Some jobs carry with them the
promise of a truly exceptional career path; money, respect and women
falling at your feet. The job of school counsellor in a private girls'
boarding school is not one of those, but it does have, as I will
explain in the forthcoming few thousand words, certain perks and
privileges which make up for the lack of financial reward.
You may well ask how it came to be that a young, single man - a
burgeoning paedophile no less - came to be working in such a position
of responsibility in a girls' school in the first place. Well, as is
often said, it's not what you know, but who you know. I was at the time
of my employment working to provide support for troops who had returned
from the UK's current conquests, Iraq and Afghanistan. I never agreed
with our military involvement in the Middle East, but that didn't mean
I wasn't prepared to support the men and women who'd put their lives on
the line. When a charity supporting injured troops contacted me asking
if I would be willing to work for them I immediately jumped at the
chance to do something. The pay was crap, but it was worthy and
fulfilling work, and I enjoyed my time there.
About three years later, I was contacted out of the blue by an old
university friend, who told me she desperately needed my help. Claire
Jenkins had been my drinking buddy at uni, the girl I always had a bit
of a thing for, but never made a move on. I think she knew I had
feelings for her, and thought it was rather sweet in her own
patronising way, but I was nothing like her type. We had parted at the
end of uni promising to stay the best of friends, and as is often the
way had hardly spoken a word to each other since.
Claire had gone off to work in her father's school as a teacher. It
sounds a bit odd to put it that way, but it really was her father's
school - he had bought a derelict mansion and converted it, and set up
a school for the gifted. It turned out that the economic model for a
girls' school was far better than for boys or mixed sex, and so with Mr
Jenkins' native flair for marketing he made it single sex, put flashy
adverts in all the right places and watched the subscriptions roll in.
About two thirds of the girls were fee-paying - and their parents paid
through the nose - in order to support the bursaries of those who could
not otherwise afford to attend. This was Mr Jenkins' goal - free, high
quality education for those who are gifted but had no route to a
high-quality education. Needless to say he didn't have much faith in
the state school system.
Claire's offer to me was straightforward - come and relieve the
drudgery of her day-to-day existence out in the wilderness of rural
Buckinghamshire, and while I was at it offer a little counselling to
the girls. The position was vacant, and she had convinced my father
that I was one of the brightest young counsellors of my generation, and
the deal was practically done before I'd had a chance to consider. She
had no clue about the worrying tendency I had developed in my
post-university days to find younger and younger girls attractive, and
somehow it didn't seem the right way to turn down the job, and so, with
little reluctance on my part I packed up my life and moved to The
Fickleberry Academy for Girls.
---
I settled in fairly quickly, discovering quite a traditional single-sex
boarding school, but one with a rather modern edge, too. These would, I
was informed by Mr Jenkins, be the future leaders of industry the world
over, in a new age where sexual equality was truly achieved. I wondered
whether this was truly how he felt, or just another bit of marketing
rhetoric, but he spoke with a passion which made me feel a little
guilty for doubting his motives.
I lived on the estate, in a small cottage surrounded by a grove of
trees, which was also to be my office. It had been the home of the
estate vet, when the estate had been large and well populated with a
variety of livestock. It had a consulting room, too, for estate workers
and local villagers to take their pets for treatment, and this doubled
perfectly as my therapy room. It had been thoughtfully kitted out with
the usual paraphernalia of my profession - the couch (which I never
used with my patients), a couple of armchairs (a bit more useful), and
a potted plant or two, which I was pleased to discover weren't plastic.
It was a strange set-up, a good way from the school, but actually there
was a school of thought which suggested their removal from their
day-to-day environment would help the girls to open up to me, and so I
went with it.
