By now, I could sympathize with Simmons, the Regional Operations Manager I had been called in to "clean up" for. No doubt he was a screw-up regardless, but his assistant, Marsha O'Donnell, might drive anybody to distraction.
No, I don't mean because she was hot — although she certainly was. No, Marsha O'Donnell would drive anyone crazy with her endless prattle.
Here are the things you would learn about Marsha within ten minutes of meeting her, whether you were interested or not:
First, that she was the single mother of a thirteen-year-old girl, Mary-Margaret, who was beautiful, brilliant, yada-yada-yada.
Second, that her husband had run off many years ago, and although he had followed the formalities of eventually divorcing Marsha, that didn't matter, since Marsha was a "real" Catholic, and would never remarry, at least as long as this erstwhile husband was alive.
Third, that being a single mom who had to work was tough, since this made Mary-Margaret a latchkey kid; in other words, she was home alone to fend for herself between 3:00 pm, when her Catholic middle school let out, and about 6:00 pm, when Marsha got home from work.
And fourth, that Marsha was a militant pro-life, anti-abortion activist, who often spent Saturdays picketing abortion clinics, daughter in tow, as part of a group led by her parish priest.
Perhaps I exaggerate. Perhaps it takes Marsha a full hour of acquaintance to get these factoids lodged in most cases. However, I heard them all within the first ten minutes of arriving to take charge of the facility.
Oh, I guess I should explain. I'm the corporation's executive "fixer." I travel to whichever regional location needs me, spend a few weeks straightening things out (usually after we've just fired an executive, or when one pulls the old "screw you" resignation and joins a competitor without giving notice).
In this situation, it had been the former: Simmons had so bollixed up the operations of the Upper Midwest Region that they had sent me out with his final paycheck and a job to do.
I had become the fixer through a meteoric rise (I may have left a few "corpses" along the way) and I loved it. It paid a lot better than a stationary role, and I got to move around a lot, which certainly had its advantages. I wasn't married, and I had no parental responsibilities, so I was free to pursue this job wherever and whenever the firm needed me.
Of course, I said I had no parental responsibilities. I have had plenty of paternal irresponsibilities, at least six that I'm sure of, and happily, not a one has been ever connected to me by any authority. And now I was going to try for number seven.
I had been in Springfield doing my "fixing" for nearly three months now, and my job was done. Simmons' permanent replacement had arrived a week earlier, and I had just completed my turnover. I had a flight out of town today at 4:00 pm, and after that, I'd be just another fleeting episode in this region's history: who was that masked man?
One of the characteristics of my odd role in the organization was that I never seemed to make it into any company photos — you know, the kind that employees have posted on their bulletin board behind their desks, or receive in their (big thrill) company Christmas cards. Well, part of the reason for this was the role; the other part was that I took great care to "miss" those group photo sessions if one happened to coincide with my current stint onsite.
Another care I took was to never participate in "company family" events — Christmas parties, picnics, etc. As the interim guy, this passed without much notice, as the longer-term office or HR manager would usually organize and host those sorts of things in the absence of the permanent facility chief. It's not that I was unsentimental or anti-social — although I was most certainly both of those things. I had other reasons. You see, with my lifestyle, I had to maintain a peculiar state of affairs. Call it "anonymity in plain view." I think you'll understand why by the time I've finished sharing this account.
Let's get back to the current career objective. No, not my performance for the firm, although by delivering that, I was quickly accumulating a great degree of wealth. No, the real object of my career was the extracurricular opportunities it afforded me. And the opportunity in Springfield was Mary-Margaret O'Donnell.
I have said that Marsha prattled on. I said that it would drive most people crazy. But I didn't say it drove me crazy. I found it extremely informative and interesting.
What I heard in those first ten minutes, now three months past, was something more like this:
One -- Thirteen-year old daughter: Right in my wheelhouse as a confirmed hebephile.
Two -- Catholic middle school: Schoolgirl uniform of plaid skirt, knee socks, saddle shoes, and, of course, white cotton panties.
