Her T-shirt should have been a warning.

It read "GIRLZ RULE, MEN DROOL." The letters were hot pink and vaguely punky-looking, stretched across the front of her otherwise white T-shirt, which was stretched very tightly across her adolescent breasts.

Even though I'm 40 years old, I'm not totally out of touch with kids, seeing as how I have a 12-year-old son and a 10-year-old daughter, and I see their friends and what they wear. I've seen girls wearing T- shirts that say GIRLS RULE, BOYS DROOL, and maybe once I saw one that read GIRLZ RULE, GUYS DROOL, but never had I seen one before that singled out men. It seemed a little strange on such a young girl, cause I know from hanging around kids that they hardly ever think of grown-ups except as sources of money or transportation, but I was so interested in everything else about her that I didn't really stop to ponder it.

She was sitting in the Delta departure lounge at LAX - that's Los Angeles International - at a little before midnight. She was all alone. Everybody in the lounge was there to take the red-eye back east to Atlanta, so I assumed she was, too. And being a bit of a lech, I spotted her sitting there, all sweet and yummy and teen girly, and decided I would stake out a seat across from her and check her out. Beats the shit out of the Wall Street Journal.

I've mentioned the T-shirt, but not how nicely she filled it. Her breasts were not big, not small, just right for a girl her age, which I figured to be about 13 or so. Firm as hell, a nice handful each. I detected slight shadows right about where each nipple would be, and figured she wasn't wearing a bra. Below the waist, she wore a tight denim skirt, and on her feet, delicious little white sandals. One leg was crossed over the over, bobbing up and down unconsciously. Her toenails were red. No more than 5 feet 2 or so, 110 pounds max.

Her hair was light brown, and pulled back with a scrunchy into a ponytail. Large green eyes, and long lashes. A sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Very little makeup. You could tell by her grooming that she was probably upper middle-class; something about the clothes, the nice tan, the perfect nails, the air of self-absorption. Possibly a private school girl, or if public school, the best public school in the best suburb in her city. Probably spoiled rotten. She was listening to her iPod, oblivious to me and everyone else.

I picked up my Journal and pretended to read, but really I just feasted my eyes on her delightfully nubile teenaged body. My eyes burned holes in that T-shirt, and at the dark space where the hem of her skirt met the crossed thighs, trying to get a glimpse of the panties that were just a couple of inches higher.

And then she uncrossed her legs. Sat both feet firmly on the floor, almost a foot apart. Suddenly, I could see right up her skirt, could see the little white panties she wore, the fabric at the crotch that covered her little pussy. God almighty, what a view! Here I was, a happily married man and father, vice president of marketing for a telecommunications company, staring at this little schoolgirl's panties. And loving it. I felt like Humbert Humbert when he first spied hist Lolita, except this girl was a little older than Lolita. The swell of her breasts, the womanly shapeliness of her legs, the lack of baby fat all indicated she was well into puberty. She was, of course, still a minor, illegal, jailbait, but hey, I wasn't going to fuck her, I was just going to look at her. No harm in that, right?

I glanced around, and realized that the way our seats were positioned, no one else could see what I was seeing, nor could they watch me peeping. So I relaxed and enjoyed the view. After a couple of minutes, I thought I saw her glance up from her Cosmo and look at me, but I couldn't be sure. A few seconds later, though, she scrunched down into her seat a couple of inches, which caused the skirt to ride up her thighs, exposing more of her tanned thighs to my gaze.

