("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `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: yvette.txt (Mf, ped) Authors name: Alasder (alasder@planer-save.com) Story title : Yvette la Triste -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. 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. -------------------------------------------------------- Yvette la Triste by Alasder (alasder@planer-save.com) *** A pedophile love affair turns to tragedy. (Mf, ped) *** I was a sad child. This has to be said: I was also an extremely lonely little girl, which may seem strange, considering the circumstances, but which also may go a great length in explaining the otherwise inexplicable things that happened later in my life. My father was professor of political economy at a world-famous university. His talents involved him in lofty dealing with great institutions like the World Bank, the IMF and the United Nations. Consequently I saw very little of him, indeed he was a comparative stranger until I was in my middle teens. My mother was equally famous in her own right as a fashion designer who, in the course of a single week, could be in Paris, London, New York, Tokyo and Singapore. This is no childish exaggeration. Although she appeared at home oftener than my father, it was usually little more than a stopover between flights. The actual personal contact was only marginally more frequent, but was certainly no more intimate. By the age of seven I had come to the soul-shattering conclusion that I had been 'an unwanted child'. So- called 'normal' people cannot possibly have any idea what it is like to feel like this. The conviction was not in any way depleted by the fact that, when I was eight, I was sent to a private boarding school in Geneva for rich, unwanted girls such as I, but at that time the new environment was assimilated as a blessed relief from the isolation and desperate sadness of home life. Our family, that is, my father's family had lived in a fairy-tale chateau in Savoie, in possibly the most beautiful corner of France, for centuries. The place had been destroyed several times as a result of natural decay, tempest, war, peasant rebellion, revolution, and rank carelessness on the part of the servants, had been rebuilt as a outpouring of pure family bloody- mindedness and a refusal to allow others to get the better of them, and with each rebuilding the place increased in size. I was born there. It was virtually the only place I knew until I started school. The estates were extensive, sweeping down from a backdrop of Alpine foothills to the sand dunes and pebbled beach of a little lake. There was everything a child could desire. We had high meadows covered in deep grass, buttercup and poppy with solemn-faced, bell- ringing cows and cheeky goats that gambolled as friskily as any spring lamb. There were vineyards and apple orchards and groves of greengages where a child could devour a lifetime's vitamins at her leisure. I had parks for playgrounds and woodland wonderlands to explore. We even had canoes and a motorboat on the lake. The only thing that was lacking was the one thing every child desperately needs: human companionship and love of any sort. There was a regiment of servants at the chateau, around the estate and in the home farms, vineyards and orchards: maids and man-servants of every description, each one who hated and despised me and treated me with utter contempt more than they hated each other and treated everyone else with suspicion. It was a sad atmosphere for a child. I was a prisoner in it until I entered the liberating world of the girls' school in Geneva. The only exception to the rule in my life was Raoul, the only break in the canopy of oppressive cloud. He was the chauffeur. For most of my young life his time was spent driving my father around Paris or Marseilles, or transporting my mother to and from the airport. On the rare occasion when he was at the chateau, and when he did not have other immediate demands, he would take me for drives into the countryside and down to the lake where he let me swim naked - indeed when we were alone he insisted that I swim naked - or he would climb the foothills with me or play hide-and-seek among the fruit trees. He was the one person who treated me as a human being and who had time for me. As far as I was concerned he was the handsomest man in the world and the kindest, most courteous and nicest person in my life. That he was a paedophile meant a million times less than nothing to me at that time. And looking back on the things he did to me, I mean allegedly sexual things, hand on heart, I would swear to this is the highest court in the land, he did nothing to me that I did not want to happen, and nothing he did to me as his sex object left any