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Message-ID: <53462asstr$1144339801@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Karina [Mg rom purple revised]
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Date: Thu, 06 Apr 2006 12:10:01 -0400
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  I've been revising some of my older stories as I post 
  them to storiesonline.net, so I figured I'd post the
  revised editions to ASSM as well.

  This story has always been one of my favorites -- I 
  hope you like it!  If you're used to just rushing through
  stories, you'll want to slow down for this one.  I think
  you'll find the reward worthwhile.


  To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
  please visit our website at:
 
    http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www

  Now offering over 130,000 words of pure prurience!

  --------------------------------------------------------


 

                                  Karina

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   Passersby stared at me curiously as I stood facing a haphazard
   diagonal, staring intently ahead of me in the dusk twilight. In
   lonely absence, her aura haunted me as the fading warmth of the
   day. While I thought to myself that, just maybe, I was feeling
   the way she had felt, that very last time I saw her, standing in
   that same spot, facing the same direction, at a bizarre angle to
   the flow of traffic, ignoring the absent stares of orthogonally
   half-drunk voyagers in bright tacky warm-weather clothes, feeling
   the warm roughness of the sandy cement against the soles of my
   bare feet.

   An innocent glance at the bloom of a vine twined around a square
   wooden post next to me. Intricately random folds of orange
   tropical flowers trigger the memory of her smile, a memory which
   washes over my psyche in a tidal-wave of menacingly gentle sweet
   aroma, threatening to crush the world in darkness with the agony
   of her missing beauty, as arm-in-arm lovers contemptuously drive
   their harsh laughter into my heart, like broken looking-glass
   shards, or splinters of weather-worn planks of a sunken warship
   listing beneath the mud of eons.

   An older woman in pink shorts and white sun-bonnet, toting a
   large rustlingly full plastic shopping bag, filled with gifts for
   the grandchildren back home, whips around the corner, adjusts her
   course to avert collision, bumps gently into me. "Sorry," I say.

   "Sorry," she says, and is gone. I continue to stare intently in
   the dusk twilight of the receding day, reliving the event on this
   same spot only a few hours ago.

   "What are you looking at?" I had asked when I first saw her, she
   balanced on one foot in the blaring noonday sun, oblivious to her
   precariousness as she stared off into the distance.

   "Come here, look," she said. I placed my chin on her tiny
   shoulder and followed her gaze. Through a tiny chink in the
   hedge-wall glittered the dancing sparkle of sunlight on the
   distant waves.

   "The ocean," I said, breathless.

   "Yeah." Her soft hair brushed my cheek as she turned slightly,
   pursing her lips with the coy smile now etched into my burning
   pages of memory.

   She must be about eight years old, wherever she is now, with a
   calm, reserved adult-ness and long coils of beautiful dusty-
   blonde hair, the steely twinkling blue eyes.

   The `K' she drew with her big toe in the sand on the pavement.
   "So I remember this spot," she said, smiling secretly at me.

   "K, for?"

   "Karina," she reminded me. Pronounced like the girl in Bob Dylan
   song,

   Corrina Corrina, gal where ya been so long?
   I been wondering about you baby,
   baby won't you please come home?
   
   I sang the song to myself as I remembered in the twilight our
   mid-day "tryst," cursing this purgatory of infernal waiting as I
   watched through the tiny chink where the glittering waves would
   have been in daylight, seeing nothing in the pitch-black of
   night. Until a miracle transpired: at that very instant, the moon
   raised its curious brow over the horizon, and my eyes were met
   with the sparkle of millions of tiny twinkling pinpoints, dancing
   on the waves.

   Passersby stared as I stood diagonally transfixed.

   Walking back to the parked rental car, my stray libido must have
   been unconsciously working overtime, because I started feeling
   like Shrek watching the villagers sharpen pitchforks: little
   girls flushed smiling as they met my gaze, and parents almost
   imperceptibly tensed as I walked by. If only they realized, none
   of them were the one I was looking for.

   The merry-go-round spun aimlessly, populated only by a mother
   standing next to her little girl on the horse, braced against the
   centrifugal force, both watching stoically ahead as the horse
   circled around and around, expectantly if the laws of physics
   were about to shift and the horse would change direction, or
   perhaps transfigure into a gloriously live winged unicorn,
   bearing the both of them away into a land of unimagined wonders.
   At the center of the carousel, mirrors reflected every which way,
   and the carillon bells jingled their tuneless music-box calliope
   melody.

   Art gallery walls spaciously enclosed hollow laughter and
   specious kitsch, weasely obsequious salesman grins and the
   flashing credit-cards of casually wealthy retirees in expensively
   ugly shorts. The shallow smell of money. And while the moon
   busily made its way across the starry sky, the guy who drew
   portraits every night, sitting in the exact little niche in a
   storefront alcove, silently studied the face of a squirming,
   giggling youthful boy, surrounded by the critical gazes of his
   family.

   A front-line soldier patrolling the trenches dug in against the
   onslaught of transient visitors, each of whom was expecting the
   perfect vacation, the Portraiteer calmly studied the face before
   him. The private's wages were a fraction the income of the
   gallery-chain owner who sat at this very minute comfortably
   absorbed in a widescreen TV-commercial for a ridiculously large
   expensively gas-guzzling automobile. The corpulent General was
   cozily ensconced, safely away from battle lines, yelling at his
   wife in the kitchen for an extra scoop of ice-cream.

   The tall masts of ships anchored out in the harbor stood swaying
   as thin shadows against the night sky, talking to each other in
   the soothingly mysterious language of ropes ringing gently
   against hollow metal poles, accompanied by the occasional crash
   of waves on the rocky shoreline.

   As I drove the highway to my temporary dwelling, the rental-car
   radio gently crooned a Polynesian love-song. At the end of the
   driveway, the motor fell silent. The house was dark and empty,
   aside from the gaunt shadows of ghosts of vacationers and
   revelers from years gone by. Letting myself in, the key clattered
   to a rest in hollow silence on the bland, chipped formica of the
   kitchen counter.