My arrival was timed to coincide with the end of the summer term, which
produced just enough intrigue among the girls to make me feel like a
bit of a celebrity. Meals were taken together in a large refectory, and
my sudden appearance at the head table only a week before school broke
up for the summer holidays was the cause of no little chatter among the
girls. the intrigue was added to, of course, by the fact that I was
young, male, apparently unattached and not exactly bad looking, if not
quite film-star handsome. I was, as I was laughingly informed by
Claire, now the object of fascination for roughly half of the three
hundred girls at the school; the other half were still in love with Mr
Kingsley, the PE teacher, who was an altogether different proposition.
I was the handsome nerd, he the rough-and-ready jock; little did the
girls know that Paul Kingsley was about as gay as gay could be, and
actually a rather charming chap. He, Claire and I were instantly an
inseparable trio, and Paul never tired of teasing us about getting
together, until we did just to shut him up. Claire doesn't know to this
day what happened before we got together, but that's precisely what
you, dear leader, are about to learn.
---
When school did start again, there was suddenly a massive influx of
work. In the first term I was required to interview each girl at least
once, as well as see those girls who needed it on a more regular basis.
I was given a list of names of girls who it was considered necessary to
keep an eye on, though the majority of those were instantly struck off
the list, to be replace with some much more interesting candidates from
the general populace.
One girl in particular stuck out from the crowd, and it was she that
this story is about. Her name was Maya, and she was of mixed
Anglo-French origin - he father had met her mother when travelling in
Paris, and Maya was the only fruit of their marriage, at least thus
far. When I met her, Maya seemed like the most well-adjusted, driven,
focussed twelve year old I'd ever met, and instantly that set the alarm
bells ringing. Yes, it's true that it is possible to find twelve year
old girls without a single care in the world, for whom every day is a
happy day - I'm sure there must be at least three or four in the whole
population of the world. But the chances that there was nothing wrong
with Maya? Effectively nil.
Our first meeting was entirely without incident, and Maya stood at the
end clearly not expecting to need to see me for another year. She was
surprised, then, when I asked her to return at the same time the
following week so we could continue our discussion.
"Have I done anything wrong?" she asked, with the slight Gallic twinge
to her voice which always set my heart racing a little.
"No, at least not that I'm aware. I'd just like to continue our chat
next week, if that's OK with you."
She didn't respond verbally, but nodded her head and walked out, her
brows knitted in confusion.
What had worried me about Maya was that there seemed to be absolutely
nothing in her life that bothered her. Her parents doted over her, and
expected that she would do well at school, but were never disappointed
if she was not successful, instead immediately praising her for trying.
Life at home - when she was there - was pretty idyllic, split between a
Hyde Park apartment and a château in the south of France. She loved
both her parents a great deal (and the feelings were genuine, that much
was easy to see), and didn't blame them for sending her to the school,
understanding that it was for her own good as they often travelled
abroad. She got on well with all her classmates (a fact which was
independently verified), and was well-liked by all of her teachers. She
was a keen sports player, not naturally gifted but always hard-working,
and typically hovered just outside the school team for most sports. All
in all, it was a little too perfect to be true.
---
Our second meeting was a little more productive than the first, and
really sparked when I asked her if she had a boyfriend at home. I had
no business asking her, but I needed to open up a crack somewhere in
her armour.
She blushed and looked down.
"No, of course not. I'm too young, and not pretty like the other girls."
This was patently not true, on either count. At twelve years old many
girls have short relationships, testing the waters, even if the unions
are tenuous and easily forgotten. As for lacking beauty...
"It wouldn't be unusual, Maya. And it won't go beyond these walls."
"Well, there's nothing, OK?" she snapped, and then immediately looked
stricken. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm
sorry. Please don't give me a detention."
I held up my hands. "Maya, nothing you say in this room will ever earn
you a detention. You can scream 'fuck' at me a hundred times if it
would help."
She blushed again and giggled, and I was relieved to have broken the
tension which had built up over the preceding minutes.
"If you decide to tell me," I continued, "that would be great. If you
don't want to, that's fine, too."
She looked glumly at the floor and said nothing, but nodded her head. I
decided that was enough for one day and sent her away.
