Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Mff, inc (granddaughter), rom, cons, anal

   DROTTNINGGATAN Written by Silvio Stoker

   Story_intro: A semi-retired German businessman is in Scandinavia to
visit his granddaughter, 13.  When she catches him with a very young
prostitute, he discovers that she is precocious in more ways than one... 
..... Mff, inc (granddaughter), rom, cons, anal

   ======This story is a work of fiction.====

   (This text from archive ' 1 my collections of this writer.  Access to
archives from page [0SilvioStoker.htm] in the same directory
...\favoritecollection\Silvio_Stroker)

   DROTTNINGGATAN

   Written by Silvio Stoker



   The girls of Antarctica are the color of ash carefully scraped from the
bowl of a hookah.  They drifted through Dieter Vogel's fitful dreams like
smoke, swishing their pitch black fishtails like little amphibious cows,
scraping the sides of their aquarium with tiny, pink claws, until the plane
touched down, reversed its engines and taxied to the terminal.  The dream
dwelt in his mouth like the aftertaste from his armagnac.

   Arlanda is pleasant as far as airports go -- spacious, sterile, rarely
crowded.  Dieter waded through customs, taking the green "I have nothing to
declare" line, walked out into the breezy, warm, solstitial day, stepped
into a cab and was whisked to central Stockholm by a shabby-looking blond
man listening to technopop.

   He had been coming here more often lately, less for business than to see
his granddaughter, taking the short flight from Hamburg and staying at a
moderately priced hotel on Drottninggatan, not far from Strindberg's "Blue
Tower."

   Stockholm would always be Strindberg's city to him.  He imagined himself
walking in Gamla Stan or the Djurgarden with the wild-haired writer and
fledgling scientist, discussing marriage, alchemy and the smell of
fermented cabbage that wafted in when succubi infiltrated a bedroom.
Pretending to be with the intense, almost insane playwright alleviated the
blandness of the Swedish capital.  It is beautiful, to be sure, especially
in summer, a gracious city of glimmering water and varied architecture, but
it is also devoid of mystery.  To Dieter, the wealth and materialism of its
citizens was pervasive, all-encompassing, like a happy family from which
one can never escape.

   Dieter asked the driver to let him out at T-Centralen, the main subway
station, strolled through the pedestrian mall and continued up the hill
toward his hotel, looking at the faces of passers-by, the tacky bars and
shops, the immigrants selling Russian amber and African trinkets.

   His daughter, Ilse, had married a Swede on her eighteenth birthday, a
large, taciturn, melancholy man named Arild, who worked in the chemical
industry.  She divorced him soon after the birth of their child.  Ilse was
in her late thirties now, a novelist, living out in the archipelago and
taking advantage of the generous Scandinavian subsidies for writers and
hacks.  Dieter ceased to read his daughter's work after her second novel --
she was insightful, psychological, "deep," but also unimaginative,
moralistic and dreary.  And his Swedish was very poor.  They were not
close. She had lived with her mother after the acrimonious end of his own
early marriage, and he had barely seen her afterward.  The child from
Ilse's unhappy liason, Laylah, whose fourteenth birthday would be Saturday,
lived mostly in Solna with her father.

   Laylah was a dream.  She had inherited her father's piercing, smaragdine
eyes and her mother's dark red, luminous hair.  A prodigy, the stunningly
beautiful girl was fluent in English, French, Italian and Spanish as well
as her father tongue (she did not speak German, which was odd, considering
that language is usually passed through the mother) and played both the
violin and the piano.  It was as a pianist that Laylah was most astounding
-- she won competition after competition, and seemed destined for a stellar
career.

   What contact he had with Ilse reminded him very unpleasantly of his
ex-wife.  Cultured, rational, understanding and astoundingly sensual.  Like
Stockholm.  He had married her mother for her beauty, though it took him
many years to realize that.  It is hard to peel apart the whys and
wherefores of our relationships.  And the consequences are equally obscure
-- if he hadn't married Beats for her loveliness, he would never have had
Laylah.

