By now, I could sympathize with Simmons, the Regional Operations Manager I had been called in to "clean up" for. No doubt he was a screw-up regardless, but his assistant, Marsha O'Donnell, might drive anybody to distraction.

No, I don't mean because she was hot--although she certainly was. No, Marsha O'Donnell would drive anyone crazy with her endless prattle.

Here are the things you would learn about Marsha within ten minutes of meeting her, whether you were interested or not:

First, that she was the single mother of a thirteen-year-old girl, Mary-Margaret, who was beautiful, brilliant, yada-yada-yada.

Second, that her husband had run off many years ago, and although he had followed the formalities of eventually divorcing Marsha, that didn't matter, since Marsha was a "real" Catholic, and would never remarry, at least as long as this erstwhile husband was alive.

Third, that being a single mom who had to work was tough, since this made Mary-Margaret a latchkey kid; in other words, she was home alone to fend for herself between 3:00 pm, when her Catholic middle school let out, and about 6:00 pm, when Marsha got home from work.

And fourth, that Marsha was a militant pro-life, anti-abortion activist, who often spent Saturdays picketing abortion clinics, daughter in tow, as part of a group led by her parish priest.

Perhaps I exaggerate. Perhaps it takes Marsha a full hour of acquaintance to get these factoids lodged in most cases. However, I heard them all within the first ten minutes of arriving to take charge of the facility months ago, now.

Oh, I guess I should explain. I'm the corporation's executive "fixer." I travel to whichever regional location needs me, spend a few weeks straightening things out (usually after we've just fired an executive, or when one pulls the old "screw you" resignation and joins a competitor without giving notice).

In this situation, it had been the former: Simmons had so bollixed up the operations of the Upper Midwest Region that they had sent me out with his final paycheck and a job to do.

I had become the fixer through a meteoric rise (I may have left a few "corpses" along the way) and I loved it. It paid a lot better than a stationary role, and I got to move around a lot, which certainly had its advantages. I wasn't married, and I had no parental responsibilities, so I was free to pursue this job wherever and whenever the firm needed me.

Of course, I said I had no parental responsibilities. I have had plenty of paternal ir-responsibilities, at least six that I'm sure of, and happily, not a one has been ever connected to me by any authority. And now I was about to try for number seven.

I had been in Springfield doing my "fixing" for nearly three months now, and my job was done. Simmons' permanent replacement had arrived a week earlier, and I had just completed my turnover. I had a flight out of town today at 4:00 pm, and after that, I'd be just another fleeting episode in this region's history: who was that masked man?

One of the characteristics of my odd role in the organization was that I never seemed to make it into any company photos--you know, the kind that employees have posted on their bulletin board behind their desks, or receive in their (big thrill) company Christmas cards. Well, part of the reason for this was the role; the other part was that I took great care to "miss" those group photo sessions if one happened to coincide with my current stint onsite.

Another care I took was to never participate in "company family" events--Christmas parties, picnics, etc. As the interim guy, this passed without much notice, as the longer-term office or HR manager would usually organize and host those sorts of things in the absence of the permanent facility chief. It's not that I was unsentimental or anti-social--although I was most certainly both of those things. I had other reasons. You see, with my lifestyle, I had to maintain a peculiar state of affairs. Call it "anonymity in plain view." I think you'll completely understand by the time I've finished sharing this account.

Let's get back to the current career objective. No, not my performance for the firm, although by delivering that, I was quickly accumulating a great degree of wealth. No, the real object of my career was the extracurricular opportunities it afforded me. And the opportunity in Springfield was Mary-Margaret O'Donnell.

I have said that Marsha prattled on. I said that it would drive most people crazy. But I didn't say it drove me crazy.I found it extremely informative and interesting.

What I heard in those first ten minutes, now three months past, was something more like this:

One -- Thirteen-year old daughter: Right in my wheelhouse as a confirmed hebephile.

Two -- Catholic middle school: Schoolgirl uniform of plaid skirt, knee socks, saddle shoes, and, of course, white cotton panties.

Three--Divorced: Only one parent to dodge and she happened to take orders from me on the job.

Four--Anti-abortion activist: I only had to plant the seed, and Marsha would tend the garden.

So by my tenth minute of knowing Marsha, I was delighted to have made her acquaintance and was already developing the very real hope that my quarry had been marked. Of course, I still didn't know what young Mary-Margaret looked like, but with a hot mother, she'd surely be a cutie. Take a cutie, make her thirteen, and you've got a hottie, as far as I'm concerned!

This fact was confirmed shortly thereafter, when a close scan of Marsha's desk revealed a precious photo of her only daughter. Mary-Margaret had a sweet elfin face, with an upturned nose, a light dusting of freckles, big green eyes, and long, rich, auburn-red hair. The photo was not a body shot, of course, but I could tell she was slender, just as I like them.

So, within, say, twenty minutes of arriving for a new, interim assignment, I had selected the young pubescent girl I would try to impregnate by the time I left town. That has to be my all-time record for target acquisition.

-o0o-

Over the course of the next three months, in addition to straightening out the regional operation, I studied my objective and planned my hunt.

I saw young Mary-Margaret in person, of course, many times, although I took great care to make sure she never saw me. It was important that she never connect my face with her mother's company in any way whatsoever, despite the fact that I also planned that she would never even see it on the fateful day, either. Redundancy in safety protocols is a must.

I spied on her as she walked home from school. She was everything I could ask for--and more. She was slender, and adorable in her little Catholic schoolgirl uniform, which she wore (gasp!) at least two inches above her smooth knees. Her white blouse revealed a cute pair of budding boobies, the size of nectarines, which mommy's keepsake photo had not disclosed. Perhaps they were a recent development?

Her blue plaid skirt swished from side to side on her just-now growing hips, and her pert rump was outthrust in a jaunty and eminently fuckable shelf.

And then, of course, there was her hair. Mom's photo had shown it to be beautiful and at least past the shoulders in length. In reality, it was spectacular. It was a glowing red-brown auburn, straight and shining, as though she gave it a hundred strokes with a brush every night. And it went past her shoulders, all right. Way past.

Mary-Margaret's hair hung straight and glorious, from the top of her head to the top of her ass, no shit. She must have never had it cut in her life, except perhaps a trim every couple of years to remove split ends. It was amazing! I took several photos of Mary-Margaret with my high-zoom digital camera over the weeks and months of plotting--in uniform, cheerleading, in a swimsuit at the community pool--and I had quite a collection of camel-toe, upskirt, down-blouse, and sweet butt shots, but my favorite masturbatory material by far were those shots that best displayed her long, sleek auburn hair in all its splendor.

I had to take care to keep my distance. There had been some close calls. I of course declined when Marsha invited me to their home for dinner. And one day, I arrived to learn that it was "take your daughter to work day", and I left with the flu before I even made it to my office suite and the inevitable mommy-daughter pair.

I also had to feign precisely the right degree of polite indifference as Marsha would go on about Mary-Margaret. I actually wanted to hear the details, but of course I also wanted to appear to be barely listening. From these monologues I learned that Mary-Margaret was the perfect child, never in trouble, good at school, and deeply religious. In fact, she was even considering a life as a nun, but Marsha, despite her pride in this fact, admitted she hoped that this was just a phase. I nodded sagely while imagining myself fucking the young teen decked out in her novitiate's habit.

So I had to take care to keep my distance, both physically and conversationally. Instead, I agonized from afar for three long months. In previous escapades, when the quarry was not so close to home, so to speak, I had taken a variety of approaches, some of which had afforded me ongoing and repeated pleasure for at least a few weeks before I made my "escape." These were seductions under false names and misleading circumstances, with a carefully camouflaged trail. Those opportunities bore higher risk, of course, but also a greater probability of breeding the particular young adolescent than did the completely anonymous, one-time despoilment I had planned for Mary-Margaret.

In fact, because in this case the young filly was the daughter of my own assistant, the risks of discovery or later identification were quite high, so in order for my plan to safely work, I'd have to wait until the very last day of my local engagement to pull it off. It's bad enough fishing off of the company dock--but criminal fishing off the company dock is of course even more hazardous.

-o0o-

And that day had finally arrived. It was 1 pm, and my flight's scheduled departure was at 4:00 pm. I handed Marsha a final, very thick file of typing to do, with instructions to get it done today and to overnight it to headquarters. That would ensure she stayed at the office until at least 7:00 pm.

Actually, I could have left town at any time over the last week. There was really no turnover to speak of, as everything was already put back in order over the previous three months, and the permanent replacement was a seasoned pro. But I had delayed, with an eye to the weather reports. I was leaving today because the weather was awful, and getting worse. I waited to ensure the one thing that an air traveler always wishes he could avoid--a storm delay on his flight--was certain for my flight. Today promised to be such travel mess, so the gears of my alibi rolled into place.

I cabbed to the municipal airport, having returned my rental car that morning. After checking in my luggage, I went to the business center and rented a private, closed-door carrel. I flipped open my laptop and connected, setting it to download a meaningless, but endless, set of filenames from a server so that the kiosk's logs would show me buzzing with activity over the next few hours. Although I had made every effort to be noticed by the operator going in, I waited until the pimply-faced kid stepped away from his post before I dodged out, shutting the cube's door behind me.

I skirted around the more active areas of the small airport, and snuck out the door, assuring myself one more time as I passed the departure screen that my flight was delayed indefinitely.

