Copyright © 1998,   Clayton.  ALL Rights Reserved


Babysitting - Jenny 

Disclaimer:
	This is a work of fiction.  No illegal activity described
	herein was carried out, this document details fantasies
	that took place late at night when I was alone in bed. I
	firmly believe that no fifteen minutes of pleasure is
	worth the innocence of a child.  Besides, I derive much
	pleasure from the company of children, playing with them
	or simply watching them at play, I am not going to risk
	this for any momentarily heightened sense of pleasure.

	If you are under the age of eighteen the law says I've
	got to tell you to go away, so, "Go away!"  Common sense
	says you're going to ignore me, so don't blame me if you
	go blind, your parents find you in possession of this
	document or your space bar to stops working.

	If this type of material is illegal in your city, state,
	country, then see above, substituting "law enforcement
	agency" in place of "parents".


Introduction:
	Between now and the new year I will be unable to do much
	writing.  Instead I will be proofreading this story, and
	possibly a couple of others, and publishing a chapter or
	so every day or two.

	When I next have the time to write, your responses will
	determine which stories I will work on.  So if you have
	a preference for which story you would like me to finish
	first, send me an email or five.

   __   _
  /  ) //          _/_
 /    // __.  ,  , /  ______
(__/ </_(_/|_/(_/_<__(_) / /_,
               /
              '

+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Clayton | clayton@nym.alias.net                                    |
|--------------------------------------------------------------------|
| There is nothing so soft, or pleasing to the touch, as the skin of |
| a child.  Cup their cheek in your hand and ask yourself if you are |
| willing to harm such beauty for your own gratification.            |
| Take you fantasies to bed - alone.                                 |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+






Chapter 5 - Fun and Games.

That evening, my mates have a good laugh at my expense, as I tell them of Jenny and her infatuation with me.  Morrie, who is the Dungeon Master for the current portion of our campaign, introduces a ten year old street thief as an NPC, setting up a scenario in which I am forced to rescue her from one of the other party members.

Before I know it, I've acquired a henchman who follows me about like a love sick puppy and, due to a highly inflated opinion of her abilities, is always placing herself in danger.  Unfortunately, I risk an alignment check if I allow her to get herself killed, so I find myself taking on the unenviable role of 'Gully Dwarf trap detector' (Stamp, stamp 'There's not one there.')

I also find myself the butt of every paedophile joke that five depraved minds can either remember or invent.  Grinning, I cheerfully agree with everything they throw at me, figuring that absurdity is a better defence than denial.  As the night wears on, the jokes get sicker and sicker.  Then as the booze and pot kicks in they get sillier, though you couldn't tell by the level of laughter around the table.

Finally somewhere around two in the morning, I ease the last of them out the door and ignoring the piles of empty wrappers and overflowing ashtrays scattered about the lounge, I pour myself into bed.  Almost without thinking about it, my hand finds it's way to my cock as I recall Jenny's innocent exposure in the garden and how she looked with her skirt up around her waist and her knickers stuffed in her slit.  The alcohol and ganga however, have taken their toll and I might as well be fondling an uncooked sausage for all the response that I get.

***

The rest of the week is fairly uneventful, if you don't count the rabbit process that some idiot managed to set running on the third year unix box.  I don't know exactly what he did, but somehow or other he locked up the system so badly that I had to pull the plug.  Unfortunately for him, I was able to identify him from the logs and boot him from the system for a few weeks, so that he might have the leisure to contemplate the folly of his ways.  As it turned out, that may not have been such a good idea, as it left him unable to complete his assignment and it looks like I'm going to have to put up with the stupid git for another year.

However as Monday approaches, I find myself worrying about how I'm going to deal with Jenny without the restraining effect of having her mother nearby, limited as it may be.  Almost from the moment she bounces out to my car, and throws her bag over the back of the seat and herself into the seat beside me, my fears prove justified.

"I got some new knickers on Saturday," she announces, "but you can't see them.  They're too *sex-eee*."

Fearing the worst, I risk a quick glance to the side.  She is wearing her pleated netball skirt and an oversized windcheater, and somewhat to my surprise she is sitting properly, with nothing more on display than should be.  Though the grin she returns in response to my glance is as full of naughtiness as I have ever seen.

"Are you trying to look at my undies?" she asks with an accusing smirk.

"No," I reply, "I'm trying to work out why on earth I ever took this job."

"B'cause my mum pays you way to much money." she says with a grin.

"That could be it." I agree.

Almost the moment I pull into my driveway and come to a halt I'm presented with the first trial as she climbs up onto the seat and leans over into the back to retrieve her bag.  Predictably, the back of her skirt creeps up, revealing the lower half of her small athletic bottom and the knickers that are supposed to cover it.  They are made from a pink satin like fabric, so pale as to be almost white, and tastefully trimmed with a quarter inch strip of plain lace around the leg openings.  The cut is such that they leave almost half of each firm, round cheek bare, revealing a two inch wide strip of pristine white skin that has never known the touch of the sun.  A little lower, the gusset moulds itself tightly to the contours of her sweet little pussy.

I might have believed her exposure to be an innocent accident, except that it takes her an inordinately long time to collect he bag, and when I look back to see what she is doing, I catch her looking under her arm to see if I was peeking.  Acting as if nothing untoward was happening, I make a long arm and grab her bag, saying, "Here let me get that for you."

Her small moue of disappointment lets me know that she had failed to catch me peeking at her underwear, and I am already turning away when she drops back into the front seat, and causes her skirt to lift high enough to reveal that the sides of her knickers are nothing more than a half inch strip of elastic holding the front and back together.  Maintaining my show of ignorance I complete my turn, grinning inwardly at the little noise of disgust that Jenny makes behind me.

A few moments later she slams the door of the car with somewhat more force than is necessary, even for an old rust bucket, and follows me up to the front door of my house.  Then as soon as I kick the door closed behind us, she asks, "Can I have a look around?"

Without waiting for an answer, she takes off down the hall, opening doors and sticking her head into each room as she passes.  The first, an empty bedroom I use for storing junk, barely rates a glance.  The second fares no better as it contains nothing more than a bed with a bare mattress and an empty dresser.  Across the hall she finds the bathroom and again quickly turns away.

Finally she reaches the end of the hall and the room where I sleep.  Her giggle reminds me that I had neglected to tidy it up that morning, leaving discarded clothing scattered all over the floor and the bed in a rumpled mess.  I suddenly recall that, that wasn't all I'd left out in the open.

Almost running, I reach the room just as she reaches for the corner of the magazine poking out from amongst the bedclothes, and making a long arm I reach over her shoulder and snatch it from between her fingers.  Breathing an inward sigh of relief, I toss it up on top of the wardrobe, and out of her reach.

"What's that?" she asks.

"None of your business." I reply shortly, "Don't you know it's rude to go poking around in other peoples houses?"

"I know," she says with a knowing giggle, "it was a dirty picture book wasn't it?"

"If you're so smart you don't need me to tell you, do you?" I reply. "Anyway, you're supposed to be here to work, not stick your nose into other peoples business."

Grinning maddeningly, she turns with an almost, but not quite, revealing flirt of her skirt and precedes me to the other end of the house.  Giggling, she suddenly races ahead, and with a taunting look over her shoulder, she peeks into the remaining two rooms accessible from the hall.

"Nice kitchen." she remarks over her shoulder as she turns towards the other door.

***

I'm quite proud of my kitchen.  My grandmother had prided herself on being a good cook - in my opinion she was a great cook - and about two years before she had died she'd had the whole room remodelled.  Not for her the vinyl covered particle board that was all too common these days, everything in her kitchen was solid timber.

All of the cupboards and the sideboard were of Norfolk pine and the bench tops were two inch thick slabs of river redgum.  Only the splashback behind the sink was tiled, everywhere else the walls were panelled to shoulder height with more Norfolk pine.  Two huge black beams traversed the vaulted ceiling, from which were hung a collection of cast iron and copper cooking pots.

An enormous black cast iron combustion stove filled the fireplace.  In winter it served to keep the whole house as warm as toast, even when the temperature outside dropped below freezing, In summer it was a nightmare.  I don't know how my grandmother put up with it, but for myself, I purchased a portable cooktop and a microwave oven the first time the temperature climbed above thirty degrees.

