tagRomanceThe Mathematics of Love

The Mathematics of Love

byMoondrift©

"You cannot understand how a woman feels about these things, dear Robin," Carenza said as she stroked my face. "When she trusts and loves a man and feels that her love and trust is returned, she will give herself to him, and that is how I feel with you. I have let you get to know me as I have never let anyone know me since the time of my pain."

We had just finished our first act of sexual love together and my penis was still in her vagina. She lay beneath me looking up at me with her disconcertingly grey eyes; eyes that I thought would detect any lack of sincerity in mine.

It had been an amazing and sometimes frustrating journey from the time I first came into close contact with Carenza, until the moment when I could no longer hold back my feelings for her and I summoned up the courage to tell her I loved her.

She had made no reference to our age difference or any other obstacle that might exist between us, she had simply said, "I know dear Robin, I have known for a long time, and if you wish to fulfil our love, then know that I love you and want to give myself to you."

All this may sound very stilted, but if you understand the circumstances, innocuous in themselves, that brought us together, you might better understand how we came make love.

* * * * * * * *

It all began when I was fifteen and we moved into Wattle Avenue in what might be designated as a "Leafy executive suburb." It was a suburb mostly populated by those described as "Upwardly mobile."

We moved there after many changes of houses in different towns and cities as my father did his upwardly mobile thing working for a large brick making firm that has plants all over Australia.

My mother and I had trekked around after him ever since I had become conscious of such things, and from what my mother told me it had been like that ever since they had got married. She, a nurse, had gone from hospital to hospital, but then, nurses were in great demand.

Arriving in Wattle Avenue my father had announced that there would be no more moves. I assumed that my father's upward mobility had finally reached its zenith and would now either flatten out or decline. In practical terms he had been made production manager of one of the larger of the firm's plants.

Most of the houses in Wattle Avenue had been built during the nineteen sixties by a speculative developer on land that until then had been market gardens. In the fashion of that time the houses had been advertised as "Luxury Executive Residences," and on resale were still advertised in similar terms.

Quite what the "luxury" consisted of I am not sure, unless it referred to the walnut veneer covered chip board used for the kitchen cupboards, and the blue coloured bath, hand basin, toilet pan and cistern, all of which were festooned with shiny fittings that were incredibly difficult to maintain when you needed to replace a washer.

There was one house in the avenue that was markedly different from the rest. It had once been the residence of a market gardener and had somehow escaped the depredations of the developer. In fact it would be better called a "Cottage," especially as it bore the name, "Willy Wagtail Cottage."

It was of late nineteenth or early twentieth century vintage and was the only place that had the wattle trees that the name Wattle Avenue implied. The rest, if they had ever existed, had been swept away by the developer's bulldozers during the housing construction of the sixties.

Residents in the avenue found "The Cottage," as they called it, mysterious on two counts. The first was the fact that the place seemed to be buried behind a screen of trees and bushes, making it almost invisible to anyone passing it. The second count was the person who now lived in it.

Since much of my story concerns the lady who lived in the cottage I shall now relate what was factually known about her at the time we first moved in next door to the cottage.

Her name was Carenza Kremko; she had moved in about three years before we arrived; she worked as a mathematics teacher at the "The Adult College," a place of second chance for those who had failed high school and adults who wished to improve their education.

Every weekday morning at 7 a.m. she was seen to leave the cottage wearing a track suit and set off running down the avenue and beyond. She returned at 7-30 a.m. At 8-30 a.m. her small blue car left the cottage driveway bearing her to the college. At 5-30 p.m. she returned.

The Avenue widow peepers also reported that she sometimes went out in the evening.

On Saturdays she emerged at 8 a.m. and must have taken a longer run because she did not return until 9-30 a.m. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons she was sometimes observed working in her front garden; at other times she worked in her back garden -- I had reason to know this because I could see her from my bedroom window.

It was known that she went to Lutheran Church on Sunday mornings. Mrs. Hodge was the first to announce this because she had seen Carenza's car in the church car park. This was later confirmed by Mrs. Gregs who actually saw Carenza leaving the church one Sunday morning.

