So Maya moved in with me. Though my penthouse was spacious and her possessions few, I ordinarily would have felt crowded with a full-time guest in residence. My many liaisons with women were seldom of the live-in variety and never for very long, and the few times I'd had a relationship with a woman of my own stock, the question had never arisen. For all vampires share a need for privacy and prefer solitude much of the time.

But it was different with young Maya. I awoke thinking of her, anticipating her tousled head bent over her morning cup of richly aromatic coffee. She was a neat, orderly person -- a legacy of all those years as a nun, I was sure. Nor did she seem to have an acquisitive nature. She settled into the extra bedroom with no embarrassment or fuss, which pleased me, but her style of living was so spartan that even after several weeks it would not have been obvious to a cursory examiner that her room was occupied.

I sometimes returned from an afternoon of running inescapable errands, for instance, to find her humming contentedly as she prepared an evening meal. She turned out to be a talented cook, too -- a skill I could barely manage when necessary but an art I'd never shown any talent for. I loved having her there.

Part of Maya's novel effect on me was undoubtedly sexual, but even so. . . . It didn't take me long to realize that my interest in her was becoming at least in part paternal -- and that was *definitely* a new experience. I took her shopping and insisted she increase her wardrobe. I have a certain eye for fashion and she was happy to accept my recommendations regarding what I thought looked good on her. She learned how to enter a good restaurant as if she
owned it and how to give directions to a Brazilian taxi driver that he would not ignore.

And when we were alone in the evenings, I would sometimes lie with my head in her lap and she would ask me questions about the things I had done and the places and people I had seen. I discovered a great enjoyment in telling her stories from my life -- something I could never have done with an ordinary, short-lived person, of course, and most of my own kind had had similar experiences in their long lives. But it was all new to Maya.

So I relived my years as owner of a rubber plantation in Malaya, and my career as a fencing master in Medician Florence, and the quiet, peaceful time as a smallholder on the Euphrates, and the occasionally *too* exciting period during which I had commanded a Saracen archer company that had helped to repel the infidels from Antioch. I told her about glassblowing in China, and shoemaking in Prague, and blacksmithing in Pennsylvania. All of it seemed to fascinate her.

At first, she gently deflected my questions about her own brief past and I didn't press. But when I was able to convince her that I was truly interested in her history, she began to open up. For instance, I asked, why had she entered a convent, instead of simply accepting her true nature and making her way in the world?

That amused her and she actually had to explain to me the terror, depression, and hopelessness of her adolescence. Eventually, I realized that I was as ill-equipped as she herself had been to truly understand the plight of a normal child suddenly become a vampire -- a thing of fear and repulsion to the society she lived in. I had never been anything else; it was the normal state for me. How would *I* react, she asked, if I arose one morning to discover I was changing into an "ordinary," short-lived human, facing old age, illness, and certain death? She was right: I could not imagine such an unreasonable condition.

In the quiet and stable environment of the Cistercian convent, Maya had considered these things at length. After the first half-century, when the aging process had gradually slowed to a crawl, she had arrived at a sort of peace with herself. God had created all things, including vampires. Her metamorphosis must be God's will; he meant her to be what she was. And she didn't *feel* inherently evil. The rules were different for her.

So she continued to live as one of the sisters and fed when she had to, selecting persons she considered of no redeeming social value and carefully covering her tracks. Reluctantly, she had learned to lie and fabricate in order to conceal her true age -- which must be easier in a habit, I supposed -- and she became selective in what she confessed to the Fathers. She also managed to avoid being photographed, under the guise of shyness and an invented vow.

She had discovered early on that she possessed unusual mental abilities and she made the moral and ethical decision not to use her powers frivolously. But on several occasions she was aware that other nuns who had gone from youthful postulancy to old age in her company had become curious and uneasy about her. Then she had planted false memories: The never-aging sister actually had died years before and Maya herself was simply a younger nun who bore a resemblance to an unclearly remembered older woman. Then Maya would change her name and "arrive" at the convent all over again, as a new member of the community.

Changes in identity were becoming more difficult, though, even for cloistered nuns. When a new Mother Superior recommended fingerprinting the sisters for their own protection, Maya had been forced to foment discontent and anger in the convent over the proposal and it was quickly and quietly dropped.

For more than a century, that had been the ordered shape of her life. Then, a few years earlier, she had been singing in the choir while a newly appointed local bishop celebrated mass at the convent. Something indefinable about the man had riveted her attention on him. He, too, felt something because he kept studying the linen-framed faces in the stalls.