---
The third meeting is recorded in my notes with the word 'watershed'
written across the top in block capitals with red ink. My limit for
trying to get a patient to open up about a particular issue is ten
meetings, so Maya could hardly be said to have held out particularly
well. In fact, the week between our meetings had clearly been an
eventful one, as I was sent a note by the school secretary explaining
that Maya had, for the first time in her history at Fickleberry, been
in trouble. She had argued with another girl in class, though the cause
of the argument was not known. She had, in typical Maya fashion,
immediately apologised and begged forgiveness, which was granted, but
it was too late to avoid a detention.
I asked her about it as soon as we began.
"It's OK, I deserve to be punished," she said, contrite, and then with
sudden flames in her eyes, "but it's all your fault!"
I sat stunned for a moment, but silently glad she had shown a little
passion. Her delicious laugh cut through my thoughts; she laughed and
laughed until tears were rolling down her face.
"Oh, it's such a relief to shout at you," she said when her convulsions
had subsided. "Thank you."
I nodded, keeping my expression carefully neutral, but feeling more
than a little triumphant. This was the real Maya, I could tell, not the
carefully constructed and controlled clone. Only three meetings in and
we were making progress.
"What was the argument about?" I asked.
She looked away out of the window, defiantly. When she turned back to
me, her emotions were utterly under her control, but this was no longer
the meek little girl who had entered my office.
"You, actually," she replied at last. "It was about you. Sally James
thought that I come down here every week because you're my boyfriend.
She said I can't be coming back because I have problems. She said I'm
too normal to be seeing a counsellor every week."
I nodded. I could understand the sentiment, because there was nothing
apparently wrong with Maya. But I knew that to be a falsehood.
"She's wrong, though, isn't she?"
Maya did not respond immediately. Her gaze returned to the window. From
here one could see all the way to the school through the break in the
trees where the path wound towards the cottage. She stared for several
minutes, her gaze unwavering, and when she spoke it was in low, pained
tones.
"I hate this place. Hate it more than anything in the whole world. I
hate my parents for sending me here. Hate you for turning up and
ruining everything. Nobody knew until you came and stuck your nose in.
Nobody had any idea. They all thought I was happy. But now they talk,
talk about how I'm down here every week talking to you. You know, one
of the girls asked if my dad or my uncle is abusing me. I laughed,
because it was so silly, but she still thinks that's what's up."
"What makes you hate it?"
She threw her hands up, a passionate gesture which the carefully
managed Maya would never dare use. "I don't know! It's just so... so..
perfect. Everything is so perfect, and they want you to be perfect,
too. It's so... English!"
I could see now that Maya was her mother's daughter, hot-blooded,
passionate. It's a cliché, I know, but clichés are borne of truths.
"And you don't like that?"
She stared at me for a moment, seemingly looking for the answers in my
eyes. "No, but yes, too. I hate it. I want to smash everything up, to
break things. But then I see people misbehaving and I don't like it. I
want them to be good. And I don't like it when they make me feel that
way."
"So you decided to rebel by being perfect?"
Even with her tender years Maya could see the sarcasm in my question.
She glared at me.
"Being 'perfect' means I get what I want. I don't have to argue with my
parents. I don't have to fight with the teachers, and sometimes I get
to do things I wouldn't be allowed to otherwise."
I went out on a limb, taking a bit of a stab in the dark, but a
directed stab, one I was pretty certain would hit home.
"Like meeting your boyfriend without your parents knowing?"
She had been looking out of the window again, but spun to face me, her
expression a mixture of outrage and defiance.
"How did.. what do you know? You'd better not tell anyone!"
I smiled openly at having scored the point. Just then I needed her to
know that I was pleased to have hit the nail on the head, because it
would keep her on the back foot. Something about this relationship was
worth keeping hidden, and I sensed that it would be worth finding out,
if just out of professional curiosity. I took another leap, less sure
this time that I was on the right track.
"How old is he, Maya? He's nowhere near your age, is he?"