The furniture was my own addition.  I'd been poking around at a garage sale looking for books, when I noticed this monstrosity piled up at the back of the shed.  By the looks of it, it had been last painted in the seventies, and was finished in bright pink over purple, where most of the pink had been wiped away with a turps soaked rag before it had dried.  Anyway it was hideous, but there was something about the form that caught my eye.  Several of the chairs were coming apart, but a quick check revealed that all of the pieces were there.

When I asked, the owner said that she had been going to cut it up for firewood, but someone had told her that the lead in the paint was dangerous and now she was waiting for the council pickup.  Twenty dollars lighter in the pocket, I contemplated how I was to get it home.

Three weeks and two kilos of caustic later, (A piece of advice: that is one time it is advisable to wash your hands *before* taking a piss.) I discovered that under about fifteen layers of paint, it was made out of black oak.

Realising that putting a proper finish on it was beyond my ability, I splurged on hiring a professional French polisher.  He arrived with a supercilious look on his face, obviously expecting some piece of junk that was beneath his dignity to touch, but that look faded when he saw what I had waiting.

The look on his face told me that he was having what amounted to a religious experience as he ran his fingers lovingly over the bare timber.  A few minutes later he almost had an apoplectic fit, when I told him I'd used ordinary wood glue to repair it.  Recovering, he got a pot of what looked like dried varnish from his van and insisted that I fire up the stove, even though it was the height of summer and the temperature was in the high thirties.

By the time he had broken the joints of the first chair, and carefully scraped away every scrap of inferior glue, the pot on the stove was bubbling and a peculiar organic smell filled my kitchen.  Handling each piece as if it were made of finest china, he lovingly reassembled the chair, tapping tiny slivers of wood into place to pack any joints he considered less than perfect.  All the while, he berated me for my ignorance and the rough and ready technique I'd used to strip away what was probably more than a century's worth of paint.

Somewhat hesitantly, I brought up the subject of cost, as it was obvious that the job was going to take considerably longer that anticipated, but he waved it aside, telling me that he would only charge for the polishing as originally agreed.  As for the rest, it was a once in a lifetime experience and a privilege to have a chance to work on something as rare as this.

When I told him, I'd paid twenty dollars and rescued it from a council pickup, he looked as if he were ready to cry. "Boy," he said, "I don't know how this piece came to this country, and I *do not* want to know how it got into the condition that you found it in, but see this mark." He points to an almost obliterated mark, almost like a crest, burned into the underside of the seat. "This tells me that this set was made over four hundred years ago by a master craftsman.  You say you paid twenty dollars for it, well you have struck a bargain that will bring tears to my father's eyes, for what you have here is worth every last penny of twenty five thousand dollars."

Shocked beyond belief, I gape at him as a broad nicotine stained grin creeps across his wrinkled features. "Surprised young man?" he cackles, "You should be.  Someone must have been watching over this, for all the abuse it's suffered, because every single stick here is original and you have a complete setting."

That night, I seriously consider selling it, but in the end I decide to keep it, as there was really nothing that I needed, and rather than fritter away the money, I figured that I could always sell it later.

The following day, saw father and son arrive to work on my table, and if anything the old man's manner was even more reverential than his son's.  After enduring a diatribe of monumental proportions about my ham fisted efforts, I was sent out to collect, of all things, a bucket of horse piss, preferably from an 'in season' mare.  This I was told would be used to restore the stain that my overzealous sanding had taken out of the wood.

The very proper English lady, who ran the local riding stables, was more than a little surprised at my request, but she took it with the equanimity of her breeding and instructed one of the stable hands to assist me.  An hour later, and having provided much entertainment to the covey of small to medium sized girls taking lessons, I had what I came for and a decidedly fragrant shirt.

When I returned home the old man, peered into the bucket and pronounced my offering adequate and set me to the task of rubbing it into the wood of the four chairs that they had so far rebuilt.  Over the following week and a half, I receive a basic education on caring for old furniture and how to maintain the glass like finish that these two old gentlemen impart to my table and chairs.

***

"Cool!" Jenny's tone tells me that she likes my lounge too.

In the lounge, comfort had been my only criteria when furnishing it, though a vaguely Central American theme has come to dominate.  The only chairs in the room are at my desk.  Everything else is at floor level.  Two foam rubber mattresses with 'sun face' rugs over them and twenty or so similarly decorated cushions piled on top, provide seating.  The TV and video rest on an old wooden crate which serves to house my collection of Red Dwarf and Star Trek videos.  My bookshelves are concrete Besser blocks and planks.

Like any child faced with such an enticing display, Jenny utters a whoop of joy and throws herself across the room onto the piled cushions, totally oblivious to the fact that her skirt has flipped up to completely expose her body from the waist down.  An inch wide strip of tanned skin separates the waistband of her pleated skirt from the band of elastic at the top of her knickers.  The front panel, unlike the back, is almost entirely covered with lace.  In fact a second glance reveals that there is no fabric backing the floral design adorning her very sexy knickers, and as she writhes luxuriously in her nest, I glimpse a hint of her slit through the many holes piercing the lacework.

I give her a few more seconds to enjoy herself, and for me to take in the eroticism of her unconscious display, then turning to seat myself at the desk I call out, "O.K. enough of that, you've got work to do."

Grumbling, she makes her way over to the second chair and flops into it.  Ignoring her dark mutterings, I hand her, her bag and wait patiently while she gets out her books and slaps them down on the table.  Much to my surprise, I also glimpse two of the books I had lent her in the bottom of her bag.

Starting at the very beginning of the book, we run over work that she had only partially understood due to the poor grounding brought about by the final term of the previous year.  With one on one coaching and her quick mind, half an hour suffices to catch up over a week's work.  The second half hour is devoted to helping her through her homework, so that she doesn't lose any more ground in her current work.

At times during the evening, I notice her lifting her foot up onto the seat of the chair and hugging her knee as she worries at a particularly difficult problem.  This lets me get a good view of her plump young labia, pouched in the soft shiny fabric of her gusset, and occasional partial glimpses of her hairless slit through the front of her knickers.  At first I think that it's a purely innocent display, but as I'm going over a set of problems that she has finished, I catch her slyly looking at me to see if I'd noticed.

Somehow or other, I managed to make it through the evening without her catching me looking, and by the time I call a halt to proceedings, her frustration is evident in the increasing outrageousness of her display.  All of which I carefully ignore.

Finally it becomes to much for her.  As she is packing her bag, she asks me outright, "Do you like my new knickers?"

"Uh what?" I ask looking up from her last set of problems, "Oh that's right you said you got some new undies didn't you?"

"Didn't you see them?" she asks. "I've been giving you peeks all night."

"Have you?" I ask mildly, as I turn away, "I can't say that I've noticed."

Several seconds of silence follows this, suddenly broken by the r-i-i-i-i-p of parting velcro.  "There," she cries, a note of defiance in her voice, "you can see them now."

Since it's obvious that she's not going to let me alone until I look, I turn back towards her.  She stands with one leg cocked, her skirt hooked defiantly over her shoulder.  Unfortunately the effect she had hoped for is marred by her oversized windcheater, which covers her to mid thigh.

"As a matter of fact I can't." I inform her, "Now put your skirt back on, we're late as it is."

Looking down at herself, she giggles self-consciously.  Also she seems to realise that the brazen approach is getting her nowhere, as her whole demeanour changes.  "No please," she almost whispers as she lifts the bottom of her windcheater high enough to expose her belly button, "I really want your opinion.  Do you think they're sexy?"

Without the brazen attitude of a few moments before to buoy her up, she is flushing furiously, looking a little scared.  Either fearing that I'll find her laughable, or that I'll be angry enough to tell her mother.  Her vulnerability, also makes her more desirable than any amount of sluttish behaviour could achieve.  Beneath her trim athlete's tummy, her skimpy knickers mould themselves over the rise of her juvenile pudenda like a second skin.  The light beside my computer throwing shadows that bring the twin halves of her mound and the crease separating them into sharp relief.

"Jenny honey, I think your undies are incredibly sexy, but remember what I told you the other day?  If you were just a little bit older, I'd think you were offering something that you are just not ready to deliver."

Speaking gently I add, "There's a lot of people out there who wouldn't care about your age, and if you did this in front of them, you'd be in more trouble than you could possibly imagine by now.  Now please put your skirt back on and *never* pull a stunt like this again."

