Light brown hair, bleached in places from the summer sun, its warmth
lingering among the tresses, a memory of longer, brighter days; not
like the short, cold hours of anaemic light from a sun barely fit
enough to lift itself above the horizon. Her face narrow, elfin, host
to two steel blue eyes which stare at you unrelentingly from behind a
curtain of thick, dark eyelashes, and to a smattering, a scattering, a
careless casting of delicate brown freckles across the bridge of a
small, neat, perfectly proportioned nose. And beneath that her full,
red lips, glistening slightly with the application of her childish
lip-balm. Raspberry, perhaps, though I would have to taste it to tell.
But here, now, I'm getting ahead of myself, so let us continue to
describe her. Alabaster skin of her neck, leading down to the faintest
hollow at its base and the most delicate of collarbones, an artist's
muse indeed. An inspiration to carvers of stone and moulders of
porcelain, and not only in my imagination but in life, for her uncle
has made real a faerie tale image of the girl with wings, and God knows
he is an artist worthy of doing so, and has made something of such
unerring beauty that it jars with her, because how could two such
perfect things exist in the same world?
She stands next to me at the rail of a boat which glides gently down
the Thames; the only sounds which reach us are the faint strains of
violins playing inside the warm cabin, its light and their melodies
washing over us each time the door opens and then closes once more, and
the merest hint of the city from the near bank. We are lovers, playing
a classic lovers' game, but beneath a disguise of something
considerably more innocent, the guise of a father and daughter
holidaying together. Tonight we will consummate our love for the first
time, but for now the evening and the romance is ours. People walk past
us without noticing, or choosing not to see the hand which I have
placed on her lower back, mere inches above the gentle swell of her
behind, which forms a soft mound in the neatly tailored overcoat she
wears. Even its thick wool cannot hide that alluring shape from my eyes
and the gentle caress of my hand. We watch the sights float by,
rendered speechless by the taut strings of sexual tension stretched
between us. We both know what is to come, the unspoken agreement,
tacit, understood without having to be so brash as to resort to saying
it out loud. We know what the evening holds, and in the meantime we
float along like a newly-wed couple who have foregone carnal knowledge
of one another, and have to endure the torture of hours of polite
conversation before the true goal of the day is achieved and they at
last know all there is to know of one another.
We have kissed, once or twice, and until only a small handful of years
ago I would regularly see her in a state of undress, but at that time
we had not been romantically entwined, and those glimpses of flesh,
though titillating to me, were nothing more than that - titillations,
teases, stock images for fantasies of a forbidden kind. A very
forbidden kind, for when I had first met Faith she was barely four
years old, and in the intervening seven years she had not magically
become less illicit. Society's outrage would hardly be dimmed by the
passing of those years. No, ours was a love not entirely accepted by
society, one might say with no small degree of understatement. What
Faith's own mother thought of it was no more obscure, either: I was the
cause of much distress in her life, and she made no bones about
informing me of this at every opportunity. I was a very old, dear
friend, whose proclivities were well known to her, and I had confessed
my love for her young daughter, and explained that the desire was
mutual, and somehow she had come to the conclusion that for Faith's
sake I should remain. For Faith's sake only, mind, and in return I was
to make recompense. Not in such petty, diabolical terms as monetary
compensation, you understand, but in something which needed far greater
investment - time. Time spent with Faith which had nothing to do with
physical love, which hardly represented a burden to me, but also time
for Faith to ready herself for our physical union. Time which would
stretch on into eternity if she was not satisfied that Faith understood
the implications.
It was two months prior to the evening at hand when I first understood
that our relationship might soon evolve into something more than the
erotically charged friendship to which it had to that point been
limited. We sat alone in her house, the television providing some sort
of distraction from the tension between us as I tried and failed to be
a responsible adult, her carer for the evening. Best behaviour, I had
been warned, and like a chastised schoolboy I had promised that nothing
untoward would happen. She was not, as Faith's mother so forcefully
reminded me, ready for 'that' yet. We both knew full well what 'that'
was - there was no need to say it out loud.
