("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `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: dixon4.txt (MFg/g, rom, ped)
Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld)
Story title : Dixon Park 4: Joshua

--------------------------------------------------------
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 4: Take Joshua For Example (MFg/g, rom, ped)
by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request)

***

Autobiographical account of a young girl's pilgrimage 
from emotional bewilderment to sexual triumph.

***

I lose the place completely while I am having sex. 
Genuinely, it is a berserk abandonment that crosses over 
into unrestrained animal lust. And it has been like that 
for as long as I can remember, well, from the first time 
I had real sex. With Joshua!

I must have been all of seven, rapidly hurtling towards 
eight years of age when I fell madly, head-over-heels in 
love with Joshua. I had not the slightest inkling of an 
idea of what sex was about other than it created a 
persistent yearning and a kind of perpetual burning 
irritation, like a continual, unsatisfied hunger, inside 
me. The intensity and the tenacity of the feelings I had 
for Joshua at that time helps explain what kind of person 
I am and what follows - all of it.

We had gone to the younger kids' recreation area in Dixon 
Park. Joshua sat on a bench while I played on the swings, 
chute and bucking horse, but in everything I did I could 
not take my eyes off him. One of the park rangers who had 
known Josh quite well when they were younger spoke to him 
for a long while and some of the other regulars passed 
the time of day with him. And I was perfectly happy with 
that; I did not mind in the least adults talking to him.

The trouble started when a boy, a couple of years younger 
than I was at that time, fell from the carrousel and hurt 
himself. It was Joshua who picked him up and comforted 
him and took off his shoe and sock to inspect the injured 
part and to play 'piggie' with him. And I blew a fuse. 
Josh, after all, was there to watch over me, not to 
administer aid and comfort to all and sundry. And if he 
was going to take clothes off anyone, it was going to be 
me. 

"I want to go home now," I demanded in the kind of voice 
that, had it been used to me at that time, I would have 
flown into a rage in the case of an adult and would have 
torn the eyes from a child.

"In a minute, honey," crooned Josh. "I've got to attend 
to this little wounded soldier first."

"Now!" I screamed a swear word. And yelled and cried and 
stamped my feet. There was a pause, dead silence around, 
as everyone stared at me. One of the older girls on the 
swings broke the spell by snickering and my temper simply 
hit high E.

Joshua quietly handed the injured child to another female 
adult. An old black man sitting on a bench muttered 
something like 'Spoiled little bastard! She wants her ass 
tanned!' We walked home in silence. I pouted all the way. 
Stone-faced Josh made to take me to the house. I 
protested. I pulled him away.

"I don't want to go home," I said. "I want to play in the 
garden."

I was really scared, because if my aunts had found out 
about the scene in the playground there would be hell to 
pay. Apart from anything else, all I wanted was to have 
Josh to myself. We went through the large garden. He held 
my hand roughly and led the way to a kind of timber 
summerhouse at the farthest end of the garden. Once 
inside, he bolted the door and pushed me against the 
wall. I realized I was in for some kind of chastening. I 
knew I deserved it, and was quite prepared to take it - 
from Josh. He stuck a white-knuckled fist in front of my 
face.

"See this?" he growled. "You fucking useless little 
bastard! If you ever behave like that again when you are 
out with me, I'll ram it up your asshole so hard you 
won't be able to sit for a week or shit for a month." He 
added a string of incredibly indecent suggestions.

I gaped at his flaming red cheeks. He told hold of my 
neck and pressed hard. And lashed me with a lewdly savage 
tirade. Never before had he treated me like this. I had 
never been talked to like this. I had never until that 
day seen the face of a really angry man. To say that I 
was terrified is to understate the condition. I crapped 
in my knickers. I tried to put on a brave face.

"I'll tell my aunts," I whimpered, with very little 
conviction, of course. Everyone who knew anything at all 
about us knew also that we were not on speaking terms. It 
was not that we had fallen out or anything like that, it 
was simply that my aunts and I existed on entirely 
different planes. I wasn't even allowed to sit with them 
at meal times.