She looked down at her feet. The secret weighed heavy on her, and it
was clear she was desperate for release. But still she remained silent.
I pushed again, hoping to topple her wall of defiance.
"How old, Maya? No-one will know."
She waited a minute or two longer. The shadows were beginning to
lengthen, the afternoon drawing to a close. I had kept Maya for nearly
an hour already, and the appointment was only for half that long. I had
drawn the breath to tell her that our time was up when suddenly she
spoke, looking me directly in the eye.
"He's nineteen. He's a ballet dancer at the Royal Academy. He's French.
His name is Andre."
She got up and walked calmly from the room.
---
I was triumphant, but also saddened. Maya's situation wasn't great,
either way you looked at it. You could consider that she was
effectively being abused by a much older boy, or - and these seemed
much more likely given what I had seen of her character - she was
unable due to the constraints of society to openly enjoy her
relationship with Andre.
Legally it was my responsibility to report the relationship. If they'd
had sex, Andre was breaking the law pretty badly. There wasn't even a
decent defence that Maya looked old enough to consent - she was clearly
still a young girl, hardly developed from what I could tell beneath her
school uniform. There was no mistaking she was still a child, and so
Andre must have known what he was doing.
My training in psychology had opened my mind to the possibility that
young girls can be mature enough to form quite adult attachments, and
have serious, consummated relationships which leave them entirely
undamaged, both physically and psychologically. It was a rare girl who
was that well balanced, but they did exist, and from what I'd seen of
Maya's character I suspected she might well possess these qualities.
She certainly seemed to be somewhat more emotionally mature than many
of her contemporaries, and girls from higher years, even.
I decided to leave it for a week and see what Maya had to say the next
time we met.
---
I didn't warn her that if she reported something to me that was
illegal, it would be my duty to inform the authorities. Perhaps I
should have done, but then she might not have opened up to me in the
way she did. She even gave me the chance to tell her, and I shunned it.
"You don't tell anyone what I say here, right?" she asked. We had been
talking about Andre, and she had almost told me something of great
importance three or four times.
I shook my head. Technically a lie, but I wasn't going to go to the
police unless I could be sure she was in an abusive relationship. I
know a little too much about the human condition to believe in
statutory rape. Some kids can consent in full knowledge of what
they are doing, and some adults quite frankly cannot.
She looked at me and smiled, and then spilled the beans.
"I had a pass out for the afternoon to see the dentist. I still go to
one in London. I told my dad I didn't want to move because he's the
only one I'm not scared of. It only took ten minutes to see him, then I
met Andre and we went back to his flat for the afternoon. It was
amazing!"
"Did you..." I left the question hanging, letting her decide what the
end of the question might have been.
She smiled wickedly and answered without blushing.
"Twice. It was really good. I'm still a bit sore now, actually," she
said with a filthy giggle.
That was when I knew one thing for certain. Years of training had honed
my senses, had given me the ability to spot the lie.
"Maya," I said, looking her directly in the eye, "there is no Andre, is
there?"
She stood, flicked me her middle finger and stormed out, slamming the
door behind her. The reaction merely confirmed my suspicion, though it
raised more questions than it answered. I still had to get through to
Maya and find out what was wrong, and this time avoid her misdirection.
---
She came back the next week. Most people would have been surprised
given how we'd left things the week before, but I knew Maya's type. The
invention of Andre was an attention seeking move, confirmed by Maya's
overwhelming willingness to spin tales of spending the afternoon in bed
with her made-up boyfriend. She would therefore continue to seek
attention until the real cause for her unhappiness came out. It was
fairly clear that I would have to do all the work in this case.
She sat silently, staring out of the window. I had received no further
reports of misbehaviour on her part, which did surprise me a little
under the circumstances, but that might simply be because she hadn't
been caught. It was more likely, though, that she had simply avoided
trouble. I asked her about it, and she shrugged.
