Adjusting my skirt, I settle myself on the wooden park bench, the early July sun a gentle glow on my back -- and a matching glow of excitement quickly building in my tummy. She's here again...
Casually as I can manage, I allow my eyes to drift over to where she now stands, this slim, boyish young blonde of around twelve or thirteen who idly watches a small boy as he mounts the stairs to the top of the slide. Her arms and legs are delightfully bare, and she wears open-toed sandals. No breasts to speak of. Her hair is a thick, somewhat tangled mane of dark blonde tresses. And then there are her eyes -- bright blue and piercing. Hungry, somehow.
The sunlight that frames the girl makes the thin fabric of her short skirt almost transparent, revealing the outline of slender thighs. The steady throb inside me continues to make itself felt, and I savour the oddity of my situation.
A man of any age, seated here often as I am, would surely arouse the occasional look of suspicion from the she-wolf pack of passing mothers, taught to be always on guard against sexual predators. But I, a woman in my late thirties, attract no doubtful glances as I perch on the edge of the bench, my eyes lingering on this flawless nymph. As far as the distracted mommies know -- and that's if they even bothered to give the matter a moment's thought -- she could be my own little girl.
I feel warmth and dampness slowly gather between my thighs as I shift slightly, increasingly aroused by my little Lolita. She suddenly bends down to pick up a discarded flower, lying on the pavement near her left sandal, and a jolt of lust surges through me as I catch a quick glimpse of white panties. Studying the somewhat wilted yellow flower for a few heartbeats, she tucks it behind one ear, grinning hugely, then executes a few improvised dance steps. I quiver inside at the sight of her pale, elegant limbs as she moves to an unheard rhythm.
What brought me to this? Months after I first experienced this strange hunger for young girls, it's still a mystery. At my age I've had my share of men and more than my share of women, but this new, frightening temptation seemed to spring from nowhere.
I still recall that day when this slumbering obsession first awakened inside me. There I was, seated on the bus, thumbing through a paperback novel, when a schoolgirl of about eleven or twelve sat down in the opposite seat. I glanced up at her; and in that first look, felt as if I were falling down a long, narrow elevator shaft.
The girl was incredibly beautiful, projecting a certain delicate innocence that I found enchanting. Her short kilt rode high on her white thighs, revealing a taut triangle of blue knickers. My heart began to thump violently, and I felt a warmth that couldn't be explained by the weather.
I couldn't take my eyes from the girl ... yet somehow she failed to notice me, so I continued to study her. I found myself wondering what she looked liked under her dress -- especially beneath those tight panties. Was her mound bare and smooth, or did she already have a sprinkling of baby-soft down? Would her pubes be the same bright red as the thick, unruly curls that tumbled to her shoulders, or were they of a more neutral hue? Had her breasts begun to bud beneath that white school blouse, or did she have the chest of a young boy? Were her nipples especially pronounced? Would they stiffen if I touched them?
Then my gaze shifted to the girl's mouth, lipsticked pink. It was a lovely, slightly pouting mouth; made for kisses. I imagined myself doing exactly that -- my lips covering hers, penetrating them with an eager tongue, kissing this pubescent child like a lover. I pictured my hand, slipping between those angel-soft thighs to touch the cleft of her sex through those pretty blue knickers, the girl moaning with delight at my touch, parting her legs further to let me have my way...
I came back to myself with a start, shocked to see that I'd passed my stop several blocks earlier. Frantically gathering my bags, I scrambled from the bus at it came to the next stop, not looking back, suddenly afraid that she might be watching.
Dazed, I covered the half dozen blocks that led back to my flat. Fumbling for my keys, I barely made it through the front door before dropping my bags and casting my coat to the floor. I quickly sat myself down on the sofa, reached beneath the sensible skirt I wore and tugged my knickers down and off.
Settling back into the plush upholstery, I begin to masturbate; first teasing my slit until it throbbed, then plunging two fingers deep inside. I was already so wet that thick, warm fluids were trickling down into the crack of my arse. There would definitely be a stain on the back of my skirt before I was finished -- but I needed to come so desperately that I didn't give a toss.
