Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Copyright (C) 1998, Clayton.  ALL Rights Reserved

   Babysitting - Jenny
Disclaimer:

   This is a work of fiction.  No illegal activity described

   herein was carried out, this document details fantasies

   that took place late at night when I was alone in bed.  I

   firmly believe that no fifteen minutes of pleasure is

   worth the innocence of a child.  Besides, I derive much

   pleasure from the company of children, playing with them

   or simply watching them at play, I am not going to risk

   this for any momentarily heightened sense of pleasure.

   If you are under the age of eighteen the law says I've

   got to tell you to go away, so, "Go away!" Common sense

   says you're going to ignore me, so don't blame me if you

   go blind, your parents find you in possession of this

   document or your space bar to stops working.

   If this type of material is illegal in your city, state,

   country, then see above, substituting "law enforcement

   agency" in place of "parents".
Introduction:

   Between now and the new year I will be unable to do much

   writing.  Instead I will be proofreading this story, and

   possibly a couple of others, and publishing a chapter or

   so every day or two.

   When I next have the time to write, your responses will

   determine which stories I will work on.  So if you have

   a preference for which story you would like me to finish

   first, send me an email or five.

   __ _

   / ) // _/_ / // __.  , , / ______ (__/ </_(_/|_/(_/_<__(_) / /_,

   /

   '

   +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ |
Clayton | clayton@nym.alias.net |
|--------------------------------------------------------------------| |
There is nothing so soft, or pleasing to the touch, as the skin of | | a
child.  Cup their cheek in your hand and ask yourself if you are | |
willing to harm such beauty for your own gratification.  | | Take you
fantasies to bed - alone.  |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+





   Chapter 5 - Fun and Games.

   That evening, my mates have a good laugh at my expense, as I tell them
of Jenny and her infatuation with me.  Morrie, who is the Dungeon Master
for the current portion of our campaign, introduces a ten year old street
thief as an NPC, setting up a scenario in which I am forced to rescue her
from one of the other party members.

   Before I know it, I've acquired a henchman who follows me about like a
love sick puppy and, due to a highly inflated opinion of her abilities, is
always placing herself in danger.  Unfortunately, I risk an alignment check
if I allow her to get herself killed, so I find myself taking on the
unenviable role of 'Gully Dwarf trap detector' (Stamp, stamp 'There's not
one there.')

   I also find myself the butt of every paedophile joke that five depraved
minds can either remember or invent.  Grinning, I cheerfully agree with
everything they throw at me, figuring that absurdity is a better defence
than denial.  As the night wears on, the jokes get sicker and sicker.  Then
as the booze and pot kicks in they get sillier, though you couldn't tell by
the level of laughter around the table.

   Finally somewhere around two in the morning, I ease the last of them out
the door and ignoring the piles of empty wrappers and overflowing ashtrays
scattered about the lounge, I pour myself into bed.  Almost without
thinking about it, my hand finds it's way to my cock as I recall Jenny's
innocent exposure in the garden and how she looked with her skirt up around
her waist and her knickers stuffed in her slit.  The alcohol and ganga
however, have taken their toll and I might as well be fondling an uncooked
sausage for all the response that I get.

   ***

   The rest of the week is fairly uneventful, if you don't count the rabbit
process that some idiot managed to set running on the third year unix box.
I don't know exactly what he did, but somehow or other he locked up the
system so badly that I had to pull the plug.  Unfortunately for him, I was
able to identify him from the logs and boot him from the system for a few
weeks, so that he might have the leisure to contemplate the folly of his
ways.  As it turned out, that may not have been such a good idea, as it
left him unable to complete his assignment and it looks like I'm going to
have to put up with the stupid git for another year.

   However as Monday approaches, I find myself worrying about how I'm going
to deal with Jenny without the restraining effect of having her mother
nearby, limited as it may be.  Almost from the moment she bounces out to my
car, and throws her bag over the back of the seat and herself into the seat
beside me, my fears prove justified.

   "I got some new knickers on Saturday," she announces, "but you can't see
them.  They're too *sex-eee*."

   Fearing the worst, I risk a quick glance to the side.  She is wearing
her pleated netball skirt and an oversized windcheater, and somewhat to my
surprise she is sitting properly, with nothing more on display than should
be.  Though the grin she returns in response to my glance is as full of
naughtiness as I have ever seen.

   "Are you trying to look at my undies?" she asks with an accusing smirk.

   "No," I reply, "I'm trying to work out why on earth I ever took this
job."

   "B'cause my mum pays you way to much money." she says with a grin.

   "That could be it." I agree.

   Almost the moment I pull into my driveway and come to a halt I'm
presented with the first trial as she climbs up onto the seat and leans
over into the back to retrieve her bag.  Predictably, the back of her skirt
creeps up, revealing the lower half of her small athletic bottom and the
knickers that are supposed to cover it.  They are made from a pink satin
like fabric, so pale as to be almost white, and tastefully trimmed with a
quarter inch strip of plain lace around the leg openings.  The cut is such
that they leave almost half of each firm, round cheek bare, revealing a two
inch wide strip of pristine white skin that has never known the touch of
the sun.  A little lower, the gusset moulds itself tightly to the contours
of her sweet little pussy.

   I might have believed her exposure to be an innocent accident, except
that it takes her an inordinately long time to collect he bag, and when I
look back to see what she is doing, I catch her looking under her arm to
see if I was peeking.  Acting as if nothing untoward was happening, I make
a long arm and grab her bag, saying, "Here let me get that for you."

   Her small moue of disappointment lets me know that she had failed to
catch me peeking at her underwear, and I am already turning away when she
drops back into the front seat, and causes her skirt to lift high enough to
reveal that the sides of her knickers are nothing more than a half inch
strip of elastic holding the front and back together.  Maintaining my show
of ignorance I complete my turn, grinning inwardly at the little noise of
disgust that Jenny makes behind me.

   A few moments later she slams the door of the car with somewhat more
force than is necessary, even for an old rust bucket, and follows me up to
the front door of my house.  Then as soon as I kick the door closed behind
us, she asks, "Can I have a look around?"

   Without waiting for an answer, she takes off down the hall, opening
doors and sticking her head into each room as she passes.  The first, an
empty bedroom I use for storing junk, barely rates a glance.  The second
fares no better as it contains nothing more than a bed with a bare mattress
and an empty dresser.  Across the hall she finds the bathroom and again
quickly turns away.

   Finally she reaches the end of the hall and the room where I sleep.  Her
giggle reminds me that I had neglected to tidy it up that morning, leaving
discarded clothing scattered all over the floor and the bed in a rumpled
mess.  I suddenly recall that, that wasn't all I'd left out in the open.

   Almost running, I reach the room just as she reaches for the corner of
the magazine poking out from amongst the bedclothes, and making a long arm
I reach over her shoulder and snatch it from between her fingers. 
Breathing an inward sigh of relief, I toss it up on top of the wardrobe,
and out of her reach.

   "What's that?" she asks.

   "None of your business." I reply shortly, "Don't you know it's rude to
go poking around in other peoples houses?"

   "I know," she says with a knowing giggle, "it was a dirty picture book
wasn't it?"

   "If you're so smart you don't need me to tell you, do you?" I reply. 
"Anyway, you're supposed to be here to work, not stick your nose into other
peoples business."

   Grinning maddeningly, she turns with an almost, but not quite, revealing
flirt of her skirt and precedes me to the other end of the house. 
Giggling, she suddenly races ahead, and with a taunting look over her
shoulder, she peeks into the remaining two rooms accessible from the hall.

   "Nice kitchen." she remarks over her shoulder as she turns towards the
other door.

   ***

   I'm quite proud of my kitchen.  My grandmother had prided herself on
being a good cook - in my opinion she was a great cook - and about two
years before she had died she'd had the whole room remodelled.  Not for her
the vinyl covered particle board that was all too common these days,
everything in her kitchen was solid timber.

   All of the cupboards and the sideboard were of Norfolk pine and the
bench tops were two inch thick slabs of river redgum.  Only the splashback
behind the sink was tiled, everywhere else the walls were panelled to
shoulder height with more Norfolk pine.  Two huge black beams traversed the
vaulted ceiling, from which were hung a collection of cast iron and copper
cooking pots.

   An enormous black cast iron combustion stove filled the fireplace.  In
winter it served to keep the whole house as warm as toast, even when the
temperature outside dropped below freezing, In summer it was a nightmare. I
don't know how my grandmother put up with it, but for myself, I purchased a
portable cooktop and a microwave oven the first time the temperature
climbed above thirty degrees.

