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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: modern.txt (FFM, rom)
Authors name: Ximenes (ximenesgreek@yahoo.co.uk)
Story title : Modern Times
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. Please
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Modern Times
by Ximenes (ximenesgreek@yahoo.co.uk)
****
Well, things have certainly changed round here in
Chesil. When I think back to 2003, I can't believe how
we let ourselves be so put-upon back then. We had
drunks and druggies making the town dangerous at
weekends; we had litter and graffiti all over the
place; we had young girls getting themselves pregnant,
and then demanding council flats, in order to get away
from their parents. But that was before People Power.
(FFM, rom)
****
If you don't like the way the world is going, it
sometimes helps to explore your nightmares in writing.
Here's one of my nightmares, worked through. It's
cathartic to write it down. This scenario couldn't
really happen - could it?
I've also tried to write in such a way that my own
gender as narrator could be either male or female. Do
you think it's convincing in either gender?
Constructive feedback welcomed!
Apologies to American readers - like all my stuff it's
very much set in rural England where I live. Some words
and terms may be unfamiliar.
Well, things have certainly changed round here in
Chesil. When I think back to 2003, I can't believe how
we let ourselves be so put-upon back then. We had
drunks and druggies making the town dangerous at
weekends; we had litter and graffiti all over the
place; we had young girls getting themselves pregnant,
and then demanding council flats, in order to get away
from their parents.
But that was before People Power. Back in 2003 I was a
newly appointed Social Worker. I couldn't move for this
pressure group and that legal restraint - you had the
feeling that everything was lining up on the side of
the social inadequates who made the town unsafe to live
in. The bearded, sandal-wearing, muesli-eating
Guardianista liberals were in full cry, and the rights
of repeat offenders were put above those of the People
as a whole.
Not any more. When Bush, God Bless Him, got in for his
third term and Tony Blair was no more than a distant
nightmare, there was an impetus on both sides of the
Atlantic to sort things out so that we could all live
safely. Here in Chesil, England, we started up a "Town
Watch" organisation. We weren't police and didn't have
their powers; we were a sort of "Guardian Angels"
outfit.
We patrolled the streets at night to begin with, armed
with staves. But we found we had to be more assertive
if we were going to have any effect. Each time we
intervened - removing drink from kids; searching known
druggies for stuff - we'd have the lawyers onto us like
a ton of bricks. But each time we found that popular
support in the town was so overwhelming that nobody
would convict us.
Whatever the law said, we were doing what people
wanted. And the outcry in our favour grew so large that
even the politicians in London couldn't ignore us. And
it grew from there. We'd go into pubs and check ages of
drinkers. We'd put a 10.30 curfew on the under 16s and
take them home if they broke it.
This sort of thing was happening spontaneously across
all England, and in the U S too. If we'd just been a
local aberration in Chesil we'd have been smashed flat
by the system. But the politicians had to respond to
what the public demanded, and we were in the vanguard
of reform. Wow, try that for a power buzz!
Nowadays "Liberal" is as obsolete as "Communist".
People Power rules, and each local community sets its
own by-laws and enforces them. The police are
answerable to us first, and the difference between the
Police and the Town Watch has become blurred as so many
of the local police want to join us.
My role in this new reality? I've landed a plumb job
because of my Social Services background. In Chesil we
run a ten bed hostel for wayward girls, aged anywhere
between about 8 and 18. They include runaways, and
girls who have come up before the magistrates for
drunkenness, rowdyism, drugs, truancy, sex offences.
The hostel is always full.
My job is to ensure these girls are reformed before
they are allowed back into society. Their parents have
no say in the matter - they were officially designated
as "failed parents" by the courts, and have lost most
rights over their children.
Let me give you a couple of examples; show you how well
the system works!
TASHA
Tasha is just sixteen. She is a big, very strong girl
with a vicious temper. (We used to dignify it with the
title "anger management problem", but that led her to
think it was a medical condition and therefore that she
wasn't responsible for her actions. Now, she knows she
is just a bad tempered girl and is punished if she
causes offence).
Tasha used to get into fights in school and at weekends
in town. The Town Watch logged her outbursts, and
eventually she beat up another girl so badly she was
taken to Court. The magistrates decided that she was a
risk to others, and that her parents had failed to
bring her up acceptably - they were "failed parents".
Tasha was sent to the Chesil hostel, indefinitely, for
correction.