"Don't see the point of getting in trouble. Outside here everything's
fine. No-one needs to know things are wrong."
Well, that was refreshingly adult, but it worried me because that was
the new Maya, confident and grown-up, sheathed in the old Maya's
personality. That way (a long way down the road, admittedly) lies
schizophrenia, and we needed to avoid that if at all possible.
"Do you think things are wrong?" I asked.
She shot me a withering look, but replied anyway. "Yeah, of course
there is. I made up all those lies."
"That doesn't make you a bad person, Maya. It just means that there's
something you'd rather tell a lie about than tell me. Do you want to tell me
what that is?"
She shook her head.
"Do you want me to guess?"
No answer.
"OK, then, let's talk about something else. What did you do last
summer?"
She looked around, brows knitted in confusion. "Why?"
"Because I'm interested."
"Er... OK. We went to my grandfather's house in France."
"And who was there."
"Everyone. My mum, my dad, grandpapa, uncle Joseph and aunt Marie, and
Nicolas, my cousin."
I watched her like a hawk as she spoke. There was the slightest twinge,
but I didn't follow it up just yet.
"Did you have a good time?"
She shrugged again, a gesture which for her could mean any number of
things.
"It was OK I suppose. Nicolas is annoying, and he only speaks French so
I have to remember how to speak it."
We chatted for a while longer until she was comfortable, then I played
a cheap trick on her.
"Why don't you like your uncle?"
She winced again, but was immediately on the defensive.
"Who said I don't like him? We get on really well. He's cool."
I didn't press the point; just her reaction to my question was enough.
I ended the session there and then, and told her I would see her again
the following week.
---
After she left I sat down to consider my options. She felt strongly
about her uncle, that much was clear, but what could he have done to
elicit such emotion? She had tried to control it, but a little
something had slipped out of the chinks in her armour. I wondered what
it could be, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't abuse, that there was
some explanation which didn't mean taking a course of action I was
loathe to consider. I was trained to deal with the situation if it
turned out her uncle was behaving inappropriately towards her, but that
didn't mean that I relished the possibility.
---
The notes for our next meeting have 'watershed' written across the top
in red ink, and this time it hasn't been crossed through angrily for
being wrong.
She arrived looking apprehensive, as if she knew what was coming. I'm
glad she did, because I really had very little idea. I hadn't yet
decided a course of action, though I'd spent most of the week since our
last meeting thinking of nothing else. Somewhere deep inside there was
something which needed to be said, but for the life of my I couldn't
think of how to unlock the door.
In the end, it was Maya who presented me with the key.
"I asked one of the other teachers if the doctor was allowed to tell
anyone what I said to him, and she said no, unless it was something
that was against the law. You're the same, aren't you? If I tell you
something which is against the law, you have to tell someone."
I stared at her for a moment, and then nodded very slightly.
"So you lied to me?"
I nodded again, not letting her eyes leave mine. To my surprise the
anger she seemed about ready to unleash faded away. She shrugged.
"That's OK, I lied to you too."
"You did?"
"Yeah.... I... you're right. I don't like my uncle."
"How old were you when he first hurt you?"
Her head shot up, and I could see the tears already running down her
face. Her eyes met mine, silently asking how I had guessed. If she
could have seen it from my perspective, she would have seen how easy it
was to jump to that conclusion. She continued to cry, but spoke through
her tears.
"I was eight. He came to me one night and put his hand down there. He
told me it was a special things uncles did with their nieces."
"Did he do anything else?"
"No, not that time. But it happened again. Once he got out his thing
and waved it at me, made me touch it. It was disgusting and it smelled."
"And how long did this last?"
"About..." she began, but her voice faltered. She caught herself and
blew her nose, then breathed heavily until she was calm. "About three
years."
"So the last time was last year in France, on holiday?"
She nodded.
"What made him stop?" I asked.
At that she smiled, a triumphant little gesture.
