He had never wanted to be a "dirty old man" -- especially since he wasn't even 30 yet -- but she was pushing the idea on him. He'd spent his masturbation-time with thoughts of her the previous two weeks -- and usually that time was dedicated to fantasy-girls he'd never meet.

"Dirty old man" wasn't a man he man he wanted to be. But it was hard to fight the urge.

On the other side of town, Carrie was having similar thoughts about the man who was 10 years older, and 100-years more experienced than her. She had learned all she could about him; and felt she knew him like the back of her hand. Now she just wanted to feel him like she was feeling the front of her hand as she played in her panties at night.

Wade was the locally famous writer, which meant very little to him. Two of his novels had won some acclaim -- and one found its way as a made-for-cable television movie, so he was financially set for the time-being.

He was 28 and being urged to move to Los Angeles or back to New York to get involved in the up-and-coming writers circle, but he was content in Michigan for the time-being. He didn't enjoy the party-writing scene of LA and the pompous-writing scene of NYC.

And New York reminded Wade of his girlfriend -- who had passed away of cancer three years earlier.

So most nights his party and pompous scene was his house, hot tub and a bottle of Jack Daniel's.

Wade had gone to the local high school to promote writing when he first met 18-year-old Carrie. She had asked several intelligent questions about the profession. Most of the other kids just wanting to know about the Hollywood stars he had met when his second manuscript was turned into a screenplay and then into a movie.

He wasn't much on the idea of celebrity.

Carrie had impressed him with her questions about the chances of being published, how long it took to write a book and what inspired certain characters.

Wade gave the classroom of seniors his e-mail address -- and within two days, Carrie was sending him notes about her desires to be a writer as well. Even in just the letters she sent him, he knew she had the ability -- now all she needed was the luck he'd had. She had the skills and emotions and sensuality. For two weeks, the e-mails came on a regular basis -- steadily growing more brave and hinting of sexuality.

Sexuality. Something he'd thought about very little in the previous two years. Masturbation was just an exercise in clearing the prostate -- not an erotic experience as much as a giving into the need.

But here it was again. Feeling sexual about another person. A young woman who flirted heavily and made him feel 18 again -- that age where everything was tabula-rasa -- a blank slate. Where love was possible, sex was crazy and life was based on passions.

Carrie loved the fact that he'd responded to all of her e-mails. To all her flirtations, he had flirted back. The sexual innuendoes were laced like shoestrings in their more recent writings. She wrote about her loving when her pie-filling was warm; he responded by saying that was his favorite as well. He wrote about his pen running out of ink; she responded noting she would love to refill it -- and inspire him to drain his ink, everyday.

She'd tried to find out all she could about Wade since they'd first met. He was 28, his birthday was June 28, he was single and had two novels published. Wade also had numerous short stories in magazines and won an award for a piece on cancer survivors the previous year.

She'd passed his house numerous times in her gray Ford Tempo. She had his two novels on the passenger seat, a book of her writings and an excuse in her brain for pulling up to his home. Autographs. And to show off some of her writing -- erotic poetry.

Of course, she thought, he'd only believe that if he was deaf, blind and unable to smell her perfume. Her voice quivered as she spoke aloud to herself. "Hi, Wade. Hello, Wade. I want you, Wade. Is that okay?" she said to herself in her car.

And he'd have to be beyond legally blind to see what she was wearing. Tight, hip-hugging white shorts, a sleeveless, button-up red shirt that was losing a battle to keep her 34C breasts enclosed. Lucky for the shirt, her chest was also held in check by a lace white bra. Under her shorts, Carrie wore a new pink thong she'd
bought a few hours earlier with Wade in mind. They were already moist as she drove into his driveway. Fantasies of the man filled her head as she thought of him filling her body with his, and her soul with his kiss.

He came to the door just moments after her fist rapped on it -- Wade had been in his living room watching ESPN's Pardon The Interruption, one of few programs he enjoyed on a regular basis.

"Oh, hi," he stammered seeing the 18-year-old on his porch with his novels and another folder.

"Hi. I mean, hello, Mr., um, Wade."

"How are you doing, Carrie?"

"Um, good. I was wondering if you could sign these for me?"

"Sure. Of course. No problem. Can't say they'll be worth anything more ... but um, come on in."

