Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to 
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has been 
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I 
kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr.org site:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html

 


Chapter Eleven - Heart of Gold (Mff Mf tg teen oral anal drugs)



I went home later and wrote in my journal, writing about Cecil getting 
busted, how I was worried about the police picking me up after seeing 
his tapes and photographs, about meeting Cami and Delia, about how 
depressed I was that I had to go back out to the streets again, now that 
the Cecil money train was off the tracks for good.  I'd saved up quite a 
bit of money, though, so much that I couldn't hide it between the pages 
of my algebra text.  I'd bought a vintage beaded purse and stashed my 
money in there, hiding it under the sink, wedged behind the water pipes.

It was Cami that helped me get past my predicament.  She invited me out 
to work the street with her, keeping an eye out for the cops with me, 
even lending me a long black wig that she didn't need anymore, since 
she'd grown her hair longer.  Larry loved the look, loved to feel the 
long strands tickle his thighs as I sucked him.  I wore the wig on the 
street for about three weeks, just to be safe, until I figured that the 
whole Cecil thing was yesterday's news.

It was amazing how many men thought Cami was a real girl, and just as 
amazing how many of the ones who knew she had a cock also assumed that I 
was a boy, too.  One man, a middle-aged executive in a big BMW, seemed 
downright disappointed that I didn't have a penis.  He wanted to pay 
both of us to come back to his hotel downtown, for something that 
involved three penises, though he was pretty light on the details.  We 
haggled over the price and ended up going with him anyway.  Back in his 
hotel room, I watched the man suck Cami's cock, and then he watched Cami 
fuck me while he jerked off.  Afterwards, he sucked Cami's cum from my 
pussy while Cami tongued his asshole.  We ended up with the three of us 
in bed, Cami fucking the man in the ass while I sucked his cock.  We 
left that night with $500 between us, $300 for Cami and $200 for me.  I 
guess having a penis would have earned me an extra hundred.

Cami's street was a lot busier than the one I'd worked before.  There 
was a constant stream of cars, cruising slowly, some moving on to the 
next block where the boys worked.  There was an hidden boundary here, 
girls like Cami on one street, boys on the other.  I got to know almost 
all of the girls on the block, and they accepted my presence, albeit 
grudgingly.  It wasn't like I was taking significant business from them.  
The cars I'd get into were driven by men who were looking for younger 
stuff.

One night I thought I saw a kid from the shelter, working the next 
block, but before I could get a good look at his face, he got into the 
front seat of a Volvo and they drove off.  Seeing him made me wonder 
about Manny and Billy, where they were, how they were doing.

That was also the night I met the man I called the Beacon Street Daddy.  
He became my best customer, even better than Cecil.  I could count on 
him to show up at least three nights a week, often paying for the whole 
night, and for good money plus a tip.  He drove a nice car, wore 
expensive suits, and had a huge place in Back Bay, a duplex apartment 
that was almost as big as the entire rooming house.

His name was George Sheffield, at least that's what it said on his door, 
but he wanted me to call him "Daddy", even on that first night.  It was 
a warm mid-summer night, and I would have gone with him just for the air 
conditioning in his car.  I gave Cami a good-bye kiss and got into the 
front seat, seeing her walk to the back of the car, her lips moving as 
she memorized the license plate.  It was something we always did for 
each other, just in case.

Mr. Sheffield parked in the basement garage, and we headed up to his 
place in the elevator, bypassing the doorman in the front lobby.  His 
place was the lap of luxury, fine furniture, a panoramic view of the 
Charles River; it was nicer than the Ritz.  He poured himself a drink 
and loosened his tie while I sat on the big leather couch, watching cars 
on the parkway across the river, a stream of white headlights and red 
tail lights.

"$400 for the night, right?" he said, swirling the ice in his drink and 
reaching into his pocket, pulling out a thick wad of money held together 
with a sterling silver clip.  He peeled off a few bills and handed them 
to me, taking a sip of his drink.

"Thank you," I said, stuffing the money in my purse.

"Can I get you anything?  Soda?  Milk?"

"No thank you," I said.  "What would you like first?  Blowjob?"

"No, not yet.  Come with me," he said.  I followed him up a spiral 
staircase and down a carpeted hall, into a room filled with stuffed 
animals and toys, a four-poster bed and pink curtains, a little girl's 
room.

"My daughter's room," Mr. Sheffield said.  "She lives in Paris with my 
ex-wife now.  I only see her twice each year."  He sounded wistful, 
almost sad when he said this.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be.  I was a prick to her mother," he replied.  "Anyway, here are 
her clothes.  They should fit you, I think.  Why don't you put these on 
and meet me back downstairs when you're ready."  He pulled a plaid skirt 
and white blouse from the closet, laying them on the bed, and then he 
opened her dresser drawers, showing me where she kept her socks and 
underwear.  Then he left, the sound of clinking ice fading down the 
hall.

I took off my clothes, miniskirt and halter top, and skinned off my 
black lace panties, standing naked in this girl's room.  I found a 
picture of her and her father on her desk, a recent photo I guessed, and 
I figured her to be twelve or thirteen at the most, with long straight 
blonde hair like mine, except in pigtails.  Her name was Suzie or 
Suzette, at least according to what was jotted on the inside cover of 
some of her old textbooks, written in perfect penmanship with a little 
heart over the "i" in "Suzie".

I pulled on a pair of her panties, white cotton briefs with a tiny 
rosebud pattern.  Either she was a little big for her age or I was a 
little small for mine; regardless, her clothes fit me well though her 
training bra was a bit too tight, as were her shoes.  I checked myself 
in the mirror, tying my hair into pigtails with elastics like she did, 
and headed downstairs.  Mr. Sheffield was sitting on the living room 
couch, dressed in a plush beige terrycloth robe, a fresh drink in his 
hand, watching me descend the spiral staircase.

"Come sit with Daddy, Princess," he said, putting down his drink and 
patting his lap.

"Yes, sir," I said, climbing up onto his thighs.

"Call me 'Daddy', punkin," he said, wrapping his arms around me and 
pulling me close to his chest.  Unlike most of the men I serviced, Mr. 
Sheffield was in great shape, broad chest and firm abdomen, probably 
from running or regular workouts.  I rested my head on his shoulder as 
his hands caressed my thighs, roaming under his daughter's plaid skirt, 
over her soft cotton panties.

"How was school today, punkin?" he asked.