mental stigmata or psychological hang-ups. I truly believe that it was Raoul who helped me hold on to some shreds of sanity and provided brief glimpses of pleasure in an otherwise totally miserable existence. It was the desolation and the loneliness of my childhood that left me scarred. It was the end of the first year at the school in Geneva, the beginning of the long summer vacation when things took a weird turn. I was broken-hearted, for it meant that I had to leave my friends and playmates, the companionship of the classroom, the chatter and the scandalous gossip of the playground, the secret rough and tumble and the pillow fights of the dormitory and the secret intimate touching in the toilettes. The only brightness in the presuming gloom was in that Raoul was there in person, immaculately liveried, and alone, amid a thousand parents, real and alleged, nannies and bodyguards and other chauffeurs waiting for their wards, to take me home. The greedy look in his eye was unmistakable and it was the first time I became aware of its libidinous significance. He wanted to do me as much as I did not want to go home. The official uniform (since changed to be more socially acceptable and politically correct) at that time, for the preparatory school anyway, was a severely abbreviated skirt that scarcely made it halfway down the thigh, a white cotton blouse, dark green jacket and a silly felt hat that was shaped like an inverted soup-bowl. Raoul seemed fixated by the short skirt. Under it we were compelled to wear extremely tight, white legless knickers. I flew at him, wrapped arms and legs around him and planted a wet kiss on his lips. Kids were doing similar things all around, so no one paid any attention. Raoul held me by a great spade-like hand on my bottom under my skirt. He massaged the flesh of my backside and explored with a finger. He found a way inside my pussy. He wiggled, it tickled and I laughed. "Did you miss me?" he demanded gruffly as we drove south. I answered honestly. "Not really!" When he pulled a face, I added, "But I am really glad to see you." I have always been truthful, simply because I never really saw the point of telling a lie, even the softest of options: the nice innocent socially acceptable lie, or the pointedly political correct one. "I was not looking forward to going home." We drove away from Geneva and my Garden of Eden. I wanted to explain that school was the only place where I found friendship (apart from his) and that all the servants around the chateau (except him) were insolent, beastly rude and unkind to me. But before I could explain the most extraordinary thing happened. Raoul had driven the Mercedes off the main road and into a bumpy lane half way between school and home. It had been overgrown with years of high rye grass neglect and stinging nettle abandonment. He pulled to a halt and threw open the driver's door. Before I could even think about offering a questioning glance, he drew me from my seat and laid me face down across his lap. I felt the short skirt brushed back and la petite culotte manoeuvred down past my knees. For several minutes he rubbed and massaged my bare backside and the groove of my pussy while he struggled with the buttons of his flies before producing his enlarged and very hard 'bite' which he slipped between my thighs. He rubbed himself with a vigor approaching fanaticism; his throbbing masculinity rammed sidewise into the slit of my pussy, now sticky wet. He shot off only a few minutes later and rubbed the semen on his hand into my bottom and along the groove of my pudenda. We remained there in that position for another five groping minutes. Raoul took a large handkerchief, almost like a dinner napkin, from inside his tunic, and wiped both of us clean. He bent over and planted a slobbering raspberry kiss on my buttocks. He rearranged my dress, buttoned himself up, and smoked a cigarette with the door still open. "AprŠs l'amour la fum‚e," he said and sniggered like a mischievous boy. We reversed to the main road and continued our journey as if what had happened in the deserted lane was of little consequence. That was the first time I was aware of being 'molested'. Later that night, when I was getting ready for bed and was having a good look at my body for the first time ever, I started to remember and reflect upon many of the previous things Raoul did when we were alone. Up to that moment, they had only been bits and pieces of a play pattern that I welcomed. Quite suddenly it seeped through to my senses that it was something males did to females as part of the natural order of things. The girls at school had talked in whispers and told little secrets of sex and the things brothers and cousins, gardeners and teachers, had done to them. To me it was a kind of fairy tale