Schoolgirl Baby

Part One: The Catholic Girl and the Wolf

It would've been very easy for Charlie's house - or any of the houses in the neighborhood - to hunch over in sweat on this late day in May. But it did not. It stood proud among the trees and bushes and flowers he had spent so many hours planting and perfecting. Both in his work and private life, Charlie wanted everything

just so

; things were not right unless

he

said they were. In this way, he was a deity of the suburbs.

Not too far from his house there was the local high school; in the other direction there was an apartment complex. It lied among the clusters of homes dotted along the tree-lined street. Both of these places - the high school and the apartment complex - began to concern him lately in the greatest and lustiest of ways.

In the apartment complex lived a young woman named Emma. She was a rather reserved, almost quiet girl, barely legal at the age of 18. From what he had learned of her in their short, clipped conversations and the gossip that tends to spread in a small, homey neighborhood, he had gathered that she was a high school senior and was already in the battle of trying to support herself in life. Emma also held a job at the local candy store; a very appropriate place of employment for a girl as sweet as sugar.

Charlie couldn't imagine anyone solely supporting themselves at that age. He himself had moved out of his parents' home in his early twenties, and even that was difficult. But that was a long time ago. He may now be in his mid-forties, but that did not stop him from remembering things as they were decades earlier; it was always a hardship to try and make your impact upon the world. But how she managed to juggle her high school career and her work at the store, he did not know. He marveled her at her multitasking. He marveled at her in other ways, too.

Every morning she would pass his house on her way to school. It was a Catholic school, and her school uniform was most appropriate: she wore shining Mary Jane shoes with long white socks that ended at her lovely knees; above that she wore her pleated and plaid skirt that occasionally would flirt and drift up in the weather's blow, and finally, during this time of season, she wore simply a conservative, short-sleeved, white button-up blouse. Her schoolbooks were often cradled in her left arm, and she was a Catholic vision to behold - almost a Virgin Mary among the suburban paradise she walked in.

Despite their brief pleasantries, he sensed so much more about her than he let on. Charlie sensed a sweetness, a kindness, a willingness that was rare in women of any age. He also sensed in her a quiet strength. Though she was in a bind, probably financially and maybe in other ways, she always straightened her back and her chin when she walked, taking pride in the woman she was and was becoming. Charlie delighted in witnessing the transformation, for his infatuation (and erections) for her were growing with each day as he saw her pass by, innocent to his predatory and lecherous intentions.

Charlie found her intriguing; she was a healthy and sturdy teenager. She stood 5'6" and he guessed her weight to be around 125 or 130 pounds or so. She was a stunning beauty with her long black hair that hung down her back and her light, sparkling green eyes that shone out beneath her modestly mascaraed eyelashes. She didn't need much makeup at all, Charlie decided; she was naturally cute in her youthfulness, as a few freckles were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, and her smile - that impish smile - suggested much more naughtiness within her spirit than her clothes and demeanor would imply.

Even with her angelic looks, her body spoke different volumes: her breasts were full and filled out the cups of her bra, her hips were not wide, but they were luscious in their tight curves, and finally, her legs - those little bare legs that were rarely exposed fully - made his mind wander in a thousand different directions. What, he pondered, lied between her milky thighs? He knew

what

but wondered if it was as pink as he had imagined. Her body was quite a handful, an abundance of swerves that seemed to hug snugly to her frame. The more clothes she wore, the more his mind wondered to what lied beneath them. If she were to wear high heels, she would challenge his authoritative but modest height of 5'9" and this battle seemed erotic to him.

Deep in the city, Charlie was a lawyer at a law firm. He was commanding, demanding, and strict - someone to be feared but also obeyed and respected. But at the sight of Emma, or the few words they might exchange occasionally, he often softened (and hardened) while he witnessed her girlish walk and that smile that crawled across her cheeks indicating her streak of mischievousness. She was like a playful kitten waiting for trouble. It was trouble he would love to give to her. If that time ever came, he decided, she would surely enjoy the toy in his pants that he would offer. He enjoyed it too, but he yearned for a soft feminine hand instead of his own.

