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Archive name: sari3.txt (m-teen/f-preteen, mast, youths)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari and the Simon Pratt Affair (Part two)
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
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The Sari Saga: Sari and the Simon Pratt Affair (Part two)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
"I have decided to go away for a while!" Cheri Kinnis
made the remark while nibbling a finger of richly
buttered toast. It was truly incredible how this woman
could transmute such a mundane act as eating into
something so hypnotically sensuous. She usually
transformed the otherwise desolate breakfast table.
So she was going away for a while. Big deal! My earliest
recollection of the Kinnises was of them, Cheri and her
husband, 'going away', setting off on a safari in a
tailor-made Jeep loaded to the gunnels with a million and
one bits of tropical gear and gimcracks, and enough
artillery to start a civil war in an African republic.
And, I know it's hardly likely, and it may well have been
another occasion, but they seemed to have returned
wearing ski kit. That was in the days when the Kinnises
were as close as you could get with a married couple.
Even after Sari arrived they were always in the process
of going away for a while to exotic places or returning
from fabulous holidays.
The woman had wakened Sari and I with a kiss. "Come on,
you two," she chirped brightly. "Breakfast will be ready
in about two and a half minutes. So move it!" She threw
open the curtains of my bedroom. Even that simple act
seemed replete with sexual innuendo.
It did not seem to strike her as untoward in the least
that her ten year old daughter was naked in bed alongside
a naked seventeen year old. I felt embarrassed in the
knowledge that, during the night, Sari had 'joggled Sir
Roger' with the ease and delicate touch of a fairy queen.
My heart hammered. I was convinced that, had I not been
so besotted with Sari, I would have been madly in love
with her mother! Cheri even drew the covers back from the
bed and laughed at our protests before skipping from the
room.
"As soon as your parents get back, I have decided to go
into a clinic to dry out!" She sighed. It was the same
incidental sound made by her daughter; it served to
emphasise or italicize the words they used. She
explained in forthrightly concise terms how and why she
had reached this decision. Her drinking had got out of
control, she felt that she had allowed her husband's
desertion to get through the normal barrier of her
indifference, she was aware that she had not been a
terribly good mother to Sari, and so on. Her eyes
moistened. She pointed a long, well-manicured finger at
my face. "And I want you, Lor, to take good care of Sari
while I am away!"
I nodded. I spluttered. "I also have something to say."
The uneasy, queasy sensation in the stomach persisted,
and my voice trembled. "I think you should know." I
hesitated, then blustered it out. "I asked Sari to marry
me, and she said she would as soon as she was old
enough." The total absurdity of the situation did not
seem in any way pertinent. Rather, I felt a great relief
sweep over me.
I simply had to tell someone, and who better than the
child's mother. And then the idea rooted and sprouted at
the back of my mind: my 'something to say' had been a
sublimated confession - it was really intended to purge
me from any feeling of guilt for having had Sari work her
magic on me with her hands. Deep down inside me, come
hell or high tide, I knew that 'kissing Lady Cynthia' and
'joggling Sir Roger de Coverley' had to become a regular
feature when Sari and I were alone together. I knew
within my heart of hearts I wanted it that way, and I was
equally convinced Sari wanted it too. And, for the time
being at least, I knew that I would be satisfied with
this.
Cheri was silent for a full two minutes. The queasiness
spilled over from my gut to my chest. Breathing had
become extremely difficult. Had she guessed the guilty
secret? I had other reasons for believing that the woman,
like my antique grandmother Jaksen, was psychic. Quite
suddenly she rose from the breakfast table and kissed
Sari again. And me. A long lingering kiss. And it struck
me that neither mother nor daughter knew how to kiss
other than with passion and with fully sensual lips.
Thereafter things began to happen with overwhelming
rapidity. The telephone rang and Cheri answered it. That
was how it was with us; we were equally at ease in each
other's homes. She spoke quietly for about ten minutes
before returning to the breakfast table. Her face was
somber as she announced, "That was your dad, Lor! Your
grandfather Jaksen died early this morning. I'm truly
sorry. I liked the old man." My fondest recollections of
'the old man' was of him chasing Cheri around our back
garden and of the pair of them indulging themselves in a
wrestling match on the croquet lawn. "The funeral is on
Tuesday."
Tuesday? I had the last of my written examinations on the
day before with the practical on Wednesday and Thursday
and a possible oral test on Friday. What a week it was
destined to be.