Three — Divorced: Only one parent to dodge and she happened to take orders from me on the job.
Four — Anti-abortion activist: All I had to do was plant the seed, and Marsha would tend the garden.
So after the first ten minutes of meeting Marsha, I was delighted to have made her acquaintance and was already developing the very real hope that my quarry had been marked. Of course, I still didn't know what young Mary-Margaret looked like, but with a hot mother, she'd surely be a cutie. Take a cutie, make her thirteen, and you've got a hottie, as far as I'm concerned!
This fact was confirmed shortly thereafter, when a close scan of Marsha's desk revealed a precious photo of her only daughter. Mary-Margaret had a sweet elfin face, with an upturned nose, a light dusting of freckles, big green eyes, and long, rich, auburn-red hair. The photo was not a body shot, of course, but I could tell she was slender, just as I like them.
So, within, say, twenty minutes of arriving for a new, interim assignment, I had selected the young pubescent girl I would try to impregnate by the time I left town. That has to be my all-time record for target acquisition.
Over the course of the next three months, in addition to straightening out the regional operation, I studied my objective and planned my hunt.
I saw young Mary-Margaret in person, of course, many times, although I took great care to make sure she never saw me. It was important that she never connect my face with her mother's company in any way whatsoever, despite the fact that I also planned that she would never even see it on the fateful day, either. Redundancy in safety protocols is a must.
I spied on her as she walked home from school. She was everything I could ask for — and more. She was slender, and adorable in her little Catholic schoolgirl uniform, which she wore (gasp!) at least two inches above her smooth knees. Her white blouse revealed a cute pair of budding boobies, the size of nectarines, which mommy's keepsake photo had not disclosed. Perhaps they were a recent development?
Her blue plaid skirt swished from side to side on her just-now growing hips, and her pert rump was outthrust in a jaunty and eminently fuckable shelf.
And then, of course, there was her hair. Mom's photo had shown it to be beautiful and at least past the shoulders in length. In reality, it was spectacular. It was a glowing red-brown auburn, straight and shining, as though she gave it a hundred strokes with a brush every night. And it went past her shoulders, all right. Way past.
Mary-Margaret's hair hung straight and glorious, from the top of her head to the top of her ass, no shit. She must have never had it cut in her life, except perhaps a trim every couple of years to remove split ends. It was amazing! I took several photos of Mary-Margaret with my high-zoom digital camera over the weeks and months of plotting — in uniform, cheerleading, in a swimsuit at the community pool — and I had quite a collection of camel-toe, upskirt, down-blouse, and sweet butt shots, but my favorite masturbatory material by far were those shots that best displayed her long, sleek auburn hair in all its splendor.
I had to take care to keep my distance. There had been some close calls. I of course declined when Marsha invited me to their home for dinner. And one day, I arrived to learn that it was "take your daughter to work day", and I left with the flu before I even made it to my office suite and the inevitable mommy-daughter pair.
I also had to feign precisely the right degree of polite indifference as Marsha would go on about Mary-Margaret. I actually wanted to hear the details, but of course I also wanted to appear to be barely listening. From these monologues I learned that Mary-Margaret was the perfect child, never in trouble, good at school, and deeply religious. In fact, she was even considering a life as a nun, but Marsha, despite her pride in this fact, admitted she hoped that this was just a phase. I nodded sagely while imagining myself fucking the young teen decked out in her novitiate's habit.
So I had to take care to keep my distance, both physically and in conversation. Instead, I agonized from afar for three long months. In previous escapades, when the quarry was not so close to home, so to speak, I had taken a variety of approaches, some of which had afforded me ongoing and repeated pleasure for at least a few weeks before I made my "escape." These were seductions under false names and misleading circumstances, with a carefully camouflaged trail. Those opportunities bore higher risk, of course, but also a greater probability of breeding the particular young adolescent than did the completely anonymous, one-time despoilment I had planned for Mary-Margaret.