   Lying in bed, the memory of her returned once more, the first
   time I saw her, earlier that same day, in the brilliant morning
   light waiting to board the plane. Ahead of her parents, she
   lugged the bulky suitcase, wheeling it into position in the line
   immediately behind me just as her parents exploded into an
   argument.

   Or rather her father exploded, make that her step-father -
   dressed in a loose business suit, minus the tie, top shirt-button
   undone. A man of big money and important things. "Dammit Lilly, I
   still don't see why we had to bring her. It was supposed to be a
   romantic getaway, remember? You promised."

   "Not so loud, dear!" Lilly (the mother) gave a worried glance
   over at Karina, the little girl in red-rimmed sunglasses, humming
   a little tune, dusty-blonde curls erupting from under the brim of
   a stylish straw sunhat, cascading over her tiny shoulders and
   down her little back. Skinny legs gangling from white shorts.
   Ready for vacation.

   "Hey mister. Is this the line?"

   The frantically whispered argument continued behind her. "Yup," I
   replied.

   She let stand the suitcase, and lowered her sunglasses a fraction
   of an inch down her nose, so I could see her beautiful steely-
   blue eyes. "We're going on vacation," she said innocently.

   I became aware the smell of cigarette smoke just as the I saw
   airport attendant tapping the stepfather on the shoulder. "Excuse
   me sir," said the attendant, "I'll have to ask you to put that
   out."

   "Oh for crissake," he sputtered.

   "He always has a cigarette," Karina commented to me.

   Right then, I already felt tremendous love for this poor unwanted
   little girl, who was brimming with the joy of the moment, ready
   to enjoy the excitement of an airplane trip to an enchanted
   exotic tropical shore.

   Karina continued "The babysitter fell through at the last minute,
   because she had to go help her sister having a baby. So mom got
   me a plane ticket so I could go with them instead, and they've
   been arguing about it ever since."

   It was one of those interminable airport lines which, even with
   only 5 people ahead of me had been stuck in a holding pattern for
   the past 15 minutes. I sat down on my suitcase, so I wouldn't
   have to stoop down to talk to her.

   Up close now, her face was familiar, as if I had known her from
   somewhere. Or was it a face I had imagined from a storybook or
   novel? Or seen in a movie? I still couldn't place it. Perhaps it
   was subconscious recognition of someone I had known in a past
   life, and we had reincarnated together to meet in this odd way,
   two live humans stuck in a mechanistically dehumanizing
   situation.

   "And what's your name, love?" I asked.

   "Karina. What's yours?"

   "Dante."

   "Dante," she repeated curiously.

   "Named after a famous author, who wrote a big old book about
   hell."

   "Hell," she repeated absently.

   "You're going to have a great time," I told her, only half-
   believing it.

   "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the wooden legs protruding
   from my carry-on bag.

   "Folding easel. I'm a painter," I said.

   "Oh." She gave that famous coy little smile that now haunted my
   memory, the smile that had burned itself into my dreams, branding
   its impression onto my soul.

   Our chat continued as we sat in the waiting area. She asked me
   about painting, and read riddles to me from the pastime book she
   had stuck in the pocket of her bag.

   Her mom and step-dad seemed relieved that Karina had found a form
   of distraction. Her mom looked something of an aging floozy,
   lipstick and makeup each day increasingly a little more overdone,
   as if it could deny the lines and pores that she saw in the
   looking-glass invading her face in slow motion, as if the layers
   of covering could litigate in opposition to the inevitable
   changes wrought by the sands of the hour-glass, could negotiate a
   reduced fine, a more lenient sentence.

   And now that she found herself unexpectedly burdened by the
   result of one of her flings, she had put her charms to work
   finding a man with money, so her little girl could have the nice
   things in life.

   The step-dad was obviously itching for a cigarette, although it
   didn't seem likely he was any less cranky with the need
   fulfilled. Every minute or so his cell-phone would go off, and
   the mom dutifully, patiently, draped her arm across his neck,
   massaging his tense shoulders as he yelled at some subordinate
   far away. She was his trophy, his conspicuous consumption. His
   shiny new Cadillac that he drove down the streets of the worst
   slums in order to fluff up his bloated ego, the gourmet banquet
   he devoured with an audience of the millions of who were kept
   starving in order to flaunt his obvious superiority, as if status
   were measured by the amount of suffering one could cause to
   others.

   The two of them were both currently invisible to Karina, hidden
   by the brim of her beautiful new straw hat as she faced me,
   chattering away. She invited me into her own little fairyland,
   and we gaily strode the rustic paths under waterfalls and over
   rainbows, through meadows of giant pink flowers, over gently
   rolling hills of chartreuse meadows filled with soft fluffy
   grass, cartoons and dandelions, crayons and hot chocolate. I sat
   mesmerised by her glowing smile and bubblingly disconnected happy
   little stories, until the crackle of the attendant's voice over
   the squeaky PA system signaled that it was time to board.

   Reluctantly, I eventually stood, and we silently waited for our
   rows to get called. I lost track of her after we boarded the
   plane -- until by chance that I had encountered her in the center
   of town, staring diagonally at the sparkle of the ocean, before
   she was once again whisked away by her trusty guardians.

   I shifted again in the increasingly wrinkled sheets, waiting with
   tense impatience in the infernal dry and dusty desert heat for
   the gentle rain of drowsiness and sleep.
     ____________________________________________________________

   When I awoke, the pre-dawn light was faintly streaming back in
   the sky. The excitement of a new location, plus the time
   difference combined to awaken me earlier than accustomed.

   Throwing off the covers and struggling to rise, I went over to
   the window, pulling aside the curtain.

   What I saw so startled me that I blinked and rubbed my eyes
   before looking again. There she was -- a miracle -- playing
   hopscotch in the sand out in front of my window.

   Frantically I ran over to the suitcase to dig out something that
   I could wear outside. This was a generally simple task, which
   ordinarily transpired without notable difficulty, but today
   everything tangled and jammed with my impatience. After putting
   on inside-out shorts, and a shirt inside-out, and then backwards,
   I was finally ready. Afraid she may have already left, I gently
   opened the front door.