Tasha's sentence is open-ended - she won't be released
until we - I - feel she is reformed. She has to
maintain a three month period with no vicious outbursts
(the idea being that within a three month period she
would be bound to be provoked several times, and must
show that she doesn't respond with violence).
Tasha has found this very hard. For the first few weeks
there were violent outbursts several times a day. Food
was thrown all round the place, furniture smashed,
staff and other clients attacked. (In these cases we
used isolation in darkness to show society's
disapproval, and after a fortnight Tasha began to
modify her behaviour. Few need that long in isolation).
The psychologist worked with her, and she had intensive
coaching in her schoolwork (Tasha is a low achiever,
and under another condition of her sentence she can't
be released until she has reached minimum educational
levels in English, Maths, Science and ICT). She'll
never reach the national average level in any of these,
but she's reached a stage where she's functionally
literate and numerate. That's good enough for the
Chesil beaks.
Tasha is going to be ready for release soon. That's
where the best perk of my job comes in. The one to
compensate for all the abuse and violence at the start
of the process. Because with our older girls, those
above sixteen, we operate a sort of mini "finishing
school" at the hostel. The girl moves into a small
flat, separate from the main hostel but within its
grounds. Under my supervision she does all her own
cooking, laundry, and cleans the flat. This teaches her
self-sufficiency. Trips out with me to the supermarket
and the Job Centre or F E College follow, as we get
Tasha re-oriented to the outside world.
If all goes well she gets a telly and video player in
the flat, and the use of a phone. (She doesn't know we
intercept and check every call she makes, but you can't
be too careful these days). She is entitled to day-
visits to her parents, but in Tasha's case decides not
to use them. Contact with her parents has dropped away
since she went into the hostel (unfortunately this is
only too often the case).
I take Tasha to the hairdresser, and then we go clothes
shopping. This never fails to ignite the clients -
buying nice clothes means they can at last feel their
release is imminent. At mid-day we eat at a smart
restaurant, and I teach Tasha the protocols of eating
out. We celebrate with a couple of drinks - matching
wines with the food etc. Nothing to excess, you
understand.
As we drive home Tasha is on cloud nine. She feels
grown up, ready to go back into the world. She feels a
million miles away from the desperate, antisocial
little thug who came to us at fourteen. And she is
different - she has grown up.
Now we are in the flat, and it's late at night. Tasha
can ask me to leave, and if she wants me to, then I
shall. Or she can ask me to stay and spend the night
with her. If she does, then my brief is to teach her
how to make love, tenderly and gently. Don't be
surprised by this.
Loving and tender relationships haven't exactly
featured large in Tasha life, certainly not in the past
few years. She needs to be shown how to relate to
people with love and trust. Because the regime at the
hostel is absolutely consistent, she has learnt to
trust it, and (by extension) to trust us as the people
who make it work. I won't do anything to her unless she
is willing to try it.
On that particular night Tasha asked me to leave. She
was genuinely tired, and a bit overwhelmed by being out
in the world, which must have seemed much busier and
more bustling then she remembered. But now it's a
couple of nights later, and she has invited me round to
the flat for a meal, and perhaps more.
She has dressed in her new clothes, and looks radiant.
Proud, grown up, confident. I can't believe it's the
same foul-mouthed guttersnipe we took in and nearly
despaired of.
She is wearing her hair up in a chignon; her make up is
a bit on the enthusiastic side but the colours are
right. Her dress - the little black number all women
should have - is strapless, and shows off her broad
shoulders and wide chest to perfection. The swell of
her breasts is enticing, and she shows just enough
cleavage to indicate what treasure lies below the
simple black fabric. The dress comes down to just above
her knees, and her calves are shapely. Her little black
shoes are discreet, with just enough heel to give a
sense of occasion without being tarty. But it's her
smile which is the biggest change. This girl knows she
looks good; she knows the power she has with her body,
and she is enjoying showing it off to me. So I respond
with a kiss on her cheek and complement her.
But a peck on the cheek isn't enough for Tasha tonight;
she pulls me towards her and I get a full-on kiss on
the lips. A generous, open hearted kiss which is
hinting of more to come later in the evening.
We aren't alone in the flat. She has invited one of the
other older girls and one of my co-workers as well. The
two girls have cooked most of the day, and are starving
hungry with the sight and smell of so much food!
