flooded me with desire and my thumb and forefinger came together on each nipple to twirl the distended tips. I caught my breath, imagining Michael's thick fingers doing the same as he whispered dirty nothings in my ear in that deep baritone voice of his. My body flushed and I felt a pang of desire descend and find a home deep in my pussy.

I opened my eyes and returned my gaze to the mirror, turning to the side and letting my hands wander down my body. My breasts stood in proud profile, my nipples sticking forth on the sloped cantilever of my bare white breasts. My panties hugged the lower curves of my hips and ass. I loved the outward swerve of my buttocks; the way they sloped so sharply away from my lower back and formed such a nice tight bubble of flesh. My last boyfriend, Dan, had loved my ass and couldn't keep his hands off it when we were together. I often felt it was my best feature. It did look good in a snug pair of jeans and I made a mental note to wear my tightest pair the next day.

I arched my back slightly as I stood sideways to the mirror and watched as my panty-clad mound protruded forth in profile. My right hand slid south and ran over my pudendum to cup my sex, already moist with the excitement of the afternoon. I thought of the way Michael had looked at me and imagined him wanting to see me, to touch me, maybe even to fuck me. That thought sent a roar of adrenaline through my body and my hand reached under the elastic of my panties and slid down so that my middle finger could descend into my slick slit. I couldn't believe how wet I was; how ready I was.

God, I needed to come so bad. It was then that I noticed the power tools had stopped. There was a silence in the air. Had Michael gone home for the day? Might he be standing right outside my door? I suddenly got nervous and stepped into the bathroom. I lowered my panties, now completely soaked with my excitement, and turned on the shower. I would take matters into my own hands under a steady stream of hot soapy water. I stepped inside and felt the water cascade over my body. And I thought about tomorrow as my hand settled in between my legs and I let the water drown my inhibitions.

Wednesday

I couldn't wait for the school day to end. I looked at my watch so many times that it became embarrassing. As my last class let out at 2:30, I bounded home, hoping to find Michael still there, hunkered over his tools and caressing the cherry wood. My heart leaped with joy as I rounded the corner of our street and saw his truck still parked in our driveway. I stopped at the door, took a deep breath, several in fact, then did my best to walk through the door as nonchalantly as possible.

I had a few things going for me that I had not the previous day. I was wearing my best jeans and I always felt sexy in them. They were very tight, caressing my ass and riding low over my hips. I was limited in what kind of panties I could wear in such jeans, so I opted for none. I also had on a tight black tank top and a slinky black bra. The top didn't quite reach the waist of my jeans, so I was managing to show some pale skin just above my hips.

With a confidence born of having more suitable clothes and having thought about this moment all day, I strode into the kitchen with an air of authority; like I owned the place, which, in a stretch, was true. I doffed my backpack onto a chair, shed my small jacket quickly, and headed for the refrigerator to get something to drink.

"Hi Michael," I announced casually as I bent over to assess the stockpile of beverages in the fridge. I could feel Michael turn to look at me and I could feel his eyes on my denim-clad ass as I bent over to make my selection. Such a tough selection it was too -- did I want water or water? I shifted the weight on my legs several times, knowing that my ass would be moving slightly as I did so. I felt confident Michael was watching me; drinking me in..

I grabbed a bottle and twisted the top off as I turned my body back to the room and shut the door. Michael was standing there with a power drill in his hand, which almost looked like a pistol he'd withdrawn from a holster. He was looking at me warily, with a glint in his eye that I couldn't quite fathom. I took a swig of water as I cocked my hip slightly to the side and looked at him without saying another word. He finally spoke.

"Well, look at you, Molly. You must have been out to impress some guy on campus today, young lady, because you look," he hesitated and let his eyes wander slowly down my body, "remarkable."

I loved the way his eyes seemed to caress my legs and couldn't help but notice how his intense gaze lingered on my hips and the bare skin of my tummy, peeking out seductively between my top and my jeans. I smiled, twisted the cap back on the bottle with a sharp turn and decided to talk shop.

"Thank you, Michael. Well, yes I did. Kinda," I stated vaguely, but truthfully. If he only knew. Or maybe he did.

"So how was progress today? What did you do? Mom's going to call tonight and I'm going to have to give her a full report," I warned.

As Michael turned to survey the room and began to point out and explain the progress of the day, I just took in this gorgeous man. The way he carried himself, with such self-assurance, such nonchalant confidence, made me quiver inside. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but all I really noticed was his unmistakable presence. I loved the way he pushed the glasses back on his nose as he spoke, the creases in his face that obviously came from smiling alot, the hair on his sturdy forearms, the way he gestured and moved his lovely hands. If there had been any doubt in my mind that I wanted this man, it was erased as he spoke in clear layman's terms about the work he had done and what remained to do.

I did my best to ask intelligent questions; to keep him talking. He waxed on about the Shaker style inset doors, the exposed European hardware and the fact that the cherry would darken with time and take on a rich patina. He made the cabinets seem downright sexy and his love for his craft, for his creation, was clearly evident -- in his voice, in his face, and in his gestures. I loved the way he moved and the way he laughed so easily.

But I also loved the way he kept looking at me. I could tell that he was noticing my body, which had been obliterated by thick cotton sweats yesterday. I could feel his eyes graze over my curves as we talked. He was subtle in his glances, but he made no effort to hide his interest in looking me over. And I loved it.

And since this was a two-way street and I was, after all, the woman of the house, at least for the moment, I allowed myself the right to survey the male landscape as well. I let my eyes wander over his slender, but muscular, physique. He was, once again, wearing the craftsman's uniform of old blue jeans and faded corduroy work shirt. The top two buttons were undone and a thick thatch of dark hair bristled from just above the third button. His thighs looked strong and powerful, his shoulders broad enough to take on any task. But I absolutely loved the way his whole physique narrowed into a slim waist and tight round buns.

"I wish I knew more about woods," I declared out of nowhere. I was desperate to keep this conversation going, but unsure how to continue talking about something I really knew nothing about. Michael cocked his head to the side and gave me that knowing look, his eye crinkled in a wonderful smile.

"Well, I tell you what, Molly. If you come home the same time tomorrow, I'll give you a little course on wood technology. I teach a night course at the community college and I have all sorts of samples and props that I can show you. I'll teach you a little about different species, the different types of cuts and grades, the difference between softwoods and hardwoods. I'll give you a crash course and we'll call it a freebie on account of your parents being such wonderful customers. What do you say?"

This idea sounded marvelous. For one thing it meant that he'd be back again the next day and not sending some minion. For another it meant that he had at least a modicum of interest in continuing our dialogue. I agreed, of course, but took this as a sign that he needed to get back to work. We'd been talking for more than a half hour and, if was going to carve out part of his afternoon the next day for me, I knew he needed to continue on with the installation.

"Oh, Michael. I would love that. Please. I'll be here right at three o'clock. I can't wait," I gushed.