                      The Big Brother Caper
                         A Sam Ped Story
   The character "Sam Ped", used by permission of Pedro Vila.


               Warning:  Sam Ped, is a pedophile.

     In this business, you're supposed to be hard-boiled.  Even 
if your heart is soft as mush, like mine is.  If people learn 
you're soft, then everybody soon learns how to push your buttons.
     This little number was pushing all of mine.
     "I don't know who else to turn to," she sobbed.  "I'll do 
anything to get Bobby back."  The bimbo in question, wasn't 
actually a bimbo, and probably couldn't be for at least another 
five or ten years.  I guessed nine, maybe ten years old, max.  
She wasn't rich, either; which was a crying shame.  If she had 
money, I'd probably be jumping at a chance to work for a cutie 
like this.  Long black hair that reached clear down past her ass, 
skinny legs, and a black dress with a pattern that was so worn 
you couldn't make out what it was originally intended to be.  The 
dress had no sleeves; allowing occasional glimpses of tiny buds 
through the armpits.  A slit or tear in the side showed smooth, 
milky skin, and the slightest hint of thin cotton panties.  No 
bra.  At her age, it would be an insult.  Instead of shoes, two 
ragged sandals, one held on the foot with an old shoelace.  
Definitely not rich.
     "Anything?"  My mind turned over some of the "anything" I'd 
like this little dreamboat to do.  But I have scruples ... some.  
I also have bills; and crying little girls with no money, don't 
pay them.  So I put on my hard shell, and tried to act like the 
hard-boiled dick I'm supposed to be.
     Yeah, I'm a detective ... Sam Ped, as in pedophile.  So no 
"small dick" jokes, please.  I've heard them all; including the 
one on the bathroom wall.
     "You helped Cindy," she explained; rubbing another tear from 
her eye.  "I don't know who else to ask."
     I may be (or act) hard-boiled.  But that doesn't mean I 
won't take as long as possible to stretch out a chance to ogle a 
cute little piece like this Missy.
     "I'm sorry," I said.  "But I don't work for free.  This 
friend Cindy of yours paid me."
     "I'll do ANYTHING, if you'll help me find my brother," she 
repeated.  "Anything."  Then, as if to make her point clear, the 
child started to lift the hem of her ragged dress.  There wasn't 
(as I thought) anything under it, except little girl and panties.  
Panties with holes in them.  "I know what you like to do," she 
amplified; struggling to lift the rest of the dress above her 
head.
     "Put the dress down, Kid," I growled.  The prick in my pants 
wanted to overrule me; but my wallet right now has a bigger 
voice.  If I don't pay the bills, I don't eat.  If I don't eat, I 
won't live long enough to enjoy more chances to look at little 
girls like her.  I want to live a long, healthy life.




                                1


     Missy did; and burst into tears.  Damn, she really WAS 
pushing all my buttons.  "I don't know what to DOOOO!", she 
wailed.
     "Missy, believe me, if I could help you, I would," I said, 
before my brain made me bite my tongue.  "But I can't.  Look 
around," I amplified; pointing to the bare desk, the half-eaten 
sandwich, and telephone (which thankfully they hadn't 
disconnected yet).  "Does this look like the office of a rich 
man?"
     Wide-eyed, looking something like those anime girls in 
cartoons, the girl looked around, as if seeing my office for the 
first time.
     "See that sandwich?" I continued.  "That's my lunch, and 
probably my supper too.  I work for money, CASH on the 
barrelhead.  My fees are $200 an hour, plus expenses.  Are you 
prepared to pay those kind of fees?"
     (OK, so those are my "official" fees.  My advertised ones.  
What I actually get, is far less.  Usually I'm lucky to get $50 
an hour; but it give a nice bit of room for negotiation.  At the 
moment, I'd probably take $10.00 to spit on a shoe and shine it.  
Here, I was just trying to show the kid how bad her case was.  I 
didn't want to; but I was gnawing on shoe-leather.)
     "See that pile of newspapers over in the corner, with the 
blanket on them," I said; rubbing it in.  "That's where I sleep 
tonight.  My landlord won't let me come back, until I pay what I 
owe her.  If I don't pay-up in two weeks, she's going to sell my 
clothes and what little is left over there for back rent."
     Missy gulped, as she realized the point I was making.  No 
way could she make THAT kind of money.  Or at least, so I 
thought.  This girl was both desperate, and smart. ".......," she 
said, in a voice so small I couldn't make it out.
     "Huh?"  I replayed the mumble, and hoped I hadn't heard what 
I thought I had.
     "You could sell me," the quiet voice repeated.  A mouse 
sneaking across a shag carpet couldn't have been softer.
     I blinked, and then looked at the girl again.
     "I said, 'You could sell me, for the money," she repeated.
     "Uh, Missy," I stuttered, "I don't think you know what you 
are saying."  I did.  Too many times I've found kids in holes, 
because some relative sold them to the real low-lifes around 
here.  Sadly, in most cases, there was little I could do.  I'm a 
detective, not a cop.  And I don't have millions of dollars to go 
around rescuing every kid whose parents cared so little that 
they'd sell their own kid for a fix.
     "I know that some people would pay a lot, for a little girl 
like me," she explained.  "Especially, a virgin."
     Oh God, maybe she did know.  The poor kids sometimes learned 
things like this, when no kid ever should.
     "I STILL don't think you understand, Missy," I explained.  
"If you got sold, it wouldn't be for just an hour, or even a day, 
like a hooker.  It would probably be for the rest of your life."