"It was fine, Daddy," I said.  I began to realize that he wasn't just 
paying for sex, he was paying for me to pretend that I was his little 
girl, his absent daughter.  I knew there would be sex involved sooner or 
later, mostly from the way I could feel his erection pressing against 
the back of my thighs, but this was his foreplay.  I wondered if he had 
ever touched his daughter or whether it was all by proxy.  Maybe that 
was why he was divorced, his ex-wife and his little girl an ocean away.  
I decided that he hadn't, not if, as he had said, she still visited 
twice each year.

"What about that class you're having problems with?" he asked.

"What class?"

"Weren't you flunking out of Sex Education?"  Mr. Sheffield had a 
script, though it was all in his head and I could only guess at my 
lines.

"Yes, Daddy," I said, feeling him squeeze my bottom.  "I'm sorry, 
Daddy."

"Maybe I can help you, Princess," he said.  "What are you having trouble 
with?"

"Well, um, it's about a man's thing," I said, feeling his hardness 
pressing up against my thighs.  I'd never had sex ed in school, other 
than a quick gym class discussion of contraception and venereal disease 
given by a physical education teacher with a crew cut and thick legs, a 
lecture that lasted all of ten minutes.  I didn't know what was covered 
in a real sex ed class, so I had to improvise.

"You mean a 'penis'?" he said.

"Yes, Daddy.  A...a penis."

"What about the penis do you need to know?"

"Well, it's like I don't understand what it does," I said.  "And the 
seeds that come out, are they like pumpkin seeds or something?"  Mr. 
Sheffield laughed at that and gave me a wink.

"Would you like to see mine, Princess?"

"Could I, Daddy?"

"Sure thing," he said.  "Get down from Daddy's lap and I'll show you."  
I scooted off of his legs and knelt between his knees as he opened his 
bathrobe.  His cock was hard, twitching in anticipation, a pearly drop 
of precum at the tip.

"Can I touch it, Daddy?"

"Go ahead, punkin.  Just be very gentle," he said, a gleam in his eye.  
I hesitantly moved my fingers closer to his twitching tool, lightly 
grazing the shaft with my fingertips before curling my fingers around 
his penis.

"It's so big, Daddy," I said.  It was pretty big, but I would have said 
that even if it wasn't.  Men love to hear things like that.

"Stroke it, punkin, rub it up and down slowly," he said.  I began to 
slide my fingers up and down his cock, slowly jerking his veiny shaft.

"What's this wet stuff at the tip?" I asked.

"That's Daddy's seed.  There's millions of little tadpoles swimming 
around."

"Tadpoles?" I said, giggling like his daughter might have done.

"They just look like tadpoles, sweetie."  He reached forward for his 
drink and took a sip.

"What's it taste like?" I asked.  Mr. Sheffield smiled.

"Go ahead and try it, Princess."

"Okay, Daddy," I said, leaning forward and extending my tongue, scooping 
the drop of precum into my mouth and swirling it around.  "It's yummy, 
Daddy."  Actually, it had that sort of cloying sweetness that the semen 
of some of the more alcoholic men I'd sucked had, but it lacked the 
bitterness of someone who lived on junk food.

"Keep doing that and I'll make some more, punkin," he said.  I guessed 
that this was my cue to start sucking him, and I did, parting my lips 
and taking his cock into my mouth, bathing the underside of his shaft 
with my tongue, making him groan and sigh and settle back into the 
couch.  I sucked him slowly, carefully, trying for a cross between a 
girl's first blowjob and something a bit more professional.  I figured 
that he'd tell me if I wasn't doing it the way he wanted.  He didn't 
seem to be complaining, and after he filled my mouth with more of his 
little tadpoles he murmured "Perfect...".

"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered, climbing back into his lap.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he said.  He held me in his arms for a 
while, caressing me like I was his own daughter, not a girl he'd picked 
up on the street.

"Time for bed, punkin," he said, finishing his drink.  Go upstairs and 
change into your nightie and I'll be up to tuck you in."

"Okay, Daddy," I said, kissing him on the cheek.  I climbed off of his 
lap and went upstairs, back to Suzie's room, where I hung up the skirt 
and blouse and found a nightgown hanging on a hook on the closet door, a 
flannel gown that went down to just above my knees.  I folded my own 
clothes and stashed them with my purse, under the bed, before turning 
down the blanket and climbing into the four-poster.

Mr. Sheffield came up a few minutes later, yet another drink in his 
hand.  He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair for a while, 
looking at me like I really was his daughter.  There was something in 
his face that made me wonder if he really had gotten this far in his 
mental movie, whether he'd rehearsed this part of his imaginary script.

"Will you rub my tummy, Daddy?" I asked him, remembering my first 
encounter with Father Steve, how I had to keep things moving.

"Does your tum-tum hurt, Princess?"

"A little, Daddy.  Please?" I said, trying to knock a few years off of 
my voice.

"Sure, baby," he said, pulling aside the blanket.  He slid his hand 
under his daughter's nightie, gently rubbing my belly.

"How's that, kitten?" Mr. Sheffield asked.

"That feels good, Daddy."  I pulled the nightie up, exposing my thighs, 
panties, belly.  Mr. Sheffield's eyes were glued to a spot between my 
legs, where the cotton material of his daughter's panties had ridden up 
between my cleft.  His hand began to roam lower, down past the 
waistband, finally resting on the imprint of my labia on the white 
cotton.  He looked almost hypnotized as his fingers lightly traced my 
slit.  I spread my legs a bit wider for him, and he began to stroke my 
thighs, working his way back to my sex.

I had a hand under the nightie, cupping my breast, circling my nipple 
with a fingertip.  Mr. Sheffield saw the movement under the nightie and 
seemed to snap out of his trance.  He pulled the nightie up even 
further, exposing my little titties.  I thought I saw a look of 
disappointment when he saw that I wasn't flat-chested like his daughter, 
but a moment later he smiled.

"My little princess is growing up to be a big girl," he said, leaning 
over and taking one of my nipples between his lips, his tongue lightly 
lashing it until it stiffened and puckered.

"Oh, Daddy..." I sighed.  "So good..."

"Take this off, babycakes," he said, tugging at the nightgown.  "Let me 
see how you're growing."

"Yes, Daddy," I said, pulling his daughter's nightie over my head.  His 
hands were all over me, his lips moving from one nipple to the other.  I 
ran my fingers through his thick head of hair, arching my back as his 
lips sent a pleasurable chill down my spine.  I felt him tugging at the 
panties, and I lifted my bottom off of the bed so he could pull them 
down and off.  Then he kissed his way down my belly, all the way to my 
shaved mons.  I could feel his breath on my sex as he stared at my 
cleft, his lips poised just inches away, making me shiver with 
anticipation at what was to come.

