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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: dixon2.txt (g/M, rom, ped)
Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld)
Story title : Dixon Park 2: Yim
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
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Dixon Park 2: Yim (g/M, rom, ped)
by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request)
***
A ten-year-old pupil from The Mary Vane sets her sights
on an older man and has her way with him. They eventually
marry!
***
I looked over my newspaper. It was nothing less than a
dark feeling of foreboding that made me do it. It was the
kind of sensation you get when you get to know that you
are being observed in a crowd or you sense that someone
is staring at the back of your head. It is one of those
inexplicable mysteries of life.
"Hi, Mr. Mellis!"
The ten-year-old girl stood no more than three yards away
staring at me. Her legs were quite widely separated and
she seemed unsteady on her feet, almost in a parody of a
drunken man who was about to wet himself. There was a
strange glitter in her eyes - as if she were high on
drugs. The merest ghost of a smile flitting across her
lips would not have been out of place on the Mona Lisa.
"Christ!" I thought. "What's the world coming to?" I
found it difficult to comprehend. "Ten year old and drug-
crazed!" There was a ten year old girl in England
recently who had died from overdosing on Ecstasy and a
ten year old boy in up-town New York who had been
convicted of trading in Crack, but this was way long
before these two. "Ten year old kids should be playing
with dolls or Action Man," I muttered to myself, "or
staring at Walt Disney cartoons on television until they
get square-eyes."
She was not the prettiest girl I had seen around the
trailer park by any standard, but there had been a
distinct careless, sexual allure about her which was now
emphasised by her school outfit. She had decently shaped
legs, her best feature, which were shown to advantage.
The black skirt was as short as it could get without
being indecent. The white cotton blouse, under a jet
black jacket, was spotless, but hung out at one side from
under the waistband of the skirt, and the black cotton
stockings, that should have reached just above the calves
were around her ankles so that they seemed to meld with
real leather black shoes. The footwear alone would have
cost the equivalent of a couple of week's wages for me.
Not for the first time I wondered why her folks lived the
way they did. They arrived at the trailer compound at
Dixon Park every year at the same time, around the last
day in March, and they left during the last week in
November. They had been putting in an appearance since
long before the girl was born. On this particular year
they were driving two top bracket European automobiles.
The thing that puzzled me initially was that the girl,
Yim was her name, was never with them when they arrived
or left; I found out later that she was boarded at the
Mary Vane Private School for Young Ladies in the city
when her parents were away during the winter. Another
puzzling thing was that while I saw the parents coming
and going regularly and Yim playing at various places
around the park, I rarely saw adults and child together.
I first noticed Yim, as a person and not as a passing
feature, a couple of years before. She seemed to play
alone in the recreation area, never joining in the games
of the other children. Her favorite piece of apparatus
was the timber climbing frame. It comprised massive
trunks of Californian redwood and spruce locked together
in an intricate pattern topped by a ninety foot long,
eight foot circumference, stripped and varnished roof
tree sticking out, almost pagoda-like, at each end. She
often lay astride this, precariously at the end, as she
gazed down at the joggers on their circuit outside.
I noticed that her hips would often start jerking
frenetically as she watched the men run by. And it was on
one of these occasions that we made eye contact, held for
several minutes, before she smiled slyly as if we had
just shared a secret. Then she turned her face away.
After that, I noticed her from time to time, coming and
going in her school uniform, or running around the
camping site half naked. She came to the site shop
occasionally, but never bought any of the crap kids
usually spend their spare pocket money on.
"My parents are not home yet," she said. "Can I wait with
you?"
"Of course, you can, Yim." I could almost smell the
marijuana on her breath. I was laid back in an old wood
and iron lounger cemented into the ground in the garden
next to the trailer park office. I often sat there for my
morning or afternoon breaks, when I could get them, with
a beer or a glass of Russian tea. I glanced at my watch.
"You're home early today!" I was tempted to ask, "Did you
enjoy the joint?" Instead I gave a little bit of a laugh
that revealed my decided nervousness in her presence.
"It was the last day!" She made the statement as if she
were announcing the Parousia and was expecting avenging
angels to stampede from the heavens with a chorus of dies
ireae at any moment. 'Last Day' was what they called the
prize-giving at Mary Vane. "I got a book prize!" she
exclaimed without enthusiasm. After the ceremony,
traditionally the school broke up for the long summer
vacation. "They unleashed us at two thirty!" The silly
grin on her face became more pronounced.
She set her school satchel down by the iron leg of my
chair, then climbed on to my knee, not sitting on it with
her backside like any normal child, but astride it as she
would a pony. I was wearing extremely abbreviated shorts.
