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From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Exile - Chapter Eleven - Heart of Gold (Mff Mf tg teen oral anal drugs)
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 23:10:06 -0500
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Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has
been reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a
journal I kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org
site: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html 

 


Chapter Eleven - Heart of Gold (Mff Mf tg teen oral anal drugs)



I went home later and wrote in my journal, writing about Cecil
getting busted, how I was worried about the police picking me up
after seeing his tapes and photographs, about meeting Cami and
Delia, about how depressed I was that I had to go back out to the
streets again, now that the Cecil money train was off the tracks for
good.  I'd saved up quite a bit of money, though, so much that I
couldn't hide it between the pages of my algebra text.  I'd bought a
vintage beaded purse and stashed my money in there, hiding it under
the sink, wedged behind the water pipes. 

It was Cami that helped me get past my predicament.  She invited me
out to work the street with her, keeping an eye out for the cops
with me, even lending me a long black wig that she didn't need
anymore, since she'd grown her hair longer.  Larry loved the look,
loved to feel the long strands tickle his thighs as I sucked him.  I
wore the wig on the street for about three weeks, just to be safe,
until I figured that the whole Cecil thing was yesterday's news.

It was amazing how many men thought Cami was a real girl, and just
as amazing how many of the ones who knew she had a cock also assumed
that I was a boy, too.  One man, a middle-aged executive in a big
BMW, seemed downright disappointed that I didn't have a penis.  He
wanted to pay both of us to come back to his hotel downtown, for
something that involved three penises, though he was pretty light on
the details.  We haggled over the price and ended up going with him
anyway.  Back in his hotel room, I watched the man suck Cami's cock,
and then he watched Cami fuck me while he jerked off.  Afterwards,
he sucked Cami's cum from my pussy while Cami tongued his asshole. 
We ended up with the three of us in bed, Cami fucking the man in the
ass while I sucked his cock.  We left that night with $500 between
us, $300 for Cami and $200 for me.  I guess having a penis would
have earned me an extra hundred. 

Cami's street was a lot busier than the one I'd worked before. 
There was a constant stream of cars, cruising slowly, some moving on
to the next block where the boys worked.  There was an hidden
boundary here, girls like Cami on one street, boys on the other.  I
got to know almost all of the girls on the block, and they accepted
my presence, albeit grudgingly.  It wasn't like I was taking
significant business from them.  The cars I'd get into were driven
by men who were looking for younger stuff.

One night I thought I saw a kid from the shelter, working the next 
block, but before I could get a good look at his face, he got into
the front seat of a Volvo and they drove off.  Seeing him made me
wonder about Manny and Billy, where they were, how they were doing.

That was also the night I met the man I called the Beacon Street
Daddy.  He became my best customer, even better than Cecil.  I could
count on him to show up at least three nights a week, often paying
for the whole night, and for good money plus a tip.  He drove a nice
car, wore expensive suits, and had a huge place in Back Bay, a
duplex apartment that was almost as big as the entire rooming house.

His name was George Sheffield, at least that's what it said on his
door, but he wanted me to call him "Daddy", even on that first
night.  It was a warm mid-summer night, and I would have gone with
him just for the air conditioning in his car.  I gave Cami a
good-bye kiss and got into the front seat, seeing her walk to the
back of the car, her lips moving as she memorized the license plate.
 It was something we always did for each other, just in case.

Mr. Sheffield parked in the basement garage, and we headed up to his
place in the elevator, bypassing the doorman in the front lobby. 
His place was the lap of luxury, fine furniture, a panoramic view of
the Charles River; it was nicer than the Ritz.  He poured himself a
drink and loosened his tie while I sat on the big leather couch,
watching cars on the parkway across the river, a stream of white
headlights and red tail lights.

"$400 for the night, right?" he said, swirling the ice in his drink
and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a thick wad of money held
together with a sterling silver clip.  He peeled off a few bills and
handed them to me, taking a sip of his drink.

"Thank you," I said, stuffing the money in my purse.

"Can I get you anything?  Soda?  Milk?"

"No thank you," I said.  "What would you like first?  Blowjob?"

"No, not yet.  Come with me," he said.  I followed him up a spiral 
staircase and down a carpeted hall, into a room filled with stuffed 
animals and toys, a four-poster bed and pink curtains, a little
girl's room.

"My daughter's room," Mr. Sheffield said.  "She lives in Paris with
my ex-wife now.  I only see her twice each year."  He sounded
wistful, almost sad when he said this.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be.  I was a prick to her mother," he replied.  "Anyway, here
are her clothes.  They should fit you, I think.  Why don't you put
these on and meet me back downstairs when you're ready."  He pulled
a plaid skirt and white blouse from the closet, laying them on the
bed, and then he opened her dresser drawers, showing me where she
kept her socks and underwear.  Then he left, the sound of clinking
ice fading down the hall.

I took off my clothes, miniskirt and halter top, and skinned off my 
black lace panties, standing naked in this girl's room.  I found a 
picture of her and her father on her desk, a recent photo I guessed,
and I figured her to be twelve or thirteen at the most, with long
straight blonde hair like mine, except in pigtails.  Her name was
Suzie or Suzette, at least according to what was jotted on the
inside cover of some of her old textbooks, written in perfect
penmanship with a little heart over the "i" in "Suzie".

I pulled on a pair of her panties, white cotton briefs with a tiny 
rosebud pattern.  Either she was a little big for her age or I was a
little small for mine; regardless, her clothes fit me well though
her training bra was a bit too tight, as were her shoes.  I checked
myself in the mirror, tying my hair into pigtails with elastics like
she did, and headed downstairs.  Mr. Sheffield was sitting on the
living room couch, dressed in a plush beige terrycloth robe, a fresh
drink in his hand, watching me descend the spiral staircase.

"Come sit with Daddy, Princess," he said, putting down his drink and
patting his lap.

"Yes, sir," I said, climbing up onto his thighs.

"Call me 'Daddy', punkin," he said, wrapping his arms around me and 
pulling me close to his chest.  Unlike most of the men I serviced,
Mr. Sheffield was in great shape, broad chest and firm abdomen,
probably from running or regular workouts.  I rested my head on his
shoulder as his hands caressed my thighs, roaming under his
daughter's plaid skirt, over her soft cotton panties.

"How was school today, punkin?" he asked.

