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Subject: {FriarDave}JDR"Inger 1"( mF MF mmF anal )[1/5]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
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=====================
(INGER.STY)
(Copyright by the author, 1995)
=====================
INGER
By Friar Dave
Friar_Dave@mhbbs.com
PART ONE
Roger Tells It:
Raising a kid alone has got to be one of the toughest, most demanding
situations any responsible human could ever face. And I was pretty
well-off, financially; I can't begin to imagine how someone making
less than I do could manage it. I, at least, could always afford to
have someone stay with Bill during the day until he started school.
And I could afford to have someone be there for him when he came home
or when business took me out of town.
For the first six years after Monica left me -- Bill was just a year
old when she decided to head for the Coast -- we were very, very
lucky. Annie, a solid West Indian woman with a gently firm manner
about her and an honest and obvious love of children, took on the task
of "mothering" my son. They got on famously, and I came to think so
highly of her that when the INS caught up with her, I fought for her
as if she was family. I lost, and it broke all of our hearts to say
our farewells.
After Annie, our standards were very demanding. I must have
interviewed 40 candidates before settling on Moira, a tall red-headed
Irish lady of about 25. I explained to her about Annie, and Moira
understood immediately. When Bill asked her if she was going to be the
new "Annie," Moira told him that there could only be one Annie, and I
knew it was going to be fine. And it was, for five good years. I was
very happy to be one of Moira's sponsors at her naturalization, and I
was happy for her when she announced her engagement a year later.
Neither Bill nor I were happy when she added that she and her soon-to-
be-husband intended to move to South Carolina.
We -- Bill and I -- sat down and talked about our next step.
Bill's a bright kid. I'm not talking about a prodigy here. not by any
stretch of the imagination, but he's smart and he thinks things
through. I'd always made a real effort to make it clear that when
we're alone, he can ask or say anything without fear of retribution of
any kind. In fact, in striving to insure open communication, I was
overdoing it at the start. It had been Annie who'd warned me to
remember that I was Bill's father and not one of his friends from
school. A tough balancing act, but it paid dividends. We could talk.
"Dad, I'm 12. I don't need a nanny or a babysitter. I can take care of
myself."
"Bill, you're 12. You can't drive a car, sign a check, buy booze or
butts, or skip school. I'm not turning you into a latchkey kid. You're
my son, I love you, and I'm not leaving you alone."
He sighed heavily, something he'd learned to do when he knew I wasn't
going to budge on a matter of policy. I don't think he had realized it
yet, but he was also a very good-looking youngster, combining his
mother's big blue eyes and glowing complexion (marred at the moment by
the inevitable acne) with my size and facial structure and brown hair.
"But I'll agree with you: You don't need a nanny or babysitter. Let's
look into alternatives."
At that, he brightened. Bill loved a challenge. For most of the
weekend and over breakfast on Monday morning, we kept coming back to
the subject. Bill carried his project notebook around with him
everywhere, and whenever one of us had an idea or thought on the
matter, he painstakingly wrote it in the book.
Just before he left for school, he asked if this was a private
subject, i.e., only between him and me. I wanted to know what he
thought.
"I think the more input we can get on it, the better."
"Sounds good. Stay awake in school. And no drooling in English."
He did a moderately acceptable Groucho and headed out. The English
reference was to his teacher, whom he'd described as a "babe-and-a-
half." I was looking forward to the parent-teacher conference.
Moira came up with the winning suggestion, which Bill relayed to me
that night.
"How about a part-time housekeeper."
"We considered that, remember?"
"Sure, but -- " He flipped through his notebook pages. " -- but Moira
said maybe we should look for a college student who's got a light
schedule. Especially someone who might be able to tutor me for an hour
or so each day."
The more we talked about it, the better it sounded. One of the biggest
problems with a part-timer was school holidays. On those days, Bill
would be left alone until three or so. But a college student would
have about the same schedule and would therefore be available.
We moved fast after that. Because of our location -- a co-op in the
Village -- we concentrated our efforts on New York University, Parsons
and Baruch, all within walking distance (more or less).