Later that morning, the bishop took a stroll through the convent's extensive herb garden and stopped to chat with Maya, who happened to be weeding. It was far from coincidental, of course, and Maya was astonished to discover that she wasn't the only daylight vampire in the world. The bishop, on learning of the circumstances of her birth and later transformation, recommended, in the strictest confidence, that she leave the Order and go out into the world, before she was discovered -- which he was certain would happen eventually if she remained any longer in one place.

Maya thought about that for some time, wondering how many others like her there could be outside the walls. The bishop had insisted that he had *never* heard of one of his people born to short-lived parents, . . . though surely that was how our species must have begun, as a series of mutations in the distant past.

She was also, finally, becoming bored with the religious life, which she took as a sign that her vocation was coming to an end. And so she made plans for her final demise in the cloistered community. In the perceptions and minds of the sisters, she began to experience the symptoms of angina. A doctor was called in to examine her and he announced sadly that her condition was critical and that it was only a matter of time for the elderly nun. And following her "death" from a stroke a month later, Maya had lingered in the shadows at the rear of the small chapel and witnessed her own funeral, listening with surprise and some emotion to the heartfelt sorrow of her companions who quietly eulogized her before the simple pine box that supposedly held her mortal remains. Then she slipped away, pretending to be a distant relative come to attend the services. She had never looked back.

Maya's recitation of events were spread over several evenings and by the time she'd finished I had developed a profound respect for the courage this girl had displayed in facing what she had thought was a unique loneliness, and in resolving to leave her community after more than a century. And she was still a "girl" in many ways, despite her chronological age. I told her, quite sincerely, that she could stay with me, as my friend and under my protection, for as long as she needed to. And she wept on my shoulder as I held her in my arms and comforted her.
 

A month passed and Maya and I learned a great deal about the world in which our species survives -- she for the first time and I from a completely new perspective. Carnival came and we immersed ourselves in it, dancing with the throngs in the street, scrambling for tin coins flung from the floats, laughing at the garishly made-up young crossdressers, and speculating on the everyday lives of the young women who were gorgeous in their plumes and very little else.

I took her up into the back country to witness rituals of voudon and we rode a motor launch up a narrow branch of the Amazon to marvel at the remaining foliage and wildlife. We roamed all over Bahia itself, exploring neighborhoods that even I had never seen. And, of course, we walked the beaches, sometimes early in the morning but often long after dark.

About two o'clock in the morning one February night, when the air temperature on the sand was twenty degrees cooler than it was even two miles inland, Maya and I were strolling in companionable silence along the upper boundary of one of my favorite beaches. We had seen almost no one, merely piles of old trash, some of it carried in on the surf but most of it the detritus left by daytime visitors. The occasional figures we glimpsed moved furtively, keeping to the shadows. This part of the beach could be dangerous in the dark, especially for solitary and incautious walkers. We had disposed of several muggers on excursions like this, pathetic young men in ragged clothing who had no idea what they were getting into when they jumped us. For me these were perfunctory opportunities to feed, but for Maya they were necessary lessons in culling the herd.

As we passed a small grove of scruffy palms, Maya stopped and touched my arm, scanning the undergrowth. I'd heard the small sound, too. Then it came again, a low moan, definitely human. We approached the trees carefully to investigate; if some more ordinary pedestrian had been attacked and left injured, we probably would attempt to get them medical attention. If it was someone obviously dying, however, we would take advantage of the opportunity to feed.

What we found was a small figure wrapped in a thin, castoff blanket, hidden in a nest made of dismembered cardboard cartons. A girl, by the length of the black hair among the shadows, and not very old. There were thousands of orphaned and runaway children in Bahia, most of them living in packs for protection. The girl moaned again and it seemed she was only having a bad dream. Then she rolled over and I glimpsed her face in the dim moonlight: It was my young friend from earlier in the season, the girl in the turquoise thong who never spoke but who liked to pose for my camera. Her brightly patterned tote bag was wadded up under her head.

Maya noted my surprise and watched as I drew back a corner of the blanket to check on the girl's condition. There was no blood and no bruises, so she hadn't been assaulted. I had to assume that this was her regular sleeping spot. When we'd first met, I had believed the girl had parents who would report her absence. Apparently not. I hoped it wasn't too late to do something about her.