   Greeted by daylight, and the sweet tropical air. She looked up
   from her game when she saw me, and smiled. "Hey," she said,
   running over to the front porch, where she stood gazing up at me,
   lips moist, a delightful bundle of life and energy.

   "Um, hi," My intense eagerness was replaced by equally intense
   uncertainty. What on earth was I going to say to this young girl?
   Today, she wore a white T-shirt, over a blue-and-pink swimsuit. I
   tore my eyes away from her the tiny strip of material that ran
   between her legs, a manoeuvre which she registered with a slight
   flexing of her hips that blew my sense of reality all to pieces.

   "Um," I articulately continued, "whacha doing?"

   "Well, I was going to collect shells. . ." she gestured to the
   little pink-and-purple plastic bucket in the sand, along with a
   matching pink shovel, that particular shade of pink which
   invariably appeals to young girls worldwide. ". . . and then I
   saw your car."

   "How did you know it was my car?"

   "'cause I saw your pack. . ." and I remembered my pack, with the
   folding easel she had asked about the day before, and that I had
   neglected to bring it in from the car, so it remained on the back
   seat, where I casually tossed it.

   "Does your mom and dad know that you're out here?"

   "I would have asked. But they were busy. They had the door closed
   and there was lots of noise. I guess they were having sex."

   "Oh." Mentally I reviewed my knowledge of human stages of
   development. Did the average eight-year-old so matter-of-factly
   toss such a phrase into casual conversation?

   Her prodigious sandy-blonde curls, today unencumbered by any sort
   of headgear, tumbled gently as she shifted her head to gaze at me
   with her uncannily penetrating beautiful blue-grey eyes.

   "Did you collect any shells?"

   "Well no, I didn't yet."

   "Oh."

   We exchanged thoughtful silences. Or perhaps they were awkward
   silences. It was difficult to tell, with the aura of her
   untrained enthusiasm washing over the scenery, the warm happy
   glow of her presence falling like gentle rain in the parched
   desert.

   "Would you like me to go with you?" I asked.

   Her face lit up like a jack-o-lantern. "Could you?"

   "Sure, why not?" I replied. "It's not like I need to be anywhere.
   This is my vacation. So, just a sec." As I went to grab the keys
   from the kitchen counter, she stepped up to the threshold and her
   eyes darted curiously around the room.

   "I assume you're staying somewhere close by here?"

   She nodded solemnly, and pointed in the direction of a cluster of
   buildings invisible through the trees and over a hill. The side
   where the people with money stayed.

   I paused for a moment, thinking. "OK, let's go," I said, joining
   her outside and slamming the door.

   "OK," she replied, snatching her pail and shovel, and gaily
   skipping along the path.

   "This way," I said. "I've been here before."

   She followed, eyebrows raised with curiosity.

   After walking for several minutes through the brush, hearing the
   waves nearby, smelling the fresh scent of morning seabreeze, the
   path opened to a secluded cove, sheltered from the ocean waves by
   a reef, so that the waves broke gently on the shore.

   Clean fluffy white and tan grains of sand stretched away down the
   shoreline, freshly washed by the ocean tides. Grains of broken-
   down minerals were mixed with the tiny pure smoothed white
   remains of crumbled shells.

   She giggled with glee, running up to the water, then back as it
   rushed to meet her, then dropped the bucket as she bent down to
   scoop up the sand between her fingers.

   "You know how to swim?" I asked, striding over to her side. "Yep.
   Well, I take swimming lessons every summer. But I never been in
   the ocean."

   "Ah. So then I had better tell you something very important."

   "What?"

   "Be sure never to turn your back on her."

   "Her?"

   "The sea. The waves. They can change unexpectedly, and slap you
   down like that." I clapped my hands.

   "Never?"

   I laughed. "Well, you can turn away, but always keep an eye on
   her. You never know what to expect. You know, those waves come
   from thousands of miles away, from storms way out at sea."

   "Wow." She stood, staring at the waves as they crashed out on the
   reef, and the smaller waves that made it in over the breakwater.

   She was so beautifully thin and pale, against the weathered lines
   of the trees and shores, the tiny wisps of clouds that clung to
   the edges of the sky, hiding from the sun that lurked below the
   horizon, waiting to chase them away.

   A wave bigger than the rest arose and startled her slightly, and
   I could see the wheels of her mind spinning, absorbing the seeds
   of information I was injecting into her life. She faced me
   smiling. "The water is so clear," she exclaimed, giving a tiny
   leap. "I feel like I'm dreaming." She lifted her feet from the
   sandy holes that the waves had buried them in.

   She grinned. "Are you part of my dream?"

   "You'll wake up soon. I can pinch you to be sure." I slowly
   reached toward her.

   "No!" she laughed, playfully splashing.

   I faced her gleeful bubbling with tenderness and longing, glad to
   enjoy vicariously her delight in the novelty. Colors that had
   been faded and dried with the years regained bright saturation
   and moist exuberance with her enthusiasm. Every particle, every
   grain of sand rejoiced at the perfection of the moment.

   I followed her up and down the shoreline, as she eagerly poked
   and prodded the water and the sand, her squeals of ecstasy at the
   simplest little shell, the shadows of the fish swimming curiously
   in the next inlet, the crashing of the waves out at the natural
   breakwater.

   We met face to face over a starfish half-buried in the sand. She
   squatted down to touch the starfish with outstretched index
   finger, her legs spread wide towards me. I knelt down too, and in
   extending my arm to gain balance I unintentionally, gently
   brushed her soft, pale, white inner thigh with the outer edge of
   three fingers.

   "Sorry!" I said.

   She glanced up briefly, flashed a knowing grin, and winked.

   Then her attention absorbed in the 5-pointed animal below us, her
   face flush with excitement. My eye wandered to the triangular
   strip of colorful fabric stretching ever so thinly around her
   pubic arch, bunched up a little so that I imagined I could make
   out the shape of her sweet valley beneath.