It had been months since I'd been licked properly down there, since that 
day I met Trish at Mrs. Pomerantz's boutique.  Cami would eat me out 
sometimes, especially if she'd just fucked me and I didn't quite get 
off.  She loved the taste of her own cum, but wasn't the most cunning 
linguist.  I often thought she'd be more enthusiastic if I had a cock 
instead.  Larry practically begged me to let him tongue my box 
sometimes, but he always seemed disappointed to find that I hadn't been 
fucked by a dozen guys, oozing a dozen different flavors of semen.  
Cecil had eaten at Chez Annie as well, mostly as foreplay, and he did as 
well as you'd expect someone who had been a twentysomething virgin until 
recently.  In other words, poorly.

Mr. Sheffield was good, even better than Trish in some ways.  He kissed 
me reverently first, his lips pressed against my slit, inhaling the 
perfume of my sex, his eyes closed as he imagined his daughter in my 
place.  Then he cupped my bottom in his hands and brought me up to his 
mouth, probing my slit with his tongue, savoring the taste of my nectar.  
He actually said "Mmmmmm" a few times, as if he was tasting an exotic 
dish at an expensive restaurant.  I suppose I was an expensive 
restaurant, one he could have all to himself for a few hundred dollars 
in cash.

Unlike Larry, who went straight for my clit, or Cecil, who couldn't find 
my clit even with written instructions and a full-color diagram, Mr. 
Sheffield teased my little button, swirling his tongue under and over, 
around and around, making me moan and writhe in his hands as I tried to 
anticipate when he'd start lashing it directly.  He took his time, 
trying to make it last, to control the pace of my pleasure, to keep me 
at the tip of his tongue forever.  When he did finally tongue my clit, I 
felt an electric sensation spread through my body, making my limbs 
stiffen and my cheeks tense up in his strong hands.  He squeezed my 
bottom and lashed me harder, pulling my body closer to his face, 
drinking from my chalice.

It didn't take long at all.  From the moment I had put on his daughter's 
clothes and sat in his lap, feeling him caress me and call me 
"Princess", I'd felt that delicious tension in my body, centered in my 
lower belly, like an overflowing dam waiting to burst.  Not only could 
Mr. Sheffield believe that I was his daughter, I was willing to believe 
that he was my Daddy, and not a girl he bought for the night.  When the 
dam broke and my pleasure spilled out, I cried out for him: "Oh, 
Daddy...oh, Daddy...ohdaddy ohdaddy ohdaddy...".  He kept lashing me 
with his broad tongue until I had to squirm away from his lips, so 
intense was my climax.

"Princess..." he whispered, lowering my bottom to the bed and kissing my 
belly.  "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, knowing what was to follow.  Mr. Sheffield 
shrugged off his robe, his erection bobbing between his legs.  He felt 
my slit with his finger, dipping it inside me to gauge my wetness.  I 
was moist even before he ate me, even before I sucked him in the living 
room earlier.

"It might hurt a bit, punkin," he said.  "Let me know if it hurts too 
much, okay?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, realizing that we were back on his mental script, 
and that in his mind he was about to take his daughter's cherry, to 
penetrate her virgin cleft.  I spread my legs wider as Mr. Sheffield 
knelt between them, stroking his hardness and aiming it at my wet slit.  
He reached for one of the pillows behind my head and slipped it under my 
ass, rubbing the tip of his cock between my labia to moisten his spear.

"Ready, baby?" he asked, his cockhead poised at my entrance.

"Please be gentle, Daddy," I said.

"Always," he replied, leaning down to kiss me on the lips.  I felt his 
hips start to push forward, the tip of his cock pressing into me, 
slowly, carefully, towards a hymen that wasn't there.  "This part might 
hurt a little," he whispered, and then he pushed further, thrusting 
deeper, breaking through an imaginary barrier.  I wondered how many 
times he'd rehearsed this moment in his mind, lying alone in his bed at 
night, stroking himself as he thought about Suzie.

"Ow, Daddy," I softly cried.  "Stop.  It hurts."  It really did hurt, 
not as bad as a torn cherry, but I felt a little stab of pain.  Mr. 
Sheffield's cock was the largest one I'd had inside me in a while, since 
Mr. O'Hare fucked me with his horse-like cock on Father Ken's desk.

"Want me to pull out, Princess?" Mr. Sheffield said, a look of genuine 
concern on his face.

"No, Daddy.  Don't," I said.  "Let me get used to it for a minute, 
okay?"

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, kissing me on the forehead and on the nose, 
trying hard not to thrust even though he wanted to more than anything in 
the world right then.  "Does it really hurt?" he asked, out of character 
for a moment.

"A little," I said.  "You're really big.  I don't usually..."

"You don't?" he asked.

"No.  Blowjobs and handjobs, mostly."  Except for the rare client, or 
Larry, Cami, or Mr. Antonelli, my work was pretty much confined to a 
suck or a quick jerk in the front seat of a car.  

"Okay, I think I'm ready," I said.  My pussy had stretched to 
accommodate Mr. Sheffield's fat cock, and I squeezed him with my muscles 
to let him know it was all right to start thrusting.

"You're my special little girl, Princess," Mr. Sheffield said, back in 
his Daddy role, his hips starting to move, sliding his penis in and out 
of my tight slit.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said, holding his hips, feeling his muscles move 
beneath his skin, rocking my own hips to his tempo.  He felt as hard as 
iron, and I could practically feel every vein and bump on his shaft as 
he slid in and out, lingering with just his fat cockhead inside me and 
then plunging deeper, until he filled me completely.  As he stretched 
out on top of me, I moved my hands from his hips and up to his broad 
back, feeling his shoulders tense and relax as he began to thrust 
faster.

"How's that feel, Princess?" he whispered into my ear.

"Wonderful, Daddy," I cooed.  "It feels soooo good..."

It felt wonderful, it felt delicious, his magnificent cock stretching my 
box, the thick ridge of flesh on his glans pressing against my sweet 
spot with every stroke.  I moved my hips back and forth, pressing them 
against his, trying to take him as deep as I could.  Mr. Sheffield 
realized that he didn't have to be so careful now, that my pain had 
melted into pleasure, that my body was his now.  He started moving his 
hips in a circular motion, his cock corkscrewing in and out of my sex, 
touching me in places no one had touched in ages.

By this time Mr. Sheffield was screwing me nice and hard, not quickly 
but with long, powerful strokes, like the way those men who rowed on the 
Charles River would pull on their oars, using their whole body to propel 
their sleek, sharp shells through the water.  I felt another climax 
begin to build, different from the one he'd given me with lips and 
tongue, more like a full body orgasm that I felt all the way down to my 
toes and out to my fingertips.  I wrapped my arms around his body, 
trying not to scratch him with my nails as he pumped my pussy with his 
big tool, a patina of perspiration building on his forehead.