I could feel the psychological intruder alarms beginning to clamor in the back of my young friend's skull so I reached out with my own mind before she could waken and suppressed them. She sighed and smacked her lips and sank into a deeper, quieter sleep.

Maya was still watching, silent and curious, as I gently unwrapped the girl and tossed the old blanket aside. She wore faded, frequently patched blue jeans and a once-white tee-shirt several sizes too large. Over that was a nondescript man's dress shirt, torn and stained; the collar was turned up and the long cuffs were pulled down over her hands for warmth. Her feet were stuffed into brown paper bags, tops twisted about her ankles, but she had a pair of plastic thong sandals in her tote -- which also disgorged a small towel with a hotel logo, several packets of salted peanuts and ketchup, a carefully folded pair of pink cotton panties (whether her only pair or a spare, I couldn't say), three 100-cruzeiro notes wadded into a tight ball (about enough to purchase one soft drink), . . . and her ubiquitous turquoise thong, which seemed now to be her principal daytime garment. All her clothing seemed to be clean but smelled faintly salty; I guessed she was washing her laundry and herself in the surf.

I considered what all this meant as I replaced her meager belongings in the tote. I had to rethink my earlier assumptions. The girl was no more than thirteen or fourteen and obviously homeless, yet she didn't seem malnourished or sick or abused. Perhaps she slept on the beach only when she couldn't find better shelter. Yet, how did she feed herself? She looked so young and sweet, I disliked thinking about the probable answer to that. Still, she had seemed cheerful enough when I'd taken my pictures, playing in the waves like any middle-class kid her age. And she hadn't hit me up for spare change, either.

Then I replayed in my memory our second encounter, when she had deliberately displayed her small breasts to me, almost as a conscious lure. Was that intended to be the beginning of a campaign of enticement? Was she using her body as bait to snare herself a new provider? If so, she'd certainly been cold-blooded about it. And then my unintended mental "radiation" had apparently derailed her plans.

I looked up at Maya's calm face and said quietly, "This girl is someone I know and I don't want to leave her out here. It's not safe. Would you mind very much if we took her home with us for awhile?"

Maya had been leaning over the girl and me, hands on her knees, watching my ministrations. Now she raised her eyebrows and seemed surprised. "It's your home, Graeme. Why are you asking me?"

"Because it's your home as well, Maya, for as long as you want it to be," I replied patiently. I thought that had been made clear. "I would not force an outsider on you."

Her expression softened. "I should have met you years ago, Graeme."

"Maya, you wouldn't have been ready for me years ago." We shared a smile and then she bent and picked up the canvas tote. I carefully scooped up the nameless girl in my arms and stood. We walked quickly the fifty yards through the trees to the parkway and caught a cab. The girl slept all the way back to our place.

I laid the limp young body face down across the foot of my bed and worked the grimy man's shirt off her arms. I glanced around for a spot to drop it but Maya took it from me and stuffed it firmly in a wastebasket. Then I turned the girl over and propped her up while Maya pulled the overlarge tee-shirt off over her head. Lying on her back now, her growing breasts nearly disappeared in profile.

She calmly unbuttoned the faded jeans and pulled them down the long, slender legs. No, the girl hadn't been wearing panties. And Maya showed no hesitation in exposing the child's naked form, which was an indication of how far her attitudes toward the short-lived had changed in just a few weeks. She had found in me a template to model herself after and she had been quick to adapt to it.

Now we both stood and appraised the body on the bed. The girl's stomach was flat and muscular and only a small, black, silky patch over her pubic mound indicated the beginnings of maturation.

"She's lovely, isn't she?" Maya commented quietly. "Is that how you know her? Is she one of your many conquests?" Her green eyes twinkled and she stuck her tongue in her cheek to show she was teasing.

"No, unfortunately not. She might have been -- she *is* beautiful -- but then I met you, my dear." I thought about that slim, brown body snuggled between my bedsheets and decided not to tempt myself too far. "I suppose she can sleep on the fouton in the study, . . ." I said tentatively, but Maya shook her head.

"It would be much better if she woke up tomorrow in a proper bed," she replied firmly. "We'll put her in my room." I didn't ask where she intended to sleep herself. Maya led the way and I followed her down the hall, again carrying the girl. The smooth, warm skin against my arms was delightful. So we put her in Maya's bed and tucked the covers up under her chin. I reached into her mind and shifted her into a deep, restful, and entirely natural sleep. Maya moved a wooden vanity chair nearer the bed and draped the jeans and tee-shirt over it and set the tote on the seat. "So she'll be reassured when she wakes up," she explained. She also laid a folded terrycloth robe across the foot of the bed and when we departed, we left the bedroom door ajar.