That she was a "foreigner" was known, partly because one of the girls in the avenue, Pamela, attended Carenza's classes, and partly because some avenue residents had actually talked to Carenza, and all reported that she spoke very good but over-precise English with an accent.

That was about all that was factually known of Carenza around the time we moved in. It was said of her that she "Keeps herself to herself."

All that is left to do in describing Carenza is to relate the rumours, gossip and stories that were spun about her, most of which were subjective conjectures, even when they claimed to be factual. These I shall give in summary form.

It was conjectured that she was in her late twenties.

The people in the avenue, not being skilled at picking what accent came from where, or from where a name derived, she was said to be, "Polish, Hungarian, Rumanian, Czechoslovakian, from the former Soviet Union, the former Yugoslavia, the former German Democratic Republic.

She had fled from civil strife in her country of origin; she had escaped from a labour camp; she had fled from a husband who abused her; she was a spy for a sinister foreign power or alternatively the CIA, which was much the same thing.

Depending on your taste, she was extremely good to look at. Most of the men in the avenue seemed to be of that opinion; the women tended to be somewhat disparaging about her looks.

Pamela who had frequent contact with Carenza through the college said, "She's very sweet and a wonderful teacher." She added somewhat sourly that "All the boys in the class fancy her like mad."

The rumour had it that she'd been married to a man who had been executed by the state; he had committed suicide; he had died from AIDS; Carenza had murdered him; she had been married to a man to whom she had been devoted, but he had left her for another woman and this had made her bitter about men; and finally she had never been married.

On those evenings when the window peepers observed her leaving the cottage she was going to meet a lover.

Mr. Baillie swore that he had seen her at 1 a.m. in town soliciting in the High Street, approaching the kerbside crawlers, into one of whose car she got. One might wonder what Mr. Baillie was doing in High Street at 1 a.m., especially as he was an elder in the local Presbyterian Church.

Some modification of the conjectured Carenza evening activities was called for when, having received complimentary tickets for a performance of William Shakespeare's play, "Othello," Mr. and Mrs. Dogbed, saw her in the theatre stalls, apparently unescorted.

Rumour came alive when a plumber was seen to enter the cottage, not to re-appear until an hour and a half had passed. Sadly this rumour lost its effervescence when Pamela pointed out that Carenza had been plying her mathematical trade in the college at precisely the time the plumber was plying his trade in the cottage. Carenza must have given the plumber a key to the cottage so that he could do whatever he had come there to do.

Given the apparent absence of men in her life, it was suggested that Carenza was a lesbian. This rumour also failed to pass the winning post because no women had been seen to enter or leave the cottage apart from Carenza.

Some communication had passed between Carenza and avenue residents -- mainly women. They met her in the shopping mall and had passed the time of day with her. All reported, either willingly or reluctantly, that she was a pleasant sort of person, but one who was hard to get to know. It seemed that any attempts to probe the more personal aspects of her life were turned aside.

* * * * * * * *

Now I must relate something about myself. Being fifteen when we moved into the avenue I was on that pivotal point between childhood and maturity, masturbation and my first vaginal penetration, and the constraints of childhood and the alleged freedom of adulthood. One unpleasant aspect to this alleged freedom was the approach of the moment when you have to "Decide."

The frequent changes of location that had been my life up until then had meant frequent changes of school. These moves had a deleterious effect on my formal education, although I believe my father attributed my academic backwardness to my being a moron.

Informally I had received a great education as a result of my travels. I had explored so many towns, cities and had wandered over much countryside.

In one person I was most fortunate, my mother. I had noticed since I was quite young, how constrained my peers were during childhood. They were barely allowed outside the school or home gates and were transported everywhere in cars by parents anxious about the murderers, rapists and child molesters that haunted their imaginations. I on the contrary was given freedom to roam.