   Cringing at first, she touched, and then picked up the starfish,
   turning it over to see the millions of tiny feet on the bottom,
   until the sea rose to caress her tiny buttocks, causing her to
   drop her quest as she stood, allowing the undertow to carry the
   starfish back out to sea, as droplets of water ran down her legs.

   The water that had splashed over her shirt revealed the outlines
   of her swimming suit, and traces of her dime-sized pricking-up
   nipples beneath. Immersion had caused the sparse fabric layers to
   lose their powers of concealment over her innocent flesh.

   She stood gazing out to the horizon, awe-struck with delightfully
   blushing innocent sensuous wonder.

   The sky grew brighter and finally the inquisitive eye of the sun
   broke over the rim of the horizon and bore down on our
   adventures, until finally we both agreed it was time to return
   for breakfast.

   "What are you eating?" she demanded.

   "Nothing special, I got some pancake mix down at the store."

   "Oh." her face fell.

   "Why, what are you having?"

   She scowled. "Cheerios. The positive worst. My Mom makes me eat
   them because she says the other kinds have too much sugar."

   "I'm sure they're good for you," I offered, unhelpfully, as she
   led the way, bucket swinging back on the path.

   "Yeah right. That's what Mom says." She pushed aside a branch
   from across the path, and held it for me. She gave the most
   amazingly creative expression of disdain I have ever seen in my
   life.

   "You're such the dramatic," I mused.

   "Can I come over after breakfast?" she asked as we parted ways.

   I shrugged, feigning disinterest. "Sure, why not? We can practice
   swimming in the ocean."

   Once again, the brightness of her smile rekindled the glow of
   embers deep within me.

   "I'll ask my Mom if it's OK," she said, departing.

   "You can tell her I was a lifeguard in high school," I called
   after her.

   "'K," she said simply, and the echoes of the word hung in the air
   after she had departed. `K' for Karina.

   Breakfast was an exercise in restraining impatience. Maintaining
   order, keeping a sensible pace. Every sense was heightened, and
   it wound up that my timing was perfect in every aspect. The
   pancakes were delicious, especially with the mangos added to the
   syrup.

   There was a single, glaring monumental flaw in the event. That
   was the empty chair beside me. The silence in the conversation.
   The absence of the one I desired.

   I was starting to feel full, and making coffee, when I heard the
   knock on the door. Heart pounding I opened it, half-expecting
   inquisitive and possibly angry parents.

   My little friend stood alone on the doorstep, this time sporting
   a beach towel, sunglasses rimmed in fluorescent metallic red, and
   streaks of hastily-applied sunscreen. "Come in," I said. "How
   were the cheerios?"

   She lowered the sunglasses a quarter inch down her nose to reveal
   her beautiful blue eyes, and growled in response. I caught a
   whiff of cigarette smoke on her shirt.

   "You have sunscreen," I explained as I reached out gently,
   tenderly, to spread the errant lotion across her face. She waited
   stoically as I caressed her skin, and caught in the magic of the
   moment, I lightly stroked her amazing sandy-blonde curls. She
   shivered slightly, and smiled as a cat ready to purr.

   "You know," I mentioned casually, "I had some batter left and I'm
   done eating if you'd like some pancakes. The syrup is rather
   excellent as well."

   Her beautiful steel-blue eyes widened, and she took her place in
   the empty chair, nodding silently. The princess assumed her
   rightful throne, and waited patiently as I reheated the griddle
   and the sizzling batter met the oily surface.

   "I told my Mom you were a lifeguard, and she said you could teach
   me mouth-to-mouth resustenation."

   I laughed. "Resuscitation," I corrected.

   "Whatever."

   An odd thing happened in the kitchen that day, unprecedented in
   known history. You know how the first pancakes are the best, but
   as the pancake batter sits out, it tends to go flat? But that
   day, those very last pancakes I made for Karina were
   spectacularly the lightest, most perfectly textured and ideally
   cooked pancakes I have ever made in my life.

   As if, rather than serving the cheap wine when it was time for
   the wedding-guests to leave, the best were saved for last.

   The syrup as well delivered perfection, and all was devoured in a
   state of gleeful frenzy, as I sat watching and sipping contented
   cups of coffee.
     ____________________________________________________________

   Along the path to the ocean, she glanced back, then stopped.
   "Oh," she said. "Mom and Max." She pointed.

   I followed the direction of her elegantly graceful innocent young
   gesture. Through the brush, facing away from us some distance
   away, I could see the couple. Both were smoking and barking loud,
   harsh laughter, seated in low-slung beach chairs swilling
   colorful drinks with little umbrellas in them.

   "A bit early in the day," I murmured.

   "She only smokes when she's with him." she scowled.

   They didn't notice us, and we continued on our way.

   We set our our towels in a secluded spot, and lay out in the sun
   for awhile before going in the water. She put on her red-rimmed
   sunglasses and took off her shirt, meaning that the glasses got
   lodged in the pleats of fabric and wound up perched askew on her
   nose as she tossed aside the shirt, revealing the bikini beneath,
   and acres of beautiful, smooth innocent white skin. Tiny acres.

   She straightened the sunglasses. "Help," she gestured with the
   tube of sunscreen.

   "Um, sure." She lay on her stomach as I gently spread the lotion
   across her shoulders, down her back, down her legs. My fingers
   lovingly caressed every square centimetre of her epidermis,
   fingertips palpating with tingling satisfaction the tantalizing
   plasticity of her elastic young flesh.

   Across her shoulders, down her spine, then with my thumbs gently
   tracing up and down her soft, thin legs. She moaned softly as I
   did so, shifting restlessly. I traced up and down again,
   spreading the soothing lotion.

   "Now your front," I said.

   Abruptly, she sat up on her knees and turned over, then just as
   abruptly collapsed into a state of soft spaghetti, perfectly al
   dente, and I caressed her arms, her forearms and hands, her
   shoulders, down her belly, tracing with my fingers almost to the
   sacred starfish between her legs. I stopped before I got there,
   but her nerves extrapolated the gesture and she moaned and
   shuddered briefly, until I continued down her legs, gently
   embracing each dainty little foot in each palm of my hand.