Instead of obeying me, she takes a flying leap, forcing me to catch her, and hugs me tightly. "Thankyou," she whispers into my neck, "I was scared you'd laugh at me, because you'd think I was a little girl trying to pretend to be grown up."

With a double handful of incredibly soft, yet firm, flesh, I pull my head back so that I can look into her face. "This isn't what I asked you to do." I say with a half smile.

Giggling, she pulls her head back a little, letting me ease the strain in my neck. "Pooh, you won't hurt me, and I wanted to say thankyou."

"Thinking like that will get you in a lot of trouble young lady." I growl, though my smile takes much of the sting out of it. "The only safe male is a dead one, and if he tries to show you his death certificate, don't you believe him."

"If he tries to show it to me, he can't be dead." she giggles.

"Exactly," I say, "that's what I've been trying to tell you, men only care about one thing when they see a pretty girl showing herself off, and they'll do almost anything to get it.  So don't do it unless you mean to deliver."

She considers this seriously for a few moments, then nods decisively.  A moment later a wicked grin splits her face and she asks me, "Have you finished playing with my bottom?"

"See what I mean." I say apologetically as I still the fingers with which I'd been unconsciously kneading her firm little bum and set her down. "You, can't trust anyone."

"I don't mind." she tells me with a half smile, "It felt kind of nice."

"Be that as it may." I reply severely, "If you don't have that skirt back where it belongs in ten seconds, then next thing I do won't."

"Oh you're all bluster buster." she giggles, but the aclarity with which she picks up her skirt and wraps it around her waist tells me that she isn't as sure of her appraisal as she'd like me to believe.

In the car, she places her hand over mine on the gear stick, preventing me from putting it into gear. "Are you going to tell Mummy?" she asks.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?" I ask, "Remember what I said I'd do when you and Vanessa did this to me the other day?"

"Oh god!" she gasps as the memory of my threat comes flooding back. "I'd just die if you made me walk up to the house in just my undies.  And then Mummy'd make sure and kill me all over again."

"Well apart from the fact I'd be out of a job, why shouldn't I?" I ask.

"Because you're too nice." she answers matter of factly, "Besides, you wouldn't be able to peek at my undies any more.  I know you liked it because your penis got all big and hard, I felt it."

"Jenny!" I cry out in shock.

"Ha." she giggles, "I knew you was peeking all the time."

"So why that stunt at the end?" I ask.

"B'cause I wanted to know if you thought I was sexy silly." she giggles.

"Well having established that I do, don't ever do it again."

"O.K. I won't show anyone else see my undies." she promises.

I notice the glaring loophole in her promise, but decide to let her have her victory.  Hell I wanted her show off for me, but there was no way I was going to come out and say it while her infatuation with me left her vulnerable to manipulation.

Smugness colours her voice as she says, "O.K. you can take me home now."

***

On Wednesday, Jenny announces her arrival with a thunderous knocking on my door as I'm going over some assignments, which should have included the work of the idiot with the rabbit program.  A glance at the clock reveals that it is only a quarter to four and I wonder why she didn't use the time to play after school, but I obviously can't leave her cooling her heels on my porch for another quarter of an hour.  Assuming of course that my door could take the punishment, something that I wasn't prepared to find out, as she repeated her assault, accompanied by her yelling my name at the top of her voice.

"What on earth were you knocking with?" I ask as I let her in.

"This." she replies brandishing a hockey stick. "We won, we beat Sacred Heart."

"Good for you." I congratulate her, "But that's no reason to take the paint off my door."

"Sorry," say says, sounding anything but, "I guess I was just excited."

"Well O.K." I say partially mollified, "Just don't do it again."

"Sure." she agrees cheerfully, "Can I change out of my uniform?"

"Of course," I reply, "but why didn't you do it at school?"

"Because there's a stupid rule that says we can't" she replies in tones of disgust.

"Fair enough, you know where the spare... What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting changed." she says calmly as she finishes pull her uniform dress off and prepares to skin out of her gym shorts.

"I can see that, but what about what we talked about on Monday?"

"I only promised not to show anyone *else* my knickers." she says, obviously pleased with herself.  Stepping out of her gym shorts she poses for me. "What do you think of these?"

Today's knickers are pale blue and very skimpy with a waistband that is little more than a string.  Made from an opaque fabric, they would barely rate a second glance as bikini bottoms, but they're not, and the sheerness of the nylon from which they are made has not been helped not one whit by her hockey game.  Rendered almost completely transparent by the sweat of her exertions, and clinging to her skin, they might as well not be there for all the good they do in hiding her sweet, hairless charms.

"I think that you shouldn't be showing off like that, especially after a game of hockey." I reply through clenched teeth.

"Why?" she asks, taking a look at herself. "Oh shit!"

With that last exclamation she bolts from the room, chased by my helpless laughter.  A few moments later she calls out, "Can you bring me my bag please?"

Still chuckling, I scoop up her bag.  I find her in the spare bedroom, her flushed face peeping around the doorframe.  Hooking her bag over her extended hand I return to the lounge and await her return.

Blushing from the roots of her hair, down to, and beyond the neckline of her t-shirt, she re-enters the room. "I didn't mean for you to see *that* much." she giggles shamefacedly.

"I'm glad to hear it." I reply, "But since you shouldn't have even been showing me what you meant to, I don't think it's much of an excuse."

"I know," she mumbles, "and now I feel all prickly too."

"You'll get no sympathy from me." I say unfeelingly, "Hopefully that scared you enough that you'll think before you do anything that silly again."

"I'll say." she giggles, recovering some of her spirit. "It's one think letting you see my undies when you can't really see anything anyway, that's fun, but it's completely different when you can see everything."

"I'm still not sure that you've learnt your lesson," I sigh, "but you're not going to learn a thing if you spend the rest of the afternoon squirming in your seat and scratching itches, so go and take a shower."

"Thanks." she says gratefully, almost bolting from the room in her haste to relieve the prickly sweat afflicting her.

"And if you're wearing one stich less when you come back, than you are right now, look out." I call after her retreating back.

"Spoilsport." she grins, pausing in the doorway to show me her tongue.

"Down boy." I mutter to my aching cock the moment she is out of hearing, "She's not ready for you yet."

There, I'd admitted to myself that we would become lovers one day, but there was no way that it would occur until I felt that she was able to make the decision for herself, and with a mind unclouded by her thinking that she was in love.

Listening to the sound of running water, I'm barely able to devote half my mind to the pile of assignments I'm supposed to be marking, but I don't get paid to daydream.  So taking a deep breath, I thrust image of an all but naked Jenny to the back of my mind and concentrate on my task.

Ten minutes later, Jenny stops in the doorway still towelling her hair, and says, "I hope you don't mind, but I used some of your shampoo."

Wearing a plain white t-shirt, which clings wetly to a couple of poorly dried spots on her body, fortunately nowhere that would make my cock sit up and take notice, and a simple yellow skirt which stops just above her knees, she looks exactly what she is.  A beautiful young schoolgirl, just beginning to mature.

"Of course not." I grin, "I want you scratching your head because you're thinking, not because it's all sweaty and horrible."

"I'm sorry I swore before." she apologises, "But it sort of just came out."

"It's O.K.," I reply, "these things happen when you're a little bit scared."

"And a whole lot embarrassed." she giggles, now fully recovered.

"That too." I chuckle, "Now bring me your hairbrush and then we have to get to work."

Tossing the third to last assignment on top of the pile, I pull a cushion between my legs and motion for Jenny to sit down.  Setting the brush aside for the moment, I grab the towel and roughly dry Jenny's hair, earning a few half-hearted complaints for my trouble.  Noticing the half circle of wet fabric clinging to her shoulders I comment, "Your t-shirt's soaked, next time grab another towel."

"There were only two and I didn't want to use both." she replies.

"How can you be so considerate and such a teasing little shit." I mutter as I wrap the towel around her shoulders and take up the brush.

"Ooh I'm telling on you." she giggles, sounding for all the world like she was six years younger than her current age of ten. "You swore."

"Ha." I scoff as I work the rest of the tangles from her hair, "You obviously know the word and you are one, you know."

"Yep." she agrees smugly. "I'm a shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit."

"Hey enough of that." I say trying to sound outraged and failing miserably.

"Faeces, shit.  Penis, dick. Vagina, cunt." she chants.