fictions that little girls make up, without real substance. It began to take on a new significance. When Raoul had time to play with me, if ever I turned up in jeans, he would send me back to change into a dress, skirt or shorts - the shorter the better! Then he would 'inspect' me by lifting my skirts or probing between the legs of my shorts. When we played roll- about in the meadows, invariably my skirts ended up around my waist. Raoul showed me the right way to execute handstands and cartwheels and held me upside down, legs widely splayed while he rubbed my crotch. When we were bird-watchers in the woodland or foothills, he usually lay over me, and again my skirt was brushed back over my buttocks. Raoul had playfully smacked my bare bottom and wiped me with his napkin-like handkerchief when I peed out-of- doors. We made pretend love as maman and papa where his hands explored my chest, belly and pussy. But, as I said, these things at the time were part of the play routine, and I accepted them without comment, indeed I thoroughly enjoyed the kind of thing he did to me. The homeward incident in the car was different, and not only in the intensity of the experience. I had only just turned nine, but even at that immature age I fully realised that the kind of relationship I had with this man four times my age had taken a completely new twist. It had ignited a smouldering fire inside me, like smoking twigs and leaves that produce little but smoke and hope. I had no idea of its precise nature, but I knew I wanted something physical and deeply emotional from Raoul, something to satisfy an ill-defined, but persistent longing deep inside me. The following day, the first full day home, I sought him out in the suite of garages about two hundred metres from the main building. He was doing something to the underside of an ancient Rolls Royce. He wore brief shorts in place of his usual livery. His legs protruded, one bent at the knee, providing me with an unobstructed view of his thigh, down to his naked, thick-haired pubis. As I stared, an avalanche of silent emotions crashed down on me, and I was conscious of a longing for a sexual closeness, which I could only dimly and fractionally understand, but which I knew had something to do with what he had done in the car on the previous day. I crouched down. I was still wearing the short school skirt and the very latest fashion in miniature panties. I deliberately splayed my knees and called his name. His flat trolley wheeled from under the vehicle and stopped with his face directly at my crotch. He stared for more than a minute. He licked his lips and half sat up. "Do you fancy a ride?" He tapped the gleaming vintage Rolls with greasy fingers, while still studying my splayed thighs and my brief knickers. He stretched out a hand under my skirt and ran an oily finger along the middle ribbon that covered the groove of my pussy. "This is ready for its test drive. Wanna come?" Without waiting for my reply he washed his hands at the cold water tap in the lavabo in the garage. "You have oil on your leg!" I giggled. He threw a dampened cloth at me. "Give the boy a treat!" he joked. "Wipe it away!" Close up, the shorts were more abbreviated than I had first thought. The hamstrings on his thigh were powerful, like those of an athlete and his buttocks were firm, solid muscle. I ran the rag up and down the tanned skin, and tingling emotions, delicious but uncomfortably frustrating, stirred deep inside me. The internal telephone rang its urgent alarm inside the garage, echoed by the ringing for the telephone in Raoul's living quarters upstairs. He went to answer it, and returned grim faced. "Our ride will have to wait," he announced. "I have to pick up your dear maman in Marseilles this afternoon. I shall have to leave as soon as possible." His face broke into a smile. "But not before we have a little play. Maybe a little probe at my little girlfriend, and maybe a little branlette as I have a little feel at her little pussy." I was thrown over his shoulder and carried upstairs. I screamed laughter as he spanked and rubbed my bottom. He dumped me on his bed and removed his shirt and shorts. He was massively erect. It was as if his testicles had been inflated. He kicked off his canvas shoes. "A shower!" he declared. "But first let's have a look at you!" He pushed back my short skirt and hauled my knickers down past my ankles and threw them aside. He pulled up my knees and separated my thighs. For a long time he simply stared at me, devoured me with his eyes. He climbed on the bed and positioned himself, kneeling between my feet. He began to masturbate, rubbing my vulva with his free hand. It was only a few moments before he spurted his semen everywhere - between my legs, on my clothing and face, and on the