My heart was pounding, but the show was just starting. She reached over to the backpack on the seat next to her - one of those Jansports all the kids carry to school as bookbags, and pulled out a Tootsie Roll pop. She unwrapped the sucker, dropped the wrapper into her bag, and then slowly brought the sucker to her mouth. I was hypnotized. My eyes were probably bulging. Instead of just popping the lollipop into her mouth like I expected her to, though, she brought it up to an inch in front of her mouth, stuck out her little pink teenaged tongue, and took a long lick. Then she took another lick, and another, swiping her tongue along the round hard surface of the sucker. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Jesus, I had a hard-on. It felt like I had a crowbar in my pants. Was she doing this on purpose, teasing me? It was hard to believe a youngster like this, all alone in a big airport, would deliberately tease a middle-aged stranger. But how else to account for the panty peek, which was seeming more and more obvious, and the sucker show? My eyes darted up and down, watching her mouth as she licked the sucker, then staring at her panties. My dick seemed to be throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

Her combination of innocent appearance and lewd licking was the biggest turn-on I had ever seen. But while I may enjoy looking, I was not about to approach her. She'd probably start screaming or something. I pretended to read my paper, glancing around the edges, while Little Miss Mouth licked and licked and licked. Oh, Jeez, my dick.

At one point, I thought I saw her look at me, a quick glance, followed by a secret little smile. But I was probably just projecting my fantasies onto her. Like she's going to smile at being ogled by a middle-aged man. On the other hand, this crotch-exposing and sucker-sucking didn't seem to be the actions of a girl oblivious to male attention.

Just then a man approached and sat down on the other side of the cutie. "Hi, Daddy!" she squeaked, and the man handed her a Coke in a cup. I kept my face buried in my paper, glad I had kept my seat.

Pretty soon they called our flight, and we boarded. By then my erection had subsided, thank God. I got my window seat, and saw my little cutie take her seat a couple of rows ahead, on the aisle. Daddy wasn't with her; she was flying alone.

But it was time to forget about her and think about sleeping. I had lucked out: The seat next to me was empty. I pulled one of the little airline pillows and a dark-blue blanket from the overhead bin and prepared to settle in for some sleep on the flight back to Atlanta.

For those of you who've never taken the red-eye, here's how it works. Everyone takes pillows and blankets and settles in. The attendants rattle off their usual safety spiel, the plane takes off, and then they turn off all the lights in the cabin. Everyone taking the red-eye as the same plan: get as much sleep as possible. The attendants don't go up and down the aisle with the drinks cart, no food is served, no movie is shown. The Delta flight takes off from LAX at midnight and lands in Atlanta at 6:30 a.m. It's a three and one-half hour flight, and the other three hours is the time zone change.

The attendants did their blah-blah and soon we were airborne. The inside of the cabin was very dark, and I could hear heavy breathing all around me. I put the pillow against the side of the plane, leaned into it, pulled the blanket up to my chin and down over my knees, and went to sleep.

In re-constructing the time later, I must have slept for about half an hour. I was awakened by a girl's voice, which came from right next to my ear.

"Hey, mister. Wake up, mister. I'm bored."

It was, of course, my little friend from the departure gate. She had moved into the open seat next to me. I opened my eyes and looked at her, but in the darkness I could barely see her. I could smell her breath, though, a sweet smell of lollipops and fruit-flavored little girl lip gloss. Her face was inches from mine.

"Talk to me, please, mister. I'm bored."

"What do you want?" I asked her.

"I want to talk. I'm bored. What's your name, mister?"

"Jim," I replied.

"Jim what?"

"Jim Coxman."

She giggled. "Coxman? You're making that up. It sounds like a porno star."

I had a couple of reactions to this. First, no one likes to have their name mocked, even though I've gotten grief throughout my life for my name. It's a fine old Anglo-Saxon name, and probably my ancestors went through life without people giggling over it. These days, though, it was one fuckin' joke after another. And my other reaction was that I was turned on when she said "porno." Hearing this innocent-looking youngster say "porno," and all that it implied about her worldliness, gave me a little rush, a stirring in my crotch. Down, boy.

"No, really, that's my name," I said. "What's yours?"

"Jennifer. But my last name isn't Pussywoman." she giggled again. Jeez, I thought, I've got a major tease on my hands. Was talking all she had in mind?

But then she asked: "Are you married, Jim?"

"Yeah, I am."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm a vice president of a company in Atlanta."

"Ooh," she cooed. "A vice president. And a real Coxman. Are you a real Coxman, Jim?"

