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Archive name: yim.txt (Mg, ped, rom, asian)
Authors name: Xiania Xanadoupolos (alasder@planet-save.com)
Story title : Yim
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Yim
by Xiania Xanadoupolos (alasder@planet-save.com)
***
An unusual, but deeply intense love affair between a
young girl and a thirty-something veteran in the
immediate post-Vietnam era. (Mg, ped, rom, asian)
***
PART ONE: Yim
I looked over my newspaper. It was nothing less than a
vaguely darkening 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 when
you sense that someone is staring at the back of your
head. It had the same creepiness as waking in the
winter darkness and knowing that it had snowed in the
night. It is one of those inexplicable mysteries of
life. It was the kind of sixth sense you cultivated
very rapidly in the jungles of Vietnam - if you didn't
acquire it, you didn't live to tell anyone!
"Hi, Mr. Mellis!"
The ten-year-old girl stood no more than five yards
away staring at me. Her legs were quite widely splayed
and she seemed unsteady on her feet, almost in a parody
of a drunken man 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 Barbie 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, sensual 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 an open
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 two
month'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 before the girl was born. On this particular
year they were driving two top-of-the-market 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 feature
of the landscape, a couple of years before. She seemed
always 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 even farther
up before settling down. I could feel the suction from
the groove of her vulva as it made contact, through her
sheer 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. Fifteen 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 orgasm 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 climax 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 fifteen 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 really weird 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!"
The shop was one of the perks that went with the job in
the trailer park. I had enough to do as a rule, so I
leased the shop to a local charity - the Presbyterian
Church Hospital - for which they paid me a token $10 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, after the event of the
previous afternoon 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 belly or backside to make
physical 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 years. 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 you're not it! 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 rather than inform. Personally, I could not
have cared less whether she was anorexic or diarrhoeic,
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 for
the sake of 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 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 spread, 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. The
venom in the voice was frightening.
However, 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 the small
female 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 laid 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 at all
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, teeth 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'.
PART TWO: Yim Yam
The voice came from a million light years away. "Mr.
Mellis!" There was an urgency that seemed totally
irrelevant. All I wanted was to slip deeper into black
oblivion. The universe was swaying gently side to side
like an old-fashioned cradle in an unavoidable
invitation to sleep. "Mr. Mellis!" The voice was
persistent; it battled against a deafening chorus of
dark angels banging drums and howling wolves. "Mr.
Mellis! We gotta get outa here!" The entire universe
was rocking back and forward obscenely.
It took an eternity and a half, but I finally managed
to force an eyelid open. Then the other. I gazed on the
sweetest, most beautiful face that could have been
created by a Raphael or Leonardo. Very slowly,
painfully as if the use of the eyes was being ripped
from my face, I began to focus.
"Yim?" The first impression was one of overwhelming
disappointment; Yim Callahan never was an oil painting!
Now don't get me wrong; Yim is the only person in the
entire world that I would risk my life for - after all,
I had already decided that she was the one person who
was going to share my life. The feelings that followed,
however, were that I had been beaten by a horde of
berserk karate enthusiasts in a bar brawl, thrown to
Everglade alligators and spewed out then spread as
manure on a Vietnamese coolie's paddy.
"Yim?" I demanded again, half-hoping that I was wrong
and that the vision of beauty would reappear. The sound
coming from the back my head was most definitely not my
voice; I had become a ventriloquist's dummy, and had an
irresistible urge to twist round to see who was
speaking on my behalf. The pain of the movement tore me
apart.
I passed out. There was a vague recollection of my body
being dragged through swelling seas. I can only half
remember scrambling, half crawling, being half carried
along on the incoming tide, my body battered by a
thousand blackjacks, each hell-bent on my destruction.
Then blessed blackness again, but this time with the
sensations of numbness and drunken insensitivity
rapidly wearing away; I was conscious of an
excruciating burning in the region of my neck, legs and
lower abdomen. After another seeming eternity I asked,
"What the hell happened?"
"You almost went and got yourself killed," replied a
tearful Yim. "That's what happened!" She hiccuped back
the sobs. "I told you not to go out there. Jeeesus!" I
knew then that she was mad; Yim, to this day, only
swears when she loses her cool!
"In the middle of a tornado! You must be nuts! You
could have got yourself killed!" The floodgate of tears
burst. "Then what would I have done? Christ! I love
you, Mr. Mellis! And I want to live with you for ever!"
And remembrance came flooding back. "The hurricane!" I
must have spoken my thought. Or perhaps it was Yim in
her tirade. "Yes, the fucking hurricane!" And I knew
then for an indisputable fact that she was really,
really mad! And not just mental!
There had been several days warning, long enough for
most of the trailer people to evacuate the site. Those
who had nowhere else to go sought refuge in the more
solid buildings in and around the park. I had secured
all the vans that were the property of the company who
owned the trailer compound. On the last day considered
safe for outside work, I had secured most of the
trailers in the home bays starting with the farthest,
working on the logic that the nearer I was to home when
the storm actually broke the easier it would be to
retreat to the comparative safety of the office or the
site store.
I had miscalculated badly! The double berth van nearest
the store where we had taken refuge, was bouncing like
a single piece of popcorn in an overheated pan. And it
was bouncing in our direction and threatening to crash
into out safe haven. I had to do something!