"I told him I'd taken a photo of him doing it one time, when he wasn't
looking, and sent the memory card back to England already. He didn't
know I hadn't. I told him if he ever touched me again I would tell
everyone. My dad would kill him. I mean, actually kill him, with a gun."
"Is that why you haven't told anyone?"
She nodded.
"You know, Maya, I'm meant to go to the police now."
She dropped her eyes to the floor.
"I know. I wish you didn't have to. He's stopped now, and he never made
me... we never.... you know..."
"Had sexual intercourse?" I asked, rather harshly.
She blushed. "No. We never had sex."
"So you think he doesn't deserve to go to jail?"
Maya looked stricken.
"No! I mean, he's my uncle, and Nic's dad. He's not a criminal."
"But he is, Maya. What he did to you is very wrong."
And here our conversation ended, as another student, sent from the main
school, hammered on the door with a message that Maya must return to
school immediately, that her father was here.
---
I found out the cause of the emergency from Claire as we waited for
dinner to be served that evening. Maya's uncle Joseph, upon whom my
thoughts had been concentrated all day, had been killed, along with his
wife, in a landslide at her grandfather's property. I cannot know what
Claire thought to my sigh of relief, but she looked at me oddly, and I
tried to pass it off as sympathy for the girl.
I don't remember the meal, only that my mind was filled with a
maelstrom of emotions about Maya's situation. On the one hand, the fact
that her uncle had died relieved the tension of a difficult situation.
I wouldn't be forced to make a decision about going to the police,
because with Joseph's death I had reasonable cause to avoid doing so. I
cared more what that meant to Maya than anything else - she would not
have to go through the difficult and unpleasant process of having her
uncle charged with sexual assault. No matter how hard the justice
system works to make the process have as little impact as possible on
the kids, it still has an effect, and Maya would doubtless have
suffered further psychological damage had she gone through it.
However, there remained the issue of Maya's mental state under the
current circumstances. She had had no change of closure with her uncle,
and the loose end which this left could be damaging. Worse than that,
though, was the possibility that she might hold herself responsible for
her uncle's death. It's a form of megalomania, just like superstition,
where you believe your actions will have an impact on the wider world.
Maya might reasonably have wanted to wish her uncle harm for the things
he had done to her against her will, and on the very day she revealed
to me what he had done, he died. The coincidence was very strong, and
she could easily have come to the conclusion that she was in some way
to blame for the accident which killed him. It was far-fetched, but
Maya wouldn't necessarily have been thinking that clearly.
I resolved to see Maya as soon as I could.
---
She was absent for three days, but as soon as she returned I sent a
request to see her. She didn't come. Nor did she respond to the
following two requests. As a member of staff, I had the right to
require her attendance, but forcing the issue wouldn't have helped, and
so reluctantly I let the matter drop.
I did my best to keep up with her through her friends - the
cute-as-a-button Katie was her best friend and my secret spy for
several weeks, reporting back on Maya's mood under the pretext of
ensuring that her friend was not feeling the grief of her uncle's
passing too strongly. I felt awful deceiving Katie in this way, hiding
from her the true cause of my concern for Maya, but the end justified
the means.
---
Three weeks later it snowed. Late November was early for the weather to
deteriorate, but with school winding down towards the Christmas holiday
we were inundated with a good foot or so, which always seems deeper
than measurement might suggest. With most of the off-site staff unable
to reach the school, lessons were cancelled and the grounds became a
winter playground for the girls.
Having been asked to wander round unofficially refereeing snowball
fights and the like, I was round the side of the sports hall, where the
fields opened out and a legion of snowmen was taking shape, when from
nowhere I was pummelled in the side of the head. Freezing snow filled
my vision, and spilled down the back of my neck, and hearing in my
right ear was lost entirely.
The giggle which followed the missile's trajectory through the air was
immediately recognisable, and I turned to face Maya.
"Gotcha!" she said with a laugh, emerging from behind the corner of a
building, and then as an afterthought added, "Sir."
I smiled at her - it was good to see her in such high spirits.
