Much Love Forever. M. Pt. 01

I'd paid the lawyer untold thousands for the privilege of giving my wife the house and a couple thousand a month in support. He billed me fifty bucks for some leftover clerical work. I sent him back a letter thanking him for letting her lawyer hand him his ass. I still owe him the fifty.

Meanwhile, the group that had bought out my employer decided that my services came at too high a price. The new group comprised mostly accountants -- British accountants, the very worst kind. They put me off payroll and promised me about half-salary in consulting work. Between that and a couple of their high-profile clients, who went with me, I was able to keep up my living standard.

All that done, I decided that summer to take a couple months off, to get out of the city, clear my head, and decide what I wanted to do with the next 40 years. I liked the idea of living near the bay, away from the tourist stops, maybe a shack on an inlet where i could toss out crab pots in the morning and have a meal by evening.

I called an old friend, Frank, whom I'd known off and on since high school. Frank had some bayside properties, and I figured he could get me started in finding something, somewhere -- anywhere. . .

A few days later, Frank called back.

"Joey," he said.

"Yeah Frank. What did you find me?"

"About as far from anything as you can get." He gave me the location. "Sort of a village, sort of a glorified fish camp. Not too far from the ferry."

"How much?"

"Too good to be true, Joe, if you're up to some work. The owner has been there for forty years, but he's getting old and doesn't want to keep the place up anymore. He'll let you have it for the summer in exchange for some, uh, home improvements. Otherwise, absolutely free."

My god, I thought. "What kind of work?"

"Some plumbing, wiring. Needs new windows, new roof. Nothing you can't do."

Frank was right. This sounded too good to be true, and it was. The place had two bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room and laundry. The roof leaked, the kitchen fixtures were rusty, everything in the bathroom dripped (plus some rot in the floor). The plus? It was a hundred yards from the water and had a nice, covered front porch.

Yes, it needed a lot of work, but it could be made liveable pretty quickly.

I sat down with the owner, a long-retired gentleman who wore a plaid jacket and a summer straw hat. He told me he'd built it in the 1960s as a vacation getaway, and he'd spent summers there every year since. He told me what things he'd like to see done first, and I ran a mental budget to see what I thought I could do.

Mr. Cabell's intent, he said, was to have the cottage fixed up so he could rent it. Without much further discussion, we worked out and signed a two-party lease, and I had a home for the summer.

Mr. Cabell, the owner, had left some older furniture in the house. I brought a few business items, some comfort pieces, a bed, and what clothes I thought I'd need for a summer at the shore. Oh, and tools -- a table saw, vise, clamps, a bunch of 18V utility hand tools, and the usual box of hammers, wrenches, bits, and so on.

In a week, I had the walls painted and the leaky faucets in the kitchen and bathroom repaired. I decided to start on the roof, which was not large and needed only shingles to be made tight. Within a week, the place had begun to appear comfortable.

Meanwhile, I began to make acquaintance with some of the neighbors. Most were older people, folks like Mr. Cabell, who had been coming here for years. Some had moved on, leaving the properties to their children -- people closer to my age. There weren't many of those.

I assumed the woman and girl whom I saw out walking occasionally were of this next generation. A county road led into the village, then dwindled to a lane that dead-ended at the water's edge. The bayfront had sort of a small beach, and I'd see one or the other or both of them, sometimes in company with others from the community, walking to the beach.

I couldn't do much for introduction, as I spent a couple of hot days on the roof, popping the new shingles over the old, flaky ones. The woman and the girl stood out because both were blonde. I guessed the woman was, say, 40 or so, and the girl about 20, perhaps. From similarities in coloring, build and carriage, I guessed also that they were mother and daughter.

It came as a nice surprise when "mother and daughter" walked up the sidewalk toward my cottage late one afternoon. I had changed out of my work clothes and sat in a chair on the porch wearing only swim shorts. I said hello, smiled, and told them I'd be back. I went in the house, found a shirt and pulled it on, then went back to the porch.

The older woman smiled, perhaps at my modesty. The girl also smiled.

"I guess we're the welcome committee," the woman said. "My name's Michelle -- Chelle is what I go by. This is my daughter Ishtar. We call her Star. I still don't know what got into me to name her that."

Star looked askance at her mother, as if performing a fragment of an old comedy bit. "The Evening Star, mother," the girl said.

I put out my hand and shook first Chelle's hand, then Star's. "The star of Babylon?" I said, trying to place the name in some mythology. "Something like that," Chelle said with a little chuckle.

"Jack," I said. I'm not sure why, but I frequently protect my identity by giving false names to momentary acquaintances. "Jack" seemed to work this time.

I seemed to recognize something in Chelle -- her voice, her face, even the feel of her hand. The sense was faint, and I let it pass. "I'd offer you something to drink. All I have is iced tea. Come and sit down and I'll get you some.