When I came I felt my whole body stiffen, close to paralysis, until I 
passed the first peak.  Even when I felt myself regain control of my 
limbs, my vision seemed dim, as if someone had turned down the lights.  
I wrapped my arms and legs around him, holding him even tighter, and I 
clenched myself around his shaft, squeezing him as I passed into another 
moment of ecstasy.  Mr. Sheffield's hips began to shudder, a hitch in 
the smooth motion of his thrusts.  I knew he was close, so close.

"Come for me, Daddy," I whispered.  "I want to feel your seeds inside 
me."

"Oh, Princess," he gasped, slamming into my pussy once, twice, three 
times before he came, taking a deep breath and letting it out as his 
cock twitched inside me, the fat glans flaring as hot spurts of semen 
filled my sex.  I clenched my pussy again and again, milking his tool, 
each additional spurt sending a shiver of pleasure through my belly.

"You're a special girl," Mr. Sheffield said, after he'd slipped out of 
my pussy and rolled off of me, laying next to me on his daughter's 
narrow bed, caressing my belly and thighs.

"Thank you," I said, not sure if he was talking to me or to his absent 
daughter.  He leaned over and kissed me, a passionate kiss, a lover's 
kiss, pressing his lips to my mouth, a mouth that had tasted hundreds of 
different cocks.

"Do you want to sleep in Daddy's bed tonight, Princess?" he asked, 
giving my forehead a fatherly kiss.

"Could I, Daddy?" I said.

"Sure thing, punkin.  Put your panties back on and I'll carry you in 
like I used to do."  I reached into the bunched up duvet at the foot of 
the bed, finding his daughter's cotton undies hidden in a fold of the 
thick comforter and slipping them back on.  I could feel his semen start 
to ooze from my slit, soaking the panty crotch.  Mr. Sheffield climbed 
out of bed and put his robe back on, lifting me off the bed with his 
strong hands.  I wrapped my arms around his neck as he carried me into 
his bedroom, gently laying me down on his big platform bed.  He shrugged 
off his robe and lay down next to me, wrapping his muscular arms around 
me as I snuggled up against him.  Then he reached over and turned out 
the light, giving me one last kiss for the night.


                                  * * *


I woke up the next morning as Mr. Sheffield was putting on a pair of 
running shorts, the straps of his jock framing his firm buns.  He turned 
around and saw that I was awake, a ray of early morning sunlight falling 
across my breasts.

"I'm going to run for about a half an hour," he said, lacing up his 
sneakers.  "Feel free to grab something to eat.  Kitchen's downstairs."  
He gave me a kiss on the tip of my nose and pulled on a t-shirt, heading 
out of the bedroom.  I thought it was sort of strange that he trusted 
me, a girl he just met on the street, alone in his apartment.  Not that 
I would steal anything, but it just seemed strange.

I went back into his daughter's room and changed into the clothes I'd 
worn when he picked me up.  There was a wet spot on his daughter's 
sheets from our lovemaking the night before, and the panties I'd worn 
were still soaked with his semen.

Mr. Sheffield's kitchen was almost as big as Mr. Antonelli's whole 
apartment, with a huge stainless steel refrigerator, a gas stove with 
six burners and two ovens, a myriad cabinets and drawers.  He didn't 
have much in the way of food, though, just some cereal in the cabinets, 
take-out food containers in the fridge, some low-carbohydrate beer, a 
quart of orange juice.  I made myself a bowl of cereal and poured a 
glass of juice, watching the morning news as I ate my breakfast.

After I ate, I noticed that there was a combination washer and dryer in 
a corner alcove of the kitchen.  I went back upstairs to Suzette's room 
and grabbed her sheets and panties, bringing them back down and putting 
them in the washer.  I was just adding some detergent when Mr. Sheffield 
returned.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

"That's okay," I replied.  "Just trying to be helpful."

"Sweet of you," he said, putting his hands on my hips and pulling me 
closer.  He was damp with sweat from his run, a big dark stain on the 
front of his shirt.  "I must smell awful.  Let me take a shower and I'll 
drive you back to the South End."

"Could I join you," I asked.  A shower sounded nice.

"Sure, but we have to be quick.  I have to be in the office in an hour."

I followed him into the bathroom, a suite off of his bedroom that was a 
nice as any I'd seen.  There was an anteroom with four rows of suits on 
hangers, arranged by color and style.  The bathroom itself was a 
monument to hygiene in black marble and terra cotta tile, and the giant 
tub had not one but three shower heads, including a detachable one with 
a massage feature.

I soaped him up from his neck to his toes, working my way back up his 
steel thighs to concentrate on cleaning between his legs, lathering his 
hard cock and heavy balls.  I knew we didn't have time to do much, but I 
gave him a soapy hand job anyway, stroking his beautiful prick until he 
came, shooting ropy jets of semen all over my breasts.

Mr. Sheffield returned the favor, showing me some of the more 
interesting features of the detachable shower massage, including a 
pulsating setting that, when directed between my legs, made me weak in 
the knees.  I almost slipped on the wet marble when I came, but he 
caught me before I fell, holding up as I trembled with delight at the 
warm jets of water that pulsed against my pussy.  I wondered if Mr. 
Antonelli would let me buy one of these and install it in the rooming 
house's bathroom.  I'd never leave the tub if that happened.

We rinsed the soap from our skin and dried off with plush towels that 
probably cost as much as I made in a night.  I watched him get dressed, 
white shirt, dark grey suit, yellow tie, black Italian shoes, and then 
we descended in the elevator, back to the basement garage where he kept 
his car.  He pressed a small black trinket on his key ring, making the 
car chirp, its headlights flashing twice as the doors unlocked 
electronically.  Mr. Sheffield opened the passenger side door for me and 
I slid inside.  Ten minutes later I was back on the corner where he'd 
picked me up, his phone number written on a piece of paper. I didn't 
have a phone, relying on pay phones or Mr. Antonelli's line when I had 
to make a call, but we agreed to meet two nights later, same place, same 
time.


                                  * * *


I'd stay with George Sheffield at least three nights a week, sometimes 
all day on Sunday, lounging in his big bed with him, reading the Sunday 
papers, eating brunch, generally acting the part of the loving daughter 
of a very affectionate father.  Most of the nights I spent with him were 
just like that first night, with just a few minor variations.  
Sometimes, he'd have me pretend to be asleep, and he'd creep into his 
daughter's room where I was staying, quietly lifting my nightie and 
caressing my sex through her little white panties.  He'd nibble my 
tender slit through the cotton crotch, and then he'd pull them aside and 
slowly penetrate me with his hardness, watching for signs that I was 
waking up.  I would feign sleep until I began to come, at which point 
he'd start pounding me with his fat cock until he filled me with his hot 
seed.