   The furniture was my own addition.  I'd been poking around at a garage
sale looking for books, when I noticed this monstrosity piled up at the
back of the shed.  By the looks of it, it had been last painted in the
seventies, and was finished in bright pink over purple, where most of the
pink had been wiped away with a turps soaked rag before it had dried. 
Anyway it was hideous, but there was something about the form that caught
my eye.  Several of the chairs were coming apart, but a quick check
revealed that all of the pieces were there.

   When I asked, the owner said that she had been going to cut it up for
firewood, but someone had told her that the lead in the paint was dangerous
and now she was waiting for the council pickup.  Twenty dollars lighter in
the pocket, I contemplated how I was to get it home.

   Three weeks and two kilos of caustic later, (A piece of advice: that is
one time it is advisable to wash your hands *before* taking a piss.) I
discovered that under about fifteen layers of paint, it was made out of
black oak.

   Realising that putting a proper finish on it was beyond my ability, I
splurged on hiring a professional French polisher.  He arrived with a
supercilious look on his face, obviously expecting some piece of junk that
was beneath his dignity to touch, but that look faded when he saw what I
had waiting.

   The look on his face told me that he was having what amounted to a
religious experience as he ran his fingers lovingly over the bare timber. A
few minutes later he almost had an apoplectic fit, when I told him I'd used
ordinary wood glue to repair it.  Recovering, he got a pot of what looked
like dried varnish from his van and insisted that I fire up the stove, even
though it was the height of summer and the temperature was in the high
thirties.

   By the time he had broken the joints of the first chair, and carefully
scraped away every scrap of inferior glue, the pot on the stove was
bubbling and a peculiar organic smell filled my kitchen.  Handling each
piece as if it were made of finest china, he lovingly reassembled the
chair, tapping tiny slivers of wood into place to pack any joints he
considered less than perfect.  All the while, he berated me for my
ignorance and the rough and ready technique I'd used to strip away what was
probably more than a century's worth of paint.

   Somewhat hesitantly, I brought up the subject of cost, as it was obvious
that the job was going to take considerably longer that anticipated, but he
waved it aside, telling me that he would only charge for the polishing as
originally agreed.  As for the rest, it was a once in a lifetime experience
and a privilege to have a chance to work on something as rare as this.

   When I told him, I'd paid twenty dollars and rescued it from a council
pickup, he looked as if he were ready to cry.  "Boy," he said, "I don't
know how this piece came to this country, and I *do not* want to know how
it got into the condition that you found it in, but see this mark." He
points to an almost obliterated mark, almost like a crest, burned into the
underside of the seat.  "This tells me that this set was made over four
hundred years ago by a master craftsman.  You say you paid twenty dollars
for it, well you have struck a bargain that will bring tears to my father's
eyes, for what you have here is worth every last penny of twenty five
thousand dollars."

   Shocked beyond belief, I gape at him as a broad nicotine stained grin
creeps across his wrinkled features.  "Surprised young man?" he cackles,
"You should be.  Someone must have been watching over this, for all the
abuse it's suffered, because every single stick here is original and you
have a complete setting."

   That night, I seriously consider selling it, but in the end I decide to
keep it, as there was really nothing that I needed, and rather than fritter
away the money, I figured that I could always sell it later.

   The following day, saw father and son arrive to work on my table, and if
anything the old man's manner was even more reverential than his son's. 
After enduring a diatribe of monumental proportions about my ham fisted
efforts, I was sent out to collect, of all things, a bucket of horse piss,
preferably from an 'in season' mare.  This I was told would be used to
restore the stain that my overzealous sanding had taken out of the wood.

   The very proper English lady, who ran the local riding stables, was more
than a little surprised at my request, but she took it with the equanimity
of her breeding and instructed one of the stable hands to assist me.  An
hour later, and having provided much entertainment to the covey of small to
medium sized girls taking lessons, I had what I came for and a decidedly
fragrant shirt.

   When I returned home the old man, peered into the bucket and pronounced
my offering adequate and set me to the task of rubbing it into the wood of
the four chairs that they had so far rebuilt.  Over the following week and
a half, I receive a basic education on caring for old furniture and how to
maintain the glass like finish that these two old gentlemen impart to my
table and chairs.

   ***

   "Cool!" Jenny's tone tells me that she likes my lounge too.

   In the lounge, comfort had been my only criteria when furnishing it,
though a vaguely Central American theme has come to dominate.  The only
chairs in the room are at my desk.  Everything else is at floor level.  Two
foam rubber mattresses with 'sun face' rugs over them and twenty or so
similarly decorated cushions piled on top, provide seating.  The TV and
video rest on an old wooden crate which serves to house my collection of
Red Dwarf and Star Trek videos.  My bookshelves are concrete Besser blocks
and planks.

   Like any child faced with such an enticing display, Jenny utters a whoop
of joy and throws herself across the room onto the piled cushions, totally
oblivious to the fact that her skirt has flipped up to completely expose
her body from the waist down.  An inch wide strip of tanned skin separates
the waistband of her pleated skirt from the band of elastic at the top of
her knickers.  The front panel, unlike the back, is almost entirely covered
with lace.  In fact a second glance reveals that there is no fabric backing
the floral design adorning her very sexy knickers, and as she writhes
luxuriously in her nest, I glimpse a hint of her slit through the many
holes piercing the lacework.

   I give her a few more seconds to enjoy herself, and for me to take in
the eroticism of her unconscious display, then turning to seat myself at
the desk I call out, "O.K.  enough of that, you've got work to do."

   Grumbling, she makes her way over to the second chair and flops into it.
Ignoring her dark mutterings, I hand her, her bag and wait patiently while
she gets out her books and slaps them down on the table.  Much to my
surprise, I also glimpse two of the books I had lent her in the bottom of
her bag.

   Starting at the very beginning of the book, we run over work that she
had only partially understood due to the poor grounding brought about by
the final term of the previous year.  With one on one coaching and her
quick mind, half an hour suffices to catch up over a week's work.  The
second half hour is devoted to helping her through her homework, so that
she doesn't lose any more ground in her current work.

   At times during the evening, I notice her lifting her foot up onto the
seat of the chair and hugging her knee as she worries at a particularly
difficult problem.  This lets me get a good view of her plump young labia,
pouched in the soft shiny fabric of her gusset, and occasional partial
glimpses of her hairless slit through the front of her knickers.  At first
I think that it's a purely innocent display, but as I'm going over a set of
problems that she has finished, I catch her slyly looking at me to see if
I'd noticed.

   Somehow or other, I managed to make it through the evening without her
catching me looking, and by the time I call a halt to proceedings, her
frustration is evident in the increasing outrageousness of her display. 
All of which I carefully ignore.

   Finally it becomes to much for her.  As she is packing her bag, she asks
me outright, "Do you like my new knickers?"

   "Uh what?" I ask looking up from her last set of problems, "Oh that's
right you said you got some new undies didn't you?"

   "Didn't you see them?" she asks.  "I've been giving you peeks all
night."

   "Have you?" I ask mildly, as I turn away, "I can't say that I've
noticed."

   Several seconds of silence follows this, suddenly broken by the
r-i-i-i-i-p of parting velcro.  "There," she cries, a note of defiance in
her voice, "you can see them now."

   Since it's obvious that she's not going to let me alone until I look, I
turn back towards her.  She stands with one leg cocked, her skirt hooked
defiantly over her shoulder.  Unfortunately the effect she had hoped for is
marred by her oversized windcheater, which covers her to mid thigh.

   "As a matter of fact I can't." I inform her, "Now put your skirt back
on, we're late as it is."

   Looking down at herself, she giggles self-consciously.  Also she seems
to realise that the brazen approach is getting her nowhere, as her whole
demeanour changes.  "No please," she almost whispers as she lifts the
bottom of her windcheater high enough to expose her belly button, "I really
want your opinion.  Do you think they're sexy?"

   Without the brazen attitude of a few moments before to buoy her up, she
is flushing furiously, looking a little scared.  Either fearing that I'll
find her laughable, or that I'll be angry enough to tell her mother.  Her
vulnerability, also makes her more desirable than any amount of sluttish
behaviour could achieve.  Beneath her trim athlete's tummy, her skimpy
knickers mould themselves over the rise of her juvenile pudenda like a
second skin.  The light beside my computer throwing shadows that bring the
twin halves of her mound and the crease separating them into sharp relief.

   "Jenny honey, I think your undies are incredibly sexy, but remember what
I told you the other day?  If you were just a little bit older, I'd think
you were offering something that you are just not ready to deliver."

   Speaking gently I add, "There's a lot of people out there who wouldn't
care about your age, and if you did this in front of them, you'd be in more
trouble than you could possibly imagine by now.  Now please put your skirt
back on and *never* pull a stunt like this again."

   Instead of obeying me, she takes a flying leap, forcing me to catch her,
and hugs me tightly.  "Thankyou," she whispers into my neck, "I was scared
you'd laugh at me, because you'd think I was a little girl trying to
pretend to be grown up."