Chelle and Star came up the creaky porch stairs and sat each in one of the chairs set out the open deck. I went to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice and tea, and brought them to the girls. "You look like the sun got you," I said. Both were tanned dark, their blonde hair lightened by the sun. Chelle wore white shorts, a light-blue t-shirt, and flat sandals. Star had on a cotton robe over her swim suit, with flip-flops on her feet.

"It IS hot today," Chelle said. "Summer's finally here. About time I guess, seeing it's the end of June. We've been down on the reef for a couple of hours, thinking it might be cooler late in the day. We usually go down there a couple hours a day."

"No such luck," Star said. "Mother, do you have any aspirin? I have such a headache from the heat." Chelle dug in the small beach bag she carried and handed her daughter a bottle of drug-store brand pain reliever.

We began to talk. They lived in a cottage similar to mine a little way back up the county road, a hundred yards or so. Their house was well-maintained and had been redone in the past two years. Chelle taught school in Maryland, somewhere in southern Maryland, and was here for the summer break. She also received a supplement, alimony from her ex-husband. They had been divorced for a year.

Star had a bit of an independent nature, just short of rebellious, and she and her mother seemed more like close friends than like mother and daughter. Star had been born when Chelle was 22, and he'd married Jimmy three years later. He was a good man, Chelle said, and he had taken in Star as his own. She didn't seem to want to say much more -- and I really didn't care to go into detail over my grim divorce. "We just grew apart," Chelle said.

"Why don't you two come inside," I suggested. "It's a little cooler in there." They looked quickly at each other, then gratefully accepted. I had two big box fans in the living room I set one up in front of a wicker chair, and the other I set toward my desk and work gear. Star quick got into the wicker chair. She leaned back and closed her eyes, her arms hanging over the arms of the chair. Her robe fell open and her knees parted, letting the air from the fan cool her.

I looked at Star, and it became clear that both women were quite attractive -- not in the conventional, magazine sense. I saw in both a self-reliance and certainty, an easy comfort each with herself and each with the other. Chelle tempered her nature with maturity and what seemed like a native wisdom. Star was a mirror of her mother, in full young flower.

* * *

I might have looked a little too long at Star, and I caught a hint of reproof in Chelle's smile as she sat in the chair next to mine by the desk.

"I don't know what to do with that girl," Chelle said, again in mid-routine. "Oh, MOTHER," Star complained. "I've tried to get her in school. She got a scholarship to Eastern Shore and didn't make it through first semester. Last year, I had her in community college -- same thing. She gets tired of it and quits. So she worked at Food Lion all winter and spring, came home every day saying she hates the job and has a different boyfriend every two weeks." She laughed. "I wish I could do that well."

I laughed too. I had had a few close encounters since the divorce, but nothing I'd write home about, I told her. "It's tough," she agreed. "It takes a couple months just to get over the bitter part of you, and to get over him. Then, when you try to get going with somebody else, you almost feel guilty about it."

"Right," I agreed, then let my guard down. "You feel guilty, but only up to a point."

Chelle gave me a queer smile, and honestly, I'd swear I'd seen that smile before -- many times. I began quickly shuffling memory files, trying to place what was so familiar about her. Co-workers? Former girlfriends? In-laws? Nothing really rang up.

"Look, you're welcome to whatever you'd like," I said. "There's plenty of tea. If I look around, I might have a bottle of wine, maybe some gin. I don't drink it. I quit four years ago -- had to, doctor's orders. There's some ham in there, some cheese, some bread. I should go check my pots and see if I took any crabs today.

"I'm fine," Chelle said. "Star, you need anything honey?"

"Can I get another glass of tea?" the girl asked. I nodded, and Chelle got up and went to the kitchen. That gave me a chance to get a longer look at Star, who lay in the chair, eyes closed, in an attitude of complete langour. The bay breeze had blown her hair almost to a tangle. Her lips were full and delicate, and she had long arms and legs -- an athlete's legs, soccer or tennis. She had kicked aside her rubber sandals.

"I see you looking at me, Mister," she said suddenly and without stirring at all. The words had not a trace of scold or reproach, just a statement of fact with a faint acknowledgement of flattery accepted.

Chelle returned with two glasses of tea, one for Star and one for me. She went back again and came out with a glass of chilled riesling for herself. I hadn't heard her open the bottle. "Cheers Jack, and thanks for the cold comforts," she said, touching her glass to mine. She sipped the wine quickly, then started to get up. I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

"I'll get it for you," I said. I came back with the bottle and set it on the floor next to Chelle's chair. We talked some more, nipping at details of what we do, what we hope to do, what we had done. The sun angled lower -- the clock on the PC showed 5:45, and Chelle had finished her third glass of wine. Star seemed to be almost asleep in her chair, next to the cooling fan.

" . . . and I admire men who work with their hands, who know how to get jobs done," she was saying. "You actually have this place looking good, at least inside. The paint is cheery, and it makes the house smell new." She got up and walked to the bathroom. "Needs some work in here, but I'm sure you'll get to it. When did you say you were going back?"

