University was a difficult time
for me in lots of ways, but none more so than in the realm of finances.
To suggest I survived on next to nothing would be an exaggeration, but
not massively so. I had to work almost full time to allow my studies to
continue, and even then was forced to rely on my aunt and uncle for the
generous provision of living quarters.
I say living quarters, but what I actually mean was an attic. As
apologetic as my uncle was about the state of the room, there was no
getting over the fact that it wasn't really meant for habitation. He'd
tried his hardest, for which I was profoundly grateful, and yet it was
still an unheated, uncarpeted room accessed only by a ladder, which had
to be stowed most of the time because it got in the way in the hallway.
When I arrived it was with promises from my mother that I would work on
the room as I lived there, but in all honesty I had completed less than
half of the work required by the time I left three years later. I
visited my aunt and uncle recently, and the room has barely changed
since.
Michael and Sarah, my mum's brother and his gorgeous but utterly
airheaded wife, were as accommodating to me as they possibly could be,
but with two kids already - and only two bedrooms - they couldn't spare
me any more room than they did. Their kids were separated by the kind
of gap which makes you think the second must have been a mistake -
Sophie was a cute-as-a-button, chestnut-haired nine year old, whilst
her little brother, Matthew was a blond, one year old thug, not at all
a cute little toddler.
Whilst Matthew was still sleeping in his parents' room, Sophie had a
bedroom all to herself, which lay directly below the part of the attic
which I occupied. I could often hear her moving about, and when she had
friends over, could hear them chattering away excitedly, though tbeir
words were always muffled by the floorboards.
It was a cold, dark day in late November when things changed. I was up
in my room, reading a book by the window. It was getting dark outside,
but I was comfortable and I reckoned I had a few more minutes' daylight
left before I had to get up and turn a light on. It was only when I
looked away from the pages of my book that I realised how dark it had
become in my room. I blinked into the darkness for a moment, letting my
eyes adjust, and when they'd done so I noticed something which, for
some reason, I had never before seen: a thin shaft of light protruded
from the crack between two floorboards on the far side of the room. I
realised instantly that the light must be coming up from Sophie's room,
and went over to investigate.
The floorboard was loose, and had been cut fairly recently near to
where the light was coming through. It took no effort at all to lift
out, and I was looking at the back side of Sophie's ceiling. The light
came from the halogen spot lights Michael had installed in his
daughter's bedroom not long before I arrived. I was surprised some of
it was shining upwards, but the light unit was cheap and not too well
installed, and there were little gaps all over the place. Gaps large
enough, I realised, that I could see right into Sophie's room. There
she was, sitting at her little desk, scribbling away on some sort of
homework.
I nearly called out, but something stopped me. I realised my heart was
racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Worst of all, though, was
the sizeable, painfully hard erection I was now sporting. Of course, it
was the possibility of seeing more than the mundane scene below which
had raised my pulse. I am - though I was only beginning to admit it to
myself at the time - a lover of young girls' bodies and of their
emerging sexuality. Nothing is closer to my heart.
For the moment, there was little to draw my attention, but I watched
for a while anyway, until a shout from downstairs told us all that
dinner was on the table, and Sophie left her room.
From that evening on, whenever possible, I would watch Sophie through
the floorboards. She didn’t spend a great deal of time in her bedroom,
and much to my annoyance would invariably get changed into her
nightclothes in the bathroom after her nightly bath. That didn't stop
me seeing her in her panties in the mornings sometimes, though, which
was enough to keep my fantasies going and my balls empty for a good
long while.
But I wouldn't be writing this if there wasn't more to tell. It came
one evening when Michael and Sarah decided to go out for their
anniversary. Despite offering to babysit the children, I was told that
I had far too much work to do, and that a friend would be asked to help
out. I had used the excuse that I had to study hard ever since I had
started watching Sophie, to explain why I needed to be in my room so
much. Now it meant that I got out of looking after Matthew, something I
despised.
