("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: dixon2.txt (g/M, rom, ped) Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld) Story title : Dixon Park 2: Yim -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Dixon Park 2: Yim (g/M, rom, ped) by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request) *** A ten-year-old pupil from The Mary Vane sets her sights on an older man and has her way with him. They eventually marry! *** I looked over my newspaper. It was nothing less than a dark feeling of foreboding that made me do it. It was the kind of sensation you get when you get to know that you are being observed in a crowd or you sense that someone is staring at the back of your head. It is one of those inexplicable mysteries of life. "Hi, Mr. Mellis!" The ten-year-old girl stood no more than three yards away staring at me. Her legs were quite widely separated and she seemed unsteady on her feet, almost in a parody of a drunken man who was about to wet himself. There was a strange glitter in her eyes - as if she were high on drugs. The merest ghost of a smile flitting across her lips would not have been out of place on the Mona Lisa. "Christ!" I thought. "What's the world coming to?" I found it difficult to comprehend. "Ten year old and drug- crazed!" There was a ten year old girl in England recently who had died from overdosing on Ecstasy and a ten year old boy in up-town New York who had been convicted of trading in Crack, but this was way long before these two. "Ten year old kids should be playing with dolls or Action Man," I muttered to myself, "or staring at Walt Disney cartoons on television until they get square-eyes." She was not the prettiest girl I had seen around the trailer park by any standard, but there had been a distinct careless, sexual allure about her which was now emphasised by her school outfit. She had decently shaped legs, her best feature, which were shown to advantage. The black skirt was as short as it could get without being indecent. The white cotton blouse, under a jet black jacket, was spotless, but hung out at one side from under the waistband of the skirt, and the black cotton stockings, that should have reached just above the calves were around her ankles so that they seemed to meld with real leather black shoes. The footwear alone would have cost the equivalent of a couple of week's wages for me. Not for the first time I wondered why her folks lived the way they did. They arrived at the trailer compound at Dixon Park every year at the same time, around the last day in March, and they left during the last week in November. They had been putting in an appearance since long before the girl was born. On this particular year they were driving two top bracket European automobiles. The thing that puzzled me initially was that the girl, Yim was her name, was never with them when they arrived or left; I found out later that she was boarded at the Mary Vane Private School for Young Ladies in the city when her parents were away during the winter. Another puzzling thing was that while I saw the parents coming and going regularly and Yim playing at various places around the park, I rarely saw adults and child together. I first noticed Yim, as a person and not as a passing feature, a couple of years before. She seemed to play alone in the recreation area, never joining in the games of the other children. Her favorite piece of apparatus was the timber climbing frame. It comprised massive trunks of Californian redwood and spruce locked together in an intricate pattern topped by a ninety foot long, eight foot circumference, stripped and varnished roof tree sticking out, almost pagoda-like, at each end. She often lay astride this, precariously at the end, as she gazed down at the joggers on their circuit outside. I noticed that her hips would often start jerking frenetically as she watched the men run by. And it was on one of these occasions that we made eye contact, held for several minutes, before she smiled slyly as if we had just shared a secret. Then she turned her face away. After that, I noticed her from time to time, coming and going in her school uniform, or running around the camping site half naked. She came to the site shop occasionally, but never bought any of the crap kids usually spend their spare pocket money on. "My parents are not home yet," she said. "Can I wait with you?" "Of course, you can, Yim." I could almost smell the marijuana on her breath. I was laid back in an old wood and iron lounger cemented into the ground in the garden next to the trailer park office. I often sat there for my morning or afternoon breaks, when I could get them, with a beer or a glass of Russian tea. I glanced at my watch. "You're home early today!" I was tempted to ask, "Did you enjoy the joint?" Instead I gave a little bit of a laugh that revealed my decided nervousness in her presence. "It was the last day!" She made the statement as if she were announcing the Parousia and was expecting avenging angels to stampede from the heavens with a chorus of dies ireae at any moment. 