Assume the Position

Little Cheryl Collins adores the boy who babysits her. Catastrophe strikes when he moves away. A chance encounter eight years later results in a sexy reunion.

Author’s Note

This is more of a romance story than a sex story—although there is a sexual scene at the end of this tale. You have been warned. If this isn’t your cup of tea and you want something more lascivious to read, please check out my other stories.

Part One

I suppose that if you examine the situation to its origin, I acquired the love of my life because of an accident with a candy stick.

My name is Trevor Cloninger. When I was 13, my family moved about 50 miles from where we had previously lived to a community of about 30,000 people. This had become a regular occurrence in my lifetime. My father was employed by a grocery store chain. He had the knack of taking new or underperforming stores and making them very profitable. That meant he was often heavily involved at one particular store from anywhere from one to four years. Once he made it a successful entity, he was shifted to another store far away to do the same thing. In my 13 years, our family had moved five times.

Dad accepted the transient part of his job as a matter of course, but he always insisted that his move must occur at the end of each school year so that my sister’s education and mine were not terribly disrupted. Dad carried such clout with his company that this request was always granted. Therefore, after the last day of school in June 1962, our family moved 50 miles westward to a new challenge for my father. I was used to it, but Kathryn, my nine-year-old sister, was upset to the point of tears because she would no longer see her school chums that she had befriended during the past three years.

Mom tried to console Kathryn by saying she knew from her house-hunting with Dad that there were other children in the neighborhood where we were moving. “You make friends very easily, Kathryn,” Mom assured her. “You’ll be fine. You’ll have plenty of new friends in no time at all.”

I tried to cheer her up, too, by saying, “Maybe your future husband will be our next-door neighbor, Kathryn. Wouldn’t that be great?”

Kathryn, sitting beside me in the back seat of our car, cared little about boys at her age and gave me a scowl. I responded by giving her a brotherly hug. My family—from my grandparents down to my cousins—was an affectionate bunch. Hugs were always in plentiful supply, especially when someone needed cheering up.

When we arrived at our new home, the moving van was not far behind. Kathryn and I made a quick tour of the empty house, saw where our respective bedrooms were located, and then left the unloading and furniture setup to our parents and the professional movers. Dad told us to explore the neighborhood. He also gave me a dollar and said to me, “Trevor, there’s a general store at the end of the block. While you are getting familiar with this neighborhood, buy your sister and yourself a treat.”

We didn’t get very far. At the house next door, two curious people came outside to watch the burly movers unload our belongings—and to say hello. One was Mrs. Collins, who was obviously the mother of the family. The other was a spectacularly attractive little girl who was a bit younger than my sister was. She had the prettiest face I had ever seen on any girl in my life—and I had been studying the physical features of girls since the age of 10.

She had medium-length, dark hair that shimmered in the afternoon sunshine and a dazzling smile. The fact that she was at the age where she was missing a few teeth did not diminish her allure whatsoever. I didn’t say it out loud, but I thought to myself she could be making a lot of money if she were employed as a child model. Kathryn introduced herself to the mother and daughter before I said a word. I heard the girl’s name was Cheryl and she was seven years old. My parents took a break from their labors to say hello to them, too. We all chatted amiably. Dad suggested that Cheryl go to the store with us as the dollar he had given me was surely enough to cover treats for three people. Cheryl liked the idea. Her mother agreed and off we went. I later learned that Dad and I were on the same page regarding Cheryl. He had commented to Mom that “the little Collins girl was the cutest seven-year-old” he had ever seen—which slightly irked Mom because she had known Dad since she was five.

Cheryl told us that the general store—people didn’t call them variety stores in 1962—was famous for having about a dozen different flavors of old-fashioned candy sticks that we absolutely had to try because they were so good. Kathryn and I took Cheryl’s advice. They were individually wrapped in wax paper, but their aromas dominated the entire store in a very pleasant way. I bought a wintergreen stick, Kathryn selected a cinnamon-flavored one, while Cheryl chose a root beer one, which she said was her favorite kind. The total cost for the three treats was 60 cents, a fairly hefty sum for candy in 1962.

Mine was absolutely delicious. It was huge, too. A kid could lick on one of these fabulous treats for an hour and still not be done with it. We walked and talked and licked our way back to our respective houses. When we got to the Collins house, Cheryl started to talk to her mother about something when her half-finished root beer candy stick fell from the wax paper onto a muddy patch on their front lawn. A horrified look came over Cheryl’s face and then she started to cry. I hated to see and hear girls cry, so I immediately took restorative action.