bedclothes; the stuff seemed endless and indiscriminate. "Some time soon it goes into you," he gasped and collapsed over me. "In there!" His face was deadly serious as his finger invaded me. "Then it will be for real!" He gasped. The intensity of the effort made him breathless. "OK?" and I nodded. More than anything else in the whole world at that moment I wanted to take his huge, hardly deflated cock, into my mouth and suck it back to life. He showered, donned his black livery, kissed my forehead and departed. That was the last I saw of him that summer. I heard later that he had taken my mother to Paris where she met up with my father, and from there they were driven virtually all over Europe. And, once again, I was abandoned to my drab, aimless loneliness. Several times I tried to recreate the fire that Raoul had stirred inside me by touching myself the way he did. It was interesting, but not the same. All that summer I went about as in a half-dreamlike state of awareness; I had an aching, hungry longing. I had no precise idea of what it was I wanted or needed; I only knew that somehow it had something to do with Raoul. I missed him. As summer drew to a close, a feeling of almost suicidal depression overwhelmed me; I hated my life, my home, my parents. I even had to take the bus, train and a private taxi back to school in the Autumn. And it rained all the way! The Christmas break from school brought no relief. Raoul had been called away: his parents had been involved in a road accident in the Pays de Leon and both were in intensive care in hospital in Brest. The old man who replaced him as temporary chauffeur was glum-faced and distant and proved to be every bit as insolent as the others in the chateau. For the following Easter break, I had to fly to Paris to spend the holiday with maman and papa. From there we went to Rome for some kind of religious festival, but I could not have been less interested nor have felt more rebellious and impious. I wanted only Raoul. In fact, it was nearly three years before I got him to myself. He collected me from school again for the long summer vacation. Both my parents were with him on this occasion. We went through the cold formality of a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. When I finally made eye contact with Raoul, the signal was unmistakably clear: he intended to fuck me at the earliest opportunity. Maman and papa sat in the luxurious rear of the plush, custom-built Mercedes; I sat in the front passenger seat beside Raoul. I giggled as we passed the spot on the road with the overgrown and deserted lane where we had made a crude sort of first love. Raoul smiled conspiratorially. He brushed my skirt as far back as the space would permit, he spread my knees, and several times during the journey let his hand wander up to my crutch to get a finger inside me. I sat on the edge of the seat to make it easier for him. There was an added thrill in being felt up with my parents in the back of the automobile. There was little danger; only the chauffeur's head and neck were visible from behind. And before we finally landed, Raoul had straightened my clothing. But I was soaking! Love juices poured from me. Still it was another two weeks before we were alone again; it was as if my parents were doggedly determined to monitor my every movement, and had, for the first time ever, planned activities for every minute of the day: swimming, riding, playing tennis and croquet, visiting, dining out. Finally, father was off to Japan, mother was in Italy for a fashion week. I sought Raoul out at the garages. He was sitting in the midst of a thousand bits and pieces of a sports car, carefully sticking labels on each part. Again he was wearing tight shorts. The bulge in front of them was unmistakable and he made no attempt to conceal it. "Give me five minutes," he called out when I appeared, dressed for the kill in the shortest shorts that could have come from any fashion house in Europe or America. He ran appreciative eyes over me. "Then I'll be right with you! Right in you!" I slid into the driving seat of the latest acquisition, the last word in German engineering. I pretended to drive the massive machine through busy streets and the dangerous hazards I had seen on television adverts, avoiding avalanches skirting wild beasts on the road, making appropriate noises with my mouth. It was strange; I was so lost in play fantasy that for the first time in several years Raoul slipped from my idle- time thoughts. Suddenly, a large hand groped for, found and mauled my small breast. My head was jerked round and my lips were kissed and a tongue, with the slightest taste of alcohol, filled my mouth. Then crude fingers slid past the crutch of my shorts and the middle band of my panties and slipped inside me. It