She hauled her skirt up before settling down. I could
feel the suction from the groove of her vulva as it made
contact, through her panties, with my bare flesh. She
laid her head on my chest and let her hand search for and
settle on my crotch. I was increasingly alert and
alarmed.
She remained in this position for several minutes, long
enough for me to think that she had fallen asleep. I was
giving serious consideration to carrying her into my van
and laying her on one of the bunks, when I felt the first
shudder pass through her body. It was one of the most
remarkable things I have ever experienced, almost like an
earth tremor, starting at her hips, rippling up her spine
to the base of her skull, then back again. I immediately
thought of epilepsy. She looked up at me and smiled
coyly.
Another tremor occurred in another few minutes, then a
third shortly after that. By the fourth quivering shock,
there was no guesswork involved: the epicentre of the
disturbance was located firmly on my bare thigh. Ten
minutes after she had clambered up on to me, there were
regular and emphatic contractions along the fault-line
between her legs. Her hips started jerking as if she were
indeed riding a pony, and the pressure from her hand on
the bulge forming in front of my shorts became a strong
pulse beating in resonance with her demanding thrusts.
I stroked her hair. She gave out a little whimper like a
dreaming puppy, and burst into a frenzied bucking back
and forth until I could literally feel the storm burst
inside her and the wetness of her coming seep through her
panties and soak into the skin of my thigh. She continued
to gasp for breath and moan as her tiny body whacked into
me for another minute or so before she seemed to collapse
in a sweating exhaustion.
The intensity of her orgasm shocked me; I could not
believe that one so young could experience anything like
it. She clung to me while making the most peculiar
injured animal sounds. In an odd way, at one and the same
time I was sexually excited by the whole episode and
absolutely terrified by it. I had never witnessed
anything like it.
Quite without warning, she climbed from my knee in yet
another couple of minutes, picked up her satchel and
kissed me on the mouth. Not the genteel, polite kiss you
would expect from a ten year old girl who is not a member
of your family, but a wet, slobbering, open-mouthed
total-war conflict with no quarter given or asked for!
"Thanks, Mr. Mellis!" She turned to leave the tight
little garden.
"Any time, sweetheart!"
It was a careless politeness without any serious thought
or intention beyond the saying of it. She stopped in her
tracks, turned slowly and dramatically, and stared at me
intently. There was definitely something creepy about
this kid.
"Do you mean that, Mr. Mellis?" She demanded. There was
even a touch of aggression in her voice as if she thought
I had been making fun of her. "Really mean it?"
I was slightly taken aback at the tone. "Of course I do!"
I insisted.
"Tomorrow, then?"
I was even more confused. Nevertheless I replied, "Yes,
fine, alright!" I had no idea what I was letting myself
in for. Perhaps eight to ten years in the state
penitentiary.
"I'll help you in the shop," she said. She made it sound
almost like a threat. She livened suddenly and scurried
away. "Thanks again, Mr. Mellis!" she called over her
shoulder. The school satchel seemed inordinately heavy
and, as it swung wildly, it made her gait decidedly lop-
sided. "See you," she called from the middle distance.
"Tomorrow!"
One of the perks that went with the job in the trailer
park was the shop. I had enough to do as a rule, so I
leased the shop to a local church charity - the
Presbyterian Church Hospital - for which they paid me $50
a day. I worked in it most mornings from eight to ten,
when the church volunteers appeared and took over the
running of the establishment.
Most business was done either in the time I was there or
in the late afternoon with folks returning from work or,
in the holiday season, from touring around or sun-
bathing. At any morning session I could easily rake in
well in excess of $2000. I didn't complain; it was a good
cause and they paid me another $50 at the end of the week
for labor.
Yim appeared in the early morning. There had just been a
delivery and I was stacking the shelves in preparation
for opening. She started instantly and the job was done
in less than half the usual time. The closeness of her
body, however, was disturbing, to say the least.
The shop is comparatively small, and the serving space
behind the counter correspondingly tight. Several times I
had to squeeze past her when I was serving customers, and
it was more than mere imagination when she responded by
pushing out her front or backside to make contact. In
less time than it takes to tell it, I had a stiff that
would have done justice to a stallion.
But as the morning wore on I was becoming increasingly
impressed with this kid. She took to serving customers
like a natural born shop assistant. She learned the price
of everything instantly, and worked the cash machine as
if she had been doing it for life. On one occasion, when
a guy thought he was on a soft mark and tried to con her
with a bad luck story, she had the goods back off him in
a flash and stacked safely on her side of the desk.
"This might be a charity shop, mister," she screeched at
the offender, "but not for you! If you don't get outa
here in two seconds I'll have Mr. Mellis call the
police."
I gave up trying to monitor her work after half an hour.