   And he did have Laylah.  Arild, the practical, sad, dutiful father, did
not communicate with his brilliant daughter.  Ilse, withdrawn, hermitic,
neurotic, sat on her island reading boring books and writing her repetitive
novels, taking Laylah for part of the summer, treating her like a cultured,
rational, understanding adult, listening to her play Beethoven's Bagatelles
and Satie, taking her to Gotland or Bornholm, studying her reactions to
things and filing them away for future use in a sensitive, picayune
autobiography.

   But when Dieter appeared Laylah would blossom.  Every free hour would be
spent wandering the museums and parks, philosophizing, analyzing,
questioning, or just plain having fun.  Without worrying about the
implications, he had begun to bring her dangerous presents -- Lautreamont's
prose poetry, with its lyrical, precise description of Maldoror watching
the sinking ship, shooting the sole survivor dead, slinking into the sea
and making love to the shark that eats the drowning men.  Baudelaire. 
Pasolini.  He even gave her a paperback of Sade's Philosophy in the
Bedroom. Laylah read ravenously, absorbed wholeheartedly, responded
carefully, her agile, nimble, almost nubile mind looking down into what
attracted her, studying her own absorption, losing herself in the dreamy
process of finding her world.

   Dieter mused delightedly on the coming days with his granddaughter and
walked slowly up Drottninggatan, stopping at the little shop that sold
archery equipment and occult books.  It was odd to complain about Sweden,
for a German to complain about materialism.  Fussgaengerzone. Kaufhaus des
Westens.  But Dieter relished the illusion that he was not exactly German,
that he was somehow immune to Late Capitalism, to EU AB Gmbh & Cie.

   He believed himself to be apart, a man apart, a vivacious relic.  Laylah
was his raison d'etre, was what he had looked for in his daughter while he
knew her, was his...  his inamorata, he said to himself, his paramour.  Not
that he had any improper thoughts about the girl -- he did not.  He found
her attractive, certainly.  Attractive in a way that Ilse, Stockholm, and
his few affairs were not.

   They spoke English together, a little whiff of pain rumpling his slack
body: my own
granddaughter does not know the language of Celan, Goethe, Rilke. 

Sometimes they spoke French.  They liked the English, though -- she would
pretend to be some woman out of the Brontes or Woolf, he would play
Sherlock Holmes or Philip Marlowe.

   He bought her a pack of tarot cards at the shop.  Tarot cards and a
strange sliver of rock crystal on a black silk string.  He imagined it
pendant between her tiny breasts.

   His few affairs.  There had not been any for a very long time.  Dieter's
sexual life lately consisted of wandering St.  Pauli and finding the
youngest, most vulnerable whore he could, buying her, and watching her
masturbate.  This did not gel very well with Goethe and the Brontes, but
his own dick had become rather alien to him.  Tant pis.  When a halfway
acceptable hooker was not to be found, he went to a Videokabine and jacked
off to Brazilian women encunted by eels.

   Dieter reached his hotel, checked in, and dialed the island.  Ilse said
that Laylah had taken the ferry in the morning, was stopping at Vaxholm,
and would meet him at the Central Station in the morning.  She was at her
father's in Solna.

   He dialed Solna and basked in her voice.  Laylah's voice was the
Castalian spring, the voice of a virginal sibyl tinged with innocent
eroticism.  Arild wouldn't let her see him until morning.  They agreed to
meet at the cafeteria in the station for breakfast.  She called him "papa,"
pronouncing it with the accent on the second syllable.

   Dieter took a shower, dressed, and went out for a walk.  He strolled
back to T-Centralen and wandered along Kungsgatan, thinking about Laylah,
about how much he wished she lived with him, about how lonely he was.  The
sun was setting and the long summer twilight had begun.  He saw an adult
bookstore in a side street, went down the red carpeted staircase and
browsed through the videos.  He chose one that promised the double
penetration of a slim redhead, paid, and disappeared into a booth.

