Her self-assuredness was captivating, alluring. It pulled me in, and
then when I was close enough it held me there, in her aura. She owned
the room, or at least the part of it reserved for my pitiful gaze,
which lingered on her far too long. So long, in fact, that when my eyes
met hers the knowledge of my not-so-secret obsession was quite clear in
her raised eyebrow. The smirk which curled the corner of her lips was
both mocking and pitying, in equal measure. That she continued to watch
me once my indiscretion was discovered only served to heighten the
feeling that she must now be guarded against my advances.
I could have asked her to dance, I suppose. It would have fitted
the occasion. We were both related in some way to the bride at whose
wedding we met, and as such related to each other. Second cousins once
removed, I think. Removed sufficiently that had she been some years
older my intentions could quite reasonably have been considered
honourable. But her adolescent form was firmly off limits, at least for
someone nearing the end of their third decade. We could dance, yes, but
in the way that embarrassing uncles pull their embarrassed nieces into
the melee, and then proceed to demonstrate just how embarrassing they
can be.
I could not ask her, of course. It would have been simply too
obvious that my feelings towards her were not quite as innocent as they
should have been. That was, of course, assuming that I could even have
penetrated the mystical zone of exclusion which surrounded her. Had I
tried to approach I would have choked even before she had the
opportunity to rebuff me. No matter, I reasoned, I could watch from
afar and desperately attempt to maintain equilibrium.
So wrapped up was I in my thoughts that my name was called twice before
I realised my attention was lacking. Here was an old friend, wanting to
dance. I obliged her, of course. This was comfortable, not so
inappropriate. I had felt something for her once, but long ago, before
I realised her imperfections. We waltzed our way gently across the
floor, her embrace warm but uninviting. My mind and my eyes wandered,
and she noticed. When the sardonic smile caressed her lips and her eyes
focussed on the table at which my young muse sat sucking cola
seductively through a straw, I almost panicked. But the smile became
warm, the mistake crystallised in my partners mind. There, sat next to
the object of my desires was her step-sister, older, more permissible,
only four, maybe five years my junior, and, I have to admit, also
ravishingly beautiful. Her radiant light was but a shadow in the
strength of her sister’s supernova, but still it shone brightly enough
itself. Disengaged, I was pushed bodily forwards, towards the false
prize.
But, oh, what fortune fate provides. The girl whose partner I am
bound to become refuses, her smile sweet, her excuse genuine. Even I
can see the bandage on her ankle. No, of course she cannot dance, silly
me. I apologise profusely, then beg her pardon as I miss her rejoinder.
What was that? Your younger sister, you say, would like to dance? Why
of course, I would be delighted. Much more so than my replacement
partner, it seems, who shows disgust, but at the same time willingness;
it is a strange look.
Oh but she glides like a ballerina in my arms, short, lithe,
quick-stepping, letting me lead her, making me feel a better dancer
than I could ever claim to be. It is some variety of magic she
performs, and I, I am under her spell, wholly and entirely. I am
lightheaded, foolish, giggling. In the latter, she joins me now,
giggling, laughing, enjoying herself against all reason, and against
her own prejudices. One dance leads to another, and another, until,
exhausted, we retire.
I nearly offer to buy her a drink, remembering only as the words
come to my mouth that it will be some years before she is allowed to
accept. To my eyes now she is not a child. She is an adult in a young
girl’s form, a nymph, a temptation, a challenge to my moral rectitude.
I gaze at her features as she words tumble from her mouth, released by
the excitement of the dance. She is button-nosed, freckled, slightly
more strawberry than blonde. Slender legs, so frail looking that I
feared for her safety when we danced, protrude from a summer dress
designed for an adult and scaled to the size of a child.
She is asking me to dance again. I shake my head. No, I cannot,
my energy is spent. Oh, how I want to accept, but cannot. Something
other than exhaustion holds my hand. Perhaps the realisation that I
will be unable to contain my lust should we come into such close
contact once more.
She bites her lip, unsure, anxious. I have never seen this emotion in
her, though I have only been staring at her for a mere matter of hours.
Perhaps the bravado is intermittent. She asks me a question, quietly.
If she were a young lady, the question would have had hidden meaning,
but from a girl? I want to find out, I realise. Yes, then, I will go
for a walk with her.
We flee to a hidden grass bank, far from the blaring music, the
noisy relatives and the suspect buffet food. Two oak trees tower over
us, providing dappled shade to keep our skin cool, if not our blood.
She leans back on her elbows, then allows her head to drop fully to the
floor. I remain propped up by my arm, gazing down at her. In silence
she looks up at me, smiles at my penetrating gaze, as warm now as once
it was cold.
Why am I looking at her, she demands, and why have I been looking
at her all day? I reply honestly, telling her that she is simply the
most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Through blushing cheeks she
demurely tells me that she is not beautiful, though it is clear the
compliment is well received.
She asks more questions now. Do I have a girlfriend? Since I do
not, am I gay? Would I like a girlfriend.? Would I like her to be my
girlfriend? One after another the questions come until I am pouring my
soul out to the girl. There cannot be an interrogation so sweet, a
torture so welcome in all the world of espionage.
I stop her with a finger to her lips, gently pressed there. She
kisses it. I lift it to my lips and kiss it also. The sounds of the
birds in the trees above fade to silence as the expectancy grows
between us, pushing the real world away. It draws me inexorably to her,
pulling my shoulders downwards, stretching my neck until my rough,
unworthy lips touch the featherlike softness of her own. A bolt of
electricity passes between us. She is the source of all goodness in the
world in those brief moments. We kiss again, more passionate, more
fulfilling, more adult. In a parody of a cliché, her mouth truly does
taste of bubblegum, though no flavour made by man was ever so
wonderfully sweet.
She is transformed, no longer an object of distant desire, but instead
the embodiment of all female sensuality. My hand alights upon her hip,
shockingly small beneath my fingers. But it is too late for me to turn
back now. I must continue along this path, wherever it may lead. The
same fingers caress her thigh, lifting the skirts of her flowery,
summery dress until my hand touches the burning hot skin of her leg.
Her passions strengthen, her body pushing into mine, contact
desperately sought, desired, needed.
Drawing back suddenly, she leaps to her feet, eyes wide and darting
this way and that. Then I hear what she has heard – her mother calls
for her. She leaves me there, trapped in paroxysms of desire, returning
only to ask, with a whisper, which room is mine.
---
I wake with her cradled in my arms. She sleeps still – it is early, and
our lovemaking has exhausted her. She must return soon, before she is
missed, but there is still time. I wake her, and with a smile she
submits to my advances, her small, light body crushed beneath my much
larger frame as she opens herself to me, pulling me in with heels
tapping upon my back. Her childish exclamations of pleasure bring my
lust surging to the fore, turning me into a animal singularly intent on
my own satisfaction. When I find it, she smiles up into my eyes and
reminds me of my promise. The pleasure of my tongue brings her release,
accompanied by a girlish whimper through clenched teeth.
She leaves me bereft. I have broken her, made her a woman, and
now my work must cease. I pick up the phone, and in moments am
connected to my estate agent. Time to move back closer to my family, I
feel.