The plane was late. The line through customs was long and slow. Her benefactors, the Jansens, were supposed to meet her, but Amanda worried that with her flight being delayed, they would not be there, and sure enough they were not. She wasn’t sure what to do now. Her cell phone wouldn’t work here. She’d have to get that taken care of ... somehow. She sat on a bench across from the exit and waited.

Three weeks ago her parents had informed her that she would be spending the summer with the Jansens. “You remember them? Knut—the famous painter? His wife a scholar of the arts? They visited us a few times.”

Of course Amanda remembered, though the last visit had been several years ago. She’d had to give up her bed and sleep on the little mattress in the sewing room. Now she tried to think what they looked like. And what would happen this summer. “An opportunity for you to really learn the language, and to learn something about art as well,” her mother had said. Yes, Amanda was excited. And more than a little nervous.

“There you are!” It was Mrs. Jansen. She looked elegant even in a casual dress. “Sorry we’re late. Knut is circling the car. You look so ... grown up. We’ll meet him at the curb when he comes ‘round again.”

“It’s me the one who’s late,” Amanda stammered, not feeling especially grown up despite having managed to fly thousands of miles from home. “My plane. It left not on time, and then...”

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Dear girl.” She embraced Amanda, an awkward hug. A kiss that didn’t quite connect. “We checked the status on the internet, so we knew. And then it made up time in the last minutes, wouldn’t you know. So here we are. Come, I’ll take the big bag.”

Amanda followed Mrs. Jansen. Or should she be called Dr. Jansen? Amanda wasn’t sure what to call her. Did she even know her first name? Michelle? And she couldn’t call her husband Knut, could she?

“So you’re sixteen now, is that right?” Mrs. Jansen asked, maybe a bit of dubiousness in her tone, as they exited the terminal. Despite her sweater, Amanda shivered in the chilly night air.

“Yes, just sixteen.” No one believed she was that old. At school they teased her for looking so immature.

“I believe you were eleven when we saw you last. You have so much artistic talent. We could see that even then. And then when you won that competition. Your father emailed us the jpegs. Fantastic! We knew we had to have you.”

Amanda didn’t know what to say. It was dark. So many buses and taxis and cars. If she were going to paint the scene, it would be a swirling clash of red brake lights and brilliant slashing headlights surrounding and smashing something delicate, innocent, inconsequential. Obliterating it. She shivered again.

“Oh, there he is,” Mrs. Jansen said. A sleek Lexus pulled to the curb.

§

The drive to the Jansen’s home took almost an hour. Amanda had thought they lived in the city, but that turned out not to be the case. The back seat was comfy. The car sped along an expressway and then glided along a secondary highway through dark countryside and then turned onto an even smaller road where there was no other traffic at all. During the trip, Mr. Jansen asked a few questions of Amanda. How was the flight? “It was good.” Did she have dinner? “Yes. Fish. It was good.” How were her parents? “They are good. They send their regards.” Laughing, Mr. Jansen said, “Well, I guess everything’s good. That’s good. Very good.”

“Don’t tease her,” Mrs. Jansen said. Then she asked a question of her own. Was she excited about being in America?

“Oh yes!” Amanda answered. “I am so excited!”

“That’s good,” Mrs. Jansen said. “So you’re not sad to leave any special boyfriend behind?”

Amanda was slow to answer. Her knees trembled.

“Now who’s teasing her?” Mr. Jansen said.

A gate opened. The car pulled through. At the house, which in the dark resembled if not a castle certainly a mansion, Mr. Jansen took her suitcase. “I’ll just put this up in your room,” he told her, “and then we can—”

“It’s morning her time,” Mrs. Jansen interrupted her husband. “The poor child must be exhausted. I know I always am after that flight. A glass of water or warm milk and off to bed, what do you say, darling? Maybe a nice hot shower first. How does that sound?”

The Jansens led Amanda up the wide staircase and to her room. “We’re just down at the end of the hall if you need anything,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Good night. Sleep tight.”