was the most delicious sensation I had ever experienced. My vaginal muscles pulled him in and my buttocks began to shudder and jerk crazily. His probing found my maidenhead. "Know what this is?" He growled almost like a dog as he flexed his finger. Without waiting for a response, he said, "Not that it matters! You won't have it for long. But it is the mysterious veil between being a little girl and being a woman." He sniggered and again I got the faint whiff of alcohol. "In other words, my sweet little piece of sweetmeat, it is your virginity, which I suspect you are about to lose!" He withdrew as suddenly as he had appeared. He locked the doors of the garage - a thing I don't ever remember him doing before. There was no possibility of misinterpreting the glint in his eye when he returned. The seats of the Mercedes folded back to form a bed. Raoul climbed into the vehicle and lay alongside me. His kisses had never been more passionate not his exploring fingers more exciting. By the time his mouth was at my cunt, I would have died from sheer frustration were his progress towards fucking me to be aborted. His entry, after a seeming eternity, was as life- fulfilling as it was nerve-jangling and bone-rattling. I yelped at the ripping away of my virginity. The sharp pain of it soon faded into pure pleasure; a million separated sparks and shocks gradually melded to become a crescendo of massive blazing flame and an earth- shattering eruption in my abdomen as I raced into my first ever orgasm. The sensuousness of it was multiplied by the feeling of Raoul coming inside me almost at the same time as warm, hot, boiling semen bursting into my womb in unstoppable spurts. On and on, till he emptied himself completely into me. I laughed and wept and clung to him and kissed him, and never wanted this emotion ever to end. His withdrawal was like the closing of theatre curtains at the end of a drama. There was a sense of completeness and loss. I felt his semen, mingled with veins of virginal blood, seep from my violated cunt. Raoul seemed fascinated by it; he fingered it, and me, then finally wiped me, and his dripping cock with a huge white handkerchief. And lit the inevitable cigarette despite the 'd‚fense de fumer' notice on the wall. I made to get up. "Where do you think you are going?" He crouched over the open door of the car and pushed me back. He devoured me systematically with his eyes. "I'm not finished with you yet!" He finished his cigarette and positioned himself over me. "I think after this 'baise' we shall go for a little ride into the country." He slid into me with no difficulty, first one finger, then two, then his cock guided between his fingers, and began to ride gently. "Perhaps you can tell cook that you won't be in for dinner. We shall find some romantic little tavern and eat there. Then we can have an evening of passion." He reflected on the proposition for a moment. "It would be too much to expect them not to ask questions if you slept in my bed all night!" Then he raced into his second coming. He exploded inside me and hammered into me with such force that I felt he must do some irreparable damage. There was an almost insane glaze in his eyes as he completed his ejaculation. This time he seemed reluctant to pull out. I could feel his cock relax and soften. We lay like, with him embedded in me, that for nearly half an hour. We had our romantic meal in a countryside inn within sight of Mont Blanc. Raoul knew the proprietor, a tall, skinny individual, called Luc Maurice, whose eyes had stripped me and examined every curve and corner of my body as soon as we entered his low-ceilinged establishment. The peculiar leering had the odd effect of making me feel important. There was everything a young girl in love could have wished: candle-light and violinist, exquisite cuisine and heavenly ice cream. A handsome man who made me feel exquisitely special. After which, Raoul took me by the hand and led me upstairs to a bedroom. "Luc has offered me a hundred francs to let him fuck you," he said as he pulled off his shirt. I sat on the bed. I felt the muscles in my lower abdomen tugging and really thought I was going to be sick. I stared at him in disbelief. He made it sound as if he had seriously considered the proposition. He grinned wickedly. "Relax!" He pulled off his underpants and threw them on the bedside chair beside his other clothing. "I said he had no chance, but that I would ask you - he really fancies you! And he is giving the room for free." He laughed. "But you are mine! All mine, and I don't intend sharing you with anyone, ever!" He had pulled me from the bed, unbuttoned my dress and kissed me with a violence that began to get me ever so slightly scared. He groped and squeezed my breast until it hurt, then threw me