In his highly observant way that came so naturally to him, he noted that a girl her age, alone in the world and perhaps a bit lost, should not be living alone; she surely attracted bad men, with her wide-eyed and childlike ways. It was dangerous, and after no deliberation, he decided that this danger drew him toward her even more. A young lady such as herself could use a bit of mature guidance, a slight nudging of a big hand upon the small of her back.

Emma, unknowingly, brought out the wolf in Charlie. Her naivete brought out the animal in him, urgent to corrupt the flower that she surely held at bay from the boys. But he was a man; he was different than boys. He had never thrown himself at her, never made any attempts at her sweetness, but if he were ever to do so, he felt confident that she would accept. He could show her all the madness and badness she inspired in him. He was ready to show her all the manliness that she was unaware of, every inch. Virgin or not, he loved her in the most wrong, forbidden of ways, and waited till the time to pounce was ripe.

Part Two: Humidity

That Thursday morning Charlie arose from bed and readied himself for work. He scrubbed, shampooed, and shaved in the shower, and then dressed in his bedroom. His naked body was average and now dry like a biscuit from his cleansing. He was of modest height and weight; his belly showed just a slight paunch, and his chest, wearing just a tad of dark, curly hair was broad, as were his back and shoulders. He held himself up proudly and strutted with a confidence - some might say an arrogance - that made people, especially women, tremble with a submission, even among the most domineering of them. That is, if they didn't roll their eyes at his macho ways.

As was his normal weekday custom, he smoked a cigarette as he prepared himself for work. He slipped on his black socks and blue checkered boxer shorts and a snug white undershirt. Next came his pinstriped suit: dark, soft, and double-breasted. The cigarette hung out of the corner of his mouth sexily as he watched himself in the full-length mirror positioned on the back of his bedroom door. In a gesture of finality, he knotted his tie up to his neck.

His face was handsome. He was good-looking, almost in a foreign way. Atop his head was a mop of dark hair, always combed back from his forehead. His lips were slightly full for a man's and set in the middle of his face was a pointed noise. His eyes, though, were the main attraction for most women: they were round and sparkling with mischief, a chocolate color sensual with suggestion as he undressed young women with his mind; his pants became tighter with every article he removed from their soft bodies.

But despite all of these attributes, it could not be denied that his brusque and rough nature were off-putting to some women. Some were uncomfortable or disgusted with his chauvinistic ways, and others were simply intimidated by such a dose of manliness. Either way, he felt good about himself. He knew women found his looks attractive, though not necessarily his personality. Besides, he was completely unapologetic for his flaws; if people liked him, fine, but if not, there was no use in trying to please them. There were very few moments of insecurity within him.

Smooshing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he tied his shined shoes, and grabbed his briefcase. Making sure all the lights were turned off and that the air conditioning was on to greet him when he came home, he locked the front door and jostled down the steps to his car.

It was bound to be one of the hottest days that the region had ever seen, at least, for that time of the year. Meteorologists had predicted that, by that afternoon, the temperature would rise to around 100 degrees or thereabouts. It was hot as hell already, and his body heat rose a bit more realizing that Emma was passing his driveway on her way to school. She looked so innocent, so lovely with the light in her hair. The stiff breeze played with her long, dark tresses and his customary morning erection became harder and wetter just looking at her. He wanted to introduce her to a world of sex that he was sure that she had little or no experience with.

She stopped for a moment and smiled, waving at Charlie, "Hi Mr. Finley!" she hollered. "How are you this morning?"

A trickle of sweat crawled down the side of his face. "Hello Emma!" he shouted back and grinned. "I'm hot, that's how I am!" he laughed.

Emma nodded. "I know, right?"

They stood there for a moment looking at each other in the brutal sunlight, beating down without pity or mercy. They were quite a paradox: a middle-aged professional and a naïve teenage girl dressed from head to toe in Catholic costume. His cock lurched forward; he needed her soft little hand wrapped around him, pleasing him.

