Part One

I first noticed Beatrice McKay when she used to pass by my house along with literally dozens of other children headed to Forest Lawn Elementary School every weekday from September to June. She was about eight years old. There was a certain aura about her that made her stand out from all the others. It was difficult to pinpoint. Maybe it was the liveliness of her step. Maybe it was the way she dressed; she always wore a skirt or a dress at a time when many girls her age typically donned less feminine attire on school days. Maybe it was her pretty face which always seemed to have a smile on it. Maybe it was all of the above.

I am Dennis Stanton. I worked from my home as a freelance writer, so I often spent my mornings slowly eating breakfast while staring out the large living room window of my house. I inherited it from my parents a few years earlier when they both died tragically in a boating mishap. I was now 30 years old, a bit of a loner, but generally content with my lot in life.

I’d always wave at Beatrice when she passed by. At first, she didn’t notice me because her attention was focused straight ahead of her. One day, though, she happened to glance at my house, saw my friendly gesture, and waved back with a dazzling smile on her face. This quickly became a ritual for us. I didn’t even know her name until one of my neighbors mentioned that her older sister delivered the daily newspaper to his house.

About a week later, when Halloween was approaching, I spoke to Beatrice for the first time. I opened the front door to give her a message. I instructed her to definitely make a stop at my house on October 31 because I’d have some extra special Halloween treats for “my waving buddy”. Beatrice promised she would—but she asked me my name first. I was as anonymous to her as she had been to me.

True to her word, Beatrice showed up on my doorstep in a princess-type outfit that made her look like Tinkerbell. She really was adorable. I was tempted to pick her up and embrace her. All the children who came to my door that night received small bags of potato chips or miniature chocolate bars—as did Beatrice—but as she was about to leave, I told her to wait for a moment. I brought out a special bag of treats for her and her alone. I gave her two enormous bars of Belgian chocolate and half a dozen fairly large lollipops that I had bought specially for her at a local confectioner’s store. Beatrice’s eyes almost popped out of her head in surprise.

“For the beautiful little girl who brightens my days!” I explained to her. “I’ll likely get 70 or 80 visitors tonight, but you are the only trick-or-treater who gets a special gift like this. Enjoy the goodies, sweetheart!”

Halloween fell on a Wednesday that year, so the next day was a school day. I was eating my breakfast, as usual, when I saw Beatrice veer from her normal route and come up the front steps of my house. I opened the door and she promptly handed me a thank-you note. “My mom insisted I give you this because of the special treats you had for me last night.” In her best third-grade printing, Beatrice warmly thanked me for the “generous Halloween gifts”. She even signed her name in cursive writing—which she was probably just learning. Beatrice also drew three red hearts underneath it. This girl really was a sweetheart! From that day forward we never missed a chance to wave at each other. She even blew me a kiss occasionally.

Ten years later, my neighbors, Richard and Patty Muldoon, decided to organize a block party. They were becoming frustrated that our “neighborhood” was only that in name. There was really no sense of community. I completely agreed. Hardly any of us knew each other’s names, where we worked, or much else. The Muldoons hand-delivered invitations to about 40 houses. The recipients were instructed to bring lawn chairs and whatever drinks and treats they wanted to the Muldoons’ backyard on the second Thursday of July at 7 p.m. About a dozen households responded favorably—a total which was a little bit disappointing—but the people who did show up had a marvelous time getting acquainted with one another.

One family that made the effort to come was the McKays. Beatrice, her older sister and her parents showed up with half a dozen bottles of pop, bags of pretzels, and a great attitude about the get-together. Beatrice was now 18. She was a very pretty girl despite not being very well endowed. She immediately approached me to have a chat.

“Mom and Dad,” she said, “this is the very nice man who waves at me every day and always gives me extravagant Halloween goodies!” I could tell Beatrice hadn’t remembered my name, so I got her off the hook by saying, “Hello, I’m Dennis Stanton. I’ve had a waving relationship with your lovely daughter for several years now.”