'Last Day' was what they called the prize-giving at Mary Vane. "I got a book prize!" she exclaimed without enthusiasm. After the ceremony, traditionally the school broke up for the long summer vacation. "They unleashed us at two thirty!" The silly grin on her face became more pronounced. She set her school satchel down by the iron leg of my chair, then climbed on to my knee, not sitting on it with her backside like any normal child, but astride it as she would a pony. I was wearing extremely abbreviated shorts. She hauled her skirt up before settling down. I could feel the suction from the groove of her vulva as it made contact, through her panties, with my bare flesh. She laid her head on my chest and let her hand search for and settle on my crotch. I was increasingly alert and alarmed. She remained in this position for several minutes, long enough for me to think that she had fallen asleep. I was giving serious consideration to carrying her into my van and laying her on one of the bunks, when I felt the first shudder pass through her body. It was one of the most remarkable things I have ever experienced, almost like an earth tremor, starting at her hips, rippling up her spine to the base of her skull, then back again. I immediately thought of epilepsy. She looked up at me and smiled coyly. Another tremor occurred in another few minutes, then a third shortly after that. By the fourth quivering shock, there was no guesswork involved: the epicentre of the disturbance was located firmly on my bare thigh. Ten minutes after she had clambered up on to me, there were regular and emphatic contractions along the fault-line between her legs. Her hips started jerking as if she were indeed riding a pony, and the pressure from her hand on the bulge forming in front of my shorts became a strong pulse beating in resonance with her demanding thrusts. I stroked her hair. She gave out a little whimper like a dreaming puppy, and burst into a frenzied bucking back and forth until I could literally feel the storm burst inside her and the wetness of her coming seep through her panties and soak into the skin of my thigh. She continued to gasp for breath and moan as her tiny body whacked into me for another minute or so before she seemed to collapse in a sweating exhaustion. The intensity of her orgasm shocked me; I could not believe that one so young could experience anything like it. She clung to me while making the most peculiar injured animal sounds. In an odd way, at one and the same time I was sexually excited by the whole episode and absolutely terrified by it. I had never witnessed anything like it. Quite without warning, she climbed from my knee in yet another couple of minutes, picked up her satchel and kissed me on the mouth. Not the genteel, polite kiss you would expect from a ten year old girl who is not a member of your family, but a wet, slobbering, open-mouthed total-war conflict with no quarter given or asked for! "Thanks, Mr. Mellis!" She turned to leave the tight little garden. "Any time, sweetheart!" It was a careless politeness without any serious thought or intention beyond the saying of it. She stopped in her tracks, turned slowly and dramatically, and stared at me intently. There was definitely something creepy about this kid. "Do you mean that, Mr. Mellis?" She demanded. There was even a touch of aggression in her voice as if she thought I had been making fun of her. "Really mean it?" I was slightly taken aback at the tone. "Of course I do!" I insisted. "Tomorrow, then?" I was even more confused. Nevertheless I replied, "Yes, fine, alright!" I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. Perhaps eight to ten years in the state penitentiary. "I'll help you in the shop," she said. She made it sound almost like a threat. She livened suddenly and scurried away. "Thanks again, Mr. Mellis!" she called over her shoulder. The school satchel seemed inordinately heavy and, as it swung wildly, it made her gait decidedly lop- sided. "See you," she called from the middle distance. "Tomorrow!" One of the perks that went with the job in the trailer park was the shop. I had enough to do as a rule, so I leased the shop to a local church charity - the Presbyterian Church Hospital - for which they paid me $50 a day. I worked in it most mornings from eight to ten, when the church volunteers appeared and took over the running of the establishment. Most business was done either in the time I was there or in the late afternoon with folks returning from work or, in the holiday season, from touring around or sun- bathing. At any morning session I could easily rake in well in excess of $2000. I didn't complain; it was a good cause and they paid me another $50 at the end of the week for labor. Yim appeared in the early morning. There had just been a delivery and I was stacking the shelves in preparation for opening. She started instantly and the job was done in less than half the usual time. The closeness of her body, however, was disturbing, to say the least. The shop is comparatively small, and the serving space behind the counter correspondingly tight. Several times I had to squeeze past her when I was serving customers, and it was more than mere imagination when she responded by pushing out her front or backside to make contact. In less time than it takes to tell it, I had a stiff that would have done justice to a stallion. But as the morning wore on I was becoming increasingly impressed with this kid. She took to serving customers like a natural born shop assistant. She learned the price of everything instantly, and worked the cash machine as if she had been doing it for life. On one occasion, when a guy thought he was on a soft mark and tried to con her with a bad luck story, she had the goods back off him in a flash and stacked safely on her side of the desk. "This might be a charity shop, mister," she screeched at the offender, "but not for you! If you don't get outa here in two seconds I'll have Mr. Mellis call