I fucked myself violently, wrist pumping like a piston as that familiar sensation spread through me like oozing syrup, gradually building in intensity. All the while, I pictured that exquisite girl from the bus -- imagined her undressing for me, eagerly revealing her naked body. I saw myself in bed with her, equally nude, the two of us making passionate love. I fantasized of licking her, exploring that baby-smooth cunt with my tongue. Finally, when the ache grew almost painful, I allowed the other hand to steal between my thighs, lightly pinching my throbbing clitoris. My scream echoed from the paneled walls as the mother of all orgasms crashed down upon me.
Afterwards, I sat dazed for a long while, sticky hands resting on my thighs. What in God's name had I just done? I'd brought myself to a convulsive climax, all the while fantasizing about an adolescent girl -- that's what I'd done.
Oh, I tried to explain it away -- told myself that, after all, it had been a couple of months since I'd gone to bed with a woman; that this child's beauty just happened to strike a certain chord inside me at that particular moment; that perhaps she simply reminded me of some other, older woman who tickled my fancy.
Deep down inside, though, I knew that I'd opened some locked chamber, hidden in a dark corner of my soul ... and a monster had emerged, one who would not easily be coaxed back into its cell.
Pedophile. The word burned in my mind, filled me with unease.
Rousing myself from this troubling reverie, I shambled into the bathroom, stripped off what clothes I was still wearing and climbed into the shower.
I only intended to wash myself; but as I slathered my body with scented soap, lewd images of that cute little redhead began to scroll though my head all over again. I pictured her naked and on all fours, smiling at me over a bare shoulder, daring me to take her.
Soon I was slumped against the side of the shower cubicle, fingering my pussy in a renewed frenzy beneath the streaming water until I came again, nearly fainting from the intensity of it.
From that day forward, I was a changed person. Oh, I still hooked up with the occasional adult sex partner -- casual girlfriends, or women I met at a local lesbian bar -- but my new obsession was young girls. I'd quickly discovered that the little redhead from the bus was only my entry point into this realm of forbidden lust ... and that the world was filled with nymphets aplenty to arouse the beast in me.
So that is why, several days a week, you can find me at this neighbourhood park three blocks from my place of employment, taking lunch in the early afternoon. And as often as not, I'm there after work as well, with a magazine in my lap that I only pretend to read. There, I watch for young girls at every opportunity -- and since the park is next to a school, there are usually plenty of them to see.
They have to be the right age to satisfy my craving, though -- say, somewhere from ten to thirteen. Old enough to have an awakening sense of their sexuality, but not mature enough to be called a young woman. Once their breasts have grown in, my interest begins to wane.
Nibbling at a sandwich, or turning the page of my magazine, I study these preteen lovelies as they play, chat amongst themselves, argue with parents and lick ice cream cones. I take in the shapes of their bodies, the fresh youthful faces, their boundless energy. Warm weather is best, when limbs are delightfully bare in summer dresses and cute shorts. I gorge myself on the sight of beautiful girls until my body throbs with lust, then hurry home to indulge myself with a hour or two of frenzied masturbation.
Then, about a month ago, while seated on my favourite bench, I spied her -- the rough-and-tumble princess who stole my heart at first glance.
I still recall that first sight of her; barefoot, in yellow shorts and a purple t-shirt adorned with the faded face of some pop star I didn't recognize. She was bounding through the grass with other children, engaged in some war game in which she was clearly a squadron leader, ordering her underlings about.
I was instantly smitten. Her brashness, her energy, her youth; those flying tresses of dark blonde hair, the flashing of her bare limbs as she strutted and pranced from one end of the park to the other. I longed for this wild angel, ached to kneel before her and tug those lemon-hued shorts down to her feet, then press my mouth against the front of her knickers to nuzzle the crease of her slit.
Since that afternoon, I still watch the young girls play, my head filled with lustful thoughts ... but she is the one who brings me to this park nearly every day, where I pretend to read while seeking her out in the shrieking gaggle of kids. And when I spy her -- sometimes with the little boy in tow, most often on her own -- it feels like a benediction.
.... There is more of this story ...