It was Yim who suggested the store rather than the
slightly more solid office because, as she said, there
we had provisions and there was a cellar and there was
no way of knowing how long the storm would last. And
every tornado or hurricane brought out the looters -
and just let them try looting our store!
The Callahans had gone off on some business trip to
South America, Brazil, I think it was, and had left Yim
in my care. It was in the second week of their absence
that the hurricane warning came through. I thanked
providence for the kid, for there is no way I could
have coped alone; she did as much I did to make the
trailer compound as safe as it could be under the
circumstances.
There was never any messing around as far as Yim was
concerned - she was in the habit of getting straight to
the point. After she rescued me and had me safely
inside, she ripped my shirt and pants from me and
started a salvaging job on my broken gut and lower
limbs. She swabbed blood and padded me with towels and
wrapped bandages around the wounds. She improvised a
set of splints for my thigh and poured straight scotch
down my throat as she set the bone straight.
I passed out several times. She got us bedded down on a
palette on the floor for the duration of the storm; she
stripped. I had enough consciousness left to appreciate
what great legs she had: long, shapely, tapering and
slender - I vowed I would marry her simply to get
between those legs. She snuggled into me. The smell of
sex emanating from Yim was always strong, but at that
particular moment it was overpowering. She could not
make use of my thigh that night; she humped my hand
instead. And jacked me off.
I shall be eternally grateful for all she did that day!
Keep your cover girls and glamorous pussies or hide
them away in a folder out of sight of the wife and
kids; I decided I was better off with what I had. Even
though I was still convinced that I would be doing ten
to fifteen in the state penitentiary for statutory rape
of a minor.
Yim Callahan had continued to work for me all through
that first long summer vacation from school. Hand on
heart, I can say: I have never at any time had a more
reliable helper. No pussying around; if there was a
problem anywhere on the trailer compound, she could
discuss it sensibly, objectively and practically, from
which we could do something positive about it, anything
from fixing the water pressure in the public toilet
facilities to evicting a troublesome tenant.
Then, on Monday of the first week of September of that
first year she announced, "I become a yam tomorrow."
Her voice was solemn. The tone of voice would not have
been out of place in a Salem courthouse with a judge
passing sentence on a convicted witch.
I stared at her. "A yam? Like a vegetable yam? You turn
into a vegetable! Tomorrow!" I was sitting on a crate
of Californian apples during a respite in the early
morning 'busy' in the site store. I nodded. She
shrugged. I demanded, "And how the hell do you propose
doing that?" I liked the kid, I really liked her, but
the closer I had gotten to her had never in any way
rubbed the surface off the thought that she was less
than two degrees off an isosceles triangle whose
corners didn't quite meet. I wiped imaginary sweat from
my face.
"I go into the senior school this year - tomorrow," she
explained gravely. "They call the new girls yams
there." She set to work cleaning out the dirt carried
in on the footwear of the customers and rearranging the
goods on the shelves. "I won't be able to help here
after today." She paused in her labors. "Well, not till
next summer anyway!"
There was an tenseness in her face that troubled me for
some reason. Did she want a severance payment? No
problem - she deserved it every cent I had given her. I
snickered quietly at the libidinous thoughts fleeing
through my head, and she punted a sour look in my
direction; it was as if she were able to read my dirty
mind. Then shock! There were tears in her eyes.
"I really like working with you Mr. Mellis," she
declared in defiance of the tears. "I really do like
you Mr. Mellis!"
"I like you too, Yim." I found to my horror that I
really and truly meant what I was saying. "I was really
glad to have your help. And your company!"
"Mr. Mellis," she gasped. The tears were cascading down
her cheeks. "I liked all the things we did! The sex
things!" She was trembling. "Mr. Mellis, I really love
you!"
"I love you too, Yim." I have to admit that, while I
meant most of it, I had to have reservations. I mean to
say, she was only about to become eleven years old. Her
body, apart from her great legs, betrayed her age, but
her face was a lot older. I swallowed. I had to say it.
"I really love you too, Yim!" And quite without warning
the feeling crept up on me - I wanted to tear off the
ridiculous clothes she was wearing, throw her across
the counter and fuck the daylight shit out of her.
When the church people finally turned up, just in the
nick of time, Yim and I beat a hasty retreat to my
trailer. We stripped. She mounted my thigh and jerked
me. I held her tight and very close. After jacking off,
we lay naked together on my bunk and fell asleep. And I
knew for a fact that I would die rather than not have
this kid as my wife. There was nothing sloppy or
romantic about it; it was the same feeling that I had
when I knew I was going to be drafted and sent to
Vietnam - it was just one of those unavoidable things.
We each shot off a couple of times and that drew the
summer activities to a close.
After she became yam, I didn't see Yim again until the
following July. Her parents collected her from the Mary
Vane at Christmas and took her to Brazil, then
collected her again at Easter and took her to Mexico. I
had a wriggling feeling in my gut that they suspected
that all was not entirely above board, polite chit-chat
between their daughter and me. I worried a bit about
it, even though I knew for a fact that Yim was not a
blabbermouth.
