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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: oddone.txt (MMg, ped)
Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)
Story title : Odd One Out
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Odd One Out (MMg, ped)
by Alasder (alasder@planet-save.com)
***
A young girl growing up in a large All-American family
makes the best use of her situation.
***
This all happened a long time ago - long before the
famous White House blowjob.
I was the odd-one-out in our large family. It had
always been the same for as far back as I could
remember, whether it was sleeping arrangements, or
scrounging second servings at the frequent barbecue
garden parties, holiday accommodation in Europe or
taking part in the allegedly 'organized' games my
parents 'organized' for the kids in the immediate
neighborhood.
With the best will in the world there is a limit to the
number who can sit around an average family dinner
table at any one time, and as the youngest of the brood
and as a baby, I sat, at first in a high chair then on
a stool, away from the general assembly of eaters.
This continued until I was a teenager: the rest (or
most) of the family sat around the table while I often
ate from a tray on my knees. We had a porch annex stuck
on to our dining room where there was once a huge bow
window. When we had guests, which was at least three or
four times each month, generally at weekends.
I was relegated to this annex with the next youngest
brothers and sisters. The alternative was to eat in
relays, and that in or neck of the woods was considered
socially unacceptable.
There were thirteen in the family, including my
parents, two grandmothers and a grandfather who
actually owned the property, and great grandma. I was
last to arrive on the scene, born on June thirteenth,
when there were already twelve in the house - including
my two brothers and four sisters; 'Unlucky Thirteenth'
they dubbed me. Even after great grandma died! When I
was thirteen!
Until I left the house altogether and set up on my own,
there was a constant stream of visitors, and in all the
arrangements to feed, sleep and entertain them, I was
the odd-one-out. Always! No one gave me more than a
passing thought, and a second thought about my comfort
or convenience would have been unthinkable. It was as
nearly true as it is possible to get: I was as nearly
totally inconsequential as it is possible to get in a
human being and a member of a family!
I was eight when it finally penetrated my slow-motion
brain that there could be decided advantages in my
peculiar situation, for I passed unnoticed most of the
time, and could get away with petty crimes in the order
of plundering the biscuit barrel or driving the latest
acquisition in automobiles around the ranch, which the
others, at best, could only have dreamed of achieving,
and at worst would have received a hiding.
There were days on end when I was too busy doing what
eight year old girls considered important to turn up
for meals or for bath and bedtime, and no-one seemed to
notice. I actually slept over at old Zek's place, in
old Zek's bed, with old Zek cuddling my nakedness close
to his, for two nights without anyone missing me.
It was also when I was eight that I first found myself,
as the odd one out in the family, sharing a bed with a
distinguished guest, a politician who was most
definitely presidential material. I was already in bed
when he joined me in my room.
I was sitting up looking at, if not exactly reading
True Romance trash. The great man stripped, had a
shower, and got into bed naked beside me. All males are
pretty much of a muchness to an eight-year-old girl,
and I had no standard for comparison or scale of
quality. He was younger than Zek and ever so slightly
better hung, and older than either of my big brothers
but not so hunky. He was, I have to admit, fairly
handsome in a slick sort of way.
"What's this you're reading?" He snatched the paper
from my grasp, hardly glanced at it before throwing it
aside, and declared, "You don't want to look at that
rubbish at your age." He patted down the bed sheets as
he sat up beside me. "What you want is a good old
fashioned bedtime story. Like Little Red Riding Hood."
When I made a face indicating disgust and contempt, he
said, "Don't knock it, kid, until you've heard it!" He
looked around at an imaginary audience. "Don't knock
it, kid," he repeated with emphasis, "until you've
heard it from the mouth of a master!"
The man was a natural storyteller, born or tailor-made
for politics. I must have had the Little Red Riding
Hood story rubbed into me like embrocating nearly a
hundred times, hammered into me at school, screamed at
me from comic books and frisbeed at me from the
television screen, and I thought I knew every possible
variation. But this was a wow! It made me breathless
with suspense; it was the first time that I had
actually lived inside a story as the plot unfolded. It
was a bewildering sensation.