"It was fine, Daddy," I said.  I began to realize that he wasn't
just paying for sex, he was paying for me to pretend that I was his
little girl, his absent daughter.  I knew there would be sex
involved sooner or later, mostly from the way I could feel his
erection pressing against the back of my thighs, but this was his
foreplay.  I wondered if he had ever touched his daughter or whether
it was all by proxy.  Maybe that was why he was divorced, his
ex-wife and his little girl an ocean away.  I decided that he
hadn't, not if, as he had said, she still visited twice each year.

"What about that class you're having problems with?" he asked.

"What class?"

"Weren't you flunking out of Sex Education?"  Mr. Sheffield had a 
script, though it was all in his head and I could only guess at my 
lines.

"Yes, Daddy," I said, feeling him squeeze my bottom.  "I'm sorry, 
Daddy."

"Maybe I can help you, Princess," he said.  "What are you having
trouble with?"

"Well, um, it's about a man's thing," I said, feeling his hardness 
pressing up against my thighs.  I'd never had sex ed in school,
other than a quick gym class discussion of contraception and
venereal disease given by a physical education teacher with a crew
cut and thick legs, a lecture that lasted all of ten minutes.  I
didn't know what was covered in a real sex ed class, so I had to
improvise. 

"You mean a 'penis'?" he said.

"Yes, Daddy.  A...a penis."

"What about the penis do you need to know?"

"Well, it's like I don't understand what it does," I said.  "And the
seeds that come out, are they like pumpkin seeds or something?"  Mr.
Sheffield laughed at that and gave me a wink.

"Would you like to see mine, Princess?"

"Could I, Daddy?"

"Sure thing," he said.  "Get down from Daddy's lap and I'll show
you."  I scooted off of his legs and knelt between his knees as he
opened his bathrobe.  His cock was hard, twitching in anticipation,
a pearly drop of precum at the tip.

"Can I touch it, Daddy?"

"Go ahead, punkin.  Just be very gentle," he said, a gleam in his
eye.  I hesitantly moved my fingers closer to his twitching tool,
lightly grazing the shaft with my fingertips before curling my
fingers around his penis.

"It's so big, Daddy," I said.  It was pretty big, but I would have
said that even if it wasn't.  Men love to hear things like that.

"Stroke it, punkin, rub it up and down slowly," he said.  I began to
slide my fingers up and down his cock, slowly jerking his veiny
shaft. 

"What's this wet stuff at the tip?" I asked.

"That's Daddy's seed.  There's millions of little tadpoles swimming 
around."

"Tadpoles?" I said, giggling like his daughter might have done.

"They just look like tadpoles, sweetie."  He reached forward for his
drink and took a sip.

"What's it taste like?" I asked.  Mr. Sheffield smiled.

"Go ahead and try it, Princess."

"Okay, Daddy," I said, leaning forward and extending my tongue,
scooping the drop of precum into my mouth and swirling it around. 
"It's yummy, Daddy."  Actually, it had that sort of cloying
sweetness that the semen of some of the more alcoholic men I'd
sucked had, but it lacked the bitterness of someone who lived on
junk food. 

"Keep doing that and I'll make some more, punkin," he said.  I
guessed that this was my cue to start sucking him, and I did,
parting my lips and taking his cock into my mouth, bathing the
underside of his shaft with my tongue, making him groan and sigh and
settle back into the couch.  I sucked him slowly, carefully, trying
for a cross between a girl's first blowjob and something a bit more
professional.  I figured that he'd tell me if I wasn't doing it the
way he wanted.  He didn't seem to be complaining, and after he
filled my mouth with more of his little tadpoles he murmured
"Perfect...". 

"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered, climbing back into his lap.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he said.  He held me in his arms for a
while, caressing me like I was his own daughter, not a girl he'd
picked up on the street.

"Time for bed, punkin," he said, finishing his drink.  Go upstairs
and change into your nightie and I'll be up to tuck you in."

"Okay, Daddy," I said, kissing him on the cheek.  I climbed off of
his lap and went upstairs, back to Suzie's room, where I hung up the
skirt and blouse and found a nightgown hanging on a hook on the
closet door, a flannel gown that went down to just above my knees. 
I folded my own clothes and stashed them with my purse, under the
bed, before turning down the blanket and climbing into the
four-poster. 

Mr. Sheffield came up a few minutes later, yet another drink in his 
hand.  He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair for a
while, looking at me like I really was his daughter.  There was
something in his face that made me wonder if he really had gotten
this far in his mental movie, whether he'd rehearsed this part of
his imaginary script. 

"Will you rub my tummy, Daddy?" I asked him, remembering my first 
encounter with Father Steve, how I had to keep things moving.

"Does your tum-tum hurt, Princess?"

"A little, Daddy.  Please?" I said, trying to knock a few years off
of my voice.

"Sure, baby," he said, pulling aside the blanket.  He slid his hand 
under his daughter's nightie, gently rubbing my belly.

"How's that, kitten?" Mr. Sheffield asked.

"That feels good, Daddy."  I pulled the nightie up, exposing my
thighs, panties, belly.  Mr. Sheffield's eyes were glued to a spot
between my legs, where the cotton material of his daughter's panties
had ridden up between my cleft.  His hand began to roam lower, down
past the waistband, finally resting on the imprint of my labia on
the white cotton.  He looked almost hypnotized as his fingers
lightly traced my slit.  I spread my legs a bit wider for him, and
he began to stroke my thighs, working his way back to my sex.

I had a hand under the nightie, cupping my breast, circling my
nipple with a fingertip.  Mr. Sheffield saw the movement under the
nightie and seemed to snap out of his trance.  He pulled the nightie
up even further, exposing my little titties.  I thought I saw a look
of disappointment when he saw that I wasn't flat-chested like his
daughter, but a moment later he smiled.

"My little princess is growing up to be a big girl," he said,
leaning over and taking one of my nipples between his lips, his
tongue lightly lashing it until it stiffened and puckered.

"Oh, Daddy..." I sighed.  "So good..."

"Take this off, babycakes," he said, tugging at the nightgown.  "Let
me see how you're growing."

"Yes, Daddy," I said, pulling his daughter's nightie over my head. 
His hands were all over me, his lips moving from one nipple to the
other.  I ran my fingers through his thick head of hair, arching my
back as his lips sent a pleasurable chill down my spine.  I felt him
tugging at the panties, and I lifted my bottom off of the bed so he
could pull them down and off.  Then he kissed his way down my belly,
all the way to my shaved mons.  I could feel his breath on my sex as
he stared at my cleft, his lips poised just inches away, making me
shiver with anticipation at what was to come.