   When I finished, she cast out a long soulful sigh.

   "Now help me?" I requested, after an appropriately respectful
   interval of time.

   "Sure thing, jelly bean." I laid back on the towel and closed my
   eyes as I felt the loving young hands methodically spreading the
   lotion across my tingling skin. The touch was magic with
   electricity, her caress the silk of empires reborn, and in a
   brief flash of opening eyelids I caught a glance of her,
   mesmerised by my growing member.

   She saw me look and smiled sheepishly, but without stopping her
   gracious gestures, the brush strokes painting swirls of passion
   across the canvas of my desire.

   Soon we laid together side by side on our backs, enjoying the
   sun. Birds sang, chattered, argued semantics in bird-talk with
   bird-brained abandon above and all around us, flowers gaily
   sprang into bloom.

   "What's mouth-to-mouth restustipation?" she asked abruptly.

   "What you do if somebody stops breathing, if they were drowning
   for example."

   "Can you show me it?"

   "You're required to get a certificate from an authorized
   instructor, and I'm not qualified to teach health and safety, so
   I am afraid I am not in a position to properly instruct you."

   "Please?"

   "Only authorized instructors are certified to effectively present
   the proper methodology, on account of the potential risk of
   liability and other legal considerations. . ."

   "So say I was suffocated by your long boring blathering, and
   stopped breathing, what would you do? Here I go." She took in a
   deep breath and pinched her nose with her fingers.

   I rolled my eyes, and rolled over into a sitting position. "OK,
   wise guy. First," I tried to remove her hand from her nose, but
   she refused, giggling.

   "First, you clear the passageway for breathing. Then you tilt the
   head back," (I did, gently) "and place your palm on the forehead,
   and pinch the nose." As she saw me yielding to her sinister plan,
   she let go her nose and dropped her hand back to her side.

   "Then you place your mouth against theirs," at which point I had
   to stop talking.

   Her young lips were soft and taut against mine. She opened her
   mouth willingly, and then in a miraculous instant, her tongue
   reached out lightly and flicked against mine.

   My reflex was to gasp and pull away . . .

   She lowered, then removed the red-rimmed sunglasses, and her cool
   blue eyes gazed calmly up at me, haloed by her bodacious sandy-
   blonde curls. At this intimate proximity I noticed the sprinkling
   of tiny light freckles across her flushed cheeks and dainty
   little nose. And her moist red lips.

   I bent back down and kissed her. She responded with passion that
   sent tingles through my body, her lips so soft and receptive, her
   moans of desire as her back arched to meet me, her arms reached
   up and wrapped around my head and shoulders.

   Our first kiss. And when it was over, she held me, eyes downcast
   in serene contentment, lips full for a splendid instant suspended
   in time, until she looked up again, cool blue eyes blazing with
   desire, and our lips met again.

   My palms held her upper arms, played across her back, spreading
   broad gentle brush-strokes of burning magnetism through the
   fibres of her smooth canvas, filaments of attraction causing the
   ecstatic synapses to dance in delight.

   I marveled at our sharing across the ages, defying with each
   incredibly simple caress the countless shards of infernal waiting
   that would rage like a river between us, the endless grains of
   sand falling through the hourglass of years that stood between us
   like the a bristlingly armed sentinel, to be smashed into dust by
   something as simple as a gently traced line across her soft
   cheek, her fingertips against mine, her lips quivering with
   intense yearning, as her youth stood side by side with my years
   and we shared together the innocent pleasure of human sexual
   longing.

   Until the storm subsided, and she lay, gently sighing on top of
   me, her tiny hand in mine, her smooth cheek pressed against my
   hairy chest.

   "Swim?" I asked.

   "'K." we arose. She straightened her bathing suit bottom across
   her cute little buttocks.

   "You know," I said.

   "What?"

   "We can't tell anybody we were doing that just now."

   She gave a sly grin. "I know," she said. "I wasn't born
   yesterday, you know."

   "No, only the day before," I sighed, wondering what on earth I
   was doing. But determined not to worry about it, I set about
   care-free enjoyment of my vacation.

   As the merry-go-round turns, with each spin approaching and
   retreating from the brass rings and the enticingly open-mouthed
   clown offering a toss at few extra moments of sinusoidal
   undulation in two dimensions, I will leave the reader with a
   receding long-shot of the blissful day that ensued, the laughter
   and splashing, the shared awe at the sublime immensity of the
   sparkling sea that stretched before us.

   I taught her in these gentle currents how to go under the wave,
   to yield rather than be knocked over by fighting it; how to
   recognize the undertow and avoid it, what to do when caught (swim
   across it). As the waves approached and receded, so did we swim
   out and back across the wave break until I saw that she was
   comfortable with the rhythm of the sea, that she had the savvy to
   ride with the tide.

   There was a break for lunch, during which I got to chat with the
   sauced and sizzled legal guardians, each puffing away on a foul
   and fuming chimney-stack. The conversation sufficiently moved Max
   to dispense lunch money, a few twenty dollar bills as an
   incantation to make us go away and leave them alone again in
   their slobbering solitude.

   From the far side of the merry-go-round, we will call upon the
   reader's imagination to span the distance, to paint the details
   of the giggling and giddy affair, to connect the dots from the
   the romantic dining (with creme soda and extra french-fries) to
   the solemn sundae following, to the stroll along the tourist-
   laden main street glistening with fool's silver and trashy
   trinkets, T-shirts and posters saying "I was here" in countless
   permutations of gaudy rhinestones and hollow plastic, the
   Portraiteer, seriously longfaced footsoldier entrenched against
   the enemy, in conquest of sanity against the furiously fantastic
   expectations of happy vacationers. The artist sized up the
   squirming squabbling siblings, and standing next to Karina I saw
   the children around through her eyes, as peers. I suspect she was
   doing the inverse, seeing the world around her through the eyes
   of an adult.

   "Could you paint my portrait?" she inquired.