In fact, because in this case the young filly was the daughter of my own assistant, the risks of discovery or later identification were quite high, so in order for my plan to safely work, I'd have to wait until the very last day of my local engagement to pull it off. It's bad enough fishing off of the company dock — but criminal fishing off the company dock is far more hazardous.
And that day had finally arrived. It was 1 pm, and my flight's scheduled departure was at 4:00 pm. I handed Marsha a final, very thick file of typing to do, with instructions to get it done today and to overnight it to headquarters. That would ensure she stayed at the office until at least 7:00 pm.
Actually, I could have left town at any time over the last week. There was really no turnover to speak of, as everything was already put back in order over the previous three months, and the permanent replacement was a seasoned pro. But I had delayed, with an eye to the weather reports. I was leaving today because the weather was awful, and getting worse. I waited to ensure the one thing that an air traveler always wishes he could avoid — a storm delay on his flight — was certain for my flight. Today promised to be such travel mess, so the gears of my alibi rolled into place.
I cabbed to the municipal airport, having returned my rental car that morning. After checking in my luggage, I went to the internet kiosk and rented a private, closed-door carrel. I flipped open my laptop and connected, setting it to download a meaningless, but endless, set of filenames from a server so that the kiosk's logs would show me buzzing with activity over the next few hours. Although I had made every effort to be noticed by the operator going in, I waited until the pimply-faced kid stepped away from his post before I dodged out, shutting the cube's door behind me.
I skirted around the more active areas of the small airport, and snuck out the door, assuring myself one more time as I passed the departure screen that my flight was delayed indefinitely.
Once outside, I crossed the busy street to a construction site, idle for the past few weeks, where I found the bicycle I had stashed there the night before. I had swiped the bike off of some random suburban yard, miles from my office, from the airport, and from Marsha's home.
I rode it the two miles from the airport to the alley behind the house that Marsha and Mary-Margaret shared. Using the copy of the key I had made — from the original I temporarily filched from Marsha's handbag one day, weeks ago — I entered the back door, crept to a side room, pulled a nylon stocking over my head, and awaited the latchkey girl.
So far, I have recounted at great length my motivations, Mary-Margaret's charms, and my careful preparations. Perhaps you think I am too paranoid; that such care is excessive, or immaterial to my story.
Let me tell you something. I participate in a sport far riskier than skydiving, enriched-air scuba, or auto racing. One screw-up and the whole thing would unravel, and I'd be thrown in prison for the rest of my life which, given my story, might not be a very long one under the care of a suddenly conscientious prison population.
I had, by this point, impregnated at least six girls through these efforts. There may have been more; six actually gave birth to babies at just the right time after my departure to make me confident of the "score." Many others had been deflowered and inseminated, but had either failed to conceive or had ended the resultant pregnancy one way or another.
Risk? Let's just talk about the six mothers.
Not a one of them was over fifteen when I got to her, so each had been a case of statutory rape (the youngest was twelve, but Lordy! You should have seen those tits!).
One of these girls had been raped by an unknown intruder (yours truly) while babysitting, and two others had been drugged and then impregnated insensibly in their own beds while their parents slept in the next room. So add actual assault-type rape to the charges.
And in the three cases in which I had befriended, seduced, and impregnated the young girls under a false identity, I had taken the opportunity afforded by the more accommodating several-week schedule to turn each of them into a cock-sucking, cum-swallowing, butt-fucking cockslut. So, if you like, you can tack on three counts of "contributing to the delinquency of a minor" or some such.
Now, my batting average is only about three-fifty regarding progeny. Multiply my offenses by about three for the girls who never bore me a bastard.
So far, my careful preparations — even paranoia — had allowed me to get away with all of this. When you consider my success record, as well as the high risks, I think that careful documentation of my precautions is justified. I hope that if you are inspired to take up this exclusive sport yourself, you will also take the sort of precautions I am describing. It's not that I care about you — remember, I'm anti-social and unsentimental — it's just that I want to see you do it well "for the good of the sport."
If you're still with me, recall that I was at this moment waiting for sweet little Mary-Margaret O'Donnell, of the wondrous hair, to return from school.