Following Mrs. Jansen’s suggestion, Amanda took a long shower. She was surprised and happy that the bathroom included her favorite shampoo and conditioner and bath soap, and even her own brand of toothpaste. How did her benefactors know? On the rack next to the vanity were several lovely, fluffy towels. She dried herself with pleasure. She noticed that the tiles on the floor, a beautiful ceramic pattern, were warm, and the wall-sized mirror was not fogged. She caught herself grinning. The air was warm but comfortable. In the mirror she noticed her skin was flushed, the halos of her nipples plump as if aroused. She touched one nipple tip. The flesh tingled and erected. The towel slipped to the floor. I mustn’t, she said to herself, but then she touched her other nipple tip, just for symmetry’s sake, and that nipple responded, as did her clitoris and the lips of her sex, swelling with desire. I mustn’t, she repeated, and she opened the bathroom door and stepped naked into the bedroom.

Amanda removed her nightie from her suitcase. The garment was comfy but not over-big; in fact, the hem barely covered her bottom. I should probably wear panties, she said to herself. At home Amanda slept only in her nightie, or sometimes naked, but she didn’t know if that would be proper here—not on her first night. She was going to be a good girl.

Still trying to decide if she should put on the panties, she pulled back the bedspread. Instantly she saw something was wrong. Beneath the pretty coverlet, the bed was bare. No blanket, no sheets. What’s more, there was no pillow. Not one, and at home Amanda always slept with two, one clutched to her breast, one between her thighs. She frowned.

The linens and pillows must be in the closet, Amanda thought, and she opened the door. The closet was quite large, but empty. Nothing but shelves and hangers. Her benefactors must have forgotten. I’ll go find them and straighten this out, she thought. She eased open the bedroom door and stepped into the hall.

The Jansens’ bedroom door was at the other end of the dark hallway. Amanda approached. The door was open but not all the way. Amanda noticed the noise before anything else. Her benefactors were making love. She heard the succulent push of flesh into flesh, and a succession of low moans, pretty vowels plundered by guttural grunts. Amanda stopped short of the door. A dim lamp on the bedside table illuminated the bodies. Mr. Jansen was on top, arched up, his hips between Mrs. Jansen’s thighs. He grunted with each thrust, with each powerful plunge, his buttocks clenching. He reared back, affording Amanda the briefest view of his substantial cock and her dark bush. Without volition Amanda’s hand stole toward her own hairless mound and down to the moist crease between the bald little lips. Mrs. Jansen had her hand on her husband’s ass. She pulled him hard to her. Her low moans turned to panting gasps. Her legs lifted, locked behind the small of Mr. Jansen’s back. He jackhammered into her. She wailed. He groaned and froze, his body straining. She thrashed. A pillow fell to the floor. Amanda turned and hurried back to her bedroom. Her door clicked shut.

Amanda sat on the bare bed trying to think. I can’t disturb them now, she decided. And maybe not all night. But how will I sleep without pillows, without sheets? She pulled the coverlet up and lay upon it, curled up, her head cradled upon her arms, her mind unable to do anything but dwell upon the beauty and passion of her benefactors’ fuck.

Amanda fell asleep, but fitfully, and at last began a dream. She dreamt she was asleep in her new room, no pillow for her head, no covers for her body, and her benefactors stepped cautiously into the room.

“Such a little darling,” the woman said. “Is she asleep? Is she dreaming?”

“I think so,” said the man. “Or trying to.”

“The poor dear,” the woman said. “We were so selfish.”

“I know,” the man said, “but I wanted you so much.”

“Can we do something for her to make her more comfortable?” the woman asked.

The man sat on one side of the bed, the woman the other. Amanda felt their hands lightly on her shoulders pulling down the straps of her nightgown. They worked the gown down over her breasts until her breasts were bare.