I walked over to Cheryl, put my arms around her, and said, “Hey, what’s with the tears? There’s no need to cry, Cheryl, honey!” I informed her I’d be happy to run back to the store and get her a replacement root beer candy stick. Then I gave her a kiss on the cheek and promptly hustled back to the store to do just that. I wasn’t present to see it, but Kathryn told me that Cheryl stopped crying in a matter of seconds and had a look on her face that was filled with surprise and admiration. Mrs. Collins said, “Cheryl, I think we’re going to like having the Cloninger family as new neighbors.”

“Yeah!” Cheryl enthusiastically agreed while pointing at me as I was jogging toward the store. “Especially him!”

I bought the replacement candy stick and rushed back. I mentioned to Cheryl that I was lucky as I had gotten the last root beer-flavored stick left in the display case. Cheryl surprised me by leaping into my arms and kissing me on the cheek. With her arms wrapped around me, she started to cry again.

“Hey? Why the tears now? You’ve got another fresh candy stick to enjoy,” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’m crying because you’re just such a nice boy, Trevor …and I just met you!”

I kissed her on the cheek to thank her for the compliment. Then I gently set her back on the ground. A huge smile had replaced her tears.

Later that day, when I returned just 20 cents in change to my father, my parents learned of my good deed via both Kathryn and Mrs. Collins. The latter came over to the house during a lull in our furniture being moved in. She felt compelled to say what a fine young man I was and how I had made Cheryl’s day with my concern and my act of kindness. I blushed from all the praise. To me, I had done what any good person would do under the circumstances. (Besides, I enjoyed the attention and affection I got from Cheryl. She really was an adorable kid.) Dad later joked that if he had been in my position and had enough money in his pocket, he would have bought Cheryl ten candy sticks, not just one. “Keep an eye on her, son,” Dad advised me. “That’s the girl you should marry in about 15 years.”

Part Two

A day later, after we had fully moved into our new home and our telephone had been connected, Mom got a phone call from Mrs. Collins. I was the person Mrs. Collins wanted to speak to, but I was out of the house, so she relayed the message through Mom. When I got home Mom said to me, “Trevor, do you want to make some money on Saturday night?”

“Doing what?” I asked.

She explained, “Mr. and Mrs. Collins are going to a play. They need a babysitter for Cheryl. Her aunt usually comes over to take care of her when her mother and father have plans, but Cheryl specifically requested you. The job pays 60 cents an hour if you want it.”

I reminded Mom that I had never babysat anybody in my life—unless you counted Kathryn. To me, family members didn’t count. Mom assured me that my taking care of Kathryn on occasion certainly did count as experience and that would help me take care of anyone. “Besides, Cheryl is smitten with you, in case you didn’t know, so that will make your job very easy, Trevor.”

I quickly phoned Mrs. Collins to accept the job, which was the following night. I was told to arrive at 7 p.m. and I would likely be in charge of Cheryl until about 11:30. I did the math and looked forward to earning $2.70 for taking care of a little girl who adored me and one whom I was rather fond of, too. It was almost like stealing money!

When I arrived that Saturday night, I came equipped with a sack full of things to amuse the two of us. I had various board games that a seven-year-old could easily understand, a copy of the novel Heidi that I could read aloud to Cheryl, and even a few magic tricks that I had learned over the years. There was always the TV set for our entertainment, too. I noticed that Cheryl was dressed especially nicely in a blouse and skirt, as if she were going to an important family function. Her mother said to me, “Trevor, Cheryl insisted on wearing some of her finest clothing because you were coming over and she wanted to look her best.” I took that as a huge compliment, so I gave her a tremendous hug. Cheryl stuck by me very closely for the next three hours.

We ended up doing all the activities I had brought for us to do. Cheryl insisted on sitting beside me. I noticed the space between us quickly narrowed until our hips were touching. Cheryl was supposed to go to bed no later than 9 p.m., but she was still awake, barely, at 10 p.m. I made a deal with her that she could stay up as long as she liked, provided she donned her pajamas so I could carry her to her bed if she fell asleep. She readily agreed to that rule and got into her bedclothes that featured a mermaid motif.