Realizing I had a few minutes — mind you, I had surveilled the young thing plenty over the past three months, I knew her schedule down to a cunt-hair — I decided to poke around the house to check out my options.
First, there was the living room. The couch was large, and comfy, but fucking Mary-Margaret in that room did little for the imagination. Besides, the carpet was a rough berber. If things got as rambunctious as I hoped, we'd spend some time rolling around on the floor. Now, the idea of her perfect little pooper suffering some rug burns was fine — better than fine — but I didn't want to scrape up my knees. Not that I'm a wuss — scraped knees constitute circumstantial evidence, my friend, leading to probable cause, leading to a warrant for DNA testing, leading to bye-bye.
Moving on: Mommy's room is always appealing. I love the idea of fucking an underage morsel in her own parent's bed. But that pleasure I usually limit to those situations in which I have a complicit (and thoroughly naive) girl to play with, where she is willing to take some risks for me, and will take steps to cover up any evidence. In a case like this — a case of basic rape — I try to avoid it. Why? Because it is my belief that in many cases, the girls I've raped don't ever tell anyone, including their parents, of the attack. This may seem counterintuitive, but I believe that their own humiliation and shame will often ensure their silence. To increase the odds of this shame, I always try to get my girls to achieve an orgasm, or at least to experience great pleasure from our tryst. Somehow, that makes them feel that they share in the blame. Nice, huh? In any case, cumstains on Mommy's bed to be explained would kind of take the shamed silence possibility out of play, don't you think?
I'm sorry to sound so didactic, but I always get a little nervous — pregame jitters — while waiting to rape a girl.
Let's move on to the most promising setting — the young girl's room itself. Since I focus on girls aged thirteen to fifteen, these are usually decorated in an adorable "tweener" style: a mixed bag of boy-band posters, high school pep, and hold-over little girl motifs. There are exceptions, of course, like that sass-mouthed fourteen-year old Goth girl a couple years back. Her room was a morbid study in black, and chains, and skulls. Some parents exercise no judgment, letting such a young girl make such significant decorating decisions! Anyway, I cuffed her with her own pair — she had them hanging on the wall as decor — and raped her little cunt six ways from Sunday. Ah, what a sweet memory. I recall twisting her various piercings while I loaded her with sperm. Unfortunately, that one didn't "take."
Mary-Margaret's room went to the other extreme from that of "Miss Goth Wannabe." You'd never know that a thirteen-year old lived in it. It looked more like an eight-year-old's room, with a princess motif, Powerpuff Girls posters, dolls, etc. Such stuff wasn't that uncommon in my experience, but what was unusual was that there was not a jot of older girl "trying-to-be-cool" stuff. Mary-Margaret was probably a very sweet girl. I couldn't wait to fuck her.
Well, it was decided. The setting for this little escapade absolutely had to be Mary-Margaret's own precious little-girl room. I was about to make my way back downstairs when I glanced out the window and saw Mary-Margaret herself making her way down the sidewalk, only a few moments away. Damn! I'm getting sloppy, I thought. Oh well, I decided to simply step behind her bedroom door, and trap her in her own room.
I heard the key in the lock, down through the open staircase. I heard the door swing open, and then shut, and heard the latch turn to lock the door once more. She was inside.
She wasted little time, but started walking up the hardwood stairs, humming a little ditty to herself. How precious. She was almost to the door, and I tensed.
As thirteen-year old Mary-Margaret stepped into the room, I almost fucked up and vocalized my pleasure. She was absolutely scrumptious!
I was standing behind the door, and hence behind her, as she came to a halt before the foot of her bed. I just couldn't get over that gorgeous long hair, and from this vantage I could see its entire length cascading down her back and over the top of her sweet rump.
That sweet rump was encased in a blue plaid schoolgirl uniform skirt, out from under which projected two skinny long legs. Her butt wiggled a bit, and I realized this was because she was unbuttoning her blouse. Wait for me, Hon!
I sprang forward, and with practiced skill I wrapped one hand over her mouth and the opposite arm around her waist. Lifting her off the ground, I marveled at her slight form. She couldn't have weighed ninety pounds.