Maya followed me back to the master bedroom and I had the sense to keep my mouth shut. My paternal feelings for her were minimal just then but I could hardly ask her to come to my bed after making a point of telling her it was her home, too.

As it turned out, she made no dramatic scene of her decision. She simply slipped out of her clothing and strolled into the master bath. As I undressed, I heard her tidying herself up and then the sound of the toilet. Rather than precede her into bed, I stood there naked for the thirty seconds it took her to reappear. I wondered why I hadn't gotten an erection yet -- I wasn't *that* tired -- and decided my relaxed state must be attributable to Maya's calm assumptions. She was behaving as I supposed an experienced wife would do, had our kind indulged in such a thing as marriage. Also, I was unaccountably nervous and that surprised me a great deal.

Then May came out of the bathroom, combing her fingers back through her hair. It was probably my expression that brought the faint smile to her lips. She walked up to me, put her arms around my neck, and pressed her pale body against mine as if we had been embracing for centuries. Then she kissed me with great authority.

In the company of ordinary women, I always knew I was in the superior psychological position, the position of control. But I couldn't surreptitiously control Maya's mind or actions any more than she could secretly influence me. I suspect that's why sexual unions among our people seldom last long: We're too used to being in control of those around us.

My hands were moving slowly up and down her shoulder blades and she leaned back against my arms to get a look at my face. "Why do you seem so surprised, Graeme? Didn't you know we would reach this point eventually?" She shifted her thighs against my cock, which was finally getting the message; she felt its stirings and smiled again.

"No, Maya, I didn't know. I wanted it -- I wanted *you* -- but I tried not to think about it. I didn't care to pressure you and I didn't want to be disappointed." I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "It doesn't come easily to us, does it? To care about another person. . . . Perhaps you're the exception, my dear -- you're so young and your experience has been so . . . peculiar. Did you learn to love? In the convent?"

She became reflective. "I thought I did -- at first. But after a few decades, seeing the sisters die around me, I closed down those feelings. For my own protection, I suppose." She shrugged uneasily. "This isn't love, though -- is it? I thought this was 'sex'. I've subdued my appetites without sex being involved, of course. Nuns aren't supposed to screw on a regular basis, you know. But before entering the Order, whenever sex *was* involved, the interlude always ended with me feeding on my partner. That certainly wasn't love, though I may have thought it was when I was very young." She looked at me quizzically. "Have you never been in love? Never in your whole life?"

"No, never. Our people don't experience 'love' in the usual human sense. Or so I've always believed, and so has every other person of my acquaintance."

She stroked my cheek. "That seems almost sad, doesn't it?" she asked quietly. "Yes, I can understand that, if those you love are constantly dying around you. . . . But can one vampire perhaps love another?"

I had no answer to that, having never felt an emotion for anyone that I could recognize as love. And I wasn't quite able to examine my feelings for Maya in that light, not yet. I settled for a shrug. I was also willing to settle for sex at this point. And that reminder made my cock twitch.

Maya felt the vibration and gave me another flash of that knowing smile that all females among the intelligent primates seem to come by genetically. Her warm hand wrapped itself around the stalk and squeezed gently -- and then not so gently. Still smiling, she backed toward the bed, leading me with her by the obvious handle. It was an unusual reversal since I'd always been the initiator, and Maya's sense of erotic play was both delightful and revelatory. She reached the foot of the bed and sat, stretching my organ the few inches upward to her lips. Then she inhaled its head and moved her tongue all around the edges and back and forth over the hole at the tip. I had a fantasy-flash of a class of young postulants in gray and white taking instruction in cocksucking from a stern, elderly nun. Where *had* Maya learned how to do this? Or did she simply possess an excellent recall of her youthful activities?

My cock was raised vertically as she steered her warm, wet lips across and beneath my scrotum, sucking in first the loose folds, then the balls. She tightened her oral grip carefully and tugged, creating just a hint of erotic as well as physical tension, and it occurred to me how far I had come to trust her. However deeply buried, her predatory instincts were the same as mine, as was her physical strength. She could emasculate me in half an instant. But her upward glances to gauge my reaction convinced me I had nothing to fear.