"Enough I said." This time I manage to give it the proper force, and she shuts up. "Once is a joke, after that all you're managing to do is demonstrate that you have a sewer for a mouth.  You obviously know what the words mean, but there's no need to repeat them."

"Sorry." she mumbles contritely.

"O.K. enough said." I say, "There's a time and place for those words but this isn't it."

"They're in the dictionary though." she giggles.

"Won't work." I reply with a chuckle, "I looked them up the same as you did when I was a kid, but all I earned for my troubles was a mouthful of soap.  Now hold still we've got work to do."

Quickly working from then ends back up to her scalp, I work the tangles from her hair and fasten it in a loose ponytail so that it can dry. As she rolls onto her hands and knees to rise, I suddenly reach out and tap her on the bottom with the back of the hairbrush. "There," I say with a grin, "that's for being naughty."

"Didn't hurt." she giggles, maintaining her position and waggling her bum.

"Well we'll see about that." I mutter, landing another half dozen light taps on her upturned rear.

"Still didn't hurt." she says merrily, "I've got my spank proof undies on.  See?" With a naughty note in her giggle, she flips up the back of her skirt to reveal a trim little bottom completely encased in a pair of sensible, bottle green, cotton undies.  Covered from waist to the creases joining her legs to her buttocks, not a hint of untanned flesh is visible, and the dark colour of the fabric hides all but the basic shape of her pouched pudenda.

"You, my child, are incorrigible." I grin.

"You betcha." she giggles, with an exaggerated waggle of her tail. "Well aren't you going to test them out?"

Caught up in the semi-innocent game, I let her have another ten rapid smacks with the hairbrush, landing the last two, one on each cheek, with just enough force to make her squeak.

"Ouch!" she giggles, reaching back to rub the offended area. "You're mean."

"And you're a naughty little girl who deserves everything she gets and more besides." I reply mock severely, "Playtime's over, get over to that desk and get your books out."

"Can't we work here on the floor?" she asks, turning over, her skirt thankfully falling down to hide her lower body.  "You were.  Please?"

"Oh all right." I mutter with a pretended air of being hard put upon.

Grinning at her victory, Jenny pulls her bag into her lap and pulls out, books and pencil case. "Oops." she giggles, as the undies, she'd been wearing earlier come out caught up on the corner of a book.

Holding them up, with her fingers spread in the waistband, she asks, "So do you think these are sexy?"

"I think they're very brief briefs, way to sexy, and I'll bet they aren't spank proof."

"We could always try them out and see." she says archly.

"Is that a skid mark?" I ask with a grin.

Her reaction is everything I could have expected. "Where?" she shrieks, flushing with sudden embarrassment.  Balling them up in her fist, she turns away to check. "You're a shit." she accuses me still blushing, "There's nothing there."

"Guilty as charged." I grin, "But it sure shut you up in a hurry.  Now put them away and work."

"What are we doing today?" she asks, stuffing the undies back in her bag and turning to sit tailor fashion, facing me.

"Well first, how did you do with your homework?" I ask with a grin.

"I got them all right." she answers smugly, adding in an accusing tone, "But you already know that.  Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't set the work." I reply. "Now I think we might start with some revision on fractions to see what you've forgotten, and then we'll move on to adding up big numbers."

She breezes through the fractions, indicating that my lessons have really stuck, at least for the moment.  While she is working on them, I write up a graduated set of addition problems, being careful to make the columns obvious.

"When I hand them to her, she asks, "I just add up the columns don't I?"

"More or less." I reply, "See how you go."

She quickly does the first problem and turns to me, "Is that right?"

Checking her work, I answer, "Yes, now keep going."

The next two are as easily disposed of. "These are easy?" she declares.

"What ever you say." I reply, "Now shush, I've only got two more of these to do."

A minute or so later she interrupts me again, "I can't do this one, I cant make it fit."

"Really?" I ask mildly, "How so?"

"This column adds up to thirteen."

"Huh, that's not right." I say, knowing that the first carry should have been seventeen.

"Yes it is." she says, thrusting the problem sheet under my nose, "See?"

I look over her work and discover that she has been working from left to right. "That silly bitch should have been shot." I mutter.

"What?"

"Nothing." I quickly reply, then ask, "Didn't your teacher tell you that you had to work from right to left?"

"I guess so," Jenny mumbles, "but what difference does it make?"

"All the difference in the world." I reply, "Remember when I showed you how to multiply a big number?"

"Uh-huh." she nods.

"Well you get carries with addition too." I explain, "There is a way to do it left to right, but you end up doing twice as much work, and that means twice as many chances of making a silly mistake.  So have another go, and this time try it from right to left."

"O.K." A minute later, "Did I do it right?"

I look, "Yep.  Keep going."

Taking back the work sheet, she throws herself face down over a cushion, in that way that only breastless young girls can manage and alternately sucking on the end of her pen and writing she works her way down the list.

As I work on getting the last two assignments out of the way, I occasionally glance up at Jenny.  While she works she sporadically kicks her heels up and bumps her bottom emitting a little grunt as she does so.  Every now and then, she wriggles herself into a more comfortable position, and every time she does so, her skirt creeps an inch or so higher.

Finally a narrow strip of green cloth comes into view.  At the same time Jenny glances back over her shoulder and catches my eye. "You're peeking." she accuses with a giggle as she tugs her skirt back over her bottom, but only half way down the backs of her thighs, I notice.

"And you're doing it deliberately." I toss back with a grin.

"Never." she giggles, "That would be naughty."

We each return to our respective tasks, and once again she squirms about until her bottom creeps into view.  This time she fails to catch me looking, so the game goes on until over half of her cotton encased bum is on display.  To me, it is too good an opportunity to waste.  Waiting until her attention is fully on the problem in front of her, I reach out and snap the legband of her knickers.

"Ouch!" she complains, rolling out of my reach, and incidentally showing me the front of her knickers, since her skirt is up around her waist.  With all of her squirming about, Jenny has managed to disarrange even these solidly fitting underpants, and half a plump pussy lip peeks out at me from between her legs.

"Well, well, well." I chuckle, "Now I know how to make your spank proof undies do the spanking for me."

Meanie." she giggles, doing nothing to fix her dishabille.

"Little troublemaker." I reply, "Don't you think you should fix your undies?"

"Oops," she giggles looking down at herself and snapping her knees together, "did it again."

"And you're still doing it." I say nodding towards where her half exposed labia peek from between her legs.

"Double oops." she blushes, jamming her skirt down between her legs, and reaching beneath it, to straighten her undies.

"Why on Earth do you persist on doing this, when I've told you how dangerous it is?" I ask in exasperation.

"'B'cause it's not." she replies.

"And just how do you figure that?" I ask.

Ticking off her points on her fingers she tells me, "Well first, if you were going to do something to me, you would have done it by now.  Two, you can't do anything anyway because everyone knows where I am and you'd be the first person the police would think of.  And three, if you were the sort of man who hurts kids you wouldn't keep on telling me off.  So I can practice on you all I like for when I get older.  Besides it's fun watching you pretend not to peek."

"Well I can't fault your logic." I reluctantly agree, "But do you know what logic is?  It's a way of going wrong with confidence."

"What do you mean?"

"Well all it takes, is for you to start out with bad data and the whole thing come tumbling down like a house of cards.  In your case you got two out of three things potentially wrong and you missed one very important fact."

"Like what?"

"First of all, people who attack kids are very good at waiting until they think they're safe.  Secondly, There are sicko's out there who'd rape you and cheerfully stuff you head first down a rabbit hole, and only then worry about hiding the evidence."

"I wouldn't fit." she giggles, "Besides how could *you* get away with it when everyone knows I'm here."

"It's not a joke." I inform her darkly, "You'd fit.  In pieces.  As for getting away with it, that's easy, I just say you went down the shop and never came back.  If they never find you, nobody can prove anything, no matter what they think they know.

"And finally the most damning thing of all." I say, "What you missed.  There are, broadly speaking, two types of people who rape children.  One rapes you, sometimes kills you, and tries to cover it up, they're pretty rare and usually get caught the first or second time they do it.  The second type is sneaky, they often convince you it's your own fault, that you wanted it, you made them do it.  And in a lot of ways they're worse than the first type, because their victims almost never get help.  They're too ashamed.  They keep everything bottled up inside, and sometimes it gets too much for them and they kill themselves.  Nobody knows why, and their rapist can do it all over again, and again, and again."