Once over her first moment of shock, Mary-Margaret tried to scream through my hand, and her cute little body started squirming in my grip. In response, I shuffled forward to the foot of the bed, and sort of tossed her onto the mattress, following close behind so as to retain control over both her body and her mouth. I took care, however, not to land bodily on the precious little thing.
First, to stop the screaming.
"Little girl, I want to take my hand off of your mouth. But you're trying to scream. I need you to understand something. If you scream, I will kill you. Then I will wait till your parents get home, and I will kill them. On the other hand, if you cooperate, nobody gets hurt, and after a short little visit between us, I'll leave. In fact, your parents won't even need to know I was here." Of course, I knew that she had only one parent. I always take care to plant disinformation.
"So, what's it going to be? Are you going to cooperate, and not scream?"
Her head nodded in my grasp.
"And you're not going to make me kill you and your parents?"
Her head shook.
"Good." I was making no attempt to disguise my voice. Mary-Margaret had never heard it, and as I was leaving town tonight, she never would again.
Before I go on, perhaps I should clarify something. In case you haven't completely got my number yet, my threats were of course completely hollow. I may be a selfish asshole, but I'm not a murderer or even a batterer. In short, I have no interest in causing my young counterparts any harm, nor any pain beyond the natural sting of a torn hymen, the discomforts of accommodating an adult male penis within a pristine, pubescent pussy for the very first time, or the erotic agonies of a sturdy spanking bent over my knee. Oh, and let's not forget the object of the exercise — I certainly wished for them the pains of childbirth as a result of our acquaintance. No harm or violence was ever contemplated for failure to cooperate. But Mary-Margaret didn't need to know that.
I released my hold over her mouth; she kept her word and kept it shut.
"Good girl. No reason to go all panicky. Everything will turn out just fine. Now, what's your name?"
"I happen to think that that's a very nice name. And how old are you, Mary-Margaret?"
"Th-thirteen." Of course, I knew all of this, too. But hearing her sweet, frightened voice acknowledge her tender age made my dick twitch.
"I also happen to think that that's a very nice age to be, too, Mary-Margaret."
"I'm going to roll you over now, Mary-Margaret; I want to look at your face. Don't worry, you won't be able to see mine — I'm wearing a mask. That's for your protection, sweetheart. If you saw my face, I'd have to kill you, and like I said, I don't even want to hurt you. Are you ready?"
I rolled to the right, so that I was lying on my side, leaving some space between us, still holding her firmly about the waist. As I did so, I also rotated her little body, pulling her up onto her own right side, and she quite cooperatively finished the movement under her own power, ending up on her back snuggly back against me. Her face instinctively turned to mine, and her tear-filled eyes were huge, green, and gorgeous. Her long auburn hair had sort of wrapped around her body as she had turned. Her half-unbuttoned shirt was twisted open, to reveal a cute white lacy bra. Her lower lip trembled.
"Shhh," I said, putting a finger across her pouty mouth. "Just to be on the safe side, maybe you shouldn't speak unless I ask you to, okay? Now, what is it you wanted to say? I give you permission to speak."
"What do you want, mister? I can give you my babysitting money. I don't have much else."
"Now aren't you the cutest thing. So, how much do you have?"
"Umm, like eighty dollars."
"Oh, well, now, that won't be nearly enough. You're going to have to give me more than that."
"But I don't have any more!"
"Well, yes. Hmmm. You know, I have an idea. You can earn it."
"Yeah. Now, let's see ... oh, yes. I've got it. Have you ever heard of a strip club?"
"You know, where ladies take off their clothes in front of men."
"Well, men pay money for that. Maybe you can give me a show, since you don't have enough money for me."
"I'd never do that! I'm a good girl. That's gross!"
"I see. Well, sorry, but I can't think of anything else. I'm going to look at your naked body. Yep. That's what I want. Plus the eighty bucks. Now, remember what I said about screaming? Good. Well, the same goes for fighting against me, okay? Good."