Then I felt the briefest sharpness as her second incisors slid down and pricked the skin over my balls. That was all, just the slightest needle-touch, when she might have speared me. It may even have been unintentional; our drinking teeth emerge sometimes as an uncontrolled reaction, like a cat unsheathing its claws when it feels relaxed. I stroked Maya's hair and traced the rims of her ears with my fingers and tried not to moan too loudly.

She released her grip and lay back on the bed, quietly waiting. Her thighs extended on either side of my knees and she hunched her pubic region slightly upward, calling me to her, I thought. In many ways, we're not that different from homo sapiens.

I knelt on the bed and her legs moved farther apart. I bent over her and stared into her remarkable green eyes and saw my reflection in her expanding pupils. We kissed softly, slowly. There was no hurry for people like us. I nibbled at her earlobes and her smooth, pale neck and she stroked my hair and made small, pleasure-filled sounds. When I moved down and fastened my mouth on a very pink and very hard nipple, she inhaled deeply and shuddered. After a minute or two, I began to leave a trail of kisses down her breastbone and onto the taut plane of her diaphragm, but she divined my intent.

"Some other time, Graeme." She tugged me back up her body. "I would love to have your mouth between my legs, but right now I want to find out how well we fit." She leered and spread her knees as wide as she could. "Tab 'A' into Slot 'B' -- isn't that how it goes?"

Tab "A" was more rigid than it had been in many years. I leered back, to which she responded with a girlish giggle, and then I eased myself into her, still in no hurry. This promised to be a momentous experience and I intended to milk it for all it was worth. Half a dozen slow, grinding strokes later, Maya's legs were wrapped tightly about my upper back and she was breathing hard and in rhythm with me.

"Ohhhh . . . You're doing this on purpose, you-- Fuck me, damn it! Oh, sweet Jesus, . . ." Her moan died away and she gulped twice. Then she opened her eyes wide and stared at me even as I increased the tempo. "Graeme, I just-- I can't believe I just now tried to lock onto your mind! To make you fuck me harder! Dear God, you're making me crazy for sure!"

I laughed softly. We both knew assertive suggestion didn't work, didn't even meaningfully exist, between the two of us -- but she had unconsciously tried to control me anyway. I chose to take it as a compliment. And I began to ram my cock into her harder than before, making her head jerk on the pillow at each thrust. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut and arched her head back. This was what she wanted from me and I gave it to her.

Her fingernails were leaving long, red tracks across my shoulderblades, I was sure. Her legs locked around my torso were beginning to squeeze painfully tight -- she could crack my ribs if she lost control -- so, between one stroke and the next, I grabbed her knees and forced them almost roughly against her chest. Her legs sprang apart and she gasped with the shock before she realized why I'd done what I'd done. Then she put her own hands behind her knees and pulled them as far back and as far apart as she could manage, and groaned as I took advantage of her posture to plunge far into her depths.

A few more minutes like that and I knew I couldn't delay any longer. Maya sensed my impending orgasm and whispered "Yessss . . ." as she rocketed into her own shuddering climax -- the ripples of which touched me off. I marveled that my body could produce so much semen; my balls must be shrunken to the size of grapes.

I managed not to collapse atop her but I didn't want to roll off her overheated body, either. I managed to ease my weight down upon her slowly and gently, my cock still buried within her. She wrapped her arms around my neck and sighed into my ear with exhausted satisfaction.

"It's never been like that," she murmured. "Maybe it's because we're both . . . who we are. Or maybe, . . ."

"Maya," I whispered back. "Shut up."

She chuckled and hugged me tighter. "Yeah . . ."
 

Eventually, I did roll off, of course, but we remained entwined for most of the night. I awoke just before dawn because my left arm was numb; Maya's head lay on my bicep, her face half-hidden by a tangle of that lovely red hair. I eased my arm out, careful not to wake her, and made faces in the half-dark as the blood poured back into my defenseless arm.

After the feeling had returned, I simply lay there and studied Maya's features for awhile. I felt possessive and protective toward her. Was that love? Or paternal instinct? I doubted it mattered. If I was very, very lucky, Maya would remain with me for a year or so. By that time, I would have taught her everything she should know about being one of us, and she would become restless and go out to discover the world for herself. It saddened me in advance to know it would happen, but I wouldn't -- couldn't -- cheat her by making her too dependent on me. I would enjoy the time we did have, I thought, and I would look forward to seeing her at intervals down through the years.