On other nights, I'd crawl into his bed while he pretended to sleep, 
slipping under his sheets to take his cock in my mouth, slowly sucking 
him until he pulled me on top of his body, spearing me with his manhood.  
I'd ride him until I was a quivering mass of jelly, shuddering and 
moaning on top of him, urging him to fill my spasming cunny with his 
daddycum.

One night in early September Mr. Sheffield picked me up, asking if I had 
anything nice to wear, something formal, something elegant.  He drove me 
to my rooming house and waited in his car while I went upstairs to 
change, coming back down in a vintage cherry red satin cocktail dress, 
knee-length and strapless, with crinoline petticoats under a swingy 
skirt.  I'd found white pumps that fit and dyed them red to match, along 
with a beaded red purse.  His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he got out 
from behind the wheel, dashing around his car to open the door for me, 
helping me gather the swishy dress around my legs so it wouldn't get 
caught in the door.

"You look beautiful, Princess," he said, leaning over the car's console 
to kiss me.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said.  "What's the special occasion?"

"I'm taking you out for your birthday," he said, reaching into the glove 
compartment and pulling out a little gift-wrapped box.  My birthday 
wasn't until December, and I realized that it was really his daughter's 
birthday instead.  "Go on.  Open it," he said, handing me the box.  I 
carefully peeled off the wrapping paper, revealing a blue velvet covered 
box.  Inside was a gold heart pendant on a fine gold chain.

"It's beautiful," I gasped.  "Thank you, Daddy."  I threw my arms around 
him and kissed him.  It was genuine gratitude, not just for the lovely 
little bauble he'd given me, but for all of the affection he showed me, 
even though it was meant for his biological child.  The money he'd given 
me pretty much kept me off the street, though I'd still hang out with 
Cami while she worked, keeping her company, holding her money for her, 
and memorizing the license numbers of the cars that picked her up, just 
in case.

"Let me help you with that," Mr. Sheffield said.  I turned around in the 
seat as he clasped the chain around my neck, pulling down the passenger 
side sun visor so I could see my reflection in the vanity mirror.  The 
gold heart glimmered in the light of the street lamps.  He put the car 
in gear and we drove off to dinner.

Mr. Sheffield took me to a fancy place on the waterfront.  A valet 
parked his car and we entered the restaurant.  He was on a first name 
basis with the maitre d' and he introduced me as his niece.  I was also 
on a first name basis with Marco: he lived around the corner from where 
Cami and I worked, and he was always very friendly to us, stopping to 
chat whenever he and his boyfriend walked their dogs in the evening.  
Marco gave me a knowing wink and seated us by a window that looked over 
Boston Harbor.

We drove back to his apartment after dinner, and Mr. Sheffield opened a 
bottle of champagne.  I'd only had it a couple of times, always with 
Julia, and I still loved the way the bubbles tickled my nose.  We 
toasted my "birthday", and then he left to make a phone call from his 
den.

Mr. Sheffield returned a few minutes later, his eyes moist and rimmed in 
red.  He poured himself a scotch, and sat down heavily on the couch.  I 
picked up my champagne flute and sat down next to him.

"Did you speak with her?" I asked.

"It was late," he said, in a defeated tone.  "She was asleep."  I guess 
it would have been 2AM in Paris at that time.

"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing his shoulders.  "Should I go?"

"No.  Please.  Stay with me, Anne."  He rarely used my real name.  I 
snuggled up against him, resting my head on his shoulders, drying his 
tears with my fingertips, kissing his cheek.  He turned his head and 
pressed his lips against mine, gently at first, and then with passion.  
My skirts rustled as we kissed on his couch, hands running over thighs, 
backs, faces.

I held his hand as we went upstairs, into his bedroom, where I helped 
him out of his suit, shirt, and shoes.  Then it was my turn, and he 
slowly unzipped my dress.  I let it fall to my feet, stepping out of the 
formless mass of satin and crinoline, unclasping the red strapless bra 
I'd bought to wear with this dress.  He was hard already, even before I 
sank to my knees and took him in my mouth.  He sat down on the bed and I 
knelt between his thighs, slowly sucking his shaft, swirling my tongue 
over his fat glans.

"I want you," he said, tugging at my elbow, pulling me into his lap.  He 
cradled me in his arms and began to pull down my red lace panties.

"No, wait," I said.  "My period."  It had started the day before.

"Damn," Mr. Sheffield said, clearly disappointed.

"I'm sorry," I said, running my hand over his chest.  I could feel his 
erection, which had been pressed against my bottom, starting to wane.

"Not your fault," he said.

"What about...?" I said.  I didn't even have to complete my sentence.  
He knew that I was talking about taking him in my bottom.

"Are you sure?" he said.

"Yes," I whispered, tightening my hold around his neck and kissing his 
cheek.

"It might hurt a bit," he said.

"I know.  But you'll be gentle," I said.  I knew he would be.  He always 
was.

Mr. Sheffield kissed me and laid me on the bed, sliding a pillow under 
my belly, pulling my panties down off of my ass, tenderly kissing both 
of my upturned cheeks.  In the table next to the bed he had a bottle of 
lubricant, probably for jerking off in bed while he dreamed of his 
little Suzette.  It was that flavored stuff that Larry liked, the stuff 
they sold in the bookstores in the Combat Zone.  Larry went through 
about a quart each week.

Before he opened the bottle, he knelt behind me and I felt his breath on 
my crack.  Suddenly his tongue was probing my bottom, penetrating me as 
he licked my tight little hole.  He grabbed both of my cheeks and fucked 
my bottom with his tongue, in and out a few times before licking the 
length of my crack.  I heard the bottle open and then I felt a cold 
finger back there, smearing lubricant around and inside my bottom.  My 
ass clenched involuntarily, trapping his finger inside me for a moment.  
He withdrew and then he penetrated me with two fingers, trying to 
lubricate and loosen my tight muscle.

He withdrew again and I heard him squeeze some lubricant on his rod, 
smearing it around and stroking his shaft to warm it and work it in.  
Then he knelt behind me, and I felt his greasy knob press against my 
nether hole.  It rebelled and then yielded to his cock, stretching to 
accommodate this glistening invader.  I groaned and grabbed a pillow, 
burying my face in it to keep from crying out.

"Does it hurt, punkin?" he said, pausing with only the tip of his penis 
inside me.

"A little," I said.