Most of my life was spent between my bedroom and the 
kitchen in the house, and the garden and the play area in 
the wider Dixon Park. And Joshua knew us better than most 
folk. "I'll tell them when they come back from town," I 
said. I held back the tears. "You see if I don't!"

"Yeah, yeah!" he grunted. "You do that, you slimy little 
dogshit!" My threat obviously had missed the mark. "And 
I'll tell everyone about your mom and dad!"

That really burst through the last of my defenses. I 
could feel icy fingers tearing at the muscles of my 
stomach. I really believed that he knew something about 
my dead parents that would be shameful to reveal. I 
started to cry. The fact was that I could not remember my 
parents. I had never been told anything other than 'they 
have gone away; you won't be seeing them ever again!' 

Joshua released his grip on my neck. He stood back and 
surveyed me and shook his head. There was no compassion 
in his eyes, no softness on his face. He was studying me 
in the way the park ranger looks at dog vomit on the 
footpath. He did take pity on me after a while. He lifted 
me up and was about to sit with me on his lap when his 
hand on my backside made him aware of something amiss.

"You've shit yourself!" He made the comment sound like a 
cosmic catastrophe for which I was accountable. "Jesus! 
We had better get you cleaned up at my place." He 
tactfully set me down. "If your aunts see this, they'll 
put you in an institution for sure!" The hardness 
returned to his face. He grumbled. "Christ knows why they 
took you in to begin with!"

The comment did nothing to reassure. He led me out at 
arm's length. His tiny house was not far behind where we 
had been in the gazebo. Compared with Dixon Park, the 
original house that is, it was little more than a step-in 
cupboard, but it had all the necessary facilities, most 
of them built in by Josh himself. 

He stripped off my clothes as soon as we entered, 
disposed of the soiled knickers and turned his showerhead 
on me as I stood in his bath. He soaped and lathered me 
all over, using a long-handled loofa between my legs, and 
rinsed me, then wrapped me up like a bundle in a huge 
piece of toweling.

He sat me on his knee by the window and looked out at the 
long garden and Dixon Park, the park, beyond. This was 
what I really wanted: I wanted Josh all to myself. He 
even let his hand wander across my body; I knew it was a 
totally unconscious reflex and meant nothing to him, but 
it would keep me going for weeks.

"You won't really tell? Will you?" I remember feeling 
queasy in my stomach as I asked. His hand had settled on 
my lap. It was very close to what I knew to be the centre 
and source of the disturbances inside my stomach. 
"Please!"

He seemed puzzled for a few seconds, then understanding 
dawned on him. "About your mom and dad?" When I nodded, 
he appeared to be considering his answer. After a while 
he said, "You be a good girl when you are with me, and 
don't give me no trouble." I was trembling with passion 
and nodding agreement long before he was finished. "Then 
I won't tell what I know ."

"Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"I promise!" He made the sign of a cross over his chest. 
"Cross my heart and hope to live to a ripe old age!"

"You've got to say it right," I protested. He repeated 
the vow correctly. I wondered how far I could press my 
luck. "Now we've got to kiss!" I had never kissed anyone, 
as far as I was able to tell, in my entire life. My 
parents may have kissed me as a baby; my aunts were most 
certainly not the kissing kind. Kissing, for me at that 
time, had become the epitome of sexual activity. And at 
that moment I wanted nothing more out of life than to 
share a kiss with Joshua. I was trembling in 
anticipation.

He laughed. It was not a happy sound, in fact, it sent a 
funny kind of fearful shiver down into the deepest part 
of my stomach. And I guessed I had pressed my luck too 
far. At least I had Joshua all to myself, and I had him 
take all my clothes off.

"Kiss my ass!" he exclaimed. He threw me from his knee. 
"You wanted to play in the garden. Get dressed and play!"