“So beautiful,” the woman said. “The sweet little swells.” The man and the woman caressed Amanda with their fingertips. They skimmed slowly along Amanda’s skin from the tops of her shoulders to the upper slope of each breast and then back to her shoulders, and then down again, and Amanda couldn’t tell which fingertip belonged to the man and which to the woman. Her nipples erected, lifting towards the inexorable stimulation of the fingers. At last, together, the fingers traced the gentle slopes of Amanda’s breasts, gliding to the plump areoles and then out along the erect nipples all the way to the sensitive tips. The fingers lifted, leaving the engorged buds straining upwards. The fingers began again, caressing Amanda’s shoulders, her throat, the upper part of her chest. And again, after an excruciatingly slow journey, the fingers arrived at Amanda’s erect nipples.

“I think she likes this,” whispered the man. “Look how hard and stiff her nipples are.”

“Yes,” the woman agreed. “I bet her clit is erect too. Smell how aroused she is. Such a sweet scent. I bet her cunt’s a little lake.”

“Shall we find out?” the man asked.

The man and the woman had Amanda’s nipples between thumb and forefinger. They squeezed. Amanda’s legs parted. The fingers squeezed again. Amanda cried out, her orgasm sharp and powerful and sustained. Her body thrashed and bucked, waking her.

“Oh,” she said. The room was empty. The man and the woman—where did they go? It was too real to have been a dream. But it must have been. Only ... only her breasts were bare—her nightie was bunched at her waist.

Amanda heard the twittering birds, the cooing of doves. Sunlight streaming through a window. She padded to the bathroom, peed, washed her hands and brushed her teeth, then went back to the window and peered out. The view held a garden. Fruit trees, flowers, a gravel path, a circular pool constructed of stone, with a sculpted statue in the center, a boy, water trickling from his little penis, gurgling into the small pool. Meadows lay beyond the garden as far as Amanda could see. It’s like a dream world, she thought. This wasn’t the America she’d envisioned—a busy city full of tall buildings and bustling people, frenetic energy everywhere.

Amanda opened her bedroom door. She crept into the hall. The Jansen’s doorway was open. She remembered what she’d seen last night. Dare she check in on them? Now she remembered something from when she was eleven—the time the Jansen’s had taken over her bed. The next morning, when she knew everyone was down at breakfast, she’d tiptoed into her room to retrieve the book she’d been reading and forgotten to remove from her bedroom, and there the sheets had not been smoothed nor had the bed been stripped, but rather it was a mess of wrinkles and folds, and upon her sheets were several sizeable shadows, dark patches which Amanda couldn’t fathom. She’d touched one of the spots and found it vaguely damp. The Jansens had wet her bed. She’d forgotten about that until now, and now she knew what those wet spots were—the secretions of love. Would there be wet spots on the Jansens’ bed now? Amanda tiptoed down the hallway. She looked into the bedroom. The bed was made, but crudely. She stepped into the room. To the bed. She pulled back the covers.

“There you are.” It was Mrs. Jansen behind her. Startled, Amanda turned.

“Oh, I was just ... I was only...” Amanda blushed deeply.

“I hope you slept well,” Mrs. Jansen said. “I know I did.” Mrs. Jansen smiled at Amanda, and then her eyes went to the bed, to the heart-shaped stain on the sheet. “Yes, I slept very well indeed,” Mrs. Jansen repeated, and she pulled the covers up over the wet spot. “Knut is still at breakfast. Come down and join us.” Mrs. Jansen’s hand took Amanda’s. Amanda remembered the woman’s fingertip at her nipple. Had that been Mrs. Jansen, or a dream? She blushed again.

“I should ... should I dress first?” Amanda asked.

“No need,” Mrs. Jansen said. “We’re very informal. You’re delightful as you are. Come.” Mrs. Jansen’s hand squeezed Amanda’s. They turned, and as Amanda stepped toward the door, she got a shock: on either side of the doorway was a tall painting. A girl standing, in one painting facing the lake, in the other facing away. It was the same girl in both painting, and in both paintings the girl was naked. The girl was her.

“Come,” Mrs. Jansen said. She led Amanda through the doorway and down the stairway and through two rooms to a room bathed in sunlight. At the far end of the room a pair of doors stood open. Outside, in the garden, Mr. Jansen was sitting at a small table looking at a newspaper. A plate with the scant remains of breakfast had been pushed aside. There was a coffee cup in his hand.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, gesturing with the coffee cup. He gestured again toward an empty chair. “Sit. What can I get for you?”