   I laughed. "I'd love to, dear, but I mostly do abstracts. I don't
   know if I'm really capable of a convincing likeness."

   "Please?" she asked, in a voice difficult to resist.

   "I'll certainly give it a try," I promised.

   And the carousel, now gloriously filled with gleeful children,
   sinusoidally set in circular motion imitating the moons, planets,
   sun and stars orbiting and spinning during the years had
   separated me from Karina, to the tune of an ancient circus far
   away, transmitted across the ages via the glyphs and runes
   expressively interpreted by mechanical calliope.

   "Can we?" she asked.

   "Of course," I replied.

   After the wait for our turn at turning, we shared a single horse,
   she in front, squirming against my burgeoning codpiece, now and
   again flashing back a delighted smile.

   My arms being the longest, I was in charge of grabbing the brass
   rings, but her shot was true, and by the number threw that hit
   dead center, the ride would never have ended, we should still be
   spinning this moment, having sailed spinning in each other's
   arms, laughing joyfully into an eternity of turning, a splendid
   spiraling into infinity.

   The other game she played (and was winning) was that as I leaned
   forward to snag one of the brass rings, and only when I wasn't
   expecting it, she would place a moist and juicy kiss dead center
   on my cheek. Nervously, I looked around to be sure nobody
   noticed, but the horses nearby were unpopulated, and the other
   riders were to occupied with their own good time to be bothered
   with any excess of affection between a man and his daughter, or
   stepdaughter, or uncle and niece, or whatever.

   And the glyphs of the tuneless gaiety spiraled away through
   galaxies of neatly targeted rings and kisses.

   Strolling away afterwards, she feigned dizziness, and so asked to
   be carried piggyback. Of course, my princess deserved to ride
   first class, arms around my neck, her soft warm belly against my
   back, legs spread, and at the center seated on her precious
   flower pressed against the small of my lower back, cheek close to
   mine.

   As we promenaded along the sidewalk, the corner of a crazy
   flickering Lissajous parallelogram on the street adjacent caught
   my eye. My gaze followed its length to see that it was caused by
   sunlight reflecting on the windowed corner of a storefront, and
   looking diagonally through the glass panes I caught a glimpse of
   our reflection in a dressing-room looking-glass, she riding in
   her triumphant perch, I (for now) the beast of burden, the dance
   of two lovers mirrored in the elusive distance.

   Us.

   Eventually I put her down, and we found ourselves on a cliff
   overlooking the ocean, once more in a secluded spot. I became
   aware how naked she was in the skimpy bikini, as we looked into
   each other's eyes, each studying the face across. I traced her
   eyebrows with my little finger. She placed her palm on my chin,
   reached up and kissed me.

   More slowly this time, the passion flows between us. The deep
   current of a full river. Our bodies touch in different ways,
   permutations of limbs in contact -- my wrist on her thigh, her
   shoulder against my ribs, the back of my calf caressing her cute
   little bottom.

   There is a delicious subtle tension between us, magically
   synchronized by our shared innocence. As she briefly draws away,
   I hold her towards me, as I lean back she clings to my arm, her
   push met by my pull, my push answered by her pull, like planets
   orbiting each other, flying apart from inertia only to be drawn
   back together by gravitational force.

   How can we so perfectly perform the dance of passion with so
   little experience? Or perhaps the experience is a detriment,
   since the leader of the dance is the sense of novelty, of
   exploration, of finding new sensations and postures and
   movements. Free from the burden of jaded ennui, we achieve the
   ideal jeweled perfection.

   She pushed me over onto my back and pinned me down fiercely with
   her torrential lovemaking. I held her tiny preciousness in my
   hands, stroking and touching and crushing her longingly against
   me.

   Her sexuality was more brazen now, and she rode my curving steel-
   edged ironwood root gently cupped in the warm valley of her
   desire, rocking and moaning, only the stretched and wrinkled
   clothes between us preventing the actuality of the unthinkable. I
   tasted her lips, her tongue, her cheeks. Wetness from her
   beautiful red mouth dotted my cheeks, my eyelids, my neck.

   Blissful ebbing and flowing of tides, as the dusk crept nearer
   with its friendly darkness, waiting to show us the stars it was
   keeping in its secret hideaway, inside the blackness of the aged
   ruins of a castle fortress deep in the sky tinged with purple. A
   fortress laced in vines decorated by the sensuous intricately
   random folds of orange tropical flowers.

   Soon she lay still and silent on top of me, breathing joyous
   sighs of our closeness. I felt the pleasant soft moistness of the
   pre-drops from the passion of a few moments ago. I imagined the
   sticky sweet dewdrops of moisture that had collected inside her
   opening.

   "Dante," she said.

   "Yes?" I replied.

   "Are we in love?"

   "We seem to be doing a pretty good imitation of it."

   "No, really," she insisted.

   "Sorry love. I'm not sure I know how you tell for certain. It's
   not like I've ever felt this way before."

   Abruptly, she propped up her head, staring at me. "You mean this
   is your first time?"

   Waves crashed on the shoreline below us.

   "Well?" she demanded.

   "I don't want to think about the past. There isn't much to think
   about anyway."

   She grinned. "It's your first time, isn't it?"

   "I didn't say that!"

   She lay her head back on my chest, giggling.

   "Look, Karina. I really care about you. I don't want to do
   anything that might hurt you, or let you do anything you'll
   regret later on. Kissing like this is fun, but. . ."

   Waves crashed.

   "But what?" she asked.

   "I just want you to be happy. Anyhow, I barely know you. . ."

   Crashing waves. A seagull squealed nearby.

   I continued: "I don't want to traumatize your childhood or
   anything."

   "Why not?"

   "'Cause, well you know. It could be bad. And stuff."

   A warm breeze lifted the fronds high above around us.

   She propped her head again. "You know, I think you just need to
   relax a little bit."

   "Right." I made to get up. "We should be getting back. Your mom
   is probably wondering where you are."

   She slid comfortably down my front as I pried myself off the
   ground, and came to a rest with her open, moist mouth only
   centimetres from my bulging crotch.