"But how can he make the kid think it's their fault?" Jenny asks.

"That's easy," I reply, "take you and me for an example.  On Monday you jumped into my arms and I started squeezing your bottom.  I wasn't thinking about it and it was an accident, but what if it wasn't?  Either way, you would still have 'kind of liked it'.  Next time, I squeeze a bit longer, and you 'kind of like' that too.  The time after that, my fingers slip and I give something else a squeeze.  Maybe you object, maybe you don't.  If you do, I apologise and make a joke of it.

"Afterwards you think about it, and you remember it wasn't so bad.  In fact it felt 'kind of nice'. So the next time it happens you don't say anything."

"Yes I would." she interrupts, "Mummy says, I decide who touches me there and if I don't want someone to, I should tell."

"Good for you and your mum." I say approvingly, But we're being hypothetical here.  So, there I am with my hand up your skirt, assuming of course that you're actually wearing one, <giggle> feeling you up.  Next thing I do is compliment you on those two cute little bumps that are sprouting on your chest.  You're shy, you're embarrassed, but you're also a little bit proud because a man likes your new boobies.  So when I reach up and give one of them a little pinch, you just giggle.

"The next time you show off your new undies, I compliment them too.  I say they make you look grown up.  Uh-oh, a man likes your boobies, *and* he's called you grown up.  We're starting to get really proud now.  You still haven't told anybody because you think it's fun.  The next time you come around, you wear your sexiest undies and a really short skirt so you can show them off all the time, and you wear a blouse with the top two buttons undone so you can give me peeks at your cute little boobies.

"This time I say I like these undies even better, because they show off the shape of your body so nicely.  I haven't been rude, but you know exactly what I mean, and that's three things to be proud of.  Feeling really daring, you bend over so I can see right down the front of your shirt, and it feels good just knowing I'm watching because you know I like them.

"Now I don't just reach up and touch them, you might not like it, so I do something sneaky.  I tickle you, but while I've got my fingers under your arms my thumbs are pressing into your boobs, and after a while I stop tickling but keep my thumbs where they are.  And guess what that feels nice too, but I don't need to tell you that, you already know."

Blushing a little, she asks, "How did you know?"

"It's an open secret." I chuckle, "Girl starts growing boobs.  Girl plays with boobs.  Girl find out it's nice and does it every chance she gets.  Anyway I've now touched you in three places I shouldn't, but I've done it through your clothes so you still feel safe, and you don't tell.

"At this stage I could go for broke, and it might even work, but I'm smart, I still keep up the little touches, but I'm always careful to make a bit of a joke of it, do it playfully so it can be laughed off.  I'm waiting for *you* to make the next move.  And it doesn't take long.  It feels nice when I touch you in these places, so you start trying to think of ways to make it happen, and the easiest way is for you to rub your boob on my arm while I'm explaining something to you.

"It might not seem like much, but I've now got a hook into you, you're not just letting me do something to you any more.  You've initiated something yourself.  You've become an active participant."

Her mouth falls open as a look of slightly horrified comprehension creeps over her features, and I bore onwards.

"I smile to myself when you do it, but I don't say anything, the time's not right yet, instead I pretend I haven't noticed.  'Ah-ha' you think, you've gotten away with it, so you do it again.  Maybe you even contrive to rub something else up against me, but I still don't notice. That's two hooks.  At first it's enough just to use me to make yourself feel good, but I keep on pretending I haven't noticed, and you start to get mad.  Eventually you get mad enough to do something to make me notice. Yet another hook, because now we both know that the other one knows.

"However, I'm not quite ready to reel you in just yet, you might still slip off the hooks and tell on me.  I've got to get those hooks set a little deeper.  So the next time you show off your boobs to me, I reach up and tickle you in that special way, but the tickling only lasts a second, and what you're really thinking about is my thumbs, and what they are doing.  This time you rub back, and since we both know what's really happening, you don't object when I start using my fingers as well.  Hook number four, almost ready.

"One day, while I'm playing with your boobs, I say it's a pity I can't see them better, and since you've been showing them to me for the last couple of weeks anyway, so you don't mind when I start to unbutton your blouse.  Even if you do object, all I have to do is remind you that I've seen them anyway, I just want a better look.  Now this is where I might start taking up the slack in the line.

"If you still object, I say that you shouldn't have shown them to me if you didn't want me to look properly.  There's the first step in making it your fault.  Now what do you do?"

"I tell Mum, but boy will she be mad at me." Jenny replies.

"Good answer." I say approvingly, "But maybe you're feeling just scared enough, that you decide that it's only a little thing, and maybe you should just give in.  So now I've got your shirt open, and I'm looking at your boobs.  What comes next."

"You touch them again?"

"Uh-uh," I shake my head, "Those hooks are still pretty loosely set, so all I do is say how pretty they are and how they mean that you're becoming a woman.  Guess what?  That's another thing for you to be proud about.  Now letting me see your boobs isn't too bad, so the next time I ask, you don't say a thing and just open your blouse, and pretty soon I've got you walking around like that all the time.  Two hooks at once this time, you're really proud of your boobs, *and* you walking around like that, is something else that you don't want your mum to find out about.

"Now at some stage you're probably going to rub your boob up against my arm again, and that's my signal.  I can tickle you again, but this time my hands are inside your shirt, and pretty soon I'm playing with your bare titties.  Oh boy does that feel good.  Now every time you visit, I can slip my hand inside your shirt whenever I want.  Sneaky time again.  I stop doing it.  By this time you've gotten used to it.  You like it.  So you ask me to do it."

"Another hook." Jenny says.

"And this time you've swallowed it, it's a big one and it's set good and solidly.  Now I can start to make bargains with you.  Because you want something from me, I can ask for something in return.  I want to see your knickers, and I want to see them properly, so off comes the skirt.  Since you've already done that before, you don't even murmur.  But I make a fuss, you're shirt's in the way.  So off it comes too.

"So, now if you want me to play with your boobs, you have to strip down to your undies, and stay like that until it's time to go home.  Another time and I ask you if you'd like to feel what it's like for a baby to suck milk.  Maybe you're curious and you agree without any more prompting.  If you don't agree, I can start tugging on some of those hooks I've got set in you, and I remind you that your mum wouldn't like to hear about the things you've been doing.  And I make it very clear that it's been *you* that's done them.  Either way, I've got a mouth full of titty, and you find out that if my bare fingers on your bare boobs felt great, then my tongue feels out of this world.

"Do you see where this is going, I've got you walking around in nothing but your undies, I'm kissing your boobs, my hands aren't outside your undies any more when I squeeze your bum, and they're creeping around towards the front.  You're starting to feel scared now, but you're even more scared of your mum, because every time you say no, I remind you that you started it, you wanted it.  I don't quite say it outright, but everything I do say is intended to make you believe that it's *your* fault.

"It's not really true, what you did was only a bit of fun, you were just being a little bit naughty showing of your new undies.  It was me who kept on encouraging you to be a little bit naughtier, pushing you, but I did it so skilfully that you're half convinced that it *was* all your own idea and I've got you thinking it's your fault.  You're scared and confused, and you can't tell anyone, because you're scared shitless that you are the one who's going to get the blame.  Finally one day soon..." I leave it hanging, not quite willing to say what might come next.

"I'm screwed." she finishes for me, trying to make a joke of it in order to cover her fear.

"Literally," I agree, "but it's not a joke is it?"

"I guess not." she murmurs.

"And I haven't finished yet.  I want Vanessa too, and this time it's easier, I've got you to help.  I give you that magazine I tossed up on top of the wardrobe and tell you to show it to her.  Get her curious.  By this time you don't even think of objecting, even though you know it's wrong.  I've got you too firmly in my grasp for that.  You might even think that it will help, because you'll have someone to talk to, someone to share it with.

"This time however, you know it's your fault.  And a great part of it would be too, because you know you could have stopped it.  At the same time Vanessa starts blaming you. So instead of having a someone to share your misery with, she hates you and you don't even have a best friend any more.  What's worse, you don't dare make any new friends in case I get you to bring them to me too.