They laughed and said they had known all about it, especially from the Halloween treats from yesteryear. Mrs. McKay said it was “comforting to know that someone was looking out for Beatrice as she walked to school each morning.” I didn’t correct her: I was actually looking at her rather than looking out for her. The difference was more than subtle. Beatrice really had grown into a beautiful teenage girl. I honestly wished I could turn back the hands of time and be a teenage boy once again so I could romance her.

Beatrice then informed me about something important that I hadn’t considered: Our morning waves had come to an end! As of September, Beatrice would be attending college. She’d be driving there instead of walking past my house. Upon hearing the sad news, I put an exaggerated pout on my face. I really was disappointed, however. “I’ll miss our waves, Dennis!” she said sweetly. I could tell she was completely sincere about that.

For the next three hours, Beatrice and I sat next to each other, sipping on soft drinks and munching on pretzels. We also learned all about each other. Her face lit up when I told her I was a freelance writer. “Oh, I love to write,” she told me. “I like penning stories and poetry and monologues and diary entries and...”

“Beatrice, honey, I think you are on your way to creating a massive run-on sentence!” I kidded her. “But I’d be happy to look at some examples of your best writing sometime.”

“I’d like to see what you write, too!” she declared.

After I gained her parents’ permission, I invited Beatrice to come to my house for lunch the next day at about 11:30 a.m. for a writers’ summit. I asked her if she liked Chinese food. She said she did. I told her we could order a dinner for two—my treat, of course—from Golden Wok, which was well known in our city for its excellent Chinese dishes. “After a fine meal, we can read each other’s writing all afternoon,” I told her.

“Sounds like a great idea to me, Dennis,” she stated. “I knew I’d really like you when we finally had a long conversation. We should have talked like this years ago.”

I agreed. I had never looked so forward to a luncheon date in my life. It turned out to be a memorable day.

Part Two

Beatrice arrived at my door precisely at 11:30 a.m. the next day lugging a gym bag. I took it from her. It was heavier than I expected. Inside it were several large folders containing her writing assignments from elementary and high school. It appeared that she had kept every one of them since the first grade. That turned out to be completely true. Beatrice immediately greeted me with a hug. I was surprised it lasted for more than a second or two. This one lasted at least half a minute. I liked it!

We jointly decided which dinner-for-two to order from Golden Wok. I placed the order by telephone and asked for it to be delivered at about 12 noon. I didn’t want to wait, so I immediately started to read some of Beatrice’s writing from the seventh grade and beyond. It was excellent, far better than I expected from someone her age. Beatrice was especially good at using literary devices. Alliteration seemed to be her favorite way of being creative.

“When I’m really on a roll, the words just flow from my brain to the paper. It’s almost like a second party beyond me is doing the writing, but using me as an instrument,” Beatrice informed me. Wow! This girl was indeed a writer! I’d experienced the exact same eerie feeling on numerous occasions, but I’d never told anyone. She expressed how it felt superbly!

I also noticed that Beatrice wrote on a wide variety of themes and topics and with differing emotions guiding her. I strongly advised her to keep writing as frequently as possible and strive to find a career based on it. I happily told her I thought she was truly gifted. I think I saw Beatrice blush from the praise I had given her. She deflected it by saying, “Now I need to see some samples of your professional writing, Dennis.”

“Okay,” I said cheerfully. I had an entire filing cabinet full of samples for Beatrice to peruse as I had been a professional writer since age 19. Like her, I had kept copies. I had selected a few before she arrived. She had no idea that my works were nationally syndicated. I wrote columns on contemporary sports and sports history. I also wrote a general-interest column titled “Musings” which appeared in the lifestyle sections of many newspapers. Beatrice said she wasn’t a sports fan at all—and sweetly apologized for it—so she might not appreciate what I had written in that category. I told her part of my works’ appeal to my readers was that I could write sports stories that interested non-sports fans by focusing on the human element. I showed her a favorite piece of mine on the sad demise of Lou Gehrig, whom she had never heard of until then. It actually brought tears to her eyes. Wow! That emotional reaction was a great compliment.