   With a double handful of incredibly soft, yet firm, flesh, I pull my
head back so that I can look into her face.  "This isn't what I asked you
to do." I say with a half smile.

   Giggling, she pulls her head back a little, letting me ease the strain
in my neck.  "Pooh, you won't hurt me, and I wanted to say thankyou."

   "Thinking like that will get you in a lot of trouble young lady." I
growl, though my smile takes much of the sting out of it.  "The only safe
male is a dead one, and if he tries to show you his death certificate,
don't you believe him."

   "If he tries to show it to me, he can't be dead." she giggles.

   "Exactly," I say, "that's what I've been trying to tell you, men only
care about one thing when they see a pretty girl showing herself off, and
they'll do almost anything to get it.  So don't do it unless you mean to
deliver."

   She considers this seriously for a few moments, then nods decisively.  A
moment later a wicked grin splits her face and she asks me, "Have you
finished playing with my bottom?"

   "See what I mean." I say apologetically as I still the fingers with
which I'd been unconsciously kneading her firm little bum and set her down.
"You, can't trust anyone."

   "I don't mind." she tells me with a half smile, "It felt kind of nice."

   "Be that as it may." I reply severely, "If you don't have that skirt
back where it belongs in ten seconds, then next thing I do won't."

   "Oh you're all bluster buster." she giggles, but the aclarity with which
she picks up her skirt and wraps it around her waist tells me that she
isn't as sure of her appraisal as she'd like me to believe.

   In the car, she places her hand over mine on the gear stick, preventing
me from putting it into gear.  "Are you going to tell Mummy?" she asks.

   "Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" I ask, "Remember what I said I'd
do when you and Vanessa did this to me the other day?"

   "Oh god!" she gasps as the memory of my threat comes flooding back. 
"I'd just die if you made me walk up to the house in just my undies.  And
then Mummy'd make sure and kill me all over again."

   "Well apart from the fact I'd be out of a job, why shouldn't I?" I ask.

   "Because you're too nice." she answers matter of factly, "Besides, you
wouldn't be able to peek at my undies any more.  I know you liked it
because your penis got all big and hard, I felt it."

   "Jenny!" I cry out in shock.

   "Ha." she giggles, "I knew you was peeking all the time."

   "So why that stunt at the end?" I ask.

   "B'cause I wanted to know if you thought I was sexy silly." she giggles.

   "Well having established that I do, don't ever do it again."

   "O.K.  I won't show anyone else see my undies." she promises.

   I notice the glaring loophole in her promise, but decide to let her have
her victory.  Hell I wanted her show off for me, but there was no way I was
going to come out and say it while her infatuation with me left her
vulnerable to manipulation.

   Smugness colours her voice as she says, "O.K.  you can take me home
now."

   ***

   On Wednesday, Jenny announces her arrival with a thunderous knocking on
my door as I'm going over some assignments, which should have included the
work of the idiot with the rabbit program.  A glance at the clock reveals
that it is only a quarter to four and I wonder why she didn't use the time
to play after school, but I obviously can't leave her cooling her heels on
my porch for another quarter of an hour.  Assuming of course that my door
could take the punishment, something that I wasn't prepared to find out, as
she repeated her assault, accompanied by her yelling my name at the top of
her voice.

   "What on earth were you knocking with?" I ask as I let her in.

   "This." she replies brandishing a hockey stick.  "We won, we beat Sacred
Heart."

   "Good for you." I congratulate her, "But that's no reason to take the
paint off my door."

   "Sorry," say says, sounding anything but, "I guess I was just excited."

   "Well O.K." I say partially mollified, "Just don't do it again."

   "Sure." she agrees cheerfully, "Can I change out of my uniform?"

   "Of course," I reply, "but why didn't you do it at school?"

   "Because there's a stupid rule that says we can't" she replies in tones
of disgust.

   "Fair enough, you know where the spare...  What do you think you're
doing?"

   "Getting changed." she says calmly as she finishes pull her uniform
dress off and prepares to skin out of her gym shorts.

   "I can see that, but what about what we talked about on Monday?"

   "I only promised not to show anyone *else* my knickers." she says,
obviously pleased with herself.  Stepping out of her gym shorts she poses
for me.  "What do you think of these?"

   Today's knickers are pale blue and very skimpy with a waistband that is
little more than a string.  Made from an opaque fabric, they would barely
rate a second glance as bikini bottoms, but they're not, and the sheerness
of the nylon from which they are made has not been helped not one whit by
her hockey game.  Rendered almost completely transparent by the sweat of
her exertions, and clinging to her skin, they might as well not be there
for all the good they do in hiding her sweet, hairless charms.

   "I think that you shouldn't be showing off like that, especially after a
game of hockey." I reply through clenched teeth.

   "Why?" she asks, taking a look at herself.  "Oh shit!"

   With that last exclamation she bolts from the room, chased by my
helpless laughter.  A few moments later she calls out, "Can you bring me my
bag please?"

   Still chuckling, I scoop up her bag.  I find her in the spare bedroom,
her flushed face peeping around the doorframe.  Hooking her bag over her
extended hand I return to the lounge and await her return.

   Blushing from the roots of her hair, down to, and beyond the neckline of
her t-shirt, she re-enters the room.  "I didn't mean for you to see *that*
much." she giggles shamefacedly.

   "I'm glad to hear it." I reply, "But since you shouldn't have even been
showing me what you meant to, I don't think it's much of an excuse."

   "I know," she mumbles, "and now I feel all prickly too."

   "You'll get no sympathy from me." I say unfeelingly, "Hopefully that
scared you enough that you'll think before you do anything that silly
again."

   "I'll say." she giggles, recovering some of her spirit.  "It's one think
letting you see my undies when you can't really see anything anyway, that's
fun, but it's completely different when you can see everything."

   "I'm still not sure that you've learnt your lesson," I sigh, "but you're
not going to learn a thing if you spend the rest of the afternoon squirming
in your seat and scratching itches, so go and take a shower."

   "Thanks." she says gratefully, almost bolting from the room in her haste
to relieve the prickly sweat afflicting her.

   "And if you're wearing one stich less when you come back, than you are
right now, look out." I call after her retreating back.

   "Spoilsport." she grins, pausing in the doorway to show me her tongue.

   "Down boy." I mutter to my aching cock the moment she is out of hearing,
"She's not ready for you yet."

   There, I'd admitted to myself that we would become lovers one day, but
there was no way that it would occur until I felt that she was able to make
the decision for herself, and with a mind unclouded by her thinking that
she was in love.

   Listening to the sound of running water, I'm barely able to devote half
my mind to the pile of assignments I'm supposed to be marking, but I don't
get paid to daydream.  So taking a deep breath, I thrust image of an all
but naked Jenny to the back of my mind and concentrate on my task.

   Ten minutes later, Jenny stops in the doorway still towelling her hair,
and says, "I hope you don't mind, but I used some of your shampoo."

   Wearing a plain white t-shirt, which clings wetly to a couple of poorly
dried spots on her body, fortunately nowhere that would make my cock sit up
and take notice, and a simple yellow skirt which stops just above her
knees, she looks exactly what she is.  A beautiful young schoolgirl, just
beginning to mature.

   "Of course not." I grin, "I want you scratching your head because you're
thinking, not because it's all sweaty and horrible."

   "I'm sorry I swore before." she apologises, "But it sort of just came
out."

   "It's O.K.," I reply, "these things happen when you're a little bit
scared."

   "And a whole lot embarrassed." she giggles, now fully recovered.

   "That too." I chuckle, "Now bring me your hairbrush and then we have to
get to work."

   Tossing the third to last assignment on top of the pile, I pull a
cushion between my legs and motion for Jenny to sit down.  Setting the
brush aside for the moment, I grab the towel and roughly dry Jenny's hair,
earning a few half-hearted complaints for my trouble.  Noticing the half
circle of wet fabric clinging to her shoulders I comment, "Your t-shirt's
soaked, next time grab another towel."

   "There were only two and I didn't want to use both." she replies.

   "How can you be so considerate and such a teasing little shit." I mutter
as I wrap the towel around her shoulders and take up the brush.

   "Ooh I'm telling on you." she giggles, sounding for all the world like
she was six years younger than her current age of ten.  "You swore."

   "Ha." I scoff as I work the rest of the tangles from her hair, "You
obviously know the word and you are one, you know."

   "Yep." she agrees smugly.  "I'm a shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit."

   "Hey enough of that." I say trying to sound outraged and failing
miserably.

   "Faeces, shit.  Penis, dick.  Vagina, cunt." she chants.