Once outside, I crossed the busy street to a construction site, idle for the past few weeks, where I found the bicycle I had stashed there the night before. I had swiped the bike off of some random suburban yard, miles from my office, from the airport, and from Marsha's home.

I rode it the two miles from the airport to the alley behind the house that Marsha and Mary-Margaret shared. Using the copy of the key I had made--from the original I temporarily filched from Marsha's handbag one day, weeks ago--I entered the back door, crept to a side room, pulled a nylon stocking over my head, and awaited the latchkey girl.

-o0o-

So far, I have recounted at great length my motivations, Mary-Margaret's charms, and my careful preparations. Perhaps you think I am too paranoid; that such care is excessive, or immaterial to my story.

Let me tell you something. I participate in a sport far riskier than skydiving, enriched-air scuba, or auto racing. One screw-up and the whole thing would unravel, and I'd be thrown in prison for the rest of my life which, given my story, might not be a very long one under the care of a suddenly conscientious prison population.

I had, by this point, impregnated at least six girls through these efforts. There may have been more; six actually gave birth to babies at just the right time after my departure to make me confident of the "score." Many others had been deflowered and inseminated, but had either failed to conceive or had ended the resultant pregnancy one way or another.

Risk? Let's just talk about the six mothers.

Not a one of them was over fifteen when I got to her, so each had been a case of statutory rape (the youngest was twelve, but Lordy! You should have seen those tits!).

One of these girls had been raped by an unknown intruder (yours truly) while babysitting, and two others had been drugged and then impregnated insensibly in their own beds while their parents slept in the next room. So add actual assault-type rape to the charges. (I must stress I despite the occasional employment of threats, actual violence in all cases is limited to the harm I inflict upon their chastity.)

And in the three cases in which I had befriended, seduced, and impregnated the young girls under false identities, I had taken the opportunity afforded by the more accommodating several-week schedule to turn each of them into a cock-sucking, cum-swallowing, butt-fucking cockslut. So, if you like, you can tack on three counts of "contributing to the delinquency of a minor" if you like.

Now, my batting average is only about three-fifty regarding progeny. Multiply my offenses by about three for the girls who never bore me a bastard.

So far, my careful preparations--even paranoia--had allowed me to get away with all of this. When you consider my success record, as well as the high risks, I think that careful documentation of my precautions is justified. I hope that if you are inspired to take up this exclusive sport yourself, you will also take the sort of care I am describing. It's not that I care about you--remember, I'm anti-social and unsentimental--it's just that I want to see you do it well "for the good of the sport."

-o0o-

If you're still with me, recall that I was at this moment waiting for sweet little Mary-Margaret O'Donnell, of the wondrous hair, to return from school.

Realizing I had a few minutes--mind you, I had surveilled the young thing plenty over the past three months, I knew her schedule down to a cunt-hair--I decided to poke around the house to check out my options.

First, there was the living room. The couch was large, and comfy, but fucking Mary-Margaret in that room did little for the imagination. Besides, the carpet was a rough berber. If things got as rambunctious as I hoped, we'd spend some time rolling around on the floor. Now, the idea of her perfect little pooper suffering some rug burns was fine--better than fine--but I didn't want to scrape up my knees. Not that I'm a wuss--scraped knees constitute circumstantial evidence, my friend, leading to probable cause, leading to a warrant for DNA testing, leading to bye-bye.

Moving on: Mommy's room is always appealing. I love the idea of fucking an underage morsel in her own parent's bed. But that pleasure I usually limit to those situations in which I have a complicit (and thoroughly naive) girl to play with, where she is willing to take some risks for me, and will take steps to cover up any evidence. In a case like this--a case of basic rape--I try to avoid it. Why? Because it is my belief that in many cases, the girls I've raped don't ever tell anyone, including their parents, of the attack. This may seem counterintuitive, but I believe that their own humiliation and shame will often ensure their silence. To increase the odds of this shame, I always try to get my girls to achieve an orgasm, or at least to experience great pleasure from our tryst. Somehow, that makes them feel that they share in the blame. Nice, huh? In any case, cumstains on Mommy's bed to be explained would kind of take the shamed silence possibility out of play, don't you think?

I'm sorry to sound so didactic, but I always get a little nervous--pregame jitters--while waiting to take a girl.

Let's move on to the most promising setting--the young girl's room itself. Since I focus on girls aged thirteen to fifteen, these are usually decorated in an adorable "tweener" style: a mixed-bag of boy-band posters, high school pep, and hold-over little girl motifs. There are exceptions, of course, like that sass-mouthed fourteen-year old Goth girl a couple years back. Her room was a morbid study in black, and chains, and skulls. Some parents exercise no judgment, letting such a young girl make such significant decorating decisions! Anyway, I cuffed her with her own pair--she had them hanging on the wall as decor--and ravaged her little cunt six ways from Sunday. Ah, what a sweet memory. I recall twisting her various piercings while I loaded her with sperm. Unfortunately, that one didn't "take."

Mary-Margaret's room went to the other extreme from that of "Miss Goth Wannabe." You'd never know that a thirteen-year old lived in it. It looked more like an eight-year-old's room, with a princess motif, Powerpuff Girls posters, dolls, etc. Such stuff wasn't that uncommon in my experience, but what was unusual was that there was not a jot of older girl "trying-to-be-cool" stuff. Mary-Margaret was probably a very sweet girl. I couldn't wait to fuck her.

Well, it was decided. The setting for this little escapade absolutely had to be Mary-Margaret's own precious little-girl room. I was about to make my way back downstairs when I glanced out the window and saw Mary-Margaret herself making her way down the sidewalk, only a few moments away. Damn! I'm getting sloppy, I thought. Oh well, I decided to simply step behind her bedroom door, and trap her in her own room.

I heard the key in the lock, down through the open staircase. I heard the door swing open, and then shut, and heard the latch turn to lock the door once more. She was inside.

She wasted little time, but started walking up the hardwood stairs, humming a little ditty to herself. How precious. She was almost to the door, and I tensed.

As thirteen-year old Mary-Margaret stepped into the room, I almost fucked up and vocalized my pleasure. She was absolutely scrumptious!

I was standing behind the door, and hence behind her, as she came to a halt before the foot of her bed. I just couldn't get over that gorgeous long hair, and from this vantage I could see its entire length cascading down her back and over the top of her sweet rump.

That sweet rump was encased in a blue plaid schoolgirl uniform skirt, out from under which projected two skinny long legs. Her butt wiggled a bit, and I realized this was because she was unbuttoning her blouse. Wait for me, Hon!

I sprang forward, and with practiced skill I wrapped one hand over her mouth and the opposite arm around her waist. Lifting her off the ground, I marveled at her slight form. She couldn't have weighed eighty pounds.

Once over her first moment of shock, Mary-Margaret tried to scream through my hand, and her cute little body started squirming in my grip. In response, I shuffled forward to the foot of the bed, and sort of tossed her onto the mattress, following close behind so as to retain control over both her body and her mouth. I took care, however, not to land bodily on the precious little thing.

First, to stop the screaming.

"Little girl, I want to take my hand off of your mouth. But you're trying to scream. I need you to understand something. If you scream, I will kill you. Then I will wait till your parents get home, and I will kill them. On the other hand, if you cooperate, nobody gets hurt, and after a short little visit between us, I'll leave. In fact, your parents won't even need to know I was here." Of course, I knew that she had only one parent. I always take care to plant disinformation.

"So, what's it going to be? Are you going to cooperate, and not scream?"

Her head nodded in my grasp.

"And you're not going to make me kill you and your parents?"

Her head shook.

"Good." I was making no attempt to disguise my voice. Mary-Margaret had never heard it, and as I was leaving town tonight, she never would again.

Before I go on, perhaps I should reiterate something. In case you haven't completely got my number yet, my threats were of course completely hollow. I may be a selfish asshole, but I'm not a murderer or even a batterer. In short, I have no interest in causing my young counterparts any harm, nor any pain beyond the natural sting of a torn hymen, the discomforts of accommodating an adult male penis within a pristine, pubescent pussy for the very first time, or the erotic agonies of a sturdy spanking bent over my knee. Oh, and let's not forget the object of the exercise--I certainly wished for them the pains of childbirth as a result of our acquaintance. No harm or violence was ever contemplated for failure to cooperate. But Mary-Margaret didn't need to know that.

I released my hold over her mouth; she kept her word and kept it shut.

"Good girl. No reason to go all panicky. Everything will turn out just fine. Now, what's your name?"

"M-Mary-Margaret."

"I happen to think that that's a very nice name. And how old are you, Mary-Margaret?"

"Th-thirteen." Of course, I knew all of this, too. But hearing her sweet, frightened voice acknowledge her tender age made my dick twitch.

"I also happen to think that that's a very nice age to be, too, Mary-Margaret."

She sniffled.

"I'm going to roll you over now, Mary-Margaret; I want to look at your face. Don't worry, you won't be able to see mine--I'm wearing a mask. That's for your protection, sweetheart. If you saw my face, I'd have to kill you, and like I said, I don't even want to hurt you. Are you ready?" She nodded.

I rolled to the right, so that I was lying on my side, leaving some space between us, still holding her firmly about the waist. As I did so, I also rotated her little body, pulling her up onto her own right side, and she quite cooperatively finished the movement under her own power, ending up on her back snuggly back against me. Her face instinctively turned to mine, and her tear-filled eyes were huge, green, and gorgeous. Her long auburn hair had sort of wrapped around her body as she had turned. Her half-unbuttoned shirt was twisted open, to reveal a cute white lacy bra. Her lower lip trembled.