It had been months since I'd been licked properly down there, since
that day I met Trish at Mrs. Pomerantz's boutique.  Cami would eat
me out sometimes, especially if she'd just fucked me and I didn't
quite get off.  She loved the taste of her own cum, but wasn't the
most cunning linguist.  I often thought she'd be more enthusiastic
if I had a cock instead.  Larry practically begged me to let him
tongue my box sometimes, but he always seemed disappointed to find
that I hadn't been fucked by a dozen guys, oozing a dozen different
flavors of semen.  Cecil had eaten at Chez Annie as well, mostly as
foreplay, and he did as well as you'd expect someone who had been a
twentysomething virgin until recently.  In other words, poorly.

Mr. Sheffield was good, even better than Trish in some ways.  He
kissed me reverently first, his lips pressed against my slit,
inhaling the perfume of my sex, his eyes closed as he imagined his
daughter in my place.  Then he cupped my bottom in his hands and
brought me up to his mouth, probing my slit with his tongue,
savoring the taste of my nectar.  He actually said "Mmmmmm" a few
times, as if he was tasting an exotic dish at an expensive
restaurant.  I suppose I was an expensive restaurant, one he could
have all to himself for a few hundred dollars in cash.

Unlike Larry, who went straight for my clit, or Cecil, who couldn't
find my clit even with written instructions and a full-color
diagram, Mr. Sheffield teased my little button, swirling his tongue
under and over, around and around, making me moan and writhe in his
hands as I tried to anticipate when he'd start lashing it directly. 
He took his time, trying to make it last, to control the pace of my
pleasure, to keep me at the tip of his tongue forever.  When he did
finally tongue my clit, I felt an electric sensation spread through
my body, making my limbs stiffen and my cheeks tense up in his
strong hands.  He squeezed my bottom and lashed me harder, pulling
my body closer to his face, drinking from my chalice.

It didn't take long at all.  From the moment I had put on his
daughter's clothes and sat in his lap, feeling him caress me and
call me "Princess", I'd felt that delicious tension in my body,
centered in my lower belly, like an overflowing dam waiting to
burst.  Not only could Mr. Sheffield believe that I was his
daughter, I was willing to believe that he was my Daddy, and not a
girl he bought for the night.  When the dam broke and my pleasure
spilled out, I cried out for him: "Oh, Daddy...oh, Daddy...ohdaddy
ohdaddy ohdaddy...".  He kept lashing me with his broad tongue until
I had to squirm away from his lips, so intense was my climax.

"Princess..." he whispered, lowering my bottom to the bed and
kissing my belly.  "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, knowing what was to follow.  Mr. Sheffield 
shrugged off his robe, his erection bobbing between his legs.  He
felt my slit with his finger, dipping it inside me to gauge my
wetness.  I was moist even before he ate me, even before I sucked
him in the living room earlier.

"It might hurt a bit, punkin," he said.  "Let me know if it hurts
too much, okay?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, realizing that we were back on his mental
script, and that in his mind he was about to take his daughter's
cherry, to penetrate her virgin cleft.  I spread my legs wider as
Mr. Sheffield knelt between them, stroking his hardness and aiming
it at my wet slit.  He reached for one of the pillows behind my head
and slipped it under my ass, rubbing the tip of his cock between my
labia to moisten his spear. 

"Ready, baby?" he asked, his cockhead poised at my entrance.

"Please be gentle, Daddy," I said.

"Always," he replied, leaning down to kiss me on the lips.  I felt
his hips start to push forward, the tip of his cock pressing into
me, slowly, carefully, towards a hymen that wasn't there.  "This
part might hurt a little," he whispered, and then he pushed further,
thrusting deeper, breaking through an imaginary barrier.  I wondered
how many times he'd rehearsed this moment in his mind, lying alone
in his bed at night, stroking himself as he thought about Suzie.

"Ow, Daddy," I softly cried.  "Stop.  It hurts."  It really did
hurt, not as bad as a torn cherry, but I felt a little stab of pain.
 Mr. Sheffield's cock was the largest one I'd had inside me in a
while, since Mr. O'Hare fucked me with his horse-like cock on Father
Ken's desk. 

"Want me to pull out, Princess?" Mr. Sheffield said, a look of
genuine concern on his face.

"No, Daddy.  Don't," I said.  "Let me get used to it for a minute, 
okay?"

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, kissing me on the forehead and on the
nose, trying hard not to thrust even though he wanted to more than
anything in the world right then.  "Does it really hurt?" he asked,
out of character for a moment.

"A little," I said.  "You're really big.  I don't usually..."

"You don't?" he asked.

"No.  Blowjobs and handjobs, mostly."  Except for the rare client,
or Larry, Cami, or Mr. Antonelli, my work was pretty much confined
to a suck or a quick jerk in the front seat of a car.  

"Okay, I think I'm ready," I said.  My pussy had stretched to 
accommodate Mr. Sheffield's fat cock, and I squeezed him with my
muscles to let him know it was all right to start thrusting.

"You're my special little girl, Princess," Mr. Sheffield said, back
in his Daddy role, his hips starting to move, sliding his penis in
and out of my tight slit.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said, holding his hips, feeling his muscles
move beneath his skin, rocking my own hips to his tempo.  He felt as
hard as iron, and I could practically feel every vein and bump on
his shaft as he slid in and out, lingering with just his fat
cockhead inside me and then plunging deeper, until he filled me
completely.  As he stretched out on top of me, I moved my hands from
his hips and up to his broad back, feeling his shoulders tense and
relax as he began to thrust faster.

"How's that feel, Princess?" he whispered into my ear.

"Wonderful, Daddy," I cooed.  "It feels soooo good..."

It felt wonderful, it felt delicious, his magnificent cock
stretching my box, the thick ridge of flesh on his glans pressing
against my sweet spot with every stroke.  I moved my hips back and
forth, pressing them against his, trying to take him as deep as I
could.  Mr. Sheffield realized that he didn't have to be so careful
now, that my pain had melted into pleasure, that my body was his
now.  He started moving his hips in a circular motion, his cock
corkscrewing in and out of my sex, touching me in places no one had
touched in ages. 

By this time Mr. Sheffield was screwing me nice and hard, not
quickly but with long, powerful strokes, like the way those men who
rowed on the Charles River would pull on their oars, using their
whole body to propel their sleek, sharp shells through the water.  I
felt another climax begin to build, different from the one he'd
given me with lips and tongue, more like a full body orgasm that I
felt all the way down to my toes and out to my fingertips.  I
wrapped my arms around his body, trying not to scratch him with my
nails as he pumped my pussy with his big tool, a patina of
perspiration building on his forehead. 