It was something of a relief when they made their
appearance in the trailer compound early in June and
booked in, slightly later than they did normally. Yim
turned up at the store on the first day of the long
school vacation. She looked more than a year older, no
prettier about the face, but she definitely had
developed boobs and she had great legs! All her other
failings faded into insignificance when I beheld those
legs under the shortest skirt I could have imagined.
"Hi Mr. Mellis!"
"Last day?"
"Uh-huh! Yesterday! I got a stupid book prize again."
She looked around the place with a hypercritical eye.
"I swapped it for a set of Roller records." She took
hold of a broom and started cleaning out. "I had read
it before anyhow; several times!" She sounded hurt, as
if it were the unforgivable sin to give anyone a book
that had already been read. She paused in her burst of
activity to stare at me. "Did you miss me?"
"I certainly did, Yim!"
"Honestly? Truly turkey?"
"Cross my heart, Yim! And hope to live to a great old
age!" I settled my gaze on her legs, and realized I had
a stiff that would have split her in two were I to
force it into her. "And I have not looked at another
female! Honest! True!" It happened to be true too! I
had had several offers and must admit I had been sorely
tempted, but somehow the image of Yim intervened. It
was the weirdest thing and it scared the hell out of
me. Even as I gazed my fill at her and felt a surge of
satisfaction and contentment sweep over me, the feeling
that the kid was no way normal did not diminish.
We worked hard all that first day, and we worked well
together. The store was exceptionally busy and the
church volunteers were later than usual. There were
several emergency call-outs including a shooting that
would bring the cops around the place again. It was
late at night when I got her to myself for half an
hour. We went at it like hungry beasts; she on my thigh
and I with her hand. I drove her round to the Callahan
trailer, sneaked a wet kiss and had an exploratory feel
at her apparatus with a promise of more on the morrow.
She snickered and ran towards the van.
It was near the end of the summer that the hurricane
broke. It lasted the best part of three days. The
paramedics, when they finally arrived, and the surgeons
at the Presbyterian Church Hospital, expressed
admiration at Yim's handiwork. I had regained some of
my sense of humor, and chuckled in agreement: it would
have been difficult indeed to fault her hand work. She
had quite a mouth on her too, and I intended to put a
blow job high on my list of priorities as soon as I was
released from hospital.
I was hospitalized for ten days. The company that owned
the trailer park sent me a 'thank you' note and a fat
bonus, since the insurance claims were way far below
what they had expected. They had also arranged for a
retired janitor to 'fill in' during my absence.
"An ignorant, lazy bastard," was Yim's unbiased
assessment of the man when she visited me in hospital.
"And he tried to feel me up..." I felt flattered. Yim
may be slightly mad, but she is no-one's fool! I
thought about suggesting that she let me feel her up
any time I wanted, but decided that silence was the
wiser half of valor. "I punched his face and told him
I'd report him to the cops if ever he tried that trick
again!" She brought me fruit and flowers. When she saw
me eyeing stock from the store she protested
vehemently, "I paid for the stuff with my own money!"
"I never doubted for a moment you would, Yim," I
answered. "But you shouldn't have bothered. I'll be out
of here in a couple of days."
She leaned over and kissed me with full moist lips.
"You take as long as you like, Mr. Mellis," she said
quietly. "I'll take good care of the properties for
you. I promise!" She reconsidered. "Until September
anyway!"
I was in plaster for the remainder of the year. Out of
respect for my age and my predicament, Yim refrained
from mounting my thigh. The night before she was due to
restart at the Mary Vane we exchanged hand-jobs and wet
kisses. I decided to renege on the blow job - I would
wait till next summer! She looked in briefly on me
during the Christmas break while her parents waited in
another brand new automobile outside on their way to
Florida for the winter. She left me a couple of video
nasties, then pointed at my leg.
"Will that be mended by summer?" she demanded.
I was deadly serious. "I think by next summer we'll
have progressed beyond that point." I kissed her
seriously and played with her breast. "You're getting
to be a big girl now," I said when we pulled apart.
"And getting to be quite an eyeful!"
She nodded. He held my eyes in her gaze. "Promise? No
slipping out of it?"
"I promise, Yim. If you really want it, I'll supply
it!"
"I'll want it, Mr. Mellis!" she exclaimed. "Oh, yes,
I'll definitely want it!"
And she was gone. Roll on summer!
PART THREE: I'm Yim
I'm Yim Callahan. You may have heard of me.
We were sitting together in the brick built office of
the Dixon Park trailer complex. It was something I
really loved doing - just Mr. Mellis and me. "Have you
got a boyfriend yet, Yim?" Mr. Mellis asked. He was
half-heartedly checking some unpaid accounts. Mr.
Mellis really hated asking people for money. If they
were more than a couple of weeks late in paying the
ground rental, he would rather tell them to move out.
"Of course I have," I replied. I tossed aside the trade
journal I was browsing. I find it extremely difficult
to hide my feeling. I could actually feel the scowl
clouding my face and the frown creasing my forehead.
"He is sitting across from me now." He laughed. Mr.
Mellis has the oddest-sounding laugh you could possibly
imagine. When he starts to laugh at a joke, in no time
at all, everyone around joins in the laughter whether
they understand the joke or not. But I was not amused.
He looked up. He noticed - actually he is very fast on
the up-take. "Why?" I demanded. "Are you showing me the
exit?" I stood up.
