'PEDO ISLAND' formerly 'Idyllic Island'.

This story is the 1st of two pilot episodes for the Pedo Island Diary series. 5,000 words long, a half-hour read. The reader is expected to separate fact from harmless fantasy, and no children were harmed in the making of this and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is coincidental.

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PROLOGUE

For 43-year-old Mark Johnson, former librarian in England, it had been a big brave decision to `leave everything behind', as they say, and to come and settle on the Island. Location: South Pacific, about 650 miles north-east of New Zealand. Population: 453. Status: independent republic. For such outstanding benefits and dreamlike quality of life, sacrifices financial and personal had to be made, but right now they seemed unquestionably well worth it. 

He took his afternoon stroll alone on the hillside above the village, among the lilac azaleas and beneath the expanse of azure sky, reflecting on what he had in fact left behind - very little - and what he had gained - a great deal.  Behind him - 18 months and 11,000 miles behind and beyond the shimmering ocean - was a divorce, and drudgery and stress. In front of him, tomorrow, was a momentous day: a day for the fulfillment of long-standing wishes, but also a day of proving solemn commitment to the cause.

Never in his old world could he have found the girl of his dreams, his perfect blonde angel-bride. No, in that world all you ever do is `get by' and follow tired conventions and frustrating limitations. Here, though, your most cherished romances and craved lusts can come true. Juxtaposed amongst the coloured petals and greenery, he visualized the almost painfully sweet, smiling face of his beloved. Tomorrow, however, she'd be all too exquisitely real and close in her tender, pale flesh.

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PEDO ISLAND 'The Beginning'

Amy sat attentively at her desk in class J1, as the teacher chalked a word on the large old-fashioned blackboard. It was a `Citizeanship' lesson, which Amy quite liked, priding herself on being one of the most sensible 9-year-old girls around. It was Friday morning, with the sun streaming through the windows and bathing the hilly green landscape outside. A typical Island schoolday, but set to be Amy's last in J1 before being moved into J2. The age-group - 7 to 9 - would be the same, but the `2' was for those children who understood some key things about Citizeanship. There was also a class `J3' - for Juniors who understood `many' things about Citizeanship. `Children', on the Island, meant mostly girls: there were just 3 boys in Amy's current class, and 21 girls.

CONSUMMATION.

"Consummation", spoke Miss Patton, the teacher, a crusty middle-aged lady. "Does anybody know what this means?"

Everybody looked rather clueless, which strangely seemed to please Miss Patton. Amy looked at her best friend, Juliette, on the desk to her right.  Juliette shrugged. They kind of complemented each other and were both intelligent but Amy rather chatty whereas Juliette was very quiet, and Amy blonde and pretty but Juliette brunette and pretty. Amy was English and very fair-skinned, while Juliette was French - but spoke good English - and quite dark-skinned.

"Amy Sheridan, are you paying attention?" Miss Patton's voice was crisp, but thankfully not severe on this occasion.

"Yes, Maam." The Island believed in `Victorian' principles of discipline, which did involve the occasional beatings but mainly for older children.

"Good, Amy, because this topic is especially important to you this week - and possibly to you, too, Juliette." Everybody looked at the pair of them. "Now let's have some answers, class."

A few put their hands up, and offered in turn: "Fire; illness; eating; covering."

"Those were good guesses, children, but none of you are really correct.  What about you, Amy?"

"Oh, does it mean... sort of... `the end of something'." She thought her Dad had used the word once or twice, if he'd finished a painting he was especially satisfied with.

"Carry on," said Miss Patton.

"Um, is it... if something is finished and it is `good'?"

"Ahh, very close, Amy. What a clever girl you are. Mark has definitely chosen well in you, hasn't he?" Miss Patton didn't seem to expect an answer for that, so Amy simply blushed. "Consummation, class, is the act of `completion in a profound or important way'."

She paused to let them absorb this, and everybody listened carefully. By her tone, they all knew this was an important bit of information and central to the week's topic: `marriage'. So far that week, they'd learnt that marriage was a `very special friendship' between a male and female. It was, of course, a very nice and `romantic' thing too - some of them giggled at that until Maam told them off. Also, the Island had its very own `customs' in marriage, to be seen first hand, tomorrow, Saturday.