The folks at NYU were helpful and after checking me out passed along
my name and number. We started getting calls. Most of them were
washouts on the first call, but I interviewed a few. In the meantime,
we were on a countdown to Moira's marriage and departure. The first
candidate showed up in fashionably torn jeans and tended to end every
sentence with "Y'know?" The second had a nose ring, honest. The third
enriched my life by telling me everything that was wrong with her
teachers, her roommate, her life, the city and the universe in
general. The fourth began interrogating me about whether I had
inculcated the "traditional sexist, racist white male views" in my
son. The fifth seemed like a real possibility until she began dropping
unsubtle hints that she'd be more than glad to take care of me, as
well.
Two days before Moira's wedding -- and after 18 failed interviews -- I
found one that seemed like a winner. She had good references, a good
class schedule and seemed to have the right background. When she was
14, her mother died, and it had fallen to her to oversee her four
siblings. No, she had no problem with taking a urine test, and she was
taking a minor sequence in statistics, so she'd be able -- and
willing -- to tutor Bill in the demon whose name is "Algebra."
Her name was Inger. Our first interview was right there at NYU, in a
conference room a few doors from the student aid office. She was
between classes, and I took note of her appearance. She was about
five-seven (good, because it gave her a couple of inches on Bill),
with hair the color of fresh-cut wheat and pulled back in a ponytail.
She had a good, strong face -- attractive but not quite pretty -- and
used her light dusting of makeup to emphasize her best features: great
lips and big, soft brown eyes. She was wearing a baggy sweater and a
pleated plaid skirt that came to her knees. If anything, she seemed to
be on the plump side. Her fingernails were clipped and buffed, and her
only jewelry was a digital watch, one of those cheap ones.
Inger spoke well, in complete sentences. From time to time, she would
hesitate, becoming silent as she thought. That really impressed me,
because it meant she had the self-confidence to prefer silence to
inane utterances; most people feel they have to fill conversational
space with noise.
Things went fairly well until I got to the tough part (for me,
anyhow).
"I don't want to pry, but I want to ask you a somewhat personal
question."
"I don't promise to answer."
"Fair enough. Inger, do you have a...a significant other in your
life?"
A moment of silence. "I think I understand your concern. I don't
really have a boyfriend. There was a guy I was getting interested in
but he turned out to be...inappropriate. And as busy as I am with
class and -- I hope -- working for you, I really don't have much time
for socializing."
She was bright, Inger was, and she recognized that I wanted to ask
another question but was holding back because it would have been
prying.
"Look, Mr. Millman, he was inappropriate because I found out he was
bisexual and not being safe about it. I am a big fan of living."
I felt myself blush. "Thanks," I mumbled.
Her wristwatch beeped. "I have to get over to Courant for a class.
I'll be glad to meet you again, but right now -- "
"No, I quite understand." I stood and held out my hand. "Let me talk
with Bill and let's see if you can come by and meet the subject under
discussion."
She smiled, and I was somewhat taken aback by the transformation. When
this young woman smiled, her whole face got into the act, lighting up
the entire room.
"I'd like that," she said.
Bill Speaks:
I don't know what I was expecting when I met Inger. The only Inger I'd
ever heard of was in the Swedish Bikini Team poster Ian has in his
room, so I'd had this image of Inger-Goddess. Instead, she's this kind
of big, squat college girl who dresses to hide her weight (I guess.)
But she was really nice, and most important, she didn't treat me like
a little kid. She asked me what I liked to do -- Dad gave me a look
that reminded me not to tell her *everything* I like to do -- what I
liked best about my best friend (Ian), and she was really interested
when I told her about my synthesizer keyboard. She asked if she could
see my room, and Dad said it was up to me. So I said, "Sure, if you
can stand it," and showed her. She took a look at my books and
computer and keyboard and magazines. She wanted to know which magazine
was my favorite, probably expecting it to be the Playboy. I told her I
really didn't have a favorite; I just picked up the one that looked
most interesting. She asked me why I'd picked the Playboy, and I told
her the interview with Zhirinovsky, because he's really nuts. Was that
the only reason? Well, sure, I told her, the pictures were okay, but
it seemed every model in the magazine was blonde and busty, like there
weren't any pretty slim brunettes out there. She laughed and said, "It
does kind of look like an ad for the Aryan Nations, doesn't it?" So I
figure if she's cool with that, she's okay. Even if she isn't with the
Swedish Bikini Team.