"That was the most wonderful thing I have ever heard."
I had to say it, and coming from an eight year old,
that is a real compliment.
"You reckon it is worth a kiss?"
I nodded. "YES! But tell me another story!"
"Not tonight, kiddo!" He nestled down into the sheets.
"You have school tomorrow. Maybe, if you are really
good, and kiss really well tonight, tomorrow night I'll
tell you the true story of the Sleeping Beauty." He
pulled me over to him. "Now, for that kiss, and it had
better be good, or tomorrow I'll be sleeping with one
of your sisters!"
"Not if I can help it," I thought. Old Zek had shown me
how to French kiss. I was a fast learner and put my
knowledge to good use. I fell asleep in the arms of the
great man. The last thing I was conscious of was of my
nightgown being hanked up to my waist and a huge cock
being wedged between my thighs close to my pussy.
I thought nothing about it: grandpa and especially my
big brothers did the same thing whenever I found that I
had to share a bed with them. And old Zek did something
like it every time I went over to his place.
Crystallised semen on my skirts, my night attire or
beneath me on the sheet was not worth mentioning even
in the passing; it was simply something that happened
when I had a male bed companion. Only old Zek ever
bothered to clean me up after he had shot off.
When the great man returned late the following night,
again I was already bedded. I was reading a Wonder
Woman comic which was instantly removed as soon as he
climbed into bed. I did not mind in the least. There
was little preamble other than a brief kiss on the
cheek. He rubbed my chest inside my pj's.
"Once upon a time in the land we call Germany today,
there lived a rich merchant..."
I reckoned that the kiss on the previous night had been
up to standard.
"When I say rich, I don't mean that he had a few
million dollars in the bank. I mean R-I-C-H, with
serious money and the kind of real estate you need to
amputate an arm and a leg just to view."
I was carried away on a flashing, piebald mare, to
amazing adventures in dazzling places with beautiful
maidens and grotesque monsters and the most handsome
princes who put our film and television stars in the
shade. Blood poured in bucketsful as heads and limbs
were chopped off, princesses were bewitched by hideous
hags and seduced by wolves in scarlet tights, monarchs
were usurped, and stable boys were revealed as the true
heirs to the greatest kingdoms.
It was well past midnight when we finally returned to
earth. There was a long, lingering, wet tonguing kiss.
No words were spoken after that final 'Goodnight!"
Fingers played with my backside and my pussy. I was
aware of the moisture generated in my secret places.
And again as I passed into sleep, I felt my nightdress
hauled up, and a huge, hard piece of male meat getting
lodged between my thighs, and of his throbbing beat
against my middle.
Before the great man left on Friday morning as I set
off for the local junior grade school, he fastened a
heart-shaped pendant around my neck. It had my initial
engraved on the front and his photograph inside. Right
there, in front of the family, he kissed me and said we
would have another story next time he came to visit. He
even ordered his female chauffeur to drive me to the
school gates. As I said, there were definite advantages
in being odd-one-out.
It was three months before I saw the great man again, a
few days before my ninth birthday. It was a flying
visit; he could not even stay the night and he could
not be there for my birthday party, but he left a
bundle of presents including the sexiest panties the
weirdest mind could have dreamed up, an absolutely
transparent shortie nightgown with intertwined hearts
embroidered on it and a book of 'Illustrated Realistic
Fairy Tales' that still had the $70 sticker on the dust
cover.
The party itself was a bore - all kids, stupid games, a
conjurer-ventriloquist-clown who was zapped out of his
mind with whiskey and who insisted on kissing all the
little girls and groping under their skirts when there
were no adults around, and presents I wouldn't even
piss on to give my worst enemy.