She smiled at him good-naturedly with an unusual crook of her head and continued her stroll down the walk. It was time for them to go their separate ways for the day. But Charlie was concerned about her walking home in the heat that afternoon. Sickness from the heat was nothing to play with - it could get pretty intense.

He watched her walk away, that snug little strut of her ass that he always found so intriguing and sexy. He shook the worry from his mind. She was a healthy, sturdy young woman, she would be fine. His eyebrows scrunched in confusion over his worry and rare empathy. He usually was not made of butter like this.

Unlocking his car, he slipped into it and adjusted the dials and knobs, anxious to get the arctic air flowing. In the rearview of his mirror, at a tilted angle, he saw the schoolgirl frame of Emma strolling. She may be a bit reserved, but that girl could battle like crazy, he thought to himself. And he smiled. If a battle is what it took to get that girl in bed, then just call him a soldier.

Part Three: The Rescue

The motes of dry and dusted air filtered in through the blinds. Charlie sat in his Archie Bunker-like armchair and watched the television, although his mind was miles away. The program was some sort of game show with the host's plastic hair plastered to his head.

It had been a routine day at work, almost boring, one might say - the thrill of the law had lost its appeal long ago and he was simply going through the motions now until retirement. His home was flat and cool in the afternoon's blaze, and the living room in which he sat was dark. This was how he liked it. It was only half past three in the afternoon, but he could think of no place he'd rather be than sipping on his whiskey as he was now, wearing only his underwear.

Being only half-interested in the TV program, out of the corner of the eye he could see movement. Splitting the blinds with his thick fingers he looked through the blinds and could see Emma walking home from school. Only something was not right. She looked unsteady on her feet, almost sickly, and his quick-acting and surprising paternalistic instincts kicked in like a motor: he threw on his slacks that were on the sofa and jogged out to her.

The sun was beating down almost more blindly than it was when he came home an hour ago. He called out to her. "Emma? Emma, honey?" He approached her and gently touched her exposed, upper arm. She looked up to face him. Her face was beet-red, and her eyes were having trouble concentrating on one target.

"He-hello Mr. Fim-Finley. I- I don't feel too good."

Without thinking he gathered his strong arm around her petite back and held her under her soft armpit, leading her to his home. "No, and you don't look too well either, my dear. Let's get you inside where it's cool. Heatstroke is nothing to fool around with."

She nodded, looking at the ground and holding her forehead as if it pained her. Once inside, Emma ignored her surroundings, only wanting to sit and rest. Charlie Finley understood this completely and, again without the disadvantage of conscious thought, he scooped her up into his arms - her shoulders under his left arm, the wedge of her knees under his right - and walked through the living room, down the long, dark hallway, till they reached his bedroom. He lied the innocent girl down upon the made bed; she almost looked like an angel, with just a streak of light from the window highlighting her face. Emma turned away from the sunlight, and Charlie closed the blinds completely, the only light and sound filtering in from the sitting room.

He left her there for a moment and after a bit of fussing and fiddling in the bathroom and kitchen, he returned with a tray. It was a simple affair of a peanut butter sandwich, a tall glass of milk, and two aspirin. She managed a strained smile through her discomfort, and he helped her prop her body up against the headboard. Lying the tray across her thighs, he instructed her thus:

"Go ahead, darling, drink up and eat what you can and especially take the aspirin. It'll do you good to nourish the body and nurse your headache."

She looked up at him from her glass of milk. "How did y-you know I had a headache?" she asked, her speech now blending together in a more coherent fashion.

For some reason, the question struck him as odd. "Well, I noticed you were holding your head when you came in. Just a lucky guess, I suppose." He smiled at her gently.

She nodded and she did as he instructed. He sat at the foot of the bed. Her legs were outstretched in a straight line in front of her and his hand was only a few inches from her feet. He looked down at them. Emma - sweet and nearly harmless - glanced at his lowered eyelids, and, one by one, flipped off her Mary Janes, each massive chunk of shoe landing with a thud on the carpet. Her soft, white socks shaped their way up her calves. Unexpectedly flustered, Charlie swallowed. His mouth was dry as cotton and he licked his lips. He smiled uncomfortably and then spoke: "I guess I should let you get some rest."