                                2


     A short life too, and an unhappy one.  I've seen "sold" kids 
before; and you could almost tell how long it had been by the 
emptiness in their eyes.  After about a year, there was nothing 
left inside.  I never saw one that had been around more than a 
couple years.
     "I know," she replied; staring me in the face.  The empty 
and desperate look slapped me in the face in a way that told me 
she did.  "I've GOT to get Bobby back.  It's all my fault," she 
sobbed.
     I guess I'm a sucker; but that was one button too many.  
"Tell me about it," I sighed.
     "You'll take the case?" she gave me that look that broke my 
heart.  Tears still streaming down her face, the eyes filled with 
a wild hope ... and yes, a resignation.  If I ever see such a 
look on a child's face again, I'll probably run for the hills, 
and become a hermit.
     "The clock is ticking, Kid," I told her.  I've just GOT to 
stop calling all my female clients, Missy.  It gets confusing, 
after a while.  This one, while on the case, was going to be, 
"Kid."
     "It's all my fault," she sobbed; suddenly letting go with a 
gusher of tears, when she knew somebody was going to help.  "I 
should never have told him."
     "Told him what?" I asked.
     "About the race."
     This was getting nowhere, fast.  "Tell it to me from the 
beginning," I sighed.
     "Well, usually I don't pick up things that are worth much," 
she started.  "But when I saw that paper, suddenly I KNEW those 
two horses would win.  It's supposed to be quite unusual for TWO 
long-shots to win a race; and that's why I guess I caught it.  
Normally, I wouldn't know one horse from another."
     "Horses?" I asked.  "You bet on horse races?"  Somehow the 
image of a 9 or 10 year old kid trying to lay down a bet at the 
races, almost made me giggle.
     "No, Silly," she explained.  "I'm psychic."
     Oh ... Yeah ... Suuuurrre you are, Kiddo.  And I'm Elvis, 
reincarnated.
     The kid must have seen this reaction before.  "I just know 
things about things," she explained.  "I don't usually have much 
choice about what, though.  So, it never worked on race-horses 
before, or lotteries, or anything like that."  She looked around 
the spartan room, and lighted her eyes on an old fishing hat I 
sometimes pretended to be an angler with.  "See," she said; 
pointing at a feather in the band.  "That feather means something 
to you.
     I stared at her.  The feather was a gift from an India ... 
OK, "Native American" girl that I had rescued.  She had given it 
to me as a token ... a good-luck charm.  I had stuck it in the 
hat, along with the flies, to look like just another piece of 
junk, so nobody would steal it.  My heart ached at the memory of 
where I had found the girl.
     "Don't," said the kid; pressing her hand to mine.  It was 
the first time I had physically touched her.  "She'll get over 
it.  So should you."


                                3


     How did this little bundle of a kid?????  And if she was 
like this, then how did she lose her brother?  My head was 
spinning.
     "I told Bobby about the race," she explained, "'cause it was 
the first time I'd ever felt such a thing.  If I'd known what he 
was going to do, I'd never have told him.  I shouldn't have, 
anyway.  Once I knew he was going to bet on the race, I tried to 
stop him.  I just KNEW something bad was going to happen, if he 
did."
     "So what happened next?" I asked.
     "Bobby did everything he could to get money," she cried a 
little.  "He even sold his favorite bike ... the one that ran.  
All he could get was nine dollars and 15 cents, so he begged me 
for the rest."  Here, the kid stopped and sobbed again.  "I 
finally told him where I had my money, but begged him not to do 
it.  Only he kept going on, about how with only ten dollars, we 
could be rich enough to fix the place up, so Mom can get around."  
("Mom's diabetic," she added, as an aside.)  "He could get a new 
bike that works properly, and he was going to buy me a new dress, 
and ...."  Here, she broke down sobbing.
     "So, what happened?" I asked.
     "Well, Bobby finally got ten dollars together, and went down 
to this place to place a bet."
     "So," I said; knowing the usual chances of winning two long-
shots in a row ... Somewhere close to zero.  A fifty-to-one long-
shot has about a million-to-one chance of coming in.  "Sucker's 
bets" they call them.  Something nagged me about this one, 
though.  I remembered something on the radio about that day at 
the races; and it COULD have been two long-shots in a row.  "I 
suppose he lost, and got into a fight about it."
     "Worse than that," she sobbed.  "He won."
     Suddenly I found myself holding a sobbing little girl, one 
who has almost lost hope, and doesn't know where to turn.  Sadly, 
MY first reaction was physical ... heat.  Her hot wet little 
cunny was rubbing against my leg, her chest was heaving, and I 
had my arm wrapped around her, right up UNDER her short little 
dress, and was feeling the MOST delightful bare skin of little 
girl ....
     I TRIED to stop my reaction; but couldn't.  My little head 
was thinking for me, as I unconsciously ran my hand up and down 
the smooth little body underneath the dress; SO tempted to reach 
down into the soft panties that covered that soft little 
butt ....
     Oh God.
     "Oh."
     I looked down into the startled eyes of the kid; and 
suddenly KNEW she knew what I was thinking.  Only instead of 
being frightened, the kid actually snuggled into my cuddling.
     "You're nice!" she announced; far from the expected reaction 
of a little girl to finding out that a horny big man thought she 
was sexy.  Then I had a second thought.  This wasn't a revelation 
to the kid.  She KNEW I liked little girls ... liked to FUCK 
little girls, and had come to ME, because that was the only coin 
she had.  I felt like the lowest kind of slime.



                                4


     "Aren't you going to ...?" she asked; raising her arms in 
obvious invitation.  An invitation I was oh-so-tempted to take 
the little girl up on.  "We could 'do it' over there in the 
corner, on your blanket."
     My pecker voted yes; but I overruled it.  "We're looking for 
your brother," I reminded her; kicking myself mentally for not 
taking the girl up on her offer.  I would so-kick myself many 
times in the future for that negligence.
     "Oh."  She sniffled once more; then continued, "So Bobby got 
all excited, and went down to collect the money.  And he never 
came back!"
     I did some quick arithmetic in my head, ten dollars, times 
fifty, times seventeen was ..... WHOOooeee!  $8500 dollars was 
quite a chunk of change for some people.  It didn't look good for 
Bobby.  One tenth that, could get you killed or worse, in some 
neighborhoods.  Somehow I didn't think that Bobby and the Kid 
lived in one of the better neighborhoods.  I wasn't worried about 
the bookie not paying up.  That sort of thing just didn't happen.  
Bookies are the most honest people you'll ever meet.  They HAVE 
to be.  Who is going to place a bet with a bookie who even once 
welshed on a bet?  They not only INSIST on being paid (which 
sometimes gives them an unwarranted bad reputation) but they also 
will go to great lengths to pay off bets they lose.  A bookie's 
reputation is sometimes all he has.  Most likely, somebody caught 
the boy coming back with the money, bashed him on the head, and 
he was now floating down the river as just another unidentified 
body.  I didn't know how to break this to the Kid.  Maybe (sadly) 
there wasn't anything I could do for her, after all.
     "He's NOT dead!" she said; reading the look in my face.  
Then, stubbornly, "I would know."
     Thinking about it, if this kid could pick an exacta, then I 
wouldn't want to bet against her on matters even more important 
to her.
     "But you don't know where he is?" I somewhat asked, somewhat 
stated.  If she had, or could track her brother down with 
this ... this whatever of hers, then she wouldn't be here now.  
Most likely, she'd be in the same grave with her brother.
     "He's NOT dead!" she repeated, stubbornly.  Damned kid could 
read minds.
     I sighed.  "How old is your brother?" I asked; finally 
getting down to the details that matter.  "Do you have any 
pictures of him?"
     "He's fifteen, and here."  The kid had obviously come 
prepared.  A blurry photograph of a dark-haired youth, with 
similar features to the kid in front of me was placed in my hand.  
Not the beautiful type they sometimes snatch for some of the 
nastier films; but not ugly either.  Some of the places around 
had uses for even uglier boys than this one.  I should know; it's 
my job to find them sometimes.
     "Let's go," I said; grabbing the kid by the arm.
     For a second, she looked frightened; then steeled up her 
nerve and came along; gritting her teeth, as if she was walking 
the plank or something.  I wondered for a second what was 
bothering her, now that we were actually on the case.  Sometimes 
my brain is solid mush.