The big treat of the evening was supposed to be that we
all sat at the enormous dinner table and devoured
genuine 100% all-American beef burgers, hot dogs and
giant ice cream sundaes served up in buckets. Big deal!
I couldn't wait to get away to show old Zek my new
knickers! I knew I wouldn't be wearing them for long
after he got his eyeful!
I had been jacking off old Zek since I was six or
seven. My big brothers showed me how to do it properly
and gave me a dollar each time I did it to them. I had
a couple of hundred dollars in the school banking
scheme by the time I was eight. I jacked off Old Zek
for free because he was the one person in the entire
world who did not regard me as an odd-one-out, but as
an equal human being and because I was sure I was in
love with him.
When I pulled up my party dress, Old Zek was rocking
himself to slumber in the early evening sunshine on the
back porch of his log cabin. He scratched an ear for
several minutes as he examined the gossamer garment
through narrowed eyes with me standing with the skirt
of my dress up around my neck. He puffed up his cheeks
before letting his breath out with a long, lingering
hissing sound. He looked right and left, rose from the
rocker, slung me over his shoulder and carried me
inside. I screamed laughter.
Once inside, old Zek held me above him at arms' length,
close against the ceiling of his cabin, then lowered me
down slowly until my crotch was close to his face. He
planted a wet, slobbering kiss on the center band of
the knickers until it was sopping wet from both outside
and in.
"Your place or mine?" Zek brought me farther down till
I was face to face, nose to nose, with him. We both
howled our amusement.
"Mine first, then I'll suck yours!" I snickered and
wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed his lips.
He swung me around, holding me by my hips. It may be a
log cabin, but Zek's place is as big as any stone or
brick-built house for miles around, especially the vast
living room. When he pulled the knickers away from my
legs he made to lay me on the wide studio couch, I
protested. "Upstairs," I demanded. "On the bed!" I
pouted silly amusement. "I want it done properly!"
Another year and a bit passed before I got to see the
future president again. I woke one morning, and there
he was in bed beside me. He threw back the bedclothes,
studied my naked torso and murmured, "Some day!"
He let his hand trace zigzag patterns down my body from
around the nipples on my chest over my belly button to
the groove of my cunt. "Yeah! Some day, kiddo!" His
finger explored back and forth along the slit from the
tiny bud that would be a clitoris to my anus. "Some
day, kiddo, I am going to slip seven inches of solid
meat in there."
The tip of a finger slipped inside and moved from side
to side. "And I don't want it to be a painful
experience for either of us." A million little electric
shocks were speeding through my entire body. "So get
rid that little cherry before I do the full works on
you." He prodded deeper until he could feel the
membrane of my maidenhead. "Will you do that for me?"
I nodded and he kissed me full on the open mouth. He
got out of bed, dressed, left a couple of twenty dollar
bills on my dressing table, and had departed the house
before I appeared for breakfast.
My mother, not renowned for her sense of humor, joked:
"Who is that guy who keeps passing through here?"
"That guy," I assured her gravely, "is the future
president of the United States of America!"
"The thing that beats me," declared my sister, looking
me up and down with contempt, "is why he insists on
sleeping with you." She snickered. "When he has me to
sleep with!"
"Maybe he prefers safe sex!" I said it, but I don't
know where it came from. "With someone who is not a
blabbermouth!" My mother and sister gazed at me
curiously.
It was, in fact, another couple of years and a bit
before I got presidential company in bed again. And
this time it was for real - the presidential bit; well,
very nearly! He won the presidential nomination and had
started his campaign. Everyone said he was odds-on
favorite to win the election.
The stress was telling, however; I could see it in his
face where there were lines and furrows that had not
been there before. The bedtime stories were every bit
as brilliant as they had been; not only that, but they
were also upgraded to take account of the fact that
that I was no longer a simple-minded eight year old,
but a highly sophisticated twelve rapidly approaching
thirteen.