“Do you have ... scones?” Amanda ventured. She’d read some place that scones had become very popular in the US. About to sit, Amanda realized that she wasn’t wearing panties. If she sat, she wouldn’t be covered down there.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Jansen exclaimed. “Scones. That’s something we’ll have to try some day. How about a soft-boiled egg?”

Amanda involuntarily tightened. She was not fond of soft-boiled eggs, or eggs at all, but her mind was on her bare pubis. “Yes, that would be fine,” she said, her voice small and as polite as she could make it, given her nervousness.

“Good,” said Mrs. Jansen. “I’ll fix you one right away. Three minute?”

“That would be fine,” Amanda said, her voice as meek as before.

“You don’t like eggs, do you?” Mr. Jansen said, once his wife had left the breakfast patio.

“No, I—” Amanda began. “Yes, I mean—I...”

Mr. Jansen chuckled. “She was just teasing you. You’ll see. She’ll bring you a wonderful scone. Warmed just right. But don’t let on I told you. Be surprised.” His eyes twinkled. “Now please be seated. Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

Amanda sat as primly as she could, her legs tight together. It was uncomfortable. Her legs wouldn’t quite reach the ground. She could feel the metal grate of the chair on her bottom.

“Remember, act surprised.”

“I will,” Amanda declared, but her voice was shaky. Now she worried what would happen if Mrs. Jansen brought the egg after all.

A moment later Mrs. Jansen returned. She was carrying a tray. “Here you are, darling,” she said. She set a plate before Amanda. Two pastry crescents arranged tip to tip. A small pot of cream in the middle. “Your soft-boiled egg,” Mrs. Jansen said.

“Oh, thank you. Oh!”

Before picking up the pastry, probably more croissant than scone, but still ... Amanda noticed again the arrangement. There was something decidedly sexual about the shapes. Probably an accident. Amanda selected the pastry on the left, dipped the tip of it in the pot of cream, and bit it off. A small spot of the cream splurched out over Amanda’s bottom lip.

“Lovely,” Mrs. Jansen said, smiling. “You’ve got a little...” She touched her finger to Amanda’s lip, wiped up the cream, and took the finger into her own mouth.

Mr. Jansen chuckled. “Well, how do you like?” he asked.

Amanda swallowed what was in her mouth. “These are the best soft-boiled eggs ever,” she said.

Mr. Jansen beamed.

“I have a confession to make,” Mrs. Jansen said. “I don’t like eggs, either.”

“You liked those Japanese eggs I got you,” Mr. Jansen put in. “The obi.”

“Not obi,” Mrs. Jansen corrected her husband. “Obi would be a gown. Ovi.”

“Oh, ovi, well ... you liked those.”

“I did,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Very much.” Then to Amanda, “I will have to show them to you later. I think you’ll get a kick out of them. They’re little ceramic eggs. Well, not so little. The bigger of the two goes in your vagina. The smaller fits in your anus. When you walk, they’re just delightful. You’ll see.”

Amanda blushed.

“Speaking of delightful,” Mrs. Jansen said now to her husband, “doesn’t our guest have the loveliest little slit? See how her clitoris peeks out from the notch? Pudgy little thing. I bet her cunt’s full of cream.”

Amanda shivered and her blush deepened. She could not have been more embarrassed.

“Your cheeks are so rosy, darling,” Mrs. Jansen said, now addressing Amanda. “Not so different from when you climax, I’d venture. Would you like another scone?”

“No thank you,” Amanda replied in the smallest voice.

“Well, my dears,” Mrs. Jansen announced, “I have a few errands to run. Knut, why don’t you take Amanda for a run? You can show her the grounds. Does that sound like a good plan, Amanda?”

“Um,” she said, “um ... I didn’t bring any running shoes. Or clothes.”

Mrs. Jansen chuckled. “Of course not, dear. There’s a pair of shoes in your closet. And some clothes. And now I’m off. Run like the wind, you two.”

