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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Labors of Love part 7 of 10 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LABORS OF LOVE
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Seven
He had awoken. The first thing he noticed was that, despite
their lovemaking the previous night, he was swollen and hard. It wasn’t
from any overuse of his implement, either. He was simply very erect.
He could feel his hardness between his legs and it hurt him, he was so
stiff.
Rolling over, he found Ginger was still asleep. He stroked her
long pigtails a moment, as if to ask for permission. Then, finding her
bottom quite available to him, he eased apart the cheeks of her seat.
She pulled away. She was sucking her thumb and his movement
must have brought her to the threshhold of wakefulness for now, as he
attempted to enter her, she flinched and drew her bottom away from him.
Well, it would have been rather rude, he thought, to fuck her
up her little ass, which he’d only ever conquered once, first thing in
the morning. But when he reached for her legs and tried to get those
apart she flinched at that too and he saw that, despite her utter
availability to him the night before, she wasn’t going to be cooperative
this morning.
He considered raping her. After all, she was His now, totally
and completely, for he’d stolen her. Actually they’d run away together
but according to some Police Guidelines he’d seen in the paper once
12-year-olds weren’t listed as runaways. They were listed as Missing
Children. And Ginger was 12, not 13 or 15, and she was quite a long way
from 18, still sucking her thumb when she slept and wearing her hair in
pigtails.
Chip had tried to get Ginger to quit wearing her hair in
pigtails. But she said she liked them because they kept her hair out of
her eyes. Now she lay with her back to him, but with her bare
bottomcheeks tensely closed, and he gazed at her ass and then at the
large pink ribbons she used to tie her hair into two separate strands.
He threw back the covers. He got up. He looked back at her,
lying nude on the bed. He was going to leave the covers drawn down and
make her reach for them herself. But at the last moment, perhaps so she
wouldn’t be too mad at him (whatever, indeed, she was mad about already
being enough) he laid the big thick coverlet of the bed and its interior
sheet back over her.
She wriggled as he placed the bed cover over her. She seemed
content. But she remained primly aloof from him so he decided to go
outside and cut some wood.
They were in a small cabin. They’d driven all afternoon since
he’d picked her up from school. He’d only been going to take her home
but they’d driven past her home, even though her mom was going to be
home at four and her dad at six. They’d driven to the edge of her
suburb, considering going away together, just leaving, and never coming
back. And then she’d told him to drive her home to get her teddy bear,
and she’d go with him.
He’d complained, told her they must keep going, not go back, it
might be Hexed to go back now that they’d decided to leave and live
together by themselves.
She’d reminded him her Pills were back in her bedroom.
He glanced at her clothes. They hung over the back of a chair
where he’d stripped them off her. Her schoolgirl’s blouse, her skirt,
and lying over them her training bra, which was becoming a bit small for
her. And on the seat of the chair, which he stooped and picked up and
moved to the floor, so he could sit down, was her teddy bear. Her pills
were in her purse which lay on a coffee table in front of the chair.
It was a big chair and he settled his bare hairy ass into it.
He sighed. He reached out from the chair and caught hold of his boots
and pulled them over to where he was sitting.
The fire had burned low. The cabin was small. He had no idea
whose cabin it was but he hoped they wouldn’t be visiting soon. Deep in
the forest they’d found it, high above the city and the suburb where she
lived, and they’d been happy when they’d found it because it had been
growing quite late and she’d had to go to the bathroom.
They’d escaped from the world and now he wondered what he was
going to do with her. He glanced over at her. She lay coquettishly in
the bed. He was facing her now, but she kept her eyes closed, sucking
her thumb. She was small and the bed was large. He couldn’t just leave
her and let her parents take care of her anymore, and visit her when he
pleased. He realized, with his cock hard between his legs, pulling his
boots on, that he couldn’t just go off to some orgy anymore. Now if he
met a woman he’d have to work out the relationship with the little child
sleeping in the bed across from his chair. He swore under his breath
and began lacing up his boots. Now she didn’t even want to fuck, and he
was as hard as the bedposts at the four corners of the bed, while she
lay all soft and cozy and quiet within the bed and pretended to be
happily asleep, even though he saw her peek at him once and he knew she
was just being difficult.
Was he married now? Technically he couldn’t marry her, no
state would marry him, a grown 21-year-old man, to a 12-year-old.
Another man might have simply disposed of her and gone on his way. He
glared at her. He finished tying his boots and got up from the chair.
He noticed how easily the thin long shoulder strap of her purse would
wrap around her slim little neck if he wanted it to.