He briefly wondered if his neighbors had seen the girl walk into his house, but he didn't care. She was 18 and he was a respectful adult. He wasn't doing anything illegal. Just helping another writer. Albeit a youthful writer.

"Please, sit down," he pointed to a couch as Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser debated football on the television.

"I wouldn't have thought you were much into sports, Wade," Carrie said. "Your novels are so much more ... intelligent." She didn't mention the love scenes he wrote in his first novel which were written so realistically that they made her wet just reading. She felt the lovemaking in her head as she read, and smiled as the novel's characters laughed in the afterglow -- like she thought it was supposed to be. The writer didn't seem to be a typical guy, but here he was -- watching typical guy TV. Sports.

He laughed. "Carrie, sports are intelligent. I'm not a stat freak -- but I like to know what is going on in sports. It's another part of life -- like what's going on in the news or on Oprah or MTV. I think to be a writer, you have to want to learn about as much as you can." He wanted to teach her as much as he could about life. He preferred learning by traveling, experiencing and talking with people who had life-experiences, but some television programming gave him insight he otherwise would never have.

She looked at his body as he sat down and wrote a note on the inside cover of the first book. His dark brown hair had just been cut a few days earlier. His darker eyes focused as the Sharpie pen glided on the novel. He was about six-feet tall and worked out regularly. He was wearing a Columbia University T-shirt and Nike shorts.

"You caught me in lounging mode," he explained, looking back up to her. "You look and smell very nice, by the way. You have a date tonight?"


"I hope you have fun." He thought he knew what she was indicating, but he didn't want to assume. She was 10-years-younger. He felt a bit like the main character of "Beautiful Girls." Wanting a much-younger girl, and feeling guilty for that want.

"I do, too," Carrie said. Butterflies flew in formation inside her stomach. She didn't know what to do to take the conversation to the next level. She'd had sex before -- but just with a boyfriend who was a bit clumsy about emotions and physical love. She had much better orgasms by herself than with her exboyfriend. Something told her an older, smarter guy would take her elsewhere.

"Would you read a few things I've written?" she asked.

"Sure. Short stories?"

"No. Poetry."

"I love poetry. Dabble in some of it myself. That's how I started writing as a teenager. I wrote lyrics for my best friend's band. Too bad they never made it big."

"Well, I don't know if these could be lyrics," she said -- cautiously handing Wade her notepad of poetry. He muted the television so he could concentrate on the words. She felt the weight of potential shame if he didn't like it, or even worse ridiculed him for her sexuality expressed in a poem.

He read through Carrie's first entitled "Sweet Surrender" -- about a girl giving herself to her lover. Underneath her name, she wrote the date -- the poem was a year old. Not only was it good, it was amazing. Somehow, it was both innocent and erotic.

Just like Carrie was.

He cleared his throat and looked to her. "Very," breathing as he found the right word "intense."

"You like it?" The weight of shame lifted.

"Carrie, you are a very good writer -- and that is a very good poem. I'm going to need a cold shower now, but I think that means it is a good poem." He tried to concentrate on the next writing -- titled "Come To Me." He noticed she'd written it the previous day.

Again, it was bathed in sexuality and passion.

"Did I mention you're talented?" he smiled.

"I think."

"You are. You write very ... well. I'm sure you could write anything you wanted to -- erotica, short stories, poetry and novels. And whomever inspires you is a lucky person," he smiled.

"You inspired the second one, Wade."

"Sometimes my luck surprises me," he responded. Carrie forced herself to stand and walked to him on his loveseat. She kneeled in front of him, closed her fingers on his knee and rested her chin on her hands. Her fingertips pressed against his thigh and she saw her exhalation move his leg hairs as goosepimples grew from his skin. She looked up into his eyes as his hand reached down to her face.

"You know I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking." He curled a strain of her brown hair in his fingers.

"What are you thinking, Wade?" Carrie grinned, kissing his knee. He adjusted his hips slightly to accommodate his swelling manhood.

"I'm thinking I'm too old for you."

"You're right. You shouldn't be thinking that," Carrie smiled.

"But I am. I'm aged to you, Carrie," Wade said. He exhaled again, trying to compose himself.