When I came I felt my whole body stiffen, close to paralysis, until
I passed the first peak.  Even when I felt myself regain control of
my limbs, my vision seemed dim, as if someone had turned down the
lights.  I wrapped my arms and legs around him, holding him even
tighter, and I clenched myself around his shaft, squeezing him as I
passed into another moment of ecstasy.  Mr. Sheffield's hips began
to shudder, a hitch in the smooth motion of his thrusts.  I knew he
was close, so close. 

"Come for me, Daddy," I whispered.  "I want to feel your seeds
inside me."

"Oh, Princess," he gasped, slamming into my pussy once, twice, three
times before he came, taking a deep breath and letting it out as his
cock twitched inside me, the fat glans flaring as hot spurts of
semen filled my sex.  I clenched my pussy again and again, milking
his tool, each additional spurt sending a shiver of pleasure through
my belly. 

"You're a special girl," Mr. Sheffield said, after he'd slipped out
of my pussy and rolled off of me, laying next to me on his
daughter's narrow bed, caressing my belly and thighs.

"Thank you," I said, not sure if he was talking to me or to his
absent daughter.  He leaned over and kissed me, a passionate kiss, a
lover's kiss, pressing his lips to my mouth, a mouth that had tasted
hundreds of different cocks.

"Do you want to sleep in Daddy's bed tonight, Princess?" he asked, 
giving my forehead a fatherly kiss.

"Could I, Daddy?" I said.

"Sure thing, punkin.  Put your panties back on and I'll carry you in
like I used to do."  I reached into the bunched up duvet at the foot
of the bed, finding his daughter's cotton undies hidden in a fold of
the thick comforter and slipping them back on.  I could feel his
semen start to ooze from my slit, soaking the panty crotch.  Mr.
Sheffield climbed out of bed and put his robe back on, lifting me
off the bed with his strong hands.  I wrapped my arms around his
neck as he carried me into his bedroom, gently laying me down on his
big platform bed.  He shrugged off his robe and lay down next to me,
wrapping his muscular arms around me as I snuggled up against him. 
Then he reached over and turned out the light, giving me one last
kiss for the night. 


                                  * * *


I woke up the next morning as Mr. Sheffield was putting on a pair of
running shorts, the straps of his jock framing his firm buns.  He
turned around and saw that I was awake, a ray of early morning
sunlight falling across my breasts.

"I'm going to run for about a half an hour," he said, lacing up his 
sneakers.  "Feel free to grab something to eat.  Kitchen's
downstairs."  He gave me a kiss on the tip of my nose and pulled on
a t-shirt, heading out of the bedroom.  I thought it was sort of
strange that he trusted me, a girl he just met on the street, alone
in his apartment.  Not that I would steal anything, but it just
seemed strange. 

I went back into his daughter's room and changed into the clothes
I'd worn when he picked me up.  There was a wet spot on his
daughter's sheets from our lovemaking the night before, and the
panties I'd worn were still soaked with his semen.

Mr. Sheffield's kitchen was almost as big as Mr. Antonelli's whole 
apartment, with a huge stainless steel refrigerator, a gas stove
with six burners and two ovens, a myriad cabinets and drawers.  He
didn't have much in the way of food, though, just some cereal in the
cabinets, take-out food containers in the fridge, some
low-carbohydrate beer, a quart of orange juice.  I made myself a
bowl of cereal and poured a glass of juice, watching the morning
news as I ate my breakfast. 

After I ate, I noticed that there was a combination washer and dryer
in a corner alcove of the kitchen.  I went back upstairs to
Suzette's room and grabbed her sheets and panties, bringing them
back down and putting them in the washer.  I was just adding some
detergent when Mr. Sheffield returned.

"You don't have to do that," he said.

"That's okay," I replied.  "Just trying to be helpful."

"Sweet of you," he said, putting his hands on my hips and pulling me
closer.  He was damp with sweat from his run, a big dark stain on
the front of his shirt.  "I must smell awful.  Let me take a shower
and I'll drive you back to the South End."

"Could I join you," I asked.  A shower sounded nice.

"Sure, but we have to be quick.  I have to be in the office in an
hour." 

I followed him into the bathroom, a suite off of his bedroom that
was a nice as any I'd seen.  There was an anteroom with four rows of
suits on hangers, arranged by color and style.  The bathroom itself
was a monument to hygiene in black marble and terra cotta tile, and
the giant tub had not one but three shower heads, including a
detachable one with a massage feature.

I soaped him up from his neck to his toes, working my way back up
his steel thighs to concentrate on cleaning between his legs,
lathering his hard cock and heavy balls.  I knew we didn't have time
to do much, but I gave him a soapy hand job anyway, stroking his
beautiful prick until he came, shooting ropy jets of semen all over
my breasts. 

Mr. Sheffield returned the favor, showing me some of the more 
interesting features of the detachable shower massage, including a 
pulsating setting that, when directed between my legs, made me weak
in the knees.  I almost slipped on the wet marble when I came, but
he caught me before I fell, holding up as I trembled with delight at
the warm jets of water that pulsed against my pussy.  I wondered if
Mr. Antonelli would let me buy one of these and install it in the
rooming house's bathroom.  I'd never leave the tub if that happened.

We rinsed the soap from our skin and dried off with plush towels
that probably cost as much as I made in a night.  I watched him get
dressed, white shirt, dark grey suit, yellow tie, black Italian
shoes, and then we descended in the elevator, back to the basement
garage where he kept his car.  He pressed a small black trinket on
his key ring, making the car chirp, its headlights flashing twice as
the doors unlocked electronically.  Mr. Sheffield opened the
passenger side door for me and I slid inside.  Ten minutes later I
was back on the corner where he'd picked me up, his phone number
written on a piece of paper. I didn't have a phone, relying on pay
phones or Mr. Antonelli's line when I had to make a call, but we
agreed to meet two nights later, same place, same time.


                                  * * *


I'd stay with George Sheffield at least three nights a week,
sometimes all day on Sunday, lounging in his big bed with him,
reading the Sunday papers, eating brunch, generally acting the part
of the loving daughter of a very affectionate father.  Most of the
nights I spent with him were just like that first night, with just a
few minor variations.  Sometimes, he'd have me pretend to be asleep,
and he'd creep into his daughter's room where I was staying, quietly
lifting my nightie and caressing my sex through her little white
panties.  He'd nibble my tender slit through the cotton crotch, and
then he'd pull them aside and slowly penetrate me with his hardness,
watching for signs that I was waking up.  I would feign sleep until
I began to come, at which point he'd start pounding me with his fat
cock until he filled me with his hot seed.