There was a pair of men’s work gloves hanging from a nail by
the front door. He pulled them on. He flexed his hands in the leather
gloves and noticed how well they fit. Whoever owned this cabin had big
hands, like he did. He wondered how big the man was and if he could
take him if he should suddenly appear.
He glanced around the cabin. They hadn’t paid much attention
to it last night. They’d both gone straight to bed. Now he looked at
it more circumspectly, despite the hardness sticking straight out from
between his legs. He walked in his boots over to the fireplace. He was
careful not to step on the bearskin rug lying in front of the
fireplace. It might come in handy later, if Ginger’s morale should
improve. Sitting on the fireplace was a family photo. There was a
father, a man in his 40’s. There was a woman, who looked perhaps no
older than he, 21. He decided she must be a second wife, a trophy
wife. Then, also in the photo, there was a boy of about 6 and a girl
Ginger’s age. She had blonde hair instead of brown hair like Ginger and
he considered her appearance.
“Not bad,” he said. Then he scolded himself for in fact,
technically, he wasn’t actually interested in little girls. Ginger had
just kind of fallen in to his lap at Annette’s and somehow he’d gotten
involved with her. But it still revolted and frightened him that he
might be a pedophile and he assured himself that he wasn’t. He was just
with a 12-year-old girl, that’s all, and how they’d come to love each
other and feel that they had to both run away together was too
complicated for him to figure out at 8 o’clock in the morning.
Especially with a hard-on throbbing between his legs.
His pants were on the floor next to the chair. He looked at
her training bra draped over the back of the chair. He had to put his
hand on it to bend over and pick up his pants. It was soft and frilly
under his fingers. His pants were blue jeans, rough, wrinkled.
“Don’t put them on,” he heard a quiet voice say. For a moment
he thought perhaps the blonde girl whose father owned the cabin had
somehow appeared, perhaps was training a gun on him, and he whirled
about. But it was only little Ginger. She smiled at him. He wondered
if she was ready to fuck now but she still had the bedcover drawn
securely up to her chin.
“I have to go outside and cut up some firewood,” he told her.
“So?” she asked.
“You want me standing out there chopping firewood in the nude?”
he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
“I could call the police,” she said, and cast a meaningful
glance at the nightstand, where the phone sat.
“It’s turned off,” he replied. “I already checked it. They
must turn it off when they leave, turn it on when they visit.”
“Please don’t put your pants on,” she asked again, as he bent
to lift his leg and get his trousers on.
“Damn! You really want me to go out there buck naked to chop
firewood, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said again. “It’s my honeymoon and that’s how I
want you to be when you chop firewood for us.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said.
“I don’t have to,” she replied, and cast her eyes again at the
phone, which was turned off, but he caught her meaning.
“Okay, so you’re a stolen child now and I guess I’m supposed to
be freaking scared of you and obey your every wish from now on, unless,
that is, I decide to strangle you instead, like Polly Klaas.” He
deliberately put a deep frown on his face. He’d agreed to elope with
her, not to become her slave.
“Polly didn’t choose who she ran away with. I did,” Ginger
answered. She wriggled under the bedcovers and for a moment he wondered
if she had her hand between her thighs, but then he dismissed the
thought, for he preferred to think that she didn’t. It reminded himself
too much of himself when he had been 12, and his sessions under the bed
by himself at that age hadn’t exactly been sexy. Instead they’d been
rather Galactic, he thought, with rubber bands on his dick to prevent
the inevitable and a pile of his mom’s Sunday handkerchiefs next to the
bed for when it happened, which he’d inevitably used to rub himself,
even though he only stole them out of her linen drawer for the purpose
of cleaning up after himself. And always there’d been his Dad’s
Playboys, slipped from his Dad’s workroom during the night, and piled
with the centerfolds open all around himself. His bed at age 12 had a
bedcover with autos racing up and down it, but he’d only ever thought
about girls under that bedcover, never about the Indy 500, which he
supposed was what normal boys under their bedcovers thought about.
Now little Ginger, quite mature for her years, was maybe
frigging herself as she watched him, hugely erect, wearing his workmen’s
boots and gloves, as he threatened to strangle her.
“I can’t get up until you’ve got the fire going and put some
heat into this place,” she admonished him. Then, perhaps as an
inducement, she added, “You do want breakfast, don’t you?”
“I’m not real big on Lucky Charms,” he replied.
“No, we’ll have eggs and bacon and toast!” she said. She
looked at him, wide-eyed, and he realized he was going to be stuck with
her and her 12-year-old voice and her big, 12-year-old eyes, and her
pigtails with their big pink bows. But she was right. He wasn’t about
to strangle her, even if he had been in the Army four years and been
taught quite well how to do it, for she had chosen him, and his strength
would be used to please and protect her, not to kill her.