He felt me up as soon as he climbed into bed. "You
haven't lost it, then!" He wiped his fingers on the
bedclothes.
I snickered. "No! I was saving it for you!"
"Don't want it," he replied, just a little too stiffly.
He regretted the abruptness almost as soon as it was
uttered. "What's your mom going to think with blood on
the sheets? I prefer a smooth ride!"
The story was his own version of a tale from the
Arabian Nights. He filled me in on the background:
where the stories came from originally, why they were
told, by and to whom, and how they came to be
translated from the Arabic by Richard Burton and
others. I knew all about Ali Baba already from my
schoolwork, and Aladdin, and Sinbad and magic carpets
and flying horses.
It transpired that the 'all' I knew was 'damn all!' (to
quote old Zek). A new world was opening up for me with
dramatic urgency; there was no need to take notes for
school - I could never forget the graphic details and
descriptions. I swear, if this guy had been my teacher
I would have straight A's all through school.
I was still floating on cushions of clouds when the
final veil was drawn across the narrative. The great
man kissed me passionately on the lips while stripping
me of my pj's.
"Reckon it was worth a blow?" he demanded when he
finally disengaged our lips. "Since a full fuck is out
of the question."
I nodded. My head was forced down on to his seven
inches of hard meat. I took it in my mouth. I had
sucked old Zek almost weekly for the past year and,
while I had not exactly acquired a taste for hot semen,
I never had any trouble disposing of it. And the great
man's moans and groans of appreciation indicated
improvement with frequent usage. I also provided a
couple of hand jobs during the night as my contribution
to the presidential campaign.
In the morning, as he was dressing, he thanked me
profusely, then pointed in the general direction of my
crotch and grunted, "I'll be back at the end of the
week. Lose it, kiddo! I'll be needing it!"
I told Zek. "The great man wants to fuck me at the
weekend. But he thinks it too messy a business to pop
my cherry - too much blood. I have to lose it between
now and Friday night. What are we going to do about
it?"
Old Zek was rocking backwards and forwards on his
veranda. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Classical
music filtered from the open window of his cabin, music
I had heard several times, but couldn't quite place.
"Dvorak," he said distantly, as if reading my mind, but
had his thoughts centered on other business. "Scherzo
Capriccioso." He let wicked eyed drift up and down my
body. "It means 'a lively free-for-all' no holds
barred." He sniggered like a little boy caught with his
pants down. "I'm willing to give it a go, if you are.
How much time have we?"
I snickered. "All day," I replied. "And all night if
you want to. Nobody will miss me!"
He lurched from the rocking chair, laid pirate hands on
me and carried me inside. I screeched the usual
laughter. Upstairs!
"Rare or well done?" he demanded.
"Take your time," I said. "But make it good!"
Old Zek didn't strip me - well not right away! He laid
me across the bed and brushed my skirt back. I was
wearing the shortest briefs available at that time,
white cotton with lace trimmings that only just covered
the triangle of my pubis. He rubbed the crotch and I
felt myself getting really wet. He slipped a finger
under the fabric and ran it up and down the tender and
well-lubricated groove. It felt great, a million times
better than the no-fucking-about groping and plunging
of the president-elect. Old Zek was an expert.
By the time he was unbuttoning my shirt I was flying
with the fairies and quivering with sheer desperate
lust. His touches were super-dynamic and his kisses
were electrifying. By the time he finally introduced
his rock hard cock to my welcoming and extremely wet
cunt, I was somewhere floating around in another
dimension on another planet and hardly noticed the
breaking of my hymen; it was little more than a mere
brushing aside of a piece of gossamer.
He fucked solidly for about twenty minutes or so; I
orgasmed twice before I felt his liquid fire spurt into
me and hammer against the walls of my uterus. His
coming was every bit as satisfying to me as my own. I
could not think that anything could be more sublime. I
had my arms and my legs wrapped around him. I wanted it
never to end! It didn't - for most of that day anyhow!