On other nights, I'd crawl into his bed while he pretended to sleep,
slipping under his sheets to take his cock in my mouth, slowly
sucking him until he pulled me on top of his body, spearing me with
his manhood.  I'd ride him until I was a quivering mass of jelly,
shuddering and moaning on top of him, urging him to fill my spasming
cunny with his daddycum.

One night in early September Mr. Sheffield picked me up, asking if I
had anything nice to wear, something formal, something elegant.  He
drove me to my rooming house and waited in his car while I went
upstairs to change, coming back down in a vintage cherry red satin
cocktail dress, knee-length and strapless, with crinoline petticoats
under a swingy skirt.  I'd found white pumps that fit and dyed them
red to match, along with a beaded red purse.  His eyes lit up when
he saw me, and he got out from behind the wheel, dashing around his
car to open the door for me, helping me gather the swishy dress
around my legs so it wouldn't get caught in the door.

"You look beautiful, Princess," he said, leaning over the car's
console to kiss me.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said.  "What's the special occasion?"

"I'm taking you out for your birthday," he said, reaching into the
glove compartment and pulling out a little gift-wrapped box.  My
birthday wasn't until December, and I realized that it was really
his daughter's birthday instead.  "Go on.  Open it," he said,
handing me the box.  I carefully peeled off the wrapping paper,
revealing a blue velvet covered box.  Inside was a gold heart
pendant on a fine gold chain. 

"It's beautiful," I gasped.  "Thank you, Daddy."  I threw my arms
around him and kissed him.  It was genuine gratitude, not just for
the lovely little bauble he'd given me, but for all of the affection
he showed me, even though it was meant for his biological child. 
The money he'd given me pretty much kept me off the street, though
I'd still hang out with Cami while she worked, keeping her company,
holding her money for her, and memorizing the license numbers of the
cars that picked her up, just in case.

"Let me help you with that," Mr. Sheffield said.  I turned around in
the seat as he clasped the chain around my neck, pulling down the
passenger side sun visor so I could see my reflection in the vanity
mirror.  The gold heart glimmered in the light of the street lamps. 
He put the car in gear and we drove off to dinner.

Mr. Sheffield took me to a fancy place on the waterfront.  A valet 
parked his car and we entered the restaurant.  He was on a first
name basis with the maitre d' and he introduced me as his niece.  I
was also on a first name basis with Marco: he lived around the
corner from where Cami and I worked, and he was always very friendly
to us, stopping to chat whenever he and his boyfriend walked their
dogs in the evening.  Marco gave me a knowing wink and seated us by
a window that looked over Boston Harbor.

We drove back to his apartment after dinner, and Mr. Sheffield
opened a bottle of champagne.  I'd only had it a couple of times,
always with Julia, and I still loved the way the bubbles tickled my
nose.  We toasted my "birthday", and then he left to make a phone
call from his den.

Mr. Sheffield returned a few minutes later, his eyes moist and
rimmed in red.  He poured himself a scotch, and sat down heavily on
the couch.  I picked up my champagne flute and sat down next to him.

"Did you speak with her?" I asked.

"It was late," he said, in a defeated tone.  "She was asleep."  I
guess it would have been 2AM in Paris at that time.

"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing his shoulders.  "Should I go?"

"No.  Please.  Stay with me, Anne."  He rarely used my real name.  I
snuggled up against him, resting my head on his shoulders, drying
his tears with my fingertips, kissing his cheek.  He turned his head
and pressed his lips against mine, gently at first, and then with
passion.  My skirts rustled as we kissed on his couch, hands running
over thighs, backs, faces.

I held his hand as we went upstairs, into his bedroom, where I
helped him out of his suit, shirt, and shoes.  Then it was my turn,
and he slowly unzipped my dress.  I let it fall to my feet, stepping
out of the formless mass of satin and crinoline, unclasping the red
strapless bra I'd bought to wear with this dress.  He was hard
already, even before I sank to my knees and took him in my mouth. 
He sat down on the bed and I knelt between his thighs, slowly
sucking his shaft, swirling my tongue over his fat glans.

"I want you," he said, tugging at my elbow, pulling me into his lap.
 He cradled me in his arms and began to pull down my red lace
panties. 

"No, wait," I said.  "My period."  It had started the day before.

"Damn," Mr. Sheffield said, clearly disappointed.

"I'm sorry," I said, running my hand over his chest.  I could feel
his erection, which had been pressed against my bottom, starting to
wane. 

"Not your fault," he said.

"What about...?" I said.  I didn't even have to complete my
sentence.  He knew that I was talking about taking him in my bottom.

"Are you sure?" he said.

"Yes," I whispered, tightening my hold around his neck and kissing
his cheek.

"It might hurt a bit," he said.

"I know.  But you'll be gentle," I said.  I knew he would be.  He
always was.

Mr. Sheffield kissed me and laid me on the bed, sliding a pillow
under my belly, pulling my panties down off of my ass, tenderly
kissing both of my upturned cheeks.  In the table next to the bed he
had a bottle of lubricant, probably for jerking off in bed while he
dreamed of his little Suzette.  It was that flavored stuff that
Larry liked, the stuff they sold in the bookstores in the Combat
Zone.  Larry went through about a quart each week.

Before he opened the bottle, he knelt behind me and I felt his
breath on my crack.  Suddenly his tongue was probing my bottom,
penetrating me as he licked my tight little hole.  He grabbed both
of my cheeks and fucked my bottom with his tongue, in and out a few
times before licking the length of my crack.  I heard the bottle
open and then I felt a cold finger back there, smearing lubricant
around and inside my bottom.  My ass clenched involuntarily,
trapping his finger inside me for a moment.  He withdrew and then he
penetrated me with two fingers, trying to lubricate and loosen my
tight muscle. 

He withdrew again and I heard him squeeze some lubricant on his rod,
smearing it around and stroking his shaft to warm it and work it in.
 Then he knelt behind me, and I felt his greasy knob press against
my nether hole.  It rebelled and then yielded to his cock,
stretching to accommodate this glistening invader.  I groaned and
grabbed a pillow, burying my face in it to keep from crying out.

"Does it hurt, punkin?" he said, pausing with only the tip of his
penis inside me.