I can't even remember how and when I first came to live 
with my two aunts in their sprawling mansion at Dixon 
Park. The public park actually takes its name from the 
house, which was built before the state entered the Union 
away back in the middle of the nineteenth century. The 
other settlers came west in covered wagons; the Dixons, 
it is said, came in carriages accompanied by a private 
army of Scotch, Irish, German and Dutch mercenaries led 
by a band of bagpipers whose noise alone was sufficient 
to scare the shit out of the redskins.

My aunts were not called Dixon, but that had been their 
mother's maiden name, and she was the last of the line. 
They were snobs who regarded everyone else, poor white, 
black, yellow or native Indian, as trash. Their own name 
was Maguigan, and their father was of mixed Irish and 
Scottish blood.

Folks who knew and respected him used to say that he got 
his fiery temper, inordinate drinking and the ability to 
tell a bare-faced lie from the Irish and his 
superstitious, totally sexless religion, almost psychotic 
thrift and his brutal business acumen from Scotland. 
There was no doubt that, while he had inherited a million 
dollars from his wife's family, he had earned ten million 
by his own hard work and dogged effort. A quarter of a 
million dollars was being added to the estate from 
dividends every year.

The two aunts, Jasmine and Jemima, could afford to live 
extravagantly on the interest and the dividends from the 
stock their father left them without ever glancing at 
their capital in the First National Bank. They had no 
idea of what they were worth. But, just like their 
father, they were outrageously mean in every sense of the 
word.

Joshua came to work at Dixon Park, the house, that is, 
straight from prison, because he was cheap labor and 
because it was part of his parole agreement. If he quit 
work there, he went straight back to prison. My aunts 
knew this and took full advantage of the situation; they 
treated Josh as a slave, and they would even have 
withheld his wages except that the parole board insisted 
on receiving a monthly check which they put into a bank 
account for the ex-prisoner.

No matter what they paid him, however, it was never near 
enough to compensate for the work he did. Not only did he 
do the gardening, and all the annual outdoor painting, 
but the plumbing and carpentry work as well; he tiled the 
roof, repaired the walls and fences around the property, 
replaced the lamps, installed a security system, took the 
trash cans to the end of the driveway, and everything 
else that had to be done on the premises.

And on top of all this, he was to be child minder and 
baby sitter for me. Not once, until my outburst in the 
playground, did I ever hear a complaint from him. Only 
occasionally had I seen a smile on his face, and the only 
time I ever saw his do anything with real enthusiasm, 
putting his heart and soul into it was when I spied on 
him having it off with a much older woman on the floor of 
his tiny house. 

I attended a really expensive private school; it was the 
one luxury my aunts afforded me. Everyone in the city 
called it The Mary Vane. It had girls who boarded there 
most of the year as well as those who went home after 
school; I was one of those 'day' students. The uniform we 
had to wear in the elementary or preparatory school was 
designed at the beginning of the twentieth century when 
little schoolgirls wore really short skirts and were 
allowed to show their knickers without some dirty old 
rapist knocking them up.

It was Joshua's responsibility to walk me to and from 
school; in filthy weather he was allowed to drive me. 
When we walked, he would take me by the hand right up to 
the school gates where there were a couple of armed 
security guards. I used to boast to them that Joshua was 
my boyfriend and that I was going to marry him some day 
soon. The guards would laugh and say, "Well, now, isn't 
he the luckiest guy!"

These unrequited sex urges went on inside me unabated and 
unexplained until I was ten. Joshua was still my number 
one object of desire, but I had not been able to get him 
to take my clothes off again. I even tried falling from 
the carousel, but he carried me to the first aid unit in 
the park where a winking nurse addressed a large spoonful 
of greasy oil to my mouth while Josh pinched my nostrils 
and held my mouth gaping open. I had the shits for two 
days. 

When I was ten, very nearly eleven, two things happened 
to change my entire life. The first and more important 
was that I made friends with a slightly older girl called 
Erica Bowles whose father had just moved into town from 
Chicago to become local supervisor of the First National 
Bank. Erica told me that she was going to be a high class 
hooker when she grew up and charge clients $1000 an hour. 