"Of course not, Yim," said Mr. Mellis. He looked
embarrassed. "You should know me better than ask a
thing like that."
"Well? Why ask a thing like that?"
He leaned across pulled at my shirt to bring my face
down real close to his, and he kissed me as only Mr.
Mellis can kiss. "Because, I guess I have to resign
myself to losing you to some other guy some day." He
fell back into place. He sensed the outrage I felt. He
waved a hand in the air. "Yim," he said quietly, "let's
face it: I am no spring chicken..."
"Christ! You're thirty four! So? You've been in
Vietnam! So?"
He seemed surprised at my knowing how old he was. He
was also always most unhappy about any reference to
Vietnam for some reason. He flapped his mouth several
times before he actually spoke. "And you're fourteen!"
He made it sound like an accusation. "There's a gap of
twenty years!"
"And so?"
"And so you're going to look around and see other guys
who are a bit younger and better looking and have more
to offer. You have a life to live, Yim!" He threw the
account book aside.
I said, "I have looked around. I look around every day.
I also look in the mirror! I don't kid myself. I am not
Miss Arkansas and certainly no Miss America..."
"There is nothing you see in the mirror to be ashamed
of." He said it as if he really meant it. "All right,
you are not a beauty queen! But you have great legs.
And who the hell would want to live with a beauty queen
anyhow?"
"... and so far I haven't seen anything I like better
than you. But when I do, I promise you: you'll be the
first to know!" I could imagine myself stamping a foot
to the floor as someone did in Little Women - that was
the indignation I was feeling. Instead I was aware of
tears of frustration gathering in my eyes. "I don't
think there will be anyone else for me. I'm stuck with
you. That's the way I want it. Christ! I love you, Mr.
Mellis!"
For the record: I have lived with Mr. Mellis for twenty
five years now. I have given him two tremendous sons -
maybe more about them later! In that time I have loused
up only once - with the guy who organized the self-
defense classes for women in the Dixon Park Community
Center, and again, for the record, he was nothing half
as good as Mr. Mellis third time round on an off-day;
consequently when he offered a second time, I declined.
I am pretty sure Mr. Mellis has not gone off the
straight and narrow, not only because he has told me so
(and I don't know of any occasion when he has lied to
me), but because I have seen him interact with other
females and, beyond a mild flirting and back-chat, he
has shown no inclination to lay any of them. And apart
from anything else, Mr. Mellis is a great guy and I
would rip the eyes from any cow who tried to take
advantage of him. And Mr. Mellis knows it!
Mr. Mellis is great sex. I can still blast off even
during his foreplay; it is truly magic. But I did have
a sex life before Mr. Mellis. First let me tell you
about something that happened when I was fourteen
shortly after the foregoing conversation.
Mr. Mellis had a regular poker school going. Originally
it was in his trailer, then in the house built for him
by the company that owned the trailer park. As a matter
of fact, it was at a kind of belated house-warming
poker party that it happened. Well, two things
happened. There was lots of beer and hard alcohol like
scotch, vodka, Mexican rum.
Half way through the night, which was getting
progressively more drunken and disorderly, one of the
guys was trying to roll a smoke like a chimpanzee
scratching his ass. The weed was going everywhere. I
had been doing this sort of thing since I was eight. I
took the stuff from him and produced a perfect joint in
less than five seconds. I even lit it for him. It was
something I did automatically.
But suddenly I was aware that all the men at the card
table were staring at me in a most peculiar way. At
that time fourteen year old kids weren't supposed to do
that sort of thing. Apart from anything else, it was
illegal and had we been caught smoking dope it could
have jeopardized Mr. Mellis's job.
The silence was getting to be embarrassing until one of
the card players said, "Well, don't be a hog! Pass it
round!" The guy with the smoke did so, and all the men
had a pull - all except Mr. Mellis. He sat with an
expression of impending doom on his face. I could see
that he was not pleased. Nor could I miss the look of
disapproval thrown in my direction.
I knew I was in for a bawling as soon as the men left
and was mentally preparing for it when the second thing
happened that threw the proverbial spanner in the
clockwork, that also stood like a screen between me and
the bawling I deserved, and strangely enough almost
certainly cemented our future married like.
The house was built, following a tornado, as a safe
retreat, for off-duty recreation, watching television
or playing cards, and as sleeping quarters. The kitchen
was a sort of add-on annexed afterthought between the
house and the site office. Mr. Mellis had asked me to
make some fresh coffee - black and strong - some of the
guys were really getting high on drink and smokes.
One of the men, a bouncer at the casino in Dixon Park
and built like a semi-human version of King Kong,
followed me. He closed the door from the annex to the
house. I cleaned out the coffee pot and filled it with
fresh water and had just switched on the power when
this guy came up behind and put his arms around me and
squeezed my tits as if his life depended on it.
I humored him and pushed him away. I made to walk in
the direction of the door. He hauled me back, lifted me
with less effort than he lifted his can of beer, and
threw me across a table. He had a hand over my mouth
and another up my skirt. He peeled off my panties and
splayed my legs. It was obvious that he had done this
sort of thing before.
"Make one sound other than a grunt of appreciation," he
growled at me while undoing his flies and pulling out
his cock, "and I will break your fucking little neck."