   "Enough I said." This time I manage to give it the proper force, and she
shuts up.  "Once is a joke, after that all you're managing to do is
demonstrate that you have a sewer for a mouth.  You obviously know what the
words mean, but there's no need to repeat them."

   "Sorry." she mumbles contritely.

   "O.K.  enough said." I say, "There's a time and place for those words
but this isn't it."

   "They're in the dictionary though." she giggles.

   "Won't work." I reply with a chuckle, "I looked them up the same as you
did when I was a kid, but all I earned for my troubles was a mouthful of
soap.  Now hold still we've got work to do."

   Quickly working from then ends back up to her scalp, I work the tangles
from her hair and fasten it in a loose ponytail so that it can dry.  As she
rolls onto her hands and knees to rise, I suddenly reach out and tap her on
the bottom with the back of the hairbrush.  "There," I say with a grin,
"that's for being naughty."

   "Didn't hurt." she giggles, maintaining her position and waggling her
bum.

   "Well we'll see about that." I mutter, landing another half dozen light
taps on her upturned rear.

   "Still didn't hurt." she says merrily, "I've got my spank proof undies
on.  See?" With a naughty note in her giggle, she flips up the back of her
skirt to reveal a trim little bottom completely encased in a pair of
sensible, bottle green, cotton undies.  Covered from waist to the creases
joining her legs to her buttocks, not a hint of untanned flesh is visible,
and the dark colour of the fabric hides all but the basic shape of her
pouched pudenda.

   "You, my child, are incorrigible." I grin.

   "You betcha." she giggles, with an exaggerated waggle of her tail. 
"Well aren't you going to test them out?"

   Caught up in the semi-innocent game, I let her have another ten rapid
smacks with the hairbrush, landing the last two, one on each cheek, with
just enough force to make her squeak.

   "Ouch!" she giggles, reaching back to rub the offended area.  "You're
mean."

   "And you're a naughty little girl who deserves everything she gets and
more besides." I reply mock severely, "Playtime's over, get over to that
desk and get your books out."

   "Can't we work here on the floor?" she asks, turning over, her skirt
thankfully falling down to hide her lower body.  "You were.  Please?"

   "Oh all right." I mutter with a pretended air of being hard put upon.

   Grinning at her victory, Jenny pulls her bag into her lap and pulls out,
books and pencil case.  "Oops." she giggles, as the undies, she'd been
wearing earlier come out caught up on the corner of a book.

   Holding them up, with her fingers spread in the waistband, she asks, "So
do you think these are sexy?"

   "I think they're very brief briefs, way to sexy, and I'll bet they
aren't spank proof."

   "We could always try them out and see." she says archly.

   "Is that a skid mark?" I ask with a grin.

   Her reaction is everything I could have expected.  "Where?" she shrieks,
flushing with sudden embarrassment.  Balling them up in her fist, she turns
away to check.  "You're a shit." she accuses me still blushing, "There's
nothing there."

   "Guilty as charged." I grin, "But it sure shut you up in a hurry.  Now
put them away and work."

   "What are we doing today?" she asks, stuffing the undies back in her bag
and turning to sit tailor fashion, facing me.

   "Well first, how did you do with your homework?" I ask with a grin.

   "I got them all right." she answers smugly, adding in an accusing tone,
"But you already know that.  Why didn't you tell me?"

   "Because I didn't set the work." I reply.  "Now I think we might start
with some revision on fractions to see what you've forgotten, and then
we'll move on to adding up big numbers."

   She breezes through the fractions, indicating that my lessons have
really stuck, at least for the moment.  While she is working on them, I
write up a graduated set of addition problems, being careful to make the
columns obvious.

   "When I hand them to her, she asks, "I just add up the columns don't I?"

   "More or less." I reply, "See how you go."

   She quickly does the first problem and turns to me, "Is that right?"

   Checking her work, I answer, "Yes, now keep going."

   The next two are as easily disposed of.  "These are easy?" she declares.

   "What ever you say." I reply, "Now shush, I've only got two more of
these to do."

   A minute or so later she interrupts me again, "I can't do this one, I
cant make it fit."

   "Really?" I ask mildly, "How so?"

   "This column adds up to thirteen."

   "Huh, that's not right." I say, knowing that the first carry should have
been seventeen.

   "Yes it is." she says, thrusting the problem sheet under my nose, "See?"

   I look over her work and discover that she has been working from left to
right.  "That silly bitch should have been shot." I mutter.

   "What?"

   "Nothing." I quickly reply, then ask, "Didn't your teacher tell you that
you had to work from right to left?"

   "I guess so," Jenny mumbles, "but what difference does it make?"

   "All the difference in the world." I reply, "Remember when I showed you
how to multiply a big number?"

   "Uh-huh." she nods.

   "Well you get carries with addition too." I explain, "There is a way to
do it left to right, but you end up doing twice as much work, and that
means twice as many chances of making a silly mistake.  So have another go,
and this time try it from right to left."

   "O.K." A minute later, "Did I do it right?"

   I look, "Yep.  Keep going."

   Taking back the work sheet, she throws herself face down over a cushion,
in that way that only breastless young girls can manage and alternately
sucking on the end of her pen and writing she works her way down the list.

   As I work on getting the last two assignments out of the way, I
occasionally glance up at Jenny.  While she works she sporadically kicks
her heels up and bumps her bottom emitting a little grunt as she does so.
Every now and then, she wriggles herself into a more comfortable position,
and every time she does so, her skirt creeps an inch or so higher.

   Finally a narrow strip of green cloth comes into view.  At the same time
Jenny glances back over her shoulder and catches my eye.  "You're peeking."
she accuses with a giggle as she tugs her skirt back over her bottom, but
only half way down the backs of her thighs, I notice.

   "And you're doing it deliberately." I toss back with a grin.

   "Never." she giggles, "That would be naughty."

   We each return to our respective tasks, and once again she squirms about
until her bottom creeps into view.  This time she fails to catch me
looking, so the game goes on until over half of her cotton encased bum is
on display.  To me, it is too good an opportunity to waste.  Waiting until
her attention is fully on the problem in front of her, I reach out and snap
the legband of her knickers.

   "Ouch!" she complains, rolling out of my reach, and incidentally showing
me the front of her knickers, since her skirt is up around her waist.  With
all of her squirming about, Jenny has managed to disarrange even these
solidly fitting underpants, and half a plump pussy lip peeks out at me from
between her legs.

   "Well, well, well." I chuckle, "Now I know how to make your spank proof
undies do the spanking for me."

   Meanie." she giggles, doing nothing to fix her dishabille.

   "Little troublemaker." I reply, "Don't you think you should fix your
undies?"

   "Oops," she giggles looking down at herself and snapping her knees
together, "did it again."

   "And you're still doing it." I say nodding towards where her half
exposed labia peek from between her legs.

   "Double oops." she blushes, jamming her skirt down between her legs, and
reaching beneath it, to straighten her undies.

   "Why on Earth do you persist on doing this, when I've told you how
dangerous it is?" I ask in exasperation.

   "'B'cause it's not." she replies.

   "And just how do you figure that?" I ask.

   Ticking off her points on her fingers she tells me, "Well first, if you
were going to do something to me, you would have done it by now.  Two, you
can't do anything anyway because everyone knows where I am and you'd be the
first person the police would think of.  And three, if you were the sort of
man who hurts kids you wouldn't keep on telling me off.  So I can practice
on you all I like for when I get older.  Besides it's fun watching you
pretend not to peek."

   "Well I can't fault your logic." I reluctantly agree, "But do you know
what logic is?  It's a way of going wrong with confidence."

   "What do you mean?"

   "Well all it takes, is for you to start out with bad data and the whole
thing come tumbling down like a house of cards.  In your case you got two
out of three things potentially wrong and you missed one very important
fact."

   "Like what?"

   "First of all, people who attack kids are very good at waiting until
they think they're safe.  Secondly, There are sicko's out there who'd rape
you and cheerfully stuff you head first down a rabbit hole, and only then
worry about hiding the evidence."

   "I wouldn't fit." she giggles, "Besides how could *you* get away with it
when everyone knows I'm here."

   "It's not a joke." I inform her darkly, "You'd fit.  In pieces.  As for
getting away with it, that's easy, I just say you went down the shop and
never came back.  If they never find you, nobody can prove anything, no
matter what they think they know.

   "And finally the most damning thing of all." I say, "What you missed. 
There are, broadly speaking, two types of people who rape children.  One
rapes you, sometimes kills you, and tries to cover it up, they're pretty
rare and usually get caught the first or second time they do it.  The
second type is sneaky, they often convince you it's your own fault, that
you wanted it, you made them do it.  And in a lot of ways they're worse
than the first type, because their victims almost never get help.  They're
too ashamed.  They keep everything bottled up inside, and sometimes it gets
too much for them and they kill themselves.  Nobody knows why, and their
rapist can do it all over again, and again, and again."