"Hi Maya. How's things?"
She cast her eyes down sheepishly.
"I'm OK."
"You never came to see me."
"Sorry. It's just that everything changed when uncle died. He was dead,
so why do anything about it? I thought if I came back we would still
have to tell people."
I shook my head. "What would be the point now, unless you wanted to? I
only wanted to make sure you were alright. I was worried you might
blame yourself."
She looked confused for a moment, and then understanding dawned.
"Because I hated him? I think I know what you mean. I didn't think I
killed him, though, so it's OK."
"You could still come back any time you like, you know," I said,
finishing with a shiver as melted snow dripped down my back beneath my
clothes.
"Thanks, I will. Are you cold?"
I nodded. "Yeah, thanks to you! But it's fine, I was about to go and
sit in front of a log fire in a blanket all evening. You've just
persuaded me to go sooner rather than later."
"You have a real fire? I love fires. It's too warm to have them in
France and we never light the one in the flat. Dad says it gets too
smoky."
"Well, you're welcome to come and sit in front of mine some time."
"Thanks!" she replied, and with a broad smile turned on her heel and
disappeared through the snow.
---
I had no idea she would take up the invitation so soon. It really
hadn't been a suggestion that she turn up that very night, but there
she was on the doorstep of the cottage, and suddenly I felt very glad
for its seclusion. She was thoroughly under-dressed for a trek through
the snow, and her jeans and trainers were soaked through. She shivered
as she stepped into the hallway, but smiled nonetheless.
"I thought I'd come and see that fire," she said nonchalantly, as if
turning up on the doorstep of the school counsellor was something she
did all the time.
"You're freezing!" I exclaimed, and as if to illustrate a point, a
small snowdrift detached itself from her legs and landed with a soft
thud on the hallway carpet.
"Yeah."
"Well, you can't stay in those clothes," I said, which raised a naughty
smile on her lips. "I'll get you an old tracksuit of mine, and some
socks, and you can get changed upstairs. At least your jumper is dry."
She smiled at me fussing around her, serene in the midst of all my
panic. I managed to dig out some old tracksuit trousers with a
drawstring which would probably go just about tight enough to keep them
up, and found some winter socks, too. She disappeared into the
bathroom, and I pointedly ignored the fact that she forgot to fully
close the bathroom door, reasoning that she was probably used to a lack
of privacy by now.
When she came back downstairs, I had questions for her. The trousers
were hanging dangerously low on her hips, and she had to keep a hand on
them to prevent total collapse.
"Won't you be missed at the house?" was my first volley.
She smiled and shook her head. "No, it's chaos there tonight. Not
enough staff, too many girls. Don't worry, I won't be missed until
dawn."
"And you just want to sit by the fire?"
She didn't answer, but instead stepped past me into the front room,
where the logs were blazing warmly. She picked up the blanket I had
laid out for her, and wrapped it around herself, before sitting on the
rug right in front of the fire. At this point I reasoned there was very
little I could do but join her. She was wearing my clothes, and they
were clearly insufficient to allow her to return to the house, so by
making her leave I would be risking her health and my freedom. I could
have called one of the ward mistresses and told her the situation, but
the number of questions that would raise immediately knocked that idea
on the head. Besides, Maya would be in serious trouble, and I felt
rather responsible for having invited her down to see the fire in the
first place.
So, grabbing the other blanket and the half-finished glass of whiskey I
had been nursing, I sat down beside her.
"Is that whiskey?" she asked as I took a draught. "Can I try some?"
I should have said no. Of course I should. But the mischievous part of
my soul wanted to teach this rather cocksure little girl a lesson, and
so I agreed. She took far too large a gulp, cough and spat it in the
fire and then fell back as the inevitable fireball engulfed us both.
Of course it was harmless, burnt off in an instant, but I too reacted
and fell back onto the floor next to her. I rolled to the side and
raised myself on an elbow to see how Maya was, and discovered her
laughing her head off. When she saw me looming over her she stopped
laughing, but continued to breathe rapidly.
