Chapter 1

I’m Alice Moody, or you might know me as Stephanie Stevenson, or maybe as Stephanie Moody. It’s complicated. At the advanced age of twenty-one, I’m writing down the more exciting parts of my pre-teen and teenage years so I’ll never forget a moment of that magical time in my life.

When a woman loves a man, she tends to remember every time they made love as the very best it could possibly be. Because of that, it probably sounds like all the men in my life were porn stars, not real men. All I can say is that the men in my life were all exceptional. It’s not unusual for young men to be able to get it up four or five times a day, so don’t write off my recollections as impossible. I’ll admit that I may have given my dad credit for a supernatural level of performance when he was a little older, but remember he wasn’t that old when I was born, and we started making love when I was fourteen, so it’s not totally impossible. You might think no woman could possibly make love as many times as I did. All I can say is that you have never met a woman like me. On the one hand, I feel sorry for you, on the other, could you really handle me?

I was nine when mom ran off with that rich man. I had known for a while that mom wasn’t loving daddy at night. It’s funny how female children know when lovemaking is or isn’t going on, even when we don’t know exactly what lovemaking is.

I knew mom was sneaking around. Dad was like a lamb to the slaughter when he was served with the divorce papers. He had no clue. It wasn’t fair!

I was very concerned with fairness at age nine.

It was particularly heinous of mom to do something so unfair to daddy, because he was the most gentle and fair man in the world. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

Why did I know something bad was happening, and daddy had no clue? I guess I will call it “woman’s intuition,” for lack of a better name.

At age nine, I already thought of myself as a woman. I was quite sure I could take better care of daddy and the house than mom had been doing for as long as I could remember. I was quite sure I would be MUCH better at the “taking care of daddy” part of the “wife” job description because I wasn’t selfish, the way mom was; and I was convinced I loved daddy a lot more than mom ever did. I wasn’t sure exactly what all was involved in “taking care of a husband,” so I did some research.

I discovered that society considered me incapable of doing the most important part of the “taking care of daddy” part of the job. I was distraught because I didn’t want some other woman on MY turf, stealing MY daddy, just because the law says a nine-year-old woman is not allowed to do what an eighteen-year-old woman is permitted to do. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t fair.

After all, I was born with female parts, and all of those parts seemed to be eager to be put to use as frequently as daddy might want to use them. I was sure with daddy being so gentle and patient, together we could figure out how to make all my parts work just fine to do whatever daddy needed to feel taken care of. It seemed like I would probably enjoy using my female parts too. It wasn’t like he would be forcing me. After all, it was what I wanted! It isn’t fair that society says I can’t!

Daddy would undoubtedly have physical needs before I was legally allowed to take care of him. Even if I was old enough, that could only happen if we could somehow avoid the incest laws. If it was impossible to get around those, then we needed to move to New Jersey, where incest is not a crime for consenting adults. It just isn’t fair!

I got very interested in the age of consent in various parts of the world. I thought if I could get daddy to marry me at a young age, I could prevent some predatory woman from moving in on MY territory. I decided Japan and South Korea were my first and second choices. With a functional age of consent of thirteen, I could be taking care of daddy before some shark swam into daddy’s life and hurt him. I just had to steer daddy’s career choices so he would be an in-demand employee in either of those countries.

I thought I would need to have daddy on-board, and willing to invest in high quality forged identity documents for me, so we would be able to get married. While sex would be legal, I didn’t want any possibility of some nosy neighbor spoiling our domestic bliss. Even if it was legal, the irritation of having the police interview or question us could lead to fear that would kill the thrill of sex for us. Being able to wave a marriage document in the face of the police would make life much easier for us.

Is it possible for a nine-year-old to be single-minded enough and manipulative enough to lead an adult male into moving to a different part of the world, getting false identity documents so his daughter appears to be an unrelated female to Japanese or Korean government officials, get that adult male to marry her, and then seduce her own father to make love to her?

If she is a nine-year-old girl, it would be impossible. However, I considered myself to be a nine-year-old woman. I was convinced no obstacle was insurmountable for me. If it wasn’t for the silly laws, I’d move into the master bedroom tonight, and stake my claim to my daddy. It isn’t fair!

I jumped into taking care of the house, cooking, cleaning, and washing. Before I took charge, daddy never got crisply ironed shirts for work, or slacks with a crease that could cut, for when he has to give presentations to upper management. I know he never, ever got ironed sheets. It’s a good thing school is so easy for me. I always get all my homework done in half an hour, or less, so I had plenty of time to do everything I wanted to make a wonderful home for daddy.

Daddy was kind of wandering around with empty eyes, so while he noticed and appreciated everything I did, he didn’t think to say, “Alice, you are working too hard,” or any other appropriate parental sentiment.

That was fine with me, because daddy talked to me like I was grown up, and we developed emotional intimacy over the years I was daddy’s only companion and confidant. Daddy sees everything I do and understands what it means. He knows I love him more than mom ever did. More importantly, he is starting to see me as a woman and not a little girl.

I did some reflecting, and I was pretty sure mom had been running around since I was seven. That was about the limit of my useable memory. The knowledge my mom was a cheating bitch kindled the fire of righteous anger deep inside me, and I wished I could wave a magic wand, cause my mother to shrivel up like a mummy, and then burst into flames. When the fire burnt itself out, the desert wind would scatter her ashes across the sandy wastes of the Sahara.

Daddy would never do something so illegal or socially unacceptable as letting his nine-year-old daughter seduce him, so I was going to have to do some Academy Award worthy acting to get around his scruples and keep him safe from predatory females. I decided night terrors were the most practical thing to fake. There was no way to check up on me. If I could get him resigned to my sleeping in his bed, I could at least claim physical territory that would prevent him from romancing another woman at home, in OUR bed; until I was old enough to claim his physical body.

I started out right away to make it OUR bed. I spelled out for dad the extent of mom’s treasonous ways and convinced him that holy rage required the burning of the dishonored marriage bed, or at least exiling the defiled bed to Goodwill, thereby allowing for the purchase of a new, clean, unsullied bed. To make my subsequent territory grabbing strategies more likely to succeed, I convinced daddy to get a king-size bed. I planned on helping daddy think of this new bed as OUR bed, but that would never work if daddy didn’t get used to us sleeping in the same bed every night.

With the defiled double bed gone and the fresh king delivered and set-up, part one of my plan went into effect the very first night. I went to bed at my regular time, but I was very needy with daddy, and I made sure he had to do a lot of hands-on parenting.

Around midnight, I “woke-up” screaming. I had tears pouring down my cheeks by the time daddy got to my room. I was inconsolable, and only calmed down when daddy took me into his bed. It was a king, after all, I pointed out, so it wasn’t like we’d be touching each other.

Of course, I just slept there, but it soon became obvious that I was going to sleep there every night. It was just too much trouble to make fighting with me about it worthwhile for daddy, and after all, it was a king, and it wasn’t like we were touching, or anything.

I suddenly developed an intense interest in all things Japanese, and I started trying to teach myself how to read the language. Daddy jumped on that development as a way to help me stop moping, and he got me a tutor to teach me to speak Japanese. Thank god she was a stereotypical Japanese college student, with thick glasses and an over bite. She was butt ugly too, so I didn’t have to worry about Yuki catching daddy’s eye.