Then I presented something special for her—one of my Musings columns. It was dated ten years in the past. Beatrice quickly realized that she was its subject. “We all need something to regularly brighten our days,” the piece began. “Mine is a joyful little girl who walks by my house every weekday morning on her way to school. We exchange friendly waves without saying a word. Her greeting is always accompanied by a gorgeous smile and the positivity of youth entering a new day. I don’t know much about her. I barely know her name, but I never miss the chance to wave at her at every opportunity. Her presence lifts my soul. I regard her, my lovely little angel, as a gift directly from heaven.”

Beatrice stopped reading after the first paragraph. She had to. My column had made her cry again, this time full sobs—a reaction that greatly surprised me. “How can I not hug you after reading this?” she asked me rhetorically. We immediately embraced. We didn’t let go of each other for several minutes—and that was only because we were disturbed by the delivery man from Golden Wok ringing my doorbell. I reluctantly let go of the angel in my arms, answered the door, and accepted the food.

We were rather quiet when we ate our delicious feast. I think we had stirred emotions in each other that we hadn’t fully expected. Finally, Beatrice said something remarkable to me. “Dennis,” she said, “I came here today with the thought that I might end up in bed with you. After reading just a couple of your writing samples, there’s no doubt about it. I so want to share the ultimate pleasure with you! If I’m not in love with you, I don’t know what love is.”

I smiled and calmly noted, “Beatrice, my love, I was going to suggest the same thing. Let’s finish our food, collect ourselves, and then spend the rest of this afternoon screwing like rabbits! I’d like nothing better than making love to you, my adorable sweetheart! I think it was meant to be.”

As we headed hand-in-hand to my bedroom, Beatrice said softly, “Dennis, I have zero experience doing this sort of thing. I hope I won’t disappoint you.”

“Quite the opposite, honey!” I replied. I assured her that her sexual innocence was an absolute turn-on for me. “I simply can’t wait to begin bedding beautiful Beatrice.” I paused for a moment, then I added. “Hey, I like using alliteration, too.”

Part Three

I hurriedly began disrobing the minute I stepped into my bedroom. Beatrice did the same. Amusingly, we both stopped the moment we got down to our undergarments. Beatrice was wearing an A-cup bra. She immediately apologized for that, too.

“Your breasts may not be very big,” I told her with a laugh, but just the thought of glimpsing them has made me feel like I’m 18 years old again, honey!” For evidence, I dropped my briefs to the floor and exposed a wonderful, full erection that felt like a roll of quarters. That sight persuaded Beatrice to discard her brassiere and show me her boobs. They were delightful objects despite their small size. I could hardly wait to put my hands on them. Her pink panties came down next, exposing a vagina with just a touch of hair on it. It seemed impossible, but my penis seemed to get even more aroused.

We met in the center of the bed. I said, “Since this is all new to you, Beatrice, I will make my priority pleasing you. My fun is secondary.” We embraced as we had before our meal arrived. This time I added plenty of kisses to her face and neck. I enjoyed running my fingers through her shiny brunette locks as I did so.

Beatrice stopped my amorous advances to ask me a question: “This may sound stupid, but how do you guys maintain your erections for so long? Yours hasn’t gone down in the slightest. I know because it’s been rubbing against my body for the better part of 15 minutes.”

First, I was shocked to realize that we had been in bed for 15 minutes and I hadn’t done anything more erotic than hug and kiss my bedmate passionately. Then I answered her query. “It all depends on the circumstances, my love. If I have you in my bed, I’ll have no trouble staying hard indefinitely.” Beatrice kissed me fervently for my favorable reply.

I slid down to pleasure her vagina. After just one or two well-placed licks, Beatrice exclaimed receiving cunnilingus “was the best feeling ever.”

“I aim to please,” I told her. “Besides, I love licking girls’ pussies. You can thank my paternal grandfather for that. He was a true character. You never knew what he’d say. Just before he died about ten years ago, he told me that pleasing a woman in bed would bring her back time and time again. He specifically mentioned ‘muff diving’ as a good way to do it. He further stated that licking a female’s bush, which a lot of guys don’t enjoy, is a small price to pay. In your case, I really hope he’s right.”

About two minutes of orally pleasing Beatrice in her nether regions was enough to bring her to an orgasm. It may have been the first she’d ever experienced. Beatrice seemed more embarrassed than pleased by the liquid explosion. She apologized again, unnecessarily.