Then I heard a small sound from the other end of the hall and realized I'd nearly forgotten about my young friend. I eased out of the bed and padded naked and silent down the hall to check on her. In the faint light that was beginning to seep between the slats of the shutters, I could see only a shock of silky black hair above the covers. The girl had burrowed almost under the pillow and was snoring softly. I knew it was the best night's sleep she'd had in probably quite some time.

She must have been living on her own for months or years because, as silent as I knew I had been, I was aware of a sudden alarm in the back of her mind. I wondered for a moment if I should put her back into a deep sleep, but then it was too late. The covers jerked down and she was peering up at me cautiously, eyes wide open.

I hunkered down beside the bed, partly because I didn't wish her to misconstrue my nakedness and partly just to get myself down to her level. She stared at me for a moment before recognition appeared in her gaze. Then she was staring at the cotton sheet balled up in her fist.

"Where am I? How did I get here? Did you-- Did we. . . ?"

That rattle of Portuguese were the first words I'd ever heard her speak and I was entranced by her melodious soprano. She sat up in bed suddenly. Her sheet fell away but she ignored her own nudity. She looked around quickly and saw her tote bag on the floor and her clothing on the chair. That seemed to calm her a little. Maya had been right.

"No, we didn't," I said gently -- also in Portuguese -- and smiled. "Though you are indeed a lovely girl and I was sorely tempted." She glanced down at herself but made no attempt to cover her body. "We found you -- a friend and I -- sleeping on the beach. You were in a dangerous location, and not well concealed, and plainly cold, so we brought you back here and put you to bed. You were so tired, you never awakened." Well, it was almost the truth. "Do you have a name? I've never learned it, you know."

She hesitated, as if knowing her name would give me magical powers over her. "Anna," she said.

"Well, Anna -- I'm Graeme, and I'm very pleased to meet you." And I held out my hand. She took it automatically -- and then grinned broadly as she realized how ludicrous the situation was.

"Do you want to. . . ?" She made as if to move over in the bed, prepared to pay for her night's lodging.

"No, Anna, that isn't why we brought you here. You posed for my camera and I say that makes us friends. And friends help each other out, don't they? No: What you can do for me. . . ." She waited to see what would be expected of her, a slightly resigned expression on her face. ". . .is to get a little more sleep, if you like, and then go and take a long, hot shower. Your bathroom is right over there, across the hall. You've been bathing in the ocean for too long, don't
you think? And don't put those clothes back on -- not yet. We'll see about getting them washed properly." I gestured to the thick bathrobe on the foot of the bed. "Wear that for breakfast, all right?"

I stood and Anna glanced quickly at my groin and then back at my face. I knew I didn't have an erection and she seemed reassured. She lay down again and snuggled back under the covers. "This is very nice," she said. "And so are you, Graeme." Her smile this time seemed more like her chronological age.

I paused at the door. "My room -- our room -- is at the other end of the hall and we have our own bathroom, so take your time, my dear. And we'll see you at breakfast." Her eyelids were already drooping again and I pulled the door nearly shut, to give her privacy; I doubted she'd ever had much of it.

Two hours later, I was leaning against the kitchen counter, barefoot and shirtless, sipping my hot chocolate while Maya prepared breakfast. She wore only a red silk kimono and I very much enjoyed observing her smooth competence as she sliced bananas lengthwise and laid them carefully in the sizzling palm oil. Several mangoes waited their turn at the knife and we were arguing playfully over the need (or not) for sausage with the fried eggs -- a North
American taste I had adopted long ago.

I'd heard the shower running a short while before and now a movement in the doorway made me turn my head. Anna seemed nearly lost in the big, white bathrobe: It came down to her ankles and the sleeves covered all but the tips of her fingers. Her still-damp hair cascaded over the turned-up collar and her dark eyes shone from the depths of the terrycloth.

My companion turned to smile at her and I made the introductions. "Maya, this is our houseguest -- Anna."

Keeping her voice soft, she said "How do you do, Anna? Did you sleep well?"

The half-hidden return smile was shy. "Yes, I did -- thank you." Her nose twitched. "That smells good!" She fidgeted a little, torn between adolescent hunger and an apparent desire to be on her best behavior with her benefactors.

Maya laughed and nudged me toward the big, round, Victorian table that was the focus of my kitchen. She picked up a serving platter and a wooden spatula as I pulled out a chair and raised my eyebrows in Anna's direction. The girl hurried over and sat and I scooted her up to the table; she beamed in delight at my gentlemanly treatment of her and began turning up her sleeves.