"Want me to pull out?"  He was playing the virginity scene again, only 
this time the pain was real for me.  He felt huge back there, and I 
wished he'd spent more time fingering me, stretching me, readying me for 
his thick tool.

"No, no, no," I said.  It hurt, but I could bear it.  I wanted to make 
him happy.

Fortunately, he had the good sense not to plunge right in, as if 
piercing an imaginary hymen.  He entered me slowly, steadily, even 
adding more lube when he was half-way inside my bottom.  It seemed like 
forever before he filled me, his pubes tickling my cheeks.  Mr. 
Sheffield stretched out over my back, kissing me between the shoulders 
and then on the cheek.  He stayed like that, motionless, his cock buried 
inside my bottom.

I began to make the first move, slowly moving my hips under him, back 
and forth, side by side.  I felt his hips begin to move with mine, 
sliding his slick shaft in and out of my bottom.  As I began to relax, I 
felt something different, a feeling I'd never felt when someone was in 
my ass.  I realized that his big cock was squeezing my insides, making 
the tampon in my pussy press against that sensitive spot on the top wall 
of my vagina.  I reached down between my legs and pressed against my 
mound, squeezing the place where my clit was hidden, trying to increase 
the pressure.

I probably could have come like this.  If only he could have lasted 
longer.  But between the tightness of my bottom and his excitement he 
began to come just as I was getting close.  The fact that I was moaning 
pretty loudly and humping his cock faster didn't help matters any.  Mr. 
Sheffield gasped loudly and his twitching tool began to fill my bottom 
with his cream.

I wanted him to stay inside me, to try again to see if I could come this 
way, but his penis softened and slipped out of me.  Mr. Sheffield got 
out of bed to wash off his cock, returning a minute later and climbing 
back into bed.  He held me from behind, and we nestled like spoons, his 
soft prick resting between my cheeks.

"You're a special girl," he whispered.  I kissed his hand and placed it 
on my breasts, and we fell asleep together.


                                  * * *


It was mid-September when Mr. Antonelli passed away.

Roughly once every month, always on Saturdays, when I came down to pay 
my rent, he'd be waiting for me in his pinstripe suit and grey fedora, 
walking stick in hand, and we'd go out to the North End where he'd see 
his old friends, we'd have lunch, buy groceries at Haymarket, and then 
return to the rooming house, where he'd cook dinner while I changed into 
a nice dress and heels.  Just like that first Saturday, he'd make me 
risotto and a nice meal, we'd have some wine, and then we'd slow dance 
in his living room, soft music and candlelight.  Then we'd go into his 
bedroom and make love, always with me on top, slowly riding him as he 
kissed and caressed my little breasts.  

I came to believe that, despite the sixty year age difference between 
us, this was the most conventional relationship in my life.  Dinner, 
wine, dancing, candlelight, and love, the way I always thought it was 
supposed to be.  Sure, he liked me to call him "Papa", but it was 
different from how I called Mr. Sheffield "Daddy".  Mr. Antonelli wasn't 
pretending I was his daughter or granddaughter; he was reliving his 
youth.  His late wife had called him "Papa" when they were first 
married, since there was a fifteen year difference between their ages.

This weekend was something he'd been looking forward to, an annual feast 
to honor a saint that was also the patron saint of his old village in 
Italy.  He looked especially sharp that day, wearing a gold tie clip and 
cufflinks I'd given him as a gift.  I took his arm and we headed out to 
hail a cab.

It was exciting, not just for me but for him as well.  He seemed almost 
giddy as he taped a string of dollar bills on to a statue of the Virgin 
that was being carried through the narrow North End streets.  We bought 
food from the sidewalk vendors, fried dough sprinkled with powdered 
sugar, spicy sausages on toasted rolls, cannoli, shaved ice flavored 
with syrup.  We had dinner there as well, in a classic bistro with red 
checkered table cloths and a candle stuck in the mouth of a wicker-bound 
Chianti bottle.

Mr. Antonelli was feeling awfully frisky that night.  We took a cab 
home, and he began to grope me in the back seat, earning some funny 
looks from the driver.  He was tipsy as well, since we'd shared a whole 
bottle of wine with dinner and he'd drunk most of it.  He was singing an 
old Italian tune as we emerged from the cab, tipping the driver 
generously.

Back in his apartment, he couldn't keep his hands off of me, slipping 
them under my short skirt, squeezing my breasts.  We didn't dance that 
night; he took me by the hand and led me straight to the bedroom, nearly 
tearing off his suit as he got undressed.

"Papa, Papa, slow down," I urged.

"Bella Anna," he crooned, unzipping my skirt and running his hands over 
the back of my panties.  Not a minute later I was undressed as well, and 
he guided me into his bed.

"Papa, what are you doing?" I said, as he spread my legs and dived 
between them, kissing and licking my pussy.  He'd never done that 
before, and I knew that the wine and the excitement of the day had gone 
to his head.  But he ate me good, even if he was a little out of 
practice, finding my clit and lapping at it like a kitten with a bowl of 
fresh cream.  The wine had affected me as well, so I stopped worrying 
about him and laid back on his bed, enjoying his attentions.  He had me 
coming in no time at all, probing me with his fingers while his tongue 
lashed my clit.  I tugged at his shoulder and he got up from between my 
thighs, his wrinkled face glistening with my juices.

"No, no, Anna," he said as I turned in bed so he could lay down and let 
me ride him.  "We do it this way."  He gently pressed me back against 
the bed and knelt between my thighs, his amazingly hard cock bobbing as 
it approached my moist slit.  He entered me in one quick motion and 
started thrusting, and I could feel his hips popping and snapping with 
each stroke.

"Oh, Papa," I whispered as he fucked me like his bride on our wedding 
night.  He was so pleased with himself, the wine having banished his 
aches and pains for a moment at least, forgetting about his bad hips and 
his arthritic knees.  His penis pistoned in and out of my sex, making 
the bed squeak, making me moan and sigh.  I was getting close again, a 
second orgasm growing in my belly, wishing that Mr. Antonelli could be 
even just ten years younger.

I had my eyes closed and I heard him grunt, softly, the smallest of 
sounds.  Suddenly his creaking hips stopped, the bed stopped squeaking, 
and he froze inside me.  I thought he might have come already and I 
opened my eyes.  His face was frozen in a pained grimace and he clutched 
his chest, his fingers digging into the broad patch of grey hair between 
his nipples.  As his face began to turn blue, I felt a warmth streaming 
from his cock, a wet spot spreading under my cheeks as a hot liquid 
dripped from my pussy.  He wasn't coming; he was pissing inside me.  Mr. 
Antonelli was having a heart attack.