“If you even hear the slightest sound of somebody coming you’d
better get your ass out there and tell me,” he growled at her. “It’s
bad enough I should have to break into this place to give you someplace
to use the bathroom. Now you want me out back chopping wood with my ass
bare!”
She giggled. She drew the bedcover up to her nose.
“Get your ass to Mars,” she said.
“You wish,” he thundered. “You couldn’t even drive yourself
home if I did.”
“I can drive,” she answered. But she knew she couldn’t and he
saw her shrink a little bit after she said it, for she realized she was
as much his captive as any girl could be, even if she was telling him
what to wear.
He stepped outside into the depths of the forest. He inhaled
the still forest air and felt rather like Paul Bunyan, except Paul
Bunyan wore pants, and wasn’t, as far as he knew, in the habit of making
off with men’s 12-year-old daughters.
Well, that was all water under the bridge, he told himself
now. It was the next day, not last night, and Ginger couldn’t slip home
anymore and tell her mom she’d been at a friend’s. She was Gone now,
and he was sure she must be on the morning news, perhaps even on Good
Morning America, with her picture from the 6th grade flashed around the
country because she’d been sick the day her school took the 7th grade
photos.
He glanced around the forest. There was nothing but silence.
They were together, alone, in the wild untamed forest, and he felt free
and at the same time worried, looking at his Camaro, for they were in a
cabin owned by someone else and he had no idea when the owners might
show up. He hoped they decided to vacation in Belize this year. He
wondered at a world that gave him nothing except an old Camaro, despite
his four years in the Army, but gave a 40-something old man a cabin and
a house and a trophy wife. He was young and hard and the man was old
and balding, and he and Ginger needed someplace to call their own, but
instead they had noplace, were even being hunted now, while the
40-something man had two of everything; two homes, one in the woods, two
wives, one a trophy, and two kids, one of whom was even a blonde, not a
brunette like Ginger.
Chip flexed his arms and felt his strength. He was young and
quick and, looking down at himself in the chilly morning air, he saw he
was hard. Perhaps they could survive together, he and Ginger, despite
having everything against them. He looked again at his Camaro. It
might be old, with leaves falling on it as it sat in the woods, but he’d
tuned it up good and it was fast.
Chip tromped out back in his boots. Over his shoulder he
carried an axe. Ginger had grown quite small in the bed when he’d
picked it up in the cabin. For a moment all the old horror movies had
flashed through his head, and simultaneously through hers, about big men
in the woods stalking girl children with axes to cut off their limbs.
But he was going to chop wood, not her, so when he walked over to her,
deliberately scaring her, he bent, the axe over his shoulder, and he
kissed her cheek, lifting up the covers to expose it.
A squirl darted across the forest floor. It sought refuge in
the wood pile. Chip walked over to the woodpile and raised his axe. He
hoped Ginger wasn’t watching because he wanted to scare the shit out of
the squirrel. He brought his axe down hard on the wood. He had to be
careful as he swung it, which pissed him off, because his dick was in
the way and he didn’t want to sever it from his body. It would be just
like a little girl like Ginger to escape the Axe-Man in the Woods and
get him to dismember his penis.
The sound of the axe echoed through the woods. Chip liked the
quick, powerful sound it made. He hoped there weren’t any cabins nearby
that could hear it. Especially cabins wired with Good Morning America.
Chip banged away at the wood and eventually the squirrel gave up hope on
its refuge and darted out, and Chip, maliciously, threw the axe at it.
Of course he missed. He had to go round the wood pile and pick
up the axe where it had cloven the dirt and stood stiffly in the earth,
its blade buried in it, sticking upright like his erection. Chip
scraped the axe against the wood on the wood pile to get the dirt off
the blade. As he looked up to begin his work again he stopped short.
There, smiling at him, holding a camera, was Ginger. Her hair
was long and lovely and she’d undone it, replacing her pink ponytails
with a simple scarf that she’d tied somehow in the back of her hair,
using the scarf not to cover her head but to knot a long lock of hair in
it, and let it hang down, where it blew softly in the breeze, as if it
were part of the long mane of her auburn hair which now stretched down
and almost covered her breasts.
Ginger tossed her hair. It fell back from her bosoms and Chip
felt a thrill of excitement run up his cock as he saw her lovely naked
breasts sticking up, all pointy, her nipples like little twin peaks of
pink coral in the chilled morning air. She wore drop seat pajama
pants. They must have belonged to the girl whose father owned the
cabin, Chip realized. They didn’t button or zipper, but instead had a
soft rope as a drawstring. Ginger had tied the drawstring around her
waist. Her hips curved within and above the pants. Her belly was
bare. Her feet were bare on the soft leaf-strewn forest floor and when
she turned slightly Chip saw that the back of her drop seat pants was
open, revealing her bottom. She hadn’t bothered to button it up. Her
naked ass stuck out of the pants and he knew it must be chilly. He
longed to seize it and thrust himself in it and perhaps to spank it
beforehand, to warm it for her.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked her.