Roger Again:
It was pretty clear to me that Bill felt alright about Inger, maybe
even liked her. And she was happy when I told her we thought she'd be
fine. We worked out the schedule and the payment and that, I figured,
was that.
Moira's wedding came and went. We'd been invited, of course, but I
figured it would be an awkward situation, with too many of the
trappings of the feudal lord giving away a serving maid in marriage.
So Bill and I pleaded a prior engagement and sent a nice present (What
do newlyweds need most? Right -- a check) and about two weeks later
we received a postcard from Barbados simultaneous with a Thank You
note from Sooth Carolina. Try to figure the mail.
Bill seemed pretty comfortable with Inger, and I couldn't complain at
all. She took care of the housekeeping, and Bill usually had his
homework done by the time I got home from work. Inger told me that he
really was without a clue when it came to algebra, but she was working
with him on it.
A couple of weeks passed. The night of the parent-teacher conferences
arrived. Inger said she could cover the house for me that evening.
I met Ms. Allen, the famous "babe-and-a-half" English teacher, and
had to agree with my son's assessment. She was gorgeous, and she was
built. She was wearing a fairly conservative suit, but there was no
way she could hide that body or those legs. I noted the absence of
wedding or engagement rings and start wondering...
Anyhow, Ms. Allen was very forthright and business-like. Bill's
writing skills were quite good, though he had a tendency to let his
paragraphs run too long. He had a good grasp of chronological
organization, but he seemed hesitant about dialogue. Did he read much
fiction? No, I told her, his taste ran to non-fiction, especially
stuff with political content. She suggested I leave some Heinlein
collections around. Which got us talking about Heinlein, and then
science fiction in general, and we got to exchanging titles and
authors, and when our time was up she said:
"I've really enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Millman."
"So have I. Perhaps we could continue it over coffee or dinner
sometime?"
She smiled gloriously and we traded phone numbers, as well.
Hey, being a single parent isn't all bad after all, I thought.
When I got home, Bill was sprawled on the floor, eating popcorn and
watching "Dateline: NBC." Inger was reading a political science
textbook, occasionally using a yellow Hi-Liter on a passage.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Quite well," I told her, hanging up my overcoat.
"Did you meet Ms. Allen?" Bill chimed.
Inger laughed and closed her textbook.
"So he's told you about the babe-and-a-half?"
"He's hinted at it."
"She is rather attractive."
"I'm sure." Inger stood. "I'll head back then. Big test tomorrow."
I helped her on with her coat and walked her to the door. I handed her
an envelope. "Cab fare," I explained. She smiled and thanked me.
"By the way," I said. "I met Bill's algebra teacher. If he teaches the
way he talks, I'm amazed anyone is getting it. I suspect he's one of
those guys who picked it up instinctively and simply doesn't know how
to explain what he knows."
"Hmmmm...maybe if we started from scratch, Bill would do better."
"Maybe. Good luck on your test -- and thanks for the extra time."
"Mr. Millman, I'm joining some friends Friday evening. Would it be
alright with you if I shower and change my clothes here?"
"Of course. But thanks for asking."
Bill Observes:
Y'know, it's been three weeks now. I was starting to feel like Inger
has always been here. In fact, I sort of thought of her as, well, like
a guy, a buddy. I mean, she's in charge, but not bossy, and we talk
about stuff sometimes, and I just always thought of her as just plain
Inger.
Not any more though. Not after tonight. Not after she changed her
clothes and put on her makeup to go out with her friends.