So while my heart spent the evening at an elevated rate at each touch
of her skin to mine, each contact of her hot body to my own, I was
determined to remain faithful to my promise, though it pained me
greatly to so do. She sat sideways upon my lap, as had been her custom
when she was younger, a behaviour recently resurrected as our
friendship had evolved into something altogether different. When she
had been but a slip of a girl, her head could easily rest upon my
shoulder and there she would remain in perfect comfort. I might have
spent the evening in the clutches of the utmost desire for her, and she
would have known nothing of it, for it remained an innocent, loving act
of close friendship. To her, I was there in lieu of a real father.
In my mind, even from the time she was six or seven she was an erotic
being whose flower had yet to mature. It was clear to me that given the
opportunity I would find myself unable to resist molesting her, but
also that the opportunity must come at her discretion, and it never
did. Now that she neared her eleventh birthday, she could no longer sit
quite so comfortably upon my lap, nor I beneath her, and yet I endured,
while her perfect behind played merry hell with the state of my
manhood. I felt sure she should have noticed it on more than one
occasion, and yet she never as much as hinted that she had.
This evening as we watched some asinine talent show I felt her hips
wriggle slightly, pressing her bottom against me more closely. It
happened once, twice and then a third time. Each wriggle taken on its
own would have been nothing more than that, but together they amounted
to a deliberate act of torture, a teasing rhythm against the sensitive
flesh at the centre of me. She got what she desired, too, my soft piece
blossoming into a rampant sceptre beneath her ever-more-mobile
buttocks, until with a lascivious grin she announced quite how
deliberate her act had been.
"I did that, didn't I?" she said, unable to keep the pride from her
voice. "You want to do it to me, don't you? Dirty old pervert."
Of course I do you silly, wonderful, naive, utterly enthralling little
thing. I want so much to show your undeveloped body the heights of
pleasure which lie but a wondrous few moments distant. I did not speak
those words, of course, because I feared that to open my mouth would be
to release my pounding heart, which would surely leap from my throat
and take on a life of its own, while I slumped back on the seat, bereft
of its vitality. Instead, with my mouth very much closed but my lips
pliant, I placed a hand at the back of her head and pulled her into me
for the sweetest, softest kiss anyone had ever experienced.
She resisted a little, at first, perhaps a little unsure. Yet moments
later all resistance crumbled and she melted into me, turning to face
me, sitting astride my lap with the monstrous beast rearing up between
us, threatening to escape its confines as with our lips we wrote large
the passion which had lain dormant within us for too long. Oh, how we
kissed, like children but also like adults, like new lovers but also
like those who have known each other's bodies for a lifetime. How I
longed to bed her there, right there, on the sofa in front of the
television, while it played on in the background, the studio audience
cheering us on without ever realising it. But I refrained from doing
so, for she was not ready.
We might have gone further but for her mother's intervention. As the
handle of the front door opened, Faith flew from me in a panic and
bolted up the stairs, and I was left to arrange myself and hope not to
appear too discomforted. Her mother looked at me strangely, but Faith
appeared at the base of the stairs in her nightclothes, groggily
telling her mother that she had fallen asleep whilst reading her book,
and only now awoken at the sound of the slamming front door. The look
was forgotten, the suspicions dismissed, at least for now.
Fast forward two months and you find us here, upon this river ferry,
trying desperately to postpone the inevitable because now that we are
here, on our romantic weekend, we fear to complete the act. She fears
the unknown, and I exactly the opposite. I fear the knowledge of what
will happen, how much it might hurt her. No matter what she has done to
prepare for this night, I suspect it will be insufficient to make it a
pleasurable thing we do. Yet she stands there and offers me a smile,
showing me just how strong she is.
We step with wobbling sea legs onto the platform, though the river has
been quite steady. Nor have we imbibed alcohol - I'm saving that
anaesthetic aphrodisiac for later. No, we are simply too nervous to
walk straight. Our evening is done, the night-time begins, for at the
end of our cruise stands our hotel. I walk her through the lobby
without acknowledging the concierge; he knows full well what game is
afoot, but he is of the old school and would not dare say anything - he
is not afraid of me, but if it were known that he was indiscreet his
stock would surely plummet. Nothing will be said of the bottle of
champagne already sitting on ice in the room, or the request for a
double bed rather than two singles. Nothing will be said, either, of
the fact that it is only my name on the hotel register, and that
Faith's appears nowhere. I am proud of the subtlety of my bribe, of its
smooth delivery, and its quantity, though surely he must have been
tipped by more wealthy and more suave guests than I. Still, it has been
deemed fit for purpose.
