Thursday 29th March 2013

As the title suggests, this is a diary, and it's getting written on an island, and pedophilia is featured. This place where I am living - in fairly basic surroundings, but a lot of comfort and satisfaction I hasten to add - is not actually called 'Pedo Island'. The phrase was coined by a visiting, interfering journalist. I guess it's a good attention-getter, though. Now, a few basic facts about the place, before I tell you about the evening I've just had. I'll fill in the finer details bit by bit as we go along, in future entries. For now, 5 things you need to know...

1. It's in the South Pacific, about 650 miles North East of New Zealand.

2. It's only small, measuring 3 miles long and 2 wide.

3. The population, of various races, is 453 (of which 301 are female).

4. It was founded by a Russian billionaire as a cultural and political experiment.

5. Sex with children, as young as 7, is permitted and common.

If that doesn't incentivize you to read on, nothing will [footnote 1].

I'm not even sure why I'm writing this. It's maybe as a testament one day to the success or otherwise of the 'experiment'. I have to acknowledge, with solemn responsibility, that I am one significant cog in that experiment. I took as a bride one of the island's children - the so-called 'marriage option' (the other is the 'casual option') - 2 years ago, and am married to her still. She is called Amy, now 11-years-old, of English descent. I am 41, by the way, from England originally too. Also, maybe I am writing this to somehow exorcise my own demons, those nagging doubts about what I am participating in here. Wonderful though it is, building a sexual relationship with a young child with impunity, you never quite shake off those cultural taboos of your 'old' world. Finally, maybe I'm also writing it as a legacy for Amy, that she might better understand one day long after we've parted.

Not that I'm suggesting she's desperately confused or sad at the moment. Far from it: she's a level-headed little girl, although not quite so little now as when we first met. She has adapted, by and large, very well to the life we lead. The fact she's inherently good-natured and sweet has undoubtedly helped. She is shy, but not in any neurotic or self-doubting sense. Just as a prepubescent kid should be, really. She's above-average intelligence. Her character-attributes were indeed a vital part of me selecting her, perhaps even more so than her prettiness - although that is damn important, obviously. She has blonde hair, past shoulder-length, and her fair Anglo-Saxon complexion has gradually become more golden in this sub-tropical climate. She is slim and has no curvaceousness yet, with a bum no different in size to a boy's her age, although it has an elegance and perkiness to distinguish her rear-view as 'female' [footnote 2]. She now has buds not far from being genuine A-cups. She has pastel-green eyes set in a kind and smiley sort of face.

On this balmy Thursday evening, I have just completed a typical, cozy little sex-session with her in our cottage living room...

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I only penetrate Amy about once-a-week these days, can you believe that?? Well, I find I don't need to do it any more than that, as there as so many ways of enjoying myself with her. It's a somewhat 'stylized' thing, anyway, she being a few years away yet from being able to take it hard and fast. I don't want her to be in pain and unhappy, anyway - hell, I love her - this IS a marriage after all. It took patience and craft on my part to nurture her, following on from the shock of her wedding night all those months ago. I don't wish to compromise that. This evening was a non-penetration: an hour of general canoodling on the mat by the fireside, with the focal point being oral sex.

We typically start these things sitting around nude, chatting about anything and everything, feeling each other up with affection-pecks becoming love-kisses. I am still somewhat the leader in this, although she has come a long way from the mystified and nervous 9-year-old she was. She has a 'working concept' of jaws-on-jaws, and this can sometimes become quite erotic indeed if I take time to diddle her clit prior or during. Often I prefer not to, as I do enjoy sampling her kind of 'asexual' and juvenile response to Frenching. I tend to grope her sides, thighs or bum, depending on whether she is sitting cross-legged or kneeling up on her heels.

I am erect pretty quick, and she takes it in hand without needing instruction from me, unless I desire her not to. My kisses roam from her face to neck to chest, and I can safely say she unequivocally does enjoy my gentle feasting on her baby-apple breasts. She is supple and comfortable there cross-legged and upright, lolling her head back and pushing out her torso as I lick and suck at her firm little nubs of flesh. Her gasps, closed eyes and pinkening face are the proof of her pleasure and the balm for my conscience. I have become adept at intensifying this for her with my finger down below, like a dimmer-switch for her child-arousal.

And so we move on to the main event, my appetite for evening snack on her child-vagina thoroughly stoked. At this point I should say the smells and taste of this part of her, of which I am now so familiar, is just part of the package of her sweet whole-body smell. All little girls have this. Her task, meanwhile - she knows this part of our repertoire well - is to suck me to fruition. The age-old, basic '69' - but with a difference - it's man and 11-year-old girl. 'Height-difference', you say? Well, I've easily found a way around this. I lay on my back, my head propped up on two cushions, whilst she climbs aboard my face which is now far enough forward for feasibility, especially if she cranes her neck a little. I my feet planted and knees bent, and can assist her in suck by rolling up my hips a bit. It was more difficult two years ago.

"Will you take it all the way, sweetie?" I said, nice and casual.

"Uh huh."

She knows that is my shorthand for "I want to cum in your mouth this time, and you to make your best effort at swallowing it all." It's been many months since I've had the uncomfortable task of having to explain that to her, but I still feel a twinge of shame. She's dutiful if not thrilled about it, but rarely exhibits any resentment or resistance [footnote 3].

So, off we go... she has a trademark thing where she pushes her hair behind her ear on one side, as she goes down on my penis. Sometimes I tell her not to do that, 'as her hair is so lovely and I like it dangling on my hips and groin' as she sucks. She has explained that it is a bit annoying, however, as it tickles her face and distracts her from her task. The other side doesn't bother her, though, because she tilts her head slightly one one side. Fascinating: I guess it's kind of like how many children lean their head sideways when they write. I can always feel this tilt, when she is locked on, as it takes my shaft with it.

Of course my hands clasp and slither in admiration at her hips and bum as I munch on her young vulva. It has a peachy consistency, what with its finest of fine pubic hairs. Her bleeds have not started yet, incidentally, and she might not seem the same to me when they do. The taste is nothing like a peach, though, 'unripe-fruit' analogies notwithstanding. It's slightly salty, and occasionally a bit pissy. After a while on it, there seems no taste at all, but then slowly but surely there kicks in a bit of mustiness as her immature fluids appear. Unfortunately, I often cum before this happens, but if I do I make the effort the continue eating her anyway. It's only fair. It's also important: she has to learn to associate even the most hardcore of sex acts as 'fun'.

After 10-15 minutes of her slow, considerably-skilled sucking, my lava is building under the surface. She's excruciatingly adept at working my foreskin around on the top half of my shaft, and breathes around it and kisses the tip without needing coaching anymore. She takes my gasps as a cue to accelerate, and from there it's soon all over. I grunt, tremble at the hips, and send my thick white jets shooting up into her dainty, warm mouth. I listen to her gulping. There is shame, but I quickly get over it.

There you have it: an typical hour of my married life to 11-year-old Amy.

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Footnotes:

1. There has been a debate on the island for quite a while on whether to lower this limit.

2. In the village hall, there's going to be a contest soon on whether we can distinguish boys from girls from rear-views, also by face and chest with having hair cut and light make-up.

3. The entire culture and education system here is retro, teaching subservience to males.