It was near midnight when I crawled back home.
I was shocked at how little blood there had been; I
expected at least the jug full of the old wives' tales.
There was only a tiny splotch on Zek's bed and a slight
stain on the tissue he used to wipe me. The stories
about the tremendous ripping and wrenching pain
experienced by kids losing their most treasured
possession were exposed as silly fictions. I hardly
felt any discomfort. But having said that, it has to be
remembered that I was in the hands of an expert who was
the perfect gentleman in everything he did. It was
purely coincidental now that I was ready for the great
man.
When he arrived, late Friday night, he looked drained
and exhausted, and I doubted if he had a fuck in him.
He also had aged a good five years in the past week. He
sat, fully clothed, on the edge of my bed in silence
for a long time.
"I've had a fucking terrible week," he said to break
the silence. "It's been the worst fucking week of my
life." He held his head in his hand for another
eternity and a half. When he looked round at me, I was
shocked, rocked to my foundation concrete, for there
were tears in his eyes. "I don't think I want to be
president of the United States of America!" And the
tears darted, like tiny rodents, down his cheeks.
I sat up. "Of course you do," I said. It was the
maternal instinct in me. I was wearing pajamas. I
unbuttoned my top and pulled his down to me breast.
"And apart from anything else, we need a president like
you." I have no earthly idea where the assertion came
from. I knew nothing about politics and could not have
cared less about who was president. He sucked at my tit
for a good five minutes. "America need you!" I said,
and felt good saying it, but I also felt like a little
hypocrite. "And I need you!"
The outcome of my little flick of patriotism is that I
was fucked, well and truly fucked. He fucked as if it
were to be made illegal on the morrow. He never in his
life got rid of clothing faster, never got into bed any
quicker, and never was a cunt penetrated with fewer
preliminaries. He shot off into me almost instantly.
Slid away for a breather then thrust back into me,
fucked a little longer, fired a full salvo again, and
withdrew.
It is no exaggeration to say that it went on like that
nearly all night. The first light of dawn filtered
through my Chinese-patterned curtains as the last of
his hot semen spurted into my womb. He kissed me
passionately and slept for two hours. And all the time
I could feel the wet slimy substance seeping back out
of me; it was as if my body was prepared to take it
briefly for the sake of the Union, but did not want any
of it.
It was a rejuvenated presidential candidate who went
down to breakfast without me. He drank a pint of coffee
and ate a couple of mother's syrup croissants. He
laughed and whistled. "If ever I become president of
this goddamn United States of America," he declared as
if in a public address, "blame it on that kid
upstairs!"
Mom told me what he said after he had left in his long
black limousine. I didn't tell her that he had left an
envelope addressed to me on my bedside table. In it was
five hundred dollars and a scribbled 'thank you' note
that would have made a cool million dollars at any
auction for blackmailers.
Six weeks later I was told by the family doctor that I
was pregnant. Everyone assumed that the President-elect
was the father - he was even prepared to admit
paternity to the family and to pay for the upkeep of
the child. He had always been a close friend of my
parents, and there was no way they were going to cast a
wrench in the proverbial power works or milk the cow
dry, so to speak.
Our family were not exactly beggars and would never
have to wonder where their next meal was coming from or
how they were going to pay for the latest winter
fashions from Paris or their holiday in Hawaii. They
would make all the arrangements, they had promised him,
and keep the media at arms' length.
In return, dad gained a plum of a job in the new
administration, as did my two brothers and a sister. I
had a comfortable six-figure bank balance, and after
the birth, I had a regular weekly income of several
hundred dollars, as well as a guaranteed place in an
even more expensive private school. As I said, there
were definite advantages in being the odd-one-out.
But I knew that the baby growing inside me had been
planted there by old Zek. I knew also that the poor
little bastard would be an odd one out just like his
mother! And I knew he would make the best of it too!
So? What about that famous Oval Room blow job now?
END
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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 26