"A little," I said.

"Want me to pull out?"  He was playing the virginity scene again,
only this time the pain was real for me.  He felt huge back there,
and I wished he'd spent more time fingering me, stretching me,
readying me for his thick tool.

"No, no, no," I said.  It hurt, but I could bear it.  I wanted to
make him happy.

Fortunately, he had the good sense not to plunge right in, as if 
piercing an imaginary hymen.  He entered me slowly, steadily, even 
adding more lube when he was half-way inside my bottom.  It seemed
like forever before he filled me, his pubes tickling my cheeks.  Mr.
Sheffield stretched out over my back, kissing me between the
shoulders and then on the cheek.  He stayed like that, motionless,
his cock buried inside my bottom.

I began to make the first move, slowly moving my hips under him,
back and forth, side by side.  I felt his hips begin to move with
mine, sliding his slick shaft in and out of my bottom.  As I began
to relax, I felt something different, a feeling I'd never felt when
someone was in my ass.  I realized that his big cock was squeezing
my insides, making the tampon in my pussy press against that
sensitive spot on the top wall of my vagina.  I reached down between
my legs and pressed against my mound, squeezing the place where my
clit was hidden, trying to increase the pressure.

I probably could have come like this.  If only he could have lasted 
longer.  But between the tightness of my bottom and his excitement
he began to come just as I was getting close.  The fact that I was
moaning pretty loudly and humping his cock faster didn't help
matters any.  Mr. Sheffield gasped loudly and his twitching tool
began to fill my bottom with his cream.

I wanted him to stay inside me, to try again to see if I could come
this way, but his penis softened and slipped out of me.  Mr.
Sheffield got out of bed to wash off his cock, returning a minute
later and climbing back into bed.  He held me from behind, and we
nestled like spoons, his soft prick resting between my cheeks.

"You're a special girl," he whispered.  I kissed his hand and placed
it on my breasts, and we fell asleep together.


                                  * * *


It was mid-September when Mr. Antonelli passed away.

Roughly once every month, always on Saturdays, when I came down to
pay my rent, he'd be waiting for me in his pinstripe suit and grey
fedora, walking stick in hand, and we'd go out to the North End
where he'd see his old friends, we'd have lunch, buy groceries at
Haymarket, and then return to the rooming house, where he'd cook
dinner while I changed into a nice dress and heels.  Just like that
first Saturday, he'd make me risotto and a nice meal, we'd have some
wine, and then we'd slow dance in his living room, soft music and
candlelight.  Then we'd go into his bedroom and make love, always
with me on top, slowly riding him as he kissed and caressed my
little breasts.  

I came to believe that, despite the sixty year age difference
between us, this was the most conventional relationship in my life. 
Dinner, wine, dancing, candlelight, and love, the way I always
thought it was supposed to be.  Sure, he liked me to call him
"Papa", but it was different from how I called Mr. Sheffield
"Daddy".  Mr. Antonelli wasn't pretending I was his daughter or
granddaughter; he was reliving his youth.  His late wife had called
him "Papa" when they were first married, since there was a fifteen
year difference between their ages. 

This weekend was something he'd been looking forward to, an annual
feast to honor a saint that was also the patron saint of his old
village in Italy.  He looked especially sharp that day, wearing a
gold tie clip and cufflinks I'd given him as a gift.  I took his arm
and we headed out to hail a cab.

It was exciting, not just for me but for him as well.  He seemed
almost giddy as he taped a string of dollar bills on to a statue of
the Virgin that was being carried through the narrow North End
streets.  We bought food from the sidewalk vendors, fried dough
sprinkled with powdered sugar, spicy sausages on toasted rolls,
cannoli, shaved ice flavored with syrup.  We had dinner there as
well, in a classic bistro with red checkered table cloths and a
candle stuck in the mouth of a wicker-bound Chianti bottle.

Mr. Antonelli was feeling awfully frisky that night.  We took a cab 
home, and he began to grope me in the back seat, earning some funny 
looks from the driver.  He was tipsy as well, since we'd shared a
whole bottle of wine with dinner and he'd drunk most of it.  He was
singing an old Italian tune as we emerged from the cab, tipping the
driver generously.

Back in his apartment, he couldn't keep his hands off of me,
slipping them under my short skirt, squeezing my breasts.  We didn't
dance that night; he took me by the hand and led me straight to the
bedroom, nearly tearing off his suit as he got undressed.

"Papa, Papa, slow down," I urged.

"Bella Anna," he crooned, unzipping my skirt and running his hands
over the back of my panties.  Not a minute later I was undressed as
well, and he guided me into his bed.

"Papa, what are you doing?" I said, as he spread my legs and dived 
between them, kissing and licking my pussy.  He'd never done that 
before, and I knew that the wine and the excitement of the day had
gone to his head.  But he ate me good, even if he was a little out
of practice, finding my clit and lapping at it like a kitten with a
bowl of fresh cream.  The wine had affected me as well, so I stopped
worrying about him and laid back on his bed, enjoying his
attentions.  He had me coming in no time at all, probing me with his
fingers while his tongue lashed my clit.  I tugged at his shoulder
and he got up from between my thighs, his wrinkled face glistening
with my juices. 

"No, no, Anna," he said as I turned in bed so he could lay down and
let me ride him.  "We do it this way."  He gently pressed me back
against the bed and knelt between my thighs, his amazingly hard cock
bobbing as it approached my moist slit.  He entered me in one quick
motion and started thrusting, and I could feel his hips popping and
snapping with each stroke.

"Oh, Papa," I whispered as he fucked me like his bride on our
wedding night.  He was so pleased with himself, the wine having
banished his aches and pains for a moment at least, forgetting about
his bad hips and his arthritic knees.  His penis pistoned in and out
of my sex, making the bed squeak, making me moan and sigh.  I was
getting close again, a second orgasm growing in my belly, wishing
that Mr. Antonelli could be even just ten years younger.

I had my eyes closed and I heard him grunt, softly, the smallest of 
sounds.  Suddenly his creaking hips stopped, the bed stopped
squeaking, and he froze inside me.  I thought he might have come
already and I opened my eyes.  His face was frozen in a pained
grimace and he clutched his chest, his fingers digging into the
broad patch of grey hair between his nipples.  As his face began to
turn blue, I felt a warmth streaming from his cock, a wet spot
spreading under my cheeks as a hot liquid dripped from my pussy.  He
wasn't coming; he was pissing inside me.  Mr. Antonelli was having a
heart attack. 