I was embarrassed, and horribly, horribly turned on. My cock was getting hard in my pants, and I was glad for the darkness and the blanket, or she would have been able to see it. On the other hand, the way she was talking, she probably wouldn't be surprised at my growing erection.

I didn't answer her question. She was silent for a minute. Then:

"I saw you looking at me back there in the airport."

Shit. Shit. Shit. "I noticed you," I said, trying to play safe.

"You did more than notice me," she said. Her voice was so soft, so young, so innocent. "You were like scoping me out big-time, you know? If your eyes were lasers, you would have burned a whole in my panties, Mister Jim. Then when my panties were like all burned away by your laser- eyes, they would have like started warming up what's underneath my panties. Are you interested in what's underneath my little panties, Jim the Coxman?"

Fuck me. What was this little harlot up to? She obviously was no innocent little schoolgirl. I decided I needed to change the subject.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm 13," she said. "Just turned 13 last week."

"Jesus," I muttered," you're young enough to be my daughter."

"Do you want to pretend to be daddy and daughter?" she said, so sweetly. "I played daddy and daughter one time with a teacher at my school. He liked it a lot, I think."

"God no, I don't want to play daddy and daughter," I whispered. I may be a pervert, but even perverts have their standards!

"Then what do you want to play, Mr. Coxman?" She made it sound so dirty. I had never wished so much that I had a different name. At the same time, I had never wanted to hear someone say my name again the way I wanted little Jennifer to say it over and over.

I took a deep breath. I had to put an end to this. A stewardess could come by, and see me with this little girl, and it wouldn't take a lot of brains to figure out something was very wrong with this picture.

"I want to go back to sleep," I told her. Of course, I really didn't. I wanted to fuck the ever-lovin' shit out of young Jennifer, ram my cock up her teenaged twat over and over until I filled her full of hot sperm. But I was a married man, and I couldn't do that.

"But I don't want you to go back to sleep," Jennifer said. "I want to play. Don't you want to play?"

I could still smell that sweet breath. She'd started leaning in closer and closer to me over the course of this conversation, until her face was practically touching mine. When she exhaled, I could feel her breath on my face. My crotch was throbbing. I was trying to do the right thing, for God's sake, and this teenaged minx wouldn't let me!

"OK, Mr. Coxman, I'll be honest with you," she told me. "I saw you checking me out back at the airport, and it turned me on. So I put on a little show for you. Did you like my little show? I think you did, cause I could see something in your pants that made me think you liked what you were seeing."

"Yeah, but then your dad came along," I said, still trying desperately to change the subject.

"Daddy was just seeing me off. My parents are divorced. Dad lives in LA, mom lives in Atlanta. I spent a couple weeks with Dad, and now I'm going home. But I don't want to talk about daddy. I want to talk about what was going on in your pants in the airport. And I have a question for you, Mr. Coxman. Is the same thing going on now?

And I felt her hand. Her 13-year-old hand was suddenly right on the front of my pants, touching my engorged cock. It lay there for just a second, and then she curled her fingers around it, through the fabric, and squeezed my dick.

"Oh, God," was all I could manage to say.

"Ooh, Mr. Coxman," Jennifer whispered. "Maybe I ought to call you Big Jim. Are you normally like this, or is it because you're, you know, sitting next to me? "

"Jennifer, please go back to your seat," I managed to rasp out.

"I don't think so, Big Jim," she said. Her hand started moving, slowly, teasingly, up and down on my cock, still holding on, jacking me off through my khakis.

"And I don't think you really want me to. Don't you want me to stay here and keep touching you? How about if I gave you a little handjob? Or maybe even something better than a handjob? How about if I pulled your dick out of your pants, and put my head under the blanket, and licked your big ol' dick the way I licked that sucker back in the airport? And how about if I kept on licking until you spurted your sperm right into my hot little mouth?"

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To Be Continued. There will definitely be a part 2, although reviews are always welcome.
Cheers, Dr Wu