He brought his face very close to mine. "Do you fucking
understand?"
I nodded. He slipped two fingers full length into me
and worked them in and out a couple of times then
introduced the head of his cock. In my life it was the
biggest thing I ever had to take. It hurt. It hurt like
hell. He removed the hand from my mouth to uncover my
chest and I screamed. And if there is one thing I can
do really well, it is screaming!
It was like the fake cinematography in one of those
sci-fi or Billy Wilder spoof western films. It seemed
that the scream was only half-way out of my mouth when
Mr. Mellis was pulling the rapist away even as he was
thrusting his cock fully into me.
He threw a karate chop at the guy's neck and a straight
jab at his chest, then kicked him in the groin in an
attack so synchronized and perfectly coordinated that
Bruce Lee would have blushed with envy. The look of
complete bewilderment on the victim's face was worth
being sexually assaulted for. Before he actually hit
the floor he had a broken rib and a smashed ankle.
Blood poured from his nose and his mouth and spurted
everywhere and only the whites of his eyes were
showing.
"Jeee-ssssussss!" Six astonished male faces stared down
at the crumpled mess on the floor.
Mr. Mellis turned his attention to me. "Are you all
right, Yim?" he asked quietly, picking up my panties
from the floor. When I assured him, he turned angrily
on the others. "Get this fucking piece of shit outa my
house. And if ever I see him anywhere on the site
again, I'll eat his fucking liver. Now, git! All of
you!"
That was one of the great formative moments in my life.
I knew for a fact, an incontrovertible fact, that there
would never be anyone ever to replace Mr. Mellis in my
life. As he hugged me close, I knew that he knew it
too.
Now, back to what I was telling you about: I was
smoking pot from about the age of eight, and I was
getting screwed fairly regularly from shortly after my
ninth birthday for more than a year until that first
ever summer I worked with Mr. Mellis. After that
whenever anyone tried to touch me I tore at him like a
wild cat; I paid for all my smokes after that with hard
cash. I was raped once more, more seriously, after I
met Mr. Mellis, and we shall come to that in due
course.
I started smoking when I found a joint ready rolled in
the glove compartment of my dad's Type E Jaguar - both
my parents drove only top-of-the-range foreign cars. I
was playing cops and robbers all by myself, chasing
bank robbers through the streets of Los Angeles or New
York. There was also a gun in the glove compartment; I
toyed with it briefly, shooting guys in the balls, but
it was the smoke that really intrigued me. I took it to
a place like a maze quite near the trailer complex in
Dixon Park.
It made me dizzy and slightly sick when I lit it and
pulled on it like I saw guys doing on television. But I
liked the sensation. And after that first smoke I was
hooked. I also spent all day in that corner of the Park
in a kind of trance. I was about to start school again
in a few days. I knew that some of the older girls
smoked, and started to figure out how I could get into
the act.
The Mary Vane is two separate schools: the elementary
and the senior with a sprawling sports complex between
them. The sports facilities are shared by a third
(senior boys') school called The Gilbert Stedman. The
janitor at the Mary Vane elementary also helped keep
our share of the sports complex in good order. He was
an extrovert, Father Christmas sort of guy who was part
of the real world for us; he would talk seriously about
things that were important to troubled kids. The fact
that he touched us up was of little consequence.
He never got a girl seriously pregnant nor did anything
a girl didn't want to do or anything like that. When I
asked him about smokes, he laughed and ruffled my hair,
but did not answer yea or nay! A couple of days later,
he grabbed me by the hand as I was passing our sports
pavilion. He took me inside, pushed me against the wall
and stuck his hand up my skirt and under my panties. He
kissed me. Then he sat on the floor with me, lit a
joint, pulled hard then handed it to me.
I remember it because the peculiar smell of my pussy
was still on his fingers, and consequently on the
joint. He showed me how to smoke it properly. Later he
showed me how to roll a smoke perfectly. And from then
on, from time to time, he supplied me with the odd
joint, mainly as a huge joke, in return for a glimpse
and a feel at what was under my skirt. I would go to
his office, usually at the weekend when there were no
classes.
We often smoked together in a store cupboard with an
electric air ejector among the brooms and brushes, mops
and pails. I would either get felt up there, sitting
with my knees apart on a raised duckboard or standing
against the wall in his office while he groped under my
knickers. He was so gentle when he slipped a finger
into my cunt that it hardly seemed an intrusion - just
a sensation. Occasionally as he was feeling me up he
would jack off, then grin as if it were all a huge joke
to him.
It was shortly after my ninth birthday that I started
to get fucked in return for smokes from some of the
older boys from the Gilbert Stedman. I stumbled on a
couple of them one Saturday morning. It was during a
break in football practise. The two boys were having a
smoke and a piss in a patch of wilderness called 'the
burning bush' by the senior girls at Mary Vane because
of the constant haze that seemed to hang over the
place. I had not had a smoke for several weeks, and had
wandered off in that direction on the off-chance that
there may be some older, sympathetic girls there.
I was a bit taken aback when I interrupted the boys and
blurted out something like, "Hi, guys! Can I have a
smoke?" But the effect was ultra-dramatic. Both were
pissing. Both swung round. One of them was still
streaming as he tried to tuck his cock back into his
pants. The other just went on pissing, then jerked his
cock a couple of times before stashing it away.