the police." I gave up trying to monitor her work after half an hour. In the brief respites when there were no clients, she tidied up, picked up litter and swept up the dirt brought in on the people's shoes. The impression that the kid was hyperactive was rapidly supplanting the former one that she was over-sexed and drug-crazed. It was only when I could relax after the volunteers turned up, ten to fifteen minutes late as usual, that I really took time to notice what she was wearing: a floppy pair of shorts that appeared several sizes too big for her, an over-large blouse made of some chiffon material, and open-toed sandals on her bare feet. As I said before, she was not the most attractive girl on the site, but her clothes on that day did nothing to improve her appearance. I took her around the trailer site with me on a routine tour later in the morning. By law I had to check every fire point and hydrant, the public toilet facilities, and access and egress roads daily. I had also a couple of emergency calls to make before lunch, to a blocked sump and a main electric fuse that had blown. The kid was a real help, and she seemed genuinely interested in all the things I did, wanting to know why I did them. And could she try to do them next time? As a reward I took her for lunch at the Park diner. She ate and drank sparingly. "You're not one of those anorexic freaks, are you?" I joked. Inwardly I was adding, "As well as being hyperactive, over-sexed and drug-crazed!" The question, however, was asked less from real concern than for something to say when the conversation lagged - Yim did not have much to say for herself. It was a pleasant surprise; youngsters today seem to be besotted with the sound of their voices and the shit that comes out of their mouths is deliberately designed to irritate. Personally, I could not have cared less whether she was anorexic or diarrheic, hyperactive or over-sexed and drug-crazed. In fact, I was beginning to like this kid exactly the way she was. And that really worried me! "I'm not hungry," she said. Then quite out of the blue that odd gleam appeared in her eye. "Not for food, anyway!" She stared again, like a vampire. And then she clamped up and seemed to be sulking. "I hate eating!" I had to think of some other way to reward her. In the afternoon all hell was let loose. One of the trailers caught fire. There was young boy inside; he was only about a year old, and ought never to have been left alone. I had to smash the door to splinters to get inside. I brought the kid out with the bedding of his cot already smouldering. Yim turned a water hose on to the screaming baby and stripped off the clothing. By the time the fire department appeared on the scene, the mobile home was a total write-off, and the young child's mother a blubbering slither of potential suicide. We got both of them transported to the local emergency hospital. I collected the names of some witnesses and retreated to my own trailer to write out a report for the insurance people and my employers. Yim lay spread-eagled on a bunk for a while. She picked up one of my trade journals, glanced hastily through it, then tossed it aside unceremoniously, and selected another. She went through a pile of them in ten minutes. "Jeeeeeesussss!" I spun round to stare at her. She was looking at the centrefold in a girlie magazine recently rescued from one of the vacant trailers. "Would you look at the zonkers on that!" She turned the photograph in my direction. "Tits like that are freakish!" Funnily enough, I agreed, although I scarcely afforded the picture a glance. More interestingly, Yim's legs were still splayed, but she had bent her knees and dug her feet into the bunk so that her ankles were almost at her butt. The floppy shorts were gaping wide, and there was no way I could have avoided noticing it: she was not wearing panties and the full pound of flesh was in open view, plump, ripe pussy labia slightly parted and swollen, pink and moist, and inviting. For the first time in my life I viewed a preteen girl as a potential sex object. The full implication smashed into my gut. Genuinely, I felt sick! This little sex piece was a private and personal invitation to spend a few years in jail; I had to get shot of her as soon as possible. There was a sharp triple thump on the door. It brought me back to earth with a bump. I looked out at two grim-faced patrol policemen. My stomach looped the loop and crash- dived. "Get rid of that trash," I ordered with a tone of voice that begged no question. "And sit up. And look sweet. It's the cops!" They demanded my account of the fire. I offered a copy of the report I was making. One officer studied the sheets of paper; the other seemed more interested in Yim. "This your daughter?" The man had been around long enough to know that I was bachelor and had no family. There was calculated sarcasm in the words. He had the kind of supercilious sneer the moral majority assume when they think they have stumbled across some deviation from the strait and normal missionary-position, blessed-by-the- church, marital sex. Especially when it involves a female child and an adult male. "This is Yim Callahan." I tried to sound casual. "She's been helping me in her school holidays. She was with me at the fire this afternoon. She helped rescue the baby from the trailer. I needed her evidence for the insurance company." The sneer evaporated. "So! You're the one who doused the kid in water?" Respect replaced the sneer. His eyes did not roam over her as they would