   "Need to relax," I repeated to myself, hoisting her up to
   standing.

   Slowly we strolled back as the tropical darkness closed around
   like a cozy blanket of solitude. We held hands part of the way,
   and just before we came in sight of her house, she stood on
   tiptoe and made me bend down for a final quick kiss. Quick but
   effective.

   I accompanied her to the open front door. Light poured into the
   night from within. The atmosphere surged with a postcoital (for
   them) seriousness of intent.

   "Karina, there you are. Quick, get dressed. We're going to go out
   for dinner." It was her Mom.

   Max was invisible inside. My princess vanished within. I caught a
   glimpse of her cot just inside the front door. It must have been
   hers, rumpled bedding, her pink pail and shovel beside, her dolls
   strewn on top. The stink of dead cigarette smoke stung my
   nostrils.

   "Thanks for watching her for us," her Mom smiled at me as she too
   stepped inside, "It was nice to have some time alone."

   "No problem," I said, vanishing into the fading dusk light as she
   closed the door behind her.

   The path was invisible as I stumbled through the twilight that
   surrounded me, until my keys found the aperture in the front-door
   knob, my fingers found the lightswitch, flooding my senses with
   harsh photons, and the keys clattered on the chipped formica
   kitchen counter.

   Now the same room that had been so cold the night before was cozy
   with the glow of our afternoon together, with the memory of her
   sitting at breakfast right there, in that chair. I sat down next
   to where she had been and imagined her there for a moment.

   Alright, enough.

   I switched on the TV and found myself watching a channel which
   seemed entirely devoted to footage of volcanoes erupting, spewing
   walls of lava into the sky, trees and houses in the path in
   flames and collapsing, crushed under the molten river.

   Drowsy with the day's activity and sun, I eventually found myself
   starting to doze, and so killed the noisy tube and retreated to
   the boudoir where I removed all my clothes and collapsed like a
   house burdened with floes of lava, and crashed into chattering
   dreams of molten yearning.

   Suddenly I snapped awake, how long had I been napping? My brain
   struggled through the drowsy fog. Outside, pitch-blackness had
   crept in, but a dim light from the other room washed the wall
   across from the doorway. My still half-dreaming consciousness was
   thinking myself back at home, and it took a while for my mind to
   explain unfamiliar shapes and shadows around, not to mention the
   tiny footsteps in the hall. Finally I realized that I was in my
   cozy vacation spot, exactly as the familiar presence stepped into
   the door frame. Later I realized that it had been her slamming
   the front door that had awakened me.

   "Couldn't sleep," she muttered, rubbing her eyes, dressed in long
   white nightgown with vertical pastel pinstripes. "They were
   making noise again."

   "Uh," I articulated, wondering how I was going to don some
   articles of clothing without her seeing me naked.

   She stood at the edge of the bed, towering over me with tousled
   curls.

   "You could sleep on the other bed," I attempted. She glanced over
   at it, neatly made up and untouched.

   A week or so later, it would still be in that exact pristine
   state when Lilly, Karina's mother, would drop in to see where her
   darling daughter had been spending her nights. Mom would walk a
   brief circuit of the accommodations, glancing curiously into the
   bedroom, studiously making note of the two beds, one which
   remained as the housekeeping staff had primly and properly
   prepared it, so tightly and neatly tucked that an Olympic
   trampoline team could not have succeeded in ruffling it. And the
   other. . .

   "See, there's a spare bed," I would furtively explain, meanwhile
   noticing the disheveled state of the bed I actually shared with
   my princess, strewn with various articles of her clothing and
   dolls and an odd scattered assortment of little-girl clutter.

   Her mother would give an inscrutably bemused glance, and say "You
   know, the two of you could really work on being a little less
   obvious."

   Tonight, Karina stood at the edge of my pillow, towering with
   tousled tresses. Wordlessly, she lifted the covers and crawled in
   beside me, curling up in my arms. Amazing how well we fit
   together, like adjacent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had
   finally found the right match.

   I did try to casually relax and doze off again, but it's kinda
   hard when the javelin is ready to go pole-vaulting, if you know
   what I mean. Worse, she felt it prodding her cute little
   buttocks, and began to squirm and moan softly.

   "Karina," I said. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

   "Why not?" she asked.

   "Don't you think we should wait?"

   She turned to face me. "Why? Do you need a few minutes to look at
   girly magazines first?"

   "I don't have any."

   "You could borrow some from my Mom. She's got a big ol' pile, so
   she wouldn't notice one missing. She likes to give `em to guys."

   "No, I mean more than a few minutes. A few years, maybe."

   "Years?!" she yelped with alarm. "Then I'll be, like, OLD!"

   "Right," I said. Then, seriously: "Look Karina, I'm dying to make
   love with you, more than anything. I just don't want to hurt
   you."

   She snorted. "So to keep from hurting me you'll break my heart?"

   Outside, the crickets and bazillions of other bugs called
   fervently to their mates. Inside me, something fell into place. I
   knew she didn't fully grasp what we were talking about, and that
   it was probably a line she had stolen from her Mom. But that
   instant, I knew that what was to follow was inevitable. The one
   tiny thread of logic opposed to the burning forces of attraction
   between us had just blown to smithereens by her chance remark.

   Beneath her amazingly prolific dusty-blonde curls, I traced her
   eyebrow with my finger. "You win," I said. My heart pounded so
   ferociously I was afraid it would cause an earthquake. Her tiny
   fingers closed gently around the tip of my throbbing penis.

   We kissed, slowly, deliciously, luxuriously, savoring each
   instant as time strolled leisurely towards destiny.

   I felt her tremble in my arms at every light fingertip-touch, as
   we wrestled and writhed together reciting passionately wordless
   sounds of love, longing, and fulfillment, on that magical night
   together.

   Curiously, she stared at my erection. "So juicy stuff comes out
   of the end when you get all excited?"

   "Yes, that's pretty much how it works."

   "A lot of stuff?"

   "Not too much. Some."