"Wh-a --"

"Shhh," I said, putting a finger across her pouty mouth. "Just to be on the safe side, maybe you shouldn't speak unless I ask you to, okay? Now, what is it you wanted to say? I give you permission to speak."

"What do you want, mister? I can give you my babysitting money. I don't have much else."

"Now aren't you the cutest thing. So, how much do you have?"

"Umm, like eighty dollars."

"Oh, well, now, that won't be nearly enough. You're going to have to give me more than that."

"But I don't have any more!"

"Well, yes. Hmmm. You know, I have an idea. You can earn it."

"Earn it?"

"Yeah. Now, let's see... oh, yes. I've got it. Have you ever heard of a strip club?"

"What?!"

"You know, where ladies take off their clothes in front of men."

"Yeah... kind of... "

"Well, men pay money for that. Maybe you can give me a show, since you don't have enough money for me."

"I'd never do that! I'm a good girl. That's gross!"

"I see. Well, sorry, but I can't think of anything else. I'm going to look at your naked body. Yep. That's what I want. Plus the eighty bucks. Now, remember what I said about screaming? Good. Well, the same goes for fighting against me, okay? Good."

I lifted my arm from her waist and reached for the topmost of her blouse's still-fastened buttons. I heard Mary-Margaret draw and hold her breath, but she didn't struggle or resist. She really was a good girl.

Allowing no time for reconsideration, I quickly and completely unbuttoned the white blouse and spread it open, exposing her pale belly and her cute little beginner bra, hardly more than a trainer. Her chest above the bra was lightly freckled, to go nicely with her Irish complexion. She began breathing once more, which caused a delightful rise and fall in her dainty chest.

"Now that's not so bad, is it? You're earning your money already. As soon as you've earned enough, I'll be out of here, and you'll never see me again."

I was still lying on my right side, sort of spooning against Mary-Margaret's much-smaller body as she lay on her back. I was actually propped on my right elbow, which left my right hand free to stroke the top of her head and luxuriate in her thick, silky hair. That was nice.

My left hand was enjoying an even greater tactile pleasure, as I ran my fingertips lightly across her bare tummy. She shivered.

"What cute little boobies you have, Mary-Margaret. I just love them. But I bet you wish they were bigger, don't you?"

I reached my hand up to cover and lightly squeeze the far one.

"Mary-Margaret, you can answer me."

"I don't know."

"Now, young lady, I can see that you attend a Catholic school. What do they tell you about lying? Sure, some of the things that will happen this afternoon are naughty, I'll grant you that. But you won't be sinning, since it's not your fault, I'mmaking you do this. Taking your clothes off, I mean. So you won't even need to tell your priest in confession--it's all on me. But if you lie to me, then it's a sin. Then you'll probably have to confess everything, including the embarrassing parts. I don't want you to have to do that, Mary-Margaret. So, tell me the truth: don't you wish they were bigger?"

"Yeah."

"Are there girls in your school whose tits make you jealous?"

"Yeah. Mine are too small."

"Thank you for telling the truth, sweetheart. Now, let me tell you something about your breasts. I think they're perfect. But I do have some good news for you. I have a plan for today's activities that will make your breasts grow bigger, and it starts with my taking a look at them. So, I know you don't want me to be here, but if something good for you can come out of it, that's alright, isn't it?"

She nodded, and I noticed that the tears had stopped. I pushed the bra up over her little boobs, one side at a time, and although I could tell she was holding her breath again, she still made no move to resist me.

Her tits were little white mounds capped with adorable pink nipples. Her skin was, of course, completely devoid of freckles here, for the innocent Catholic schoolgirl had never exposed them to sunlight. I traced my fingertips over them, and around the nips, which crinkled in response. Cute!

"Okay, honey, this bra is going to get uncomfortable for you, so... just let me reach under here... there, got it, now we slide it over your shoulders... shirt off, too... there we go, that's better, and you've earned some more money. We're getting close now, I almost have enough, and then I'll leave, all right?"

She nodded.

A silver chain stretched across her delicate throat. I took it in my fingers and pulled on it, revealing that it was a longer chain that had coiled around her neck as I had rolled her over. On the chain were two items: a St. Agnes medal, and a house key. I gently pulled the necklace to its full length, and laid it between her small bosoms. The chain was rather long, reaching almost to her belly button, which made sense, since this way she could probably unlock the door without removing the chain from her neck.

I stroked down along the chain, from her neck to her belly, gliding between her wee mounds, which caused her to shiver again. I repeated this action two or three times. No matter what else came off of her today, that necklace was staying. The two pendants were emblems of my prize: she was my adorable little Catholic schoolgirl latchkey kid!

She was breathing again--in fact, a little more quickly now, it seemed--and her yummy little cupcakes rose and fell. I wanted to suckle at them, but my nylon-hose mask was an unfortunate necessity. Maybe later, when I'd worn her down a bit more, and she was less likely to note any tell-tale facial characteristics, I could pull it up at least far enough to free my mouth. We'd have to see.

"Mary-Margaret, I just love your little boobies. I have an idea that will set them off to their best effect, really look pretty. I want to frame them, like art, with your hair."

I arose from the bed. There was no danger at the moment of the girl trying to escape--she had calmed down and seemed to think that the worst was over. She actually helped me gently pull her hair out from under her and spread it around. Most of it I fanned out on the bed, to either side of her slender young torso and in a sweeping circle above her and around her head in a great auburn nimbus. In addition, I drew a long lock from each side and ran them over her sweet little tits.

Wow! Did that look great. I know I keep mentioning it, but her hair was simply unbelievable, in color, in sheen, in length, and in mass. I had loved it hanging down her back, but seeing it spread out around her petite little body, it looked like a silken nest to cradle a precious little chick. A soft, cute, defenseless little chick--into whom I hoped to fuck a bastard child!

"Mary-Margaret, I need to lift your skirt. You ARE wearing underpants, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Good. No problem then." I lifted the front of her pleated skirt and flipped it onto her belly. There it was, covered only by the tight gusset of white cotton schoolgirl panties. Her sweet little muffin.

"Now aren't these undies just precious! You look so pretty in them, sweetheart. Are all your underpants like this?"

She looked at me quizzically.

"I mean, are they all white, and cotton?" She nodded.

"You don't have any silk panties?" She shook her head.

"You never wear thongs?" Her eyes widened a bit, and she shook her head more vigorously.

"That's good. Those kinds of panties are naughty. Oh--I better ask--do you ever go around wearing nounderwear under your skirt?"

"No! No way!"

"Good, good, I'm just asking. That would be really bad. You'd certainly have to tell the priest about that if you did. Well, good. And by the way, I happen to like white cotton panties the best. They look so cute."

I enjoyed the view for a while, crawling in close. I touched and stroked her panties, but I stayed well clear of her puss itself. Things were going so well, so cooperatively, I had decided to remain relatively unthreatening for as long as I could. I lifted the girl by her hips and pulled her gently towards the foot of the bed, until her knees reached the edge and her lower limbs could dangle naturally over it. Then I leaned in, placing my face between her thighs. I inhaled.

Her sweet teen crotch was emanating its natural musk, and I took a few moments to savor it. Yes, this one was an all-around keeper. Her pussy smelled great! Too bad circumstances had prevented me from taking the more leisurely, ongoing relationship route. I would have liked to have had the luxury of really getting to know this one. Ah, well, it probably would have been difficult to pull off with Mary-Margaret anyway. That approach required me to access the girl's "inner bad girl," to make her an accomplice in an illicit "love" affair with a much older man. But in Mary-Margaret's case, I'm not even sure she had an "inner bad girl" to try to access!

Well, good or bad, she certainly did have inner girl parts. Something was producing that heavenly scent, and I was ready to explore the source in detail. Doing so would require removing her panties. I stood-up to find Mary-Margaret gazing back up at me, a little apprehensive but certainly not in a panic.

"Honey, I have an idea. I know how you can earn the rest of the money I need, and then I can go. I need to see your privates. I'm going to take off your underpants."

"But--"

"Mary-Margaret! Now what did I tell you about speaking out of turn? There's nothing to worry about. I am MAKING you do this. You're not doing anything wrong. It's not a sin to show me your little pussy if I'm making you do it. So there's no reason anyone--including your confessor--ever needs to know, okay?"

A puzzled look fell over her face as she thought about this, so I took the opportunity to move the agenda forward. I grasped her waistband at each hip and simply slid her panties down her skinny thighs, across her dimpled knees, past her white stockings, and over her blue and white saddle shoes. I tossed them on the floor, as the thirteen-year old schoolgirl pressed her legs together in shame, and covered her crotch with her hands.

"Mary-Margaret, you need to move your hands. You already have your panties off. I did that. If you start acting like you have a say in what happens here, you may be sinning, since sinful things will occur. If you have a say in matters, then you share the blame. Neither of us wants that. You have to do as I say, and nothing will be your fault. Now remove your hands."

Reluctantly, she pulled her hands up, crossing them on her tummy. Her knees continued to press against each other firmly.

Now, on a more filled-out girl, or on a mature woman, this pose would still serve to obscure my view. The flesh of the thighs, in those situations, would pretty much meet to hide the prize.

However, Mary-Margaret was just thirteen. Mary-Margaret had very skinny thighs, with little flesh on them (although they were still very well formed). Mary-Margaret also had, I'm proud to say, a very broad pelvic arch, which kept her legs separated at just the right place. So despite her efforts Mary-Margaret had, my friends, a fully visible virgin cunt.