                                5


     This not being a cash case, we didn't drive or take the bus.  
We walked ... all twenty-two blocks.
     "Where we going?" she finally got up enough nerve to ask.
     "A bookstore," I replied.  Since I didn't have money, I 
couldn't deal with my usual suppliers of information.  Hacker or 
Scred would charge me fifteen-hundred without blinking.  I didn't 
have fifteen cents to spare today; so I had to find someone who 
would accept the only coin the girl could give me.
     I've used Farci before.  We go way back.  He runs a 
supposedly-legit bookstore, where you can buy new or used books, 
videos, and even old 8mm films.  I once bought a copy of Linda 
and the Dog, that she swears she never made ... Right.  But 
that's all OVER the counter.  These days, even porn is legal ... 
Most of it.  When Farci got started, even 8-page "Tijuana Bibles" 
could get you time in the slammer, if you got caught with them.  
Things are better nowadays ... Or worse, depending on how you 
look at it.  Still, there ain't much money to be made in selling 
books and films.  Almost every store in town does that.
     No, Farci has another, more lucrative business.  He sells 
books, films, and videos that are NOT legal in any state in the 
union.  Yes, Child-Porn.  I'm ashamed to say, that I'm probably 
one of Farci's better customers ... when I have any money to 
spend.  To my mind, LOOKING at a picture of a little girl getting 
royally screwed, is not the same dirty deed as actually raping 
her.  OK ... so it's NOT rape.  I should know.  But the cops will 
call it rape, anyway.  Statutory Rape.
     Looking at "feelthy peectures" of little girls getting 
fucked, is a lot SAFER than actually fucking them.  Though 
nowhere near as nice as the real thing.  Again, I should know.  
As I've said before, I'm a pedophile.
     Farci has pictures and videos of all kinds ... and for a 
price will get you almost anything you ask for.  If the price is 
high enough, he'll get it made for you.  Farci isn't picky.
     This time, the bookstore was open, customers (OK, customer) 
was browsing.  The door shut behind us with a tinkle; and Farci's 
ugly face looked up.
     For a second, I thought he was going to bolt on me; then he 
realized he had no place to run TO.  This was his store.  Then he 
noticed my tag-along.
     "Oh no you don't," he objected.  "I didn't have anything to 
do with her.  I never saw her before!  Now get OUT!"
     "Farci," I growled, "shut the fuck up."
     Farci shut.
     I latched the door behind the departing customer, and pulled 
down the shade that said, "Closed."  Once done, you couldn't see 
into the shop where we were.
     "I want some information about guys who take bets from 
underaged kids down in the low-area," I told him.
     Farci's eyes lit up, at the thought of an actual profit.  
This didn't seem too dangerous; unlike when I came through 
looking for kids in the porn and sometimes worse business.  
"Hey," he objected; seeming to figure how much he could shake me 
down for.  "That sort of info don't come cheap."
     I knew.  That's why I was here, instead of at one of my 
better sources.  I had something Farci wanted.


                                6


     "Here's your payment," I told the creep; shoving the kid at 
him.  The kid's eyes grew wide at this; but I had no other 
choice.  If she wanted to find where her brother was, she would 
have to pay with the only coin she had ... herself.
     If Farci's eyes had been bright before, he lit up like Times 
Square when he saw the munchkin in the thin dress.  "She's just a 
kid," He objected.
     "Yeah, I know," I said.  "I also know, and you know, what 
kind of stuff you sell here, that the cops don't know about."
     Farci looked at me.  I looked at him.
     "Half an hour," I said.
     Farci was already dragging the kid to a back room.
     "And Farci?" I added; stopping him.  "She's still a virgin; 
so go easy on her.  NO bruises, understand?"
     Farci looked like he'd seen the Virgin Mary.  Perhaps he 
had.  "You wanna watch?" he asked.
     Oh, did I EVER want to watch.  But I couldn't stomach this 
with my role as client of the little girl about to be raped.  OK, 
NOT raped.  The kid knew what was going to happen.  But I just 
couldn't stand to watch what I had just given up forever the 
chance to do myself.  Sometimes I hate my own guts.
     Twenty-nine minutes to the second after the door closed, the 
kid came out.  Sniffling, eyes red, but not crying.  I looked her 
over, and except for a red mark on one arm that was already 
fading, there were no marks to show her loss of innocence.  The 
kid's eyes however, told a different story.  "You OK?" I asked 
her.
     The kid nodded; but I knew better.  Her eyes were a tiny bit 
blanker, more closed and shuttered.  A little less trusting.  
Something inside was forever gone.  Still, she knew what she had 
offered, when she said, she would give "anything" to get her 
brother back.  Thankfully, this hadn't been nearly as bad as what 
it could have cost her.
     "The boys you want, are the Giovanni Boys," giggled Farci; 
seeming unable to believe he had put such a big one over on me.  
The going price for a virgin ... and on film too ....
     "They fancy themselves to be big mobsters, but are really 
only runners for the local arm.  To make extra money, they often 
handle small bets themselves, or take bets from small kids who 
the mob won't normally deal with.  Then they have the bookie 
handle it, while they handle the return ... with a small cut, of 
course."
     I nodded.  A standard deal for small-time crooks, generally 
teenagers, or kids who never grew up.  The penny-ante business 
being too small to support the tastes of more intelligent or 
ambitious criminals.
     "There's been some rumor about them making a big score.  The 
two boys have been on a bender for the last three days, without 
sign yet of running out of money.  They're too drunk to even take 
bets, I understand."  He looked at me sharply.  "That what you're 
looking-for?"
     I nodded.  Now I knew what to do, and how, and why.  As for 
Farci himself ....