“Yeah, that was a terrible thing you just did, Beatrice,” I said sarcastically. “I want to lap up every last drop with my tongue.”

Next, I focused on Beatrice’s delightfully small rack. I’m sure there were sixth-grade girls at the local elementary school who had bigger jugs than my angel, but I didn’t care in the slightest. I moved into the “spoons position” with her so I could fondle Beatrice’s goodies while fully embracing her. Her nipples responded immediately by stiffening as I held them.

“Those terrific nipples of yours could poke someone’s eye out!” I joked. “They are incredibly sexy items!” Beatrice just giggled at my positive assessment of her assets. I repositioned myself so I could merrily suck on them. I likely spent ten minutes doing that. All the while, my dick remained unwaveringly firm.

Next, I flipped Beatrice over so I could fondle her bum and place my dick between its cheeks just for the fun of it. I came up with the idea of thrusting my penis back and forth there while I reached underneath her to fondle her small tits again.

“What do you call this particular sex act?” Beatrice asked me.

“I just invented it,” I told her honestly. “It doesn’t have a name. I think I’ll name it after you—'the Beatrice position.’ What do you think of that, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather be famous as a writer than for having a bedmate groping my tits while sliding his penis up and down my bum, ” was her terrific answer. I was growing quite fond of this wonderful girl occupying my bed.

About 40 minutes after we hit the sheets, my dick was still mighty and ready for work. I noted, “Time for me to fuck that beautiful pussy of yours, Beatrice. I will try to be gentle. I know I’ll enjoy it. I hope you will too.”

Beatrice said nothing. She instinctively spread her legs to allow me perfect access to her most private part. I pushed my penis inside her. I hadn’t felt this good during intercourse in more than 20 years—which happened to be the last time I had screwed an 18-year-old girl, a classmate named Martha Mayfield who had previously slept with a sizable percentage of my friends. Beatrice was more fun to copulate with than Martha, however. I had screwed Martha purely for lust and to go along with the crowd two decades ago. On this day, I was making love to Beatrice. That made a huge difference in my mindset.

Beatrice whimpered a little bit while my dick explored her vagina, so I took it easy on her. I reduced the number of strong thrusts that I normally would give a female under such circumstances. Instead, I slowly pushed my manhood in as far as it could possibly go. Beatrice yelped—which set me off. I quickly pulled out and shot a massive spurt of warm, white, sticky semen across her torso. If I remembered correctly, Beatrice got more cum from me than Martha did.

“That was fabulous!” I declared. “Ejaculating cum on a beautiful female is the best feeling in the world!” I lovingly looked Beatrice in the eyes when I said that.

“I thought you said this was all about pleasing me—not you!” Beatrice scolded me.

“Weren’t you pleased, too?” I asked her in a slightly worried tone.

Beatrice immediately smiled and confessed, “Of course! I was just playing with you, Dennis. I had the time of my life having sex with you. It really was marvelous!”

Beatrice and I spent the next two hours in bed together until she was expected back home. We discussed the joy of writing and the joy of sex in equal parts. Before she left, Beatrice insisted on giving me a blow job “to acquire experience”. She did such a good job that I came on her face with an ejaculation that was only slightly weaker than the first one had been. “Be careful what you wish for, my dear!” I told her seconds later.

Beatrice and I habitually met at least once a week for the next three months. I happily critiqued her writing, and she happily provided her body to me. I liked that deal! Eventually, the inevitable happened: Still age 18, Beatrice became pregnant—by me, of course.

That news came as a huge surprise to her parents who didn’t have the slightest suspicion that I had been screwing their darling daughter on a regular basis for months. They were less than thrilled that someone who was 40—about their age—had done such a thing. However, their anger lessened considerably when Beatrice informed them that she had been the instigator when our carnal activities first started. She then asked me to marry her—which I quickly agreed to do. On our wedding day I was certainly the envy of my longtime friends, having such a young and attractive bride at my side.

That was 25 years ago. My friends still envy me for having such a beautiful bedmate.