We didn't speak much for the first quarter-hour of the meal, all mouths being otherwise occupied. Anna's tidy table manners bespoke a good middle-class upbringing, though that didn't slow her down any. Maya finally poured cafezinho for the two of us -- Anna was on her second glass of foamy, unhomogenized milk -- and we traded secret smiles across the table. Anna glanced from my face to Maya's and looked thoughtful.

Now that we had broken bread and were more relaxed, I felt able to ask questions. "Anna, could you satisfy my curiosity about something?"

A touch of wariness returned to her face. "I'll try, senhor."

"It's obvious you didn't grow up in the bairro and you seem reasonably healthy and well-fed. How did you come to be living on the beach like that, with so few possessions?" She studied the few crumbs left on her plate and gnawed her lower lip. I felt a moment of guilt and almost retracted the question, but she took a deep breath and fixed me with a solemn gaze.

"Yes, senhor, I come from a good family -- I'd rather not say which one. But three years ago, when I was ten, my father was killed in a motor accident. He was a strong man but also a gentle man and I loved him very much. It was very hard when he died." She paused and sighed. I had the impression she'd never told anyone about her family before, not straight out like this.

"My mother . . .," she went on, "It was even worse for her. She depended so much on my father. Not just to feed us all; my mother is a fine woman but not very strong. She has never been very good at making decisions about things. We had the insurance money and we were all right for a year or so. But then someone introduced my mother to . . . to that man." The sudden loathing in her voice was startling.

And suddenly I understood. "He married your mother, didn't he?" I asked carefully. "And I think you didn't like him very much, did you?"

"I hate him -- but not just because he married my mother! He said *he* was my father now and I had to do whatever he said -- but the things he made me do--" She stopped, breathing hard, and stared at her plate again. "My mother wouldn't do anything about it. That man made it so she wouldn't have to make decisions at all anymore, and she liked that. Last summer, I decided I'd had enough of him. So I ran away."

Maya had sat down again across from me and now she stroked Anna's thick, black hair sympathetically, tucking it behind her ear and smoothing it back. The girl leaned against her hand, needing the friendly contact.

"You decided you couldn't go to the police," I said, stating the obvious. "They wouldn't have believed you against your stepfather. They would just send you home and things would be even worse for you." Anna looked up, tears oozing down one side of her nose, and nodded in gratitude at my understanding.

"I had a backpack, with clothes and a little money and two of my favorite books in it. But some older kids took it all the second day. My jacket and walking shoes, too. Bandidos -- bastardos!" She quickly wiped away the tears with the heel of her hand and raised her chin. "I swore I wouldn't go back, and I didn't! I found people -- men -- who would feed me and buy me things and take care of me if I let them-- If I went to bed with them. Most of them were nice
enough and I stayed for weeks, sometimes. And if they turned out to be not so nice, I left. But *I* decided!" she added defiantly.
 

I believe that's why I continue to regard children who have reached puberty as "young adults," capable of making their own decisions in life if they are allowed to -- and if they have been taught how. I've never been a rapist, psychic or otherwise, even in those earlier times when it was expected by both conquering men and conquered women and girls. I've fed myself, sometimes by force, when I had to, naturally . . . but never at the expense of someone I
considered blameless.

"Anna, I shall make you a promise." I took her hand and regarded her seriously. "You may stay here with us if you choose. Or you may go at any time and for any reason -- or for no reason at all. I'll not expect sexual favors of you in return. I have no children but I have a great deal of money, Anna, and I may choose to spend a little of it on you, if you'll allow me to. Call it an indulgence." I squeezed her hand for emphasis. "But no one will force you to do anything. Not while you're under my protection. I'm not your father and I wouldn't pretend to be; I'm your friend. We became friends on the beach when you posed for me, remember? I would enjoy taking more photographs of you if you would allow me to, but that also is your decision and it has no bearing on whether or not you decide to stay here awhile. Do you understand?"

It was a long speech and the girl stared at me for a minute or two, taking it in and turning it over in her mind, comparing the offer with her recent experiences, I imagined.

"Up until last night, I'd been living on the beach for two months," she went on, as if I'd said nothing at all. "I was beginning to get desperate. That's why I . . ." She glanced at Maya, who nodded for her to continue. "That's why I took off my top when I saw you'd come back to the beach that day. I was trying to make you interested in me, so you'd take me home with you for awhile. I was trying to sell myself to you, senhor. . . ." She looked down and I saw the tips of her ears turning bright red. "But then, I suddenly felt that I *had* to go to you, to do whatever you wanted, whether you took me in or not. I don't know why! And I dreamed about you for days afterward. And then you came again, and you . . . rescued me."