"Age isn't that much of a factor," Carrie said to Wade. Although she didn't completely agree with it, it wasn't like she was 15 and he was 87 on his death bed. They were both sober adults.

"Age wouldn't be much of a factor if you were five years older and I was five years younger. Then we'd both be 23."

"So you don't want to be with me?" She was feeling a crushing feeling on her chest. Carrie pulled away from his knee, her ass propped on her heels. Wade leaned forward and caught her hands as they were falling to her sides.

"Don't get me wrong. I want, desire and need to be with you, Carrie. Truly, honestly." He paused to find the right words. "I think you're incredible -- but I've been around the block and the next four blocks down the avenue. And I've got the scars. Anyway, right about the time you hit your sexual peak at 35, my prostate is going to be giving me fits," Wade grinned.

"I'll be good for your prostate." She reached along his Nike shorts and ran the palm of her hand along his growing cock.

"I think you'd be good for all of me."

"Yes, but especially your prostate."

He felt his defenses break down around him. As he began to lean down, Carrie leaned forward and met his lips -- both kissing hard against one another, tasting each others tongues like they were painting a canvass in one-another's mouths. Wade pulled her smaller frame to him and they both slowed, calming the intensity to savor the touch of another human -- something neither had experienced in months.

She giggled as he ran his tongues along her neck, and glided his fingertips down her sides. Tapping his fingers on the teenager's waist, she started laughing at the touch.

"Ticklish much?" he smiled.

"Very," she fessed up.

"Maybe we should slow down a bit?" he pondered allowed.

"Not after the thoughts I've had of you the last two weeks, Wade. I'm going to be either loving you or loving myself -- but I'm going to be doing either-or very soon and very close to you."

"Your fingers are very lucky digits," he smiled.

"I'd rather your fingers help."

Again, his defense crashed. She slowly stroked his hardness up and down through his shorts. She reached up his shorts and felt his warmth and flexed cock.

"Would you like to get in a hot tub?" he asked.

"Sounds fun. I've always wanted to make love in water."

They slowly maneuvered off the bed, kissing and touching.

"How far have you gone?" he asked -- hoping he wasn't breaking all sorts of taboos.

"I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're asking. I had a lover -- he was an expert in cumming in a few seconds and missionary style in the back-seat of his Geo Metro -- but nothing else."

"Just missionary."

"I've heard of other positions. I'm very curious about them," she smiled, kissing his neck and pumping her hand on his cock. His fingers parted her shirt, unclipping the buttons with one hand as he sucked on her tongue. Wade paused to turn on the hot tub, and pressing play on his CD player with The Beatles' Revolver album started singing "Taxman." As he did, she removed her hand from his manhood and pulled the T-shirt of his alma-mater from his torso. She kissed his lips, neck and chest, wrapping her hands around his back and running them down his spine.

He flared open her shirt, exposing her pert breasts. His other hand found the bra-clip on her spine. With a flicking of his thumb, the bra was undone. Wade leaned down and met Carrie's lips again as they kissed. With his hands, he pulled down her shirt first, and then draped her bra off her breasts, the garments falling around her feet. He leaned against the hot tub as she leaned against him -- the flesh of her breasts pressing down on his chest.

Wade lifted his young lover to the side of the hot tub, unbuttoned her shorts and looked into her eyes. She unzipped her shorts helping the process, and letting him know to continue. Wade stepped into the water, still wearing his shorts. He submerged his body on the side -- pulled off Carrie's white shorts and kissed her knee.

"Very beautiful. You're very beautiful, Carrie," he expressed -- his fingers touching the front of her thong. "Nice thong. Lucky, lucky thong," he smiled running his tongue up the inside of her thigh. He rested his mouth on her thong and sucked briefly, Carrie's legs falling into the water as he tasted the wetness of her pussy.

"I've never received oral before," she breathed. "Just given."

"Tragedy," Wade said -- pulling off her thong and tonguing her clit. "We're changing that," he added as he started to suck as the melodic guitars of "I'm Only Sleeping" strummed on the compact disc.

"Oh, yes," Carrie breathed.