   "But how can he make the kid think it's their fault?" Jenny asks.

   "That's easy," I reply, "take you and me for an example.  On Monday you
jumped into my arms and I started squeezing your bottom.  I wasn't thinking
about it and it was an accident, but what if it wasn't?  Either way, you
would still have 'kind of liked it'.  Next time, I squeeze a bit longer,
and you 'kind of like' that too.  The time after that, my fingers slip and
I give something else a squeeze.  Maybe you object, maybe you don't.  If
you do, I apologise and make a joke of it.

   "Afterwards you think about it, and you remember it wasn't so bad.  In
fact it felt 'kind of nice'.  So the next time it happens you don't say
anything."

   "Yes I would." she interrupts, "Mummy says, I decide who touches me
there and if I don't want someone to, I should tell."

   "Good for you and your mum." I say approvingly, But we're being
hypothetical here.  So, there I am with my hand up your skirt, assuming of
course that you're actually wearing one, <giggle> feeling you up.  Next
thing I do is compliment you on those two cute little bumps that are
sprouting on your chest.  You're shy, you're embarrassed, but you're also a
little bit proud because a man likes your new boobies.  So when I reach up
and give one of them a little pinch, you just giggle.

   "The next time you show off your new undies, I compliment them too.  I
say they make you look grown up.  Uh-oh, a man likes your boobies, *and*
he's called you grown up.  We're starting to get really proud now.  You
still haven't told anybody because you think it's fun.  The next time you
come around, you wear your sexiest undies and a really short skirt so you
can show them off all the time, and you wear a blouse with the top two
buttons undone so you can give me peeks at your cute little boobies.

   "This time I say I like these undies even better, because they show off
the shape of your body so nicely.  I haven't been rude, but you know
exactly what I mean, and that's three things to be proud of.  Feeling
really daring, you bend over so I can see right down the front of your
shirt, and it feels good just knowing I'm watching because you know I like
them.

   "Now I don't just reach up and touch them, you might not like it, so I
do something sneaky.  I tickle you, but while I've got my fingers under
your arms my thumbs are pressing into your boobs, and after a while I stop
tickling but keep my thumbs where they are.  And guess what that feels nice
too, but I don't need to tell you that, you already know."

   Blushing a little, she asks, "How did you know?"

   "It's an open secret." I chuckle, "Girl starts growing boobs.  Girl
plays with boobs.  Girl find out it's nice and does it every chance she
gets.  Anyway I've now touched you in three places I shouldn't, but I've
done it through your clothes so you still feel safe, and you don't tell.

   "At this stage I could go for broke, and it might even work, but I'm
smart, I still keep up the little touches, but I'm always careful to make a
bit of a joke of it, do it playfully so it can be laughed off.  I'm waiting
for *you* to make the next move.  And it doesn't take long.  It feels nice
when I touch you in these places, so you start trying to think of ways to
make it happen, and the easiest way is for you to rub your boob on my arm
while I'm explaining something to you.

   "It might not seem like much, but I've now got a hook into you, you're
not just letting me do something to you any more.  You've initiated
something yourself.  You've become an active participant."

   Her mouth falls open as a look of slightly horrified comprehension
creeps over her features, and I bore onwards.

   "I smile to myself when you do it, but I don't say anything, the time's
not right yet, instead I pretend I haven't noticed.  'Ah-ha' you think,
you've gotten away with it, so you do it again.  Maybe you even contrive to
rub something else up against me, but I still don't notice.  That's two
hooks.  At first it's enough just to use me to make yourself feel good, but
I keep on pretending I haven't noticed, and you start to get mad. 
Eventually you get mad enough to do something to make me notice.  Yet
another hook, because now we both know that the other one knows.

   "However, I'm not quite ready to reel you in just yet, you might still
slip off the hooks and tell on me.  I've got to get those hooks set a
little deeper.  So the next time you show off your boobs to me, I reach up
and tickle you in that special way, but the tickling only lasts a second,
and what you're really thinking about is my thumbs, and what they are
doing. This time you rub back, and since we both know what's really
happening, you don't object when I start using my fingers as well.  Hook
number four, almost ready.

   "One day, while I'm playing with your boobs, I say it's a pity I can't
see them better, and since you've been showing them to me for the last
couple of weeks anyway, so you don't mind when I start to unbutton your
blouse.  Even if you do object, all I have to do is remind you that I've
seen them anyway, I just want a better look.  Now this is where I might
start taking up the slack in the line.

   "If you still object, I say that you shouldn't have shown them to me if
you didn't want me to look properly.  There's the first step in making it
your fault.  Now what do you do?"

   "I tell Mum, but boy will she be mad at me." Jenny replies.

   "Good answer." I say approvingly, "But maybe you're feeling just scared
enough, that you decide that it's only a little thing, and maybe you should
just give in.  So now I've got your shirt open, and I'm looking at your
boobs.  What comes next."

   "You touch them again?"

   "Uh-uh," I shake my head, "Those hooks are still pretty loosely set, so
all I do is say how pretty they are and how they mean that you're becoming
a woman.  Guess what?  That's another thing for you to be proud about.  Now
letting me see your boobs isn't too bad, so the next time I ask, you don't
say a thing and just open your blouse, and pretty soon I've got you walking
around like that all the time.  Two hooks at once this time, you're really
proud of your boobs, *and* you walking around like that, is something else
that you don't want your mum to find out about.

   "Now at some stage you're probably going to rub your boob up against my
arm again, and that's my signal.  I can tickle you again, but this time my
hands are inside your shirt, and pretty soon I'm playing with your bare
titties.  Oh boy does that feel good.  Now every time you visit, I can slip
my hand inside your shirt whenever I want.  Sneaky time again.  I stop
doing it.  By this time you've gotten used to it.  You like it.  So you ask
me to do it."

   "Another hook." Jenny says.

   "And this time you've swallowed it, it's a big one and it's set good and
solidly.  Now I can start to make bargains with you.  Because you want
something from me, I can ask for something in return.  I want to see your
knickers, and I want to see them properly, so off comes the skirt.  Since
you've already done that before, you don't even murmur.  But I make a fuss,
you're shirt's in the way.  So off it comes too.

   "So, now if you want me to play with your boobs, you have to strip down
to your undies, and stay like that until it's time to go home.  Another
time and I ask you if you'd like to feel what it's like for a baby to suck
milk.  Maybe you're curious and you agree without any more prompting.  If
you don't agree, I can start tugging on some of those hooks I've got set in
you, and I remind you that your mum wouldn't like to hear about the things
you've been doing.  And I make it very clear that it's been *you* that's
done them.  Either way, I've got a mouth full of titty, and you find out
that if my bare fingers on your bare boobs felt great, then my tongue feels
out of this world.

   "Do you see where this is going, I've got you walking around in nothing
but your undies, I'm kissing your boobs, my hands aren't outside your
undies any more when I squeeze your bum, and they're creeping around
towards the front.  You're starting to feel scared now, but you're even
more scared of your mum, because every time you say no, I remind you that
you started it, you wanted it.  I don't quite say it outright, but
everything I do say is intended to make you believe that it's *your* fault.

   "It's not really true, what you did was only a bit of fun, you were just
being a little bit naughty showing of your new undies.  It was me who kept
on encouraging you to be a little bit naughtier, pushing you, but I did it
so skilfully that you're half convinced that it *was* all your own idea and
I've got you thinking it's your fault.  You're scared and confused, and you
can't tell anyone, because you're scared shitless that you are the one
who's going to get the blame.  Finally one day soon..." I leave it hanging,
not quite willing to say what might come next.

   "I'm screwed." she finishes for me, trying to make a joke of it in order
to cover her fear.

   "Literally," I agree, "but it's not a joke is it?"

   "I guess not." she murmurs.

   "And I haven't finished yet.  I want Vanessa too, and this time it's
easier, I've got you to help.  I give you that magazine I tossed up on top
of the wardrobe and tell you to show it to her.  Get her curious.  By this
time you don't even think of objecting, even though you know it's wrong. 
I've got you too firmly in my grasp for that.  You might even think that it
will help, because you'll have someone to talk to, someone to share it
with.

   "This time however, you know it's your fault.  And a great part of it
would be too, because you know you could have stopped it.  At the same time
Vanessa starts blaming you.  So instead of having a someone to share your
misery with, she hates you and you don't even have a best friend any more.
What's worse, you don't dare make any new friends in case I get you to
bring them to me too.

   "A year or so later, I decide that I don't want you any more, because
all of those things that I praised about you, well I don't like them.  I
don't like big boobs.  I don't like hair.  And I especially don't want to
risk you having a baby, because if that happens I might get found out.  So
I tell you I don't like you, and I do everything I can to make you feel
like shit, because if I can make you feel like you deserved it, you won't
ever tell on me.