I lifted my arm from her waist and reached for the topmost of her blouse's still-fastened buttons. I heard Mary-Margaret draw and hold her breath, but she didn't struggle or resist. She really was a good girl.
Allowing no time for reconsideration, I quickly and completely unbuttoned the white blouse and spread it open, exposing her pale belly and her cute little A-cup bra. Her chest above the bra was lightly freckled, to go nicely with her Irish complexion. She began breathing once more, which caused a delightful rise and fall in her dainty chest.
"Now that's not so bad, is it? You're earning your money already. As soon as you've earned enough, I'll be out of here, and you'll never see me again."
I was still lying on my right side, sort of spooning against Mary-Margaret's much-smaller body as she lay on her back. I was actually propped on my right elbow, which left my right hand free to stroke the top of her head and luxuriate in her thick, silky hair. That was nice.
My left hand was enjoying an even greater tactile pleasure, as I ran my fingertips lightly across her bare tummy. She shivered.
"What cute little boobies you have, Mary-Margaret. I just love them. But I bet you wish they were bigger, don't you?"
I reached my hand up to cover and lightly squeeze the far one.
"Mary-Margaret, you can answer me."
"I don't know."
"Now, young lady, I can see that you attend a Catholic school. What do they tell you about lying? Sure, some of the things that will happen this afternoon are naughty, I'll grant you that. But you won't be sinning, since it's not your fault, I'm making you do this. Taking your clothes off, I mean. So you won't even need to tell your priest in confession — it's all on me. But if you lie to me, then it's a sin. Then you'll probably have to confess everything, including the embarrassing parts. I don't want you to have to do that, Mary-Margaret. So, tell me the truth: don't you wish they were bigger?"
"Are there girls in your school whose tits make you jealous?"
"Yeah. Mine are too small."
"Thank you for telling the truth, sweetheart. Now, let me tell you something about your breasts. I think they're perfect. But I do have some good news for you. I have a plan for today's activities that will make your breasts grow bigger, and it starts with my taking a look at them. So, I know you don't want me to be here, but if something good for you can come out of it, that's alright, isn't it?"
She nodded, and I noticed that the tears had stopped. I pushed the bra up over her little boobs, one side at a time, and although I could tell she was holding her breath again, she still made no move to resist me.
Her tits were little white mounds capped with adorable pink nipples. Her skin was, of course, completely devoid of freckles here, for the innocent Catholic schoolgirl had never exposed them to sunlight. I traced my fingertips over them, and around the nips, which crinkled in response. Cute!
"Okay, honey, this bra is going to get uncomfortable for you, so ... just let me reach under here ... there, got it, now we slide it over your shoulders ... shirt off, too ... there we go, that's better, and you've earned some more money. We're getting close now, I almost have enough, and then I'll leave, all right?"
A silver chain stretched across her delicate throat. I took it in my fingers and pulled on it, revealing that it was a longer chain that had coiled around her neck as I had rolled her over. On the chain were two items: a St. Christopher medal, and a house key. I gently pulled the necklace to its full length, and laid it between her small bosoms. The chain was rather long, reaching almost to her belly button, which made sense, since that way she could probably unlock the door without removing the chain from her neck.
I stroked down along the chain, from her neck to her belly, gliding between her wee mounds, which caused her to shiver again. I repeated this action two or three times. No matter what else came off of her today, that necklace was staying. The two pendants were emblems of my prize: she was my adorable little Catholic schoolgirl latchkey kid!
She was breathing again — in fact, a little more quickly now, it seemed — and her yummy little cupcakes rose and fell. I wanted to suckle at them, but my nylon-hose mask was an unfortunate necessity. Maybe later, when I'd worn her down a bit more, and she was less likely to note any tell-tale facial characteristics, I could pull it up at least far enough to free my mouth. We'd have to see.
"Mary-Margaret, I just love your little boobies. I have an idea that will set them off to their best effect, really look pretty. I want to frame them, like art, with your hair."
