'A PEDO MOMENT IN TIME'

   Foreword

   This is a brief memoir of an average, respectable man.  The recollection
of a passing, throwaway moment - a moment which should not affect ANY man,
but which did affect THIS man.

   * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   July 2006

   It was simply an afternoon on a very warm and crowded beach in summer,
with my family and in-laws.  I was 37, with a 6-year-old son who does not
come into this story, and an unborn child of gender as yet unknown.  I was
reclining on a blanket, and my wife playing at sandcastles with our son
whilst her brother's wife and their two girls came to and fro from the
water.

   It was a regular beach - meaning not nudist - just a regular family
beach with the typical cross-section of holiday-making families there. 
Children abounded, naturally, as did teenagers.  The inevitable spectrum of
womanhood was all around too, from young to old, and slim to elephantine. A
typical guy, I absorbed all with skipping heart and the self-discipline of
a non-erect cock in my swim-shorts.  I privately rated and assessed, and
indulged in a self-exploration of my desires.

   One thing was for sure: my own wife, my sister-in-law and her 12 and
15-year-old daughters all rated very low on my scale of interest out there.
The former, I reckoned, was not all that uncommon - how many guys in their
late 30s truly lusted for their wives anymore, I wondered?  - but the
latter was surprising.  You see, 12 or 15-year-old was by then VERY MUCH my
thing of fantasy, perhaps more so even than hot adult woman.  That pair,
however - plain, chubby and flabby - and same goes for their Mom, were not.
This only served to sharpen my observancy that day.

   I noted the variety of bathing suits with an aesthetic eye.  Always
fascinating, ranging from the standard, skimpy two-piece - which looked
better on either the `very' young or the fully mature, I mused - to the
one-piece bathing costume.  That, I decided, looked best on the 11-16
age-range, hugging their fledgling curves and leaving little to the
imagination as regards their crotches and arse-cracks.  Each type had many
variations within it: one-piecers with a big hole in the back or several
smaller ones, two-piecers tied with strings a guy longed to pull loose, and
the tops with either one flimsy back-strap or shoulder-straps too.  Oh, and
all the colours and patterns - candy for the eyes, and don't the
manufacturers just know it?

   Especially interesting, though, were the `miscellaneous': that is, girls
without either type.  A good deal wore shorts which, when they gripped the
shape of their soft arses nicely, could sometimes be even sexier than
bikinis.  I loved the towelling type - a blonde 12/13-year-old with a pink
pair of these caught my eye for quite a while - even more than the nylon or
lycra.  Not least, however, were the two last categories: those wearing
underwear - `knickers', that is, in English - and those wearing sweet
nothing at all - naked as the day they were born.

   It goes almost without saying that these two categories applied to the
very young only.  I judged that girls up to about the age of 8, perhaps the
odd 9/10 at the very maximum - THAT bordered on eyebrow-raising by the
average decent folk's standards - paraded around merrily in their cotton
knickers, topless.  I guess the criteria of decency and, therefore,
parental permission, was two-fold: how big was the girl and did she have
tits yet?  Ah, threefold perhaps: did she have any hair on her cunt, the
existence of which would be betrayed by the sodden material?  The odd 9/10
certainly had what you could at least call raised chest-fleshes, and I
believe I did pick out a couple of white knicker-wearers with genital
wispyness.

   All the above, I should confess at this point, was not merely of
statistical or aesthetic interest to me - but sexual too.  You see, my life
up to this point had been a gradual journey - descent, some would say -
through an eye for teen, through `tween', and into the non-ambiguous and -
some would say - `sick' realm of true child - that is to say, under 11ish.
Borders are fluid at 11-13 of course, with 13 - in my humble opinion -
being arousal material for ANY guy who is honest enough to admit it.  12 is
getting dubious, and 11 extremely so, but I reckon - depending on the girl
- 11 might still be in the territory of `natural male response'.

   Getting below that is a `bridge' to cross - a bridge of the libido and
shame - and I crossed it at about age 34.  Over the next 3 years, with much
casual glancing and furtive scanning around the everyday world and no small
amount of online beasting, I lowered my wank-threshold to about 7 years of
age.  I could - at a push - be sexually aroused by the sight of a pretty
7-year-old face and body.  I confirmed this to myself that afternoon on the
beach, as I noted several sweet and chirpy examples with their skinny
little bodies, flat chests and tiny bums drifting around in the modesty
only of wet knicker-cotton.