Then Mrs. Grafton entered the kitchen. She is the woman
who helps mum clean the house at weekends, Fridays and
Saturdays, sometimes Sunday, less frequently on Monday
mornings. She is also the gossip column for the village
as far as we are concerned. As she was removing her hat
and coat, she directed the question to the draining board
at the sink. "Have you heard about." All Mrs. Grafton's
news started with this preamble. I had visions of her
worst nightmare: she would be imparting her priceless
jewels of information to someone who had already heard
from another source. ".Julie Pierce at the big house?"
"The big house?" I joked. "I thought we were the big
house." Although I did not in the least feel like joking.
Mrs. Grafton looked up from the sink with baleful eyes.
"And so you are," she said, "but not the only one.
There's Marmonsby and Teesford and Hornton Manor."
"Hornton Manor is miles away," I reminded her.
"About Julie Pierce," Cheri Kinnis prompted.
Mrs. Grafton shifted her eyes sadly to Cheri. "She's gone
and got herself pregnant, that's wot. And she's only just
turned fourteen!" She tutted and turned her attention to
the pots and pans in the sink. "Had her birthday party
only last week. I ask yer! And that fat boy Pratt has
gone and built himself a hut of sorts behind his father's
scrap-yard and Mr. Jordan next door is objecting because
he wasn't allowed to build a garage next to his house,
and he's taking Mr. Pratt to court, and Mrs. Selby in the
village shop is going off on holiday this week, so if you
have anything you want to buy there you had better be
quick about it."
She attacked the pots with a teeth-grating enthusiasm.
"And what about this dark stranger what has been lurking
about in the village?" It was purely rhetorical. She did
not wait for any response. "Up to no good that's for
sure, anyone who prowls around, especially at night! Best
to keep your doors locked if you ask me. Can't afford to
take no risks these days, wot with all them terrorists
about and them murders and bombs in the city streets and
wot..."
No, we hadn't heard of the dark stranger. I tended to
sneer inwardly. Last summer it was 'the man with the
glaring eyes', and during the winter prior to that there
was mass hysteria about 'the alien who abducted little
boys'. Silly rumours like this were spontaneously
generated in every village community from time to time.
The man with the glaring eyes turned out to be an ancient
tramp with a thyroid problem; certainly the old man had a
liking for touching little preteen girls, but otherwise,
he was harmless. And the alien was the local poacher,
popularly known as Mr. Death.
The man was, by nature, a recluse who made his living by
supplying neighbouring hotels and city restaurants with
freshly slaughtered country fare. He acquired his name by
virtue of the fact that every time he was seen, almost
always at night, something was destined to die, be it a
pheasant on the moor, a hare in the woodlands or a salmon
from the river. So far there was no reason to believe
that he was in any way responsible for the death of a
human. Anyway, the matter was dismissed as an exercise
for idle tongues, the preoccupation of empty heads.
Both Sari and Cheri accompanied me to the funeral. Both
wore identical black outfits, mini-dresses and sheer
tights, short capes and veiled hats, that made even the
pastor goggle. A rather subdued Sari clung to me
throughout the entire proceedings; it was her first close
contact with the frightening fact of the inevitability of
death. And she did not like it one little bit. Grandma
Jaksen greeted Cheri like a long-lost daughter. The two
of them always hit it off whenever they met, and their
repartee of funny stories and counter-stories could keep
a social get-together alive for hours. "Kindred spirits,"
my mother fondly described them.
"And you. Little girl." The old woman crouched in front
of Sari when the cold, matter-of-fact Lutheran funeral
ritual had been completed. She kissed her face and held
her close. ".had better take good care of my favourite
grandson!" And she threw me a most peculiar sidelong
glance. It was as if she had guessed the peculiar
relationship we shared; it was also a grandmaternal
blessing on it!
I had to be away all day Wednesday and Thursday. I
travelled straight from grandma's house to the
examination centre. The final practical session lasted
well into the evening, at which point I was told that the
oral test would indeed take place on the following
morning. When I returned home on Friday afternoon, all
hell had been let loose. There were police officers
searching the grounds at the Kinnis place with tracker
dogs and over spilling on to our property.