In the brief respites when there were no clients, she
tidied up, picked up litter and swept up the dirt brought
in on the people's shoes. The impression that the kid was
hyperactive was rapidly supplanting the former one that
she was over-sexed and drug-crazed.
It was only when I could relax after the volunteers
turned up, ten to fifteen minutes late as usual, that I
really took time to notice what she was wearing: a floppy
pair of shorts that appeared several sizes too big for
her, an over-large blouse made of some chiffon material,
and open-toed sandals on her bare feet. As I said before,
she was not the most attractive girl on the site, but her
clothes on that day did nothing to improve her
appearance.
I took her around the trailer site with me on a routine
tour later in the morning. By law I had to check every
fire point and hydrant, the public toilet facilities, and
access and egress roads daily. I had also a couple of
emergency calls to make before lunch, to a blocked sump
and a main electric fuse that had blown. The kid was a
real help, and she seemed genuinely interested in all the
things I did, wanting to know why I did them. And could
she try to do them next time?
As a reward I took her for lunch at the Park diner. She
ate and drank sparingly.
"You're not one of those anorexic freaks, are you?" I
joked. Inwardly I was adding, "As well as being
hyperactive, over-sexed and drug-crazed!"
The question, however, was asked less from real concern
than for something to say when the conversation lagged -
Yim did not have much to say for herself. It was a
pleasant surprise; youngsters today seem to be besotted
with the sound of their voices and the shit that comes
out of their mouths is deliberately designed to irritate.
Personally, I could not have cared less whether she was
anorexic or diarrheic, hyperactive or over-sexed and
drug-crazed. In fact, I was beginning to like this kid
exactly the way she was. And that really worried me!
"I'm not hungry," she said. Then quite out of the blue
that odd gleam appeared in her eye. "Not for food,
anyway!" She stared again, like a vampire. And then she
clamped up and seemed to be sulking. "I hate eating!"
I had to think of some other way to reward her.
In the afternoon all hell was let loose. One of the
trailers caught fire. There was young boy inside; he was
only about a year old, and ought never to have been left
alone. I had to smash the door to splinters to get
inside. I brought the kid out with the bedding of his cot
already smouldering. Yim turned a water hose on to the
screaming baby and stripped off the clothing.
By the time the fire department appeared on the scene,
the mobile home was a total write-off, and the young
child's mother a blubbering slither of potential suicide.
We got both of them transported to the local emergency
hospital. I collected the names of some witnesses and
retreated to my own trailer to write out a report for the
insurance people and my employers.
Yim lay spread-eagled on a bunk for a while. She picked
up one of my trade journals, glanced hastily through it,
then tossed it aside unceremoniously, and selected
another. She went through a pile of them in ten minutes.
"Jeeeeeesussss!"
I spun round to stare at her. She was looking at the
centrefold in a girlie magazine recently rescued from one
of the vacant trailers.
"Would you look at the zonkers on that!" She turned the
photograph in my direction. "Tits like that are
freakish!"
Funnily enough, I agreed, although I scarcely afforded
the picture a glance. More interestingly, Yim's legs were
still splayed, but she had bent her knees and dug her
feet into the bunk so that her ankles were almost at her
butt. The floppy shorts were gaping wide, and there was
no way I could have avoided noticing it: she was not
wearing panties and the full pound of flesh was in open
view, plump, ripe pussy labia slightly parted and
swollen, pink and moist, and inviting.
For the first time in my life I viewed a preteen girl as
a potential sex object. The full implication smashed into
my gut. Genuinely, I felt sick! This little sex piece was
a private and personal invitation to spend a few years in
jail; I had to get shot of her as soon as possible.
There was a sharp triple thump on the door. It brought me
back to earth with a bump. I looked out at two grim-faced
patrol policemen. My stomach looped the loop and crash-
dived.
"Get rid of that trash," I ordered with a tone of voice
that begged no question. "And sit up. And look sweet.
It's the cops!"
They demanded my account of the fire. I offered a copy of
the report I was making. One officer studied the sheets
of paper; the other seemed more interested in Yim.
"This your daughter?" The man had been around long enough
to know that I was bachelor and had no family. There was
calculated sarcasm in the words. He had the kind of
supercilious sneer the moral majority assume when they
think they have stumbled across some deviation from the
strait and normal missionary-position, blessed-by-the-
church, marital sex. Especially when it involves a female
child and an adult male.
"This is Yim Callahan." I tried to sound casual. "She's
been helping me in her school holidays. She was with me
at the fire this afternoon. She helped rescue the baby
from the trailer. I needed her evidence for the insurance
company."