backwards across the bed. He sat beside me rather than lay. He spread my thighs and tugged the crotch of my knickers to one side and started to probe. Quite suddenly he plunged into me and started to finger fuck. In only a few minutes I responded in a frenzy of pushing and twisting, my hips lifting and falling and circling to get more and still more. And then I exploded into the most exquisite and abandoned orgasm. It went on for minutes, and when it finally subsided Raoul still had his fingers full length inside me. He pulled them away and began to suck my love juices, his tongue replacing his fingers. It was too much; I could feel the shuddering and jerking starting up again instantly. This time it was if all the sensations were happening apart from me, and I was a mere spectator at another's seduction. Even when I felt myself coming, it was a distant, almost out-of-body experience. I was utterly fatigued. Raoul let me relax for a while. He smoked a couple of cigarettes. The taste of tobacco was strong on his lips when he kissed me again. He shifted my position to lie along the bed rather than across it. He hauled the knickers from my legs, plunged his two fingers deeply into me, then crawled on top of me. His entry was instant, his huge, hard cock guided between his fingers into its goal. He fucked me for only a few minutes then came in great throbbing pulses of semen that felt as if it were filling me. He did not pull out. He lay dormant until I was sure that he had fallen asleep. I made to shift his weight from my body when his hips began to rise and fall; he started to pump back and forth into me with a mechanical rhythm. Incredibly his cock hardened and lengthened even more until it began to be extremely painful. Mercifully it was brief, for once again he fired his hot heavy substance deep into my belly. He collapsed on top of me, lay for a minute longer then pulled away. He smoked two more cigarettes. He referred to his watch. "It is time to get you back!" There was something in the voice that suggested that he had his fill of me for the evening. He dressed and returned me to the chateau. His kiss before I left the car was little more than a formality. "See you sometime," was his parting word. The garage seemed comparatively empty when I went round there the following morning. Raoul was not there, the huge Mercedes was away. I assumed, and had it confirmed later that he had been called away to Paris or Marseilles. And once again, my summer was spent in isolation. I tried the consolation of rubbing myself off, and although it proved successful, and I did it alone in the high meadows, in the motor boat on the lake and nightly in bed, it was never the same as Raoul's physical presence. For the next two years Raoul became more of a shadowy remembering than a present reality. For whenever I saw him is was always in the background of the coming and going of my parents. Most of his time was spent in Paris where both maman and papa worked for most of the time. I was fifteen, and really well developed physically for my age, when two things happened that were to alter the course of my life. The first, and the lesser of the two evils, was that maman was killed in the Concorde tragedy in Paris. My father was absolutely shattered by the event, and had to take prolonged leave (which became permanent over the next two years) from his prestigious post at the university. And only then did he begin to notice me as a human individual with needs. The other, for me, much more important event, happened immediately after the first and has to be told in some greater detail. For the third time in succession from school (I was now in the senior school and, according to my parents, was of an age where I could be expected to take care of myself) I had to find my own way to the chateau. My father was making preparations to return to Paris after the funeral. I bicycled to the garage complex to seek out Raoul. I was wearing what I considered to the sexiest outfit in my wardrobe. I was desperate for love, almost insane with lust for the man. I had to have him before papa snatched him away from me again. Unusually, the garage door was locked. It puzzled me. Raoul seldom bothered. The only time I could remember his securing the door was when he fucked me that first time in the Mercedes. But it was a simple task to prise the barrel of the lock back. The door did not even creak as I prised it open; Raoul was fastidious in things like that - creaking door would have been an offence to his sensibilities. I mounted the stairs to his living space cautiously; already I could hear the giggling and squeals of delight. His bedroom door was half-open. I gasped. And held a hand over my mouth to negate the sound and prevent any other. Raoul, naked on his bed, was tickling