We stand in silence in the elevator, until she gives me a nervous smile
which becomes a giggle. Then, she cannot stop. I draw her to me,
kissing her on the top of the head, a fatherly gesture if it should
need to be seen that way. I wonder whether or not there really are any
cameras in the lift, and decide not to risk finding out the hard way.
When the lift stops and the doors rumble gently back into the wall, we
are suddenly very sober. She takes a deep breath and then sighs it out
as we step into the hallway. We walk in utter silence, our footfalls
muffled by the thick carpet beneath our shoes. The door card slides
into the lock with a snick, and the light goes green. Her hand joins
mine pushing down on the handle and forcing open the heavy door.
She gasps at the room. She has not seen it yet, for I made a special
trip with our luggage first, and then returned by train to bring her
here, so that she would not be subject to the lewd stares of the hotel
staff. She steps beyond the threshold and I stand for a moment watching
her go. It is a small empire, our suite of rooms - a living area with
space to sit and watch the dancing flames of the fire, and a grand
bedroom off to the left. Beyond the glass wall of the living area lies
a balcony, upon which we can watch the twinkling lights of the city
laid out before us. She kicks off her shoes and walks around the room
in stockinged feet, digging her wriggling toes into the thick pile of
the carpet which lies before the fire. She casts a questioning glance
my way, and given the go-ahead by my nod she shows her aptitude with
all things technical by immediately determining how to light the thing.
Mesmerising gas flames dance around behind the smoked glass façade. I
finally let the door shut behind us, aware that with the dull thump of
it coming to a stop I have sealed the fate of her virginity.
I go to her then, sweeping her into my arms and kissing her.
"Can we dance?" she asks, and I nod. There is a music system in here, I
am sure of it. The gods of romance are smiling on me, for when I find
it a moment later I recognise it as similar to my own, and find some
smooth radio. As the stars of the fifties croon the classics to us I
remove her coat and mine, throwing them carelessly onto the nearest
seat, and kick off my shoes to lie next to hers, and we dance the slow,
loving dance of newly-weds. Our first dance - it should be witnessed by
family and friends, but I am unendingly grateful that it is not so. She
is as light as a feather in my arms as we move, our bodies pressed
intimately together. I lean down for a kiss, to which she eagerly
responds, and soon we are at a standstill, her jaw cradled in my
too-big hands, she on tiptoes, I leaning down.
When we break apart her breath is coming in short, ragged bursts and
her face is flushed. I take her shaking hands in mine and lead her to
sit in front of the fire. As she stares into the flames I pour us a
glass of champagne each. Her eyes go wide when I hand it to her, but it
is eagerly accepted. I hate myself for thinking that it will relax her,
and perhaps ease the pain, but remind myself of my motives - we will
make love tonight, that is all but certain, so I am not fuelling a
desire which is not wholly present. No, instead I am easing her way
into womanhood. Either way, she sips eagerly at the bubbling liquid,
and as we talk she becomes ever more vocal, a sign of the effect it is
having on her.
I move toward her and push her hair behind her ear with the tips of my
fingers, kissing the newly exposed lobe and drawing a shudder from her.
As I withdraw I take the empty glass from her unresisting hands and
place it with mine on the hearth, and then return my attention to her.
She puts up no resistance as I push her down onto the carpet and lie
down beside her, running my hand down her flank to lie upon her hip as
I once again lean in to kiss her. I draw her to me as we kiss, and she
moves a leg to lie trapped between my own, her thigh pressed against
the mass of sensitive flesh in the confines of my trousers.
My hand slips higher upon her, now pressing into the base of her
ribcage, now moving higher, tracing its gentle ridges and valleys,
until I have her slender chest held in my hand, and slide around to cup
the barely-there mound of her nascent breast. She gasps; I have touched
her there before, but never like this, never with the slow, gentle
movements of a man determined to raise uncontrollable passion in her. I
tease her tiny hard nipple, flicking a finger across it, delighted to
find it unencumbered by the needless addition of a bra. The soft skin
of her chest lies only the thickness of her silky black dress away from
my fingertips. She breaks the kiss, panting as I move to kiss her neck,
her ear, her cheek.
