Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Author: JojoMojo
Title: The Crying Game
Part: 1
Universe: The Crying Game
Summary: A chance meeting provides an unexpected opportunity.  Will he
take advantage of what is offered?
Keywords: Mg, light pedo, nosex
   The following is completely and without a doubt a fictional account, 100
percent fantasy.  That said, as I write, I reflect on the things that I
experienced as a child, what felt good and what did not.  Those experiences
had a profound effect, and for the most part, I look back on them fondly.
   Caring, fun, ecstasy is what I'm interested in, for all involved, or
it's not worth doing or writing about.
   Copyright (C)2015 by the author
   THE CRYING GAME
   a vignette by JojoMojo
   (Mg, light pedo, nosex)
   "You can touch me on the bare skin, if you want," she said as casually
as if she had said, "You can hold my hand."
   "It was too easy to get to this point," he thought as he knelt down in
front of her.
   It had only been a month or two since he looked up from his work
cleaning out the garage and saw her.  She was on the sidewalk, pushing her
bike past his driveway, the chain hanging off the back wheel.  She looked
so dejected, yet earnest in pushing the bike that his heart melted.
   "Hey!  You need help with your bike?" he called walking out onto the
driveway, wiping his hands on a rag.
   At the sound of his voice, she stopped pushing and her head snapped up,
her look a wary.  She was slender with auburn hair and freckles scattered
across a cute pug nose.
   He gave her a big grin.  "I can get your chain back on in no time and
send you on your way.  You don't even have to bring your bike into my
garage; I can fix it out here on the driveway."
   She looked at him, gauging whether or not he was safe, he assumed,
knowing that the schools put a big emphasis on staying away from strangers.
   "I guess so," she finally said after looking up and down the street.
   He grabbed a wrench and an oil can, then walked back to the drive where
she was waiting, her eyes still wary.  He stuck out his hand with a big
grin, "I'm Bob, at your service!"
   She reached out tentatively and took his hand.  He pumped her hand with
both of his ignoring the fact that she had not offered her name, leaving
well enough alone.
   He had the chain back in place, tightened and the bike back on its
wheels in no time.  He spent a few extra minutes oiling the chain, axels
and steering for good measure, checking the nuts & bolts and tightening
where needed.  When he pronounced it "good as new" she waved goodbye and
pedaled off with a smile.  He walked back into the garage feeling that
peculiar lightness that comes from doing a good deed.  The last thing he
expected was to see her again.
   The next day he was back at it, cursing himself for letting the garage
get so messy, when she appeared in the drive.  She had just stopped by to
thank him she said, but ended up staying and helping as he cleaned.  Before
long she had collected a box of "treasures" from the stuff he was planning
to throw away.  In the course of the afternoon he found out her name was
Tricia, she had just turned ten and was the youngest of three; her much
older siblings all out of the house.
   After that, it was if she had the house under surveillance.  As soon as
he opened the garage door she would appear.  She seemed to crave his
company and was happy to help with whatever he did, handing him wrenches
when he worked on the car, holding the end of a board as he cut it.  While
they worked, they talked about all manner of things, never seeming to be at
loss for a topic.
   After a little while longer she grew bolder.  If the garage door wasn't
open, she would ring the doorbell but only when his wife's car was gone. 
That should have been his first clue, but he missed it, glad for her
company.
   With the paranoia around "stranger danger" that the schools were
spreading, he had learned to worry about appearances.  Helping him in the
garage with the door wide open was one thing, but coming into the house
might raise someone's antenna.  So, that first time he opened the door to
see her standing on the porch, he asked her about her parents, afraid if
they came looking for her they might be suspicious of his motives.
   Her dad was usually at work and her mom, well her mom didn't really
care, she told him.
   He took her hand and had her walk him down the street to her house.  The
woman who opened the door looked slightly annoyed to have been pulled away
from whatever it was that she had been doing.  He told her that Tricia had
been helping him occasionally and explained that he wanted to make sure
they had met and that it was ok with for her to be spending time at his
house.
   Her mother shrugged, said something like, "Whatever she wants to do as
long as she is out of my way," and turned, closing the door without a
goodbye or other pleasantries.  Tricia grinned and gave him a knowing
glance, saying "I told you so" with her eyes.
   With her mother's tacit approval, she invited herself over whenever she
wasn't at school and it was obvious he was home alone.
   He enjoyed her company.  She was smart and possessed a wry sense of
humor, often making a joke subtle enough that it took him a moment to
realize she was joking.  He loved how her green eyes twinkled when she had
caught him unawares.
   She thrived on hugs, demanding them if he didn't give her one as soon as
she appeared.  He was glad to give as many as she wanted.  He loved the
feel of her thin frame wrapped in his arms and felt honored that she wanted
to be close to him.
   It wasn't that he didn't think occasionally about taking things down the
path he had been with other little girls in his life.  He did.  But for
some reason he just wasn't in a hurry to move things in that direction and
had done nothing to suggest he might be interested.  That's why her
invitation caught him off guard.