With no-one to enforce her normal routine, Sophie made it to bed late
that night. She came into her room after her bath, dressed in
trousers-and-top style pyjamas, and proceeded to dry and comb her hair,
a nightly ritual. When she was satisfied, she hopped into bed with a
book, holding it in one hand. She did that a lot, the other hand under
the covers. I was convinced she was playing with herself under there,
but without any proof it didn't hold the same eroticism.
This time, though, perhaps without the spectre of her parents possibly
coming in to say goodnight, she became a little more bold. After a few
minutes' reading, and with her cheeks already flushed, Sophie threw off
the covers. He hand went straight back to her pyjama bottoms, and
straight back beneath the waistband. She was masturbating in almost
plain sight, a layer of thin cotton fabric all that separated my eyes
from the fingers dancing over her sex.
I watched, mesmerised, blood pounding in my ears for several long,
glorious minutes, until with an audible huff Sophie pulled her hand
out. I thought the show might be over for the evening, and allowed
myself to shoot into the wad of tissues I held over the end of my
penis. But I'm glad I didn't stop watching, because what happened next
got me hard again faster than I ever had managed before.
Sophie hopped out of bed and went to her wardrobe. In the bottom was a
large toy chest, full of all the things she didn't use on a daily
basis. She rummaged around in the very bottom of it, and a moment later
her hand emerged holding a maraca. It had been her brother's toy until
fairly recently, when a careless foot had cracked it, causing all the
beads to leak out. Sophie had insisted she would have a use for it, and
demanded that the now-silent maraca was not thrown away, and I hadn't
seen it since.
Now she was walking back to her bed with it. On her way, she stopped to
close the door to her room properly, and lock it. She wasn't meant to
lock it, but the babysitter wouldn't know that. I was getting more and
more excited about what was about to happen, and my excitement grew
immeasurably when she stopped and shed her pyjama bottoms and her
panties, and lay down on the bed.
Oh my God. I could see her hairless, undeveloped vulva, crimson at its
heart from her earlier ministrations, the engorged clitoris at its
zenith poking well clear of the rubbery, smooth lips. It glistened,
too, a clear sign of her arousal. A hand snaked down, the same hand as
earlier, its now shaking fingers finding the smooth folds of her
preteen sex. It dived between them, alternating attentions between her
swollen button and the entrance to her most forbidden place.
As the excitement overtook her, I could hear little half whimper half
moan noises coming from her. Sophie's eyes were closed by now, her
teeth clamped on her bottom lip, except for when she panted or moaned.
She sounded almost in pain, begging the feeling to stop. Her legs
writhed, thighs clamping together and then parting obscenely, toes
curling and flexing almost in time.
I'd almost forgotten about the damaged maraca, but now it came sharply
back into focus. It was lowered to her sex in the free hand, and for a
moment just ran in among her lips. I could see the plastic shining
wetly, wishing I could lick it clean. Then, almost as if a decision had
been made and could not be gone back on, Sophie's whole body stopped
moving, all except the hand with the maraca. Slowly, carefully it was
tilted until the slightly bulbous handle was pointing downwards,
undeniably aimed at her vagina. And then the pushing began.
This wasn't the first time the handle had been in there, I was sure of
it. It wasn't a big thing for her to take, but it was pushed in all too
freely, entering her body until about five inches was inside, and the
start of the teardrop head of the toy was beginning to force her wide
open. Then it was gently withdrawn, but only half way, before being
returned with a forceful shove which drew a whimper from Sophie's lips.
The rhythm was relentless, practised, and it drew its inevitable result
only minutes later. With a shudder which racked her whole body, legs
pushed straight, toes curled, head thrown back in a silent scream,
Sophie came, and came hard. I watched the toy, still embedded in her,
quivering as spasms wracked her vagina. Finally she stopped, and lay,
legs spread-eagled with the toy obscenely poking out of her. She stayed
there for a moment, eyes tight shut, until with a flutter of eyelashes
and a gasp, she came back into the room.
Then, her eyes unmistakably fixed on mine, she gave me the thumbs up...