"Now, class J1, your exercise for the rest of this lesson is to copy these three sentences into your books, under the heading, `Consummation', as you see on the board."

Miss Patton chalked, and spoke the sentences.

Every new marriage must be consummated. 

This happens in private in the wedding night.

It is the duty, and also the deep pleasure, of the husband and wife to do this together.

"But what does it `actually' mean, Maam, I mean apart from completion?" asked an inquisitive girl.

"That, class J1, is something only married folk, or classes J2 and J3, or people aged over 12 are allowed to know."

"Why is it `deep pleasure', Maam?" asked another.

"Because it is like a very enjoyable `game' - just think of it as any of your favourite games you have ever played."

Amy listenened with perhaps more interest than anybody else to these exchanges, whilst she earnestly wrote up the exercise. She was very much looking forward to tomorrow's wedding. What a mystery this `consummation' thing was, though, and it made her a bit more nervous.

Especially as the wedding was her own.

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

Mark sat in the dayroom of Mr Abramov's Romanesque villa, with the man himself and Amy's father, Steve. One large bay window provided a view of the lush, sweeping valley beyond. The 48-year-old Mr Abramov was many things, officially titled `The Founder', unofficially `Emperor' or `President', both of which he in effect was. In his previous life in Russia he had been ambiguous shades of philanthropist, oil magnate and mafioso boss. He was above 6 foot with a chunky but not flabby build, always fresh and healthy of complexion although somewhat wrinkled, and his good head of fair hair had a boyish fringe which did not really go with his aura. One day he had decided to purchase an uninhabited Island paradise - and set up his own nation. Most significantly for Mark right now, the man could also be termed `instigator of a very liberal and daring social experiment'.

"And have you the bridesmaids for tomorrow?"  The Founder's tone was friendly but businesslike.

"Um, yes, Mr Abramov. Alita, the 11-year-old Philippino girl, and Juliette, the 9-year-old French girl."

"Oh, a lovely pair!  That will go down very well with the guests - an excellent contrast for the lottery." Abramov slapped him on the shoulder. 

"Well, Steve recommended Alita, but Juliette virtually went without saying. Amy would have it no other way!"

Abramov laughed, followed by Steve. "Bless her.  And how is young Amy?"

"Oh, she's fine. Just fine," answered Steve. An artist, 35, good-looking with unkempt and longish fair hair, he had come to the Island for the lifestyle of fucking, as well as painting, lots of Asian and Polynesian females. His immigration ticket had been Amy.

"Nerves? Worry?"

"Nothing much." Steve shrugged. "She's not unduly worried. It's a big adventure to her, but a bit daunting sometimes."

Mark always paid careful heed to Amy's mood, and was glad to hear she was still very much `okay as okay can be' with the marriage. She did know Mark pretty well by now - platonically, so far - as a friend of her Dad's. Also, Mark mused, it was not as if he was a bad-looking 43-year-old guy. He was trim and had most of his hair and had a nice, if average, `civilized' face.

"Ah, naturally," said The Founder. "And you, Steven, how do you feel about things now?"

"Mr Abramov, I'm as fine as ever." Steve, this father whom some would say was selling his soul, did indeed seem fine. "I have exactly the life I want here, and I know Mark will take good care of my daughter."

"I am sure he will. Now, I apologize in advance for the formality of this meeting, gentlemen, but we must confirm some obligations and rules. Such a marriage is a vital event for our community, and as such must be done right."

Mark's and Amy's was in fact only the fifth marriage between an adult and pre on the Island, and Mark was well aware he would be a kind of test case.  "Of course, Mr Abramov, it's important to be clear," he said. Steve added his concurrence with a nod.

The Founder then dealt, systematically, with "3 vital points" of a marriage to a child:

First, the marriage and wedding night must be conducted in a true spirit of erotic love, with the gentleness, care and consideration that the girl's immature body necessitates.

In a way, this was simply saying `try not to hurt her'. That should of course flow naturally in any marriage, and Mark fully intended to express his love for Amy very sweetly, while hopefully getting everything he wanted out of it.

"The social principle of our Island at stake here," summarized Abramov, "is the teaching of our children that sex is natural and good - for all ages, and between all ages."

Second, the husband must achieve consummation on the wedding night, to be verified by the Island's medical staff the morning after.