                                7


     I reached over and snatched the video-tape he was clutching 
from Farci's grasp, before he could react.  "Uh, uh!" I told him; 
holding him off easily.  "The deal was the kid in exchange for 
information ... for YOUR use, not a film, so stuff it!"
     Farci wilted.  He knew he had gotten a good deal, without 
the video.  The going price to introduce a virgin, especially a 
willing ten-year-old, was close to ten times what the information 
he gave me was worth.  That I didn't have money right then, was 
just MY bad luck ... and (of course) the kid's.
     "Going rates," I told him.
     Farci looked at me like I was nuts.  "That's highway 
robbery!" he exclaimed.
     "Going rates, or no deal," I insisted.  "Isn't she worth 
it?"  Again, the kid looked frightened, for some reason.
     "Going rates," agreed Farci with a sigh.
     I handed him back the square package.  Like I said, Farci 
and I go WAY back.  I give him money, tips on the cops, and 
sometimes a lead to a budding actress who doesn't mind getting 
undressed in front of the camera.  Farci gives me books, 
magazines, videos, information, and sometimes a crack at some of 
HIS budding actresses who want to test out their new "acting 
skills" on a nice guy who isn't a porno star that needs three 
adult women to "fluff" him, so he can fuck a little girl.  
Sometimes I owe him, and sometimes he owes me.  This time, 
considering the exchange-rate, I figured Farci owed me fairly 
big-time.  He also owed the kid even more ... Though the girl 
would have to do her own collecting, if she wanted payment.  I 
knew Farci wouldn't welsh on the girl; but wouldn't tell her he 
owed her a favor if she didn't know it, either.  I wondered if I 
should tell the girl about this or not.  Somehow I figured the 
kid wouldn't like the idea of somebody like Farci owing her a 
favor.
     Beside me, the kid breathed a sigh of relief; as if she had 
been expecting something different.
     "Let's go," I told the kid.
     "Where we going NOW," she asked.  Kid was just a bundle of 
questions.
     To see the local mob boss, of course.  They had a thing 
against young punks like the Giovanni Boys who got too big for 
their britches.  Especially when their extracurricular activities 
cut into mob profits.  The mob didn't particularly object to 
violence, or even a death or two, if the police didn't get 
involved.  But stealing from the mob, or (almost as bad) chasing 
away valued customers was decidedly frowned-upon.  If anything 
would drive away customers from a bookmaking operation, then 
killing the person who made a big score and then stealing the 
man's (or in this case, boy's) money would tend to drive away 
potential betters in droves.  If the word got out in the street 
that something like this was going on ... I shuddered at the 
thought of what the mob might do to protect their reputation for 
not welshing on bets.  No, I wouldn't want to be the Giovanni 
Boys.  But that was THEIR problem.
     Only I didn't tell this to the kid.  No point it telling ALL 
of my secrets.  Luckily, this destination was only five blocks 
away, instead of twenty more in the wrong direction.


                                8


     "We're here to see Mr. Marci," I told the stern-faced young 
woman at the desk.  The sexretary didn't look even three years 
older than the kid did; though I'm sure her driver's license 
would stand up to the most rigorous inspection.  Her eyes though, 
gave her away; telling a different story.  I only hope that my 
eyes don't look that hard and jaded.  I felt an icy chill go down 
my spine, as she looked at me with those hard and icy glims.
     "I don't see that you have an appointment, Mr ...."
     "Ped, Sam Ped.  And you'd better MAKE an appointment, or 
Missy here will start yelling RAPE so loud the cop outside will 
have to stop in here and investigate.  While it will obviously 
not be rape, I'm sure you folks here don't want a police 
investigation, either."
     "This is a PERFECTLY legitimate business, and we don't take 
kindly to threats," she responded, with an icy glare that was a 
shade below liquid nitrogen in temperature.
     "I'm sure," I responded; then turned to the kid, "Missy, 
could you ...?"
     "RAA ...."
     "Stop it please!  I'll see what Mr. Marci has to say."
     "Aiinning!"
     I had to admire the kid for ingenuity.
     "So, Mr Ped ... as in?" asked a smooth, cultured voice.
     The black suit KNEW who I was, I was sure.  While we had 
never met directly before, our paths had crossed several times.  
Sometimes to the benefit of both of us, and sometimes to one of 
our sorrow.  I figured the balance was about even.
     "As in 'pedophile', as you well know."
     "So, what is this about, Mr. Pedophile?"
     I hate it when people do that to my name.  But here, I was 
in no position to object.  When you make an ass of yourself, you 
expect to be treated like an asshole.
     "You need to see us."
     Suddenly the man grinned.  He waved us into a conference 
room, and said, "You have exactly FIVE minutes to prove that.  
After that, if I or any of my associates do not agree, we kick 
BOTH your sorry asses out in the street, and I DARE you to scream 
rape then."  He looked over his glasses at both of us.  "And this 
conversation is being recorded," he informed us.  I had not the 
slightest doubt he was telling the exact truth, on both items.
     "Missy, tell him your story," I said.
     "Everything, including ...," she looked back towards where 
we had left the bookstore.
     "Everything."
     "Four minutes. Your time is running out."
     The kid opened her mouth, and the story just poured out.  
About her brother.  About the bet.  About finding me, and what 
she offered.  *This drew me an interested gaze from the black 
suit, that I didn't much like.*  About the bookstore.  About the 
back room.  *My heart ached.  It had been worse than I thought, 
by quite a bit*  About Farci and the tape.  About what he said 
about the two boys.  Twenty minutes had gone by, Missy was still 
reciting, and not the slightest motion had been made to toss us 
out.



