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molester tells all!
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Dear holy joe,
What are your erotic influences? What do you use to get you ÒupÓ?
(Pun intended). expired@aspire.net
At the moment I would say it is Claire Cass. She was a model for
Mayfair magazine. I put together some photos of her, cut from the
magazines, which I taped to a white sheet of paper. The paper is covered
in plastic to protect it from lifeÕs little spills, and is sitting erectly
against a piece of cardboard, held in place by a Òmini clipÓ. (Not for
nipples, but to close potato chip bags and such.)
Three pictures of Claire are at the top of the sheet of paper. The
first is a photo of her face. She looks sort of stupid and drunk, with her
hair slightly askew. I know feminists want us men to think of girls and
women as being assertive and dominant and intelligent, but it is sort of
cool to see a cute girl who looks like sheÕs Òout of it.Ó I canÕt explain it
too well. All I can say is that itÕs lovely to gaze at her provocative lower
lip, jutting out as she apparently strives to take possession of herself and
fails, her eyes sort of dizzy and yet beautiful, her long hair once combed
but now beginning to be messy. There is an eminently frail and yet
fuckable appearance on her face.
Then there is another photo of her. In this photo she is painting. Her
back is to me. She is innocently caught up in moving a piece of chalk
across an easel; yes, it is only an illusion that she is painting, she is
actually coloring with chalk, or perhaps it is a crayon. Unfortunately for
Claire sheÕs so deeply into her art that sheÕs unaware that sheÕs naked.
She is wearing shoes and socks, admittedly, nice clean white ones, and
panties, but although her shoes and socks are in place some rude person, or
perhaps the movements of her own body, have caused her neat white
panties to slide off her bottom and halfway down her thighs. I love the
innocence of this photo. I hate photos where the woman is spreading
herself intentionally for me. All I can think is, ÒWhat a slut.Ó But with
her back to me, Claire looks like an innocent little schoolgirl, her bare
bottom sticking out and tempting me without her even knowing it.
Then there is a photo of Claire sitting on a couch or on the edge of a
bed. SheÕs lost her panties completely now and her shoes too; all she has
left is her neatly pulled up ankle socks. She is gazing at me, her legs
demurely crossed. But there is no doubt now that she is indeed focussing
on me. In fact, sheÕs contemplating the awesome perversions I have in
store for her. SheÕs afraid and yet willing. Sort of. SheÕs not sure what
she thinks of all this. All she can do is stare wondrously as I pull out my
penis, all 12 inches of it.
Next, below the other photos, there is one of Claire crouching. Her
head is near the floor, her lovely hair hanging down to spill across the
floor. Her arms rest on the hard floor but her knees are protected by a
pillow tossed on the floor. I can see her bare flat belly, and her belly
button. Somehow she has gotten her shoes back on, and still wears her
socks. But her panties are nowhere to be seen. Her bottom rears up high
in the air. Her legs are spread, her asscheeks are spread, her cunt displays
its folds to me as she shuts her eyes tightly and waits for me to enter. It
will be difficult, this first entrance. All she can do is close her eyes and
hope IÕm not too hard on her. But with 12 inches of me needing relief, how
can I make it easy for her? I canÕt. I can try, but itÕs going to be painful
for her no matter what I do. ThereÕs just too much of me and too little of
her. Perhaps I should have waited until she turned 13.
(Well, actually, Claire is 18 but the beauty of Claire is that, despite
being a well-proportioned 18-year-old girl she somehow strikes me as
being 12. She is one of the youngest-looking girlie-magazine models IÕve
ever seen, without being absurdly short or youthful-looking, like girls you
sometimes see in menÕs magazines who are 18 but who never grew
properly. Claire grew quite nicely, yet at the same time her aura is one of
such innocence that itÕs easy to mistake her for a much younger girl.)
Another photo I have of Claire, on another sheet of paper, shows her
holding a tray, wearing black fishnet stockings but otherwise naked. It
looks like sheÕs about to serve dildos or something, even though thereÕs a
glass of liquor on the tray. (Interestingly, the liquor is yellow, as if the
color of urine, sparking more fantasies.) The sexiness of this photo is
amazing, mostly because Claire seems utterly innocent and yet somehow
ÒinÓ on the perversion thatÕs about to take place, in agreement with it yet
completely unaware of its full implications. Her hair is slightly messy as
it spills down over her shoulders, as if sheÕs already been involved in
some preliminary exertions. Yet her back is straight, sheÕs not too far
gone to stand up and be of service in ways not directly sexual. Her long
legs canÕt be seen in this photo below the mid-thigh level, forcing me to
gaze more directly on her lovely thatched cunt. Her flat belly and belly
button are visible, behind the tray, as if hiding from me and failing. Yet
above her belly her ample tits jut out at me, nakedly, their nipples red as
stoplights. ThereÕs no covering her nakedness; sheÕs busy holding the tray
with both hands, her hair isnÕt quite long enough, in its disheveled state,
to reach to her nipples. Her legs canÕt cross because sheÕs standing up.
Only her stockings protect her, and they, being black and lacy and sexy,
seem only to serve to frame her pussy for me, directing my eyes more
luridly toward its soft down.