"A year or so later, I decide that I don't want you any more, because all of those things that I praised about you, well I don't like them.  I don't like big boobs.  I don't like hair.  And I especially don't want to risk you having a baby, because if that happens I might get found out.  So I tell you I don't like you, and I do everything I can to make you feel like shit, because if I can make you feel like you deserved it, you won't ever tell on me.

"So there you are.  No friends.  Feeling dirty.  Used.  You're hurt.  Angry.  You lash out at everyone around you.  Nobody understands, and you can't tell them.  Maybe you try drugs or alcohol because for a little while they help, and maybe some little kid will find you at the bottom of the observation tower on his way to school."

"That's scary stuff." Jenny finally says after a long silence.

"I meant it to be." I reply, "It's not always like that.  What I just told you is a worst case scenario.  A lot of the time, you'll get away with showing off your knickers, because the person you pick is responsible and caring.  Even if he's not it often it stops with just touches; and sometimes, just sometimes, the kid even likes it from beginning to end and nothing bad comes of it, but none of those are anything to bank on.

"Until you know exactly what you're getting into, and are ready to accept the consequences, don't play with fire."

"For sure." Jenny says fervently.

"Now let's take a little break, I think we need it." I say. "And then it's nose to the grindstone we have a lot of catching up to do."

With a can of coke in her hand, Jenny returns to the last of her problems, finishing about the same time I toss the last of the assignments aside.

While I correct her work, she sits back in the cushions looking thoughtful.  Not surprisingly, the last few of the problems are full of errors, but that's understandable given the distraction of thinking over what I think is a much more important lesson.  However up until that point, the errors are few and far between.

"Well, I think we can safely say that you've learned this lesson." I congratulate her as I hand the sheet back.

"But I got the last ones all wrong, I was thinking about what you said." she almost wails.

"Well don't think about it too much, you just need to remember it and make sure that you don't ever let it happen to you." I tell her gently.

"Now I think that's enough maths for today." I say, "What did you do in science today, and what did you find under that rock?"

"Bugs." she informs me with a horrible grimace. "Both times."

"Well we can strike entomologist from your list of career choices." I grin.

"What's that?"

"Ah-ha," I chuckle, "a word you don't know, but given your obvious distaste for the subject, it's fairly understandable.  An entomologist is someone who studies bugs for a living."

"Eew gross." Jenny says.

"So what did you learn?"

"Well, we learnt about larvae and pupae and metamorphosis and stuff at school.  I guess butterflies are sort of O.K. at least they're pretty, but even they look gross close up."

"O.K. we've established that insects are gross." I chuckle, "So what did you find out at home?"

"That insects are gross." she replies.

"O.K. I asked for that." I grin, "But what else did you discover."

She digs in her bag and brings out a thick exercise book.  Taking it from her I open it up to discover that, whatever else she might be, she's no shirker.  Although it's obvious that she's no artist, she's done her best to capture with her pencil what she saw.  Mostly slaters as I expected, a few grubs and some other less identifiable insects.  Her father's influence is also evident.  Carefully drawn scales have been added beside each drawing, along with a notation at the bottom of the first page. 'Dad said I needed to put in a scale.'

Not surprisingly, the slaters get the biggest write up, since they are easiest to capture and study, and also the least icky.  Her drawings show them both curled and uncurled, and she has speculated about them curling up to protect themselves.  Following that, is a section copied from an encyclopaedia about their diet, complete with a note citing the source.

The following pages contain drawings of different types of spider webs and their occupants.  I have to grin at the final passage, 'Spiders are better than bugs, they still look gross, but they eat bugs.  Some even eat birds and mice and things.'

"Very good." I praise her, "Did you put the rock back when you finished."

"Of course I did." she declares, "I may not like them very much, but they've got a right to live too, just not in my bedroom.  Any bugs that come in there get thonged."

"Fair enough." I chuckle. "How are you going with the books I gave you?"

"Pretty good actually." she says, diving back into her bag, and handing me three of the books I'd lent her. "Here, I've finished these."

"You've read the parts I wanted you to." I say, "Good."

"No," she replies, "I finished them.  Have you got any more, I like his stuff."

"I haven't got any more of his science essays," I reply, "but I've got a couple that he wrote about history and things."

"Can I have them?" she asks eagerly.

"You can *borrow* them." I reply, "They're over there on the shelves."

"Scrambling to her feet, she goes to my bookshelves and quickly picks out the books I'd indicated and then starts running her finger along the rest of the shelves.  It briefly hovers over my Xanth books then moves on. "Can I borrow this one too?  I haven't read it yet."

A quick glance at the cover is enough for me to say, "Let's reserve judgment on that one until I can ask your mother.  O.K.?"

"Oh I've read 'Time Enough For Love and the others.  Dad's got them." she informs me, "I just haven't read this one yet."

Maybe you have, but he wrote this one just before he died, and it's a little more explicit, compared to the others.  So let's wait and see.  Even if your mum says it's O.K. I wouldn't take it to school.  Some of the teachers mightn't appreciate it."

"Really juicy huh?" she grins.

"Not quite that bad." I grin back, "But it's still not something that they'd think girls your age should be reading."

After stowing the books in her bag, we talk a little more about her science class work. Suddenly out of the blue she asks, "Can I still practice on you?"

From, the way she is sitting with her knees hugged to her chest, and her feet far enough apart to call my attention to her knickers, it's pretty obvious what she is talking about. "Jenny." I say severely, "What did I just spend half an hour telling you?"

"Before you say anything else, can I say something first?" she asks.

"I'll probably regret this," I mutter, "but go ahead."

"O.K. I really do know you won't do anything to hurt me, so I'm safe.  I want to learn about boys and stuff, but the boys at school are just little kids who don't know anything and most of older boys who do know aren't safe.  But you can teach me, and I'm safe."

"What about the other girls?" I put in.

"Forget it," Jenny tells me hotly, "most of the ones who know anything are sluts, and I don't know the ones who know stuff who aren't."

"O.K. go on, have you got any more compelling arguments for me?"

"I can't ask mum because she might get the wrong idea.  I don't want to do anything yet, I just want to be ready for when I do.  And finally," she says with a cheeky grin, "You like it and don't *really* mind."

"O.K. this time your logic is impeccable." I accede, adding with a grin to match hers, "But I'll deny that last statement in a court of law."

"It's still true." she giggles, waving her knees apart and back together, "See?  You peeked."

"Did not." I deny, "It was a reflex action brought about by the unexpected motion of your legs."

"Ha." she scoffs, "Pull the other one, that one plays Jingle Bells.  You peek every chance you get."

"O.K. assuming I do peek, mind you I'm not admitting anything, but assuming I do, what's that got to do with it?"

"Well if you didn't like peeking, there'd be no point in flashing, because you wouldn't be looking, and then it wouldn't be half as much fun." she says, "Since you do like peeking, but you won't touch me, I can do it all I like and still be safe."

"That's enough of being safe I think." I tell her, "If you belabour a point too much it looses it's impact.  O.K. we've established that I won't hurt you; that the boys who you can fight off don't know anything; the boy who do know, aren't safe; girls who know and advertise that they know are sluts; the other girls who know keep their traps shut and won't tell; Your mum can't help because she'd be afraid that you might try to put anything she tells you into practice; (I think you are wronging her there.) and maybe, just maybe, I like peeking up your skirt."

"Well can I?  Practice on you I mean."

"I probably need my head examined," I mutter, "and *you* should have been drowned at birth, but since if I say no, you'll probably try elsewhere and get into trouble, I give up.  O.K. you can practice on me."

"Oh, I might practice elsewhere anyway." she giggles, holding up her hand to keep me quiet, "After all I need to make sure you know what you're talking about, but I'll make damned sure I'm safe first."

"Haven't you got it through your thick head yet, there's no such thing as safe." I say with my face inches from hers, "Every heterosexual man has a breaking point, me, Mr Sampson, the pope, even your dad.  We all have one, sometimes it just takes a flash of your knickers at the wrong time to set somebody off, and sometimes you have to practically rape him.  And don't think you're safe just because a girl or a woman is around.  Remember what I said about using you to get Vanessa?  Well there are also some women who enjoy watching a little girl get it, and will hold them down to make sure she does.

"You are never safe, safe.  There are just varying degrees of danger."

"It can't be that bad or you'd hear about it on the news all the time."