I crawled out from under his body, feeling his dripping cock slip
out of my sex, the feeling of panic taking hold of me.  I ran into
his living room and picked up his phone, dialing 911.

"Please help me!  My papa's having a heart attack!" I blurted out as
soon as someone picked up the line.  The operator told me to calm
down, keep cool, and I managed to give the address of the rooming
house and the phone number, leaving the phone off the hook and the
line open when I ran back into the bedroom.

I turned Papa over, and tried to remember a short course in CPR we'd
had in school.  Loosen clothing: he was already naked.  Airway: I
tilted his head back and got his tongue out of the way with my
fingers.  Pinching his nose, I breathed into him, once, then twice,
before pressing down on his chest with both hands balled together. 
Twelve compressions and two breaths.  Twelve compressions and two
breaths.  Twelve compressions and two breaths.  

I kept this up until I heard a banging on the door.  The paramedics
were here.  I answered the door, still naked, and ushered them
inside, two young women with a stretcher on wheels, orange bags of
supplies, and a small green oxygen bottle.  One of them knelt by the
bed and held an oxygen mask to his face while the other one grabbed
Mr. Antonelli's bathrobe from the hook behind the door, draping it
over my shoulders, steering me away from the bed.

There was nothing more to do.  He was gone, probably dead while he
was still inside me.  The medics placed his body on the stretcher
and wheeled him out of the bedroom, not even bothering with chest 
compressions.  I started to follow, picking my clothes up from the 
floor, but one of them stopped me.

"Wait here for the police," she said.  "They'll want to talk to
you." 

"Police?" I asked.  "Why?"

"Look, kid," the other medic said.  "You answer the door naked and
he's got a wet dick.  You think we're stupid?"

"Can I come with you to the hospital?"

"Are you a blood relative?" the first medic asked.

"No."

"Married to him?"  She said this with a chuckle.  I was obviously
too young.

"No."

"Then stay here and wait for the cops," she said.  And then they
were gone, their siren fading into the distance.

No, I wasn't going to wait for the cops.  Even in my distraught
state I knew the trouble I was in.  Everything was about to come
crashing down on my head, Cecil's movie, prostitution -- even though
the police were nothing more than an annoyance, they had to have
seen me on the street with or without Cami, and the circumstances
surrounding Mr. Antonelli's heart attack would give them no choice
but to arrest me -- and on top of this, drug charges would result if
they searched my room.  Worst of all, I knew that all this could end
up on the desk of a district attorney named O'Hare.  He'd probably
figure out some way of blaming me for all of Father Ken's sins.

I was fucked, and not in the good sense of the word.

Still wearing Papa's bathrobe and holding my clothes, I dashed
upstairs to my room just as the door to the building opened.  I
badly needed a bath; my crotch and thighs were still soaked with Mr.
Antonelli's urine.  But there was no time, no time at all.  I locked
myself in my room and hid behind the tall metal armoire, listening
to heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, the cops knocking on every
door in the rooming house, looking for me.  It was like Trish's
apartment all over again, except there was no place to hide, no
escape.  As the cops went from room to room, I grabbed Billy's old
knapsack and packed what I could, some clothes, my journal, my bag
of pot and bottle of pills, all courtesy of Larry, and my money,
still in the beaded purse that was wedged behind the sink.  Then I
toweled myself off and got dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater,
my running away clothes. 

I heard footfalls on the stairs, then a knock on Luis's door.  He
was still in the middle of his eighteen hour workday and there was
no answer.  Then there was a pounding on my door, and a voice called
out "Police!  Open up!".  I crouched on the floor next to the
cabinet, thinking that maybe I could rush out behind them if they
kicked down the door.  But the pounding stopped, and I heard another
door open, from the room next to mine.

"She's not here," Miss Kass said.

"Do you know where she went, ma'am?" one of the cops asked.

"I don't know.  She said something about taking a bus somewhere. 
New York, maybe.  I think she has family there."

"What was her relationship with the deceased?" another voice said, 
probably the first cop's partner.

"He was like a grandfather to her, and she was like his
granddaughter," Miss Kass said.  I wondered how she knew this.  So
far as I knew, she never spoke to anyone; her window on the world
was through a partially open door, a gap about two inches wide. 
"There was nothing improper about their relationship, I assure you."

"That's not what the EMTs said," the first cop stated.

"C'mon, let's call this in," his partner said.  "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're quite welcome," Miss Kass said.  I listened at the door as
the cops headed back downstairs.  Then there was a soft knocking at
my door.  I opened it.

"They're gone," Miss Kass said, standing in my doorway wrapped in an
old chenille robe that clung to her slim figure.  "But they'll
probably be parked out front while they report in.  You can use my
window.  The fire escape leads down to the back alley."

I grabbed my bag and followed her into her room.  It was as tidy and
orderly as I imagined it would be.  She opened the window next to
her bed and moved a potted plant out of the way.

"Quick, before they decide to come back," she said.  I climbed atop
her bed and stuck one leg out the window, but then I stopped and
looked at her.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?  I don't understand."

"Why are you doing this?"  She'd never even said "Hello" in all the
time I'd been here.  Why was she going out on a limb for me?  She'd
just sent the two cops on a wild goose chase and now she was helping
me, clearly a fugitive from justice, to escape.

"You cleaned up the bathroom, you swept the hall, you made Gus a
happy man," Miss Kass said, her severe expression softening.  "I
wanted to tell you how much I appreciated that.  Gus loved to talk
about you.  'Apple of his eye' he called you."

"Thank you," I said, taking her hand in mine.  She squeezed it and I
suddenly wished I could have gotten to know her better.

"Go," she said.  "Take care of yourself."

That's what Matt had said to me when he was waiting for the police
to show up at his rehearsal space, the day Cecil got busted.  I took
a last look at Miss Kass and crawled through the window, climbing
down the rickety fire escape.  The movable ladder at the bottom was
frozen in place, so I had to jump down into an open dumpster filled
with trash.  As I climbed out of it and shouldered my backpack, I
could hear the rats inside panicking and scrambling around.

Unlike that cold night when I'd left Trish's place, I had more
options to work with, places to crash even though it was still warm
enough to sleep outside if I really had to.  But I knew I didn't
have to.  My first thought was to call Larry's cab company and have
him paged, to send him a message to meet me somewhere.  Then I
remembered he was taking the weekend off; his daughter was visiting
him.  Explaining our relationship to her might be tricky.  