She had it all worked out: the first man would arrive at 
her office at nine thirty and leave an hour later when 
she would bathe and be ready for her second client of the 
morning, after which she would lunch at Tchekov's, for 
she would be returning to Chicago at the earliest 
opportunity, and the morning programme would be repeated 
in the afternoon. She looked me up and down then offered 
me the position of receptionist at her office, but I 
could not expect more than $2000 per month, plus 
accommodation and dinner out twice weekly. And of course, 
since she was a professional sex purveyor to men, I would 
be expected to tidy myself up a bit for I would have to 
sleep with her, since basically she was a lesbian.

Erica was an outstandingly beautiful child who hated all 
the other good looking girls in school and made up evil 
stories about them. I had been on a short list of perhaps 
six or seven 'plain' girls who would be her special 
friend - not too plain, she explained, for after all we 
would have to kiss and make love. There was no doubt that 
she opened up a new world to me, and helped me understand 
much of the turmoil that had been wearing out my insides.

The final 'interview' was conducted in a cubicle in the 
girls' toilets where we stripped off. She examined me all 
over with exploring fingers and eyes, and I had to kiss 
her lips, the nipples on her chest and her fanny. Then we 
rubbed our naked bodies together in a kind of simulated 
copulation. I think Erica had an orgasm and she held me 
so tightly that I had great difficulty in drawing breath 
and had a bruise on the small of my back for weeks. I did 
not want to complain; I desperately wanted the job.

I told her about Joshua. She thought about my problem for 
all of five minutes, then invited herself home with me 
for tea with my aunts one holiday Friday afternoon. She 
brushed my objections aside. She had decided to assess 
the situation for herself, because 'plain girls' were not 
always to be trusted entirely to provide reliable 
information, especially when it concerned matters of the 
heart, emotions and male genitals.

"I am Miss Erica Bowles," she explained to a sour-faced 
Jasmine who demanded to know what we thought we were 
doing in her drawing room. "I am the daughter of the 
supervisory manager of the First National Bank. If you 
wish me to leave your house I would be obliged if you 
would telephone my father at the bank and ask him to 
arrange for one of the servants to pick me up.

I must confess, I declare I do not know what my mother 
will make of such unsociable behaviour. I doubt if she 
will be able at all to comprehend, and goodness knows 
what her friends will make of it when she tells them!"

All this was said in a single breath. Jasmine gaped at 
the child open-mouthed. For the first time in my life I 
saw an aunt at a loss for words. The blood had drained 
from her face, and I really believed she was about to 
swoon. It was the younger Jemima, entering the drawing 
room at that precise moment, who unwittingly saved the 
situation. She also frowned total-war hostility at the 
pair of us as her sister had done and demanded to know 
what on earth was going on.

"Be quiet!" snapped Jasmine. "This is Miss Bowles, the 
daughter of the new bank manager. She has come to visit. 
We shall have afternoon tea in here. Please inform cook 
to prepare it immediately and serve it in the Boxton 
Meissen."

Jemima gasped. She trembled. She stared astonishment at 
all three other occupants of the room in turn, let her 
eyes settle on Erica for several seconds before staring 
unbridled hatred at me, because she was sure all this 
turmoil was my fault. She gasped frustration, then fled 
to the kitchen.

Jasmine telephoned Mr. Bowles, but it was to request 
permission, since it was Friday afternoon and there would 
be no school the following day, or indeed until the 
following Tuesday, for Erica to sleep over with me in the 
spare guest room. It was a delight to see my aunt 
explaining precisely who she was and why and how it would 
be a privilege and indeed an honour and pleasure to 
entertain his child at Dixon Park, and this despite the 
fact that she was the biggest non-corporate joint bank 
account holder with the First National in the state.

Erica stayed over on Saturday and Sunday nights as well. 
She took the man's part in bed on Friday night, and 
demonstrated in intricate detail how people made real, 
sexual love. We kissed passionately with open mouths 
because that was the proper way to do it. She showed me 
how to give tongue and drive a partner crazy. She kissed 
my shoulders, the tiny buds on my chest, my belly button 
and between my legs. She sucked my fingers and toes, my 
ears and my nose. Then finally she climbed on top of me, 
with her fingers embedded in my fanny, and humped up and 
down for nearly an hour, when we both fell asleep wrapped 
in each other's arms.