   "So there you are.  No friends.  Feeling dirty.  Used.  You're hurt. 
Angry.  You lash out at everyone around you.  Nobody understands, and you
can't tell them.  Maybe you try drugs or alcohol because for a little while
they help, and maybe some little kid will find you at the bottom of the
observation tower on his way to school."

   "That's scary stuff." Jenny finally says after a long silence.

   "I meant it to be." I reply, "It's not always like that.  What I just
told you is a worst case scenario.  A lot of the time, you'll get away with
showing off your knickers, because the person you pick is responsible and
caring.  Even if he's not it often it stops with just touches; and
sometimes, just sometimes, the kid even likes it from beginning to end and
nothing bad comes of it, but none of those are anything to bank on.

   "Until you know exactly what you're getting into, and are ready to
accept the consequences, don't play with fire."

   "For sure." Jenny says fervently.

   "Now let's take a little break, I think we need it." I say.  "And then
it's nose to the grindstone we have a lot of catching up to do."

   With a can of coke in her hand, Jenny returns to the last of her
problems, finishing about the same time I toss the last of the assignments
aside.

   While I correct her work, she sits back in the cushions looking
thoughtful.  Not surprisingly, the last few of the problems are full of
errors, but that's understandable given the distraction of thinking over
what I think is a much more important lesson.  However up until that point,
the errors are few and far between.

   "Well, I think we can safely say that you've learned this lesson." I
congratulate her as I hand the sheet back.

   "But I got the last ones all wrong, I was thinking about what you said."
she almost wails.

   "Well don't think about it too much, you just need to remember it and
make sure that you don't ever let it happen to you." I tell her gently.

   "Now I think that's enough maths for today." I say, "What did you do in
science today, and what did you find under that rock?"

   "Bugs." she informs me with a horrible grimace.  "Both times."

   "Well we can strike entomologist from your list of career choices." I
grin.

   "What's that?"

   "Ah-ha," I chuckle, "a word you don't know, but given your obvious
distaste for the subject, it's fairly understandable.  An entomologist is
someone who studies bugs for a living."

   "Eew gross." Jenny says.

   "So what did you learn?"

   "Well, we learnt about larvae and pupae and metamorphosis and stuff at
school.  I guess butterflies are sort of O.K.  at least they're pretty, but
even they look gross close up."

   "O.K.  we've established that insects are gross." I chuckle, "So what
did you find out at home?"

   "That insects are gross." she replies.

   "O.K.  I asked for that." I grin, "But what else did you discover."

   She digs in her bag and brings out a thick exercise book.  Taking it
from her I open it up to discover that, whatever else she might be, she's
no shirker.  Although it's obvious that she's no artist, she's done her
best to capture with her pencil what she saw.  Mostly slaters as I
expected, a few grubs and some other less identifiable insects.  Her
father's influence is also evident.  Carefully drawn scales have been added
beside each drawing, along with a notation at the bottom of the first page.
'Dad said I needed to put in a scale.'

   Not surprisingly, the slaters get the biggest write up, since they are
easiest to capture and study, and also the least icky.  Her drawings show
them both curled and uncurled, and she has speculated about them curling up
to protect themselves.  Following that, is a section copied from an
encyclopaedia about their diet, complete with a note citing the source.

   The following pages contain drawings of different types of spider webs
and their occupants.  I have to grin at the final passage, 'Spiders are
better than bugs, they still look gross, but they eat bugs.  Some even eat
birds and mice and things.'

   "Very good." I praise her, "Did you put the rock back when you
finished."

   "Of course I did." she declares, "I may not like them very much, but
they've got a right to live too, just not in my bedroom.  Any bugs that
come in there get thonged."

   "Fair enough." I chuckle.  "How are you going with the books I gave
you?"

   "Pretty good actually." she says, diving back into her bag, and handing
me three of the books I'd lent her.  "Here, I've finished these."

   "You've read the parts I wanted you to." I say, "Good."

   "No," she replies, "I finished them.  Have you got any more, I like his
stuff."

   "I haven't got any more of his science essays," I reply, "but I've got a
couple that he wrote about history and things."

   "Can I have them?" she asks eagerly.

   "You can *borrow* them." I reply, "They're over there on the shelves."

   "Scrambling to her feet, she goes to my bookshelves and quickly picks
out the books I'd indicated and then starts running her finger along the
rest of the shelves.  It briefly hovers over my Xanth books then moves on.
"Can I borrow this one too?  I haven't read it yet."

   A quick glance at the cover is enough for me to say, "Let's reserve
judgment on that one until I can ask your mother.  O.K.?"

   "Oh I've read 'Time Enough For Love and the others.  Dad's got them."
she informs me, "I just haven't read this one yet."

   Maybe you have, but he wrote this one just before he died, and it's a
little more explicit, compared to the others.  So let's wait and see.  Even
if your mum says it's O.K.  I wouldn't take it to school.  Some of the
teachers mightn't appreciate it."

   "Really juicy huh?" she grins.

   "Not quite that bad." I grin back, "But it's still not something that
they'd think girls your age should be reading."

   After stowing the books in her bag, we talk a little more about her
science class work.  Suddenly out of the blue she asks, "Can I still
practice on you?"

   From, the way she is sitting with her knees hugged to her chest, and her
feet far enough apart to call my attention to her knickers, it's pretty
obvious what she is talking about.  "Jenny." I say severely, "What did I
just spend half an hour telling you?"

   "Before you say anything else, can I say something first?" she asks.

   "I'll probably regret this," I mutter, "but go ahead."

   "O.K.  I really do know you won't do anything to hurt me, so I'm safe. I
want to learn about boys and stuff, but the boys at school are just little
kids who don't know anything and most of older boys who do know aren't
safe. But you can teach me, and I'm safe."

   "What about the other girls?" I put in.

   "Forget it," Jenny tells me hotly, "most of the ones who know anything
are sluts, and I don't know the ones who know stuff who aren't."

   "O.K.  go on, have you got any more compelling arguments for me?"

   "I can't ask mum because she might get the wrong idea.  I don't want to
do anything yet, I just want to be ready for when I do.  And finally," she
says with a cheeky grin, "You like it and don't *really* mind."

   "O.K.  this time your logic is impeccable." I accede, adding with a grin
to match hers, "But I'll deny that last statement in a court of law."

   "It's still true." she giggles, waving her knees apart and back
together, "See?  You peeked."

   "Did not." I deny, "It was a reflex action brought about by the
unexpected motion of your legs."

   "Ha." she scoffs, "Pull the other one, that one plays Jingle Bells.  You
peek every chance you get."

   "O.K.  assuming I do peek, mind you I'm not admitting anything, but
assuming I do, what's that got to do with it?"

   "Well if you didn't like peeking, there'd be no point in flashing,
because you wouldn't be looking, and then it wouldn't be half as much fun."
she says, "Since you do like peeking, but you won't touch me, I can do it
all I like and still be safe."

   "That's enough of being safe I think." I tell her, "If you belabour a
point too much it looses it's impact.  O.K.  we've established that I won't
hurt you; that the boys who you can fight off don't know anything; the boy
who do know, aren't safe; girls who know and advertise that they know are
sluts; the other girls who know keep their traps shut and won't tell; Your
mum can't help because she'd be afraid that you might try to put anything
she tells you into practice; (I think you are wronging her there.) and
maybe, just maybe, I like peeking up your skirt."

   "Well can I?  Practice on you I mean."

   "I probably need my head examined," I mutter, "and *you* should have
been drowned at birth, but since if I say no, you'll probably try elsewhere
and get into trouble, I give up.  O.K.  you can practice on me."

   "Oh, I might practice elsewhere anyway." she giggles, holding up her
hand to keep me quiet, "After all I need to make sure you know what you're
talking about, but I'll make damned sure I'm safe first."

   "Haven't you got it through your thick head yet, there's no such thing
as safe." I say with my face inches from hers, "Every heterosexual man has
a breaking point, me, Mr Sampson, the pope, even your dad.  We all have
one, sometimes it just takes a flash of your knickers at the wrong time to
set somebody off, and sometimes you have to practically rape him.  And
don't think you're safe just because a girl or a woman is around.  Remember
what I said about using you to get Vanessa?  Well there are also some women
who enjoy watching a little girl get it, and will hold them down to make
sure she does.

   "You are never safe, safe.  There are just varying degrees of danger."

   "It can't be that bad or you'd hear about it on the news all the time."