                                9


     I was amazed at the detail the kid gave.  She must have had 
eidetic memory.  She told to the cent, how much money her brother 
had on him, what he was wearing, the time of day he left, how she 
found my office, what I was doing, what she offered me, the 
sandwich ... everything, including her offer to let me sell her.
     I felt like an asshole for rushing her out the door before 
fully listening to her.  If I had, maybe that visit to Farci's 
wouldn't have been necessary.  Maybe it would, too.  Some 
detective I am.
     When finished, the man said nothing, except, "We'll be in 
touch," and ushered us out the door.  Considering everything, 
that was about as good as I could hope for.
     As we stepped out, the sexretary motioned me over, out of 
earshot of the kid.  "Mr. Ped," she said; obviously passing me a 
message from higher up.  "We'll match any offer you get."  The 
implication being that if I took anybody else's offer that they 
didn't have a chance to match, it wouldn't be very nice for me.  
Suddenly I knew exactly WHERE the people here had gotten their 
oh-so-efficient sexretary.  If you were lucky, sometimes being 
sold wasn't so bad, if where you came from was like some families 
I'd seen.  The kid could do far worse.  I knew.
     I just shook my head.  The kid was NOT for sale, at any 
price.  Surprisingly, this brought a grin from the iceberg.  The 
first sign she was human.
     "What do we do now?" asked the kid.
     "We go home, and chew our nails," I responded.
     It was two hours later, after I managed to scrounge up 
enough money for a cheeseburger that the two of us shared, with 
water from a fountain (Looking under couches and such sometimes 
finds a few quarters, even after you've long ago checked under 
the cushions several times.) that the phone rang.
     "Hello?" I said.
     Silence, at first.  God, I hate those calls.
     Then, "Mr. Ped?"
     "Yes?"
     "There's been a package found, down at Security General."  
<Click.>
     I grabbed the kid by the arm, and was halfway out the door 
before she reacted enough to ask where we were going.
     "Security General Hospital," I replied.  "It's six blocks 
this way."  Shit.  Suddenly I was chasing the kid, and falling 
farther and farther behind.  It was only when we got there, that 
she held up; unsure of where to go.  I headed for the lights of 
the emergency-room, and the kid followed me.
     "We're looking for ...," I glanced at the kid.
     "My brother, Bobby," she finished.
     The nurse still looked blank.
     I showed her the photo the kid had given me earlier.
     "He's in intensive-care, room 313," she started; but the kid 
was gone.
     I was more leisurely.  "How bad is he?" I asked.
     The nurse looked at some notes.  "Not too bad, considering 
two stab wounds to the chest, a concussion, dehydration, and a 
skinned elbow," she decided.



                                10


     "Uh ... Thanks," I responded; heading after the kid to meet 
the object that she had been willing to give her all for.
     There wasn't all that much to see.  One badly-dinged-up 
patient with head wrapped in bandages looks pretty much like any 
other one.  Still, the kid seemed satisfied.  She sat looking at 
the sleeping boy, like Moses must have looked at the Holy Land he 
could never enter.
     "Uh, hadn't you better call your folks," I asked her.  For a 
detective, tonight I must have seemed like a total loss.  I 
didn't know her name, where she lived, or even her phone number.  
After I left her here with her brother, she would be gone from my 
life like she never lived.  I felt an incredible sense of loss.
     "Oh ... Yeah," she responded.  Picking up the phone, she 
tried to dial home unsuccessfully, until I told her to dial '9' 
first.  Then, "Yeah, Mom?  No, I'm OK, but Bobby's down at 
Security General.  You'd better get down here right away.  Room 
313.  No.  Bye."
     She turned to me, and then said, "OK, let's go."
     "Huh?"  I was lost.
     "To your place.  We've got to finish this up before Mom gets 
here, now that you've done your part."
     "Uh ... Sure."  I wasn't sure about anything; let alone what 
was going on.  I just wanted to spend a few more minutes with 
this little beauty before she stepped out of my life forever.  If 
she wanted to talk things over at my place, then my place it was.
     In my hurry, we had forgotten to lock the door.  An almost 
unforgivable sin for a private dick like me.  Who knows what 
might be lurking inside?  But luckily, nobody was.
     I found out pretty soon what the kid wanted to come back 
here for.  It wasn't for a lost purse, or anything like that.  
She didn't bring anything to this caper that she wasn't going out 
with ... except, of course, her virginity.  That, she wouldn't 
find at my seedy dump.  I was still crying inside about the loss 
of something she could never give again; and to a creep like 
Farci.
     "Please?" she said, "Before I go, could I ask a favor?  I 
know I don't deserve it; since I've been wasting your time almost 
all day now ... Time you could have been earning the money you 
need.  But I'll never have another chance."
     "What is it, Kid?"  I was too tired to argue.
     "Could you ... I mean, would you .... Uh, Mr. Farci wasn't 
very nice; and I wanted my .... Please?  Just one time.  I won't 
ask for more than that."  The kid looked like she was going to 
cry again; seeming to halfway want to take her dress off; and 
half afraid I'd yell at her for doing so.
     "You really WANT this?" I asked; stunned that she'd even 
offer.
     "Please?  I want at least ONE time to be with someone nice.  
Please?" she repeated; tears starting to pool at the corner of 
her eyes.
     I cursed longly and silently at all the Farcis of the world, 
for destroying what should have been the most wonderful time of a 
girl's life.  Laying out the blanket so we could both be more 
comfortable than on the floor, I did my best, to make it up to 
her.


                                11


     God, was she tight.  The first time, I exploded inside her  
without barely getting an inch inside the kid.  She seemed to 
expect that it was over; but then I showed her we were just 
beginning.  The kid didn't climax.  Few kids that age do.  But 
she did enjoy it.  THAT I made sure of.  Three times I entered 
her, and three times I filled her tightness with my seed.  It was 
only AFTER we were done, and I was sitting there with her cuddled 
in my lap; prick still stuck in her tight little hole, that I 
remembered that kids her age sometimes COULD get pregnant.
     She hushed me, and told me it didn't matter; as she wanted 
to make this one time perfect for me.  In any case, it wasn't 
likely; as she was only spotting yet, with no real periods.  
Thankfully, it turned out later that she was right.
     After cleaning up with what we could find (tissue from the 
bathroom down the hall) she pulled up her panties, straightened 
her dress, and faced the door like a soldier going off to war.  
"OK", she said, with a gusty sigh.  "I guess I'm ready."
     "Ready?" I asked.  "Ready for what?"
     "To be sold, of course," she responded.  "I promised you, 
you could sell me if you found my brother.  I'm no welsher on a 
deal, either.  So let's go."  She turned around and looked at me 
with eyes as deep as the ocean.  "And thanks for letting me see 
what it's like to do it with somebody you like.  I'll never 
forget that ... Never."
     Oh God.  Oh GOD, what had I done?  The poor kid had spent 
the entire night, expecting to be sold into prostitution, 
slavery, or even a snuff-film, just so she could rescue her 
brother.  And the big idiot never knew what a treasure he had.
     For the first time in years, I started crying; and this time 
it was the kid's turn to comfort me.  No bloody wonder she hadn't 
given me her name.  She hadn't wanted ME to be always worried 
about what I had done, or who would be missing her.  So she had 
kept it secret.
     It took me almost 20 minutes to tell the kid that she was 
NOT being sold into slavery, her bill was paid in FULL, and then 
for the two of us to stop having alternate crying jags, and 
having to comfort each other.  When she asked, "What about your 
bill?  I STILL owe you $200 an hour," I told her about the deal 
with Farci for the tape.  "Standard Rates" for a half-hour video 
was $1500, which I told her more than covered my time.  It was 
almost twice what I'd normally make on a caper like this one.  
Heck, if it wasn't for my selfish need to eat, I would have given 
ALL of it back to her, or made Farci burn the tape.  I could 
still do that, if she wanted.  The kid shut me up by kissing 
me ... HARD.  Somehow, we ended up making love once again; only 
THIS time it was different.  It was more a release of tensions 
than mad coupling or my striving to please her, or her trying to 
please me.  She was STILL so tight it almost hurt though.  I 
could barely force the sperm out of my prick and into her body.  
But (of course) somehow my prick, being the prick it was, managed 
to inseminate her one last time.
     This time I learned Candy's name, phone-number, and actually 
walked her home.  Being dark, it isn't smart for a little girl to 
walk the streets at night.