“I’m taking my Honeymoon pictures,” she explained. She tossed
her hair back from her eyes and lifted the camera up to her face and
snapped a picture of him standing there with his axe, all naked except
for his boots and his work gloves, with his cock sticking out quite
involuntarily at her.
“Now we’ll have to steal their camera,” he told her.
“I don’t care,” she replied. “I want my honeymoon pictures.”
“There,” he said vengefully. He stuck his penis out at her.
She laughed and snapped another picture of him. Her bellybutton moved
within the flat expanse of her undulating belly as she laughed at him.
He longed to stuff himself up between her legs and fuck her and damn the
Pills, he wanted to see her little tummy swell with his seed and he
wanted Sons by her, and Daughters, and he wanted to be Abraham and
together they’d find the Promised Land together and live happily ever
after.
She darted about him, snapping photos.
“Your ass is going to get cold sticking out of your pants like
that,” he told her.
“I know,” she answered, with a toss of her long hair, taking
another picture.
“Why don’t you let me at least fasten it up in back for you?”
he asked.
“Oh no,” she giggled, smiling broadly. “I know what would
happen. I’d wind up over your knee instead, and you’d paddle me for
something.”
He mused, put a hand to his unshaven chin. She took his
photo. “You’re right,” he answered. “You’re pretty smart for a 12 year
old.”
“And you’re pretty stiff and I’ll bet you’re hungry too. Bring
in the wood and get our cabin warm and I’ll fix you breakfast,” she told
him. “Bacon and eggs,” she added.
“You know you’re probably in the newspapers and on T.V. this
morning,” he said to her. He wondered if they should hurry up and get
in his Camaro and take off, now that they’d had some sleep, or if they
should stay at the cabin, not knowing when they might be discovered.
“Do you think I could get, you know, a modelling job when I go
back?” she asked him.
“I’m sure I couldn’t,” he answered.
“No, I mean, now that I’m probably known by everyone, and
they’re worried about me, maybe I could be a model when I go back. The
girl in the Guess jeans, or Calvin Klein, with nothing coming between me
and my Calvins.”
“Right now there’s nothing coming between you and those drop
seat pants and that bare little ass of yours,” he said to her. And
suddenly he was chasing her, and she was running from him. He was
laughing and, despite the fact that he was carrying the axe and was hard
as a post besides, she was giggling. She escaped into the cabin but she
didn’t lock the door and he came in after her.
They made love by the fireplace. He got her drop seat pants
off, making her completely nude, and they lay together kissing on the
bearskin rug. The fire was still burning low and it was cold in the
cabin but they were both so heated in their passion for each other that
neither of them noticed until it was all over. He made love to her in
his boots, with his leather work gloves still on, and with his axe lying
right beside the bearskin. They did it frontwards and then he turned
her over and he made her kneel for him and he kissed her bottom and
entered her from behind. He liked doing her from behind. It felt
forbidden and he loved the feel of her soft warm child’s bottom bulbing
into his loins. He was too eager to take her ass, so he penetrated her
pussy instead, and he kissed her, and hugged her, and held her under him
as if she were just some small accessory to his body, some little thing
he put under himself to have something soft to shoot into, as if he were
still a boy, finding obscene ways to jack himself off.
Except she wasn’t just a small inanimate thing, but a girl, and
when they were finished she stood up, and brushed back her hair, and he
saw with amazement her gently curving hips, and her growing breasts, and
it delighted him to think he had this young little captive all to
himself, in a cabin deep in the woods that had a phone that didn’t work,
with his car outside that only he could drive.
She smiled down at him. Her lips were pink and her eyes were
dark and glowing. She seemed, as she looked down at him, to be the
Queen of Sheba, despite being alive only 12 years, and suddenly he
wasn’t sure who was master and who was slave anymore, for a female’s
face, even gazing in love at a man, can possess and control him deeply
and thorougly. He felt his naked ass on the bearskin rug and he
remembered his hard bunk in the barracks in the Army, and this new
sensation was wonderful. He could feel his loins between his legs.
They felt exhausted at the moment but he knew he’d Rise Again, whether
the South ever did or not, and she knew that too, gazing down at him,
playing with the lenth of colored scarf that she’d tied into her hair.