We sit and eat and make conversation and I marvel at
how effective the hostel seems to be at transforming
these wayward children. The meal is indifferent, as it
would be with most sixteen year olds cooking it. The
wine isn't chilled enough; some food is overdone and
some could have done with a bit longer. Some has gone
cold; some looks a bit tired, but it's the thought that
matters and there's no doubt these two girls have
pulled out all the stops to make us feel welcome and
entertain us. So we praise them and compliment them and
acknowledge all their effort.
Eventually the other girl and my co-worker leave; the
girl isn't quite ready for the flat yet and her turn
will come when Tasha has left the hostel and has
settled into the real world. Tasha and I are left with
our glasses of port, on the sofa together, with our
shoes kicked off and my jacket on a chairback. We're
warm, fed, cosy, at ease with each other.
There's nothing much on telly - we use it as background
noise. I put my arm round Tasha's shoulder and she
snuggles up to me, the front of her dress tenting out
and showing a truly daring cleavage. She sees that I
have noticed this, and blushes. I kiss her and tell her
not to worry, that she looks wonderful. Somehow the
kiss lingers, on and on, with pauses for breath. And
soon we are tonguing each other in earnest and I am
aroused and she is willing and we're deep into lust.
"Shall we... Would you like to..." I'm unnerved by her
intense stare into my eyes.
"S'pose so," she replies.
That's too non-committal for me to be sure.
"Tasha, we don't have to; I'll leave if..."
The look of disappointment that flashes across her face
answers my question for me.
"Come on, then"
I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the
bedroom. She shrieks and struggles, but in play, not in
anger. I put her gently down on her bed but as I move
back to straighten up she flicks her arms round my neck
and pulls me back down to her mouth. The kiss lasts for
ever, and after that we both know there's no going
back.
Tasha has no finesse. Her idea of foreplay is to drop
her top, pull her tits out and wave them under my face
and say "come and get them".
So I have to teach her to tease as she undresses. The
gradual exposure of more and more enticing flesh as
each strap or zip or hook is undone. The huge sexiness
of her treasures almost revealed but not quite. The
time when you know in your mind's eye what she will
look like naked, but you can't wait for her to finish
the tease and confirm your expectations.
I help Tasha slide her dress off (mustn't damage it;
it's the only party frock she'll have for a long time).
The tiny underwired bra follows (it didn't cover up
much when it was fully on; now it's like a little strap
over her nipples). Tasha stands in front of me naked
from the waist up. Her breasts are very white. Not as
high or as firm as I like, but they'll do. The veins
are prominent, and there are several small birthmarks
which give each breast a geography all of its own.
Perfectly normal, warm, living breasts, just waiting to
be held, loved, explored. There are also a couple of
scars and a fading bruise, legacies from the past
months at the hostel.
But Tasha is nervous, like any girl when she first
bares herself to a lover. She's terrified of rejection.
It's a dangerous moment, and I know it. Fear of
rejection could easily rekindle her temper. Everything
could go wrong in a split second. So I pull her to me
and kiss each breast, above, at the sides, below. I
home in on the nipple, kissing, pulling with my lips,
sucking. I tell Tasha she's gorgeous, and she relaxes
into me. I suddenly feel overdressed and shed clothes
onto the floor. Then we're skin to skin and she
reciprocates on me.
We flick off the light, throw off our remaining clothes
and tumble onto and into the bed. Tasha is all over me
and I can't get enough of her. She is desperate for
close contact and needs cuddling. She's desperate for
sex and to prove to herself that she can still do it.
She isn't a virgin, but she hasn't had sex for nearly
two years and it shows.
In the darkness under the duvet I climb on board her
and go down to explore her vagina. But she's too wound
up; she won't take anything slowly and she grinds and
mashes her pubes into my face, writhing and crying out
until she comes hard and wetly. The scent of musk is
overpowering.
I lock her legs open with mine, and pleasure her
soaking sex with my fingers. Probing, rolling, stroking
her clit with my thumb, I bring her back to the boil
again, and she cries out as she thrashes in the bed.
The duvet is on the floor but we don't need it to cover
us up now. We're both totally open to each other. She
wraps her legs around me and pulls me tightly into her
so that our pubes meet hair to hair.
We kiss frantically and I knead her breasts and twirl
the stiff nipples between my fingers until she comes a
third time. She lifts her hips off the bed and thrusts
herself into me as deeply as she can. She wants me to
squeeze her breasts until they hurt, but I won't, and
she wants to bite me but I won't let her, because I
need her to experience love without violence.