A detective inspector, who picked at his nose all the
time he was speaking, wanted to know where I had been all
day and was little more than contemptuously skeptical
when I explained about my practical and the oral
examinations. "Bloody egg-heads," he grumbled to himself
as he departed without telling me what the interrogation
was all about. "Bloody clever dicks! Bloody snobs! Think
they own the bloody world! Bloody poufs!" He had simply
refused to give any reason or explanation for his
questions. And he made no apology for his intrusion or
his crudeness.
It was only when the entire police force of the county
had left the house, that my dad had an opportunity to put
me in the picture. I knew there was trouble as soon as he
laid an arm across my shoulder. "It's Sari," he said, and
my stomach lurched. Before he said anything else, I
wanted to be sick. Visions flashed before me in my vivid
imagination, visions of Mrs. Grafton's dark stranger, the
man with the glaring eyes, Mr. Death, and of Sari lying
lifeless in a ditch. "She has been missing since
lunchtime." My stomach muscles wrenched. "The school
closed half-way through the morning." It was as if all my
education and the recent examinations and tests had gone
for nothing. "She left before noon, but didn't arrive
home." My entire life was centred on Sari! Everything I
did was for her.
It had been almost three years to the day when another
little girl, the same age as Sari, had been reported
missing from the village. She was found dead several days
later; she had been savagely raped and strangled, then
bound with electrical conduit and wrapped in filthy
sacking and left in a secluded ditch. It would seem that
the killer had the vain hope of the young corpse being
decomposed before anything could be done about it.
The strategy had been successful in that the murderer had
never been apprehended. Mrs. Grafton's 'dark stranger'
seemed a lot less funny now. Mum and dad had heard the
rumours almost as soon as they made it back to their
front door. Then, they heard that the police were looking
for a 'black stranger'. Then it was a turbaned black
stranger with a long beard. Sightings were made in
several towns and villages in the region and there was a
ridiculous shuttling of police cars back and forth across
the county. Two perfectly innocent men, one black and one
with a long unkempt beard were arrested in local public
houses. Another was caught boarding a bus in the village.
Grandmother Jaksen had returned to our house with my
parents. An understandably distressed Cheri Kinnis was
with them when Mrs. Grafton appeared to offer condolences
for Grandfather Jaksen's death, 'wot she only just heard
about' and sympathy for the disappearance of Sari, 'wot
she had only just heard about too' and to tell mum that
she wouldn't be available for her cleaning duties for the
next three or four weeks.
"They've gone and changed everything at the factory," she
complained in the same tones she had used to express her
regrets about death and disappearance. Mrs. Grafton
worked in the local enterprise unit in the village.
Novelties were made there, mostly party fare like paper
hats and streamers. "They gone and went all Christmassy,"
she declared contemptuously. "We have to make Christmas
trees and paper decorations now." She tutted at the
thought of it. "Christmas trees in the middle of summer,
I ask yer!" She accepted the offer of a cup of tea. "So
we have to clear out the factory and clean it from top to
bottom and they're putting in the new machinery on
Tuesday and everyone has to lend a hand and work fourteen
hour shifts.."
She prattled on about the injustice of it all. And then
she slurped her tea and demanded of all of us, "Have you
heard about that fat boy Pratt?" It took all of ten
minutes to make sense of her usual gabbling gossip. Simon
Pratt and another boy in the village had been reported
missing now. "Proper epidemic!" stated Mrs. Grafton with
incredible insensitivity. I could not put a face to the
other boy, the name was unfamiliar. But Simon Pratt?
"Missing?" demanded my mother. It was too much of a
coincidence. "Boys don't go missing; they disappear for
hours!"
Simon had not been seen by his parents since early
morning, Mrs. Grafton assured us, and the other boy had
put in a brief appearance for lunch and immediately
vanished again. Grandma Jaksen and Cheri exchanged
glances.
"That's it, then," declared the old woman. And Cheri
nodded agreement.
"That's what then?" demanded my father.
"Where these boys are," recited grandma, "there be Sari.
And I get the feeling she is not there of her own free
will."
The suggestion sent trembling shivers down my spine, and
again I felt as if I was going to be violently sick. The
picture of Simon Pratt feeling up Sari at the midsummer
party, and his insane look of sheer animal lust came to
mind.
"Pratt built himself a gang hut." I yelled the
information and ran to the door and back. "Behind his
father's scrap yard!" I returned to the door. "Mrs.
Grafton spoke about it last week." My father picked up
the telephone as I raced from the room.