   The smell of semen was suffocating.  He sat down and undid his pants,
watching the redhead take on three doltish, massive men, stroking his cock,
almost bored.  The men urinated in the girl's mouth and played with her
small breasts.  Dieter thought about his granddaughter's budding breasts,
closed his eyes, imagined Laylah offering herself to him, and came into a
napkin.  Guilt and shame welled up in him.  He fixed his pants and went
back out into the world.

   He had never seen Laylah naked.  Once he had joined her and Ilse in
Mallorca for a couple of days and the beautiful girl had worn a black,
one-piece swimsuit.  That was the only time he had ever considered her
sexually, stealing looks at her tiny breasts and skinny ass, studying her
pretty feet.  Laylah had asked him to put on sunblock and he had done so
lingeringly, rubbing the lotion into her white shoulders and slender legs.

   Dieter returned to Drottninggatan and found a nice, candlelit bar.  He
drank Carlsberg and mused about summer.  Perhaps he should be more
aggressive with the girl's parents, ask them to let Laylah come to Germany
with him until school started...  He got drunk, ordering pint after pint of
the strongest beer and shots of Absolut Citron.  The prices were
staggering. By the time it was dark and Dieter was thoroughly marinated, he
had gone through a few hundred kronor.  He supposed that if alcohol was not
so expensive and rigidly controlled, half the people in Sweden would drink
themselves to death.  It was their nature -- they worked hard, drank strong
coffee all day, and soused themselves, particularly on weekends.  By
candlelight.

   Wearily, he walked back towards his hotel, pretending that Strindberg
was with him.  He stood for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk and lit
a Gitane, savoring the sour, black tobacco. It's like a Frenchman's dirty
socks, he thought.

   He didn't notice the girl until she was a meter away.  She was barefoot.
"Unglaublich," he said to himself, unbelievable.  The gypsy asked him for a
cigarette.  He had seen barefoot gypsies before -- they were on every
corner in Warsaw, and not uncommon in Berlin -- but never in prosperous
Scandinavia; didn't they get supported by the state, like every other
immigrant?  Wouldn't the state buy her shoes?

   He looked into the girl's dark eyes and immediately saw "whore" written
there.  Whore, and child.  She couldn't have been sixteen.  He pulled the
pack of Gitanes from his trouser pocket and the girl said something in
Swedish.  Dieter was too drunk to remember how to say that he couldn't
speak it.

   "Svenska, kein...  ni talar..."

   The girl pointed at the blue pack, the silhouette of a dancing gypsy. 
"Das ist mich, Zigeuner, ich," she said, smiling.  "I am gypsy."

   Her childish fingers brushed against his hand and he felt himself get
hard.

   "Sprichst du Deutsch?"

   "Nein...  nur ein bischen...  English?"

   "Ja...  yes.  How old are you?" He lit her cigarette.  Her dark eyes
flashed.

   "Old enough for cock," she said, stroking his hand.

   "How much?"

   "This change on what you want," the girl said, giving him a lewd smile.
She touched his crotch. "You want in my mouth, in my cunt?" She pulled him
to her, kissed him, and whispered softly. "Or you want in my little
Arschloch?"

   Her mouth tasted like mints.  Dieter worried about the clerk at the
hotel.  It was very late. Drottninggatan was deserted.

   "What's your name?"

   "Maria...  where your hotel?"

   They walked slowly up the empty street, holding hands.  He was sweating
from nervousness.

   The desk clerk was a young, tall man from Somalia.  They crossed the
lobby and he pushed the button for the lift.  He liked the word for
elevator in Swedish: "hiss." The clerk glared at him.

   Maria kissed him in the elevator.  He probed her little, minty mouth
with his tongue and felt her small, pert breasts.  She was very pretty, her
soft skin cafe au lait, violet lips, a gold chain around her skinny ankle.