In later life I asked my mother why she had been so willing to let me wander far and wide as a child. She replied, "I could see you were a child that needed your freedom; it was hard for me and at times and I was terrified, but I had to let you go. I was so grateful that you never came to harm."

I never did come to harm, but there was one near miss about which I've never told her or anyone until now. I was approached by an adult in a public toilet who, displaying his penis, asked me if I'd like to play with it. Instinct caused me to flee from the scene.

You may recall Pamela's complaint that the guys in her class at the college all fancied Carenza. This worked in my favour since the guys were for some time so set on bedding Carenza they failed to see the riches that surrounded them.

Pamela was my first sexual experience, but alas, in time the guys realised that their languishing for Carenza was going nowhere, and so they resorted to the girls who were available. That's when Pamela started to play the field -- well, maybe there's some other explanation but this one sounds okay to me.

But I stray, and what I'm leading up to is my, "Now then my boy," experience.

This came about just after I had finished my penultimate year of high school and I was seventeen; as usual my results in mathematics were abysmal. Being fair to myself, I had always been good at English, and I did creditably well in history. Unfortunately my father considered that the only worthwhile subjects were maths, physics and chemistry.

He chose an evening to confront me when I had arranged to go to a girl's house (not Pamela's). Her parents were going out for the evening and this indicated that we could copulate in comfort instead of on the back seat of my rather small car - have you ever experienced the necessary athletic contortions needed to attain penetration on the back seat of a small car?

Of all evenings my father had to choose that one for his paternal confrontation.

"Now then Robin, it's time..."

"Dad, I've got to go, I'm meeting..."

"It's time we considered your future my boy," he said portentously, ignoring my interruption. "Have you got any idea what you want to do in the future?"

"Well, I go back to high school next..."

"What's the point, you've barely scraped through year after year and I don't see that changing. I think it's time for you to be gainfully employed."

"Er...doing what, dad?"

"On your record I've thought of giving you a job at the plant labouring."

"Sid." Mum the negotiator stepped in. "I think you're being unfair to Robin, his education has been very disrupted over the years and..."

"He's had a couple of years at one school now and..."

"Sid, please don't interrupt me when I'm speaking."

"Sorry," dad mumbled.

"What I was going to say was that he might as well finish high school properly, and I don't think labouring in a brick making plant is really what he's suited to."

"Well, what is he suited to?" dad asked rather irritably.

"Why don't you ask him what he wants to do?" mum said patiently.

Father turned to me and asked snappily, "Well, what do you want to do?"

"I want to be a civil engineer," I replied.

I could see his face turning puce; it seemed to start at the back of his neck, spread to the front and then creep up to diffuse his face.

"You...you...you want to be a civil engineer...a bloody civil engineer. Boy you're more stupid than I thought you were."

"Sid," mother said menacingly.

"All right...all right...you tell me how he can be a civil engineer with a maths level of about an eight year old."

"It's not as bad as that, Sid, and we should give Robin at least this last chance in high school."

"He's had all the chances he needs and if he hasn't..."

"All right Sid, it may turn out that he won't be able to be a civil engineer but with the subjects he does do well in at he could..."

I was annoyed by the way they were talking about me as if I wasn't there, so I chipped in, "I want to be a civil engineer...that's what I want to be."

They both stared at me as if I'd just arrived, and the mother said, "And don't you interrupt me either, Robin."

"No mum." Nurses can certainly be very authoritative.

"I was going to say that you can do better than labouring."

She turned to my father; "If Robin really does want to be a civil..."

"I do..."

She gave me a withering look and went on, "I suggest we get him some coaching in maths."

"That'll cost..."

"And if you're worried about the money Sid I'll pay for it out of my salary."

That winged father's pride like a duck in the hunting season.

"I didn't mean that...oh well if you think its worthwhile let him have his last year at high school."

"And the coaching?" mum added.

"Yes, yes, and the coaching," father said audibly, and then muttered something like "Much good it'll do him."

"What was that Sid?"

"Oh, I was just saying it will do him much good if we can find the right coach."