I complimented her on her cute pajamas and told her she looked very pretty regardless of what she wore. I had just turned on the TV to watch nothing in particular when Cheryl leapt upon my lap, embraced me, and rested her head on my shoulder. Every once in a while, she felt the urge to kiss me. “Well, aren’t you a real sweetheart!” I told her. She didn’t move for 20 minutes as we watched an old Randolph Scott western that neither of us paid much attention to.

Suddenly, Cheryl said, “Trevor, I like being here on your lap, but I have to go to the bathroom. Is that okay?”

I laughed and said it was more than okay—it was necessary! A minute or two elapsed before she came back into the living room. She stood in front of me for a moment, not quite sure If she was allowed to return to my lap. I slapped my thigh and said, “Assume the position!”

I could tell by Cheryl’s expression that she didn’t know what I meant. I said, “That means you can sit on my lap for as long as you like. If you fall asleep, I’ll carry you to your bedroom.”

Cheryl liked the idea and landed on me with something akin to a flying leap. She resumed her affectionate hug and soon fell asleep. So did I.

When Mr. and Mrs. Collins got home, I was awakened by the sound of the front door opening. With the sleeping Cheryl still firmly planted on my lap with her arms wrapped around me, I figured I’d be in trouble for not insisting she go to bed at the appointed time. Instead, the Collinses were amused at the sight.

“I just woke up,” I explained. “Cheryl fell asleep on my lap. I told her if she fell asleep, I’d put her to bed. Gee, I guess I fell asleep, too!”

“it’s a shame you two don’t get along well,” noted Mr. Collins who was anything but angry. He possessed the same sense of humor that my father had. “If Cheryl feels that comfortable with you, Trevor, you can be her babysitter indefinitely.” He gave me $3—more than the sum that had been promised for 4½ hours of so-called work.

I was about to head out the door when something stopped me. When I was putting my collection of games back into the sack, I found a root beer candy stick there. “Please give this to Cheryl,” I told Mrs. Collins. “I forgot I had bought it for her earlier today. I know she loves these.”

“That’s not all she loves, Trevor,” Mrs. Collins quipped. I smiled knowingly.

Part Three

I slept late into Sunday morning. I was awakened by the sound of my mother laughing while on the telephone. I got to the kitchen just as she hung up the receiver. I was greeted with, “Ah, here before me is the world’s greatest babysitter!”

“Is that supposed to be sarcasm?” I asked.

“Maybe just a smidgen,” Mom replied, “but you apparently did an excellent job last night—so excellent that you are now the Collinses go-to babysitter…”

“I was told that last night,” I interrupted.

“You didn’t let me finish, Trevor,” Mom continued, “You also have a fiancée. According to Mrs. Collins, Cheryl announced that she was definitely going to marry you someday and, I quote, ‘have 10 or 12 beautiful babies’ with you.”

Before I could respond, Dad, who was within earshot in the living room reading the Sunday newspaper, put in his two cents’ worth. “Aren’t you the lucky fellow, my boy! When the time comes, you’ll need to be in good physical shape to satisfy her.”

Mom was horrified by Dad’s subtle innuendo, but I assured her as a 13-year-old I knew where babies came from and what a male had to do for one to be conceived. I did add, “I’m surprised that Cheryl knows about such things at age seven, though.”

About an hour later, Mrs. Collins telephoned a second time to find out if I could immediately babysit Cheryl for two hours that afternoon while she and Mr. Collins went to a social engagement that they had just been invited to attend. Of course, I said yes. I was told to bring the copy of Heidi again. When I arrived, I was greeted by Cheryl with an affectionate kiss for the root beer candy stick I had left for her.

"Would I have gotten six kisses if I had left six candy sticks for you?" I jokingly asked her.

"Probably," she replied in all seriousness. "Please read the next chapter of Heidi to me, Trevor. I like that story."

I sat down on the couch to prepare to read the book aloud. Cheryl sat beside me for all of five seconds before asking me, "Should I assume the position?"

"If you want to do that, Cheryl, I won't object at all," I said with a chuckle. Cheryl obviously did not object either, as she climbed onto my lap and lovingly embraced me exactly as she had done the previous night.

Mrs. Collins was amused by her daughter's amorous antics. "You are a very patient and tolerant boy, Trevor!" she declared.

"Patient and tolerant?" I disagreed. "That’s not true. Actually, I'm a very lucky boy."