"You're kidding, huh?" he said. He eyed me curiously.
I'll never forget that look - a mixture of senior
schoolboy contempt for a female kid, humor and
unmitigated lust. He seemed to be staring at my legs
and summing me up. The school skirt of the Mary Vane
elementary was extremely short and left very little
room for imagination. He wiped his mouth after taking a
pull at his joint. "You're too young!" he concluded.
"For what?"
"How old are you anyway?" asked the other guy who now
had a huge piss stain on the front of his pants. I
giggled at the sight when he tried to cover it with his
hands.
"Old enough to smoke!"
The piss stain sneered. "Yea, like old enough to vote!"
His companion continued to size me up. The grin seemed
frozen on his face. "Or old enough to bleed?" he asked.
"Anyone can bleed," I countered.
"We better get back, Dave," piss stain said nervously.
He nipped the end of his joint and stuck it in a pocket
on his waistband.
Dave hesitated. "Yeah! Right!" He studied the joint for
a second then did as the other guy had done. He threw
me one last lascivious look. "You really smoke?" I
nodded. He said, "Right! Three this afternoon." He
grinned. "Dressed just like that!" He pointed a thin
finger in the direction of my skirt.
I had reservations. Consequently I was nearly half an
hour late in turning up at 'the burning bush'. Dave was
obviously annoyed; it was obvious that he resented
having to wait for his females. He made some comment
like, "Took your fucking time getting here!" The
hostility was so heavy in the voice that I turned to go
back the way I had come; the fact was that I has
suddenly become very frightened. Dave was there on his
own.
"Cool it kid," he said. The voice softened as he held
me by the shoulder. "I am sorry. I just hate to be kept
waiting..."
"Where's the other guy?"
Dave sneered. "Took cold feet!"
I suggested, "Still drying out his piss patch?" I
giggled and that put me at my ease.
Dave laughed. He took my hand. "Let's get outa this
place. It's like public here!" He led me into the
little woodland that was situated almost equidistant
from the three schools. "I like privacy..." He made it
sound as if he found it discreet to leave the sentence
unfinished.
Again I had misgivings. "You got smokes?" I insisted.
"You're not gonna hurt me?"
He stopped and stared at me. "I got a joint, yeah!" he
assured me. "Why the fuck would I want to hurt you?" He
pulled my hand. "You are like crazy, kid!" We went into
a clump of stuff like rhododendron. He looked around
with something like self-satisfaction on his face.
"This will do!" He sat.
I sat. It is a physical impossibility to sit on the
ground in a Mary Vane elementary school skirt without
putting your all on public display. I did my best; I
pushed my skirt down as far as it would go over my
panties, then placed my hands on my crotch. The boy
sneered. He lit the smoke, pulled on it deeply then
handed it to me. I had to use both hands. I pressed my
knees together. He stared. There were no inhibitions to
start with; the smoke did little to help. He leaned
forward and separated my knees.
"You got great legs, kid," he commented casually. He
kept staring at my panties. "Your best feature! Why not
flaunt them?" He leaned against the thick stem of the
shrub and had another deep pull at the smoke and
studied my crotch. "I could get into bad trouble for
this!" He handed the joint across. He looked
disoriented and passed a hand across his face in a
badly coordinated attempt to wipe his forehead. He
seemed to be sweating despite the autumn cold. "You
been down with a boy yet?"
"You mean 'laid'?" I shook my head. "No. I am only
nine! Why? Are you planning to rape me?" There had been
a girl from the Mary Vane senior school raped in Dixon
Park at the end of the previous year. "I scream like
hell," I said.
His stare became even more vacant. "You are one fucking
weird kid" He fell silent then repeated. "I could get
into bad trouble for this." He shifted clumsily to sit
alongside me. I noticed the bulge in front of his
pants. He made small chat for a while, asking my name,
my home, what I did at school and in my spare time. He
put an arm across my shoulder. "Can I kiss you?"
I nodded. He wasn't very good at it, but perhaps the
smoke did not help. He undid the buttons of my jacket
and rubbed the silky cotton blouse roughly in the area
of my chest. He fumbled with the buttons of my blouse.
I undid a couple rather than have them torn from the
fabric. He played with the tiny nipples on my flat
chest for a while. Then made another attempt at a kiss.
"You are one fucking weird kid," he mumbled again. "But
I like you!"
He fell silent again. We finished the smoke in silence.
I could scarcely help noticing that his erection had
not subsided. Briefly I wondered if it was pay-off
time. His hand slipped between my thighs. He began to
caress from the knee upwards.
"Christ, you have great legs," he repeated. He hand
settled on my mound. "There are a few girls I know who
would kill to have legs like those." He rubbed up and
down the groove through the material of my panties. I
did not know how to respond, consequently I was
absolutely passive. Quite suddenly he stood up. He
pulled me to my feet.
He kissed me with a bit more success. He referred to
his wristwatch. "I have to go," he said, "but I'd like
to see you again." He brushed down my skirt and
buttoned my blouse. "Next Saturday?" I nodded. "Same
time?" Again I nodded. He kissed me again. This time
his hand went under my skirt and down the front of my
panties to feel me up, in the way the janitor did.