"Bullshit." I bark, "There are about two hundred sexual assaults reported in this country every day, that's over seventy thousand every year." Grabbing a calculator, I go on, "Since there are about nine million women and girls in this country that means that you have just under a one in a hundred chance of being sexually assaulted every year.  Average it out over a lifetime and it comes down to just under a fifty-fifty chance that *you* will be sexually assaulted at some time in your life.  Oh, most probably it will be just a grab on your bum or something minor but it can still leave you feeling dirty and very, very scared.

"And that's just the ones that get reported, a good guess is that only one in four such attacks get reported." I pause while I make some more calculations, and go on, "So every year, one in about thirty women and girls get attacked, and over a life time, it comes out to over nine chances in ten that it will happen to you."

"Hey how come it actually happens to four time as many women and girls every year, but it's not even twice as many for a whole lifetime?" she asks, picking up on the apparent discrepancy, and thereby missing out on the significance of the numbers themselves.

"I guess it seems a bit weird, but it works out that way because some times it happens to the same people more than once.  You'll learn about it if you ever do statistics in college, and a little bit in HSC."

"Is it *really* that hard?" she asks.

"No I guess not, it is pretty basic statistics, it's just the numbers involved here get pretty big and very, very small."

"Can you show me an easy example."

"Hmm, let me think about it." I say, "Yes I can, and we can use your fractions as well.  O.K. imagine a bag with three black marbles and one white one.  Now what are your chances of reaching into the bag and getting the white one?"

"One quarter."

"And of not getting it?"

"That means it's black, so three quarters."

"O.K. put it back.  Now what are the chances of not getting the white one a second time?"

"Uh, one and a half."

"Wrong, but I can see how you might think it is." I say, "No, the rules of the game are that all chances must be less than one.  Now can you see a way to put three quarters and three quarters together and still come up with a number less than or equal to one?"

She thinks about it for a while, then takes up pen and paper, and writes down three quarters twice.  A fews seconds later she hesitantly says, "I could multiply them."

"And that's the way you have to do it." I say, "What do you get?"

"Nine sixteenths."

"That's right."

"But I don't see it." she complains.

"O.K. I guess you'll have to see it laid out in front of you to get it.  Write down 'B' twelve times.  No, on separate lines.  And now 'W' four times.  Now next to them write 'B', 'B', 'B', 'W' and repeat it until you get to the bottom.  O.K. now how many times do you get two 'B's, and how many different ways of picking out marbles are there all together."

"Uh, nine 'BB's and sixteen ways, so that's the same as nine sixteenths," she replies, "but I still don't see why, aren't all the 'BB's the same?"

"Well yes and no." I say, "Let's just for a second pretend all of the Black marbles are different.  Here." taking pen and paper from her I name the three blacks 'B1', 'B2' and 'B3' so that she can clearly see the different combinations.

"Oh I seen it now." she cries excitedly looking over my shoulder, "There really are sixteen ways of pulling the marbles out of the bag, but because you can't tell the difference between some of them it just seems like there aren't."

"Exactly." I praise her, "Now put the marble back again and what are your chances of getting three black marbles in a row."

"Um, twenty seven sixty fourths.  That's less than half.  And four in a row would be-" she scribbles on the paper for a few seconds, eighty-one, two hundred and fifty sixths.  And-"

"I think that's enough." I interrupt her, "Do you see what's happening?"

"It's getting small pretty fast."

"That's right, so what do you think you should do to find out your chances of getting at least one white marble in your four picks?" I ask.

She goes for the obvious answer, multiplying one quarter by three quarters three times, replying "Nine, two hundred and fifty sixths."

"Good try," I say, "but what you've got there is your chance of getting one white marble followed by three blacks.  What you want are *all* of the times you don't get four black ones in a row.  Try it with just two picks so you can use your table."

I watch her as she moves her finger down the column, her lips moving as she counts. "Eight." she announces once she gets to the bottom.  So all I have to do is take away all of the black, black combinations from sixteen, sixteenths.  Which means for four it would be-" she scribbles down the numbers and ponders them for several seconds before finally admitting, "I can't do it."

"That's because we haven't done that yet, you need to borrow from the next column." I explain, "Here watch.  The first bit is easy, one from six is five, for the next column we need to borrow a one from the two so we can subtract eight from fifteen."

"Seven." Jenny puts in.

"That's right, and since we've already borrowed one from the two, there's only one left, so the answer is one hundred and seventy five."

"But couldn't I just take eight from twenty five?" she asks.

"You could, but what if you'd been taking away one hundred and eighty one?" I ask. "I know you can take eighteen from twenty five in your head, but the rule here is you do it one column at a time so that you don't make silly mistakes.  Besides, what if it had been eighty seven you had been taking away, if you tried to do it your way, things would get muddled pretty fast."

"I think I get it, can you show me some more?" she asks, "But first can you show me how the marble thing works with bigger numbers?"

"You mean what I was doing before?" I ask.

She nods silently.  Maybe the numbers had registered after all.

"O.K. for the purpose of this exercise we'll simplify things a bit and assume that every year the numbers are exactly one in a hundred, and one in twenty five.  The other number we need is how long a woman can expect to live, which is about eighty-two years.

"So it works out like this. ninety nine one hundredths, (Remember, if you want to know how likely something is to happen at least once, we start out with the chances of that event not happening.), so that's ninety-nine one hundredths raised to the power of eighty two. (That's the same as multiplying a number by itself eighty two times.)  So your chances of it not happening, are about forty four in a hundred.  Which means the chances of it happening are very nearly fifty six times out of a hundred.  Which in turn means that fifty six out of a hundred women or girls will report an assault at some time in their life."

"Hang on a sec." she objects, "if what you are saying is right, that means it happens to babies and old ladies too."

"That's right." I say, "I've told you before, there are some very sick individuals out there."

"Sick all right." She says "But it still can't be right because babies can't speak, so how can they tell somebody about it?"

"True," I say, "but the assault might be seen by somebody else, or the baby is injured so that somebody can see that it's happened.  Also older people are more likely to report an attack, so it evens things out.  Now lets do it again and include all of the unreported attacks.

Making the calculations in front of her, I say, "So the real chance of avoiding an assault each year is twenty four, twenty fifths, and in a lifetime that comes out to three and a half  chances in one hundred.  Or ninety six and a half chances of it happening out of a hundred that it will happen.  Not good huh?"

"I think I'm going to lock myself in my room and not come out." Jenny whispers. "Can't you do anything to make your chances better."

"Plenty.  But first remember, most of the assaults are fairly minor, and an even bigger proportion of the unreported ones are also minor.  In all probability, it's only going to be some drunken idiot grabbing you on the boob or something similar.  You're still going to be upset, and you'd have every right to be, but you can live with it, especially if it takes a heart surgeon to find his balls afterwards."

She giggles at my joke as I go on, "O.K. avoiding the really bad ones.  Never be alone on the streets at night.  Don't get into a car with a stranger or anyone you don't trust.  Don't flash your knickers or boobs unless you really want a guy's attention.  Don't dress or act like a slut.  When you do wear revealing clothes, like for a party when you're older, wear a coat over the top while your travelling.  If it's dark outside and you're getting a taxi home, tell them you want the driver to come to the door.  Share the taxi with friends, maybe even have all of you go to one person's place and have a parent drop off the rest, explain why and at least one person's parent will agree to do it.  Never wear just your sport's gear home from school, alway put your dress on over the top, or put on a pair of trackie daks.

"Think about the girls you see getting around in baggy clothes, they don't want just any guy's attention so they dress to avoid being noticed.  Underneath they might look like Dolly Parton."

"No way." Jenny giggles, "Their boobs would still stick out to here."

"True," I smile back, "but put on a baggy enough tracksuit and she might be as fat as a hippo too.  Why take the trouble to find out when there's easier prey out there.  There are lots of little things you can do to make yourself safer, those are the one I thought of first, but since I'm a man they're probably the most important.

"And finally, the one thing that is most likely to save you grief." I say, "If you ever feel the least bit uncomfortable in any situation, think quick, and get yourself some place safe.  Bright lights and plenty of witnesses is best, but almost anywhere there's other people will do.  Gangs of course are an exception.

"You know what a safety house is, if you ever need to use one, do it, even if you're fifty years old.

"If it ever does happen to you, the most important thing you can remember is that it's *not your fault*.  Even if you did something silly, the other person is the one who made the choice to attack you.  So long as you say 'no', all of the blame lies with the other person.  Even if you say 'yes' and then change your mind, 'no' means 'no'.