For the next three years, things stayed quite the same. If Mr. and Mrs. Collins had a commitment, I babysat Cheryl. That was a given. Cheryl no longer “assumed the position” by sitting on my lap after the age of eight, but she still clung closely to me. If it was a nighttime job for me, Cheryl would always drop off to sleep in my arms. Not once did I take advantage of the situation, although I easily could have. I grew to love Cheryl as much as she loved me. She also retained her good looks as she aged. I often thought her beauty had not yet peaked; I couldn’t wait to see what she would look like as a teenage girl.

Then one day in April 1965, the bad news came: Dad was being moved to do his magic and turn a money-losing supermarket into a profitable one. It was located 80 miles away. We’d have to move again. I was 16, and our moves in the past hadn’t bothered me too much. Kathryn usually was the most adversely affected member of the family. She was 12 now, and she still shed a few tears when she got the news from our parents. However, this time I was stoic on the surface but inwardly heartbroken at the thought of leaving my longtime cuddle-buddy Cheryl. I was told when she got the news, she was nearly hysterical. The next time I babysat Cheryl, we spent the entire time hugging and crying together. That’s about all we could do. On the final day I lived at that house, Cheryl was too upset to even say goodbye to me. I wasn’t much better, but I made a special delivery to her door. I rang the doorbell and quickly walked away. From a distance, I saw Mrs. Collins pick up the large box I had left on the doorstep. It contained one hundred root beer-flavored candy sticks from the general store and a note for Cheryl saying that I deeply loved her.

Part Four

In the summer of 1973, I was an unmarried 24-year-old who was employed as a statistician by the city I now lived in. (That was two moves after the emotional one in 1965.) I was also regarded as a very good amateur baseball umpire, so I often was asked to work at various prestigious tournaments. I was chosen to work a regional championship event in the same town where I had grown to love my adorable neighbor. I hadn’t set foot there since that sad day in 1965 when I delivered the box of treats to Cheryl.

It was a weekend event. I had two games on the Friday, three on the Saturday, and two on the Sunday. My last game on Saturday ended around 4 p.m. I was tired of ballpark fare, so I decided to drive to the food court at a nearby mall after I had showered to clear the day’s grime from my sweaty body. The mall was new to me, having opened in 1971, long after my family had moved away. I was perusing my plentiful dining options when I noticed three very pretty teenage girls, all clad in summer attire, pass by me and sit at one of the tables. Naturally I eyed them. Within 10 seconds, I saw a familiar, very pretty face. I was 99 percent sure it was Cheryl Collins. We made eye contact. Her expression went from neutral to stunned to highly emotional within two seconds. Completely ignoring her two friends, she rose from her chair and charged wildly at me with love in her eyes, all the while asking, “Trevor? Is that you, Trevor? Please, please say it’s you!”

“Yes, Cheryl, I’m Trevor Cloninger…” That’s all I managed to say before Cheryl gave me the longest, most romantic kiss in my life. I’m sure people at the food court and passersby gawked at us. We didn’t care. Cheryl was unabashedly weeping—and so was I. She took me by the hand and led me to her two friends. She introduced them to me, but I wasn’t paying attention to them or their names. My eyes were wholly fixed on Cheryl who was now an absolute stunner of a female. Cheryl tried to explain who I was, but she had to stop because she was crying so much. Eventually her friends wisely said to Cheryl that they’d be on their way and would call her later once she had gotten control of her emotions.

We briefly chatted. She said she was still living at the same address. Her parents were quite healthy and happy. I told her where I was now living and that my parents were generally in good health, although my father had suffered a small heart attack in 1970 which had slowed him down slightly. I explained I was in town for the weekend to umpire baseball, but I had the rest of the day off. “Do you have any plans, Cheryl?” I asked hopefully.

Cheryl replied, “Since my friends abandoned me, I guess the answer is no. I have no plans for tonight.”

“Let’s get something to eat here,” I suggested. “I was told by a local umpire that the Chinese buffet is quite good. Afterwards…well, let’s just say I have a big hotel room and no roommate, so…”

“That sounds fine to me!” Cheryl said. “Chinese food followed by passionate screwing.”

We wolfed down our food, and I drove Cheryl to my hotel. We practically raced up to the third floor to Room #311 where I had a king-size bed and a way to release eight years of fantasizing about how Cheryl turned out. I promptly sat on the edge of the bed and firmly said, “Assume the position!”