And that was it. He led me back to 'the burning bush'
and we went our separate ways. I was shocked when I got
back to the dormitory at school. I had been away for
nearly three hours, and it seemed only a few minutes.
On the following Saturday the two boys were waiting at
'the burning bush'. Dave introduced piss stain. "This
is Steve!" He snickered when he saw that I was on the
point of giggling. "He has dried out sufficiently to
appear in public!" He took my hand and led the way into
the woods.
The routine of the previous Saturday was repeated,
except that I noticed that both boys were erect and
aroused from the very first moment.
"Hasn't she got great legs, Steve?"
They were sitting on either side of me. Dave brushed
back the short skirt to reveal my crotch. He caressed
my thigh and invited Steve to feel the softness of my
skin. Before I knew what was happening I was flat on my
back, Dave had pulled off my panties, Steve had bared
my chest.
"Are we going to fuck her, man?" asked Steve. He seemed
uncertain.
"Not today," replied Dave. "We do her today, it will be
a once only. We fuck her when she's good and ready and
we fuck her for a year and a day." He leaned over to my
face. "Is that not so, kid?" I nodded. He started to
finger fuck me as Steve kissed my mouth and licked my
chest and belly button.
I don't recall a lot about that afternoon. It did not
mean a great deal to me; I certainly didn't cum. I
remember that we had more than one smoke and that I
jacked both of them off and promised to suck them the
next time round, but it was just small talk and very
little real substance. In fact, it was that next week
that I was fucked for the first time.
When it happened, it was almost like an anti-climax in
a silent second-grade movie in monochrome. And I admit
that I was one hundred percent to blame. I had had a
terrible week at school; the work bored me to
distraction and, although I could have done all the
stuff blindfold and walking backward in the dark, I got
rotten grades throughout, got yelled at by all the
teachers, and I fell out with the only friend I have in
the school.
The janitor was off sick. It rained almost continually
from Saturday night through to the next Saturday. I was
in a foul mood when I reached the rendezvous, made no
better by the fact that it was still raining and I was
greeted by piss-stain. Dave was not there.
"He got a place at Harvard," Steve explained. "We were
kicking our heels here. He left yesterday..." It was as
if he had intended to say more but thought better of
it. He looked decidedly nervous. Rain water dripped
from the end of his nose.
"You got a smoke?" I demanded.
"Yeah! Not here though!" He definitely looked troubled.
"Let move!" he pointed in the direction of the complex
where the sports pavilions were. The place seemed
deserted. "Over there!"
When we got to where he had indicated, there were a
couple of guys already sitting on the floor inside
smoking. Both were dressed in football kit. Steve
introduced them as Pete and Brit. Pete was white, Brit
was black; both looked at least a couple of years
younger than piss stain.
The white boy shifted his eyes sullenly and commented.
"Jesus Christ, Steve! She's only a kid!"
The black boy stood up. He unbuttoned and removed my
raincoat. The Mary Vane elementary raincoat, unlike the
rest of the school uniform, is not ready made for
fashion; if anything, it is designed to hide a girl's
natural talents - it is dark blue and shapeless from
the shoulder pads to the hemline and reaches several
inches below a girl's knees. The boy shook the rain
water from it and folded it over a kind of trellis-
topped table. He turned back to me. He stared at the
short skirt and grinned.
"Only a kid, she may be, man," he said brightly, "but
she got great legs!" He threw a playful punch and gave
that peculiar black man giggle. "I'll bet she's a great
kid!" He took the weed from the younger white guy,
squeezed the moist end of it dry against his shirt and
handed it to me. "Sit, kid. Make yooself comfortable!"
I took a long pull in the way the janitor had shown me
and held a hand over my mouth and nose before I sat. I
made no attempt to correct the obvious shortcomings of
the Mary Vane elementary skirt. There was a slight
touch of rebellion in my mood, but I rather enjoyed
being admired by older boys, and quite deliberately sat
with my knees splayed.
Three pair of eyes examined my panty-clad apparatus
with relish, and for the first time ever in my life I
felt myself getting wet where it really mattered, not
just sticky moist as pre-teen kids are supposed to get,
but seriously sopping wet. And I knew that it showed. I
could see that both Steve and the black boy were hard.
The white boy called Pete continued to scowl; he had a
hand over his crotch so I couldn't see if there was a
bulge there.
We smoked and talked for a while. The boys made jokes
about their teachers, their fellow students,
cheerleaders; they told stories about home life and
girlfriends. I felt as if I belonged. It was the first
time that I could honestly claim to have enjoyed real
male companionship; not only that: for the first time
in my life I wanted to take a positive role in
extending the frontiers of friendship as far as they
would stretch - and I knew precisely what that
involved.
It came as no surprise, then, when the black boy stood
up and grabbed me under the armpits. He swung me up and
around and said that he did this sort of thing at home
with his kid sister. The grass was getting to his head,
however; he staggered after a few turns and sat again.
The only difference was that I was also seated between
his splayed thighs. He pulled me in close to him. I
could feel his hardness against the small of my back -
and it was getting harder. He undid the buttons of my
jacket and my blouse and stuck his hand inside to nip
and pull at my nipples. He shifted his attention to my
thighs, rubbing both of them up to my crotch.