I've told you that she was a slender girl. One result of this was that her rounded, immature mons was quite protruding, with little of the surrounding layer of fat--what some people call the fuck-pad--that would someday blend it in and reduce its topographic prominence atop her pelvic bone. But such was not the case today. I loved its impudent display, entered between two likewise-prominent hip bones.

At the very peak of this mound, at its highest venereal contour, I could discern a wispy little patch of pubic hair, just a few silken auburn strands.

As this juvenile mound sloped down between her coltish thighs, it was furrowed by a pouting crease, lying between two puffy-fat, but completely hairless, labia. The effect looked just like an overstuffed coin purse. Well, not quite. No coin purse has ever made my prick jump. And this little coin purse was certainly not as overstuffed as it was about to be!

"Oh, sweetheart, you sure have a cute little pussy. I'm so glad I'm getting to see it. You've almost earned enough to get me to leave. I just want to look a little closer, all right?"

I knelt at her knees, and pushed them apart. She resisted for only a moment and then, perhaps thinking her ordeal was almost over, she relaxed. I shuffled in between her thighs on my knees until my nylon-covered face was only six or eight inches from her girlhood.

The action of spreading her young thighs caused her outer labia to separate, revealing thin, dark-pink leaves within. I pushed her legs out further, and these inner lips parted, to reveal a tiny hole. Above, an adolescent clit structure was perched. I inhaled. Magnificent.

"Mary-Margaret, when did your first pubic hair grow in?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Mary-Margaret, you're doing so well. Don't spoil it now by lying. Up until this point, you've done nothing wrong. I'm about to leave, and you'll never have to mention any of this to anyone, not even to your priest in confession. But if you lie to me, then you'll have to tell him about that, won't you?"

"Uh, I guess so."

"And then he'll press for more information, to be sure he can absolve you. And you'll have to tell him all about what I've made you do, don't you see?"

"Yeah. I don't want that."

"No, I don't imagine you do. Now tell me, when did the first hair appear?"

"Last summer."

"And you know, 'cause you were looking for it, almost every day, weren't you?"

"Yes. How do you know?"

I chuckled. "Lots of girls can't wait to grow up. Just like wanting bigger boobs. Nothing wrong with that."

I lifted my right hand and gently stroked her nascent fuzz patch with two fingertips. "This is so cute at this stage, honey. I could easily count these hairs, one by one. So, have you been having your periods?"

"That's embarrassing!"

"Mary-Margaret, remember: you have to do as I say. If you start demonstrating free will, well maybe you can share in the fault for all this. Now answer me, please."

"Um, I don't want to have to confess any of this--you're probably right about that, mister. So, okay, yeah, I've been having them. Also since last summer."

"Now that's better. And you've had no problems? Regular cycles, and so on?"

"Yeah, I guess. Pretty much."

I spread my two fingers, and traced the outline of her fat vulva, drawing my fingers not over her labia just yet, but through the smooth-skinned depressions to either side, where her thighs met her crotch. She instinctively cringed, and tried to bring her legs together, but with my right shoulder against one knee and my left hand against the other, I was able to easily prop her apart and prevent this. I re-spread her young thighs, now even more widely than before.

"Easy now. Almost finished. You've been such a good girl so far, and you have nothing to be ashamed about. Now, when was your last period?"

"Um, it ended like last week."

"When did it start, honey?"

"About two weeks ago."

"Can you remember the day?"

"Well, it was a Wednesday. I had gym, but I didn't have to dress for it, since my first day is so heavy, the school nurse always gives me a pass when it starts. I remember 'cause Thursday I usually do laundry, but I didn't have to wash my gym clothes. 'Cause I hadn't worn 'em."

I did a quick calculation. I had become an expert through the years at what might be called the "reverse rhythm method." If my figures were right, there was a good chance Mary-Margaret was ovulating right now, or would be within the next day. This was just total luck--I had had no way to monitor her periods while plotting my scheme, and I had been forced to simply hope that on the day of her despoilment she would be fertile. It looked like my hopes had born fruit. My dick got even harder, if that is possible.

Now I brought my fingertips a little closer together, and slid them up across her outer labia. Her flesh was smooth, and flushing a darker pink in response, but she didn't react defensively this time. I drew them all the way up to her wispy tuft, and then back down again. As soon as I'd passed her clit, untouched, on this return trip, I brought my fingers together, and slid them down and between her outer lips, spreading them and deliciously opening her precious inner flower. Her aroma pervaded the milieu.

"Oh, please don't, mister."

"Don't what? You mean this?" I wriggled the fingertips, right around her wee hole, tickling at her immature sex. I felt the first hints of moisture. Why Mary-Margaret!

"Yes, please don't do that... that's yucky."

"Are you telling me you've never played with yourself?"

"No! That's gross. And... "

"Sinful?"

"Yes. I wouldn't do that."

"I believe you." And for once, I did believe that ubiquitous lie. I was pretty certain that this goody-two-shoes, overly-religious sweetheart had never touched herself in pleasure. At least, I wanted to believe it.

I was now swirling the tip of my middle finger around just inside the mouth of her juvenile cunt. It was getting wetter by the second, and the fragrance was intoxicating.

"You're not enjoying what I'm doing are you?"

"No." She sounded none too convincing, I was pleased to hear.

"Good. If you were to enjoy this, then maybe it would mean that you do want this to be happening. Maybe it would be partly your fault then. So, you don't like this at all, right?"

"Right."

"Good. Now there's only one more thing I need to do, and then you'll have earned enough and I'll be gone for good. Do you know what a stripper does for a guy who pays her after a good dance?"

"No."

"She gives him a kiss."

"You want me to kiss you?"

"Well, now, I would like that very much, but remember, I can't let you see my face. I'd have to lift my mask up, at least over my mouth. You'd see too much. So I'm going to kiss you, instead. A special kiss. I might as well warn you, I'm going to kiss your pussy."

"Eww."

"You'll get over it, I promise you. Now I want you to reach up over your head and grab a pillow. That's it. Place it over your face--don't press it down too tight, just enough to blindfold you, you still need to be able to breathe. That's it. Okay, here goes."

I pulled the nylon up from under my chin, up to the bottom of my nose, which freed my mouth. What the hell, I thought, and drew it up further, across the bridge of my nose. Now my mouth was completely free, and my nostrils also enjoyed unmasked access to the early-teen musk. Mmmm.

"Remember, I'm the one doing this. You bear no responsibility." I opened my salivating mouth and slouched into heaven. I started with a sloppy French kiss, aimed right at her virgin hole. The fresh, undiluted flavor was tangy and exquisite. I knew that with the pussy-lapping that was to follow, I would never get quite as undiluted a taste again. Nonetheless, I planned to slurp plenty of girl goo out of this untried little box before I was done!

I heard a muffled exclamation from under the pillow, and again an instinctual attempt to close her legs, but it was my time now. I slid her girlish thighs over my shoulders, and rose up off my heels to lever them back, lifting her crotch for my feast. As I lapped up and down her little groove, I felt her body fall all the way from resistance to complicity. She pulled her knees up further towards her chest, all on her own, and she spread her thighs open wider than I had them. In so doing, she crossed her ankles behind my neck. I felt the heel of one of her school-regulation saddle shoes press into my upper back. I ate on.

My nose had been bumping against her little clit hood from time to time, and in response the little bead within began to swell. Noting this, I changed approaches, fastening on the little fun button and bringing my right hand up to prod and poke around the entrance to her pubescent mating channel.

I couldn't believe my luck! She was a virgin, of course, but her cherry was also intact. I find it less often than you might think, even in virgins. Her fragile membrane was at my mercy. I gently pressed and stretched the hole in its center, all the while gnawing lasciviously at her swelling clit. From behind the pillow, I could hear a mewling, as the completely inexperienced latchkey girl felt clitoral pleasure for the very first time.

Now let me share a bit of hard-won expertise with you. If you are raping a young girl, even without violence, but just under coercion and threat, as I was here, you can't expect her to be able to relax and cum without taking certain steps. Now, I realize that this is different from the situation with many mature women, most of whom harbor rape fantasies. With them, given a reasonable combination of stimulation, firm control, and confidence in their ultimate safety, it really isn't too difficult to bring them off during a rape.

With innocent young teens, in contrast, extra steps must be taken. Happily, I had taken them. Yes, of course, stimulation is required--with mouth, finger or cock. Secondly, they must have confidence that they will not be harmed when all is said and done. I had been reminding Mary-Margaret of my pending peaceful departure repeatedly. But the third element required for an unsoiled good girl to cum was "permission." And Mary-Margaret had it, for the first time in her overly-churched young life.

Under normal circumstances, merely touching herself was a guilt-ridden concept. But I had made very clear to the young girl that none of this was her fault--that the "sin" was all mine. She wouldn't even have to bring it up in confession.

So, with no responsibility, the goody-goody type is free to let loose. It wasn't long before this particular goody-goody let loose indeed.

Her hips started bucking under my face, and I knew what we were there. Her saddle shoe heels dug into my back, and I grinned, insofar as one can grin while voraciously eating schoolgirl cunt. And then she tossed the pillow off her face, executed an abdominal crunch into a half-sitting position, grabbed the back of my nylon-covered head with both hands, and pulled me further, if that's possible, into her convulsing rookie snatch. Her pleated skirt, which had been lying across her belly, flopped down over the top of my head. It was fine with me, to be burrowing under the plaid uniform skirt of an orgasming thirteen-year-old girl!