The sneer evaporated. "So! You're the one who doused the
kid in water?" Respect replaced the sneer. His eyes did
not roam over her as they would have done were she
prettier. In fact, he seem to be embarrassed now by her
plainness. "You saved that little boy's life. He had
third degree burns, but the doctors say that he was
hyperventilating and would have died if he hadn't been
cooled down when he was." He chucked her chin playfully.
Yim, however, was not in the least amused. She scowled at
the police officer. "You deserve a medal," he said. He
laughed. "We'll have to see about getting you fixed up
with something!"
I was a bit disgruntled at the remarks. "The kid would
not be hyperventilating if I had left him in the
trailer," I was thinking to myself. "He would have been
an over-cooked cinder!" I kept my opinions to myself; I
learned a long time ago, as a street kid, not to argue
with cops.
"I hate these pigs!" declared the young girl when the two
officers had finally left the trailer with little more
than a promise of a copy of the fire report.
I concurred completely, but I grunted, "Don't say things
like that! At least not aloud! No matter how strongly you
may feel about them!" I watched the patrol car drive away
from the office space.
I swung round in my chair and chucked her under the chin
in imitation of what the policeman had done. And even as
I did it, I realised that I was a bundle of confused
emotions. I wanted to push her back onto the bunk and
grope up under the leg of her shorts. I wanted to do a
hundred and one other, illegal things to her. The shock
to the system was shattering. I was sweating. I had never
felt like this about anyone before, never mind a ten year
old girl. I swung away. I pulled $20 from my desk.
"You've worked hard today, Yim," I said with as much
lightness as I could muster. "Here's your wages." I threw
the two ten dollar bills on to her lap. "You deserve
every cent. You've been a great help." The close confines
of the trailer were getting to me. The walls were closing
in on me and the smell of her small body was
overpowering.
She sat there on the bunk with the money in her lap. She
made no attempt to pocket it - if she had any pockets in
her grotesque shorts. Very slowly, she raised her eyes to
mine and said, "I didn't do it for the money." Her eyes
had taken on that far-away glaze.
"I know you didn't sweetheart," I replied. I swallowed. I
glanced at the clock on the desk. "Won't your folks be
getting worried about you?"
She shook her head and, rising, she demanded in a voice
that was not to be ignored, "Can I sit on your leg?"
Two things registered. One: the door was still lying half
open since the cops' visit. Two: I recalled the mess on
my thigh after her humping the day before. I did not want
the mess on my pants.
"You'd better lock the door," I said. I thought I had
better get my priorities right.
She complied, then dropped her shorts. She waited until I
had removed my trousers before mounting me again. She
cuddled into me and lay her head on my chest. She sighed
deep contentment.
"Mr. Mellis," she murmured.
"Uh-huh?" I could feel the contraction running through
her body already. I could also feel her hand groping for
my crutch.
"I love you, Mr. Mellis."
I had to say it. The kid was expecting it and it could
have damaged her self-esteem and psyche if I remained
silent. "I love you too, Yim!" I felt for her tiny
breasts. To my surprise I found them. To my even greater
surprise, I found that I was getting a great deal of
gratification from fondling golf-ball-sized swellings.
Then she let loose. I'll swear it with my dying breath:
that kid had a multiple orgasm that day. She was astride
my thigh for the best part of an hour and I doubt if
anyone could have made fuller use of the time. And even
when I was wiping her with a towel when I thought it was
all over, she seemed prepared for yet another state of
the arts climax.
"Can I come again tomorrow, Mr. Mellis?"
I was on the point of answering, "I would not be
surprised if you could come at the drop of a hat!" I
studied her serious face and deadly intent eyes and found
it impossible to say anything but, "Of course you can,
Yim!"
She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. It was
full-mouth, lips and tongue stuff. This time I responded
in kind. I fondled her tiny tits again, then her crotch
and was not surprised when my finger slipped its full
length into her without obstruction. When she finally
pulled away, she hauled on her shorts and made for the
door.
"Could you wear a skirt?"
She smiled. "Anything to please," she said. "Seven
thirty."
"And knickers!"
She laughed happily. It was infectious. I laughed,
I watched from the window as she ran in the direction of
the Callahan trailer. I wondered how long I would have
before I was serving time for technical rape of a minor.
For it was almost certain that I would soon be
insinuating my sexual needs upon her with something more
than a finger. I had little idea that evening that one
day I would be marrying the little sex kitten, that she
would give me two quite staggeringly handsome sons, and
that thirty years on, she is still capable of shooting a
daily multiple - only she no longer needs my thigh.
She is still hyperactive when it comes to work, and she
still uses the odd joint. But who the hell cares? I can
honestly say that I have never needed to cast lascivious
glances at another female. And I seriously believe that I
satisfy her sufficiently to keep her from other men.
And to this day she still calls me 'Mister Mellis'.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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