have done were she prettier. In fact, he seem to be embarrassed now by her plainness. "You saved that little boy's life. He had third degree burns, but the doctors say that he was hyperventilating and would have died if he hadn't been cooled down when he was." He chucked her chin playfully. Yim, however, was not in the least amused. She scowled at the police officer. "You deserve a medal," he said. He laughed. "We'll have to see about getting you fixed up with something!" I was a bit disgruntled at the remarks. "The kid would not be hyperventilating if I had left him in the trailer," I was thinking to myself. "He would have been an over-cooked cinder!" I kept my opinions to myself; I learned a long time ago, as a street kid, not to argue with cops. "I hate these pigs!" declared the young girl when the two officers had finally left the trailer with little more than a promise of a copy of the fire report. I concurred completely, but I grunted, "Don't say things like that! At least not aloud! No matter how strongly you may feel about them!" I watched the patrol car drive away from the office space. I swung round in my chair and chucked her under the chin in imitation of what the policeman had done. And even as I did it, I realised that I was a bundle of confused emotions. I wanted to push her back onto the bunk and grope up under the leg of her shorts. I wanted to do a hundred and one other, illegal things to her. The shock to the system was shattering. I was sweating. I had never felt like this about anyone before, never mind a ten year old girl. I swung away. I pulled $20 from my desk. "You've worked hard today, Yim," I said with as much lightness as I could muster. "Here's your wages." I threw the two ten dollar bills on to her lap. "You deserve every cent. You've been a great help." The close confines of the trailer were getting to me. The walls were closing in on me and the smell of her small body was overpowering. She sat there on the bunk with the money in her lap. She made no attempt to pocket it - if she had any pockets in her grotesque shorts. Very slowly, she raised her eyes to mine and said, "I didn't do it for the money." Her eyes had taken on that far-away glaze. "I know you didn't sweetheart," I replied. I swallowed. I glanced at the clock on the desk. "Won't your folks be getting worried about you?" She shook her head and, rising, she demanded in a voice that was not to be ignored, "Can I sit on your leg?" Two things registered. One: the door was still lying half open since the cops' visit. Two: I recalled the mess on my thigh after her humping the day before. I did not want the mess on my pants. "You'd better lock the door," I said. I thought I had better get my priorities right. She complied, then dropped her shorts. She waited until I had removed my trousers before mounting me again. She cuddled into me and lay her head on my chest. She sighed deep contentment. "Mr. Mellis," she murmured. "Uh-huh?" I could feel the contraction running through her body already. I could also feel her hand groping for my crutch. "I love you, Mr. Mellis." I had to say it. The kid was expecting it and it could have damaged her self-esteem and psyche if I remained silent. "I love you too, Yim!" I felt for her tiny breasts. To my surprise I found them. To my even greater surprise, I found that I was getting a great deal of gratification from fondling golf-ball-sized swellings. Then she let loose. I'll swear it with my dying breath: that kid had a multiple orgasm that day. She was astride my thigh for the best part of an hour and I doubt if anyone could have made fuller use of the time. And even when I was wiping her with a towel when I thought it was all over, she seemed prepared for yet another state of the arts climax. "Can I come again tomorrow, Mr. Mellis?" I was on the point of answering, "I would not be surprised if you could come at the drop of a hat!" I studied her serious face and deadly intent eyes and found it impossible to say anything but, "Of course you can, Yim!" She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. It was full-mouth, lips and tongue stuff. This time I responded in kind. I fondled her tiny tits again, then her crotch and was not surprised when my finger slipped its full length into her without obstruction. When she finally pulled away, she hauled on her shorts and made for the door. "Could you wear a skirt?" She smiled. "Anything to please," she said. "Seven thirty." "And knickers!" She laughed happily. It was infectious. I laughed, I watched from the window as she ran in the direction of the Callahan trailer. I wondered how long I would have before I was serving time for technical rape of a minor. For it was almost certain that I would soon be insinuating my sexual needs upon her with something more than a finger. I had little idea that evening that one day I would be marrying the little sex kitten, that she would give me two quite staggeringly handsome sons, and that thirty years on, she is still capable of shooting a daily multiple - only she no longer needs my thigh. She is still hyperactive when it comes to work, and she still uses the odd joint. But who the hell cares? I can honestly say that I have never needed to cast lascivious glances at another female. And I seriously believe that I satisfy her sufficiently to keep her from other men. And to this day she still calls me 'Mister Mellis'. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life in anyway shape or form. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 21