I arose from the bed. There was no danger at the moment of the girl trying to escape — she had calmed down and seemed to think that the worst was over. She actually helped me gently pull her hair out from under her and spread it around. Most of it I fanned out on the bed, to either side of her slender young torso and in a sweeping circle above her and around her head in a great auburn nimbus. In addition, I drew a long lock from each side and ran them over her sweet little tits.
Wow! Did that look great. I know I keep mentioning it, but her hair was simply unbelievable, in color, in sheen, in length, and in mass. I had loved it hanging down her back, but seeing it spread out around her petite little body, it looked like a silken nest to cradle a precious little chick. A soft, cute, defenseless little chick (into whom I hoped to fuck a bastard child!).
"Mary-Margaret, I need to lift your skirt. You ARE wearing underpants, aren't you?"
"Good. No problem then." I lifted the front of her pleated skirt and flipped it onto her belly. There it was, covered only by the tight gusset of white cotton schoolgirl panties. Her sweet little muffin.
"Now aren't these undies just precious! You look so pretty in them, sweetheart. Are all your underpants like this?"
She looked at me quizzically.
"I mean, are they all white, and cotton?" She nodded.
"You don't have any silk panties?" She shook her head.
"You never wear thongs?" Her eyes widened a bit, and she shook her head more vigorously.
"That's good. Those kinds of panties are naughty. Oh — I better ask — do you ever go around wearing no underwear under your skirt?"
"No! No way!"
"Good, good, I'm just asking. That would be really bad. You'd certainly have to tell the priest about that if you did. Well, good. And by the way, I happen to like white cotton panties the best. They look so cute."
I enjoyed the view for a while, crawling in close. I touched and stroked her panties, but I stayed well clear of her puss itself. Things were going so well, so cooperatively, I had decided to remain relatively unthreatening for as long as I could. I lifted the girl by her hips and pulled her gently towards the foot of the bed, until her knees reached the edge and her lower limbs could dangle naturally over it. Then I leaned in, placing my face between her thighs. I inhaled.
Her sweet teen crotch was emanating its natural musk, and I took a few moments to savor it. Yes, this one was an all-around keeper. Her pussy smelled great! Too bad circumstances had prevented me from taking the more leisurely, ongoing relationship route. I would have liked to have had the luxury of really getting to know this one. Ah, well, it probably would have been difficult to pull off with Mary-Margaret anyway. That approach required me to access the girl's "inner bad girl," to make her an accomplice in an illicit "love" affair with a much older man. But in Mary-Margaret's case, I'm not even sure she had an "inner bad girl" to try to access!
Well, good or bad, she certainly did have inner girl parts. Something was producing that heavenly scent, and I was ready to explore the source in detail. Doing so would require removing her panties. I stood-up to find Mary-Margaret gazing back up at me, a little apprehensive but certainly not in a panic.
"Honey, I have an idea. I know how you can earn the rest of the money I need, and then I can go. I need to see your privates. I'm going to take off your underpants."
"Mary-Margaret! Now what did I tell you about speaking out of turn? There's nothing to worry about. I am MAKING you do this. You're not doing anything wrong. It's not a sin to show me your little pussy if I'm making you do it. So there's no reason anyone — including your confessor — ever needs to know, okay?"
A puzzled look fell over her face as she thought about this, so I took the opportunity to move the agenda forward. I grasped her waistband at each hip and simply slid her panties down her skinny thighs, across her dimpled knees, past her white stockings, and over her blue and white saddle shoes. I tossed them on the floor, as the thirteen-year old schoolgirl pressed her legs together in shame, and covered her crotch with her hands.
"Mary-Margaret, you need to move your hands. You already have your panties off. I did that. If you start acting like you have a say in what happens here, you may be sinning, since sinful things will occur. If you have a say in matters, then you share the blame. Neither of us wants that. You have to do as I say, and nothing will be your fault. Now remove your hands."
Reluctantly, she pulled her hands up, crossing them on her tummy. Her knees continued to press against each other firmly.