                                12


     As we got closer to home, she stopped and then said, "You 
know, Ped, I've been thinking.  $200 an hour, for ten hours, is 
two THOUSAND dollars, not fifteen-hundred.  I still owe you two-
and-a-half hours.
     "Two hours," I grinned at her; making a joke ... or so I 
thought.  "Remember what we were just doing."
     Surprisingly, she just seemed to accept that.  "Two hours," 
she agreed.  "I'll expect you to be around to collect.  If not, 
I'll come over THERE, if I have to, to pay you back."  She 
grinned up at me.
     "It's a deal."  I never really expected to see her again.  I 
saw the kid walk up to the porch, go in, and the light go out.

       --------------------------------------------------

     That SHOULD have been it.
     However, two weeks later, two black-suited guys pulled up in 
a long black limousine, outside my office.  The phone was now 
back on, the answering service answered,  my landlord was talking 
to me again, and I actually had two fairly constant jobs keeping 
an eye on the kids in playgrounds.  (Yes, *legit* jobs, you 
pervert.  I get paid for doing what I like to do.  A pedophile 
you can *trust* is hard to find.  That's how I make my living.)  
Life was looking up.  Farci had a new tape of a little girl who 
supposedly just loved to get fucked (he assured me that it was 
NOT the kid) and even mentioned in a whisper that there was some 
new snuff-tape going the rounds, that was real rough.  It even 
*looked* real.  No, it wasn't supposed to be of kids; just a 
couple of drunks.  He could get me a copy or two, if interested.  
I was only interested in the one of the little girl; but told him 
the deal was OFF, if the kid even squinted in pain.  People in 
pain isn't my bag; little girls are.  He assured me that the 
little girl in the video LOVED sex.  Farci hinted that if I 
really liked her the sexy little slut and was willing to spend 
some money for an "introduction" by him, it might even be 
possible for me to meat the kid.  I was almost aching to see the 
video.  But first, I had to earn a little more money.  Things 
were still a little tight.
     A man in a black suit stepped out of the limousine.  Ever 
see the guys in "Men in Black"?  Just like that; black sunglasses 
and all.  "Mr. Sam Ped?" he asked.
     My name is on the door.  It wasn't exactly rocket science to 
figure out who I was.  "Yeah," I growled.  "Make it snappy, Bub.  
Time is money."  I know ... not the BEST line to give a possible 
new customer; but looking busy is necessary to charging high 
rates.
     "You will deliver this package," said the man; handing me 
three wrapped parcels, and an envelope.  "Your fee, is included."
     "Hey wait!" I managed to hold the door open, in spite of 
considerable force trying to close it, by the man in black.  "I 
ain't no package-delivery-service," I told the guy; trying to 
force it back into his hands.  I mean, a guy has standards.
     "You find missing kids, right?" asked the guy.
     "Uh, yeah.  At a fee of $250 an hour."  My rates just went 
up, for this slob.


                                13


     "Your fee, is in the white envelope.  Find the kid in the 
picture, and give the package to each identified person," said 
the man.  "Here's the extra $50."  The door closed, and the car 
was gone.  For some reason, I couldn't make out the license 
number, though I tried real hard.  Honest I did.  I must be 
slipping.  It was almost as if the plate was blank.
     I shrugged, and hauled my booty into the office.  Three 
packages.  One addressed to "Sam Pedophile".  One NOT addressed, 
simply labeled, "For the girl," with a picture obviously copied 
from a surveillance-camera of the kid ... Candy.  The third, was 
simply labeled, "For the Brother."
     Interesting.  Inside the envelope, were two, crispy, one-
hundred-dollar-bills.  Along with the crisp $50 in my hand, that 
was obviously my fee of $250 for something that would probably 
take me far less than an hour to accomplish.  I could guess where 
the package came from; but doubt there was any trace leading back 
there.
     I did what I had never expected to do.  I picked up the 
phone, and called Candy.  Yeah, I'm lazy.  Why should *I* walk 
for half a mile, when two healthy young kids could do the same, 
in less time, and half the effort?
     A half hour later, I opened the door to let the two kids in.  
Thankfully, they hadn't brought their mother with them.  On 
second thought ... she was diabetic, and had some difficulty in 
moving around, or so I remembered.  A good dick needs a good 
memory.
     Bobby was a LOT handsomer in person than his picture.  Two 
weeks hadn't completely cured a large bruise on his forehead, but 
it was obviously healing.  At first, he gave me a scowl that made 
me almost want to go reaching for the gun I kept hidden under the 
desk, but almost never used (though I stay in practice).  Then he 
looked at me closer, and suddenly beamed at me.  A surprisingly 
big hand reached out and tried to crush mine.
     I'm an old hand at this game.  I just smiled, and returned 
pressure for pressure, until the boy finally winced and eased up.  
I did too; and we never said a word about it.
     "My apologies," he said, once both of the kids were seated 
in the sleazy chairs I have across the desk.
     I raised my eyebrows in question.  I'm good at that.
     "When I first learned of what you did to ... uh, FOR my 
little sister here," he explained, "I was going to come after you 
with a knife, and cut your balls off!"
     I wasn't surprised.  Many men have had that ambition.  I 
still have both of my testicles, properly attached to my body 
where they belong.
     He looked at his little sister lovingly.  "Then Candy here 
made me see it YOUR way, and hers too.  So she told me I owe you 
an apology."
     "Uh, you're sure about this?"  Forced apologies are 
worthless.
     "The last time I disagreed with my sister, you wouldn't 
BELIEVE the trouble it got me into.  I trust Candy, when it comes 
to who you should trust."