After she has come a third time, calling out nameless
words as her body stiffens and finally relaxes, she
calms, and we lie side by side, facing each other,
panting, smiling.
We pull the duvet back around us and she snuggles into
my arms like a small child. She is spent for now, and
we must sleep. In the morning we'll shower so that
we're spotlessly clean. Then I'll teach her to go down
on me and teach her how to use lips and teeth and
tongue to pleasure me again and again.
Over the next few days we'll sleep together every
night, and I'll make love to her from all the positions
I can think of, and use every orifice.
Then, and only then, I'll consider Tasha ready for
release. The flat she'll move into is one of ours, a
sort of half-way house she'll occupy for a few months
until we need it for the next client.
There are hidden cameras in some rooms, and if she uses
the place as a drugs den or knocking shop we'll know,
and she'll be taken into the adult prison system. (And,
believe you me, that is somewhere which nobody should
ever set foot in). She wants to be a hairdresser and we
have a trusted salon where she can start her
apprenticeship.
But I think Tasha's a survivor. If she follows the
usual pattern she'll pay us a visit one day, probably
with partner on her arm and his bulge in her belly, but
a steady job and at least a chance in life ahead of
her. You see, People Power has rescued Tasha from a
spiralling circle of violence, incarceration,
hopelessness. Back in 2003 she'd have sunk; now she's
afloat and in full sail.
CHERYL
Cheryl is the girl who helped Tasha cook the dinner.
She's fifteen; will be sixteen in a couple of months.
She came to us as a mousy, quiet, withdrawn little
thing who spent her days trying to make herself
invisible to others, especially to the male staff.
We're trained to spot the signs. To us, she might as
well have worn a big placard saying "abused child"
round her neck. 'Cos Cheryl has had a wretched three
years before she came to us. Her parents divorced and
she went to live with Mum and Mum's new boyfriend. But
when she was about twelve and started developing, step
dad took too keen an interest in tucking her in at
night.
Cheryl didn't know what to do and didn't want to mess
things up between her Mum and step dad so she let
things continue. But, of course, things progressed
until Cheryl realised that her step dad getting into
bed with her to "read her a story", and hiking her
nightie up to her armpits while he read it, was about
to move on to things she didn't feel ready for. So she
told Mum.
Mum didn't know how to cope; didn't want to lose her
partner, and blamed Cheryl for leading her step dad on.
Cheryl was confused, frightened, rejected. Knew she was
innocent of any provocation but felt to blame for the
frostiness in her parent's relationship. Cheryl got
packed off to her natural father and his new partner,
but neither of them wanted her, and their new baby was
getting all the attention. Whatever Cheryl did was
wrong. Nobody wanted her.
She sliced her wrists one evening, got taken to
hospital, seen by psychologists, social workers,
police. Didn't get the love and attention and
reassurance she so desperately needed. Got packed off
to an uncle, who felt her up on the car ride to his
house and had taught her how to do blow jobs within a
week. So she ran away. To Chesil, which she remembered
as one of the last places where the old family had been
really happy while on holiday.
But it was Chesil in December. The tourists had gone;
the town was grey, cold, wet, depressing. Cheryl knew
no-one, had nowhere to stay, and only the few pounds
she'd stolen from home before leaving.
Town Watch found her sleeping in a doorway; she'd sold
her virginity to a man coming out of a pub, and for the
price of a fish and chip supper and hot drink. The
following morning she was committed to the hostel until
she reached sixteen, reached minimum educational
standards, and had a permanent job to go to. It's a sad
story and one too often told.
Cheryl is a tiny girl with an elfin face under short,
blonde hair. She is slightly built, with her curves
only now beginning to fill out. She is wiry and tough,
though, and can take on girls much bigger than she is.
I've never discovered what led Cheryl and Tasha to
become friends, but they did. Anyone giving grief to
Cheryl soon discovered they had Tasha to answer to, and
Cheryl's world inside the hostel became safe and calm.
Relations with our staff were another matter
altogether. I can remember watching her cringe whenever
a female colleague came within arm's length of her, and
I wondered how many times her mother and step mother
had hit her. With men she just blanked out; I wondered
if she was waiting to feel the groping hand on breast
or down below, the suggestive comment or the put down
on her boyish, undeveloped body.