I crawled out from under his body, feeling his dripping cock slip out of 
my sex, the feeling of panic taking hold of me.  I ran into his living 
room and picked up his phone, dialing 911.

"Please help me!  My papa's having a heart attack!" I blurted out as 
soon as someone picked up the line.  The operator told me to calm down, 
keep cool, and I managed to give the address of the rooming house and 
the phone number, leaving the phone off the hook and the line open when 
I ran back into the bedroom.

I turned Papa over, and tried to remember a short course in CPR we'd had 
in school.  Loosen clothing: he was already naked.  Airway: I tilted his 
head back and got his tongue out of the way with my fingers.  Pinching 
his nose, I breathed into him, once, then twice, before pressing down on 
his chest with both hands balled together.  Twelve compressions and two 
breaths.  Twelve compressions and two breaths.  Twelve compressions and 
two breaths.  

I kept this up until I heard a banging on the door.  The paramedics were 
here.  I answered the door, still naked, and ushered them inside, two 
young women with a stretcher on wheels, orange bags of supplies, and a 
small green oxygen bottle.  One of them knelt by the bed and held an 
oxygen mask to his face while the other one grabbed Mr. Antonelli's 
bathrobe from the hook behind the door, draping it over my shoulders, 
steering me away from the bed.

There was nothing more to do.  He was gone, probably dead while he was 
still inside me.  The medics placed his body on the stretcher and 
wheeled him out of the bedroom, not even bothering with chest 
compressions.  I started to follow, picking my clothes up from the 
floor, but one of them stopped me.

"Wait here for the police," she said.  "They'll want to talk to you."

"Police?" I asked.  "Why?"

"Look, kid," the other medic said.  "You answer the door naked and he's 
got a wet dick.  You think we're stupid?"

"Can I come with you to the hospital?"

"Are you a blood relative?" the first medic asked.

"No."

"Married to him?"  She said this with a chuckle.  I was obviously too 
young.

"No."

"Then stay here and wait for the cops," she said.  And then they were 
gone, their siren fading into the distance.

No, I wasn't going to wait for the cops.  Even in my distraught state I 
knew the trouble I was in.  Everything was about to come crashing down 
on my head, Cecil's movie, prostitution -- even though the police were 
nothing more than an annoyance, they had to have seen me on the street 
with or without Cami, and the circumstances surrounding Mr. Antonelli's 
heart attack would give them no choice but to arrest me -- and on top of 
this, drug charges would result if they searched my room.  Worst of all, 
I knew that all this could end up on the desk of a district attorney 
named O'Hare.  He'd probably figure out some way of blaming me for all 
of Father Ken's sins.

I was fucked, and not in the good sense of the word.

Still wearing Papa's bathrobe and holding my clothes, I dashed upstairs 
to my room just as the door to the building opened.  I badly needed a 
bath; my crotch and thighs were still soaked with Mr. Antonelli's urine.  
But there was no time, no time at all.  I locked myself in my room and 
hid behind the tall metal armoire, listening to heavy footsteps coming 
up the stairs, the cops knocking on every door in the rooming house, 
looking for me.  It was like Trish's apartment all over again, except 
there was no place to hide, no escape.  As the cops went from room to 
room, I grabbed Billy's old knapsack and packed what I could, some 
clothes, my journal, my bag of pot and bottle of pills, all courtesy of 
Larry, and my money, still in the beaded purse that was wedged behind 
the sink.  Then I toweled myself off and got dressed in a pair of jeans 
and a sweater, my running away clothes.

I heard footfalls on the stairs, then a knock on Luis's door.  He was 
still in the middle of his eighteen hour workday and there was no 
answer.  Then there was a pounding on my door, and a voice called out 
"Police!  Open up!".  I crouched on the floor next to the cabinet, 
thinking that maybe I could rush out behind them if they kicked down the 
door.  But the pounding stopped, and I heard another door open, from the 
room next to mine.

"She's not here," Miss Kass said.

"Do you know where she went, ma'am?" one of the cops asked.

"I don't know.  She said something about taking a bus somewhere.  New 
York, maybe.  I think she has family there."

"What was her relationship with the deceased?" another voice said, 
probably the first cop's partner.

"He was like a grandfather to her, and she was like his granddaughter," 
Miss Kass said.  I wondered how she knew this.  So far as I knew, she 
never spoke to anyone; her window on the world was through a partially 
open door, a gap about two inches wide.  "There was nothing improper 
about their relationship, I assure you."

"That's not what the EMTs said," the first cop stated.

"C'mon, let's call this in," his partner said.  "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're quite welcome," Miss Kass said.  I listened at the door as the 
cops headed back downstairs.  Then there was a soft knocking at my door.  
I opened it.

"They're gone," Miss Kass said, standing in my doorway wrapped in an old 
chenille robe that clung to her slim figure.  "But they'll probably be 
parked out front while they report in.  You can use my window.  The fire 
escape leads down to the back alley."

I grabbed my bag and followed her into her room.  It was as tidy and 
orderly as I imagined it would be.  She opened the window next to her 
bed and moved a potted plant out of the way.

"Quick, before they decide to come back," she said.  I climbed atop her 
bed and stuck one leg out the window, but then I stopped and looked at 
her.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?  I don't understand."

"Why are you doing this?"  She'd never even said "Hello" in all the time 
I'd been here.  Why was she going out on a limb for me?  She'd just sent 
the two cops on a wild goose chase and now she was helping me, clearly a 
fugitive from justice, to escape.

"You cleaned up the bathroom, you swept the hall, you made Gus a happy 
man," Miss Kass said, her severe expression softening.  "I wanted to 
tell you how much I appreciated that.  Gus loved to talk about you.  
'Apple of his eye' he called you."

"Thank you," I said, taking her hand in mine.  She squeezed it and I 
suddenly wished I could have gotten to know her better.

"Go," she said.  "Take care of yourself."

That's what Matt had said to me when he was waiting for the police to 
show up at his rehearsal space, the day Cecil got busted.  I took a last 
look at Miss Kass and crawled through the window, climbing down the 
rickety fire escape.  The movable ladder at the bottom was frozen in 
place, so I had to jump down into an open dumpster filled with trash.  
As I climbed out of it and shouldered my backpack, I could hear the rats 
inside panicking and scrambling around.

Unlike that cold night when I'd left Trish's place, I had more options 
to work with, places to crash even though it was still warm enough to 
sleep outside if I really had to.  But I knew I didn't have to.  My 
first thought was to call Larry's cab company and have him paged, to 
send him a message to meet me somewhere.  Then I remembered he was 
taking the weekend off; his daughter was visiting him.  Explaining our 
relationship to her might be tricky.  