I wasn't passive myself; I assisted her in her animal response, clutching her sweet bubble buns in both hands and lifting her yummy junction up into my lashing tongue and chewing lips. Her keening was apparently divinely inspired.

"Oh God, oh God, what are you doing, oh God don't stop, don't stop, oh God!"

She went on like this, jerking harder and squeezing tighter, and I kept working her little lunchbox as hard as I could. Finally, it hit her. She froze, wrapping my head tightly in a vise of arms, ankles, thighs, heels and crotch. Only her pelvis could move, which it did in a series of arrhythmic jerks and bursts. With each spasm, a squirt of baby-girl fuck-juice slid over my tongue. Goody-Two-Shoes was cumming into her rapist's mouth.

She shuddered several times before finally relaxing her constrictor-like hold on my head, and then she fell back, limp, breathing heavily and contentedly.

By this time, my cock was quite cross with me. I had spent almost an hour molesting this delectable schoolgirl, and it was still trapped within my trousers. But despite its impatience, experience should have taught it that everything was going to work out just fine. After all, long pre-ejaculatory stimulation could only serve to increase my cumload, and maximize the chances for success--that is, the chance of pregnancy. Well, its wait was over. It was time to unleash the dragon.

I gently slid Mary-Margaret's now-limp legs off my shoulders, and left them dangling off the end of her pink-quilted bed as I stood, pulling the nylon down off the bridge of my nose and over my lower face as I did so. It was wet, but I didn't mind. After all, it was wet with a thirteen-year-old's snatch batter.

I looked down at the girl, reposed in her post-orgasmic bliss, and I proceeded to disrupt her calm.

"Mary-Margaret, I'm surprised at you. Do you know what just happened to you?"

"No, but it felt really nice."

"I'm sure it did. That is what is called an orgasm. You just had an orgasm."

"Wow. I never felt anything like it."

"I'm sure you haven't. And orgasms are a great thing, in the right place and time. But I'm afraid this changes things."

Her eyes, half-lidded to this point, popped open wide.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you enjoyed that. This isn't all on me, now. You sinned, too, by allowing yourself to have an orgasm while I was kissing your pussy. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to confess this sin, since you participated."

"But, but, you made me!"

"Yes, I made you. And you would have been fine, but then you started helping, and eventually, you orgasmed, which means you secretly wanted this all to happen."

"But I didn't, I swear! It just happened!"

"Now, now, maybe it won't be too bad. Who is your usual confessor?"

"Father Vinson."

"Is he understanding about things like this?"

"I don't know. He's really old. And some kids say he's mean, although I never get in trouble or anything, so I don't know."

"Well, you might be in trouble now. Let's try this on for size: 'Forgive me father for I have sinned... yada yada... a man was putting his mouth on my privates, and it wasn't my fault, he forced me, but then, I started to like it, so I grabbed a hold of him with all my strength and made him keep doing it until I had an orgasm, like a loose woman or a trampy girl.' Do you look forward to telling Father Vinson that?"

"Gosh, no... "

"Oh, and I forgot. 'And Father, I took the Lord's name in vain, and brought him into this, 'cause when I was having my slutty orgasm, and really liking my sinful behavior, I kept say 'Oh, God, oh God.' Will that help your explanation, do you think?"

"No." She sniffled, and pouted wonderfully. "What am I going to do?"

"Hmmm. I was willing to bear the full responsibility--I told you that. I didn't expect you to start encouraging me. That's a bit of a problem, at least as far as God is concerned. I'm no priest--I guess you can tell that--but being as bad as I am, I have to confess all the time. That's something I know about, and you've got a doozy here, sweetheart. I'm afraid you're going to have to tell Father Vinson all about it... unless... "

"Unless? Unless what?"

"Well, I was going to leave now. You did everything I needed you to, to earn your money and make this worth my while, plus your eighty dollars, of course. But if I leave now, with you having liked everything we did, I can see how that's a problem for you. If you don't want to go to Hell, you'll have to tell Father Vinson everything. Normally, there'd be no way around it. But... "

"But what? Tell me!"

"But if I make you do a couple more things, things I force you to do, then that will kind of erase what just happened. Since you'll have no choice, and since you'll just passively take what I'm doing--don't worry, I'm not talking about hurting you, honey--then the whole episode gets wrapped up into one thing, one thing you were forced to do. Not your fault, not your sin, not yours to confess. I guess we could try that, if you want to."

"It won't hurt?"

"No."

"It won't be a sin for me?"

"Nope. I'm making you do it."

"Okay."

"Okay? I'm not doing this for me. This is a favor to you. Do you want to, or not?"

"Yes. Yes, please."

"Such a polite girl. No wonder you never get in trouble. Okay, I'll help. We'll fix this so it's back to being not your fault. Sit up... here, on the end of the bed, that's it."

Her huge green eyes stared up at me in my nylon face mask, her long auburn hair cascading down behind her. With her head tilted up, her hair actually reached the mattress, and spread out in a silky pool for a few inches in every direction. Nice.

"Mary-Margaret, undo my pants, reach in, and pull out my penis."

"Eww! Do I have to?"

"You see, it's working already. I know you don't want to, so your responsibility is already getting canceled out. Now do it."

Her tiny hands were trembling as they reached for my trousers, but she had no trouble either in unsnapping or unzipping them. Freed from this constriction, my prick sprang upright in my briefs.

"Pull the briefs down, honey, and take a look. That's it. Now pull it all the way out, balls too. Yep, hook them up over the waistband. Perfect."

Mary-Margaret was no longer looking up into my disguised face. She was transfixed by my manhood, bobbing in front of her dilated pupils like some Edenic serpent. Her jaw hung slack in mouth-breathing awe. Not having a father around, and being such an innocent good girl, she had probably never seen a penis, at least not an adult one. And certainly not a hard one. And this one was hard.

It was also plenty big to her tender eyes.

Now, I'm sure you aren't interested in the size of my prick, and I wouldn't bother to share it, except that you need to fully understand the impression it must have made upon poor Mary-Margaret.

My prick is probably only a little bigger than average, like maybe seven inches. But that's pretty big compared to a four-foot-nine, eighty--pound eighth grader. Plus, it was completely shaved--shaft, sack and surround--which made it appear much larger. (I do this to reduce the obvious evidence I might leave behind; remember, we don't want mommy to encounter any long black curly pubes while doing the laundry.) Lastly, with the waistband of my briefs hooked under my sack, teeing up the entire assembly, it was displayed in even greater prominence before her. She dropped her hands and just stared. I flexed a couple of times to make the monster jerk before her eyes, and then I scolded her.

"No one told you to take your hands off of him. Put them back on. Pet him--pet him nice now."

Tentatively, she reached up. She grasped the shaft, right around the middle of its length. She was unable to completely encircle its girth with one diminutive hand. With the other, she followed my directions precisely, flattening the hand--fingers together, palm wide -- to stroke the tip of my prick like it was the head of some beloved household pet. As her smooth palm slid over my piss hole, followed by the length of her slender fingers, I about keeled over with the pleasure.

Of course, she had no idea of the power she had over me at that moment, and I suppressed a serious shudder of enjoyment so as not to startle her out of her fascination. She "petted" the head a couple more times, and I was about to gasp out "stop!" when she pulled her hand away. She turned it, palm up, and studied the clear fluid that had been deposited there--my pre-seminal flow.

I was tempted to order her to taste it, but I kept silent. I was more interested in observing the innocent's own reaction. Bless her heart, her next move was to lift my prick and point it right at her eye, while she squinted with the other one, precociously seeking the source of this substance. Extending her index finger, she traced the tip of my slippery cockhead repeatedly, encircling my piss hole and eliciting further offerings of the slick, transparent lubricant. I gritted my teeth, and my breath hissed between them, as the excruciating pleasure wracked me. It felt as though every single nerve in my body ended at the very tip of my prick.

This stimulation primed me, and my cannon nearly shot off at what she did next. Pulling the pad of her index finger off the tip of my weeping penis, she was clearly fascinated by the stringy lubricant, which connected her fingertip to my glans by a gossamer strand. When this fragile line parted, she dabbed at my pisshole again, to repeat the effect, going so far as to turn my shaft to the side slightly to afford her a better view as she pulled another sticky strand across empty space, only to see it, too, eventually part.

This was adorable, and therefore quite sexy. Here was a thirteen-year-old innocent schoolgirl, being molested--and unbeknownst to her, about to be fucked--by an unknown, masked intruder, and yet her sexual curiosity was so powerful that she found herself performing experiments with her assailant's penile fluids. This turned me on so much I caught myself thrusting my hips forward, instinctively trying to use her grasping hand to jerk myself off. I had to make her stop: there were more important things to do.

"Okay honey, take it easy there. No, keep a hold of it--I mean him. Just stop petting him for a minute. Now, you're doing good. Obviously, you can't be enjoying this, right?"

"Um, ... right. It's gross."

"Good. We'll get you out of the woods yet. Now, something else I know you won't enjoy, but won't hurt you. I want you to kiss him, right on the head."

To my surprise and delight, her response was not to resist, or to complain, or to even say "Ew!" but instead she simply pursed her cute lips and planted a wet peck, right on the tip of my cock.

"Very good, Mary-Margaret. Now kiss him again, and kiss him longer this time."