Instinctively, he patted her boney ankle and got up from the bed and closed the door softly behind him, instructing her to alert him if she needed anything at all. She agreed.

Throughout the evening, he checked in on her periodically, the scene in his bedroom always the same: the tray on the floor beside the bed and Emma, sleeping, curled up like a sex kitten atop his blankets. Her skirt, which was loose, had crept up her thighs, and he could see a generous amount of panty - and a soft pocket of ass - peeking out from under one of the skirt's pleats. Her panties were a soft pink color with the edges made of lace. He noticed one other thing on this particular visit to his bedroom: her knee socks were off her smooth calves and lying on the floor next to her shoes. God, what a sight, he thought to himself.

He shut the door once more and went back to the living room. His erection was raging over this naughty schoolgirl. He dripped for her. And here she was, the sweet angel curled in his bed like it was no big deal. He recognized that he regarded it as a big deal and again questioned why his normal cavalier mindset had betrayed him in this instant. He couldn't deal with the tension any longer; looking down the hallway to make sure the door was still closed, he leaned back and took his cock out of his pants.

It was swollen and shone blue and purple. It was like a great and edible statue, a neglected statue, a wounded and sexy organ he wanted her to mouth and kiss with her bee-stung lips. From the tip leaked a generous amount of precum, looking for a warm home to shoot into. He loved every hole that a woman could offer but, at this moment, he wanted a teenage mouth wrapped around him. What heaven.

His thick, large hand stroked himself up and down with solitary pleasure while his free hand massaged his heavy balls that badly needed emptying; they were hanging with need, wrinkled and thin-skinned, ready for a French kiss from a little willing tart. And that tart happened to be lying in his bed at that moment, sleeping.

With a metal click, he heard his bedroom door open, and he quickly shoved himself back into his pants. From her point of view, she could not have seen what he was doing. He

wanted

her to see what he was doing, but timing was everything when it came to seduction.

Attempting normalcy, he sat in his armchair and watched the TV, only looking up when she entered the room. He smiled at her.

"How are we doing, pumpkin?"

She rubbed her eyes with balled fists and spoke sleepily. "I'm doing good, Mr. Finley. Thank you for rescuing me today."

"Nah," he said with a wave of his hand. "Please call me Charlie. Everybody does. In fact, I

insist

that you do so."

She giggled and sat on the sofa on the other side of the room. "Okay then. Charlie it is. I was really sick today. I'm glad you were here."

"I don't know where you'd be without me, kid."

She smiled and shrugged. Both pairs of their eyes directed themselves to the television and watched the healthy blue glow jump from the screen. They watched for a few minutes, not really looking at the current program, but more likely thinking about one another and the nearness of an attractive member of the opposite sex.

And Emma's attraction towards him had been quick and fast-building that afternoon. It resembled the speed of an average schoolgirl infatuation, one that she was only slightly aware of but had very little worry over. Occasionally she had found herself attracted to the rare older man, but these crushes were few and far between. But here was Mr. Finley -

Charlie

- just several feet away from her, almost close enough to reach out and touch. His bright, seductive eyes sparkled in the artificial light and her heart fluttered as if she had just found first love.

Charlie, for his part, was much less focused on his own stirrings and more interested in the bare little legs that presented themselves to him with such a feminine offer. True, they were crossed at the thigh and very ladylike, but he could've sworn her skirt had become shorter since he rescued her - could she have rolled up her waistband to hike up her skirt? Anything was possible. Her legs - which he was seeing naked now for the first time - were slim and shapely, shaved and smooth, and his erection doubled in pain just looking at them. They looked so touchable in the glow of the television.

With his wandering eyes, Charlie could see Emma blush at his sexual investigations. He did not blush. He rarely did. His dark eyes seemed to read her like a book, as if he could decipher every little fantasy that was frolicking in her mind, and it was with great pleasure - and maybe a bit of sadism - that he realized she had no other soul in the world to whom she could depend on in that moment. The moment was ripe for the picking, and there was no time like the present.