   "Bullshit." I bark, "There are about two hundred sexual assaults
reported in this country every day, that's over seventy thousand every
year." Grabbing a calculator, I go on, "Since there are about nine million
women and girls in this country that means that you have just under a one
in a hundred chance of being sexually assaulted every year.  Average it out
over a lifetime and it comes down to just under a fifty-fifty chance that
*you* will be sexually assaulted at some time in your life.  Oh, most
probably it will be just a grab on your bum or something minor but it can
still leave you feeling dirty and very, very scared.

   "And that's just the ones that get reported, a good guess is that only
one in four such attacks get reported." I pause while I make some more
calculations, and go on, "So every year, one in about thirty women and
girls get attacked, and over a life time, it comes out to over nine chances
in ten that it will happen to you."

   "Hey how come it actually happens to four time as many women and girls
every year, but it's not even twice as many for a whole lifetime?" she
asks, picking up on the apparent discrepancy, and thereby missing out on
the significance of the numbers themselves.

   "I guess it seems a bit weird, but it works out that way because some
times it happens to the same people more than once.  You'll learn about it
if you ever do statistics in college, and a little bit in HSC."

   "Is it *really* that hard?" she asks.

   "No I guess not, it is pretty basic statistics, it's just the numbers
involved here get pretty big and very, very small."

   "Can you show me an easy example."

   "Hmm, let me think about it." I say, "Yes I can, and we can use your
fractions as well.  O.K.  imagine a bag with three black marbles and one
white one.  Now what are your chances of reaching into the bag and getting
the white one?"

   "One quarter."

   "And of not getting it?"

   "That means it's black, so three quarters."

   "O.K.  put it back.  Now what are the chances of not getting the white
one a second time?"

   "Uh, one and a half."

   "Wrong, but I can see how you might think it is." I say, "No, the rules
of the game are that all chances must be less than one.  Now can you see a
way to put three quarters and three quarters together and still come up
with a number less than or equal to one?"

   She thinks about it for a while, then takes up pen and paper, and writes
down three quarters twice.  A fews seconds later she hesitantly says, "I
could multiply them."

   "And that's the way you have to do it." I say, "What do you get?"

   "Nine sixteenths."

   "That's right."

   "But I don't see it." she complains.

   "O.K.  I guess you'll have to see it laid out in front of you to get it.
Write down 'B' twelve times.  No, on separate lines.  And now 'W' four
times.  Now next to them write 'B', 'B', 'B', 'W' and repeat it until you
get to the bottom.  O.K.  now how many times do you get two 'B's, and how
many different ways of picking out marbles are there all together."

   "Uh, nine 'BB's and sixteen ways, so that's the same as nine
sixteenths," she replies, "but I still don't see why, aren't all the 'BB's
the same?"

   "Well yes and no." I say, "Let's just for a second pretend all of the
Black marbles are different.  Here." taking pen and paper from her I name
the three blacks 'B1', 'B2' and 'B3' so that she can clearly see the
different combinations.

   "Oh I seen it now." she cries excitedly looking over my shoulder, "There
really are sixteen ways of pulling the marbles out of the bag, but because
you can't tell the difference between some of them it just seems like there
aren't."

   "Exactly." I praise her, "Now put the marble back again and what are
your chances of getting three black marbles in a row."

   "Um, twenty seven sixty fourths.  That's less than half.  And four in a
row would be-" she scribbles on the paper for a few seconds, eighty-one,
two hundred and fifty sixths.  And-"

   "I think that's enough." I interrupt her, "Do you see what's happening?"

   "It's getting small pretty fast."

   "That's right, so what do you think you should do to find out your
chances of getting at least one white marble in your four picks?" I ask.

   She goes for the obvious answer, multiplying one quarter by three
quarters three times, replying "Nine, two hundred and fifty sixths."

   "Good try," I say, "but what you've got there is your chance of getting
one white marble followed by three blacks.  What you want are *all* of the
times you don't get four black ones in a row.  Try it with just two picks
so you can use your table."

   I watch her as she moves her finger down the column, her lips moving as
she counts.  "Eight." she announces once she gets to the bottom.  So all I
have to do is take away all of the black, black combinations from sixteen,
sixteenths.  Which means for four it would be-" she scribbles down the
numbers and ponders them for several seconds before finally admitting, "I
can't do it."

   "That's because we haven't done that yet, you need to borrow from the
next column." I explain, "Here watch.  The first bit is easy, one from six
is five, for the next column we need to borrow a one from the two so we can
subtract eight from fifteen."

   "Seven." Jenny puts in.

   "That's right, and since we've already borrowed one from the two,
there's only one left, so the answer is one hundred and seventy five."

   "But couldn't I just take eight from twenty five?" she asks.

   "You could, but what if you'd been taking away one hundred and eighty
one?" I ask.  "I know you can take eighteen from twenty five in your head,
but the rule here is you do it one column at a time so that you don't make
silly mistakes.  Besides, what if it had been eighty seven you had been
taking away, if you tried to do it your way, things would get muddled
pretty fast."

   "I think I get it, can you show me some more?" she asks, "But first can
you show me how the marble thing works with bigger numbers?"

   "You mean what I was doing before?" I ask.

   She nods silently.  Maybe the numbers had registered after all.

   "O.K.  for the purpose of this exercise we'll simplify things a bit and
assume that every year the numbers are exactly one in a hundred, and one in
twenty five.  The other number we need is how long a woman can expect to
live, which is about eighty-two years.

   "So it works out like this.  ninety nine one hundredths, (Remember, if
you want to know how likely something is to happen at least once, we start
out with the chances of that event not happening.), so that's ninety-nine
one hundredths raised to the power of eighty two.  (That's the same as
multiplying a number by itself eighty two times.) So your chances of it not
happening, are about forty four in a hundred.  Which means the chances of
it happening are very nearly fifty six times out of a hundred.  Which in
turn means that fifty six out of a hundred women or girls will report an
assault at some time in their life."

   "Hang on a sec." she objects, "if what you are saying is right, that
means it happens to babies and old ladies too."

   "That's right." I say, "I've told you before, there are some very sick
individuals out there."

   "Sick all right." She says "But it still can't be right because babies
can't speak, so how can they tell somebody about it?"

   "True," I say, "but the assault might be seen by somebody else, or the
baby is injured so that somebody can see that it's happened.  Also older
people are more likely to report an attack, so it evens things out.  Now
lets do it again and include all of the unreported attacks.

   Making the calculations in front of her, I say, "So the real chance of
avoiding an assault each year is twenty four, twenty fifths, and in a
lifetime that comes out to three and a half chances in one hundred.  Or
ninety six and a half chances of it happening out of a hundred that it will
happen.  Not good huh?"

   "I think I'm going to lock myself in my room and not come out." Jenny
whispers.  "Can't you do anything to make your chances better."

   "Plenty.  But first remember, most of the assaults are fairly minor, and
an even bigger proportion of the unreported ones are also minor.  In all
probability, it's only going to be some drunken idiot grabbing you on the
boob or something similar.  You're still going to be upset, and you'd have
every right to be, but you can live with it, especially if it takes a heart
surgeon to find his balls afterwards."

   She giggles at my joke as I go on, "O.K.  avoiding the really bad ones.
Never be alone on the streets at night.  Don't get into a car with a
stranger or anyone you don't trust.  Don't flash your knickers or boobs
unless you really want a guy's attention.  Don't dress or act like a slut.
When you do wear revealing clothes, like for a party when you're older,
wear a coat over the top while your travelling.  If it's dark outside and
you're getting a taxi home, tell them you want the driver to come to the
door.  Share the taxi with friends, maybe even have all of you go to one
person's place and have a parent drop off the rest, explain why and at
least one person's parent will agree to do it.  Never wear just your
sport's gear home from school, alway put your dress on over the top, or put
on a pair of trackie daks.

   "Think about the girls you see getting around in baggy clothes, they
don't want just any guy's attention so they dress to avoid being noticed.
Underneath they might look like Dolly Parton."

   "No way." Jenny giggles, "Their boobs would still stick out to here."

   "True," I smile back, "but put on a baggy enough tracksuit and she might
be as fat as a hippo too.  Why take the trouble to find out when there's
easier prey out there.  There are lots of little things you can do to make
yourself safer, those are the one I thought of first, but since I'm a man
they're probably the most important.

   "And finally, the one thing that is most likely to save you grief." I
say, "If you ever feel the least bit uncomfortable in any situation, think
quick, and get yourself some place safe.  Bright lights and plenty of
witnesses is best, but almost anywhere there's other people will do.  Gangs
of course are an exception.

   "You know what a safety house is, if you ever need to use one, do it,
even if you're fifty years old.

   "If it ever does happen to you, the most important thing you can
remember is that it's *not your fault*.  Even if you did something silly,
the other person is the one who made the choice to attack you.  So long as
you say 'no', all of the blame lies with the other person.  Even if you say
'yes' and then change your mind, 'no' means 'no'.