Again, without hesitation, she did as I asked, this time holding her pursed lips, like a cuntmouth, against the end of my prick for a good two seconds.

"Ahhh, very good sweetheart. Now, this time, kiss him, and keep kissing him until I tell you to stop."

She pursed her mouth into that yummy fat-lipped "O" one more time, and brought it into contact. I gently reached behind her with both hands and took hold of her head, lacing my fingers through her auburn mane.

Her lips felt wonderful, and my tip lodged naturally in the wet, yielding center of her kiss. I was not, of course, content with this, so very gently, I pressed my hips forward, holding her head in place with my hands. The lips spread to give way, and in a heartbeat half my cockhead was surrounded by a schoolgirl's kisser and my tip was pressing itself flat against her teeth.

"Open up, honey." She didn't try to remove her lips from my member--she wouldn't have succeeded if she had tried--but she didn't comply right away, either. Her huge green eyes turned up, somehow communicating confusion and pleading at the same time.

I decided to be helpful--to myself, that is. "Like this, sweetheart." Continuing to hold her head firmly with one hand, with the other I reached under her chin and pulled down, gently but insistently, and my prick tip felt her teeth part. It only took half a centimeter of leeway, and my hips pressed forward.

There is a reason a man's sexual organ is shaped like a bullet at its end, doubtless the result of evolution through millennia. With only this slight purchase between Mary-Margaret's flawless white teeth, the wedge-shaped flesh easily pried her jaws apart enough to admit my fat glans and an inch or so of thick shaft, which slid between her pearly whites and over her pink wet tongue.

Of course, a girl in this situation has the option to bite down and cause serious damage and pain. But there was no danger of that here. Mary-Margaret was a very good girl, and wasn't inclined to violence in any situation. Besides, she had just spent the last several minutes petting and kissing my cock like it was some kind of cute, cuddly animal. She was not going to bite me; in fact, she was obviously taking great care to avoid scraping me with her teeth at all. About two inches of cock cradled delightfully within the warm, moist confines of her bubblegum mouth.

"Oh, yes," I hissed. "That's it. Good girl. GOOD GIRL." With both hands again immobilizing the poor girls head, I slowly rocked back and forth, right and left, in and out. I held back as best I could, only cycling about a half inch either way. There was no way the girl could take much more of my cock without gagging, not that I was opposed to such a thing, in principle. It felt heavenly just as it was, and I found my young student open to education.

"Suck on him, sweetheart, like a lollipop. Oooh, yessss, that's it. Okay, relax. Not continuous, just off and on... yeah... that's it... can you swirl your tongue around it, like a piece of candy... oh, yes you can, such a good girl... oh, Jesus... ."

There is something intoxicating about face fucking an innocent schoolgirl, no matter how leniently. Here I was, sliding my manhood tenderly in and out of her untried, virginal mouth, and of course the tactile sensations--warmth, wetness, squishy softness, and constant motion--were delightful. But add to these the imagery.

Her lips shone in saliva and, I imagined, my pre-cum, as they stretched around my substantial girth. These lips, these innocent, schoolgirl lips had probably never been coated before with anything more grown-up than lip gloss.

Her eyes, her big green eyes, shifted back and forth in seeming wonder, first focusing on the long, strange /ppppshaft extending from her mouth, then glancing up, confusedly, into the masked face of this assailant; a bad man who somehow brought alien, yummy feelings into her experience.

My goodness, I hadn't noticed until that moment how long and lush her lashes were, without a touch of mascara, of course. Wow.

Her pale cheeks bulged out periodically, whenever my cock would glance one way or the other in its exploration, or whenever her own tongue would rotate the long way around the intruder in docile obedience.

Her hair, already celebrated extensively in this account, was now draped over her naked upper body. Down and almost completely covering her slender back, and over her shoulders to fall across and around her perky little tits. These junior troopers were not to be hidden, however, but peeked out and even bounced between the tresses as our two bodies worked in a somewhat clumsy unison. And dangling between these two miniature cones, rebounding off her lean belly at the end of a long silver chain, were two items: a St. Agnes medal, and the latchkey.

I had moved in as close as possible to her sucking mouth, so my legs were spread apart enough for her slender knees, pressed together, to extend between my own. Her plaid skirt lay across her lap, spread demurely, its pleats well-ordered. There was no sign that beneath this fabric lay a naked, un-pantied little pussy that had just been sucked to a mewling cum for the first time in its young existence.

Resting in this lap was her unused little hand; its slender twin continued to grip, and even stroke, unwittingly, my turgid fuckstick. The hand in her lap would be better employed cupping my tightening ballsack, I knew, but I dared not so instruct her. I was coming to a point that would test my self-discipline, and any added pleasure would probably lead me to fail.

I could feel in my prick, and in my balls, and even in my prostate that the moment of decision was upon me. The unthinking portions of my being urged me to jam myself down her tight throat and pump my cum into her belly. The stimuli were hard to resist--the visual, the physical, and the psychic together. But if I succumbed to that urge--oh, that delicious and almost irresistible urge--then I would have failed in my purpose. That seed was destined for a more dramatic--and hopefully more lasting--purpose.

Reluctantly--VERY reluctantly--I withdrew myself from her still-sucking mouth. The precocious little thing actually kept her lips tight around me every inch of the way, squeegeeing off most of her spittle as I pulled out. Despite this, my now-purple cock shone in its wetness, bouncing around before her still awe-struck eyes.

"There we go. Very good. You didn't like that, did you?"

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, as though she weren't listening. Perhaps she barely was, for as I swung my angry penis about before her, those large green peepers tracked its tip, mesmerized. First left, then right, then to the center, causing large green irises to cross adorably in their fixation.

"I forced you to suck on my penis, a very naughty thing, and you didn't enjoy it one bit, did you?"

"No... ." she said quietly, still entranced by the cockmeat bouncing around before her eyes. Unconsciously, she licked her lips. Why Mary-Margaret!

"So, if that was enough to cancel out the fact that you enjoyed your pussy getting eaten as much as a little slut would, then you should be okay. Make sense?"

"I guess so." Finally, she was able to drag her eyes off my member long enough to look up into my still-covered face.

"So, the only question is, was that reluctant enough, and yucky enough for you, to cancel out the other thing? If it was, then you don't need to tell anybody, and I'll have to confess the whole thing myself. Oh, don't worry; I live a long way from here--in Florida. No one knows you there."

"Well, um, I think it was enough. I didn't like it, and you made me do it, right?"

"Right, I made you do it. But was it enough? I mean, I know how to tell for sure, if you want to try that. I have a test I can do on you, and if you pass the test, you can know for sure that you don't have to confess, and you don't have to worry about going to Hell for not confessing, either. That's only if you want to be sure."

"I want to be sure, mister." Those beseeching eyes would have earned her a facial, then and there, if I didn't have more pressing business. "I don't want to confess all this stuff to Father Vinson--no way, especially not now! But I have to be sure it's okay not to confess. How can you test me?"

Perfect.

"It's easier if I show you. Like I said, I know a lot about sin, and about confessing. If you pass my test, I guarantee you won't have to confess anything, and you'll be a-okay with God, too. Now just lay back on the bed again, and I'll perform the test."

She lay back, and I scooted her knees back apart, flipping her skirt back up onto her tummy to once more reveal her underage vulva. It still glistened, both on the outside--my saliva, drying slowly--and from within--her whitish secretions, still dribbling out of her virginal channel, giving the lie to her supposed distaste for our most recent activities.

"Okay, I'm going to have to get kind of close to you for this, so like before, grab one of those pillows--that's it--and cover your face, but make sure you can breathe o.k. Good."

I climbed between her spread thighs, my very stiff -- and now VERY cross--penis leading the way to its final and long-denied objective.

I shimmied over her slight form, having to crawl over her tiny length to bring my loins into position with hers. Looking down, I saw her pillow, its case fringed with girlish lace. Underneath hid her naive little head. Auburn hair fanned out from under the pillow again, in a more disorderly pattern this time, in all directions.

My prick made incidental contact with Mary-Margaret's schoolgirl crotch, and I decided I had better get started. Speaking a little louder than normal, so that she would be sure to hear me under the pillow, I explained "the test."

"Mary-Margaret, for this test to work, it is best that you keep completely quiet. Don't speak, and don't ask any questions. If you have questions, I'll answer them afterwards, okay?"

The pillowed moved, in what looked like the echo of an underlying nod. Good. I didn't need questions during what was to follow, for there were damn few good answers to them.

"What you're feeling right now is the tip of my penis, sliding through your little pussy groove. I know that probably feels pretty good, and that's okay. God made you so that this sort of thing would feel good, unlike what happened with my mouth before, which was sinful. Go ahead and enjoy this feeling, it's not the test."

I, for one, was certainly enjoying the feeling, but my urgency could not stand much more foreplay. I nudged my tip into her vestibule, immediately encountering the fragile resistance of her still-intact hymen.

"This next bit will hurt just a tiny bit, like a quick sting. That is, it will sting IF you are passing the test. If you feel nothing, you may be failing. Here goes."

With a quick jerk of the hips, I pierced her already-stretched and well-prepared maidenhead, easily tearing through it and sliding into the still-sloppy wet vaginal sheath behind it. A muffled yelp emerged from beneath the pillow, and if my prick had a voice, it would have been singing. I was FINALLY fucking my thirteen-year old, goody-goody, Catholic schoolgirl, latchkey-kid.