                                14


     "Um ... I think I might believe your story," I chuckled.
     Everybody else chuckled too; and we've been great friends 
since.
     "So what's this about?" he finally asked.
     I showed him the three packages; and explained how I came to 
get them.
     Guess what?  Yeah, it don't take no private detective to 
figure out that we opened all three packages.
     Inside Bobby's was money.  $8510.50, to be exact, in a 
bundle, with the two quarters taped on the outside.  And exact, 
it was.  That's ten dollars and 13 cents, times fifty, times 17.  
Bobby's winnings.  Along with the money was a slip of paper ... a 
receipt, and another envelope, labeled, "For injuries received".  
The receipt, marked "Paid in Full - Security General Hospital" 
was for a "John Doe", admitted two weeks ago, and released the 
next day.  I've seen bills like that before.  The hospitals make 
them up when unidentified people are brought in, that they have 
to treat.  Usually, they manage to squeeze the money out of 
somebody ... if only the taxpayers.  I whistled at the amount 
they charge for emergency room care.  As for a bed in intensive-
care .... Don't even ask.  I decided that if I ever got shot or 
stabbed, I was just going to crawl in a corner and die.  I 
couldn't afford to have a hospital patch me up.  Not in MY line 
of work, anyway.  At their prices, I couldn't afford to be 
treated for a hangnail.  I tried to figure out how a "sterile 
bandage" could be worth $15.40.  Did they import handwoven silk 
from China for the cover?  Was the gauze cut from the Shroud of 
Turin?  (I was raised religious.  My mother once thought I would 
make a great priest.)
     Inside the "injuries" envelope, was a pile of hundreds.  I 
just looked at the stack and whistled.  It looked too big to 
count.  Still, considering normal lawyer's fees, and what a court 
would normally award to a party deliberately injured as the boy 
had been by someone else, I was somehow *quite* sure that the 
amount in the envelope would probably be almost exactly what a 
jury would award in an injury-case with penalties, like this 
one ... without having to hire a lawyer to take his cut in the 
dough.  The mob didn't like to pay lawyers any more than I did; 
though they (like me) often found them to be a necessary expense 
of doing business.
     Next, we looked at the kid's ... Sorry, at Candy's package.  
Inside was a tiny bundle of bills ... compared to Bobby's, that 
is.  Exactly fifteen crisp, one-hundred dollar bills.  Along with 
that, was a video-tape that we both recognized as one of Farci's 
originals.  Candy and I looked at each other.  We KNEW what was 
on that tape; and somehow I was sure there weren't any extra 
copies anywhere.  You just don't hold out on some people.  Not if 
you value your life.  Farci I knew, did.
     We almost missed the card.  "In appreciation for your loss," 
it read; but was unsigned except for a black rose.  In the card, 
was a smaller card, that looked like a credit-card, but had a 
logo on it.  I looked at it, and then my eyebrows rose.
     "Holy smoke!" I murmured.  "It's a gift-card, pre-paid."
     "Huh?" was the general response.



                                15


     "It's a gift-card, good for two weeks, for two people, at 
the Crown Hilton Hotel, in the suite of your choice, with 
unlimited room-service," I whispered, in awe.  I knew that one of 
the LESSER suites in that hotel could easily run $1000 a night, 
and THAT is without a smidgen of room-service.  The hotel made 
most of it's money on room-service, so contemplate that for a 
moment.  I contemplated something else ... the investigation that 
had turned up nothing, where it was alleged the hotel was owned 
by the mob.
     I looked closer at a piece of paper that was stickied to the 
back.  Lots of tiny print in lawyerese.  "It's personalized," I 
told them.
     "Huh?"
     I blushed.  "It's good for you, Candy, or for me, or for 
both of us, but nobody else.  The way it's set up, you get to 
decide who gets to use it.  Once activated, you can't change it."
     "Oh."  Candy's eyes got wide.  "Can I just give it to you, 
then?" she asked.
     "You could, but then YOU could never use it," I replied; 
trying to work out the lawyerese in such fine print.  I needed 
one of those magnifying-glasses that everybody assumes detectives 
all use.  I didn't have one.  "You could use it yourself, and 
there's something in here that protects you from trouble for 
using the place while being a minor and alone.  Or ...."  Here I 
paused again.
     "Or what?"
     "Or, we could both check in together, and stay there any 
time up to the entire two weeks.  We don't have to use it all up 
at once.  It seems to imply that if we do, the staff will ass-u-
me and treat us like father and daughter."
     "How long is it good for?"
     "It SAYS, up to ten years.  There's more legalese about 
penalties; but they're all on the hotel's part, if it fails to 
honor the card and treat us like kings ... or queens."
     "Oh."
     "In ten years, I'll be twenty years old."
     "And legal," put in her brother.
     "And legal," she agreed.  "So I don't have to decide right 
away."
     "No."
     We all seemed to be talking in monosyllables, so I decided 
to look in MY package.  Inside it, was another bundle of bills, 
and an itemized list.  $2010.45.  Ten hours at $200 an hour, "for 
professional services rendered", my tax-id as a professional 
detective, and several miscellaneous items that I would never 
have put on an expense-report; including $2.45 for a 
cheeseburger, and a dollar for a roll of tissue.  How the fuck 
they ever found ... Shit.  That unlocked door was NOT left 
unlocked by me, I knew now.  It had been a message, of sorts.  No 
wonder the bastards put BOTH of our names on that incredible 
debit-card.  Bloody nosy bastards.  They probably had a tape of 
every sigh and moan we made ... and would use it too, if I made 
even the slightest fuss.  Shit.