   The door slid open and Dieter almost fainted.  Laylah was sitting on the
floor in front of the door to his room, a book in her hands.  He could see
up her short dress, emerald silk, see her slender thighs and white panties.
She looked at him, her green eyes aglow, and gazed at the young gypsy
inquiringly.

   "Hej, papa!" She leapt up and embraced him.  The whore kissed his
granddaughter on the cheek.

   "Laylah...  what are you doing here?"

   "I could not wait until morning and snuck away...  is this...  who is
your friend?"

   The whore touched Laylah's long, dark red hair.  "I am Maria."

   Dieter trembled.  Laylah looked at him mischievously and stroked the
gypsy's cheek.  "Is she a prostitute?"

   "Laylah...  ich..."

   His granddaughter put her pale arms around the hooker and gave her a
lurid, lingering kiss.  "She is pretty, papa."

   "Maria, ich glaube...  I think...  I think you..."

   "Nonsense, papa -- open the door."

   Dieter fumbled with the key, unlocked the room, and the three of them
went in.  He went straight to the minibar and pulled out a Tuborg.

   "Moechtet...  would you like..." He was barely able to talk, paralyzed
by embarrassment.

   Laylah brushed past him and bent down at the minibar.  Her short dress
rode up and he could see her skimpy white silk panties again.  She pulled
out two airline bottles of Grand Marnier and looked back at him over her
shoulder, her smaragdine eyes clouded with timid desire.

   "Papa..." Her nostrils flared and her pale lips parted slightly.  She
bent over the bar and lifted the back of her dress.  Her voice was like a
rushing stream.  "Papa, do you think I am pretty?"

   He could smell her sex.  Laylah put the little bottles down, held her
emerald dress up, hooked her finger under the panties and pulled them
aside. Dieter's heart was in his throat.  Her butt was the color of goat's
milk.  The moist, pubescent cunnus was the color of tea sausage, Mettwurst,
surrounded by sparse, fine, dark red hairs.  Its scent invaded him, the
aroma of shrimp in honey. Her anus was the size of the old one-pfennig
coin.

   "Laylah..."

   She stood up straight, lifted her dress and turned around.  He could see
her pale, tumescent nipples through her lacy bra, loose on her tiny
breasts. Her pubic hair was carefully trimmed into a tiny rectangle.  Her
navel was a shallow oval.  She kicked off her sandals and took off her
panties, watching him.

   "Suis-je belle, Papa?"

   "Laylah, du kannst doch nicht...  you cannot..."

   His granddaughter touched his lips.  His hands went almost involuntarily
to her breasts.  She reached back and unhooked her bra.  He fondled her
pale, erect nipples, devouring her lithe, perfect body with his eyes. 
Laylah unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his trousers.

   Dieter pulled her to him and kissed her, caressing her little butt.  She
kissed awkwardly, clumsily, fumbling with his fly.  He felt her beautiful
fingers on his erection and moaned.

   Laylah slid to her knees and licked the head of his cock, stroking him
with her slender fingers.

   Maria appeared, naked, the small, firm cones of her breasts ending in
nipples that were almost black.  Her shaven cunt was pierced through the
dark labia with thick gold rings.  She crouched next to his pale
granddaughter and untied his shoes, slipped them off and took off his
pants. The two girls kissed playfully, their tiny, pink tongues darting
into each other's mouths.

   The gypsy crawled behind him, spread his cheeks and licked his asshole.
Dieter moaned like a dying man as Laylah tried to suck him, staring up at
him, her face transformed by the ferocity of her strange, precocious lust.
Her mouth was too small.  Her deft fingers flickering at her pubescent
vagina, Laylah spat on his penis and stroked him, sticking out her tongue.
Maria stabbed her tongue into his ass and Dieter exploded, spewing warm
fuck into his granddaughter's open mouth.

   The whore kissed Laylah feverishly, rubbing her budding breasts and
sucking the semen from her pouting mouth.  Panting, Laylah got on all fours
and the gypsy tongued her genitals in a frenzy, spread her white buttocks
and slurped at her tiny, pink anus.