In other words, Amy had to be fucked, at least enough to leave his deposit in her - which again virtually goes without saying in a marriage. Mark well knew, though, that this was in part a security thing: to confirm his commitment to the `cause', and leave evidence to be used against him should he ever try to defect and tell the world bad things about the Island.

Thirdly, in deference to The Founder, one of the girl's `other two' aspects of virginity had to be left alone until he gave word.

This was to be for Abramov himself to take, soon after the wedding. He would, as gratitude, offer some kind of `special post-wedding gift'.

"Mouth," he said, with a genial smile. "I'd like that part of Amy's virginity."

"Okay," said Mark, "understood."

As the meeting was brought to a close, after some further discussion on ceremonial aspects and plans for tomorrow's festivites, Mark felt he had his work and joy well cut out for him.

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

"Do you, Amy Sheridan, agree to take Mark to be your lawfully wedded husband, and to provide for his needs both emotional and physical to the best of your ability?"

103 people - almost a quarter of the Island's population - turned out for the wedding ceremony at midday, Saturday, thence to proceed to the outdoor festivities throughout the afternoon. It was conducted in the Island's small quasi-celtic stone chapel. The service was modelled on Christian but slanted towards the Island's idealogy, and the key wordings varied according to the age of the female being wed. The priest's garb was like a Roman senator, but purple with a red sash.

Amy smiled nervously at her Dad, standing to her left. "Yes, I do."

"Do you, Mark, take Amy to be your lawfully wedded wife, and to nurture her with care both emotionally and at times of carnal union?"

He glanced down at Amy, the crown of her sweet blonde head just below his shoulder-height and wearing a red-with-white-spots Alice-band. This was a cute match for her prepubescent body-hugging red silk dress.

"Yes, I do."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife and, on behalf of our noble Founder and all the people of this Isle, I bless your night's consummation of this union." There were some `ahhhs' from the congregation, as a crown of white apple-blossom leaves was placed on her head and palm leaves on Mark's.

"Mark, you may kiss the bride." Amy's smile - she had all her final teeth now - was an exquisite model of bashfulness.

Her face, at this moment flushing pink, was what had most drawn Mark to her in the first place. It was a kind face, with the subtlest peppering of freckles on her nose and under her green eyes. Mark took the sides of her head in his hands, and stooped to place a soft, slightly lingering kiss on her thin tender lips.

The afternoon's celebrations were in the form of fine dining in the spacious gardens of The Founder's villa, with the folk seated around 10 tables plus the traditional table at the head. On this, besides the bride and groom and bridesmaids, were sat The Founder and his wife, Alexia, and her adult daughter, Valentina. Before the food was served by the team of 7 teenage girls and 3 boys, everybody had an hour or so to mingle and chat. This involved all the typical wedding small-talk and pleasantries, increasingly buoyed up by the wines on offer. Amy recieved a lot of comments, some of them inane, but many on nice astute details of her hair, dress and little pearly earrings and necklace.

"She's a darling, don't get me wrong - I can see what you see in her, but seems such a pity you can't go at it tonight with oomph and passion," said one guy to Mark, in all sincerity. Mark knew him to be ephephophile - `teen-lover', and understood his point.

"Ahh, no, but it's part of the special sweetness."

"Ah," the guy said, and appeared to take the thought away with him.

The food was preceded by speeches, with Abramov's opening address about the all-important symbolism of this event for the Island's philosophies, and an exhortation for the `lovers of unripe fruit among us' to follow the good behaviour which he felt sure Mark would model. Steve, on his turn as father of the bride, waxed lyrical about the quality of life here on the Island and how today's event was a perfect model of the spirit of sharing. Mark, in his speech, eulogized on how lucky he was, and on Amy's loveliness as a person.

Towards the end came the part many were waiting for: the lotteries. First, to spend the night with a bridesmaid of the winner's choice. Amy herself drew the name from the hat. The guy who won, a portly middle-aged carpenter, looked very happy, and chose - to the surprise of some - the puny and mousy 9-year-old Juliette rather than the coffee-skinned and budding 11-year-old Alita. Second, a night with Valentina, 26-year-old step-daughter of The Founder, a smouldering queen of spades of a woman. She drew it herself, and it turned out to be one of the serving boys, aged 17. He and his friends found this hysterical. Valentina sighed, rolled her eyes in good humour, and purred to him: "Well, I'll see you later, then."