She falls onto her back away from me. I lean over hear, propped up on
one elbow as my hand continues to play with her chest. She smiles
weakly up at me and arches her back as I tease her, withdrawing the
pleasure, making her come to me and seek it once more. She growls her
discontent and I relent, putting my hand back where it was, enjoying
once more the sensation of her flesh beneath my fingers.
My hand slides lower, moving across her taut midriff, feeling the
muscles outlined beneath her delicate skin. She is an athlete, and it
shows in her physique. I drag fingertips across her hip, oh so close to
the forbidden treasure at her centre, and land upon her leg. She jerks
in surprise at the feeling, and I take advantage, parting her legs with
a feather-light touch. They come easily apart, but are confined still
by the slender cut of her dress, a modest statement which only serves
to arouse me further. I lower my hand, dragging the hem upwards,
desperate now to realise my dream of making love to her. I will not
rush her, but nor will I wait for ever.
A surprise greets me, her legs encased not in tights but in stockings,
which defy gravity, sticking to her milky, slender thighs without
assistance. I leave the unveiling of her knickers a moment, taking the
time to gently roll the stockings down each legs and off her feet. She
smiles, raising her leg as I remove the second, but deliberately
keeping her thighs together to retain her modesty a moment longer. Its
downfall, though, is inevitable. I run my fingertips ever so lightly up
the inside of her leg and she shudders, parting her thighs, her
resistance gone, her submission to pleasure complete. I waste no time
in lifting clear the dress from her waist, only to be greeted with a
surprise far greater than the last, for beneath the dress there is
nothing but her perfect, unblemished, juvenile sex.
She giggles at my astonished face, and stretches languorously beneath
me, cat-like in her unending grace. She is perfection itself, the
tightly closed, smooth porcelain lips of her sex nestling at the top of
the valley created by her thighs. It is utterly delightful and I drink
it in, staring unabashedly. Unable to stop myself, I press a finger to
it, and as if I have found a secret key her legs part wide, and I am
granted access.
She moans and writhes beneath me as my fingers attack her sex,
marvelling at its plump, spongy resistance, astonished by the hard
pebble at its zenith, and drawn inexorably to the hot, damp pocket
which lies deep within its folds. I do not stop to wonder whether it
will accept my finger, but instead press into her regardless, delighted
when the tight but pliant tunnel of flesh parts to allow access. My
ardour is undiminished by her smallness - should we fail to couple
tonight, I promise her in the confines of my head that we will do so
before the month is out.
She is sent into rapture by my questing fingers. Sweat breaks out on
her brow, creased as it is in confused, agonising pleasure. I lean down
to kiss her as my finger moves inside her, and she mauls me, grabbing
handfuls of my hair and pressing me hard down onto her face, mashing
our mouths together, her tongue frantically running around the inside
of my mouth as if it seeks some pleasure giving drug there. I continue
my assault on her nether regions in response, and her passion for me
grows ever stronger.
She releases my hair to reach between us, tugging my shirt from the
waistband of my trousers and pushing it up my body, letting her hand
roam across my torso beneath. She groans her appreciation for my newly
muscled form, a gift to her after she revealed her predilection for
well-toned men. It has cost me countless hours of work at the gym, an
environment quite foreign to me, but as she runs her fingers across the
taut skin of my stomach and up onto my now-chiselled pectorals I am
glad I took the time to make her fantasy real.
As my finger continues its quest for her utmost pleasure, and my mouth
remains clamped to her own, Faith's fingers drop lower on my body until
they are pulling at the buckle of my belt. She struggles, unable to
unlock it with one hand, and grows frustrated at her inability to free
my manhood. She ejects my finger from her inner sanctum with a push of
her hand, and with a hand on my shoulder forces me onto my back. She
strips her dress off over her head, leaving her naked except for the
golden chain which encircles her neck, a delicate pendant of sapphire
dangling beneath - it was my gift to her on her birthday, and it has
not left her body since.