and kissing an equally naked girl. I supposed her to be from the nearest village, I did not recognise her as a daughter of any of the servants, and I guessed her age at nine or ten. My heart was thumping uncontrollably and the blood of anger boiled in my veins. I withdrew as silently as I had approached. I knew that maman had possessed a hand pistol. She kept it in a bottom drawer of a desk in her study. I knew nothing about its calibre or any possible effects it could have on a potential victim. These details were irrelevant. I had shot several times when papa had shooting parties; I had even been congratulated once on my marksmanship by an officer in the Foreign Legion who was one of the guests. I loaded the weapon with its five bullets, stuck it into the waistband of my shorts and covered it with the bottom of my sweater. When I returned to the garage, Raoul was fucking the child. Her legs were high in the air and his buttocks were racing as he pumped into her. He was moaning and groaning, she was squealing. I pushed the door wide open and approached the bed. The little girl saw me first and gaped stupidly. It was several thrusts before the man was aware of my presence. When he noticed the gun his face became as if sculpted from marble, his eyes widened in sheer terror, his jaw dropped. I fired. The muzzle was less than half a metre from his head. The noise was so incredibly loud I was sure that they must have heard the bang up at the chateau. The physical effect was even more astonishing. Raoul was blown aside and half his shattered face disappeared in blood and brains. The little girl screamed and made to rise. I pointed the gun at her right eye and pulled the trigger. The disintegration made me feel sick. I ran to the tiny toilet at the top of the stairs and threw up into the lavatory bowl. It took almost five minutes to get control of my heaving stomach. I flushed the toilet, cleaned vomit from around the rim with tissue, then flushed it again. I took one last look at the blood and the mess on the bed. It was the saddest moment in a sad lonely life. I stuck the revolver into the waistband of my shorts and left; it was burning hot against my belly. I took the key from the garage door and double-locked it from the outside. There was almost a sense of finality as I slipped the key into my pocket. I cycled to the lake. There was one old man, with his back to me, fishing from the farthest end of the quay. I canoed, out of line of his vision, to the middle and deepest part of the water where I dropped the still warm weapon and the key. I circled and paddled towards the quay from the angler's side. He waved as I approached. "You still here?" I asked politely when I climbed the steps to the wharf. "You were here when I started out." It was not a lie. I was tempted to expand as I sat beside him, but it was a case of 'least said soonest verified'. I was pleased to see his eyes, almost as a masculine reflexive instinct, search out my bare thighs and settle on my crotch. "Patience, my girl," he said. "That what you need for fishing." He offered his flask of coffee. "Gets cold on the water after a while." I sighed contentedly, and poured some steaming hot coffee into the plastic cap. It was the sweetest, most satisfactory beverage I have ever tasted. It gradually crept up upon me that there was something vaguely familiar about the man. It also occurred to me that he was fishing private water in a private estate. "You know my papa?" I ventured the question after a prolonged silence. The man turned his head slowly. "Professor Fourier?" He smiled and nodded. "Yes! I know him. I also knew your dear late maman!" He returned his attention to his rod. "As a matter of fact, I painted her portrait many years ago - before she married the professor." Suddenly it clicked. "You are Adrien Masette!" I made it sound almost like an accusation, and perhaps it was intended. "The artist! You paint young girls! In the nude!" The man gave a quiet laugh. "I did! Sometimes!" He held the rod in one hand and extended the other in my direction. "Before this happened!" The hand was white like that of a leper or an albino; the fingers were gnarled. "Arthritis!" he exclaimed. "It's all I can do to hold a fishing rod. There is no way I could handle a brush!" He indicated a house on the hill beyond the boundary wall of our estate. "Would you like to see some of my work?" He sniggered. "You can come and look at my etchings!" It was a kind of catch phrase at the time for an invitation to 'come visit me for a fuck!' "Indeed I insist that you come. Shall we say, the morning after you return from the funeral. We can discuss topics of mutual interest!" END *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 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 27