   It was one of those times that she had demanded a hug that it happened.
   She stepped inside and as soon as the door was closed and jumped into
his arms wrapping her legs around his waist.  At ten, she was heavy enough
that her sudden leap caught him off balance.  In trying to keep from
dropping her, one arm ended up around her waist and the other under her
buns, almost on her crotch.
   She was wearing a sundress that day.  When she jumped, it flew up and
without meaning to, he ended up clasping a pair of panty clad buns as he
supported her.  Almost as a reflex, he ran his finger along the cleft
between her firm orbs and towards her thighs, spread wide as she clasped
his waist with her legs.
   "You can touch me on the bare skin if you want to," she said before
sliding out of his grasp and standing in the foyer, looking up at him
expectantly.
   He bent over so that he could look her in the eyes.  Unsure of her
intent, he cautiously asked the obvious, "What do you mean, Tricia?"
   "My bottom and stuff," she said earnestly.  "If you want to, you can
pull my panties down and ...", she let her voice trail off leaving the rest
to his imagination.  Her eyes slipped from his gaze and stared down at the
floor where she traced imaginary lines with the toe of her shoe.
   In spite of his plans to the contrary, he found that he could not resist
her invitation.  He knelt and swept his eyes over her, taking in the
shoulder length auburn hair, gathered in a pony tail.  The pale skin of her
shoulders, freckles scattered where the sun had touched them, were skinny
yet looked soft and inviting.  There was something about a little girl's
naked shoulders that made his heart skip.  The gathered material of the
bodice clung to her slender frame, making the bumps on her chest stand out.
He could almost feel them, knowing from experience that they would be soft
and pliant.  The flouncy skirt that had flown up, exposing her panty clad
buns to his grasp, accentuated her slender legs.
   For a moment he considered untying the thin straps that held the dress
up and pulling it down slowly, revealing her flat chest with those little
bumps as it slid past them.  He could imagine the line where the freckles
gave way to pure, pale skin; imagine her slender stomach coming into view,
then her navel and finally her panties.  He could almost feel her hands on
his shoulders for balance as she stepped out of the dress and stood nearly
naked in front of him.
   Instead, he took a deep breath and focused on her waist as his hands
slipped up under the skirt to the waistband of her panties.  His heart
started hammering, a familiar feeling from times past, as his thumbs hooked
under the elastic.  He anticipated pushing her panties to the floor and
raising her skirt to reveal the beauty that he knew lay hidden beneath the
fabric.
   Every first time was a rush, the sense of heightened awareness, the
anticipation.  While a casual observer would say that all little girls
looked alike, he knew differently.  Some had a prominent pubic mound, some
the cleft seemed to be flat, almost hidden between their legs.  Some had a
dimple at the top of the cleft, some were merely slits.  Some had plump
lips, others thin.  What was hidden between those lips had as many
variations.
   That initial moment of discovery, that first unveiling was mind blowing.
He loved the knowledge that he had reached a new level of trust, wondering
what the next moments would reveal and how his little friend would react to
his gaze, to his touch.  Some giggled, others were quiet; some embarrassed,
even covering their eyes as he took that first look.
   Something made him pause and look up into her eyes once more.  Big tears
were forming in the corners, ready to follow the trails of tears that had
recently preceded them.  It stopped him cold.  He pulled his hands out from
under her skirt and grasped her by the waist instead.  She looked up from
the floor, meeting his gaze.  He found himself looking into green eyes
rimmed with tears, trying to fathom the sadness and fear he saw; the
excitement of a moment before forgotten.
   "Hey honey, why the tears?" he asked, his voice soft.
   "It's ok," she said, her voice unconvincing.  "I just thought," she
paused, "I just thought that you were, well," another pause, "that you were
different," she finally managed to get out.  The quiver in her voice made
him sure that she was fighting hard not to cry out right.
   "Well, if it makes you cry, then it's not ok in my book," he said. 
"Come on let's sit down and talk a little."
   He tugged on her hand and she followed him reluctantly to the couch.  He
sat down and patted the cushion next to him.  She sat down and he put an
arm around her shoulder.  She melted into him and put her head on his chest
and the tears began to flow.
   He held her while she cried.  He listened as the sobs eventually reduced
to sniffles, as she regained her composure.  She took a proffered tissue
and wiped her nose and eyes, then curled back up against his chest.
   He stroked her hair and when the sniffles finally stopped, he whispered,
"What do you mean by you thought I was different.  How, and from whom?"
   "I-I'm not supposed to talk about it," she said, her voice small.  The
way she said it left an opening, almost as if she was testing to see if she
could trust him with her secret.
   "Your secret is safe with me, honey," he whispered, continuing to stroke
her hair, careful to keep his contact neutral.  "You don't have to tell me
anything you don't want to.  But, I'm here to listen if it will help."