“I haven’t heard that phrase in about 10 years, Trevor, but I think I remember where I’m supposed to sit,” Cheryl said. “I used to love sitting on your lap. I thought you were a gorgeous boy.” Cheryl turned back the clock a decade and sat on my lap exactly the same way she had last done it in 1963.

“I have to confess I loved it as much as you did, Cheryl,” I told her. “You were such a pretty little girl as a child that I couldn’t help but enjoy your hugs and kisses. I didn’t care that you were six years younger than I was. By the way, you’ve only improved with age.”

Cheryl thanked me for the compliment and said my looks had gotten better, too. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but we hadn’t come to my hotel room to discuss old times. We had come to fuck. Cheryl was wearing a slightly revealing yellow top. The last time I saw her she was a flat-chested 10-year-old. That was not the case any longer. When she removed it and her brassier, I said the obvious. “Jeez, you have great tits, Cheryl!”

“So I’ve been told!” she cutely replied. Then she removed her sandals, shorts and panties to reveal a lovely vagina. “That’s not too bad, either, Cheryl,” I noted. “You are one well-put-together young lady.”

Cheryl undressed me, which I took as an obvious sign of eagerness. My penis was fully erect. When I was 16 and Cheryl was ten, her affectionate maneuverings often caused me to become aroused, although I tried to conceal it. I thought I always had until Cheryl said to me, “You used to get erections all the time when you babysat me in 1965. I see your equipment still works, Trevor.”

“That was supposed to be a secret,” I told her.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Cheryl said in response. “Mom was and is very liberal-minded about human sexuality for her generation. She warned me that I might make you lose your load one day if we kept hugging and kissing as we did. My response was, ‘So what?’ The last month you babysat me I actually tried to do that!”

“Naughty girl!” I insincerely chastised her. “Too bad you didn’t succeed.”

The talking stopped at that point as I proceeded to ravage this beauty sharing my bed. I planted kisses on every part of Cheryl’s anatomy—some places got more affection than others. Her breasts were especially appealing targets. Cheryl had the type of nipples that became easily aroused—and they easily aroused me, too. I delayed mounting her for as long as I could, because I knew I wouldn’t last very long once my penis entered Cheryl’s pussy. I doubt if I lasted a minute. I quickly let loose with a veritable geyser of cum, filling her sexy crevice to overflowing. I moaned with a combination of delight and triumph. After a few deep breaths, I uttered, “I guess that’s one down and 11 to go.”

“What are you talking about, Trevor?” Cheryl asked me.

“I heard through the grapevine after I babysat you for the first time back in 1962 that you told your mother you were going to marry me, and we’d produce 10 or 12 beautiful babies together. Cheryl, I think we just conceived the first one. Therefore, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

Cheryl laughed and said, “Trevor, I used to fantasize about getting a marriage proposal from you. I envisioned all types of romantic locales, but I can honestly say that Room #311 of this hotel, with your dick planted in my vagina, was not one of them. Nevertheless, the answer is yes, I’ll marry you. I suppose it was meant to be.”

To our parents’ delight, Cheryl and I were married a month later in a civil ceremony. It was the happiest day of my life. Our daughter, Amanda, was born exactly nine months after our fruitful tryst in the hotel room. We didn’t have 12 children, just four. I always knew for certain when each one had been conceived. In July 2023, we celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Amazingly, our children’s two grandmothers were both still around to attend the party.

At the anniversary shindig, 90-year-old Mrs. Collins gave us a very special present. It was the box of 100 candy sticks I had left on the doorstep for Cheryl on that awful day in 1965 when I thought I’d never see her again. She hadn’t given the box to Cheryl that day, as she thought it would lead to another hysterical crying jag. She had just saved it in her attic in case I ever returned. Then it was forgotten until very recently. It was found when she was moving out of her house and into a seniors’ facility. My sappy, heartfelt love note was still in the box, too. All our guests were offered root beer-flavored candy sticks from 1965. The wax paper had preserved them well. They still smelled and tasted delicious.

“You know what’s going to happen when we get home, don’t you, Trevor?” my 68-year-old wife said to 74-year-old me.

“I have a hunch,” I said. “Are you going to assume the position?”

“Yes, I certainly am,” Cheryl replied, “but I think it’s too late in our lives to conceive child number five. We can always try, though.”