"That's easily settled Sid; Carenza Kremko."

"Carenza Kre...does she coach? I've never heard of her coaching."

"Sid darling, I don't know whether or not she coaches, but we can ask; I hear she's a very good teacher and..."

"Pamela says she's first class and..." I started to say.

Mother gave me another withering look. "I shall ask her, and if she doesn't coach herself she might be able to recommend someone who does; all right?"

"I suppose so," dad muttered.

Game set and match to mum, and to me one place removed.

For the time being I was saved from the dark halls of brick-land and the idea of being coached by Carenza had a definite appeal.

However, I had an immediate concern so I asked, "Is it okay if I go now?"

Father glanced at me irritably and said, "Yes...yes...just go, get out of my sight." He's always been a bad loser.

I hurried out to my car and sped to my current beloved. When she opened the door to me she whispered, "Mum's got the flu and they haven't gone out."

So it was the back seat of the car again and a nigh on dislocated spine.

* * * * * * * *

Back to my main theme.

Now take into account that I was a horny teenager, and although I'd never taken any particular interest in older woman, I had first become intrigued with Carenza because of the mystery with which she was surrounded -- or maybe it's more accurate to say the mystery with which the avenue people surrounded her was intriguing.

When she was working in her back garden I would sometimes watch her from my bedroom window. When the weather was warm she usually wore a pair of tight shorts and a loose top. She was around five feet seven or eight tall, and dressed the way she was a slim figure was indicated.

At the same time she rounded out nicely in those places where women are ideally supposed to swell out -- hips and breasts. Since you will no doubt want to know, I guessed about 32B bras; not that she seemed to wear bras when she worked in the garden. I thought her legs were such as to cause a monk to forget chastity

When she bent over to do something and her posterior was turned in my direction I could see nice tight buttocks, and given the distance I was observing her at it might have been imagination, but I thought her shorts sank into the long groove of her vulva.

She was a very nicely put together lady and after watching her for a while I often had to resort to my bed to masturbate.

Only a few times had I come within close enough range to observe her other features, but when I did they did nothing to detract from the rest of her.

Honey coloured hair that fell in tumbling curls and waves, her face seemed to nestle in this gorgeous flurry as it descended to her shoulders. Her disconcerting grey eyes I have already mentioned. She had an amusingly pert nose that looked almost like a child's, and below it a wide mouth with nicely moulded lips that turned up at the corners as if in a perpetual smile. Her neck was long, white, and elegantly swan like.

It was therefore with some excitement I anticipated actually entering the cottage of mystery and being in the presence of one who was rapidly becoming something of a fascination for me. Small wonder the guys at the college fancied her.

When the moment came for me to ring her front door bell my feelings were less sanguine. What would she think of a seventeen year old whose mathematical skills had not got past decimals and fractions?

When she opened the door confidence was partially restored. She smiled her welcome displaying small white teeth, and then bade me enter.

She led me down a corridor from which rooms led off and we entered what seemed to be a cross between office, study and library. There was a beautiful golden oak desk with a swivel chair behind it, and to one side a table with a computer and a telephone on it. The walls were lined with well filled bookshelves and under a reading light a small table with a couple of books on it and beside it an armchair.

Everything was neat and tidy, rather like Carenza herself, accept for her tumble of hair.

There was one object that did not fit into that room; it was a chair that stood beside her swivel chair. It was obviously a kitchen chair and given the harmony of the rest of the room I wondered why it was there; then it occurred to me; I was one of the few who had ever entered the cottage, and more than that, I must have been in her inner sanctum. She had never needed a chair for visitors in that room.

I took careful note of all this because I knew my mother would be interrogating me about the place.

Carenza indicated that I should sit on the kitchen chair and she sat beside me in the swivel chair.

Her sheer physical closeness was enough to distract me, but it was her faint fragrance that smelt like a mixture of honey and roses that really had me disturbed.

"When would it be convenient for us to get together?" she asked.

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byMoondrift© 9 comments/ 31157 views/ 13 favorites

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