   In stops and starts, the story came out.  Without sharing specifics,
using language that was fitting for a ten year old, she told him that her
father and uncle "did stuff to her." They had been "playing secret games"
since she was four or five, sharing her back and forth; sometimes together,
sometimes separately.
   At first it all felt good and she had been a willing participant.  But,
as things progressed, they were less and less concerned about her feelings,
not interested in anything but their own release.  She had moved from a
participant to an object, just something that they used.
   She ended with, "...sometimes they call me dirty names and make me
pretend that I want them to do things that I don't like.  Sometimes they do
things that hurt and if I cry, they do it longer or make me do more things
they know I don't like."
   His heart melted.  He felt immensely saddened, and conflicted.  He
wanted to ride in, a knight in shining armor, and free her.  But he knew
that his armor was a bit tarnished in the eyes of the authorities.
   More than that, he didn't trust the system; a system that with the
current hysteria painted any and all sexual activity with children as evil.
A system that he believed would not free and empower her, but chain her
forever to these acts that were beyond her control; make her the angry and
perpetual victim.
   He was also afraid that once in the spotlight, even as her savior, his
carefully compartmentalized world might come apart.
   He'd seen it too many times before; how the system did surgery with a
chainsaw rather than a scalpel, leaving broken families in its wake, none
the better for the intrusion.  He knew from his own experiences, that you
couldn't paint everyone who had sexual contact with a child with the same
brush.
   For every monster like Tricia's father, there was someone like him who
cherished children and looked out for their welfare.  Someone who enjoyed
teaching them about their bodies, but was willing to let things progress
(or not) at a speed that was right for the child.
   He knew the system looked at his actions with little girls through the
same lens that it did people who forced kids to do things against their
will.
   He was proud of the fact that in most every case, he was still in touch
with the girls; had watched them grow and mature.  That with each one he
had stayed in touch with, he had been granted "favored uncle" status; even
walking one down the aisle not so long ago.  He firmly believed that in the
right circumstances the things that he introduced them to somehow empowered
them as children and helped to make them better, more fulfilled adults.
   At the same time, another thought entered his mind, one that made his
face redden with embarrassment.  He had always fantasized about finding a
child who was already initiated, that he knew he could trust.
   Even when he had chosen carefully and moved things along at a very slow
pace, gauging reactions as he progressed, the first few times with any girl
meant weeks and sometimes months filled with a mixture of anxiety and
rapture.  It meant moving from the heat of a shared moment to the fear that
maybe he had read her wrong and she would reveal their secret when she was
not with him.
   He had always surmised that a girl in Tricia's situation had bigger fish
to fry.  If she was going to tell on someone, it would be the ones that
were hurting her.  Most likely, he could safely enjoy her without worry.  A
little voice in the back of his head introduced the thought that she might
be even willing to do far more than the other girls had.
   That thought and how it conflicted with her tears, her obvious distress,
is what brought the color to his face.  There was another small part of him
that tried to justify that he could help her to see the difference between
loving sexual touch and what her father and uncle did to her.
   Ultimately, he was determined not to add to her pain by giving her one
more secret to keep.  Especially if she equated that kind of touch to
something hurtful.
   For the time being he pushed all the thoughts back and concentrated on
neutral, safe touch, wishing the moment had never occurred.  For a long
time he just held her and murmered, "You're safe with me." Eventually,
nature called and she slipped off the couch and into the powder room,
leaving him to ponder his next move.
   As he waited for her to return, fantasy played out with him as a hero,
somehow secreting her away from her abusive father and disinterested
mother; keeping her safe at his house.
   Of course, his true options were very different.  He knew that he had
introduced himself to her mother and even pointed out his house.  He knew
that the most lackadaisical parent could become a tiger if their child
disappeared and the spotlight was on them.
   There was his wife to think about as well.  He was pretty sure that she
wouldn't agree to what was essentially a kidnapping, regardless of the
circumstances.
   Tricia returned and climbed into his lap hugging him tightly.  "I'm
sorry I told you that you could touch me, then started crying." She paused
as if thinking, "When your hand was on my bottom, it made me kind of feel
good and I wanted you to touch me some more, but then when you started, I
kinda got scared."
   He hugged her to him, "Well, let's just forget about it for now.  How
about we go work on the bird house we started making yesterday?"
   She slipped off his lap and followed him to the garage.  As they worked
together she seemed to regain some of her sparkle.  They were just
finishing the bird house when he checked the time and realized that they
had to quit.  When she protested, he reminded her that his wife was going
to be home from work soon.
   She nodded, and with a hug and a whispered, "I love you," she headed out
of the garage and down the street.
   As he watched her disappear down the street, her words echoed in his
mind.  Those words made the decision for him.  He knew there would be times
when he would be tempted.  He knew that he couldn't magically fix things
for her, even though he wished he could.  But, he was sure that he could
provide a safe place for her when she was with him.
   He closed the garage door, feeling the same peculiar lightness that he
had experienced the first day they met, only stronger this time.
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The_Crying_Game