I had been waiting for the call all evening, but I had expected it much earlier. Around 7 p.m. my wife had dropped our daughter Cindy and her friend and "temporary sister" Angie off at a parentally-supervised middle school party. It was my assignment to pick them after a few hours of soda, chips, and perhaps a few games of innocent "spin the bottle."

When Cindy finally called at almost 11 p.m., I knew something was wrong. In the background I heard loud music and loud male voices. In short, a party of decidedly un-middle school characteristics.

"Dad, you're gonna kill us, but we need your help. Angie and me snuck out from Tanya's party when Mrs. Thomas wasn't looking. We're at a high school party. Can you please come get us?"

"A high school party? Are you both okay?"

"Well ... they had some beer here, and they got us to try it. I had some — I know I'm not supposed to — and Angie had some too. Then she drank something they called 'Jungle Juice'. I think it had some booze in it or something, 'cause she started acting really drunk. That's why I'm calling you, Dad. She just went into a bedroom with some high school guy!"

"Where are you? I'll be right there!"

High school punks parted like the Red Sea before me as I strode through the beer-sodden ranch style on the far side of town. I quickly found Cindy, and she looked positively relieved to see me, despite the punishment she knew must lay ahead. Taking my arm she pulled me down a hallway to a closed doorway, indicating that Angie was within. I threw open the door.

In the light of a small bedside lamp I saw it all. And so did Cindy.

Angie lay on her back, shirtless, her training bra pushed up under her hickey-bruised neck. Her A-cup titties glistened, presumably with her despoiler's saliva. Her jeans were pushed down around her knees, and although her panties were still around her hips for the most part, the jock's hand was buried so deeply within them that I was certain at least one meaty digit was driven into her thirteen-year-old pussy.

"Get the fuck off of her!" At this command the kid, probably seventeen years old himself, leapt off of the bed, pulling his hand from her panties and darting for the bathroom door. I noticed his finger was wet. Shithead. "She's in eighth grade for Christ's sake!" I called after him. By then, he had already exited the bathroom via its second door and was gone.

"Come on, Angie, let's get your clothes and get out of here. Cindy, help her get dressed."

"I'm shorry, Mr. Wilthon," the young teen slurred as my daughter did her best to get her decent. Not that I didn't find the sexy schoolgirl "decent." I found her most excellently "decent," and under different circumstances I would have enjoyed gazing upon her lithe body, the barer the better. But I was responsible for this girl's safety, so I had to master the worst angels of my nature and speed things along.

"We'll talk about that later, now just get dressed."

Cindy tried to do some fast talking on the drive home, but I shushed her. "I'm too angry and surprised right now. You will fare much better if we talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I'm getting you two home and to bed."

Frankly, I was angry with myself. My wife and I were responsible for both of these girls, our own, of course, but also Angie on a temporary basis. Angie's parents were out of the country, in Ukraine, trying to adopt a younger brother for Angie. They had left the girl, also a Ukrainian adoptee, in our charge. In fact, I had legal power of attorney over the girl's affairs and well-being, since the adoption process was expected to take over a month. Legally, my wife and I were each in loco parentis for Angie.

Angie's parents, the Browns, had certainly lucked out with her genetically. While they were both plain and rather portly people, Angie was a certified Slavic knockout. At thirteen, she looked like a runway model. Well, except that she had a rather juvenile body, but from what I've noted, that doesn't seem to be an impediment for modeling nowadays. Okay, at 5-foot-2 she was a little short for the big time, but heck, she was still only thirteen. Despite my anger, I couldn't help reliving the scene of Angie's half-naked display over and over in my mind. Lord, she was a cutie all right!

Shaking such thoughts, at least for the moment, I returned to thoughts of responsibility. Yes, I had concerns about my daughter, but even greater ones about Angie. For one thing, her parents were counting on my wife and me. For another, Cindy had exercised at least some control. Angie had almost ended up in big trouble, and on my watch! Of course, I'd always known Angie was a little bit of a hell raiser, and wasn't above a little sass-mouth, either. But during the past two weeks under our supervision, she had been a paragon of good behavior.

When we got home, I sent Cindy inside while I had to rouse Angie to help her into the house. No question about it, that Jungle Juice had contained at least vodka, probably grain alcohol. Angie was totally fucked up. She'd have a hell of a hangover the next day, I was sure. As she stumbled once or twice, I caught her — and a handful of ass or tit in the process as well. I had to admit that I sort of envied that high school pink who'd gotten to finger her sweet little box. Youth is wasted on the young, though — he'd probably not even appreciated it in all its glory. To him, the fact that she was so young was probably a shortcoming made up for the ease of the Jungle Juice seduction. For someone with my longer life experience, her youthfulness was a delight in itself.

When the two of us entered the house, my wife was already in hysterics from the admissions Cindy was making to her. I broke it up, again stating, this time for my wife's benefit, the fact that the "investigation, prosecution, guilty verdict and sentencing" would wait until tomorrow. I ordered Cindy to her room and, with a rolled-eye signal to my wife — intended to express exasperation rather than my true fascination — I helped Angie to her bedroom. I flipped on the light and laid her on the pink coverlet, pushing aside a few of the stuffed animals she had brought from home for her extended stay. What a discordant pairing her drunken state and her childish bed companions made!

Leaving her there, I found my wife in our own bedroom.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Hon. I'll stay up for a while on 'drunk watch.' I don't want Angie to get sick on herself. She could choke or something."

"Oh, dear. Do you think you'll have to watch her all night?"

"Maybe for a couple of hours. It's a precaution we always took with young drunk sailors back in the Navy. When they're so inexperienced, you never know how drunk they really are, so it's best to watch over them for a bit. If she's sleeping peacefully after a while, I'll probably be able to come to bed. Thank goodness tomorrow is Saturday. I'll take my book along."

"Okay, Honey. Wake me if you need any help."

"Goodnight, Babe."

Back in Angie's room, I set out to make her comfortable. Don't get me wrong; from the very start I expected some voyeuristic pleasure. However, I only planned to steal a quick peek and be done with it. Turning out all the lights but a bedside lamp, I at sat at her side on the edge of the bed.

First, I removed her shoes and socks. Such pretty, tender little feet!

However, that is not my particular fetish, so with shaking fingers I unbuttoned the unconscious girl's jeans. She mumbled as I did this, so I gruffly but quietly said something like "Gotta get you ready for bed," just in case she was a little bit coherent. However, she didn't even open her eyes, not even a flutter.

Next, I pulled the denim down her long lean legs, baring her succulent white thighs, adorable knees, and slender shins before I removed them completely and tossed them on the floor. Exposed to my gaze were the self-same pink cotton panties that the high school jock had been invading. "Oh, look. There's a little bow in the front." I hadn't seen that before.

Angie just lay there, her legs slightly spread, and I couldn't take my eyes off the tender rise of her mons veneris, forming a delicious topography out of her underpants.

At this point, she was ready for bed. I could have tucked her in and been done with it. "Oh, but she still has her bra on. That can be uncomfortable to sleep in. Better get that off, too." Yep.

Off came her t-shirt. Off came the bra. Out came the sweet little A-cups. One had a hickey on it, smaller than those on her neck. The other was pristine. This is the point at which I should have put her t-shirt back on. Instead, I broke bad.