"And when it's over, report it immediately.  The quicker you report it, the more likely it is your attacker will be caught.  Also the quicker you get help, the better it is for you, because you don't have time to start blaming yourself for all of the things you might have done to avoid it.  It doesn't matter how minor you think it is, and it doesn't matter what threat they might make. You can alway find somewhere else to live until the danger is past, but if you say nothing, then if someone else is hurt and you hear about it, it's just going to make you feel even shitier than you already do.

"And enough." I sigh, "You're probably going to have nightmares for a week, after that."

"Can I have some subtractions to do now?"

"Kid you amaze me." I say wonderingly, "You're should to be hiding under a bed by now."

"Can't," she giggles, demonstrating the resilience of youth, "Elwood would get me."

"He's my monster under the bed." Jenny tells me, "Jake lives under Vanessa's."

"Oh great," I groan, "Blues Brothers and Xanth.  So what colour are her panties?"

"Same as mine." she giggles, flipping up her skirt, "Green.  Bet you asked that deliberately, so I'd show you."

"Bet you did that deliberately so I'd look." I chuckle in return.

"Of course." she informs me, "Problems please."

"Here." I say after a couple of minutes of scribbling.

She checks with me for the first couple of problems to make sure she has the borrows correct, then gaining confidence she works the next few on her own.  At which point she reaches the first in which she has to subtract two numbers from a third.

This time I'm almost certain that the slow but steady appearance of her undies is inadvertent.  Stumped by the problem before her, she wriggles and squirms almost continuously, with the pen between her teeth.  After watching several false starts, I'm just about to intervene when, she makes a happy little sound and with a flying pen breaks the problem down into two parts.

I let her do a couple more in the same fashion, still totally unaware that three quarters of her cotton encased bottom is on display, then reach across and snap her legband to gain her attention.

"Ouch!" she giggles reaching back to rub the affected part, suddenly she seems to realise her exposed state, and tugs her skirt back over her bum. "Hey, I didn't even know I did it that time."

"Obviously." I remark dryly, "You weren't checking to see if I was looking."

"So what do you want?" she asks, then suddenly she grins, "Was that sexual assault?"

"Yes," I admit, "it could be counted as such.  So you see, even I'm not totally safe."

"So you've assaulted me three time today if you count the spanking.  Or does each smack count separately?" she says with a smirk.

"Nope." I grin back, "Besides you asked for it, so it doesn't count at all."

"And since I didn't say no to the first one, I can't count this one, and I can't really count that one either because I didn't say no straight away.  But don't do it again." she waggles her finger under my nose, adding with a giggle, "Too hard."

"Incorrigible child." I mutter, "But what I wanted to say was, there's a trick to doing problems like that.  If you cover up the top number, you can treat the rest as an addition and then you only have to subtract one number at the end."

"Huh how does that work?"

"Because subtracting is just adding in the other direction." I say, "Try it on the ones you've already done and see for yourself."

She does as I ask, discovering for herself that I'm right. "Hey that's neat, and it makes it real easy when I've got to take away lots of numbers, because I only have to do two calculations instead of one for each."

"And that means?" I ask expectantly.

"Less silly mistakes." she supplies with a grin.

"You can even do it in one step, but you want to be really confident before you try, because you'll probably have to borrow more than one, and sometimes you'll have borrow from way over on the left.  This way you never have to borrow more than one.

A few minutes later she asks, "What about these?" pointing to problems which are a mixture of addition and subtraction, "Is there a trick to make these easier too?"

"Yes," I say, "but do a few the hard way first so you get a feel for them."

Instead of doing as I say, she contemplates the problem with pen in her mouth, rhythmically flicking it from side to side with her tongue.  A minute or so later she states, "I take out all the adding up first, that way I can use the subtraction trick and then all I have to do is add the rest together."

"Try it and see," I tell her, "but you're still going to have to do it the hard way to check."

Showing me her tongue she goes to work, coming up with the correct answer after a minute of diligent effort.  She's not so lucky with the second answer though, as it turns out that her intermediate answer is going to be negative, something we have not covered yet.  Turning to me with a look of utter frustration, she complains, "I can't make it work for this one."

"That's because we haven't done negative numbers yet," I say, "and we're not going to start tonight.  You almost had the trick right, but you should take out all of the subtractions and put them to one side, and since you have to have to do a separate sum for them anyway, it saves you a step at the same time.  Your way works too, it's just a little bit more difficult."

"And that means?" she giggles.

"Silly mistakes." we finish together.

"What are negative numbers?" she asks.

"Numbers less than zero." I reply, "Eventually you're going to run into them no matter what tricks you use, but not tonight."

"How can you have less than zero?" she asks curiously.

"Well if you start out with nothing, borrow ten dollars from me and spend it, how much do you have left."

"Nothing." she replies.

"Really?" I ask, "Where's my ten dollars?  I want it back."

"Um, I'd get it off Dad." she says, brightly.

"And now he's ten dollars out of pocket.  So where does he get it from?"

"He takes it out of my pocket money." she concludes.

"You've missed the point." I say, "Between you spending the money and it coming out of your pocket money, you owe somebody ten dollars, and that means you have less than zero dollars, in fact you have negative ten dollars.  You can't see it, but it's still a real number nonetheless."

"So where do imaginary numbers come from?" she asks, in a way that tells me it's a set up.

"No!" I cry in mock fear, "Not those, anything but those."

"Why?" she asks, "They were in one of those books you lent me, but I skipped most of it like you said.  And when you started talking about numbers less than zero, I sort of thought they might be them."

"No negative numbers aren't imaginary." I say, "Let's go back to that ten dollars, because that way we're working with something concrete."

"Concrete?"

"Real, real." I explain, "What I mean, is that that ten dollars exists somewhere, in your case it means that you haven't got this week's pocket money yet.  When you're older, it means that you haven't earned it.  Imaginary numbers are a whole different kettle of fish, they're somewhere to the left of straight up."

"That's not a real direction," Jenny giggles, "because it depends on which way you're facing."

"Not even that," I chuckle, "because you can't really point to the left of straight up unless you're facing straight up, even then that's not enough because your feet have to be pointing in all directions at once.  Then and only then can you point in the right direction."

"But that's impossible." she objects.

"Impossible to do, but not quite impossible to imagine," I grin, "which is where they get their name from."

"Elucidate." she tells me.

"Big word." I chuckle, "O.K. you know what a number line is right?"

"Yeah."

"Well if you put zero in the middle, all of the negative numbers are on the left and the positive ones are on the right."

"So the imaginary ones are straight up and down. Right?"

"Sorry, no prizes for guessing.  Straight up and down is still real.  You know how to find your street on a map?"

"Like B6 you mean?"

"Exactly, but we can also put numbers on the second line, and we're still describing something that's real."

"I guess in front of and behind the line is out too, because you said my feet had to face every way at once?"

"No guessing allowed," I grin, "but you still get a gold star for being right.  If we go back to the map, that direction tells us how far above or below something we are, usually sea level.  So what's left?"

"Nowhere." she replies perplexedly.

"Yes there is, but you have to *imagine* it." I tell her.

Frowning cutely, she ponders the imponderable for several minutes, before finally admitting defeat, "I can't see it."

"I'll let you in on a little secret," I chuckle, "almost nobody can, so we cheat."

"How?"

"By throwing away one of the real directions and putting the imaginary one in its place.  We put a little 'i' next to it to remind us that it's imaginary, but apart from that we just pretend it's real, and we can use the same sort of equations to calculate with them, with only a few tiny changes to the rules.  Now get back to your problems and stop trying to sidetrack me."

"Yes sir." she giggles, throwing me a salute.

When she has about three to go the phone rings. "Hello?" I answer it.

"Greg, what on earth have you two been doing?" It's Dianne, "It's nearly half past seven."

"What?" I ask incredulously, "Oh, my, God, I'm sorry, we got sidetracked and lost track of the time.  I'll have her home in ten minutes.  Bye." Hanging up, I turn to Jenny, "Quick Jenny pack your stuff, we're later than late."

Smart kid that she is, she's already packing, and less than a minute later we're in the car.  Fortunately Morrie knows to get the key from Danny next door if I'm not there so I don't have to waste time with a note.