Now, on a more filled-out girl, or on a mature woman, this pose would still serve to obscure my view. The flesh of the thighs, in those situations, would pretty much meet to hide the prize.
However, Mary-Margaret was just thirteen. Mary-Margaret had very skinny thighs, with little flesh on them (although they were still very well formed). Mary-Margaret also had, I'm proud to say, a very broad pelvic arch, which kept her legs separated at just the right place. So despite her efforts Mary-Margaret had, my friends, a fully visible virgin cunt.
I've told you that she was a slender girl. One result of this was that her rounded, immature mons was quite protruding, with little of the surrounding layer of fat — what some people call the fuck-pad — that would someday blend it in and reduce its topographic prominence atop her pelvic bone. But such was not the case today. I loved its impudent display.
At the very peak of this mound, at its highest venereal contour, I could discern a wispy little patch of pubic hair, just a few silken auburn strands.
As this juvenile mound sloped down between her coltish thighs, it was furrowed by a pouting crease, lying between two puffy-fat, but completely hairless, labia. The effect looked just like an overstuffed coin purse. Well, not quite. No coin purse has ever made my prick jump. And this little coin purse was certainly not as overstuffed as it was about to be!
"Oh, sweetheart, you sure have a cute little pussy. I'm so glad I'm getting to see it. You've almost earned enough to get me to leave. I just want to look a little closer, all right?"
I knelt at her knees, and pushed them apart. She resisted for only a moment and then, perhaps thinking her ordeal was almost over, she relaxed. I shuffled in between her thighs on my knees until my nylon-covered face was only six or eight inches from her girlhood.
The action of spreading her young thighs caused her outer labia to separate, revealing thin, dark-pink leaves within. I pushed her legs out further, and these inner lips parted, to reveal a tiny hole. Above, an adolescent clit structure was perched. I inhaled. Magnificent.
"Mary-Margaret, when did your first pubic hair grow in?"
"Um, I don't know."
"Mary-Margaret, you're doing so well. Don't spoil it now by lying. Up until this point, you've done nothing wrong. I'm about to leave, and you'll never have to mention any of this to anyone, not even to your priest in confession. But if you lie to me, then you'll have to tell him about that, won't you?"
"Uh, I guess so."
"And then he'll press for more information, to be sure he can absolve you. And you'll have to tell him all about what I've made you do, don't you see?"
"Yeah. I don't want that."
"No, I don't imagine you do. Now tell me, when did the first hair appear?"
"And you know, 'cause you were looking for it, almost every day, weren't you?"
"Yes. How do you know?"
I chuckled. "Lots of girls can't wait to grow up. Just like wanting bigger boobs. Nothing wrong with that."
I lifted my right hand and gently stroked her nascent fuzz patch with two fingertips. "This is so cute at this stage, honey. I could easily count these hairs, one by one. So, have you been having your periods?"
"Mary-Margaret, remember: you have to do as I say. If you start demonstrating free will, well maybe you can share in the fault for all this. Now answer me, please."
"Um, I don't want to have to confess any of this — you're probably right about that, mister. So, okay, yeah, I've been having them. Also since last summer."
"Now that's better. And you've had no problems? Regular cycles, and so on?"
"Yeah, I guess. Pretty much."
I spread my two fingers, and traced the outline of her fat vulva, drawing my fingers not over her labia just yet, but through the smooth-skinned depressions to either side, where her thighs met her crotch. She instinctively cringed, and tried to bring her legs together, but with my right shoulder against one knee and my left hand against the other, I was able to easily prop her apart and prevent this. I re-spread her young thighs, now even more widely than before.
"Easy now. Almost finished. You've been such a good girl so far, and you have nothing to be ashamed about. Now, when was your last period?"
"Um, it ended like last week."
"When did it start, honey?"
"About two weeks ago."
"Can you remember the day?"
"Well, it was a Wednesday. I had gym, but I didn't have to dress for it, since my first day is so heavy, the school nurse always gives me a pass when it starts. I remember 'cause Thursday I usually do laundry, but I didn't have to wash my gym clothes. 'Cause I hadn't worn 'em."