   Below 7, though, I thought `no'.  Hell, they are just little mites, with
no sexual potential whatsoever to offer a grown man.  Nothing to get hold
of, nothing feminine enough to kiss, and sure as hell nothing big enough to
penetrate.  Any thought along those lines seemed pretty crazy to me, a step
too far and a neutral land of innocence too babyish to even think about
tarnishing with a man's tongue or penis - even in fantasy.  Monstrous, in
short.  And I was no monster so, for this reason, the eye I cast upon those
little nude ones scampering and giggling about on the sand was one of idle
curiosity only.

   Six.  `6' - that was about the age I reckoned to be the limit that was
allowed to be decently naked that day, in those circumstances.  Even that
was getting borderline - although nobody would ever say anything of course,
except privately raise a passing eyebrow - and anything 7 or above
certainly had to have her cunt covered up.  The implication of this was, of
course, that no man would find a naked girl under 7 remotely sexually
interesting; hence it's okay for her to be in her birthday suit in public,
in the context of a beach in summer.  The parents there that day seemed
happy to believe that `truth'.

   Then all my reveleries and philosophizing was interrupted, and I saw it:

   It was up close and stationary, rather than flitting around and at a
distance, so I got a very good look - the best of my life.  She couldn't
have been more than 3 metres away: a little girl changing out of her
swimming costume and towelling down with the help of her mother.  First I
glimpsed the movement, and then the large red towel, and then what was
inside the towel - a naked little body, 5 or 6 years old.  She appeared to
be rather flustered, scolding her mother for a poor exchange as the towel
fell on the sand.  Her mother seemed to be telling her something like,
`it's okay, it doesn't matter.'

   The girl caught my eye just about the same moment I saw her.  The moment
was electric: hell, she actually looked guilty!  In that moment I could see
she had a kind of half-knowledge that it was not right to let a strange man
see her nudity, and she seemed to think the accident of letting me see was
her fault!  I wanted to tell her `no, don't worry, it's quite alright!' I
wanted to tell her, `no, it's fine, I'm ENJOYING seeing!' Of course I did
not, but I merely stared for as long as I felt it was natural to, and as
long as I dared lest her mother notice me.

   I probably only saw for 5 seconds, mostly behind and side-on, but what I
saw was a nectar of sheer taboo for my psyche.  I guessed her age from her
shortness and her babyish yet girlie face, and partly the simple cuteness
of her hair: a dark mop cut in a line round her forehead, hanging thickly
down the sides of her face and resting straggly around her little
shoulders. I was struck - and I mean struck - by the smooth tenderness of
her flesh, all over, but even more so her arse.  I was surprised by how big
it was - relative to her body, that is - and `female' in shape already. 
The bum-crack was no less than an erotic shock to my system.

   In those few seconds of chemistry with her innocent soul, much faster
than I could articulate at the time, a repertoire of thoughts sped through
my mind - my hands all over her little smooth body - my tongue all over her
tender skinny torso - my mouth sucking on her vagina - my kisses on her
bottom - my tongue in her arse-crack - my big cock in her child-mouth -
fucking her inner thighs, she reverseway on my lap - juggling, bouncing,
grunting - all this and maybe more, through my pedo fantasy-ridden brain in
a flash.

   So, that's what a 5/6-year-old girl looks like - naked - I thought to
myself after it was over, a little shaken.  And that was the thing: she was
clearly just a normal 5/6-year-old girl, no more precocious or physically
advanced than any other.  I had one overriding thought in the aftermath of
that beautiful incident.

   I wanted her - I wanted that age - very much, in every way.

   * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   Epilogue - July 2011

   "Okay, time for bedroom hour now, sweetie," I said to my 5-year-old
daughter.

   "Oh, do we have to right now?" she protested, playing on the floor.

   "Yes, we do.  Come on now, Abigail, stop that." I was as firm as I
needed to be.

   She gave out a stressed little sigh.  "What are we going to do this
time?"


   * * * * * * * * * * * * * THE END * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   email the author at Mazeppa1968@hotmail.co.uk I'd love to hear
any feedback you have. Have you ever had such a moment?

  
Pedo Moment in Time