Quite suddenly he asked me, "Are you all right with
this?" I nodded, and he shifted my position so that my
legs hung over his. I was gaping wide open. His fingers
explored, watched intently by the other two boys. He
whispered, "You are wet!" and I giggled and nodded.
Steve started another joint, drew deeply on it then
handed it on. The end was sloppy by the time I got it.
I squeezed it dry on the loose end of my school blouse.
The brown stain seemed to grow even as I stared at it.
The black boy was playing with my nipples again. The
stain continued to grow. His other hand went between my
thighs again.
"Christ! You are wet," he exclaimed. "You sure you're
not pissing yoself?"
He hooked his finger around the crotch of my panties
and pulled it aside. Steve and Pete strained round
drunkenly to get a view of my exposed cunt. Brit rubbed
along the sensitive edge of my wet groove sending a
thousand tiny waves of sensation through me. I drew the
smoke into my lungs and was rewarded with a feeling of
flying on soft cushions of cloud.
"Jesus!" exclaimed the phlegmatic Pete. "She is wet! It
is running out of her." He probed with a finger.
Brit slapped his hand away. He rolled my budding clit
and I wanted to scream and laugh at the same time.
Quite suddenly, I was whisked up in the air. Vaguely I
was aware of my panties being removed. By the time I
landed, I was face to face with the black boy. My legs
were still splayed. Somehow Brit's pants were down
around his ankles. And his fingers were embedded in my
pussy. I felt the head of his cock being introduced.
I was extremely tight in spite of the lubrication of my
own juices. He seemed to stick at the entrance to my
love tunnel for ages. Bit by bit he slipped inside me.
He crooned tunelessly into my ear and made lewd
suggestions. There was one instant of sharp pain, like
someone stabbing me with the needle of a pair of
compasses, then a final thrust and the black boy was
fully inside me.
He jerked me back and forward on his cock. I felt the
meat of his balls banging against my butt. And then he
shot into me - like hot liquid fire spurting up into my
belly. Peculiar flashes of sensation punctured my brain
and I felt giddy with a spinning dizziness that I had
never experienced before.
Quite suddenly, like an extra-terrestrial visitation,
Steve loomed above us. He stared outrage. "I wanted to
bust her cherry!" He seemed to be yelling.
"Too late, man," murmured Brit. "I've done it!" He
grinned and pulled me close. "And the sweetest one
yet!" He kissed me. Then pushed me away. His cock
pulled out of me with a liquid 'plop'. "Try for
yoself!" He handed me up to Steve.
I was laid across the make-shift table. The older boy
studied my cunt with something almost approaching
embarrassment. I could feel the black boy's thick semen
oozing out of me. Steve wiped me with a handkerchief. I
noticed the streaks of blood and the yellow semen stain
against its pristine whiteness. He pumped his cock
several times before slipping it into me. He had a lot
less trouble getting there than Brit, and he took less
time to cum.
Again there was the weird sensation of warm leaden
porridge spurting up into my belly, but there was
nothing like the exquisite, mind-bending sensual
pleasure I later came to expect from Mr. Mellis's love-
making - it was just unusual and odd with the same
spasm of giddiness. And it was even less of a thrill
when Pete pushed his cock into me; talk about premature
ejaculation - he shot off as soon as he entered, and
pulled away as the stuff was still spurting from him.
"Can I keep these?" Brit asked. He had picked up my
panties and was half-way to pocketing them.
"A trophy?" I had heard some of the older girls in the
sports pavilions referring to such things.
"A memento!"
The panties disappeared; I had little choice, but it
was another weird experience walking back to the Mary
Vane elementary in the pouring rain without them, a
sensation made all the more weird with the shortness of
the school skirt under the ugly raincoat. Once inside
the gaunt building, I retreated to the toilets to
examine myself.
There was little sign of physical damage to my person -
indeed it was a bit deflating to look at my pussy and
see that it was much the same as it was before I set
out. There were semen stains on the skirt and some
slight indication that there had been some bleeding
when I lost my virginity; I suppose it was some
consolation. By the time I had showered and had pulled
on fresh clothes, the last of the boy's semen had
seeped back out of me. Brit, the black boy, had given
me a joint. I hid it in the false bottom of my locker
for use later in the new week.
From then on, at least every second Saturday, except
during the holidays, I met with the boys, always Brit
usually accompanied by either or both the other boys.
We usually fucked in the little woodland or in one of
the pavilions. In all that time, I can't remember
having had an orgasm; I must have found some kind of
satisfaction otherwise I would not have gone to meet
them as regularly as I did, and it was not altogether
for the smokes, for by that time I had other sources -
even at that time there was no shortage of suppliers -
and there was still the Santa Claus randy janitor.
It was at the end of last day at Mary Vane elementary
that I finally plucked up courage to make the approach
to Mr. Mellis. He was the true target of my passion. I
mounted his thigh and in less time than it takes to
think about it I shot off, and that was the first
orgasm I ever had. It was spine rattling and beautiful.
It certainly wasn't the one and only that summer, I
made sure of that - Mr. Mellis was like plastic clay in
my hands.
But it was not till the attempted rape by King Kong at
the poker party that I was absolutely sure I had him
securely by the balls. And I wouldn't change him for
anything or anyone!
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 27