She is 15 years old, 147 centimeters tall, with well-muscled thighs and a high bottom. Her breasts appear large for a girl her age, although an inspection of her underwear drawer uncovers only C-cup bras. Size in this case is an illusion, a contrast between the firm, fleshy bulbs and the diminutive frame. On a musicological whim, I dub them (her large breasts) “The Mighty Handfuls.”

Her mother is frequently absent, leaving us (Regina and me) alone together. Three nights per week are spent at the observatory, where she (the mother) maps the expansion and decay of the universe. Friday is Strip Bridge Night, when she and her girlfriends, all married, gather for drinks and cards. Or so they say. We, the husbands, are skeptical. We suspect, though we cannot prove, the evenings consist of nothing more than gossip, or, at most, a quilting circle, and the wives invent stories to keep us in a state of sexual uncertainty.

She is a promising student. A recent term paper, “A Quantum Mechanical Approach to the Nietzschean Concept of Eternal Recurrence,” occasioned some faculty comment, after accusations of plagiarism were withdrawn.

Her school principal is an idiot, she says.

Like most men, she says.

At home, she favors cut-off sweat-shorts and Fruit-of-the-Loom tank tops, assorted colors, a size too small. Her breasts stretch the fabric between them into shadowy grooves, and her nipples, usually erect, are sharply defined. I detect no panty line beneath the shorts. Perhaps she wears a thong, though none are to be found in her underwear drawer. Perhaps she wears nothing. It is something to think about.

Regina doing dishes

She stands barefoot at the sink, in a powder-blue top and matching briefs. Her hair is off her neck, pinned in a spray at the crown of her head. The lump at the base of her cervical vertebrae stands revealed, enticingly. I approach from behind, unnoticed, or so I believe. Sinking to my knees, I purse my lips inches from her bottom. The elastic around the leg-holes caresses her buttocks; the blue cotton folds into the valley between. She hums softly, a phrase from the Symphonia Domestica.

Regina accompanies her mother to Strip Bridge Night. I press for details the next morning, but she says only that she is not a good card player. The women plied her with cocktails, and her recollection is hazy. She thinks she might have been subjected to some sort of initiation, likely of a sexual nature. I have my doubts about the story, but my questions go unanswered.

I can stay silent no longer. At last, I complain about her wardrobe. It is inappropriate, I declare, for a teenage girl to dress scantily in front of her stepfather. It is, moreover, dangerous, leading, as it must, to inappropriate thoughts on the part of said stepfather toward the stepdaughter. A young woman, I say, should not flaunt herself in front of a man who is not her intended. It is unbecoming, unladylike, undignified. It might also ruin said stepdaughter’s reputation if word were to leak to the community. I insist upon fuller, looser raiment and, of course, suitable undergarments. I then order her to her room to change.

“Oh,” she says, “you’re so funny.”

That evening, Regina appears at the dinner table naked. Her mother says nothing. I, taking my cue from her, say nothing as well. The use of napkins is dispensed with. When a speck of rice, encased in a drop of orange sauce, like a bug in amber, falls to Regina’s breast, she brushes it away with her fingertips. The breast dances beneath her touch. As a result of this mishap, a light goes on in Regina’s mind: she lays her chopsticks aside and proceeds to feed herself by hand. Her lips, chin, and cheeks glisten with orange sauce, flecked with rice. She wipes her mouth with her palm, which, in turn, she wipes on her dancing breasts.

I eat less than usual, but I drink unaccustomed amounts of water.

“It is not entirely your fault,” her mother says at night, in bed. “She is pretty hot shit.”

I suggest a threesome.

“That you must earn,” she says.

I can only conclude I am being trained in some way, prepared for some unspecified service. Regina’s lack of inhibition, her obvious collusion with her mother, combined with her playful stand-offishness, suggest that I am being “softened up.” Whatever the intention, the effects are profound. I have become distracted, yet suggestible. Outside her presence, I stare into the middle distance. I say little. In her presence, I can only await the next move in the game.

First contact with Regina

“Would you like some ice cream?” she asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Here you go, then.”

She produces a plate heaped with a cumulus cloud of vanilla. She places the plate on the floor and sinks her bare feet into the white froth. It is understood that I am to consume it as it oozes between her toes. She extends her legs, granting me access to her chilled soles.

“Get it all,” she says.

When the plate, and her feet, are spotless, I am to pull my pants down and lie on my back while she uses my crotch as an ottoman. Her cold feet press on my erection. She flexes her toes.

Fresh from the shower, Regina enters in a thin cotton nightie and, without a word, jumps into my lap. She kisses my cheek, licks my ear, places her arms around my neck. Unbidden, I run my hands over her back, rubbing her through the nightie. She does not object. She does not object, either, when I move to the front. The Mighty Handfuls have weight, solidity, through the nightie. They balloon when I squeeze them. They drop heavily when I let them go. Her nipples are hard and flushed. They make dark circles, visible through the nightie. I slide my hand along her bare thigh, en route to her fragrant pussy, and, as wordlessly as she began, she stands and vanishes into her room. I follow, but the door is locked.