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o o
o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety o
o of stories. They have been submitted by people from o
o all over the world. Also from alt.sex.stories (News o
o groups). There is no particular order other than o
o offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
o o
o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not o
o be used for profit without obtaining the author's o
o permission in advance. o
o o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult o
o entertainment and should not be read by minors. o
o o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
The Caretaker
by Joanne Rabbit (joannerabbit@yahoo.co.uk)
***
A young girl's first sexual experience. (Mg, preteen,
ped, reluc, 1st)
***
I liked the caretaker as soon as I saw him. I used to
come down in the lift to the ground floor of our block
of flats and wait for the school bus with my older
brother. He had a friend who lived on the floor below us
and the two of them used to horse around together,
leaving me to my own devices while we waited. The
caretaker saw me on my own and used to smile and wink at
me, making silly faces to make me laugh. And I did
laugh. I liked to make people happy.
We lived in Beirut, where my father was working for a
bank. Although the school I went to was a British school
for expats, I was still, as children do, picking up a
little Arabic from kids and shopkeepers and our own
Lebanese maid. The caretaker seemed old to me – he was
probably 45 or 50, skinny and nearly always unshaven.
He always wore the same pair of dirty trousers – they
looked as if they had once been part of a cheap suit –
and a shirt with a grubby white vest underneath. He used
to talk to me in Arabic – he didn't speak any English. I
didn't always know what he was saying, but I knew he was
being friendly and I would learn odd words and phrases
from him. As we got to know each other a little better –
well, maybe I mean as we got a little more comfortable
with each other, because there wasn't much "knowing"
going on – we got a more relaxed and we would chat a
little.
One day he asked me to go with him back behind the
counter where he sat. I was a little nervous but also
curious as to what there was back there. I followed him
as he led me into a little flat. There was a scruffy,
poorly furnished living room with a sofa and a tv, and a
small kitchenette at one end, with a couple of rings
above a stove. He poured me a glass of milk from his
fridge and we sat on the sofa and chatted for a while.
After five minutes or so, my brother called and I ran
out and got on the bus.
The next day the same thing happened. He invited me back
and I went willingly. I had a glass of milk and we
chatted, side by side, and when the bus came I happily
skipped out and got on the bus; and so a routine was
established. He would often drink a glass of hot, sweet
tea. Lebanese Arabs are generally friendly, tactile
people.
It's not uncommon to see men (perfectly straight, macho,
heterosexual men) walking down the road hand in hand.
And they were always enchanted by me. Blonde, white-
haired almost, with a golden tan from all those days on
the beach, small and skinny, I was a little 7-yr old
angel. Often strangers would pinch my cheeks, laughing
as they did, saying "ya helwa". I hated it – because it
really hurt – but would put up with it, because it
showed that they liked me.
The caretaker was no more or less touchy than anyone
else. He was fascinated by my hair and would stroke it
and, of course, pinch my cheeks. I wriggled. But as the
days and weeks passed, he got a little more friendly.
As I went through into his flat he would ruffle my hair,
or maybe pat me on the bum, or hold my shoulder, gently,
in a friendly way. I didn't even notice. All grown-ups
seemed to behave the same way. I have to give him
credit. He had patience in abundance. He moved slowly,
glacially slowly and I never felt the least disquiet or
concern.
One day when I went back, the sofa had a big box on it.
The caretaker laughed and said something I didn't
understand, and when he got me my milk he sat on the
only chair left and, with his knees apart, beckoned me
over. As I approached he turned me and I backed into the
space between his thighs, half sitting, half leaning
between his thighs, holding my glass of milk with both
hands. His hands sat, naturally, on my hips and he
started, gently to stroke. I paid no attention; perhaps
he was emboldened by my acceptance.
He pulled me back a little more until my bum rested
firmly in his crotch. I could feel a hardness, but,
completely ignorant of what it meant, I nestled against
him. One hand slid forward and round, flat against my
belly on the waistband of my grey school skirt. It
stroked gently, almost tickling. It felt nice. His face
slid over my shoulder, his cheek in my hair, his lips
next to my ear.
He was whispering I know not what and I was hearing but
not listening, enjoying being petted. His right hand
stroked my belly, his fingers toying with my belly
button, and his left hand swept down from my hip onto my
thigh, below the hem of my skirt. And then it moved up,
slowly, slowly, teasing and tickling, rising and
retreating. There was nothing sexual in this for me.