It took months to get to a stage where she trusted
people. We restricted the staff dealing with her to the
minimum. We reacted kindly to whatever she did - Cheryl
had her own set of rules within the hostel (which I
must say cause ructions with several of the other girls
who thought she was getting more favourable treatment
than themselves). But slowly it began to work.
She started to smile. Her school work came on in leaps
and bounds - I now think she's one of the brightest
youngsters we've ever had in the hostel. She'd been
held back by the constant tension and nightmare of
wondering what was going to happen to her when she got
home that evening. And no child can do their best in
school under those conditions.
She's a brilliant artist; she designs our Christmas
cards. She did the arty stuff for our website. In the
last few weeks she's been working on a commission from
Chesil Town Council to design the programme for our
Royal Oak Day celebrations (for you Americans, Royal
Oak day is when we celebrate cutting all ties with the
European Community back a while in 2008). When she
leaves the hostel I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get
her an apprenticeship in a graphic design and computer
art workshop in the town.
She's got a wicked sense of humour, too. She can mimic
people's mannerisms and accents. It's helped her out of
tricky situations in the past - humour deflects rage -
but has also got her into scrapes with those she's
lampooned.
Cheryl's going to have no problems with work when she
leaves the hostel. She can look after herself and can
relate well to people her own age, and (most of the
time) to adult women. She can't quite handle
confrontation yet with adult women, but she's getting
there.
No, it's relationships with men which will always be
difficult for her. On a day-to-day basis she copes
well. It's when she wants to get intimate that her
demons will come back to haunt her. It's not her fault;
it's the fault of the men who have abused her in the
past, and it's ironic that Cheryl is under a legal
restraint and they go Scot free. She's not even sure
whether she's lesbian and isn't attracted by men, or
whether she's hetero but can't trust men.
So how do we get her to build up intimate relations?
Slowly, with many setbacks.
Cheryl knows I have slept with Tasha, and that the sex
has been good for both of us. I've encouraged Tasha to
talk about good sex to Cheryl, and I know she has
because Cheryl has started talking to me. We've talked
about essential but non threatening things -
contraception, sexually transmitted diseases. She
started by sitting opposite me, like teacher and pupil.
Now she'll sit next to me on a sofa; we talk while the
telly blathers on and on.
Cheryl asks me what "proper" sex is like. We've been
watching a programme about sexual health on the box,
and it's raised all sorts of questions she wants
answered. She's leant up against me on the sofa, and
without thinking, I put my arm round her as I start to
answer. I've done it before I realise what I'm doing.
She tenses, but doesn't move away. My arm is around her
shoulder. I ask her if she's happy with my arm round
her. She nods.
I talk about love, and sex as wanting to give yourself
to your partner rather than take something from your
partner. I talk about foreplay, and we get deep into
conversation about erogenous zones and the importance
of touching and cuddling and skin to skin contact.
She's listening intently. She wants to ask me exactly
what I do to Tasha and what it feels like for me, but
she can't find the words to ask and I'm not sure I want
to tell her - there are some things she'll eventually
want to find out for herself.
The conversation falters. I break the spell by saying
"come on, Cheryl, it's time for bed". She gets to her
feet and as I go to leave the room she gives me a peck
on the cheek - the tiniest little kiss but oh what a
breakthrough is in that kiss. I pull her to me and give
her the briefest kiss back, on her cheek, and give her
a hug. I break the hold immediately, and go. But a bond
has been made in that kiss and we never, ever, revert
back to the days of hate and suspicion and distrust
after that night.
Every few days, after the little ones have gone
(complaining, cursing, foul-mouthing) off to bed,
Cheryl comes and sits with me. It's always the same
routine. Telly on, packet of biscuits, mugs of drinking
chocolate, her little body curled up against mine,
while we talk. About holidays, favourite food, people
in the news, things she's learnt or done. She confides
her secret fears in me. She masturbates - will it harm
her? She doesn't have any contact with boys - will they
think she's a freak or monster when she leaves the
hostel? Will someone like her and fall in love with
her? And how does one know when it's real love?
Like all teenagers she's paranoid about her body. Is
she too small to be attractive? Too thin? Too fat? Are
her breasts too small to attract a boy? One's quite a
lot bigger than the other - will boys reject her for
that?