It was the biggest, crudest cheer of the afternoon, a bit over the head of the sweet Amy. Mark was glad when the time came to whisk his sensitive young bride away for the night.

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Set in little secluded gorge, the `bridal suite' was a nice two-floored cottage with a thatched roof and white climbing roses all around the walls. It had two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, at the top, and a lounge and kitchen below. Mark, holding Amy's hand, led her into room 2 which was geared towards under-13 brides. A king-sized bed with a pink teddy-bear patterned duvet jutted out into the middle of the floor, with wallpaper in a pink and blue flowery design. Amy gazed around and smiled cautiously, her exquisitely light and fine blonde hair spilling all around her delicate shoulders, and her red silk dress emphasising rather than disguising the delicious fragility of her 9-year-old body. Mark felt paradoxically protective, yet determined to have the most erotic and devouring sex possible with this sugar-sweet child.               

45 minutes and games of kiddy-scrabble, snakes and ladders and some sweet laughter later, he sent her to do her `bathroom stuff', but told her she needn't clean her teeth this particular night. He wanted to enjoy her girlie-child breath in its natural state.

"This is where we take our clothes off, darling," he said, standing by the side of the king-sized bed, when she returned. He wanted to make an `event' out of the undressing, as befitting what was obviously an exciting moment for all newy-weds.

"Oh." An uncertain chuckle.

"Who should go first, though?" 

She shrugged, giving a meek smile. "I don't know."

"Well, I think it should be you," Mark chirped.

"Why?"

"Well, because it's traditional - it's where the bride shows off her full beauty to her husband."

"Hehe... oh."

"So, go on, then. It's ok - I'm supposed to look."

She loosened the zip at her back and, with a sheepish grin, slipped off her shoulder straps. With innocent simplicity, she dragged the whole garment down her fair-skinned child-torso: utter flatness. Her delicate treasure was now protected only by skimpy pink knickers. Then, a wondrous sight, she tugged them straight down, completing the unwrapping of herself.

Suddenly Mark thought, despondently, there was no way his adult hardness was going to go into that! - the small tight coin-slot amid a soft mons of flesh - yet it had to, at least in part. He reminded himself that there was a plentiful supply of lube provide in the bedside cabinet and there was no hurry whatsoever.

He told her not to remove her Alice-band. Moments later, Amy was confronted by 5 foot 11 inches of naked man, and her first ever sight of an erect penis standing proudly from its hairy ball sack.

"It's okay, sweetie, you're supposed to look." She gave an exquisitely flustered smile.

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

Mark went to his knees before the altar of Amy's childhood nakedness, assimilating the vision from head to toe. He `worshipped' by sliding his hands up and down her narrowness from her thighs to her armpits, and planting kisses on her cheeks and lips. She flinched a little at this strangeness, and looked a touch perturbed when his groping hands settled round her hips and buttocks: oh God - so soft and small! Then he got her to rotate slowly, so he could enjoy them with his eyes too.

"You're a very beautiful princess, Amy," he said, cupping his hands round her face. Mark sealed a lengthy but gentle kiss on her mouth. She had on very pale-rose lipstick, so subtle that it could almost be her natural child-lip colour.

Suddenly it just seemed to be the correct, playful thing to do - he scooped her up and rolled onto the marital bed with her. She cried out and giggled, and Mark laughed warmly and lightly - so wanting to teach her that sex, particularly wedding night sex, was a whole lot of fun. He manouvred her onto her back and lay sideways to her.

"Let me take this off now, sweetie." He gingerly lifted off her Alice-band, and now with her free golden strands she seemed truly like a princess unwrapped for carnal recreation.

Then he indulged in a slow, endless heaven of love-kissing, caressing her hair and running his finger along her nose or eyebrows. He had to tell her to open her mouth sometimes, especially when he rooted his big tongue in, and he tried to encourage her - with limited success - to respond in kind. Satisfied with his fill of her warm, sweet breath, he would break off at intervals to kiss and lick at her neck and `tits'.

"What are you doing?" she asked, when he groped and rubbed her little cunt.

"It's one way a husband shows love," he explained, and he got her to grip and caress his penis - but not for very long, lest he made a premature mess.