I had to be the man all day Saturday and all night. 
Sunday was a resume of the previous two days. And when 
Erica waved from the rear of the Plymouth as she left 
after an early evening meal on Monday I was a much better 
informed little girl and much more self-confident and 
better able to deal with the emotions still churning 
inside me. And Erica had given me her solemn pledge that 
Joshua would have me laid within a week of my eleventh 
birthday.

The only drawback to her plan was that Joshua may have to 
make love to her first; it all depended on what she 
thought of him when she finally got to meet him, and on 
whether things went according to her designs. I was not 
altogether happy about that arrangement; I still wanted 
Joshua all to myself. Beggars, however, cannot be 
choosers, especially when sex is involved.

It was the week before my birthday party - the first 
birthday party I ever had, and I was almost insane with 
excitement - when Erica appeared at Dixon Park, the 
house, dressed to kill. Jasmine and Jemima gasped in 
bewilderment, but if they disapproved they refrained from 
voicing any kind of criticism; they still held the 
child's father in reverential awe, a great deal of which 
rubbed off on Erica. Jasmine's mouth flapped open and 
shut and she bit her dainty, lace-edged handkerchief, 
while Jemima's eyes bulged and her hands trembled.

To say that my new friend and ally had a mystical aura 
about her was no empty figure of speech. Nor was it 
simply in the clothes she almost wore; it was also in the 
way the clothing seemed to become part of her, as if they 
had been designed with only her in mind. And it was in 
the way she moved, almost like some sinewy tigress 
slinking through the undergrowth in a tropical jungle, 
and it was in the way she said things.

Erica wore the briefest shorts that could possibly have 
left room for stitching. The sandals were held to her 
feet by a thin band of leather around a delicate ankle 
and another across her painted toes. Her silk top 
caressed her shoulders, but only just, and was tied in a 
careless knot above her belly button. It had one button 
on the front, and this was left undone. All four limbs 
were totally exposed, her arms from the softly rounded 
shoulders to the tips of her beautifully manicured nails, 
her fabulous legs from her round hips to her slender 
ankles. I had difficulty keeping in mind that this 
veritable Venus was little more than three months older 
than me. 

The effect on my two aunts was nothing compared with the 
reaction of Joshua. He went into orbit. Unabashed lust 
dripped from him. A stupid grin spread across his face to 
become a permanent fixture that day. I have never seen 
wider eyes on a human being. He quite literally drooled; 
he could not control the saliva dripping from his lips. A 
huge bulge pushed out the front of his pants. He became 
aware of this when people started to stare rudely at him, 
so he pulled out his shirt from the waistband of his 
pants in a feeble attempt to hide it.

Erica's plans to make her fortune as a high-class hooker 
at a thousand dollars an hour quite suddenly assumed an 
air of plausibility. Men flocked to talk to Joshua as she 
sat beside him on a bench while I swung and slid and 
bucked and swirled on the apparatus in the recreation 
area. They peeped down the front of her bodice and stared 
wantonly at the slender strip of denim along her crotch 
and the hint of peerless white panties. They bought ice 
cream for us and pushed her when she deigned to sit on a 
swing. I was proud to be recognized as her friend, but I 
was also intensely jealous of her. One man who had dared 
slip his hand down inside her top was censured by the 
other men and ejected from the set; I longed for it to 
have happened to me, to have almost any of these men feel 
my breasts.

Among all the other emotions warring inside me, slowly I 
was aware of an entirely new kind of sensation. Up to 
that point in my life I readily accepted the all-American 
axiom that the male of the species, by reason of a 
grittier physique, greater strength and sheer bloody-
minded determination, its apparent power in the things 
that mattered in life - politics, business, law and 
religion, its decisiveness and its directness, and its 
prominence in the nation's history was, by right, the 
master of the female.