I thought about Mr. Sheffield.  He'd be happy to take me in, to have
me as a full-time substitute daughter.  But I couldn't go to him,
not now, if only for his sake.  Should the cops find me with him he
might lose any visitation rights he had; he'd lose his little girl
forever, unable to watch her grow up.  Plus, the public scandal
would cost him his job.  Currency analysts at investment banks don't
get much leeway when it comes to harboring underage fugitives.  In
the end, I decided to go to the closest place, only a couple of
blocks away. 


                                  * * *


"You look white as a sheet, girl," Cami said as she opened the door
to the basement apartment.  "What happened?"  I walked in to the
apartment without saying a word, dropping my backpack and sitting on
the couch.  I was safe, at least for now, and that meant that the
tears could flow.  Cami sat next to me, her arm around me,
comforting me.  Even Delia came out of her bedroom to see what the
commotion was all about, and she, too, sat next to me and rubbed my
heaving shoulders. 

After a nice crying jag, I managed to pull myself together and
explain to them what had happened that evening.  Cami was now on the
verge of tears, listening to me describe how Mr. Antonelli collapsed
on top of me, how I tried to revive him, how the cops were looking
for me.  Delia went and drew a bath, insisting that I should take
one, that it would make me feel better.  She and Cami undressed me,
sitting me down in the tub, and while Delia scrubbed my skin with a
tattered old loofa sponge, Cami held a joint to my lips and told me
to inhale. 

Dee was right: the bath did make me feel better, soothing my
frazzled nerves.  She found an old prescription bottle of Librium, a
tranquilizer, and gave me two with a glass of water to wash them
down.  A few minutes later they were helping me from the tub, Cami
drying me off with a fresh towel.  Cami rolled another joint, and
after we smoked it she went over to the rooming house to see if the
cops were still around.  They were gone.  I'd given her my key, so
she went up to my room and packed the rest of my clothes in some old
shopping bags and brought them back to Delia's place.

"You got some nice stuff, Annie," Delia said, pulling my cherry red 
cocktail dress from one of the bags.  "Good thing it don't fit me
'cuz you'd never see this again," she said, laughing.

"Annie, this one is adorable!" Cami said, holding up the burgundy
silk dress I'd worn for Mr. Antonelli.

"Give me that," I said, holding out my hands.  She gave me the dress
and I pressed it to my face, trying to catch a lingering trace of
Papa's cologne, or the smell of candlelight and soft music.  I began
to sob again.

"It's silk, Annie," Cami said, quietly.  "You don't want to stain
that pretty dress."  I let go of it and she carefully folded it up.

Cami made another couple of trips back to my room, bringing back my 
books and some of my furnishings.  I told her she could have
whatever she wanted for her own room, and that whatever she didn't
want she should leave in the hall outside Miss Kass's room.  With
all my worldly possessions packed in four shopping bags and a
knapsack, I spent the night at Delia's, sleeping on her couch.


                                  * * *


That's how I came to live with them.  It was a temporary arrangement
at first, camping on Delia's living room couch.  To show my
gratitude, I cooked and cleaned for them, doing laundry and
vacuuming the rugs.  Cami took me under her wing, as did Dee, who
liked having me around during the day when Cami was out on the
streets.  We'd cook together, Delia showing me how to make file
gumbo and pan-fried catfish.  I loved to listen to her voice, how
she softly sang the songs of Miss Eartha Kitt while she cooked.

Little by little the arrangement became permanent.  I began to 
contribute money for rent and groceries, for pot and big jugs of red
wine.  While I sometimes slept on the couch, usually I shared Cami's
bed, and even Delia's on occasion.  I loved sleeping with Cami; she
was like a loving big sister who happened to have a penis.  We liked
to please each other, to make each other happy, to do for each other
what a thousand men cruising the streets in their cars couldn't do
for us. 

My relationship with Delia was more maternal on her part, though 
sometimes I'd curl up between her legs and try to suck her, to help
her find her release.  She'd been on hormones so long it was hard
for her to maintain an erection, much less come, but when she did
come it was like fireworks on the Fourth of July, moaning and
shaking, shuddering and crying, a stream of thin, clear semen
spurting from her small dark chocolate penis.  Afterwards, she'd
hold me in her arms and rock me like I was her very own child, as if
it were possible for a black transsexual to have a blonde daughter.

I didn't see much of Larry that fall.  He was working long hours,
trying to catch up on his child support payments and save something
for his daughter's college tuition and living expenses.  He'd cut
back on the porn, the drugs, not to mention my services.  I'd still
see him now and then, sometimes just for lunch during his midday
lull.  When he did need release, more often than not it was just a
hand job. 

In October, Mr. Sheffield told me that he'd accepted a transfer to
his firm's London branch, where a position had just become
available.  He said he'd miss me dearly, but he needed to be that
much closer to his daughter.  I kissed him and told him I
understood, and we made the most of our last few nights together. 
The night before he was scheduled to fly to Europe, he gave me a
present, a diamond bracelet that must have cost a fortune.  He said
it was a birthday present, for my birthday, not his daughter's, for
the birthday he'd miss while he was in London that December.

"I wish you were mine, Annie," he said, entering me for the last
time on his bed.  There was no role-playing this time, no
daddy-daughter script.  It was just Annie and George, laying
together like lovers who fit each other like pieces of a puzzle.  As
we cuddled together afterwards, I wondered how I could somehow
follow him to London.  It was a pipe dream; I didn't even have a
passport then. 

So, as the first snows of winter fell, I was back on the street. 
The money I'd saved over the last few months was safe in a bank
account.  Whatever I earned I gave to Delia first, just as Cami did,
and Dee became my de facto pimp.  She'd even arrange meetings
between me and some of the men she met at the clubs she worked, men
who wanted a little blonde girl for a change of pace.  I had to do
more than just suck or jerk them off, but they paid well, and I
wanted for nothing.  

I kept up with my journal writing, leafing back through the pages 
frequently, looking for some pattern in my life that would give me a
hint of what might come next.  One thing that stood out to me was my
need to create an artificial family where ever I was.  What had
started with Ramon and my stepbrothers, after my mother's death,
continued at the shelter and beyond.  Even Larry was part of it; he
was like an older brother to me.  It didn't stop there, either.  I
had another family right here, with sister Cami and mother Dee, and
a nice cozy home filled with the smells of gumbo and pot, where I
could stretch out and relax in a warm, bubbly bath and chase the
winter chill from my bones. 

And I believe this is where we came in.

 
                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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