Also he tried try to inject spontaneity and laughter by going onto his back and lifting her above him, encouraging her to open her legs around his belly and come down on him and initiate the kisses herself. She of course had no idea of `dominant woman'. It mattered not - it was a great position for groping her exquisite arse while his lips pecked at her face and her hair dangled over him. It was just one of the many aspects of making love which, as proper for a husband and wife, he could build on with her in the coming months.

"How long do we do this for?" she asked, on all fours over him, a bit of a bewildered aura seeping into her giggliness.

"As long as we feel like, darling." He smiled, giving her ass-crack a few gentle pats.

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

Her small cunt tasted of surprisingly little - like a bland, processed meat - and any faint smell or taste of piss seemed to be absorbed by her general pure child-flesh aroma. The tip of his tongue mapped the edges of her vulva and lapped over the slitty smoothness. After a few seconds delayed reaction, presumably adjusting to this huge strange intimacy, she giggled.  He had her laying on her back on the end of the bed, clasping her sides, her legs over his shoulders.

"Do you like this, sweetie?" he asked.

"It... tickles," she said.

"You might get a nice feeling soon, darling. Tell me if you do, and react however you want, okay?"

"Uh, yes. Is it not dirty?"

"No, no, sweetie. There's nothing dirty about it." As if to reinforce the point, he sucked harder and audibly on her genitalia as if trying to extract juice from a plum. "This is what a man and his wife does."

Periodically he broke off to have a close look at her miniature anatomy.  This aspect of her training was important, as it wouldn't hurt her and might even thrill her, so it needed to be done well. Hell, yeah - clear as day:  the little knobbly sheath sat there proudly between her outer labia, above the very tiny-looking hole.

Amy flinched, as he delicately pressed and manipulated it. "It's okay, sweetie, I'll be careful." Pinching the exquisite thing out of its sheath, which drew sharper gasps from her, he went to work on it with the tip of his tongue.

For 20 minutes solid he sucked, licked and lapped at a 9-year-old's clit and its environs - at the cunt of his beloved wife - `making love' in surely one of the most appropriate ways for a newly-wed couple, but with the aphrodisia of it being adult-child sex. Amy mostly lay there passive but would sometimes giggle in a half-pained way, especially when he tongue-tipped hard on it or attempted to dip right into the tiny hole itself.

Gradually her little squeaks and moans did seem to be something resembling orgasm, albeit an undeveloped version of it which she didn't even understand for what it was. No matter - what could one expect? - this was a great success and a delightful revelation. However, the central aspect of wedding night love-making still had to be achieved.

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

"It's cold," said Amy, with a tired giggle. Mark rubbed the colourless jelly onto her tight, slitty mons, as she lay there at the end of the bed with her thighs up and open in most unchildlike fashion.

"It's important, though, and won't do you any harm."

"This is part of the `consummation'?"

"Yes, part of it."

Focusing like a doctor, he rubbed some into her slit and onto the hole itself, making her flinch. Then he tested with his index finger: it went in, passing between the tender sinewy opening and into the red passageway as a snug fit.

"Ouch!" she gasped.

"Sorry, does this hurt a little, sweetie?"

"A bit."

"Sorry."

He held it there to let her adjust, then finger-fucked the 9-year-old vagina for a minute, at just 1 inch depth, monitoring her gasps and winces and the way her abdomen sometimes flinched away from this breaching of her intimacy. After a minute or two he stopped, and lubed up his cock.

His adult bulk hunched over her at the end of the bed, with his arms planted around her in a kind of predatory entrapment, his bristly torso twice as wide and full as hers. His thighs and bum, although pretty average for a man, seemed powerful, thick and hairy settling over her exposed crotch. Not least, of course, his aroused and ready penis looked ridiculously and fearfully big. With his feet grounded, he steered his rigid thing onto her bald little sex.

"What now?" asked Amy, as ever polite but with distinct weariness and stress in her honey-dew voice.

"It's okay, sweetie. All you need to do is stay still in this position."

Judging the tender tissue's stretchability, he eased on in, his skin getting forced back. Clearly the tight and delicate inner-pink was the factor in deciding whether his thickness could get in, rather than her outer labia which simply parted out wide. The appearance, as well as the feeling, of an inch of his erection embedding in her vulva which was no more wide than it, was too nice, too shocking.