It's all very normal and innocent. My arm is round her
shoulders, or waist. If I move my arm away, to put a
cup down or adjust the TV remote, she moves herself to
let me put it back again. She's not just tolerating my
arm, she's enjoying it. And every evening ends with a
little kiss, a joke. We even have a cushion fight on
the sofa if I make fun of some character in a soap who
she fancies.
And then Tasha goes and Cheryl feels unsettled. She's
lost her best mate in the hostel. She's begging us to
let her go into the flat; we're not all sure she's that
ready for release yet. It's not just me she's at ease
with; she's relating normally to pretty well all my
colleagues now, but we have our doubts about whether
she'll be able to cope with strangers once she's
outside.
So Cheryl takes the initiative. Not, I think, in a
coldly calculating way, but she certainly makes the
pace. She's changed her dress style, from being very
covered up to wearing little halter tops with woolly
jumpers which she discards in the evenings. Suddenly
there's a lot of bare skin around, and we all comment
on how her shape is coming on nicely. She's petite,
cute, and intelligent.
One night I notice she's dispensed with bra somewhen
during the day, and snuggled into me on the sofa she's
suddenly visible right down to her nipples. I know that
she is aware that I have seen them. I make some silly
comment like "better be careful, Cheryl, or you'll
inflame my bestial passions".
She laughs and says something like "well it's about
time I got somebody inflamed or nothing's ever going to
happen for me". I make a reply about her still being a
few weeks short of sixteen and she'll get me into
trouble. She snorts. "Who's going to complain about
you?" she says. And she takes my hand, from the arm
around her waist, and puts it up underneath her halter
so my hand is resting on her breast.
I'm so surprised, I'm not sure what to do. The rules
say I'm not allowed sexual contact with any girl under
sixteen. But to pull away would be to reject a girl
who's trying to show that she's re-learned how to
trust. She'd be devastated. So I leave my hand where it
is and begin to caress the soft flesh. So small, it
fits comfortably into the palm of my hand, yet firm,
and the nipple is rock hard.
I can hear her breathing change as she becomes excited,
and I realise I'm getting more aroused than I've been
for a long time. Cheryl wants me to demonstrate the
foreplay and arousal games I've told her about. I set
to work, and I see her hand go to her legs under her
skirt and pleasure herself while I work on her breasts.
She comes quickly, closing her eyes and leaning all her
weight against me.
After, she kisses me mouth to mouth, and I can sense
there's a real, adult sexual need in this young girl.
Let's move on a month or so. We move Cheryl into the
flat. In a couple of days it's tidier than it's ever
been, and her bedroom has been repainted in shades of
lavender and pink. I go over to see her on the third
evening. She's fretful that I haven't been earlier and
doesn't want to hear my excuses. It dawns on me that
she thinks I've rejected her. I reassure her. Soon it's
back to old times and we're on the sofa again. The only
light is from a very dim table lamp in a corner.
There's a creepy, crummy show on telly about vampires
and she thinks it's more atmospheric to have the lights
low. Again, I note that she's bra-less and has a
buttoned top over her jeans. She's leaning back into
me; my hand is on her stomach, on her bare midriff.
Every minute or so I note another button on her blouse
has come undone. Aha! I think, I know your game,
Cheryl.
I wait and see what'll happen. Eventually all the
buttons are open, and light from the TV gleams against
the white skin of her chest and breasts. She looks at
me, enquiringly, longingly. I know I've lost control. I
move my hand up to explore the exposed treasures as she
lifts her head to kiss me again and again.
She puts her hand on my thigh and turns into me, and as
I change position to hold her she moves her hand up my
thigh, between my thighs, and explores my groin. She
pulls at the zip of my jeans and undoes it enough to
get her hand in. And while I'm still enjoying her
delicious breasts she is inside my knickers, probing,
making love to me.
I ease my clothes down and off, and gently do the same
with hers. Cheryl is now wearing only the blouse,
unbuttoned and hanging at her side. She wrenches my top
clothes off so forcefully I hear something rip, and
then she's on top of me on the sofa. She's between my
legs, bending over forwards and playing with me and her
breasts are firm cones descending from her chest in
front of me.
We roam all over each other's bodies and at last get to
know their geography by touch. She's as unlike Tasha as
possible. Cheryl is petite, compact, fine boned. She's
in perfect physical shape and amazingly flexible -
something I left behind years and years ago, round
about the second Gulf War in '03.