What I was witnessing was a process in which an eleven-
year-old girl was rendering fully-grown adult males 
incapable of rational thought; she was leading them 
around by their genitals. And in those few days before my 
own eleventh birthday, in the play area of Dixon Park, I 
suddenly became aware of the fact that all men existed 
for the sole purpose of being manipulated.

I still wanted to have Joshua make love to me, I wanted 
him to take off my clothes and ram his hot manhood into 
me as far as it was possible to go, but I no longer 
respected him in the way I had previously, or regarded 
him as anything else other than someone to be used. I 
shuddered: I had started to think like my aunts.

Erica had already had her eleventh birthday party in 
Chicago, so she knew what it was all about. And she had 
my two aunts running around like blue-titted butterflies 
and spending more money that they had ever done at any 
one time in their entire lives. Then, on the day of the 
party, they suddenly remembered that they had to visit 
friends in Boston and would probably be away for the 
week. 

Joshua was detailed to take complete charge in the 
organization of the hundred or so kids who had been 
invited. He was even given a bonus payment in actual hard 
ready cash equivalent to a week's wages. Even the cook 
was given time off since the food would be supplied by a 
reputable company of caterers from the city.

When it was all over, and Joshua was repairing the damage 
and removing the debris, Erica and I relaxed in the plush 
armchairs of the vast parlour. We had the sprawling 
mansion to ourselves.

"Phase two!" Erica exclaimed suddenly. "Strip!"

I gaped at her. "Here?" I was wearing my very first ever 
pink party dress, and was reluctant to shed it.

"Where else, you stupid bitch! We're here aren't we?" She 
led by example. "Leave your panties on!" And when all was 
ready, she went to the door. "Joshua!" she called out. 
"Come here for a moment." She sauntered back to the couch 
with swaying hips as soon as the man appeared. "We wanted 
to express our gratitude for all your services." She 
cooed like a bird. "We wondered," she said, licking her 
lips sensually, "if there was anything in particular you 
wanted! If there was anything we could do for you!"

Joshua was fixed to the spot. His eyes bulged from their 
sockets. He gaped, with his mouth open and slobbering, at 
the girl's tiny, perfectly shaped breasts and her pink 
transparent, extremely brief panties. It was fully two 
minutes before he was able to recover wits enough to say, 
"I just want to be nice to you!" And a silly grin spread 
across his face as he stepped further into the room.

Erica waved a nonchalant, dismissive hand. "Ah, well, you 
have had your wish," she said. "You have been extremely 
nice to us all afternoon." She flopped back in the huge 
couch and spread her legs wide. The fabric of her panties 
slipped to one side to reveal her entire slit. "I thought 
perhaps you might like to fuck!"

Joshua froze again. He was on the verge of passing out 
from shock. He worked his mouth silently. We laughed.

"In other words, Joshua, would you like to fuck me?" 
Erica worked her hips erotically.

Joshua was quivering, slavering idiocy in human male 
form. His glazed eyes were fixed on the exposed treasure. 
He nodded. His grunt of assent was almost inaudible. 
Erica indicated me with an indifferent wafting of her 
fingers.

"First you must fuck her," she said in the tone she would 
have used to refer to the ingredients of her favorite 
ice-cream. "If you make a really good job of her." She 
allowed her gaze to drift along my near-naked shape. 
There was chronic doubt on her face, as if it was highly 
unlikely that anyone could perform sex successfully with 
what I had on offer. "I shall give serious consideration 
to allowing you to fuck me!"

Joshua let his head twist from side to side as he stared 
in disbelief from this sex goddess to me and back to her. 
Finally, he nodded; he still seemed incapable of sensible 
articulation.

The terms and conditions were explained in every detail 
by Erica. Where, when, how, how long for, and why! Again 
Joshua nodded. I lay on the thickly piled carpet and 
waited. He made a sort of half-hearted pincer movement 
while pulling off his shoes and his pants. He removed my 
panties with the same depressing air of ennui with which 
he approached his everyday chores. And crouched over me 
as if he were about to weed the herbaceous border.