Amy cried out, her little face screwing up and Mark had to ignore it as he gasped with concentration and impending orgasm. He cupped his hands over her head and stabbed at her innards in a steady but shallow rythmn.

He tried hard not to do any big climactic lurches into his whimpering and squeaking beloved as his tingling eruption came, and instead stiffened his entire body on straightened-up arms. Grimacing, he held the position until the slowing pulses of his shaft signalled the end of his flow.

In the gloopy whiteness that had flooded around the head of his cock, and smothered her vulva and surrounding crotch-flesh, there was the odd speck and string of blood.

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

That didn't feel like the real consummation to Mark, but a technical one only. The `real' came 6 hours later, at about 4am when it was almost light. At first he gently touched her all over, gaining a huge erection as he lay on his side behind the sleeping and sexed child. He slowly turned Amy onto her back, and pushed off the duvet. She began to moan a little, turning her head from side to side. He manouvred his pillow under her bottom, and got into position with his elbows around her head and his knees between her thighs. He pushed them apart, and began caressing and kissing her head and face. She woke up.

"Shhh, it's ok," he whispered, "it's only me." She groaned in half-awake confusion.

He began to gyrate his crotch slowly at her, and grabbed her knees to push them further out. She whimpered, sleepy fear on her face. "It's okay," he said, "I'm not going to do that again."

He grinded the underside of his hardness with precision against her vulva, avoiding a penetrative angle. Amy sobbed a little, and Mark slid his fingers into her golden princessly strands and was just about able to arch his body down to kiss her forehead without losing their genital contact.

"Put your hands on my back and my bum, sweetie."

He bucked his hips with more suppleness and speed, his aching and throbbing increasing at this simulation of a true fuck, his under-shaft ultra-sensitive to her labial softness. He smattered her forehead with kisses, and grinded harder as he felt climax throughout him.

"Ohhhhh, Amy!" he cried out, as she flinched and squeaked with the blows of his heavy pelvis on her tender, widespread inner thighs.

"What?" she asked.

"Uhhh! URGHHHH!" he grunted, and came. He curled his fingers up in her hair, pulling on the roots just enough to hurt her momentarily, while he strained the last of his semen onto her belly.

As he ebbed and rolled to the side of her, he felt embarrassed for his noises which her 9-year-old mind did not understand. But he felt satisfied too, at expressing a proper passionate fuck with his wife.

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

EPILOGUE

When Amy woke up on Sunday morning, at 10am, she felt strangely insecure. A general dull pain between her legs, and a more specific one in her pee-pee, quickly reminded her of all the strange and rude events of last night. When she came down for breakfast - served by a Polynesian mother and teen daughter - Mark was very nice although quieter than usual. There was no strange touching, but just the odd little kiss on her cheek, and several times he asked "how are you, darling?" Amy said, "ok", because that seemed to be the right answer.

Towards midday, the doctor and nurse arrived in a car to take her to the health centre. There, in an examination room with the two of them and Mr Abramov, she had to lay down naked below the waist with her legs open like last night.

"Don't worry, Amy, the odd little touch might hurt for a second, that's all," said the nice doctor, as he did some poking around in her private area a bit. Also, the nurse stuck a cotton-stick thing in there and took it away to a microscope.

"What a brave princess," said Mr Abramov, warmly. "Not even a sound."  She did flinch, though.

"Okay," said the doctor, "some inner-thigh bruising, not severe..."

"Normal enthusiasm? Passion?" asked Mr Abramov.

"Yes, I'd say so."

"Good."

"Also, minor rupturing to the vaginal opening, and fresh hymen tearing."

"Oh? To be reasonably expected?"

"Yes, and by the lack of wounding, I'd say the hymen was half gone anyway."

"Ah, she has done a lot of cycling, haven't you, Amy?"

"Yes, Mr Abramov."

"Dried semen obvious on the belly, in and around the vulva, but just to confirm..."  The doctor went to the microscope.  "Oh, yes, plenty of tadpoles in there."

"Ah, so we have an Island wife." Mr Abramov sounded happy.

"And a husband who does his duty," said the doctor.

"And a real lovely young lady." Mr Abramov ruffled Amy's hair gently.

Amy smiled, feeling she obviously had reason to be proud.   


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


Any feedback welcome to Mazeppa1968@hotmail.co.uk

my other stories http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/englishperv/

the sequel to this one: 