Police cars, there were at least four of them, screeched
to a skidding halt in front of the Pratt property on the
other side of the village. They were barely seconds ahead
of us. A gorilla in a sergeant's uniform smashed open the
gate of the scrap-yard and the door of the hut with less
effort than he would have needed to flatten a cardboard
carton. The entire structure shuddered as it was invaded
by a dozen policemen. Several torches lit up the untidy
space.
Sari was illumined as she knelt on an empty cable drum.
She was trussed up like a turkey ready for roasting,
arms, wrists and ankles bound tightly behind her. Her
panties were around her knees. Her school dress had been
hauled up around her middle so that her navel was
exposed, and the neat little groove of her tight vulva.
She was gagged with a filthy handkerchief and blindfolded
with what appeared to be thermal lagging from water
pipes.
Then I noticed, in the sharp contrast of lights, that she
wasn't kneeling at all; she had a harness around her
chest and armpits. It was this that kept her frock up
above her middle. The apparatus was suspended from the
roof by a black, heavy duty electric cable. The effect
elongated Sari's abdomen and pubis, which in turn made
her slit the 'piece de resistance'. Her knees were clear
of the drum and she swung, ever so slightly, like a
pendulum of a tired old grandfather clock. Oddly enough,
though, the thing that ripped into my thinking at the
sight was that I had bought the panties, as a set of six,
with a matching shortie night-dress and an underskirt,
for Sari.
The idea of another person actually touching the garment
was a profanity and it outraged me. I was restrained by
my dad and by the nose-picking detective inspector as I
lunged forward; otherwise I might have committed bloody
murder.
.for in one corner squatted Simon Pratt. He was holding
his face in his hands in the way an infant does, seeking
to be hidden from view. The other boy - I now recognized
him as one of those who had bound Sari to the chestnut
tree at the midsummer party - was shivering with fear and
sobbing frenetically in another corner. There were signs
of recent masturbation on their clothing and on the floor
at their feet. Simon's companion had wet himself,
repeatedly by the look of his trousers.
A policewoman had managed to release the harness and
peeled away the gag and the blindfold. Sari blinked at
the strong beams of light and gasped for breath. She was
sobbing and again my brain had changed to a smouldering
stick of dynamite. I broke free and tore madly at Simon
Pratt.
Sari screamed. "Lor! No! Don't hit him! He hardly touched
me."
I froze and stared malevolently at the other boy who
instantly burst into an amplified fit of sobbing.
"Lor, I'm all right," Sari yelled. "They didn't do
anything bad to me. Really, they didn't! I'm fine!"
The policewoman at last managed to cut through the ropes.
Sari stood up for a moment, uncertainly, on the cable
drum. She pulled up her panties and smoothed down her
dress before stepping down gingerly. She quickly regained
her balance and bounded across to me and flung her arms
around me. I held her close. A policeman hauled Simon
Pratt to his feet and dragged him across the hut to pull
the other boy upright. Both boys were howling. The
policeman accidentally banged their heads together.
"They just didn't know what to do," stated Sari. There
was pity in her voice. But also an edge of contempt.
"After they tied me up they joggled, and when I laughed
at them they put a cloth around my mouth and that
horrible jaggy stuff around my eyes." She gazed up at me.
"But really, they didn't do it to me!" When the boys were
dragged from the hut, she asked, "What will happen to
them?" A note of real concern was added to the contempt
and pity.
The detective picked his nose and examined his finger.
"They'll be charged with abduction of a minor," he
replied with an air of complete indifference. "And
probably with indecent assault."
"But they didn't touch me," insisted Sari. "Not really!"
The detective inspector was not interested. "And bloody
well wasting police time!" He shuffled out into the cool
summer night air. "And any other bloody thing we can
think of..."
"But they really didn't do anything to me." Sari held my
arm tightly. "They tied me up." She looked up again, with
those deeply penetrating eyes, into my face. "They pulled
my frock up and pulled my panties down." The torchlight
was rapidly fading. "Really! They didn't do anything
terrible to me. They just looked; they didn't do anything
to me! They didn't know how!"
That night in bed I checked. Not that I would dare
disbelieve anything Sari ever said. As I was kissing Lady
Cynthia, I prised the lips apart and gazed my fill. It
was true. They hadn't done anything to worry about. And
Sari was aroused as an outcome! I had serious doubts
about how long I could wait. And I still wanted to kill
Simon Pratt. The other boy was a complete nonentity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 19