"Now for the rest of the test, sweetheart," I managed to half-grunt through my gritted teeth as I drove my hips slowly, steadily, but firmly forward, to pry open her amazingly tight girlhole inch by inch. The virtuous vagina put up a valiant effort, only grudgingly yielding territory to my thick and lengthy cock. This pristine little pussy was a good loser, however; even while my spade-like head continued to plow forward through the restricting passage, spreading her untouched organ into working dimension along the way, the already-conquered portion of her cock-slot was immediately hard at work appeasing the invader, fluttering delightfully around my following shaft.

A groan emitted from under the pillow, not of pain, but perhaps of surrender. Her hands reached up, blindly, and grabbed my arms, on the triceps, as the virgin Mary-Margaret O'Donnell began to instinctually respond to her first mating. Given this new leverage, the schoolgirl's unschooled pelvis started rolling rhythmically up into my thrusts.

With this assistance, I had soon bottomed out in her undersized puss, grazing deliciously past her cervix and pounding into her back wall, none too gently I'm afraid. Mary-Margaret used her grip on my upper arms to pull her lower body up further, curling her pelvis up more vertically and aligning our junction more accommodatingly. As I felt crossed ankles and saddle-shoe heels for the second time that afternoon, now digging into my lower back, I took it for what it was: an engraved invitation to a fuck party, for which an RSVP was in order.

I responded promptly, after adjusting my position to the new reality by climbing further onto the bed. Now, from a firm stance on my knees over the girl's upturned crotch, I brooked no delay in spiking down into her warm wet well.

I'm not sure how hot a vagina can get during stimulation. I'm no anatomist. But that juicy fuck-hole, while soaking me with a seemingly endless flow of sloppy schoolgirl cuntsauce, and in addition to gripping at and releasing my entire length, spasmodically, in a frequency so astonishing that it had to be an involuntary, genetically-coded mating response--on top of all that wonderful, organic reaction -- the quavering quim enveloping my pistoning manhood was also positively BOILING with an internal--some might say an infernal--heat.

For once in my experience of virgin-curing, it was ME who gasped in surprise, for the luxurious loins beneath me seemed to have taken charge. For once, I felt as though I was just along for the ride, as Mary-Margaret humped up in to, corkscrewed around, clamped down on, and drove home over my buried bone. Her diminutive body, which had never, I suspected, been much for athletic activity, nonetheless exerted calves, thighs, hips, abdominals, arms and clutching hands to keep her overheating cuntsleeve sliding over and around my impossibly-pleased fuckpole.

It would not be precisely accurate to state that Mary-Margaret O'Donnell, thirteen years old, honor student and would-be nun, was getting fucked. Mary-Margaret O'Donnell, eighth-grade Catholic school-girl, goody-two-shoes, Mommy's little latchkey angel, was fucking. She was fucking her rapist. And she was fucking him very well.

Even a battle-hardened, been-there, done-that kind of hebephile such as myself was finding it hard to hold back. As I thought about my impending release, about the imminent discharge of my baby-batter deep into this eager young womb, I knew I was on final countdown. In a scene as hot as this one, merely thinking about the pleasures of cumming will trigger that cumming, and I had little mastery left over my long-teased, long-denied, long-stroked Long John. My own hips took over, meeting her energetic pelvis with thrusts of their own, beyond my volition or control.

It started in my balls, tingling with joy despite the crushing they were taking with each mutual thrust, smashing as they were into the young girl's upturned bottom.

After a few more strokes, and a promising moan from under the pillow, the tingling sensation crept into my lower shaft. It wouldn't be long now: my prostate contracted, and my ballsack tightened.

Moments away from my own release, I was granted a very special blessing. Mary-Margaret began to cum.

I felt her fingernails dig into my upper arms, and her encircling legs tightened their grip, constricting, python-like, around my waist. Tossing her head, she discarded the pillow over her face, and looked up into my masked visage with wide, unseeing eyes--her attention was turned inward, as was my own.

The tingle spread forward, along the fleshy underbelly of my deeply imbedded prick, as I attempted to maintain a relative motion, if only partially successfully, within her clamping cunny. This proved difficult to accomplish against the tightening grip of her skinny little legs, which jealously sought to keep me buried to the hilt.

This pubescent body, only a few months past menarche, and acting with a mind of its own, seemed to believe that it knew better than Mary-Margaret herself, better than me, and better, even, than my overwrought cock, as to what must happen next. It must be seeded, and deeply.

Who was I to disagree?

"Oh sweet Jesus, oh my, oh God yes!" she cried. Her battle to immobilize my prickhead, now nosed tightly into the entrance of her womb, was finally successful; no in-and-out momentum remained, but the sheath fluttering around my length -- now gripping, now tickling, now nursing, now squeezing -- provided precisely the oiled friction necessary to bring my own internal tingling up the last furlong, to explode through the end of my deeply-imbedded organ.

For a minute or so before this, my cockhead had begun to feel numb, due to the incessant blows it had taken in battering at her cervix; but now, firmly wedged within that cervix, it re-awoke. As I felt my prostate pump a seminal load worthy of the gods towards its goal, this numbness gave way to an internal detonation of joy. A burst of sperm-laden semen shot through my penis, through my pisshole, through her cervix, and into her welcoming womb.

It is hard to say which organ was the more demanding--my spewing cock, which insisted on enjoying every single orgasmic burst safely ensconced within the caressing confines of her climaxing cunt, or her own convulsing vagina, which in its urgency for maternity ensured that not one teeming drop of my deposit went anywhere but where it belonged.

Both of us--the innocent young schoolgirl, whose body had matured to that exquisite cusp but whose mind and interests had, up until this moment, rested securely in overstaying childhood--and me, the shameless, conniving, and worldly repeat ravisher of nubile beauty, who had planned this outing with the same care and calculation as he had so many other dalliances--had been completely dominated by the reproductive imperatives of our respective bodies.

Mated, I collapsed on the bed, with only enough presence of mind to lean to one side as I did so, so as not to crush the pert treasure beneath me. I came to rest, exhausted, on my side.

Mated, the tender schoolgirl rolled with me, let go of my arms and encircled my neck, nestling into my now-enfolding body and resting her chin over my shoulder. Her thick, long auburn hair swept down over my face, and through the nylon of my mask, I inhaled the sweet fragrance of baby shampoo.

Mated, our organs continued to cooperate, her vagina occasionally squeezing and my penis occasionally lurching, together ensuring that any tardy dreg of semen lingering within me found its rightful home within her hospitable uterus.

I heard a sniffle, which then broke into a steady weeping.

"Shh, that's all right, honey. Everything is fine. In fact, it's perfect."

"I failed the test!"

"What do you mean, sweetheart? You passed the test. Believe me."

"B-but I enjoyed that. I loved it. I even took the Lord's name in vain again!"

My prick twitched at the memory, and dribbled a drop or two of semen--laden with a yet few thousand more eager sperm, I am sure -- into her belly.

"Hush, that's not how this test works. You didn't fail because of that."

"But I had another one of those--those orgasms. An even bigger one than before. A LOT bigger."

This memory must have pleased her sex despite the consternation it caused her mind, for it twittered around my softening member and skinned another few drops of baby-making fluid down its length and into her center.

"I know, I know," I said, thinking fast. I didn't want her to start feeling guilty--far from it. The last thing I needed was for her to confess this "sin," at least anytime soon. I certainly hoped she'd have a swelling belly to explain in a couple of months, but in the meantime, let the trail go cold for heaven's sake.

"This test is different, like I said. God made you a woman, and so your body is supposed to enjoy what we just did. It's not sinful to enjoy THAT. In fact, it's good that you enjoyed it more than oral sex--natural sex should be better than sinful sex, right?"

"Yeah... I guess so. So what was the test?"

"Well, um, there were a couple of things. First, you had to feel pain when I broke your cherry. Remember that? Did it sting?"

"Yeah, it stung, but only for a second."

"That's enough. You passed that part. And then the second part, you had to enjoy it better than sinful oral sex. Did you really enjoy it? You're not just saying that?"

"Gosh no, mister! I mean yes! I mean, I really liked it, couldn't you tell? I felt like I wanted to pull you all the way inside me, and then even farther. I thought I was going to die for a second there, and I almost wanted to die, it felt so good. In fact, I still feel really good down there; I feel like I want to stay like this forever."

At this comment, both our organs seemed to shudder, producing yet another small offering on the altar of her fertility.

"Good, good. So you passed that part. And then there's the last part."

"What's that, mister?"

"The insemination part. You know that contraception is a sin, right?"

"Yes... ."

"Well, the last part of the test was to make sure you wouldn't sin by asking me not to inseminate you; for example, making me pull out and waste the seed. Instead, your sweet little pussy practically sucked my sperm into itself."

The juvenile vagina wasn't finished. At this comment, it sucked still more sperm into itself.

"But that means... ."

"Yep, it means you passed the test. You don't have to confess any of this to Father Vinson. All the sin of today's business sits squarely on my head, not yours."

"No... I mean, yes, I get that part. I don't have to confess. But I might be... ."

"Might be what?"

"Might be pregnant. Is that possible?"

"Oh yes, it's possible. But it's unlikely." Actually, based upon the dates she had given me for her last period, and the certain staying power of such an oversized serving of teeming sperm, it was actually QUITE possible that one of her ripe little eggs was even now rendezvousing with the champion swimmer, or would be within the next day. Sperm can last quite a while in the incubating environment of a healthy uterus.