I thought about Mr. Sheffield.  He'd be happy to take me in, to have me 
as a full-time substitute daughter.  But I couldn't go to him, not now, 
if only for his sake.  Should the cops find me with him he might lose 
any visitation rights he had; he'd lose his little girl forever, unable 
to watch her grow up.  Plus, the public scandal would cost him his job.  
Currency analysts at investment banks don't get much leeway when it 
comes to harboring underage fugitives.  In the end, I decided to go to 
the closest place, only a couple of blocks away.


                                  * * *


"You look white as a sheet, girl," Cami said as she opened the door to 
the basement apartment.  "What happened?"  I walked in to the apartment 
without saying a word, dropping my backpack and sitting on the couch.  I 
was safe, at least for now, and that meant that the tears could flow.  
Cami sat next to me, her arm around me, comforting me.  Even Delia came 
out of her bedroom to see what the commotion was all about, and she, 
too, sat next to me and rubbed my heaving shoulders.

After a nice crying jag, I managed to pull myself together and explain 
to them what had happened that evening.  Cami was now on the verge of 
tears, listening to me describe how Mr. Antonelli collapsed on top of 
me, how I tried to revive him, how the cops were looking for me.  Delia 
went and drew a bath, insisting that I should take one, that it would 
make me feel better.  She and Cami undressed me, sitting me down in the 
tub, and while Delia scrubbed my skin with a tattered old loofa sponge, 
Cami held a joint to my lips and told me to inhale.

Dee was right: the bath did make me feel better, soothing my frazzled 
nerves.  She found an old prescription bottle of Librium, a 
tranquilizer, and gave me two with a glass of water to wash them down.  
A few minutes later they were helping me from the tub, Cami drying me 
off with a fresh towel.  Cami rolled another joint, and after we smoked 
it she went over to the rooming house to see if the cops were still 
around.  They were gone.  I'd given her my key, so she went up to my 
room and packed the rest of my clothes in some old shopping bags and 
brought them back to Delia's place.

"You got some nice stuff, Annie," Delia said, pulling my cherry red 
cocktail dress from one of the bags.  "Good thing it don't fit me 'cuz 
you'd never see this again," she said, laughing.

"Annie, this one is adorable!" Cami said, holding up the burgundy silk 
dress I'd worn for Mr. Antonelli.

"Give me that," I said, holding out my hands.  She gave me the dress and 
I pressed it to my face, trying to catch a lingering trace of Papa's 
cologne, or the smell of candlelight and soft music.  I began to sob 
again.

"It's silk, Annie," Cami said, quietly.  "You don't want to stain that 
pretty dress."  I let go of it and she carefully folded it up.

Cami made another couple of trips back to my room, bringing back my 
books and some of my furnishings.  I told her she could have whatever 
she wanted for her own room, and that whatever she didn't want she 
should leave in the hall outside Miss Kass's room.  With all my worldly 
possessions packed in four shopping bags and a knapsack, I spent the 
night at Delia's, sleeping on her couch.


                                  * * *


That's how I came to live with them.  It was a temporary arrangement at 
first, camping on Delia's living room couch.  To show my gratitude, I 
cooked and cleaned for them, doing laundry and vacuuming the rugs.  Cami 
took me under her wing, as did Dee, who liked having me around during 
the day when Cami was out on the streets.  We'd cook together, Delia 
showing me how to make file gumbo and pan-fried catfish.  I loved to 
listen to her voice, how she softly sang the songs of Miss Eartha Kitt 
while she cooked.

Little by little the arrangement became permanent.  I began to 
contribute money for rent and groceries, for pot and big jugs of red 
wine.  While I sometimes slept on the couch, usually I shared Cami's 
bed, and even Delia's on occasion.  I loved sleeping with Cami; she was 
like a loving big sister who happened to have a penis.  We liked to 
please each other, to make each other happy, to do for each other what a 
thousand men cruising the streets in their cars couldn't do for us.

My relationship with Delia was more maternal on her part, though 
sometimes I'd curl up between her legs and try to suck her, to help her 
find her release.  She'd been on hormones so long it was hard for her to 
maintain an erection, much less come, but when she did come it was like 
fireworks on the Fourth of July, moaning and shaking, shuddering and 
crying, a stream of thin, clear semen spurting from her small dark 
chocolate penis.  Afterwards, she'd hold me in her arms and rock me like 
I was her very own child, as if it were possible for a black transsexual 
to have a blonde daughter.

I didn't see much of Larry that fall.  He was working long hours, trying 
to catch up on his child support payments and save something for his 
daughter's college tuition and living expenses.  He'd cut back on the 
porn, the drugs, not to mention my services.  I'd still see him now and 
then, sometimes just for lunch during his midday lull.  When he did need 
release, more often than not it was just a hand job.

In October, Mr. Sheffield told me that he'd accepted a transfer to his 
firm's London branch, where a position had just become available.  He 
said he'd miss me dearly, but he needed to be that much closer to his 
daughter.  I kissed him and told him I understood, and we made the most 
of our last few nights together.  The night before he was scheduled to 
fly to Europe, he gave me a present, a diamond bracelet that must have 
cost a fortune.  He said it was a birthday present, for my birthday, not 
his daughter's, for the birthday he'd miss while he was in London that 
December.

"I wish you were mine, Annie," he said, entering me for the last time on 
his bed.  There was no role-playing this time, no daddy-daughter script.  
It was just Annie and George, laying together like lovers who fit each 
other like pieces of a puzzle.  As we cuddled together afterwards, I 
wondered how I could somehow follow him to London.  It was a pipe dream; 
I didn't even have a passport then.

So, as the first snows of winter fell, I was back on the street.  The 
money I'd saved over the last few months was safe in a bank account.  
Whatever I earned I gave to Delia first, just as Cami did, and Dee 
became my de facto pimp.  She'd even arrange meetings between me and 
some of the men she met at the clubs she worked, men who wanted a little 
blonde girl for a change of pace.  I had to do more than just suck or 
jerk them off, but they paid well, and I wanted for nothing.  

I kept up with my journal writing, leafing back through the pages 
frequently, looking for some pattern in my life that would give me a 
hint of what might come next.  One thing that stood out to me was my 
need to create an artificial family where ever I was.  What had started 
with Ramon and my stepbrothers, after my mother's death, continued at 
the shelter and beyond.  Even Larry was part of it; he was like an older 
brother to me.  It didn't stop there, either.  I had another family 
right here, with sister Cami and mother Dee, and a nice cozy home filled 
with the smells of gumbo and pot, where I could stretch out and relax in 
a warm, bubbly bath and chase the winter chill from my bones.

And I believe this is where we came in.

 
                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html