   Dieter squatted behind Maria, toyed with the cunt-rings and plunged his
tongue into the whore's snatch.  She tasted like spoiled herring.  Her
shithole was gory with hemorrhoids.

   "Ja...  fuck me, mister...  get my purse, ja?  Preservatif in purse..."

   The gypsy fingered Laylah's innocent vulva as Dieter lapped at her
whorish fuckhole, rubbing the grotesque anus with his thumb.

   Laylah fingered her clitty and came, squealing.  Maria twisted away and
went for her purse.

   Dieter picked up his languid beloved and carried her to the bed, kissing
her tiny breasts.

   "Oh, papa...  I think of this so much, always..."

   "Laylah...  ich liebe dich..."

   "Papa...  I want you...  I want you to make me a woman." She grasped his
shaft and he felt her touch the head to her wet little opening.

   "Laylah...  nein..."

   The hooker sprawled next to them, squeezing lubricant from a plastic
tube and greasing her hideous shithole.

   Dieter's cock slipped into his granddaughter's tight cunny, his glans
against her hymen.  She had slid under him, her pale legs in the air, her
little feet waving like slender white fans.

   Her eyes, half innocent, half lewd, imprisoned him in an emerald spell.

   "Fuck me, Papa.  I want you inside me."

   The beautiful, corrupt gypsy sucked Laylah's little titties and wiggled
her lubricated, cafe au lait ass.

   His granddaughter screamed as he deflowered her, forcing his huge cock
into her pubescent body.  Maria stroked the virgin's tiny clitoris and
masturbated her obscene, greasy anus, staring into Dieter's feverish eyes.

   He thrust all the way into the pale, trembling little girl.  The whore
took her fingers from her rectum and shoved them into Laylah's mouth.  The
redhead sucked them and rocked her narrow hips, mewling.

   Maria defiled her mouth with her filthy hand and tugged roughly at her
rosy nipples.  Dieter restrained his seed, afraid to impregnate the child,
withdrew his cock and came on the prostitute's face, groaning.

   Laylah grabbed the gypsy and licked Dieter's sperm from her face,
twisting the whore's gold cunt-rings.  The two girls fell into a heaving
sixty-nine.  The whore's back had a strange, blue-green tattoo of a serpent
devouring rats.

   His lovely, virginal granddaughter sucked the whore's dirty rear and
clawed at it with her delicate fingers.  Maria grunted and squirmed.

   "Nej...  preservatif...  ungh...  unngh...  uh...  unngh..."

   Dieter crawled to the other side of the bed and stuffed his cock into
the horrific shithole.  He slam-fucked the whore's ass as his granddaughter
played with his balls and licked Maria's fetid, shaven gash.  He felt
Laylah's tongue on his scrotum, pulled his shit-smeared shaft from the
hideous hole and jammed it into the little girl's dirty mouth.

   Laylah forced her entire hand into the gypsy's bowels.  Dieter slapped
Laylah's face with his thick cock.  The beautiful girl fisted Maria's
asshole and gazed at her grandfather, her lips stained with feces and
lubricant, her eyes wild, depraved.

   The whore violated Laylah's virgin rectum with her fingers.  Laylah's
skinny white forearm slid deep into the foul cavity.

   Dieter grabbed her arm and pulled it from the gypsy's gaping anus,
peeled her from his granddaughter and mounted the pallid, orgasmic pianist.

   He pressed his penis against the tiny ring of her poophole.

   "No...  papa...  don't...  it's too big..."

   Dieter rammed his dick into Laylah's hot, dry little bottom.  His
grandchild screeched and shuddered.  He held her ankles and...

   There was a heavy, rapid rapping at the door, and the husky voice of a
policeman tore through the pleasure dome like a shot.  Dieter looked down
at his beloved Laylah for the last time.  Her smaragdine eyes were like a
storm at sea.

   Copyright (C) 1998, Silvio Stoker.  ALL Rights Reserved



   ==============================================

   This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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