“I need to take a bath,” she said to him. She smiled, twirled
her finger in the scarf. “Come along and I’ll wash you.”
He got up. He felt himself stiffening a little.
“Sometimes I scrub the horses at the horse ranch,” she said to
him admiringly. She walked toward the bathroom and he followed her.
The small satiny seat of her bare fanny wiggled in front of him as she
walked. She gazed back at him, her eyes competing for his attention.
“I didn’t know you rode horses,” he said to her.
“It’s pretty fun,” she replied.
The entered the bathroom. It was a small cold tiled room.
There was a tub with faucets but he saw there was also a bucket, and he
had noticed a pump outside, and he guessed that water could be brought
in and heated over the fire and poured into the tub if a couple wanted
an old-fashioned bath.
Ginger bent over the tub and turned on the water. The pipes
belched and for a moment bad-looking water came out, as if the pipes
hadn’t been used for awhile, and then fresh water flowed from the tap.
Ginger put down the tub’s stopper to catch it.
Chip peed in the toilet and flushed it. Ginger added a
sprinkle of Lavender bath scent to the tub’s rising water.
“Get in, you big horse, it’s time for your weekly bath,” she
teased him. She held up a hand-held scrub brush. It looked big in her
small 12-year-old hand. He saw she’d painted her nails but the
fingernail polish was flaking off, because she was a child still, and
didn’t keep at it as regularly as a woman would have.
Chip walked over to the tub and joined her, stepping into it as
she brushed the scrub brush over his bare hairy ass, getting him right
in his crack with the bristles.
“Ow! Wait ‘til there’s some soap and water on my ass,” he told
her. She hopped into the tub behind him.
“I know all about scrubbing horses,” she told him.
“How did you ever reach high enough to scrub them?” he asked
her.
“I stood on a bucket,” she said. “An upside down one.” She
stood on her tip-toes in the tub and scrubbed his broad shoulders,
bending and wetting the brush first, so she wouldn’t hurt him. Lavender
bubbles bloomed around his ankles.
Chip placed his hands on her waist. He kissed the top of her
head.
“Let me wash you,” she said. She placed her fingertips on his
shoulder and gently pushed him down into the tub. He sat down, spread
his knees, felt his ass against the hard porcelain of the tub and the
lavender soap bubbles growing and blossoming around his loins. He did
feel like a horse, he mused, all unshaven and wild-haired, for he hadn’t
combed his hair this morning, and with his muscles tense from chopping
wood and from the precariousness of their situation. Like an elf,
kneeling in front of him, her soft pretty bottom resting on her heels,
Ginger went to work on him. Her colored strand of scarf was still
knotted into her hair and her hair brushed his skin softly. The water
rose slowly around them. It was warm. The Lavender bubbles gave off a
scent of wine, or grapes ripe with autumn, a heady lovely scent that
didn’t smell anything like the barracks soap and the smell of 20 men in
a shower that Chip was used to.
With soft, tender hands, little Ginger soothed Chip’s hard
muscles. Lightly she applied the scrub brush to his big frame and
gradually he let himself settle back in the bath until he was almost
lying down, with his head resting against the back of the tub, and she
was squatting over him. He felt himself grow. She noticed. Lightly
she laid the brush aside and, just as if she might be mounting a horse,
she took possession of his penis.
“Not here. Not in the bath,” he said. He was afraid whoever
owned the cabin might come home and he might not be able to hear them at
the back of the cabin, with the water still running into the tub.
But she was insistent. He realized she would not be deterred
and he sat up, briefly, and shut off the tub’s tap water as she got hold
of him and began the not entirely easy process of getting his hard cock
up between her legs.
“You need vaseline,” he said. Neither of them were quite as
wet as they’d been when they’d rushed in together from the woods. He
looked about the bathroom.
“Relax,” she told him. Lightly she touched his erection and
she held her fingers to it as she dismounted from atop his body. She
rose from the bath and stepped out of it. Her movements were
fairy-like. She acted as if she were in a play at school, moving
self-consciously, aware of eyes on her body. She tip-toed across the
bathroom floor and opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink.
She returned with a tube of KY jelly. She got into the tub
again and she popped open the KY. She knelt below his waistline,
kneeing her small knees between his legs, and she squirted KY onto his
big erect penis. She smoothed it around, all over his stiff erection,
and he noticed again how the fingernail polish had flaked in places off
her fingernails.
Then, with him feeling wonderfully possessed, she mounted him
and slid his huge length into her, grimacing as he went up into her
depths, yet guiding him, taking charge of him. Then they began moving
together, and she leaned forward and kissed him and he reached for her
breasts.