"For God's sake man, show some enthusiasm!" exclaimed 
Erica. "Or we shall call the whole thing off!"

As soon as Joshua actually touched me, as I hinted at the 
start, I went totally off-beat and berserk. I licked, 
sucked, puffed, stroked, caressed, bit, tore and 
scratched, I squirmed, twisted, lifted, swirled and 
rotated as if I had only three minutes to live. I held 
him fast with my arms around his neck and my legs around 
his thighs. My body vibrated and radiated sheer animal 
lust as my hips hammered into his and I gripped his 
resurrected masculinity like a vise.

Joshua was hauled into the eye of this sexual tornado. He 
grunted and moaned, as if I were hurting him, and burst 
into his first volcanic ejaculation. I refused to release 
him. The whirlwind continued unabated and soon he was 
coming again. And then 'cry havoc and let slip the dogs 
of war' had nothing on what followed. It was like being 
struck by lightning. A million volts was applied to my 
insides.

I screamed and twisted and puffed and pulled at Joshua 
until he thought I must needs emasculate him. I lifted 
and dropped, cork-screwed and turned at twice the speed 
of sound as I tore into my first ever orgasm that went on 
and on into eternity. Vaguely I was aware of Joshua 
emptying himself into me for a third time.

When it was all over, the look of astonishment on his 
face was what I would have expected had he witnessed the 
landing of an alien spacecraft and encountered emerging 
little green, three-headed monsters wearing miniskirts 
and offering him free drink. I sat up and kissed him on 
the lips. When I glanced at Erica, she was also gaping 
open-mouthed at me with something very like devout wonder 
and incredulous astonishment written across her face.

From that evening onward, I could have led Joshua by the 
nose. I did have him several times subsequently. I know 
that he pestered Erica to keep her side of the bargain, 
but he finally gave up when I delivered an ultimatum: 
either her or me!

"Looks aren't everything," he said one night in his bed, 
referring of course to Erica. "Looks are just wrapping 
paper. It's what's inside the parcel that matters!"

It was when things had arrived at the stage where Joshua 
thought he could take his little pre-teen lay for 
granted, that the second thing happened to change my 
life. Admittedly, it was not nearly as important as Erica 
Bowles helping me along the road to self-discovery, 
nevertheless it was a major event, one that shattered 
Joshua's comfortable little world as well as enriching 
mine. 

Jasmine died. And it happened just like that: new 
paragraph - Jasmine died. One afternoon she was chiding 
cook for her extravagance, then complained that she had a 
headache and went to lie down. When Jemima went to wake 
her to tell her that dinner was ready, she found that she 
had died in her nap. Jemima surprised me that she did not 
become hysterical or suffer a complete emotional 
collapse. 

She accepted the fact in the way that she accepted the 
visits of the mailman. She telephoned Dr. Sherman, our 
family medical practitioner, Henderson the local 
undertaker, and MacLean, Graham and Ogilvy, our lawyers 
and the Reverend Stanley Osborne of the First 
Presbyterian Church. She coldly informed each in turn 
that 'Jasmine was dead and would they make appropriate 
arrangements.'

After a respectable period of mourning, Hector 
Chappelwell from the lawyers' office came to the house 
and read Jasmine's will. Her half of the estate would be 
shared equally between Jemima and me, with a hundred 
dollars to Joshua, a hundred and fifty to the cook, and a 
hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the church. There 
were no other beneficiaries, no charities, no cat and dog 
home, no long lost and suddenly remembered cousin, 
nothing!

It was that night, after the reading of the will, that my 
life was changed. Not only was I invited to share the 
dinner table with Jemima, I was also invited to share her 
bed. It was at that moment that it finally dawned on me: 
Jasmine and Jemima had been incestuous lesbians.

It was a shock! But nothing compared to what awaited 
Jemima! And poor Josh? He got the push, for I had had 
him! And Erica suddenly seemed unimportant.

***

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not "real life." Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Kristen's collection - Directory 21