"But what if I am?"

"Well, you believe that every life is sacred, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, then, if God decides to give you a baby, I'd say it's a sacred gift. Unlikely as that is, mind you."

"But... ."

"But there might be more tests for you, that's right. If you end up pregnant, especially at your young age, some people will try to get you to have an abortion."

"I wouldn't. Besides, my mother wouldn't let me."

"Maybe not, but some folks' convictions don't make it past the threshold of their own homes, when it comes down to the real deal. It might be a test for you, despite her."

"But I don't want to be pregnant. I want to wait until marriage. Or even... ."

"Even what?"

"It seems silly now."

"That's okay. Even what?"

"Well, I kind of thought I wanted to become a nun. Vows and all that. I thought maybe I'd never... "

"Well, remember, this is not your sin. You could still be a nun, you know."

"Well, now I know I can't be. I couldn't take a vow to never... ."

"To never fuck?"

"Eww! Do you have to say it that way? It sounds so nasty!"

Her cunt clutched again around my prick in its pleasure.

"To have sex?"

"Yeah. It felt so wonderful. Before, when I thought about it, I didn't know... "

"Didn't know how much you'd like it, huh?"

"Yeah. Wow."

"Well, you're probably not pregnant," I lied. "Of course, if you reported this little incident, they'd make you take RU-486 at the hospital. Do you know what that is?"

"Yeah, that's the abortion pill. The 'morning after' pill. My mom takes me to pro-life rallies all the time. We're against that, too."

"Well, then, you'd better keep mum about our afternoon together, if you don't want the authorities to force that on you."

"Oh."

"But you're not going to mention this to anyone, anyway, are you? Not even in confession."

"No."

"Good girl. You are the sweetest, 'best-est,' politest little girl in the whole world. Don't you ever change." With one last dribble, my prick slid out, finally, from the best little pussy it had ever enjoyed.

-o0o-

I rode the bike back to the airport, through the now-driving rain whose forecast had made this entire plan possible. I managed to sneak back into the internet carrel unseen, and dried off as best I could with a towel from my carry-on bag towels.

My flight, having been delayed for three hours, eventually took off, and I was on it. Gone a masked man, my identity secure. No one would ever even think to consider me for any prospective rape kit or paternity test. I had been at the airport the whole time, awaiting an unfortunately delayed flight. Internet log records would prove that.

I didn't even know the girl. I had never met her--never even seen her. Her mother Marsha could corroborate that.

When asked, if she ever was asked--and I hoped she would have to be asked eventually, as her belly began to swell with my bastard--she could offer little to go by. No, the voice was not familiar. No, I didn't remind her of anyone (how could I?). No, I didn't seem to know her, or her name, or her age, or even the fact that she had only one parent. Oh, she might remember one thing. I lived a long way away -- Florida, which was naturally in the wrong direction entirely.

I had made it out, scot-free.

-o0o-

Or had I?

I continued my depravities wherever my job sent me. Over the next few months, I had seduced and dallied with two sweet things, a fourteen-year old Latina in San Antonio and the fifteen-year-old daughter of Chinese immigrants in Portland, going through a rebellious "bad girl" phase. A quick return trip through Texas informed me that my little brown Mexican morsel was already swelling in her pregnancy, and my own careful count suggested that Chin Lew was well past a missed period. I was on a roll.

But I still didn't know the status of Mary-Margaret O'Donnell. I would usually have checked up by now, but in this case I had stalled.

I was afraid of something. I was afraid that she wouldn't be pregnant, which would have made the effort a failure. Supposedly.

I was afraid of what I might do if she wasn't pregnant. I knew I'd desperately want to take another try at it, an outrageous violation of the discipline this sport requires. I guess I was afraid I wouldn't be able to resist that urge, that failure, that bush-league move.

And I was afraid of something else, I guess.

-o0o-

Finally, I had a pretext to check up on the situation from afar. I acquired benefit tickets to a pro-life dinner in Mary-Margaret's town, which I could offer to Marsha. That might open things up.

"... so you see, I had forgotten I had even signed up for this event, and they cost a hundred bucks each, so I thought you might like to go. I can't, of course--I don't live there anymore. Take that daughter of yours. If I recall correctly, you're quite an activist."

"Oh, how thoughtful of you. Some folks said you were all business, but I always knew you had a soft side. I wish I could go. But Father Michael, who leads our group, has kind of asked me to keep a low profile for a while."

"Oh, why would he do that?"

"Well, I guess there's no harm in telling you. After all, you always were so considerate in listening to me go on and on all the time, about how perfect my daughter Mary-Margaret is. Was. Well, I thought she was."

"What's this? Did something happen to your daughter?"

"Just the oldest story in the world. She went and got herself pregnant! And I thought she wanted to become a nun! Father Michael is proud of us, of course, for going through with the pregnancy--like we had any other choice, the Church is quite clear on the matter, not to mention all of our protesting clinics and such. But he thought bringing a pregnant thirteen-year-old--well, she's fourteen now--but bringing such a young pregnant girl to our rallies might work against the cause, you see. A bad face to put on our position in front of the undecided, he said. So I can't use your tickets. I'll ask around, though."

"Pregnant! How did this happen? I thought she was such a well-behaved girl, from what you told me."

"Oh, she was, or so I thought. But when you're a working single mom, you can't be there all the time. She was a latchkey kid, home alone every afternoon. Must have been some boy, but she won't own up to it. Didn't mention anything at all, until she was visibly preggers. Then when I demanded the identity of the father, she made up some ridiculous story of an intruder! As if anyone would keep quiet about being raped in her own home until she was asked about it."

"I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune, Marsha. What are your plans for the baby?"

"Well, we're not giving it up for adoption. We'll just have to raise it, both of us together. She's not going to be a nun now. Like I probably told you, I had mixed feelings about that idea anyway. But I imagined her marrying a nice Catholic boy. Don't know who will marry her now. I mean in a few years. And I thought she was a good girl!"

Oh, she was a good girl, all right. A very special, very good girl. And that was my problem.

-o0o-

I know this will sound ridiculous. I'm unsentimental and anti-social, right? Right. Everything I've shared in this tale has supported the proposition that I am a grade-A, unmitigated, self-centered asshole. I guess that nothing that follows will change that, but you may be surprised on what my selfishness has chosen to fixate.

Ever since that day--that rainy afternoon--when a truly good girl succumbed to her body's animal betrayal, wrapped her arms and legs around my masculine torso, and held on tightly as her juvenile vagina coaxed the biggest load of semen from my balls that I can ever remember, I have been haunted.

Oh, I've clearly gotten on with things. But the memories keep coming back.

They came back one evening as I bent fourteen-year old Cristina Juarez over the ratty couch in her own living room, fucking her roughly for the umpteenth time as her single-parent father pulled yet another night shift trying to provide for her. As I hunched up against her cinnamon-colored buns, to blast a creamy load into her sexy little pussy, I couldn't help but think of Mary-Margaret's contrasting pale, freckled skin.

And they came late one Tuesday night, as fifteen-year old Chin Lew Lee bounced up and down in my lap, fucking wildly in the fitting room while she left the counter of her parent's late-night dry cleaner unattended.

Chin Lew had so many wonderful characteristics, from her smooth golden skin, her huge almond eyes, her jiggling brown-nippled tits, and her long silky black hair that bounced right along with her urgent fuck-motion, but when I felt her fingernails digging into my shoulders and her undersized vagina clamping down hard on my oversized cock, I blew my nuts into her thinking only of Mary-Margaret's fingernails digging into my arms, Mary-Margaret's pale titties with their bright pink tips, and Mary-Margaret's magnificent long auburn hair flailing about in a good-girl climax.

Now, having spoken to her mother, Marsha, the haunting became reality. I could not get it out of my head.

I was in LOVE with Mary-Margaret O'Donnell, and I was feverishly trying to devise a plan that would break every single one of my rules, and bring shame upon my sport.

Somehow, I would re-enter Mary-Margaret's life. Somehow, she'd come to know who I was. Somehow, we would keep this a secret. And somehow, I would make her mine--marry her if I had to--and raise our baby (and more babies) together. I know, it sounds crazy, but I had plenty of time still to figure it all out. As you may have noticed, I'm pretty good at coming up with workable schemes. Mary-Margaret was only fourteen, now. She couldn't marry until at least seventeen, so I had three more years to figure out how to capture the love of my life--I dare say the first love of my life, ever.

Three years to plan. Three years to scheme. And three years to try to get my old nature out of my system.

I reached this resolution as I turned onto the dirt road. A half mile down, I rolled to a stop in the dusk. Any moment now, if she didn't chicken out, Anita Benedict, thirteen-years old, she of the curly blonde hair, the rapidly-maturing body, and the junior-counselor job at the adjacent YWCA day camp, would emerge from the forest trail and climb into my car. While her assigned campers sang songs under the watchful eyes of their parents and the other counselors on this, the weekly family campfire night, young Anita would be trying out the powers of her new-found, developing body in a little make-out session, or so she thought. Actually, tonight she was going to get fucked.

There would be time to concentrate on a reunification plan for Mary-Margaret, the love of my life, later. For now, I had more physical needs to address. Now where was Anita?

"Oh, there she is," I muttered aloud. Her tight shorts hugged swelling hips, and her Camp Awakanee T-shirt was about two sizes too small for her this year. Perfect.

"Jesus, look at those tits!" Yes, I was finally in love, but love could wait.