   "You aren't afraid you'll go to the bathroom?"

   I laughed. "When it gets all stiff like that, it shuts off that
   part of the valve."

   She gently traced the contour with her finger, causing it to
   stiffen further, sending tingling shivers up my spine. "I want to
   feel your juicy stuff come out the end inside me," she said.

   "Oh," I said involuntarily, not the word but the wordless love-
   sound of longing for her.

   She eagerly explored my fully loaded love-shaft, prodding and
   probing, caressing the curly hair around it, gently grasping each
   ball in turn, then returning to the tip exploring and tracing
   lines around each and every contour, feeling the sweet love drops
   between her fingers.

   Meanwhile I slid my hand under her nightgown, and found what I
   was looking for -- the secret valley, hot and dripping with sweet
   dewdrops, surrounded by soft, smooth, silky spritely young folds
   of youthfully springy skin. My other hand, arm around her,
   brushed graceful strokes across her smooth chest, acknowledging
   each tiny pert nipple in turn.

   The wordless "oohs" and "aahs" and "uuhs" filled the air with the
   melody of lovemaking, and the bazillion bugs outside heard the
   humans inside calling fervently to their mates.

   I found the secret pearl of her pleasure, and her cries shifted
   into a more intense gear, as gently I prodded and played, feeling
   it rise and stiffen between my fingers as the oozing of sweet
   stickiness increased into practically a waterfall. The floral
   essence burst into the hot night air.

   My ear against her chest, her beautiful curls delicately brushing
   the back of my neck, I felt her heart pounding as her breath
   quickened and her hoarse moans accelerated into increasing
   intensity. Keeping my thumb on her precious pearl, I began to
   carefully push my finger inside her tiny opening. I knew I had
   found the rough edges of her G-spot from the change in her song.
   I kissed her gently, moistly on the cheek, as I mercilessly
   continued the gentle tickling and teasing. The hand she had
   resting on my stiff organ had lost her attention by now, and her
   other hand was on mine, pressing me to her. All else in the world
   ceased to exist for her, as her cries and moans focused on each
   rising and cresting wave, until suddenly she trembled and
   convulsed, and I felt her rhythmically closing on and releasing
   my fingers, as she arched back, spread her legs, and even more
   fiercely pushed herself against my hand.

   Her eyes flew open briefly, and she turned and kissed me with
   dazzling aggression. Kisses turned into butterflies, turned into
   minutes, into hours, into softness and melting away of snowy
   bluffs crashing into the rushing torrential river, fell into a
   blizzard of cherry blossoms fluttering through the air like a
   million faeries.

   Before I knew what, she had sat up and flung the nightgown to the
   floor beside the bed, and flung me back face-up on the bed, one
   hand on each of my wrists pinning me down as she carefully aimed
   the center of her dripping cavity on a calculated arc toward the
   tip of my vibrating rod.

   "Gently," I whispered, "It might hurt a little the first time."

   She grinned up at me. "I don't think it's any bigger than my
   Mom's toys," she replied.

   "You use your Mom's dildos?"

   She nodded, still grinning.

   "I hope you wash them before you put them back -- Oh my God," For
   at that instant, the opening ring of her sweet smooth-skinned
   valley of delight connected with my trembling desire, and as the
   tip disappeared inside her I shuddered blissfully and
   uncontrollably.

   Then I knew we shared profoundly, the same desire, the same
   fulfillment. Her tiny child's body so different from my bulky
   adult one, yet we felt the same feelings, knew the same
   sensations, thought the same ideas, embraced the same longings,
   and now finally we were together as one.

   I gazed at her above me, helplessly enchanted by her beautiful
   dusty curls, bouncing gently with each thrust, and steely-blue
   eyes calmly smiling down on me.

   Blissfully I felt our oneness blossom as she writhed and circled
   pushing herself over me, encircling me, embracing me, holding the
   most secret and forbidden part of me with sweet innocent
   lovingness inside of her. As our mouth-lips met gently in loving
   caresses, her sexual lips kissed my trembling rod with even
   greater sensation and fulfillment. She spread her legs even wider
   to take me inside of her, and our wordless love-song continued in
   contrapuntal harmony with the love songs of the insects outdoors.

   On the dark-grayish canvas, the sensations of her hot sticky
   moist little vagina sending drops down the shaft of my penis was
   a searing red, down in one corner, a dot becoming a line,
   becoming a zigzag, growing and smoldering. Each tiny little
   gesture screamed blissful agony of release across the cracks in
   the foundation of time, each little pelvic thrust or motion
   amplified a million times as we gyrated together in perfect
   synchronization.

   She grinned to see the effect she was having on me, still with
   both of my wrists pinned, until I sped up and twisted
   unpredictably, causing her to lose herself once more in her own
   pleasure, closing her eyes and throwing her head back up to the
   ceiling with intensity.

   In searing red and purple our forbidden oneness caressed and
   cavorted indescribably until the seeds welled up into a
   penultimate wave.

   "Here it comes," I cried out, thrusting once, twice, again,
   again, and then exploded with a million cherry blossoms,
   luxuriously enjoying my depth inside her as the thrusts became
   more deliberate.

   "Yes," she called gaily as she felt the drops she had been
   waiting for burst into her womb, and adding to the perfection I
   felt her pitch and lose control, her ecstatic contractions
   responding instinctively to mine, our release joined together on
   a deep profound level in time and space, as simultaneously across
   the years between us we shared the sacred forbidden cresting of
   the wave, the joyful release, the melting away of snowfall into
   the cascading waterfall, the collapse in coolness and tranquility
   as together our breathing calmed and quieted.

   Finally I withdrew the dripping dagger, knowing that I had left
   some of my sacred naughty sweet juice inside of her, some of my
   precious seed, and that by it we were now joined together in
   memory of the dazzling simultaneous satori. Now she smiled
   gently, gazing once more in tranquility with her steely blue eyes
   beneath those amazing dusty-blonde curls, and we cinched the cool
   covers around us and gradually faded into blissfully refreshing
   dreams.


      _______________________________________________________


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