                                16


     That left the final item in my package.  Another video-tape.  
Unlabeled, just like the first one; though not with Farci's stamp 
on it.  At first, considering the quality of the other items, I 
wondered if it was a porno-flic of little girls having sex.  For 
sure, the guys in black knew all-too-well what kind of videos I 
like to watch.  I wondered if it was that movie of the cute 
little girl who "liked sex" that Farci had been trying to sell.
     I reached out to pick up the tape; and suddenly Candy 
shivered; almost wincing in pain, the second my finger touched 
the black plastic case.  "Burn it," she croaked.
     "Huh?" I asked.  "Shouldn't we just LOOK at it first, to see 
what it is?"
     "Ped?" she asked; seeming to shrink in on herself.  "Where 
do you think they got the money for all this stuff they sent us?"
     "Huh?"  I thought a bit; then a bit more.  "The mob doesn't 
put up with people stealing from them," I mused.  "And the boys 
supposedly drank up all the money they took from Bobby.  My guess 
is, that they took the money out of the guys' hides."
     Suddenly, all three of us looked in horror at the film.  
"Burn it," pleaded Candy.  When a psychic that can pick two long-
shots in a row tells you to burn something, you burn it.
     My place has a small gas stove you can just about heat 
coffee on (and I do, occasionally)  I placed the box on top of 
the burner, and lit the flame.  We watched the thing melt until 
the smoke set the fire-alarm off, and we had to wave shirts and 
other stuff to clear the air enough to breathe.  The cassette was 
a pile of goo that would have to be chipped off the stove.
     I started to grab the other cassette to do something similar 
with it; but Candy stopped me.  "That's MINE," she told me; and I 
dropped it like a red-hot rock.  "Sometime I want to watch it 
with you, or maybe even my husband, if I ever have one," she 
said.
     Her choice.
     "Please?" she asked; and then I was gone.  How could I 
refuse?  At least, she didn't ask me to watch it that night.
     As we were gathering up stuff, and getting ready to leave, 
Candy hung back, while she motioned her brother to go on.  "I'm 
staying behind," she told him.
     Bobby looked back at his little sister, looked at me, I 
guess thought better of telling me, "Don't hurt her," like I had 
Farci, gave a grimace, and left.
     "I still owe you two hours," she told me; locking the door, 
and sliding the simple dress over her head.
     "But I ... You ... That's all paid-for," I argued.  I didn't 
WANT to argue.  MY prick was wagging like a dog's tail, around a 
bitch in heat.  "Besides what Farci already sent, _They_ paid my 
full fee of $200 an hour, and then quite obviously included the 
$1500 for your 'services' in your envelope, so I wouldn't feel 
obligated to return that money to you.  So you could say I've not 
only been paid in full by you; but they deliberately paid me 
again, for the same job."  Personally, I have no objections to 
two customers paying me in-full, for the same job.  It doesn't 
often happen; but when it does, I try not to object.




                                17


     Collecting twice (or here it felt like three times) from the 
same very good customer though, goes against even my greedy 
grain.  And Candy *had* paid me very well indeed; including most 
delightfully, in the coin that usually costs more than gold.
     "That's them," she replied; slipping the panties down, and 
standing there showing her full naked glory.  "This is me.  Who 
are you going to listen to?"
     Sadly (or gloriously, depending on your viewpoint) to say, I 
listened to my prick.  God, was she delightful to hold.  That 
video, if I ever get it, is going to be one HELL of a 
disappointment, after having a truly eager 10-year-old girl 
perform fellatio, anal sex, and full vaginal intercourse on and 
with me, repeatedly, and with encores for 29 minutes by the 
clock.  Twenty-nine minutes.  Exactly the time I left her in that 
room with Farci.  She was determined to wash out the old bad 
memory with the good one.  I was determined to help her.  After 
we finished, we had made quite a mess of that poor blanket.
     I watched her get dressed; too satiated to object to her 
going.  I did however, get a kiss.  Open-mouthed, and with pretty 
little pre-teen girl snuggling into your body, what more could a 
pedophile ask for?
     "If I were you," she told me while dressing, "I wouldn't 
leave the office Saturday afternoon."
     I had sudden visions of black limousines with bullets flying 
out and hitting my jerking body.  When a kid like Candy tells you 
not to go out, you stay in.  "What will happen if I do?" I asked.
     She giggled.  "It's what won't happen, that you'll miss," 
she replied.  "I expect you to have a TV and VCR set up here by 
the time I arrive."  Some detective I am.  This little girl kept 
making me look silly.  Of course the kid was out of school on 
Saturday, and could get away for an hour or two in the afternoon.  
Sometimes I'm so dense.
     "When I come here, Saturday," she said; lifting up the dress 
again to straighten the panties.  God what a beautiful sight.  "I 
want to watch the video with you, as many times as we can.  This 
isn't on the clock.  I want to sit there, and have you touch me, 
when he touches me on the film.  I want you inside me, when he 
goes inside me.  I want to feel you jerk inside me, when he fills 
me with his seed, and I want you to cuddle me when he makes me 
hurt.  Most of all, I want you to watch, and see him get what you 
could have gotten for free, but can never have now."
     God, kids can be cruel.  Not that I didn't deserve it 
though.  I KNEW how the kid had felt when offering me that first 
piece, even if she didn't remember it the same way ... a 
frightened little girl, about to be raped.  That's the REAL 
reason I took her to Farci first.  I didn't want to be the one to 
hurt her.  I wanted the kid to remember her first time with me 
fondly, not as pain or abuse.  So I pawned the job off onto an 
asshole who likes to abuse little girls ... or at least, doesn't 
care if he hurts them, as long as he get fun out of it.  "Doesn't 
care."  Suddenly I knew that criticism applied to me, about as 
harshly as it did to Farci, if not more so.





                                18


     Here I was the guy who was supposed to love little girls, 
even if other pedophiles only wanted in their pants.  My supposed 
"altruism"  in not taking the little girl's virginity was shown 
up for the pure selfishness it was.  Damn.  Candy KNEW!  Oh shit.  
I felt lower than a snake's belly in a swamp.
     Candy must have felt my jerk in pain, along with my guilt.  
"That's why there's no charge Saturday," she explained; holding 
me close to show she wasn't mad; which somehow made things even 
worse.  "You get all the sex with a little girl you want ... for 
one whole day ... but you have to see what you missed at the same 
time," she explained; not letting me pull away from her comfort.  
"Guilt for sex.  Is it worth it to you, Sam?"
     It was worth it.  The kid would be a GREAT psychiatrist, if 
she ever survived to grow up in the hellhole this town sometimes 
was.  I kissed the kid on the nose; and she turned it into a 
full-blown open-mouthed smooch that had the old pecker rising and 
ready to start all over again.
     "We'd better be careful," she giggled; squeezing almost 
regretfully out the door; pulling away from the clasping arm that 
hated to lose touch with that silky smooth skin, "or we'll find 
ourselves using up another half-hour, of the hour and a half we 
have left, before we're ready to."
     Damn, but it was tempting to do just that.
     I dreaded the day when that last half-hour would be gone.

                             The End
                            (For now)

       --------------------------------------------------

     The author, Frank McCoy, can be reached by responding to 
     this post in the newsgroups, by posting a message to either 
     of the newsgroups alt.fan.frank.mccoy, or alt.sex.stories.d. 
     or by email to: "Frank McCoy" <mccoyf@millcomm.com>
     Pedro Vila, the originator of the character "Sam Ped" can be 
     reached at:     "Sam Ped" <samped@MailAndNews.com>





















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