Warily, Amanda looked at Mr. Jansen. “Get changed,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs in ten minutes.”

Entering her room, Amanda noticed immediately that the bed had been made. Or at least the coverlet had been pulled up and smoothed out. There still didn’t seem to be any pillows. But was it the same coverlet as last night? This one had a pattern of plump, interlocking love birds in pink and purple. Last night she’d only noticed a design. She opened her closet door. Before her hung all her clothes. On the floor were the two pairs of shoes she’d brought and also a pair of running shoes, white with pale pink trim. The inbuilt cabinet to the left, which had been empty last night, now held in its top drawer her panties and stockings. Tee shirts were in the second drawer and also a pair of running shorts, pink with white trim, and a running shirt, also pink with white trim. Amanda lifted her nightie over her head and tried on the running shirt. A girl with slightly bigger breasts might have found it a better fit; the singlet almost exposed her nipples. But it felt okay. It didn’t quite come down to her belly button. She stepped into the running shorts. They fit, not too tight, not too loose. Amanda found a pair of white anklet socks in the sock and panties drawer and put them on. She donned the shoes and snugged the laces and did the double knot her dad had taught her. The fit couldn’t be better—so comfortable. She took a deep breath. She wondered how fast Mr. Jansen would run. At home Amanda didn’t run track—the showers afterwards would have embarrassed her—her bald pussy, her diminutive breasts—but she spent hours on her own after school jogging. She found it a good way to get her problems out of her mind. There was a tap at the door. “Ready?” Mr. Jansen called.

Amanda opened the door. Mr. Jansen’s eyes took in her body. “Beautiful,” he said. “We’ll take it easy, okay?”

“Okay,” Amanda answered. She wasn’t sure what easy meant.

Mr. Jansen led her outside. “It’s a mile and a half along the path to the back gate,” he said. They’d set off at a very modest pace. “Then we can either come straight back, or loop around to the right. If we loop around it’s about a mile and a half more. Two full loops is almost a perfect 10 K.”

Mr. Jansen ran easily. His stride was longer than Amanda’s. “This used to be an apple orchard,” he explained. “A few of the trees still bear fruit.”

They didn’t talk for a while. They just ran. Gradually Mr. Jansen picked up the pace. In less time than Amanda would have thought, the back gate appeared. “Shall we head straight back to the house or do the loop?” Mr. Jansen asked.

“The loop?” Amanda said. She’d found running with Mr. Jansen easy and relaxing. She was breathing hard but not too hard. She was sweating, but a light sweat.

“I’d hoped you’d say that,” Mr. Jansen said, smiling. “The going is just a little rougher but not too bad. A few roots to beware of.”

They set off along the forest path, racing through patches of sun. Somehow they’d picked up the pace. Amanda felt she was floating, gliding, almost flying, her feet barely touching the soft forest floor. It was so good to run with somebody. It was even better to be running with Mr. Jansen. They raced along, side by side, Amanda’s stride slightly longer than she was used to, but the bit of stretch felt good, the hammering of her heart felt good, everything felt good.

Then the house was in view just ahead, up a small hill. Mr. Jansen abruptly stopped. Two or three strides past him, Amanda stopped. “No, go on,” Mr. Jansen said. “Sprint for the finish. Run as hard as you can.”

Not sure why, Amanda did as Mr. Jansen asked. She ran as hard as she could. At the top of the hill she stopped and turned around. Mr. Jansen was far down the hill. Amanda was breathing hard. She stood there with her hands on her knees, catching her breath.

Mr. Jansen jogged up. “Good job,” he said. “Normally I sprint in, but I didn’t have it in me today. That’s what morning sex will do to you.” His eyes met hers. She couldn’t look away. There was something between them. She was still breathing hard. “You’re so beautiful when you run,” Mr. Jansen said. “You’re so beautiful just standing there.” He was grinning at her.

“Thank you,” Amanda said. Her eyes met his, and then she shivered and looked down.

“Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s grab a shower.” His hand went to Amanda’s back. She shivered again at his touch. His fingers guided her forward toward the house. As they walked, his fingers stroked casually down her back but stopped short of her waist. The fingers lingered and worked their way back up Amanda’s spine. Amanda wished the fingers would go lower. The fingers started down again, again tracing her spine. When the fingers got close to the small of her back, Amanda shivered for the third time. Amanda’s legs suddenly felt heavy. She wasn’t sure if she could take another step.

“Here we are,” Mr. Jansen said, opening the door, his hand no longer on her back. “A shower is going to feel so good.”

“Yes,” Amanda said. “I really liked the shower. It was—” Amanda wasn’t sure what to say next. Exciting? Soothing? Perfect?

“Oh,” Mr. Jansen cut her off. “You’ll really like my shower. It has sixteen jets. Sounds excessive, I know, but wait till you feel it.”

“Are we going to...” Again Amanda wasn’t sure how to complete the sentence. Shower together? That seemed unlikely. Surely that wasn’t what Mr. Jansen had in mind.

But it was. “Come,” he said, and she followed him up the stairs and into his bedroom and into the bathroom. The bathroom consisted of several chambers, the shower room being at the back left.

“Here, let me help,” Mr. Jansen said, and he took the hem of Amanda’s running shirt and lifted it over her head, Amanda helping by lifting her arms. Then he hoisted her easily by the waist and set her on the marble vanity. He knelt before her, unlaced each shoe and removed it, and peeled off each socklet. “Did anyone every tell you you have the cutest toes?” he asked. He held her left foot in his hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her toes, a kiss so light she almost couldn’t feel it. And then he opened his mouth wide and nearly swallowed her foot. It felt so strange, so peculiarly exciting. Amanda almost wished he could somehow swallow her entirely. She closed her eyes and let the soft, peculiar excitement swamp her. A moment later she felt the air on her foot, now free of Mr. Jansen’s mouth, and a moment after that he’d taken her other foot in his mouth. He was sucking her foot. Amanda thrilled. It was almost too exciting, too strange. Then this foot was free, and Mr. Jansen was looking at her. “I had to do them both, for symmetry’s sake,” he said, and both Amanda’s nipples swelled and twitched. “Upsy-girl,” Mr. Jansen said, his hands at the waistband of her shorts, and Amanda lifted her hips so Mr. Jansen could pull them off. Now he was staring between her naked thighs. “So beautiful,” he said. Amanda wanted to let her thighs slip wider apart. She wanted Mr. Jansen to push his face against her sex, the push his mouth against her swollen lips, to push his tongue between, to devour her, and she shivered, her eyes wide, her little labia swelling in anticipation. But Mr. Jansen didn’t devour her. He took her again at her waist and helped her from the counter, and with his hand at the small of her back led her to the shower. “Step in,” he said, and she did, and the water started up, spraying from every angle. It was hot but not too hot. It was just right. Amanda closed her eyes. It was like being in the middle of a waterfall, in the middle of a dozen waterfalls. And then Mr. Jansen was standing behind her. “Nice, isn’t it?” he said. “Mmmm,” was all Amanda could reply. Mr. Jansen said, “I’m going to wash you now,” and again Amanda could only answer with a small moan.

The washing took some time. Amanda wouldn’t have minded had it gone on forever. Mr. Jansen used a cloth that was both rough and exquisitely soft. The soap was slick and slightly scented, an aroma faintly of pine at first, or baked apple with cinnamon, and then something else, something she couldn’t name. The cloth caressed her shoulders, her back, her bottom. It circled her small breasts and scrubbed behind her knees and tickled between her toes. It kissed her neck. It tasted under her arms. It eased into the crevice of her ass and worked the firm cheeks apart and whispered sweet things to the shy button-hole of her bottom. “Now I’m going to do you inside, okay? I’m going to clean your little star,” Mr. Jensen said, and Amanda nodded, not quite knowing what inside amounted to, or what her little star was all about, and then she knew, she knew the soft push of Mr. Jansen’s finger inside her asshole. She submitted to its tender search. The sensation almost made her swoon. The finger fit her so fine. She couldn’t help clenching herself. The finger, waiting for her release, wallowed and widened. She squeezed it again, lovingly, a goodbye squeeze, as it turned out, for the finger withdrew, and she felt empty. Oh, come back soon, her asshole said to Mr. Jansen’s finger. Oh, please do. Her asshole squeezed again and again, but nothing was there.