Quietly they fucked together. They took a long time doing it.
He had good control of himself, for he’d let off steam already twice
this morning. She was confident atop him and she rode him at times like
a young conqueror, tossing back her head, relishing the feel of him up
inside her, pulsing inside her as she gyrated atop him. She would close
her eyes and toss her head back and she reminded him a little of a child
on an amusement park horse, bouncing up and down outside a grocery store
or at the fair, but she was a full-grown 12-year-old, with full budding
breasts and a colored scarf tied sexily into her long flowing hair.
Eventually their passion mounted to a fever pitch. Her cries
echoed in the bathroom and he knew they were carrying out into the
forest and he hoped nobody who’d seen her on Good Morning America was
driving up the dirt road that led to the cabin, or out on the main
asphalt road that ran through the forest a mile away. She was
screaming, this little kidnapped girl, but he was underneath her and she
was on top of him and even though he grabbed hold of her breasts he was
forced to lift them with his hands as she lifted her body up, and to
pull down on them when she settled down upon him. He was her steed, she
was the rider. His duty was to remain hard, to remain in control of his
erection, not to control her. She rode with vigor and he must keep her
happy. Only later, when she had enjoyed a good, long ride, was he
permitted to find satisfaction for himself, and he jetted up within her
lustily, groaning at the hot passion of it, for at any moment someone
might have walked in on them, hearing her screams, and he would have
been on Good Morning America too then, except in chains and leg irons.
“You’re a good horsey,” she told him afterward, leaning down
over him and hugging him. “Now let me give you a good, proper bath, and
one for me too, and then I’ll feed you your oats.”
“You said bacon and eggs,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yeah. I hope I can figure out how to crack eggs without
getting them all over the place. Usually my mom does it.”
“Well, I don’t know how to crack eggs,” he replied. “We just
ate rations and stuff in the Army. Or we ate at the mess hall.”
“We’ll figure it out together,” she told him. She kissed his
lips. “If you go to prison for stealing me I’ll even bring you bacon
and eggs in prison,” she assured him.
“I don’t think they’d allow that,” he replied.
“Well then be a good horsey and do just as I say and I’m sure
everything will be wonderful,” she said.
And he supposed it would be, assuming no one walked in on them
and he kept his Camaro running okay and he found some way to get money
without stealing it from banks. And assuming, of course, all their
fucking didn’t get her pregnant. He didn’t know anything about
delivering babies and a 12-year-old in the maternity ward of a hospital
wasn’t exactly an everyday sight. But somehow they’d work it out, he
hoped, and just in case it didn’t there were photos already taken for
the National Enquirer of him buck naked with his axe.
After their bath they discovered, quite disappointedly, that a
cabin no one had visited for a year didn’t have fresh eggs waiting in
the refrigerator.
“I guess we’ll have to go into town,” Chip mused. He had no
idea if there was a town and then he remembered that Ginger was ‘hot’
now and not the best person to be seen walking around with. Especially
with the two of them buying groceries, he too young to have her as his
daughter, and she being conspicuously out and about during school hours.
“Hmmm, no butter, no milk, no...” she kept listing what wasn’t
in the refrigerator, but Chip quit listening and began rummaging about
in the cabinets.
“Can people survive on DeCaf?” he asked aloud. He tried to
remember back to his Army days.
“I don’t want to survive on DeCaf,” Ginger answred. She closed
the refrigerator door and put her hands on her bare hips and gazed at
him. Her tummy stuck out, a little like a child’s tummy, and she
scrunched up her nose.
“You’re a man,” she told him. “You should have a job and then
we’ll have money.”
“What do you want me to do, become a policeman?” he asked her.
Ginger considered this possibility. “No,” she finally
concluded. “That would keep you out at night.” She tossed her hair.
She’d left it loose to please him during his breakfast. “Maybe there’s
a logging plant around here.” She giggled. “God knows you know how to
make them in the toilet!”
“Yeah I make big turds and you make little turds but still we
only have one can of DeCaf between us,” Chip said. “I don’t think you
can make a lot of turds over the long haul on one can of DeCaf.”
“I suppose now we could have a Newlywed’s fight about money and
stuff,” she said. Her eyes fell level with his loins and he felt
himself stiffen under her eyes. They were large and luminous and she
was hungry and she licked her lips, absently.
“I could ‘make’ breakfast for you,” he teased.
“But what will you eat?” she asked, quite seriously, looking up
at him.