   "And when it's over, report it immediately.  The quicker you report it,
the more likely it is your attacker will be caught.  Also the quicker you
get help, the better it is for you, because you don't have time to start
blaming yourself for all of the things you might have done to avoid it.  It
doesn't matter how minor you think it is, and it doesn't matter what threat
they might make.  You can alway find somewhere else to live until the
danger is past, but if you say nothing, then if someone else is hurt and
you hear about it, it's just going to make you feel even shitier than you
already do.

   "And enough." I sigh, "You're probably going to have nightmares for a
week, after that."

   "Can I have some subtractions to do now?"

   "Kid you amaze me." I say wonderingly, "You're should to be hiding under
a bed by now."

   "Can't," she giggles, demonstrating the resilience of youth, "Elwood
would get me."

   "He's my monster under the bed." Jenny tells me, "Jake lives under
Vanessa's."

   "Oh great," I groan, "Blues Brothers and Xanth.  So what colour are her
panties?"

   "Same as mine." she giggles, flipping up her skirt, "Green.  Bet you
asked that deliberately, so I'd show you."

   "Bet you did that deliberately so I'd look." I chuckle in return.

   "Of course." she informs me, "Problems please."

   "Here." I say after a couple of minutes of scribbling.

   She checks with me for the first couple of problems to make sure she has
the borrows correct, then gaining confidence she works the next few on her
own.  At which point she reaches the first in which she has to subtract two
numbers from a third.

   This time I'm almost certain that the slow but steady appearance of her
undies is inadvertent.  Stumped by the problem before her, she wriggles and
squirms almost continuously, with the pen between her teeth.  After
watching several false starts, I'm just about to intervene when, she makes
a happy little sound and with a flying pen breaks the problem down into two
parts.

   I let her do a couple more in the same fashion, still totally unaware
that three quarters of her cotton encased bottom is on display, then reach
across and snap her legband to gain her attention.

   "Ouch!" she giggles reaching back to rub the affected part, suddenly she
seems to realise her exposed state, and tugs her skirt back over her bum.
"Hey, I didn't even know I did it that time."

   "Obviously." I remark dryly, "You weren't checking to see if I was
looking."

   "So what do you want?" she asks, then suddenly she grins, "Was that
sexual assault?"

   "Yes," I admit, "it could be counted as such.  So you see, even I'm not
totally safe."

   "So you've assaulted me three time today if you count the spanking.  Or
does each smack count separately?" she says with a smirk.

   "Nope." I grin back, "Besides you asked for it, so it doesn't count at
all."

   "And since I didn't say no to the first one, I can't count this one, and
I can't really count that one either because I didn't say no straight away.
But don't do it again." she waggles her finger under my nose, adding with a
giggle, "Too hard."

   "Incorrigible child." I mutter, "But what I wanted to say was, there's a
trick to doing problems like that.  If you cover up the top number, you can
treat the rest as an addition and then you only have to subtract one number
at the end."

   "Huh how does that work?"

   "Because subtracting is just adding in the other direction." I say, "Try
it on the ones you've already done and see for yourself."

   She does as I ask, discovering for herself that I'm right.  "Hey that's
neat, and it makes it real easy when I've got to take away lots of numbers,
because I only have to do two calculations instead of one for each."

   "And that means?" I ask expectantly.

   "Less silly mistakes." she supplies with a grin.

   "You can even do it in one step, but you want to be really confident
before you try, because you'll probably have to borrow more than one, and
sometimes you'll have borrow from way over on the left.  This way you never
have to borrow more than one.

   A few minutes later she asks, "What about these?" pointing to problems
which are a mixture of addition and subtraction, "Is there a trick to make
these easier too?"

   "Yes," I say, "but do a few the hard way first so you get a feel for
them."

   Instead of doing as I say, she contemplates the problem with pen in her
mouth, rhythmically flicking it from side to side with her tongue.  A
minute or so later she states, "I take out all the adding up first, that
way I can use the subtraction trick and then all I have to do is add the
rest together."

   "Try it and see," I tell her, "but you're still going to have to do it
the hard way to check."

   Showing me her tongue she goes to work, coming up with the correct
answer after a minute of diligent effort.  She's not so lucky with the
second answer though, as it turns out that her intermediate answer is going
to be negative, something we have not covered yet.  Turning to me with a
look of utter frustration, she complains, "I can't make it work for this
one."

   "That's because we haven't done negative numbers yet," I say, "and we're
not going to start tonight.  You almost had the trick right, but you should
take out all of the subtractions and put them to one side, and since you
have to have to do a separate sum for them anyway, it saves you a step at
the same time.  Your way works too, it's just a little bit more difficult."

   "And that means?" she giggles.

   "Silly mistakes." we finish together.

   "What are negative numbers?" she asks.

   "Numbers less than zero." I reply, "Eventually you're going to run into
them no matter what tricks you use, but not tonight."

   "How can you have less than zero?" she asks curiously.

   "Well if you start out with nothing, borrow ten dollars from me and
spend it, how much do you have left."

   "Nothing." she replies.

   "Really?" I ask, "Where's my ten dollars?  I want it back."

   "Um, I'd get it off Dad." she says, brightly.

   "And now he's ten dollars out of pocket.  So where does he get it from?"

   "He takes it out of my pocket money." she concludes.

   "You've missed the point." I say, "Between you spending the money and it
coming out of your pocket money, you owe somebody ten dollars, and that
means you have less than zero dollars, in fact you have negative ten
dollars.  You can't see it, but it's still a real number nonetheless."

   "So where do imaginary numbers come from?" she asks, in a way that tells
me it's a set up.

   "No!" I cry in mock fear, "Not those, anything but those."

   "Why?" she asks, "They were in one of those books you lent me, but I
skipped most of it like you said.  And when you started talking about
numbers less than zero, I sort of thought they might be them."

   "No negative numbers aren't imaginary." I say, "Let's go back to that
ten dollars, because that way we're working with something concrete."

   "Concrete?"

   "Real, real." I explain, "What I mean, is that that ten dollars exists
somewhere, in your case it means that you haven't got this week's pocket
money yet.  When you're older, it means that you haven't earned it. 
Imaginary numbers are a whole different kettle of fish, they're somewhere
to the left of straight up."

   "That's not a real direction," Jenny giggles, "because it depends on
which way you're facing."

   "Not even that," I chuckle, "because you can't really point to the left
of straight up unless you're facing straight up, even then that's not
enough because your feet have to be pointing in all directions at once. 
Then and only then can you point in the right direction."

   "But that's impossible." she objects.

   "Impossible to do, but not quite impossible to imagine," I grin, "which
is where they get their name from."

   "Elucidate." she tells me.

   "Big word." I chuckle, "O.K.  you know what a number line is right?"

   "Yeah."

   "Well if you put zero in the middle, all of the negative numbers are on
the left and the positive ones are on the right."

   "So the imaginary ones are straight up and down.  Right?"

   "Sorry, no prizes for guessing.  Straight up and down is still real. 
You know how to find your street on a map?"

   "Like B6 you mean?"

   "Exactly, but we can also put numbers on the second line, and we're
still describing something that's real."

   "I guess in front of and behind the line is out too, because you said my
feet had to face every way at once?"

   "No guessing allowed," I grin, "but you still get a gold star for being
right.  If we go back to the map, that direction tells us how far above or
below something we are, usually sea level.  So what's left?"

   "Nowhere." she replies perplexedly.

   "Yes there is, but you have to *imagine* it." I tell her.

   Frowning cutely, she ponders the imponderable for several minutes,
before finally admitting defeat, "I can't see it."

   "I'll let you in on a little secret," I chuckle, "almost nobody can, so
we cheat."

   "How?"

   "By throwing away one of the real directions and putting the imaginary
one in its place.  We put a little 'i' next to it to remind us that it's
imaginary, but apart from that we just pretend it's real, and we can use
the same sort of equations to calculate with them, with only a few tiny
changes to the rules.  Now get back to your problems and stop trying to
sidetrack me."

   "Yes sir." she giggles, throwing me a salute.

   When she has about three to go the phone rings.  "Hello?" I answer it.

   "Greg, what on earth have you two been doing?" It's Dianne, "It's nearly
half past seven."

   "What?" I ask incredulously, "Oh, my, God, I'm sorry, we got sidetracked
and lost track of the time.  I'll have her home in ten minutes.  Bye."
Hanging up, I turn to Jenny, "Quick Jenny pack your stuff, we're later than
late."

   Smart kid that she is, she's already packing, and less than a minute
later we're in the car.  Fortunately Morrie knows to get the key from Danny
next door if I'm not there so I don't have to waste time with a note.