Mr. Jansen’s finger didn’t return. Instead Mr. Jansen arranged her in the spray. Now the jets sprayed water against her skin with increased force, a fine pelt of pressurized mist, almost too hot, and Mr. Jansen—standing behind her, close behind, so close she could feel his cock at the small of her back and his strong thighs against the swells of her bottom—was holding her by the waist with one arm and cupping her breast with one hand, and then he was fingering her nipple, touching it and teasing it, while the spray touched and teased the other nipple, and pelted her pubis, and kissed her clitoris, kissing and kissing no matter which way Amanda moved. “It’s okay,” Mr. Jansen whispered in her ear. “You can come. Come little one. Come.”

His words took her over the edge. Her breath caught. She gasped. The orgasm slammed her like a tidal wave obliterating the shore, drowning her in heavy waves of wonderful pleasure. She was left limp, helpless in Mr. Jansen’s arms. He held her for some time, with the warm water raining down, bathing her in serene bliss. Never had she felt better.

“I’m going to play a dirty trick now,” Mr. Jansen said. “Okay?”

“Mm-hm,” Amanda sighed. She thought maybe he would enter her somehow. That would be nice. She was so relaxed. So ready for him, in a relaxed sort of way. She prepared herself for the clasp of his body. The push of his cock. “Mmmm,” she sighed again. And then she screamed, completely unprepared for the icy jolt of sixteen sprays blasting ice cold water over every inch of her skin.

“That’s it, scream it out,” Mr. Jansen said calmly. He held her tight, and all she could do was scream, and the piercing cold had its way with her, ten or fifteen seconds of seemingly endless torture.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she gasped once the water was off. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.”

“There now. There. There. There,” Mr. Jansen said, holding her tight, kissing her, cradling her in his arms and carrying her out of the shower and bundling her in a warm towel and drying her.

“Sleep now,” he said. “Sleep now, my good little girl.”

Amanda slept.

She woke to afternoon light straining through a side window. She yawned and stretched. She felt so good. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Her eyes roamed her benefactors’ bedroom. The big windows. The dresser. The chest. The doorway to the bathroom. The doorway to the hall. The painting to either side. Paintings of her. Nude. A little younger than she was now. Something about the background, blurred though it was, came into focus. A lake. The lake out behind her parents’ house. That time the benefactors had visited. She’d woken unusually early. First light. The little mattress hadn’t been quite comfortable. She’d ventured out into the house. Everyone else was still asleep. If she used the bathroom she’d disturb them. She walked barefoot across the dewy grass down to the shoreline. The pair of swans glided in the distance, disappearing into the mist near the opposite shore. She looked around. Stillness everywhere. Pale pink light out to the east. The sun just beginning to burn off the haze. She lifted her nightie over her head and set it carefully on a flat stone near the shore. She waded in. The water was cold but refreshing. She went in further. The muddy sand sucked pleasantly at her feet, tickling between her toes. She waded still further. The water now to mid-thigh. So cold. She wondered what it would feel like down there—if it touched her little lips. If it flowed between. Sunlight glinted. A seagull cried. She turned and waded quickly back to shore. She picked up her nightie and let it fall over her shoulders. The fabric tickled her nipples as it fell into place. She lifted the nightgown just enough, squatted, and peed. It felt so naughty to do this outdoors, but it felt good. She stood up and stretched. Then she hurried back into the house, and padded back to her makeshift bedroom, and lay on the mattress waiting for everyone else to wake up. Soon came the sounds of her parents and their guests. She pulled on some shorts and a top and went out to join them. On the kitchen table, breakfast had been laid out. Curiously, in the center of the table was her father’s camera. He’d always kept it safely on the shelf. Maybe they’d planned to take pictures of those beautiful swans.