She ground her hips against his face, enjoying the fact she was having sex in a comfortable area -- not a back-seat of a car -- and not having to worry about parental units showing up at her exboyfriend's house or police busting her at one of the lover's lanes in town. Her breathing was escaping her control as Wade lapped into her over and over again. He ate deep inside her, his tongue licking and his lips then taking her clit -- her favorite button -- into his mouth. She started groaning and moaning in pleasure as she felt herself start to cum five minutes later.

Wade licked and tasted her pussy flood onto his lips as the climax overtook her. He looked to her rising breasts, her hardening nipples, her gyrating hips and enjoyed the screams of her pleasure ringing in his ears. He moved up and kissed her belly, then held onto her hips and glided Carrie into the hot tub.

He kissed her breasts and held her naked body in the 89 degree water. He lowered her more into the tub until his lips met her mouth again. She bathed his hair in the water, and kissed his neck, wetting her long hair as well. She ground her hips against his leg and again found his cock. He moved her hand from his hardness.

"Enjoy this," he smiled. "Let yourself float," he asked, and maneuvered behind the 18-year-old. He cradled her body and moved toward one of the hot tub jets. "Spread your legs against the side, Carrie."

Feeling somewhat insecure, she decided to let her lover do whatever he desired. Carrie spread her legs against the side of the tub hearing the goofy-song "Yellow Submarine" begin. Thoughts of the waves of an ocean greeted her because of the song Ringo sang. Wade was behind her, holding her by her belly with one arm, then reached down to her clit with his other. Then he glided her pussy against the hot jet of water as he kissed her shoulder.

The pulsating sensation thundered against her passion and she immediately gasped in surprise, pleasure and excitement. The feelings intoxicated her body -- with Wade's lips on her sensitive neck, his one arm wrapped around her torso -- his fingers of one hand tickling her side, his fingers of his other hand enhancing the pleasure of the hot tub's secret: the pleasure jets.

"Oh my Gawd," she screamed after a few seconds. "Oh my Gawd. Every girl needs one of these," she laughed as she began cumming for a second time. "Oh my gawd, Wade ..." she screamed over and over on the jet.

After two minutes, he lifted her from the side and pulled her to the middle of the tub, kissing her in the three-and-a-half-foot pool of heated water.

"I want to make love with you, Wade," she smiled. Both of them were now soaked in water -- his cock leaking precum underwater -- her pussy wet with her own juices. She pulled down his shorts, pulled them out of the water and threw them out of the tub, landing in the pile of her shirt and bra with a smack. He moved back to the side of the hot tub. She fisted his hardness.

"You're big," she noted with desire spicing her voice.


"Bigger than my exboyfriend."

"Hopefully I'm better," he smiled.

"You've already pleasured me more than he did in a month of sex. He wasn't very good."

Wade touched her breasts and kissed her neck. His other hand returned to Carrie's hip. "What do you want to do?"

"Pogo Stick position," she said.

"You don't have to."

"I want to," Carrie said, crossing her legs over Wade's hips and straddling her pussy down onto his hardness. She lowered herself slowly, enjoying the sensation as they started making love. Her exboyfriend was barely four inches long -- she measured one time. Of course, she told him he was six inches long just so he wouldn't feel inadequate. But he was inadequate. Wade was feeling like he was twice as big already, and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to take him all into her body.

She kissed him hard. "How big are you? Are you one of those 15-inch guys I read about?" she moaned.

"No," he laughed and groaned at the same. "I'm just eight-inches. Damn, Carrie. Your body feels so wonderful." His cock stretched deeply into her body. They paused as she started to feel all of him inside her. She kissed him and as they fucked, the water around them splashed into their faces, mixing their kisses with heated water. The Beatles singing behind them as cheerleaders.

"Mmmm..." she moaned, climaxing lowly for a third time. "I'm cumming again," she reported as her pussy contracted on Wade's cock and she rapidly slammed down on his body. Wade pushed his feet up and the couple floated to the other side of the hot tub, his cock still impaling the teenager.

"Gawd, Wade. Missionary even feels great with you," she smiled, flexing her legs around his ass to bring his body deep into her.

"Good. I want everything to feel good to you," he responded. Water was taking several different forms in the hot tub now -- the water, her wetness, her wetness slick along his hardness, and the sweat coming from their bodies. They made love through three Beatles' songs in missionary. Carrie clawed at Wade's chest, leaving marks from her fingernails as she came for a fourth time.

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