Next there is a photo of Claire bending forward, over the edge of a
bed. She is wearing white stockings, held up by a virgin-white garter belt.
You can see the beltÕs straps, running down the sides of her legs, but not
the belt itself, traversing her waist, because her bare bottom is sticking
up and hiding the dip of her back. However you can see the rest of her
back, above her waist, leaning forward nakedly, her right arm hanging
down and pressing anxiously to her thigh. Just visible at the bottom of
this photo you can make out her panties, pulled down to the midpoint of
her thighs. In this rearward-looking pose Claire, her hair once again
disheveled, as if already a victim of mischief, looks frightened. She
knows I am going to fuck her and IÕm going to do it hard. She knows she
canÕt escape. Yet there is a look of a challenge met on her face, however
frightfully. She is not going to get up and flee. She is going to take
whatÕs coming to her, however much it might hurt. Or, at least, sheÕs
going to try. She hunches forward. I advance. She wishes she could hide
the bareness of her ass and the folds of her cunt, visible to me in this
hunched-over pose, but she cannot. I feel the tension of her soft back as I
mount her, the softness of her bottom pressing with shy helplessness into
me. I hear the tremulousness of her breathing and then the sharp,
desperate cry that tears from her throat as I give her the first inch of
myself.
There is a photo of Claire lying in a barn. She is lying on hay, with
perhaps some sort of tarp or towel under part of her, to give her some
slight comfort. She is gazing back at me. She is completely and utterly
naked. Someone has run a brush through her hair, making it neat, but it is
a rough neatness, as if quickly done, in preparation for my entrance. She
seems to have a collar around her throat, although the luxurious fullness
of her hair, and the compact way she is pressing her face below one of her
hunched shoulders, hides the collar from me for the moment. In front of
her is a brown leather covering. I donÕt know what is under it, more hay
perhaps, but atop it is a bowl. The bowl is white, delicate, as if of
porcelain. I think it is a water bowl, for Claire to drink from when she
gets thirsty. Here in this barn she is kept tied. She is forced to wait here
for me, and perhaps for other men too. We use her sexually at our leisure,
for our amusement. There is no hope of escape for her from this place.
Perhaps if she performs well for us we will let her go one day, but then
obviously only to replace her with a younger girl, a girl who has yet to
taste our power.
In her nudity it is obvious that Claire has already tasted us. Her
thighs are spread for me but her ankles, uplifted into the air, are crossed.
Her bottom bulges, her cunt is on view. Between the cheeks of her ass,
half-hidden by her uprisen ankles, I can see her bottom hole staring at me.
She cannot hide it. The exertions of myself and my friends over the days
have obviously enlarged it. Now I am back for more. Claire, lying with her
bare bosoms pressing against the barn floor and the hay, can do nothing to
stop me. I uncross her ankles. She lets out a gurgling protest. I silence
her by putting my hand to her mouth. I reach down and put myself into her.
The passage is easier now. Not truly easy, after all sheÕs so young, but
easier than when I first had her taken to this barn. My hand slips from her
mouth and as I feel the wetness of her spit on my palm I stroke her neck.
Yes, the collar is there, the collar I commanded be put on her. She has
earned it. She deserves it. Only the best slaves, well-broken to the penis,
are allowed to wear such an ornament. It is only common cheap leather
but to spend more would be extravagant, especially if I am going to let her
go in a few days.
Finally there is another photo of Claire. Again it is of her face,
nothing more, like the very first photo I described. There is a luxurious
richness to her hair. It is neat and well-combed, as if women have spent
hours dressing it. Claire has a more mature look on her face. She is still
as young as ever but now there is a maturity of experience to her. There
is a resentful look in her eyes. She knows I have taken her across a
threshold and, however innocently complicit she might have been in that,
there is no way back to the artlessness of the place she came from. She is
experienced now, a young woman. She is not entirely resentful and yet she
can never totally forgive me either. Yet I sense a pride in her eyes too;
she survived, she faced her fears and came through it all. She is
unharmed, despite the awful things I did or threatened to do to her. She
turns away, she walks toward the beckoning city that she only knew in
girlhood dreams before, never imagining the awful pleasures that it and
its adult society could hold. Then she turns. She looks back at me. Her
right hand tightens, one finger passes over another. She feels the diamond
ring I have put on her finger. Well, I chose to be generous after all, even if
she is just a young cunt. Suddenly she uses the hand with the diamond on
it, bringing it to her face and pressing it to her lips, to blow me a kiss.
Pride and resentment seem to battle one another in her eyes; she turns
before I can see which of them wins. She walks off. I do not see her again
but I think of her often. I wonder if she thinks of me often too, or if in the
end she was just using me, picking me to give her the experience and
training she knew she needed, then casting me off in search of other men,
leaving me to wonder if I was right to let such a beautiful creature go.
30
(Actually this was dictated to me by Perply while he was lying on a
couch. Hopefully it isnÕt true; I donÕt think it is or he wouldnÕt have a
collection of 2,439 teen girl magazines. - h.j.)
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Copyright 2001 by Andrew Roller.