“Your tits,” he replied. She gazed down at them. They were
small junior high tits but they had a nice swell to them and they lifted
sweetly up from her chest, a pointed nipple topping each, like
stiff-stemmed cherries on a twin scoop of vanilla ice cream. Ginger
still had a tan from playing in her backyard pool and her brown limbs
contrasted alluringly with the whiteness of her breasts and her bottom
and the space of skin around her pubic thatch where her swimsuit usually
covered her.
“My tits don’t give milk. I’m not pregnant,” she told him.
“Then I guess we’ll have to go shopping,” he said. He was low
on money and it had been stupid for them to run away together with him
not even saving any money beforehand.
“If we sneak back home I can get my piggybank,” she told him.
“I have $5.00 saved up in it.”
“Wow,” he said. “Big saver, huh?”
“It would get us eggs at least, plus maybe some bubblegum,” she
added.
“How do I manage to have sex with, like, 20 women, half of whom
would happily pay for me for the rest of my life, and then instead wind
up with you, a 12-year-old with a teddy bear and $5.00 in a piggy bank
you don’t even have with you?”
She stood with her hips thrust out at him, quite
absentmindedly, for her thoughts were elsewhere, not on her nakedness or
on his nude loins that were slowly stiffening in front of her. He gazed
down at her fleecy thatch, at her bare thighs and her long legs that
stretched to the floor where she stood barefoot.
“I guess we’re just two stupid people,” she said. “Me with no
money and you with no job even though I told you to get one a whole week
ago.” She looked up at him accusingly.
He decided he loved her then, despite the illegality of it, and
the difficulty. Somehow she was worth more because she was difficult to
have, not less. Sure he could have been a pampered boytoy for some
woman, but instead he felt more like a man with her, this small child,
for she was quite dependent on him. He bent forward and his shoulders,
he noticed, were very broad, compared to her little shoulders, and she
must have noticed it too, for when he kissed her she opened her mouth
and he was able to stab his tongue into her.
“I’ll figure out something,” he told her. He stood erect
again. He looked at her little body and it worried him deeply that she
wasn’t eating any breakfast yet, despite the fact that it was almost
noon, for her lovely tits needed to grow more if he ever hoped to have
her nourish his children with them.
In the event he was as big as a Cedar pine and he put his hands
to her shoulders and put pressure on them.
“Bend down,” he told her. “There’s got to be some nourishment
in sperm.”
Looking up at him, she knelt. Her eyes were wide and as he
presented himself to her they both felt, somehow, that it wasn’t quite
for the sake of passion, but to keep her fed. She touched him
tentatively. Then she pushed her hair back from her face, to keep it
from getting all spermy, and she opened her lips and with difficulty she
introduced him into her mouth.
“Suck,” he told her. “It’s better than decaf, anyway.”
“Mmmf, don’t shoot all ofer my chin and my tits and stuff,
hokay?” she asked over the rim of his cock.
“I’ll try not to,” he replied. “Just let it lay on your
tongue, yeah, and I’ll try not to shaft it in and out of your mouth.
There...” he said. He touched his fingers to her head and felt her
bath-perfumed hair under his fingertips. She’d used Strawberry shampoo
and he could smell it in her long brown hair and he suddenly arched his
hips forward, impulsively.
“You saith you wouldn’th fuck meee,” she complained. Her wet
mouth opened and pulled him back, so that only his cockhead again rested
within her.
“Sorry,” he breathed. Even with just the head of his penis in
her nonetheless it was quite a mouthful for her, and it made her cheeks
swell out from her face. He gazed at the long stem of his manhood
throbbing in the air. He hoped no one appeared suddenly at the door.
The thought of the man, with his trophy wife, and his blonde 12-year-old
daughter suddenly walking in and seeing them made his balls roil.
“This is for food, not sexth,” she reminded him, feeling his
hips lurch.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She suckled the head of his cock. He felt like he was giving
nourishment to a baby. He felt her tongue touch his pee hole and he
felt it swirl around the flange of his cockhead that was just inside her
lips. She sucked on him like a straw, waiting for his milkshake load of
vanilla sperm to spout from his balls.
“Well?” she asked, looking up at him, when nothing had come out
yet.
“Keep sucking,” he replied. “I’m enjoying this.”
“Ith noth for enJOYmenth!” she reminded him.
“I know but...” he grimaced. She’d tried to stick the tip of
her tongue into his peehole, as if she might be able to get at his sperm
that way. He remembered how scared she’d been of his pee hole, yet now
she attacked it.
“Rub my cock,” he instructed her. She clasped him quickly,
like a child might grab a favorite toy, and she rubbed him in a
utilitarian fashion. He felt like a water pump. He ran his fingers
through her hair and she shook her head, as if to remind him that they
weren’t having sex, he was feeding her.
“Ahh, watch out,” he said lustily. “I can feel it coming...”