Dad called about six, which is when he usually leaves the office, and
talked to Inger, and then she put me on the phone, and he told me
wasn't going to be home till 7:30, but that Inger was going to leave
at seven anyhow, and I was on my own, and he was sorry to be late but
he'd bring in my favorite Chinese. It was no big deal, really.
So about 15 minutes later, Inger excuses herself and goes into
Dad's bedroom with her bag and about 10 minutes later I hear the
shower running. Sure, I was curious, but this was *Inger*. I mean, I'd
never seen a real woman naked, but Dad always left Playboy and like
that around, and I've always looked at them, and now I'm just kind of
not interested unless it's a really pretty woman or someone unusual
(like that Tiffany Towers, who's got breasts bigger than her head!),
so I didn't really want to peek in on Inger, who never seemed that
attractive. Besides which, it would be sort of like violating her
privacy, and I respect her too much for that.
So at a quarter to seven, I didn't even look up when Inger came into
the living room, because I was watching Tek Wars. And then she asked
me if she looked okay. When I looked at her, I wasn't sure it was
Inger. She wasn't in her usual baggy sweater and baggy skirt or baggy
jeans with her hair pulled back in a pony tail -- no way. She was
wearing a black leather mini cut about halfway up her thighs, and dark
stockings and high heels and a gray turtleneck sweater, and she had
her hair combed out, and she was wearing more makeup, and Inger was
definitely a babe. I mean, Ms. Allen suddenly looked shabby in my
head. I looked her up and down, I guess with my mouth hanging open,
and she kind of laughed -- not mocking, but just amused, I guess --
and said, "I take that as a `Yes.'" So I told her the truth, just kind
of blurting that she looked gorgeous, and she smiled and puckered up
and blew me a kiss and said thanks, and I got the most incredible
boner. When she asked me to help her on with her coat, I think she
noticed it, but she just told me to behave until Dad got home, and
then she left to meet her friends, and all I could do was stand there
next to the door, smelling her perfume and throbbing to beat the band.
The hell with the band. Five minutes later I was beating the meat.
Roger Returns:
On the next Tuesday, I sat Bill down for one of our talks.
"Bill, I'm going to have dinner with a lady tonight." His eyebrows
went up. "Someone kind of new." I'd gone out with a few women in the
previous decade, and Bill had met a couple of them.
"What's that mean -- `Kind of new'?" He was genuinely -- and
understandably -- puzzled.
"Well, it means I've had coffee with her once, but we've never really
gone out. And it's someone you know."
"Inger?"
I had to smile. "No, not Inger. Good grief, no. I mean, she's
attractive enough, but she's awfully young for me."
"Dad, Inger is a babe-and-a-half. You should have seen her when she
changed to go out with her friends. I mean, forget Ms. Allen!"
I felt my face redden.
"Did I say something wrong, Dad?" He'd obviously mistaken my blush for
something else.
"No, not a chance." I grinned. "So you're having less trouble
concentrating on your English books?"
"Dad, Inger is definitely hot when she wants to be." He shook his head
and rolled his eyes. "So, anyhow, who's this date of yours?"
I blushed again. "It's, uh, your English teacher."
He blinked rapidly, twice. "You're shitting me."
"I shit you not." This was our secret, ultimate promise-of-truth code.
"We sort of hit it off at the parent-teacher conference. In fact, it
was her idea to leave the Heinlein around for you that got us
talking."
"Wow. You and Ms. Allen."
"Bill -- this has to be between us. And I'm going to ask you to do
something very, very difficult. I don't think I could do it if I was
in your shoes. You have to act like nothing's changed in class with
her -- because nothing *has* changed in class with her."
He thought that over for a few moments. Then: "Yeah, that is going to
be tough. You know, Dad, sometimes the guys make remarks about her --"
I shook my head. "And they'll keep doing it, and it's okay. Even if
you do, it's okay -- but I'd prefer you didn't."
"Does Inger know?"
"Yes, she does. She's going to stay till 10 tomorrow night."
"What happens if you get lucky?"
I laughed. "Son, women -- especially `babes' -- do not line up around
the block for a middle-aged account executive. At least, not for this
one. I do not expect to get my bones jumped. In fact, I'd be amazed.