"That was fun!" she shouted, and then in a lower voice said, "So's
this."
With that she reached up a hand and grabbed a handful of my hair,
pulling me down towards her face. The kiss was wet and amateurish, but
full of passion, and immediately my heart began to hammer. She pushed
me away so hard that I fell onto my back, and then immediately span and
climbed on top of me, smashing her lips back into mine while her hips
danced crazily side to side across my stomach. I reacted at last,
reaching round and clamping her into me, and as we continued to kiss my
hands roamed up and down her back.
I got a little braver, and let my hands drift onto her round little
bottom. She still had the frame of a young girl, and her cheeks felt
tiny beneath my man-sized paws. I kneaded them and she moaned into my
mouth, grinding herself even harder into me. After a few moments she
reached around a hand and grabbed one of mine, lifting it up and
forcing it beneath the waistband of the tracksuit, pushing it roughly
down. There was just the soft skin of her
backside, and it was my turn to moan as I found out she had discarded
her knickers along with her jeans. My other hand joined the first, and
I pulled her hips into me, pushing her down my body until she sat atop
my hard shaft, which was still encased in my jeans but making a concerted
bid for freedom.
We ground for what seemed like an age, lips still locked together,
tension growing in me until it reached boiling point. I didn't want to
finish this wonderful union by making a mess of my pants. I pushed her
into an upright position, and then without asking her permission lifted
her jumper and t-shirt off in one go. Her raised arms were all the
agreement I needed, and then suddenly her upper body was naked. Her
budding breasts, less than an A-cup and topped with hardened but
undeveloped nipples, stood proudly in the dancing light of the fire as
she sat on top of my erection and rocked her hips back and forth. I
reached up and tweaked them both, and she giggled, pushing my hands off
her over-sensitive nubbins. When I did it again she moaned, and her
eyes closed in appreciation. I bounced her up and down gently with my
hips while I fondled her youthful breasts, and she groaned as the
sensations grew in her. She gasped as I squeezed harder and thrust
upwards more strongly, and her eyes flew open. She seemed to have come
to a decision, and pushed my hands away again.
She climbed off to the side, and I did nothing to stop her as her hands
reached for the waistband of my jeans. She fumbled with the buttons for
a moment, but as soon as she had them open I raised my hips to allow
her to pull them and my boxers down to my knees. My engorged dick
slapped against my lower belly, wetting it with the lubricant which
poured from its tip. Maya didn't hesitate, reaching down to pick it up
and immediately starting a rhythm. She knew what she was doing, and I
felt a momentary pang of guilt about how she had learned, but lust was
my master, and I let the feelings take over. I had closed my eyes,
nearing my peak, when I felt a shift at waist height. The wanking
stopped and a wonderful, warm, wet sensation engulfed the head of my
penis.
I opened my eyes again, watching her fellate me. Her own eyes were cast
downwards, concentrating on the job in hand. She had little experience,
but she knew to suck, and to bob, and that was enough for it to feel
fantastic. I tapped her on her lower back, and hauled around her hips
so that her backside faced me, and roughly pulled down the tracksuit.
Her lips, squeezed between the cheeks of her arse, were still smooth
asnd hairless, but Maya was nearly a woman - a slick of her juices
coated the whole area, and my fingers slipped easily between her lips
to find her most sensitive places. I felt rather than heard her moan of
appreciation as I found her clitoris and mashed it against her pubis.
I could never resist that level of stimulation for long, and as I
spewed my load into Maya's mouth, and felt her swallowing, I pushed
extra hard against the nubbin in her slit and saw her collapse onto the
floor in orgasm, her arms and legs no longer able to support her
spasming body. She lay convulsing with my fingers still pushing hard
into her sex.
When I woke on a crisp, clear morning, the fire had gone out but it
hardly mattered - I was being kept warm by the naked figure of Maya, my
little preteen lover.