She looked quickly at Maya. "Please don't be angry, senhora -- he didn't do anything! It was me!" She was ignoring the memory of my finger stroking her turgid nipple.

Maya laughed lightly and touched the girl's pleading face. "I'm not a 'senhora', Anna. I'm a guest here, too. This place belongs to Graeme; I'm just sharing it with him. And I can share him with you, as well, if you wish it."

Neither the girl nor I knew how to respond to that unexpected offer. And then Maya rose lithely and began clearing away the ruins of our breakfast. "Why don't we all stay in and rest today?" she suggested lightly. "And tomorrow, I think, would be a good day to see what the stores in this city have to offer in the way of young girls' clothing."
 

Maya took general charge of our shopping expedition the next day, which progressed in stages, like a proper military campaign. She consulted with me regarding the extent to which Anna's wardrobe should be enhanced and I laughingly replied that this was *her* area of expertise, not mine; I intended to follow along behind, paying sales clerks and carrying packages. That got me a five-minute kiss -- worth every cent I ended up paying, and far more.

Then she estimated the young girl's sizes and made a quick trip to a local shop for blue jeans, underwear, a tee-shirt, and a pair of sandals: That much allowed Anna to walk into any store without embarrassment, since the only presentable garment she owned was her thong bikini, which she couldn't wear on the street -- even in Bahia.

We took our time, browsing and allowing our young guest to try things on at length before making each selection. Anna was cautious at first, having developed a mistrust of largesse, but by lunchtime she was excited and enthusiastic. Maya didn't go overboard, either. Several pairs of slacks and matching blouses, additional jeans and pullovers, two "nice" summer dresses, and one pair each of white pumps and white Nikes. After lunch, she added a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap -- not that Anna knew or cared anything about American baseball. She just liked the colors. We also helped her select, without comment, a modest canvas duffel bag with a shoulder strap. I guessed that was to be Anna's escape hatch, at least psychologically.

Late in the afternoon, we walked all the way back to the apartment since the weather was so pleasant, and indulged in a two-hour siesta. Eventually, Anna crept into our room and whispered something to Maya and the two of them repaired to the other bedroom, from which I was temporarily banned. And an hour after that, Maya emerged triumphantly and urged me to sit in my rattan rocker in the middle of the study so Anna could make a grand entrance.

I was amazed at her transformation (with Maya's assistance) into a properly turned-out young teenager: White dress and shiny white shoes, gleaming black hair pulled back in a bobbing ponytail, and just a hint of lipstick and blusher. Maya had lent her a necklace of thin gold chain-links. She looked like she was on her way to evening communion.

My pleasure at her revised appearance must have been obvious because her face lit up like a beacon. She twirled, showing off her new outfit and the cotton billowed and the ponytail swung. I winked at Maya, who was justifiably a bit smug; she'd also changed into a "going out to supper" dress, which was a hint I couldn't ignore.

So I escorted my two lovely ladies out for an evening on the town -- a first-class evening. First, a concert at Campo Grande, with its magnificent lighting, followed by supper at Le Saint Honoré -- the best Continental cuisine in South America and already in control of part of Maya's soul. It was quite delightful to have a beautiful woman on each arm. The maitre d' and the waiters, most of whom I knew, seemed to think they must be my (previously unsuspected) wife and daughter.

Anna smiled broadly at everyone who came within range and utterly charmed the staff. Then, fortified by her earlier nap, she asked hesitantly if we might go someplace to dance afterward. I hadn't been out dancing in quite some time, so we ended up around midnight at a place called Hippopotamus -- crowded, noisy, and lots of fun. Anna sipped at her Shirley Temple and ogled the crowd while Maya and I massacred the samba. A boy of about sixteen asked her to dance -- and she actually caught my eye to seek permission before accepting the invitation. If I'd developed slightly paternal feelings for Maya, I was going to have to be *very* careful about Anna.

I had no idea what time it was when we left the club, only that I was yawning as much as my companions, both of whom had finally run out of steam. We caught a cab home and Anna was sound asleep with her head in my lap before we'd traveled two blocks. Maya hung on my arm and purred and whispered endearments and generally made me glad I'd lived as long as I had, just to be able to meet her.
 
 

Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.