The film ends on T V and we go to bed. Again, Cheryl's
very different from Tasha in bed. Not the fiery
passion, the mate or die of her friend. Cheryl wants to
"do it right" and it almost becomes a practical sex
lesson. But it's clear she's remembered all the things
we've discussed during the evenings. She's generous
with her body and wants to pleasure me as much as I
want her. We make love again and again during the
night. She comes easily and quietly. My lips and tongue
on her clit will bring her off in seconds; penetration
takes longer but the orgasm lasts longer.
By morning I'm wrecked, soaked in perspiration, and my
tongue feels swollen. I stagger to the shower, dress in
last night's clothes and hurry off to get changed
before I log on for the day. Later, I monitor Cheryl's
phone tape. The first call she makes is to tell Tasha
that she's had me and that it was great. She's giving
Tash a blow-by-blow account until Tash cuts her short.
I can tell Tasha's jealous and a chill shivers through
me as I wonder if the older girl's going to lose her
temper. But it passes, and Tash recognises the
excitement in Cheryl's voice as she goes on to describe
the changes she's made to the flat and how she's
enjoying the perks of semi-independence. Good old
Tasha, she says all the right things. Cheryl's on cloud
nine.
In the afternoon I have a tricky interview with my
Inspector. I tell her what's happened between Cheryl
and myself and can expect to be suspended and
disciplined. But she accepts my reasons, because Cheryl
is only a few weeks off sixteen, and gives me a green
light to carry on if the situation recurs.
And it does. Over the next couple of months I sleep
with Cheryl, in the flat, two or three times a week.
She's loving and affectionate; she wants to explore all
about lovemaking. We do it two or three times a night.
But it's always her call, and I let her take the lead
in what we do. She's still reluctant to go down on me,
and I'm not sure whether that's a legacy from past
experience or simply that she doesn't particularly
enjoy it. But with a bit of persuading she'll go down,
and she does it well.
It never fails to bring me off big time, and she revels
in having the power to keep me hanging on the edge of
orgasm until she decides to make me come. That's never
been allowed her in the past. I love her body. I've
never been with someone so petite, and it's sort of
shocking to have a lover who feels almost child sized,
but has an adult woman's body. It feels wicked,
somehow, and that makes it all the sexier.
Time moves on again. We start Cheryl on a couple of
days a week working at a graphic designer workshop in
Chesil. She's on three month's trial. She goes down a
storm and is taken on full time, indefinitely. Then she
goes out with one of their younger girls and they
become close friends. She still wants me to come round
some evenings. We chat; she asks my opinion of things
they've done and things Jan's said to her. She thinks
she's more attracted to women than men, and asks me if
I think she's lesbian, and is it OK if she is?
I tell her I think she's probably bi-, but after her
previous experiences with men it might not be a bad
thing for her to have a sexual relationship with
another woman while she adjusts to life outside the
hostel. She doesn't sleep with me so often and I can
tell she's trying to make up her mind whether to move
in with this girl (we know her parents; her father's in
the Town Watch and the girl's sound).
I'm invited overnight for what turns out to be the
final time before she leaves us (we've sorted out
accommodation; Tasha is still in the usual flat but we
don't think Cheryl is at risk of drugs and we know the
girl so we agree to take a chance on her moving in with
Jan). Cheryl makes love to me but I know that in her
mind she's making love to her.
She's very definite about how she wants to be loved. I
have to start with her little breasts and work on them
for ages until she's soaking with arousal. Then she has
me go down on her; my tongue brings her off in seconds,
after which we start a long, slow fucking. When she
comes again she always wants to be held tight and
reassured. I hope Jan, her new friend, is sensitive and
gentle to her. She's become a wonderful young woman and
could make her very happy.
On the day she leaves us, receiving her release papers
and some money to set her up, she's just like Tasha was
- crackling with excitement and the anticipation of
going away on a big adventure.
---------
You see, you've sometimes got to be tough to be kind,
but it does work most of the time. The whining liberals
of 2003 would foam at the mouth if they could see some
of the things I do with these girls, but our success
rate legitimises us. Funnily enough, you'd think that
half of Chesil would be queuing up to do my job, but
they're not. They'd enjoy the perks, but they don't
want the responsibility. Well, as the saying goes, it's
a tough job but someone's got to do it. I wouldn't give
it up for anything.
END
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It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
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Kristen's collection - Directory 26