Now it dangles enticingly above my face. Working together we have
stripped me of the burden of clothing, and she sits astride my lap,
hands planted on my shoulders, staring down at me with a look of pure
lust as she grinds her pubis against the underside of my rampant
manhood. I feel every detail of it on my sensitive skin - the fat outer
lips, the finer inner pair and the hard nub of her clitoris. All of
them kiss and caress the hardness at my centre, darkening the skin with
a wetness which can only have come from her. My God, how she is aroused
now, a young girl in heat, a vixen who demands mating.
She stops her movements, and looks down into my eyes with an intensity bordering on the manic.
"I'm going to put it in my hole. Don't move."
I can hardly protest, of course, and so I lie in utter silence as she
pushes herself back against the blunt invader below. When first the tip
of my shaft presses against the soft, hot, sodden folds of her sex I
groan. It is too tight, we will not be able to couple, of that I
am sure. Yet she persists, rotating her hips until something quite
magical happens - I nestle into a depression in her, a deeper fold, a
warmer, wetter place than any other on her body. She feels it too, her
hips falling motionless, her mouth dropping open as if ready to gasp.
Her eyes drift shut until they are nothing more than narrow slits, and
then they clench as she begins the journey which will turn her from
young girl into young woman.
It is slow, painfully slow. I somehow maintain my composure as she
sinks down upon me, forcing my manhood between the quivering walls of
her immature vagina. It is more wondrous a feeling than I could ever
have hoped. None of my wildest imaginings could come close to the
sensation - the pressure, the heat, the silky smoothness. I lie in a
state of blissful torpor, both unwilling and unable to move, simply
existing, my only thoughts centred on the feeling of finally being
inside my girl.
She halts, panting, the pain and exertion too great to continue.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she mutters, but I silence her with a finger to her lips.
"You've done just fine, my love," I say. "Do you want to stop now?"
She shakes her head, and grins at me.
"I want to do something first."
She does not reveal her intent in words, but by her actions. The
sensation of her sliding up and down exceeds anything yet experienced,
and within moments, for I am more aroused than I have ever been, she
grunts as I swell inside her.
A short while later we sleep, still entwined on the rug in the heat of the fire.
---
I wake first, disoriented for a moment until I realise where I am, and
with whom. She has retreated to the far side of the bed, where I moved
us in the middle of the night. The sheet lies across her lower body
only, her whole flank exposed to my loving gaze. I move over to her,
pushing her hair behind her ear and leaning down to kiss her cheek. I
nibble her earlobe, too, just for fun, and she wakes, blinking in the
light. Her eyes focus on me and she smiles, rolling over to kiss me and
pushing her leg against the hardness at my waist.
"Don't you ever stop wanting to do it?" she says with a giggle,
reaching down between us to hold it possessively. "I don't think I can
today, I'm sorry. It's too sore."
"Well, in that case we ought to get up and showered, and hit the town. You have some serious shopping to do, my love."
She looks up at me and smiles.
"Are you coming with me?" she asks over her shoulder as I watch her naked form walking toward the bathroom.
We shower together, exploring each other now that we have the time to
do so. I wash her lovingly, sliding my hands along slender arms and
legs, soaping her hard torso, raising her nipples to sharp points. She
moans and her legs go weak as I toy with her, but other that a loving
caress I steer clear of her abused sex.
She returns the favour, washing me thoroughly, before leading me with a
hand on my manhood out from beneath the spray of water and over to a
bench which lines one wall of the wet-room. There she sits before me,
looking up at me with a sultry grin, and demonstrates with her mouth
the education the internet has given her.
I am light-headed and collapse onto the floor as she returns beneath
the warm spray to cleanse her neck and chest of the seed she has so
expertly brought forth.
---
As we leave the hotel, now betrothed because I cannot bear to let her be unfettered, one last surprise awaits.
"It is paid, sir," the receptionist says, as I try to settle my bill.
"A Mrs Flowers called this morning and paid by credit card."
As I walk with Faith from the building, out into a crisp, clear London morning, I ask her,
"Did you know your mother was going to pay for the room?"
She looks at me with shock on her face, but it is a pantomime, and the
mask dissolves to be replaced by the sweetest giggle a man ever heard.
"Oh dear old Zack," she says, in perfect imitation of the tone her mother uses for me. "Don't you know anything?"