I was like a dog being stroked, its belly scratched;
while he kept moving, I would stay still. And then, on
an upstroke, the edge of his hand, the side of his index
finger, hard and calloused, brushed against my baby pink
knickers. I knew, instantly, that a line had been
crossed. But I had no idea what to do about it, what it
meant. He paused and I froze. And then his voice started
in my ear again and his hand moved more firmly to cup my
little mound, my child's pudendum. He kissed me then. At
first on the cheek, and then on my ear, in my ear and
his tongue snaked out and licked it.
Again, it wasn't sexual for me, and it wasn't nice. I
squirmed and his right hand came up to hold my head, to
turn it so that my face came round to his and his lips
met mine. A dry kiss at first, and then a lot more.
Short ones, getting longer. And then, inevitably, his
tongue slipped out again, licking at my lips, worming
its way between them.
I knew what he wanted and, reluctantly, not knowing what
else I could do, I yielded, opened for him and his
tongue, tasting of bitter tobacco, dripping thick gobs
of saliva, forced its way in, thick and big, filling my
mouth uncomfortably. My brother called and I turned and,
pushing myself away, I walked unsteadily out to get on
the bus, trying hard to understand what had just
happened.
The next day, I didn't go down so early, deliberately
making myself late so that I rushed downstairs and
straight on the bus. As I ran through the lobby, I saw
him out of the corner of my eye. He gave a little wave
and suddenly I felt sorry for him.
I knew, somehow, that he had been worried about whether
I would divulge our secret. At least he knew when he saw
me that I hadn't said anything. I gave a wave back and a
smile and climbed on to the bus. As I settled into my
seat I felt happier than I had been; I looked out of the
window at the caretaker as we drove off. He was standing
at the entrance to the apartment block, watching the
bus.
The next day was a Saturday: no school for two days.
Over the weekend I came and went with my mum and a
couple of friends, each time, making sure that I said
hello to Karim. He smiled as usual and always greeted me
in the same friendly way. "Marhaba, Joanne, sabah'l
kheir."
"Sabah'l nur, Karim."
On Sunday I spent the afternoon with my best friend,
Bobbi. Bobbi was an American Lebanese girl and her
family often took me to the swimming pool. It was
outside, with an Olympic size pool and a diving pool
which was so deep it made your ears hurt and your lungs
feel like bursting. The water in the diving pool was
cold as you got deeper. It had a hugely high platform to
jump off; I spent many hours standing at the top,
looking down, trying to pluck up the courage to jump. I
did it once, but never again.
When we left, Bobbi's mum dropped me off at the door of
the apartment block. I skipped in, waving at them as
they watched to make sure I went in safely. And there
was the caretaker. "Masaal kheir, Joanne," he said.
"Masaal nur, Karim," I replied.
He beckoned me over "taal (come)," he said. I paused
briefly and then went with him. He let me past and then
followed me into his little flat. He poured me a glass
of milk while I stood and then sat on the same plastic
upright chair and pulled me firmly but gently between
his legs, turning me as he did so, so that, once again.
I nestled against his crotch. I sipped at my milk and he
hugged me gently before starting to stroke my hair,
hooking a finger into my hair to pull it back over my
ear. I drifted away, soothed by the stroking, cocking my
head to one side so that his fingers could get access to
the side of my neck, where they tickled. I was as if
hypnotised; I could stay like that forever.
His left had dropped, circled my waist, pulling me
closer, so that the hard lump rested between the cheeks
of my bum. His hand then stroked at my belly, circling,
caressing, exploring. For me there was still nothing
sexual about the feelings; but I did know that what we
were doing was forbidden – and that there would be a
price I would have to pay. But, like all children,
instant gratification won over fear of future
consequences. I opened myself up to the caresses,
enjoying them for the moment and ignoring what I knew
would come.
And sure enough, as I was transported by the simple
pleasure of his hands, his cheek, rough with stubble,
came up against my cheek. I started to notice his
breath, sour with the little brown cigarettes he smoked.
He kissed my ear, kissed my jaw, whispering sweetness or
obscenities in Arabic, wheedling, coaxing, his lips on
the corner of my mouth, planting little butterfly
kisses.