I'll be home at 10."
The next day, before he left for school, Bill wished me luck, but it
didn't have an immediate effect. Oh, dinner with Bernice was quite
lovely, and afterward we went to Bradley's for drinks and some music,
and then I walked her to her door in a light snow and -- to my
astonishment -- she solved that awkward moment for us by leaning up
and giving me a peck on the lips...and then did it again, but it was
less of a peck and turned into a clinch. Then there was another
awkward moment, only this time I solved it.
"I wouldn't mind doing a lot more of that except for two things," I
said. "One, it's getting damn cold out here, and, two, I have a 10
o'clock appointment."
She smiled beautifully. "We'll have to check our schedules, Roger. I
really enjoyed tonight."
"Call you tomorrow?"
"I'd like that. Thank you for a lovely evening."
"The pleasure was entirely mine. Good night."
I waited till she'd closed the inner door of her brownstone apartment
building and then strode home, feeling pretty proud of myself.
Bill Speaks:
It was about seven o'clock when we finished clearing away the dishes --
Inger and I made a casserole -- when she said, "I wonder how your
father's date is going." I wondered, too. What I was wondering more
about was Inger. How could she be such a babe and dress so plain all
the time? As she bent over to put the casserole pan in the dishwasher,
I saw her baggy sweater bulge with her tits and instantly got another
boner. It seemed like half the time I was near her I was getting a
boner. It was driving me nuts. I excused myself and went into the
bathroom for the second time that evening and quickly whipped it out
and started beating. In about a minute, I splattered another big load
into the sink. It took me about 10 minutes to clean up and calm down
enough to leave.
Inger was just sitting on the couch, looking at me funny, like she
knew what I'd been doing. I went to turn on the television, thinking
she was going to study like she usually did if she stayed late, but
she asked me not to turn on the set and to come sit with her for a
minute.
"Bill, I want to talk something over with you -- just between us."
Uh-oh, I thought, sitting at the far end of the couch.
"You were just masturbating."
I felt my face get hot, but one thing I don't do, ever, is lie. On the
other hand, I didn't have to confess, either.
"There's nothing wrong or unnatural about it. And I don't think it's
dirty or some kind of shit like that."
I was a little surprised to hear Inger talk like that, but I got her
point.
"But I want to talk with you about..." She took a deep breath. "Bill,
were you jerking off thinking about your father's date?"
My face got hotter.
"I mean, if she's half the babe you say she is, I can understand that,
but it's going to be tough enough treating her just as a teacher;
making her your fantasy object will just make it more difficult."
I had a tough time talking. "Well, uh, what makes you think it was
her?"
"As soon as I mentioned your father's date, you got a hard-on and went
to jerk off."
"That wasn't it."
She shrugged. "Well, suit yourself."
"Really, it wasn't!"
She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was far from convinced.
"That was just coincidence. It was -- " I shut my mouth.
She looked really puzzled.
"It was what?"
"It was you!"
She blinked, like she was surprised.
"Oh, Bill, I'm just plain ol' Inger and -- "
"No, you're not. I saw you when you were dressed to meet your friends.
You were so hot I -- "
I stoped my mouth before I went any farther.
Her face changed, like...softened.
"You mean I turned you on like that? Even this long after? That's kind
of hard to swallow and -- "
"Don't believe me?" I stood and stepped in front of her. "Look!"
She looked, right at my crotch where Boner Number Three was making
itself obvious.
"Oh, my goodness! Did I do that?"
She looked up at me.
"Oh, dear." Her breathing quickened. "Little old dowdy me made you get
all stiff like that..." She put her hand on it, and I groaned. "Well,
I can't have you studying algebra in a state like that. What shall we
do about it?"
[more]
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===============================================================
This is an original story from a caller to The Abbey, part of
MHBBS (212-683-1448). Feel free to repost it as is, without
editing or changing anything in it, including this tag. For
information about The Abbey, a spam-free place for writers and
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================================================================
=====================
INGER
By Friar Dave
PART ONE
-30-
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