She was nine and a half when the morning visits began. I remember
clearly that the night before we had celebrated her nine-and-a-halfth
birthday. We always celebrated her half birthdays. It didn't take me
long to realise that our moments together in the dim half light were an
attempt to feel needed, or at least wanted. The desire was
understandable following her mother's betrayal. I needed the comfort
too, if truth be told.
I just held her at first. She was a warm, comfortable presence to be
enclosed in my arms. She felt right. So slim and slender, like a golden
haired goddess, or perhaps a nymph of the woods. She would sigh and
press herself back into me, finding as much contact as she could,
desperate, as I said, to feel wanted. We dozed together, my dreams
ethereal, dissipating as soon as my eyes opened. Minutes stretched away
from us, until the harsh call of the alarm clock interrupted. Then she
would be gone, leaving me wondering if really she had ever been there
at all.
Her visits went from weekly, to twice-weekly, to all but daily. We
shared the twilight hour when only milkmen and enthusiastic lovers are
awake. Her soft, warm form against my body began to arouse feelings
which had laid dormant for years. I feared that she would notice the
protrusion from my midriff which seemed ever-present when she lay with
me. She did notice, of course. Surprised, I suppose, she stopped coming
to me for one long, agonising week. We spoke nothing of it during the
day. Her attitude toward me changed not one bit, but she was missing
from my loving embrace in the mornings. When she returned I tried so
very hard to remain calm, but in the half-sleep of early morning she
felt it again. Her body had been writhing, burrowing into me, an
innocent act not designed to arouse. Yet it did, and as she felt the
hardness press into the base of her spine she froze. Then, wonderfully,
unexpectedly, she melted and pressed back into me. Perhaps she realised
that I could not control it; I never thought to ask why she stayed that
day.
Our routine became one of the most exquisite pleasure for me. She would
wiggle those slender hips until I lay engorged the length of the valley
of her soft, perfectly formed bottom. Slowly, tortuously she would move
in front of me until I could resist no longer and expelled the force of
my passion into my underwear. She knew when I had reached my peak,
because she would giggle and grab my arms, pulling them tighter around
herself, forcing herself back into me and eliciting a moan as my
sensitive being was crushed between us. Guilt was ever-present in my
mind, but desire silenced it.
Our times together evolved. I don't remember the first time it
happened, but suddenly there were no clothes hindering the touch of our
lower bodies. Always she would come to me in her nightie, and somehow
it would always end up bunched around her midriff. My shorts would
disappear, too, leaving my maleness to slide against the hot, soft and
slightly sweaty valley between her cheeks. My seed would spill over her
lower back, dripping down onto the sheets. Each time she would lift the
nightie over her head, careful to maintain its unsullied state, and
leave me there, stalking off naked to the shower with my passion
running down between those perfectly formed cheeks. Each time, too, she
would stop and turn at the bedroom door, blowing me a kiss and letting
me see her undeveloped form in all its glory, laughing as my eyelids
drooped and I groaned, grabbing myself to squeeze the last mote of
pleasure from our moments together.
She was ten by the time our love was consummated. She knew all about
intercourse, and had laughed with excessive glee at the discomfort I
showed as she had related the contents of the education with which her
somewhat progressive school had furnished her. She knew what to expect,
but pushed back against me nonetheless. The sensitive tip of the core
of my being had bumped into the soft, hot, wet furrow at the core of
hers, and rather than pulling away she had welcomed the contact, had
forced herself onto me. With a rush I was encased within her. It lasted
only moments before she pulled away, uncomfortable with the intrusion,
and already holding my seed within her.
Our coupling became more frequent, and lasted longer each time. I would
sink deeper and deeper into her, until her bottom rested in my lap.
Always from behind, our lovemaking was slow and sensuous, her hips
controlling the motion, gyrating to force us closer together. She
learnt to accept me in full without the slightest pause, sighing as
with a thrust she became whole each morning. She would take my seed
with her, lovingly delivered to the centre of her being.
More often than not our embraces were of the tender kind, moments
stolen at the breaking of day before school called for her and my
typewriter beckoned me. Much less frequently we coupled like animals.
She would return from school some days demanding my attention, exciting
me with flirtatious glimpses of her denuded sex as she flicked her
skirt up into the air. I would have her on the sofa, or in my office
chair, her pleated skirt sitting in folds upon my waist, hiding the
activity beneath. She would kiss me passionately when we mated in this
way, and then, when my release had been found she would hop off with a
smile and walk unsteadily off to her room to do her homework.
Other times were more brazen still. Very rarely she would come to my
room at night, entirely devoid of clothing. She would demand that I
became similarly naked, and then would kneel astride my hips. Nothing
hindered the view of our obscene coupling in these moments. Her hands
would grab my shoulders, and in a frenzy she would have her way with
me, frantically striving for the ultimate pleasure until sweat beaded
on her brow.
It stopped, one day. She simply had no further need for me, it turned out. At the tender age of 12 she was seeing a boy two years her senior, and he satisfied her needs fully. But I shall always remember that period of time for which I was the answer to her needs, and she to mine.