“GOOTH!” she answered. “I hungry!” Her words were muffled by
his cock in her mouth and, quite suddenly, breaking their agreement, he
shafted himself deep into her. “Noooo!” she gasped. Her eyes widened.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” he told her. And he couldn’t.
He was lusty and hard and he rammed himself deep into her, gagging her,
and then he pulled back a little, but only to stick himself into her
again, right into her throat, with her protesting and trying to cry out
over his erection.
In a minute he was coming and he shot into her throat and then
he pulled back and accidentally popped out of her mouth and he sprayed
her all over her face and then, as she tried to escape him, he grabbed
her freshly washed hair and he spurted his sticky cum into her long
brown little girl locks.
“Eeek! No! I’ll have to wash my hair again!” she warned him.
But he was a lion now, and she was just a tanned little gazelle, quite
unable to resist him. He fucked her hair and her face and he grabbed
her and held her head against the length of his loins until he had
spurted his seed out completely.
Ginger got up to her feet. She tried to wipe her face with her
hands but it only spread the sticky goo of his sperm onto her hands,
doing little for her face. She patted her belly, trying to get his
stuff of her palms, but that only made handprinted sperm marks on her
tummy. She wiped her hands on her hips and that made her hips all
gooey.
“I’m going to call you Old Faithful,” she told him. “You come
every hour and you spray yourself all over the place.”
“Well, did you get some inside you?” he asked.
“Of course not. You popped out,” she said.
“Well I tried not to,” he replied.
“Well you were GAGGING me with that thing!” she said, pointing
to his penis. “I have to breathe too, you know.”
“I guess we’ll have to practise at it,” he said.
“Yeah,” she answered. And he loved the idea of making her
learn to take him all the way down her throat, her lovely neck that
should have been arched up attentively in school, listening to an
Algebra lesson, but was instead here in a cabin in the woods with him,
nodding in agreement that she should learn to deep-throat him. Ginger
Does Chip. Ginger, the little 12-year-old girl, with her teddy bear
sitting in the corner, does Chip, the full-grown man who’d been in the
Army four long years.
“I’ll wash your hair for you if you like,” he said to her.
“I can wash it,” she answered. She looked about. “You get
some wood and put it on the fire so we don’t have to start it up again.”
“Okay,” he replied. He noticed that it was quite cold in the
cabin now, but the bathwater had been warm and their bodies had been
heated after their bath together. But now he was chilly and she was
chilly and he could see little prickles standing up on her arms and
legs. She got a washcloth out of a drawer and wet it under the sink’s
faucet and wiped his loins.
“Put on your clothes before you go out,” she told him. “It’s
cold out there.”
“Thank you, m’lady,” he replied.
“And don’t call me m’lady,” she said. “I’m a princess, not a
queen.”
“Well you’re a stolen princess now, and if we’re on a honeymoon
together I think that makes you a Queen,” he said.
“Not yet. I’m only 12,” she answered. “I still want to be a
princess.”
“I don’t think feeding you sperm is going to work though,” he
said.
“Only for fun, you still need to get a job to feed me
properly,” she said. She turned around and rinsed the sperm-laden
washcloth under the faucet. He gazed at her small child’s bottom and
wished he was hard again so he could stick himself up her ass.
“There,” she said. She folded the wet washcloth over the
sink’s long-necked faucet. She turned. “Go chop some wood and I’ll go
wash my hair.” She smiled. “Then I’ll ride you into town.”
“Lady Godiva wouldn’t go over too well in 1990’s America,” he
told her.
She grinned. She had new, 12-year-old’s teeth, with her canine
teeth still coming in. “You worry about getting a job and I’ll take
care of what I wear and how we spend the money,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Priority number one, Bubble gum. Priority
number two, lollipops....”
“No, diamonds come first, then emeralds,” Ginger said, screwing
her eyes up to the ceiling and counting with her fingers. Chip gazed at
her belly button and wondered if she were serious.
“Lemme stick to chopping wood for the moment,” he said. He
turned away as Ginger added pearls to her grocery list and rubies.
“Well don’t get hard out there. I don’t want to have to get
fucked the minute you come in. I’m quite hungry now and we don’t need
any more fooling around,” she told him.
“Take one of those pills you’ve got in your purse while you’re
in the bathroom,” Chip told her, picking up his axe.
“Yes, master,” she answered. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Then she walked briskly past him, heading for the bathroom, with her
lovely hips in full swing and her hair swishing across her nude back.
He gazed longingly after her, and he knew that he’d find some way to
satisfy her fantasies, at least a little, even if it meant he had to
hire himself out to chop wood all day and all night.
30
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