"Oh, probably end of August. My alimony case comes up that month, and if I get what I'm hoping out of it, I'll have enough to make a good restart," I said. "Let me show you . . . " I walked into the bathroom. Chelle, standing in the door, made no real effort to move, and I brushed against her as I went in. I pressed on the floor at the corner of the tub.

"This is pretty soft here," I showed her. "I'll probably have to replace the whole floor, which probably will be a hell of a job if I have to take the tub out." Chelle stood behind me, acting interested, and I felt her hands on my shoulders. I winced a bit. I hadn't realized I'd burnt some while on the roof for two days, even with the shade of the big poplars.

Her hands felt good. It had been a while.

Apparently, it had been a while for her too. Or maybe it was just the way she was. I turned in the small room, and she wrapped her arms around my waist and kissed me. My god, her lips felt warm and wonderful.

"I can do something for the burn," she said quietly. "Take your shirt off and go lie on the bed." I did as I was told, my excitement rising. I heard her cracking open a tray of ice in the kitchen. She came back with a plastic bag half-full of ice and began to rub it on my reddened shoulders.

"Very nice, Chelle," I murmured. She bent to kiss the back of my neck, then across my shoulders, her lips following the ice pack. She rubbed my shoulders and back with the ice for a minute or two. I turned sideways so as to face her, raised the hem of her shirt, and kissed at her belly.

We were both overcome at once. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a light-green swimsuit top, which I quickly released and tossed aside. She snapped aside the button on my shorts and tried to pull them off straightaway, paused to lower the zipper, then pulled them off, releasing my hardening dick. She began stroking my penis with her hand as I worked her shorts off, revealing her lovely, light-brown bush.

Her breasts were surprisingly youthful, with no droop or sag. I pulled her to me for a long kiss and a tight hug, pressing my hard dick against her, rocking slightly. Jesus, I needed this. I worked my hands free to caress the sides of her breasts, and she moved to let me squeeze them and tease the nipples, which were small and hard.

Chelle nudged me onto my back and slid down to my dick, now thick and hard as a pipe. She placed her lips over the head of it, swirled it with her tongue for what seemed forever, then lowered her head to take as much of me into her mouth as she could. She wrapped her hand around the base of it to make a stop, then swallowed the rest of it, sucking it in and out.

I was in heaven and in love. At times like that, it doesn't take much. "Please Jack," she said. "Please?"

I held her to me and rolled us over together, she on her back. She spread her legs wide and repeated, "Please Jack. Oh please, please." I raised myself so as to mount her and pinned her shoulders to the bed with my hands. I lowered my head to give her a hard kiss on the mouth, then began working my dick into her, in and out an inch at a time to wet us both, then drove it all the way in with a groan.

* * *

And we commenced the fabulous business of fucking -- this reaching for that, stroking at that, ripping and tearing, changing holds and grips like wrestlers. Chelle made her sounds of love, the screams and cries of pain and pleasure, in rhythm with my thrusts -- hard and fast, hard and slow, gentle and slow, the most magical dance in the world.

We rolled to put me on my back, and she mounted me at her pace, lowering her tight cunt onto my fat, hard dick, she now controlling the stroke, groaning and crying as she worked with my penis to hit the right spots, my ass tensing and relaxing so as to drive up into her. "Oh god Jack, fuck me Jack, god fuck me so hard, don't ever STOP . . . "

She had her orgasm, a fit of loud incoherent cries, as I held her ass tight against me, making her work for her strokings. She lay on me, somehow both weakened and strengthened, as I rolled her to her back again, determined to finish the job.

Again I drove into her, and again the volume of her cries rose. I took her hand and guided it to her clit, and she circled it with her fingers as I rammed my dick into her deep, up to her womb. I placed a hand firmly over her eyes and fucked her fast and hard, twisting to suckle at her nipples. I made my body rigid, tightening my ass so as to fuck harder and to summon up my building orgasm, my balls slapping at her ass..

Chelle came again, crying out and throwing her arms around my back and shoulders, then sliding her hands down to grip my ass and pull me into her. I fucked her harder, faster, a tangled frenzy of our two bodies. I asked if she was protected, and she spat out, "Yes, yes, I am, fuck me Jack, god fuck me, cum in me, please give me your cum."

That was all I needed. My nuts and my dick exploded with great force as I pounded into her, the wave of deep pleasure spreading up my back and down my legs. In and out I rammed all the strokes I had, gushing cum deep into her womb, into her tight, hot hole. God, it was glorious. We melted together, mated in satisfaction and affection. I lay still on top of her, idly stroking the curve of her waist, my dick softening inside her. Drained, weak and content, I lay my head between her breasts and felt joy.

At the door of the bedroom stood Star. "You kids having fun, are you?" the girl asked in gentle mockery. "I was dozing in the other room, but you two woke me up with, like, 'oh god, oh god, oh god', and all that.

"It was like, 'Wow Mother, It didn't take you long to find some business.' "