These stories are all about sex and love and romance with pre-teen or young teen girls. Some of the encounters are simple, some complex, but all are beautiful, consensual and, I hope, entertaining.
I knew I was in trouble when Mr Horner called me into his office just after breakfast. The nature of my trouble I didn't appreciate until he bade me sit down, and turned the screen of his laptop to face me.
"Watch this, son," he said, his weatherbeaten face impassive.
We'd been in Jakarta just nine months when Rebecca's mother fell ill. She was back in the UK, of course, and Rebecca fretted and fussed for a week or so, and we debated the right thing to do, but this was ill in the long-term sense, prognosis uncertain but not good, and so we made the arrangements, and she packed for her and Josh and flew back to a cold and rain-swept London.
Where was I? Light. Somewhere light. Sunlight, bright sunlight filtered through gauzy white drapes. A beautiful light. There, quite a distance away across a spacious, rather luxurious living room, white drapes rippling gently in a breeze. Perhaps the full-height windows behind were French doors? A beautiful room, light, airy, soft furnishings in pale colors; reminded me of something I read one time: "Something about the light from the ocean..."
My wife Cath has two sisters, Jane and Helen. They're very close, always have been, and get on really well. Actually, all three families get on pretty well together, and so shared annual holidays are the rule rather than the exception. I was skeptical the first time, back when the kids were little, but it turned out pretty well, and I've warmed to it over the years.
The only problem was Debbie...
I was in the school library. It was old-fashioned: heavy, dark wood shelves, reading desks with green-shaded lamps tucked away in nooks and crannies, stained leather armchairs in dark red. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but light - a high glass ceiling, perhaps, arched or domed. I don't recall looking up to see which - it wasn't important.
Jeez! How much fucking noise can one zipper make? In the stillness of the camp it sounded like I was ripping the tent in half rather than trying to make a stealthy entry. I paused, but perhaps it was my imagination, my excitement magnifying the noise; no sounds from outside or inside the tent.
I worry about this. I'm certain that if "they" - the "world", "society" - knew the ins and outs of what I'm about to tell you then, yes, I would be branded a bad man and sent to jail, there to be persecuted by murderers and armed robbers and other assorted scum, any chance of a normal life forever lost to me.
But I don't think I am that man. And nor does Rosie. And she is the only one fit to judge.
"Have you been to one of these before?" asked Camila. Stately pines flickered past, their summer scent filling the car, their shadows dappling her arm as it rested on the open window's sill. She loved riding in the car with the windows open; even though her father was a careful - perhaps even cautious - driver, the breeze whipping her long, black hair was still exhilarating. Camila would have loved being driven in a convertible, but, well, maybe that was just for movies.
Carlos's hands trembled on the wheel as he nudged the Toyota GT86 through the interminable downtown traffic. Sweat beaded his brow despite the air-con. Just one week ago his life had changed, a mad, dangerous change but one he couldn't shake off. Didn't want to shake off. Really didn't.
The man called Pedro. Four other guys. A hotel room. A girl. A young girl...
Sabrina knelt in the middle of the sagging bed, tossed her thick, dark hair out of the way and looked back over her shoulder. The grin playing around her soft, wide lips was coquettish, bordering on lascivious. Slowly, she leaned forward, dropping to her hands, raising a grinding metallic complaint from the ancient bedframe. She arched her slender back. In the shabby room's dim light, the rich, coffee-colored skin of her butt glistened with the oil she'd applied a minute before. She dipped her head to the thin, discolored sheet, raised her slim hips a fraction more and slowly waggled her ass.
"Well," she said, "who's first?"
I've known Carol for years, ever since that first drunken pass, the time she was rebounding from her long-term boyfriend. Turned out she was rebounding a long way, way the other way, embracing lesbianism wholeheartedly. I tried it on, she brushed me off, calling me a "dumb-prick man". I said "fuck off then, you dyke", she said "no, you fuck off", and we finished that evening in stitches, drunk as lords - and firm friends ever since.