Then, as before, his hand holding my head, turning it
towards him and his mouth on mine fully now, his tongue
pushing between my lips, at first gentle and insinuating
and then cruder, insistent, stretching my mouth open,
filling it, warm, wriggling, wet and bitter, reaching
deep towards the back of my mouth till I almost felt I
would have to swallow it.
My mind was fully occupied with the enormity of what was
happening to my face, so I didn't even notice when
exactly his hand descended from my stomach to under my
skirt. But descend it must have, because suddenly his
large hand cupped my vulva, one finger lying along the
length of my labia, and squeezing between them through
my knickers.
I was half standing, half sitting on his groin. He stood
me up, still facing away from him and pulled my
underwear down. His hand moved behind me and clutched at
my bottom, squeezing, caressing, kneading and then
separating, pulling my wide open, my knickers still
gathered around my ankles, my skirt pulled up to my
waist.
His hand left my bottom and held my face. He licked it:
all of it. My eyelids, my nose, up my nostrils and then
that long, thick tongue was back in my mouth, almost
making me gag. I felt something hot and hard and yet
soft and wet on my bottom.
It got wetter and I thought he must be peeing on me. I
had no concept that a penis had any other function. I
struggled to pull away, protesting. He let me turn and
then pulled me close again, urging me to look and
reassuring me that it wasn't pee. I stared, awestruck at
the sight. My first ever grown-up's penis, large, red,
angry.
He stroked it with one hand, while stopping me running
with the other. He held me by the neck, his thumb
extending upwards onto my cheek, while re whispered
reassuring, unintelligible words. I stood, quivering. He
stroked my cheek at the same rhythm that he stroked his
penis. Slow, almost hypnotic.
Seeing that I wasn't trying to escape, his grip on me
loosened and he started to stroke my cheek, his thumb
caressing the corner of my mouth and then the space
between my nose and my top lip. I stood, frozen.
He changed hands and his left hand now was at my face,
his thumb, wet with his juices, rubbing gently along the
length of my lips. It was slippery and he changed the
angle so that the tip of his thumb pushed at the point
where my two lips met. It didn't try to force its way
in, but just eased along, exploring the space. Then he
let go, dipped his hand down to his crotch and gathered
more wetness on his fingers and returned them to my
face, His fingers, slimy with juices, spread the
moisture around my mouth and into my nostrils and then,
down to his penis for more.
His hand came up again and this time the thumb was
pushing, seeking entrance. He turned me again, his arms
encircling me, his hand around the bottom half of my
face and his thumb now in my mouth, exploring every inch
and then, slowly moving in and out, stretching my lips
open each time, and reaching to the very back.
His penis was between my bottom cheeks, impossibly big,
impossibly hot and dripping. He forced me forward and
slowly started to rut at my bent body. He didn't try to
enter me, but his penis ran the whole length of my
bottom. He was starting to moan and to pant. I stood,
doing what he told me, in the position he put me, like a
marionette.
Suddenly, he lurched, pulled me closer and his thumb
sank so far into my mouth that it could go no further. I
gagged and convulsed – as he did as he spilled his seed
into the cleft of my bottom, his cock still sliding in
its own mess, but with less urgency.
He disengaged, turned me round again, I still trying to
get my breath back. His hand slid up the crack of my
bottom, gathering the semen. He showed it to me (I don't
know why) and then scooped up some with his index finger
and slid it into my mouth and then kissed me again, that
long tongue filling me again. And then he grabbed a
cloth rag and wiped me down. He gave me another glass of
milk and quickly, but not unkindly, hustled me out of
his flat and to the lift.
I went up to my floor and rang the bell of our front
door. "Hi mum", I said. "Did you have a good time? She
asked.
I didn't answer.
Looking back on this experience, I am still confused by
it. I was too young to get any form of sexual enjoyment
from it - but I did enjoy the attention and I did enjoy
being able to make him so happy, although the intensity
of his emotions was a little scary. But, as I grew
older, it became (and still is) an experience that I
remember and that arouses me.
More than that, I have, throughout my life, sought out
similar situations - sometimes subconsciously, and other
times more deliberately. The men I choose are often
older and often ugly and I like to be coerced and coaxed
into doing things that a nice girl won't. I don't know
what it means and I don't know if I'd be happier or more
balanced as a person if it had never happened to me.
END