You always love the house on the beach. You say it makes you feel free. Something about the light from the ocean, the way it fills the rooms; it gives the house an otherworldly quality. You say you're always happy here.
I think the house suits you. The light makes you glow, beautifully. It catches in your hair like liquid gold, sets a glow deep within your eyes like the sunset far out across the ocean.
I'd known all week that Holly was upset, but it wasn't until that rainy Sunday morning I really understood why.
Oh, there were the obvious things, of course: it'd been her last week at school, and her family were moving over the summer, up to London, which for Holly meant starting a new secondary school, in a new town, with no friends around her. Moving from primary to secondary school is a big deal, especially these days with its end-of-year "graduations" and "balls" and goodness knows what-else, all designed to make the the kids feel special, but really only succeeding in stressing them out.
Well, this assignment was a bit different. Rally driving. Not something I'd covered before --- stock-car meets was my bread and butter, and rallying isn't that big in the US --- but I'd picked up a magazine commission to go shoot the British stage of the World Rally Championships. Wales, wherever in England that was.
"Excuse me, sir."
The stewardess looked worried. The plane was busy, damn busy, and I'd seen a crowd of kids at the gate, what looked like a school party. A couple of tarty looking girls among them, but nothing that had stood out. Cute uniforms, though. It looked like the stewardess had one of them behind her.
Rosa stifled a yawn. She was very tired, poor thing; it was well past her usual bedtime, but she really wanted to wait up for Dave. He'd been due at the farmhouse around nine; at 10:30 he'd texted to say "Bloody puncture. There in 15." It was now well after eleven and I'd just answered his "missed bloody turning, my sat-nav's a prat-nav" with a "she's waiting up :) ".
In the Beginning was... well, a bunch of stuff that's not really very interesting just now. We'll skip it.
A little while after the Beginning, however, was this guy called Dave.
Was this what I wanted? Was this what Rosa wanted? We'd thought so, discussed it, agreed, but now... Nerves were twitching my hands all over the place, making the camera set up a damn sight harder than it should've been, and Rosa had looked small and shy when I'd left her in the big farmhouse kitchen with Dave.
It was the olives that did it. Not my fault; what could I do? It was the olives.
The olives, and the ice cream. And Jessie.
Deanna had never been in a powerboat before! Can you imagine! Eight years old and no more nautical experience than a pedalo!
We were making up for that now. The Cap Camarat bounced lightly across a placid corner of the Ionian, the sun warm, the sky an azure dome above. The rocky headland racing past to starboard was all that broke the calm blue disk of the sea, seabirds overhead the only sound beyond the muted roar of the engine.
The sun is warm, its light reflected in a million splinters from the ocean. The gentlest of breezes airs the room; the gauzy curtains shiver around the edges of the open French doors.
The strawberries are cool, cool and sweet and delicious. They remind me of you.
The room, I decided, was nice. It was ready.
I'd lit the fat-bellied table lamps in the corners of the living room, even though the early summer sun had a good few hours left to run across the western sky.
The air was warm, the sun not overpowering, the reflection of the sky a still blue on the water. The lake was still cool, and Abby's fingers left a small wake that merged with the canoe's larger ripples as I paddled us toward the island.
"Dave?" In my dream, Heather called my name. I could see her standing by the edge of a wood, naked, back turned. It could have been a bigger version of the hedge around my garden; you know how it is with dreams. She called my name again.
It was a beautiful day that Saturday, the morning sun already warm as the girls lugged their bags up the driveway. How two young girls needed such huge bags for one weekend I could not figure out, but hey! I waved.
I cannot for the life of me remember how I came to be alone with Liberty in the rambling old house, she naked, we both dripping wet from the water play in the garden, but there we were, and this is what happened.
I woke.
Well, something woke me. A sound. One minute I was asleep, dreaming of... dreaming of... (fading so soon), the next awake and aware, although my eyes remained shut against the sensation of light in the room.
All words (c) illg 2010-2015