This was crazy shit. My wife's best friend from way back when. Visiting. First time in ten years, maybe fifteen. Dork of a husband called Marvin, who earned more than me. Doll of a teenage daughter — sixteen, seventeen, eighteen perhaps — who's counting when you look this good? And I can't keep my eyes off the girl. But I'm old enough to be the kid's father.

Soon as they came in the door I shook the requisite hands, held onto hers a beat too long. Maybe two beats too long: frozen solid. Nobody noticed, but her. She noticed! Funny frown, nervous twirl of her long golden hair, cute little twist of absurdly plump kissable lips. Then (get this) I pat her on the butt, going past. Can you believe this shit? That I did that!

We're all to go down to the pool. We have a pool for the apartments, twenty stories down, lots of palm trees, tables, chairs, places to loll. Claudia — Fay's friend, my wife is Fay — lived up north, didn't get a lot of sun.

"Let's go to the pool," she says.

My eyes are lost on cute little Cindy. Good enough to feast on. All the right shapes in all the right places. Playful as a kitten. But Whoa! — what a foxy, teach-me-to fuck sort of kitten she looked to be. These plump pouting lips. Those come-to-bed eyes! The way she stood with her pelvis angled upwards, pubis thrusting out. About turn, you reprobate.

So I'm rummaging about in the wardrobe looking for a costume for the guests. Nerdy Marvin: no problem, lots of costumes to fit. Claudia: ditto. But what about cute little Cindy? Our daughter, now off at college — learning to be a chemist or some damn thing — used to have this cute little yellow bikini; a bikini I forbade her to wear it was so damn brief. I wouldn't let my own daughter wear it, (though I'm sure she did when my back was turned, or when she was off with her friends, ) but I really wanted foxy little Cindy out of her jeans and floppy T, and into some form-hugging yellow!

"C'mon Dave," — me, Dave — "Little Cindy hasn't got all day!" yelled Fay, amid laughter from the next room. Chatter resumes, Claudia and Fay, two best friends who haven't seen each other in aeons.

"Where did Benny put her cossies?" I call out from Benny's room.

Benny's our daughter, the chemist to be.

"Hey, Dave," Fay has her head round the door, changed into bathers, towel draped around her neck. "Claudia and I have a lot of catching up to do. Why don't we head down with Marvin. Once you've found a costume for Cindy, you two change then bring her down?"

Why, I wondered briefly, do I always end up getting ordered about?

Isn't this my home too!

Am I not the 'master of the house' ... sort-of-thing?

Lots of rumpus as the advance party gets the gear together, Scrabble, cards, sun block, tanning oil, towels, sun-glasses, and "Oh, that photo album, we've got to show you that!"

I keep looking.

... Doors close.

... Silence descends on the house.

I find a pair of brief panties, a skimpy bra, both pillar box red. 'Are these Benny's?' I wonder, becoming slowly alarmed. They're so skimpy, brief, and see-through. They are almost pornographic. I take out the bra, hold it up. It is pornographic! 'When would she ever wear that?' I ask myself, aghast! ... Then I notice in the mirror that cute little Cindy's standing in the door behind me, head to one side, looking at the bra in my hand. And before I know what I'm doing, I'm saying, "Would this fit?"

The soft-shaped angel steps into the room cautiously. We don't know each other, but I've been introduced as Uncle Dave, so she figures I must be okay. Or that's how I figure it anyhow.

"Isn't that underwear?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

"Just to get your size," I say, diving back into the drawers but thinking fast enough to pass her the bra. Then I toss her the matching thong.

"Aren't they..." she stops, staring at the things I've just passed her, clearly not sure what to do.

"Try them on," I say, as if I haven't really got time for this, closing the drawer I was in, going to the next.

"Where..." she looks around her.

"Bathroom's in there," I point to the door of the little en-suite.

I watch out the corner of my eye as the cute little dreamboat goes to the door. I don't hear the door click to ... but I hear the snap of a fastener, then a zip, then the rustle of material. I dip my head to the mirror. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. I see an enticing slice of teenage thigh. Denim jeans descending, pale flesh taking its place. Tanned slender arms drawing floppy T over head. Lots of firm, smooth, girlish flesh. She comes out in the bra and the matching red thong and I swear, I almost ejaculated right there and then!

Jesus!

This little cutie, without the floppy gear, without the jeans and the oversized T, has the figure of an absolute vamp! And before I know what I'm doing, my hands are on her hips, feeling the firmness and smoothness of pale golden skin, and I'm turning her round. Then my open hands are wandering up the practically naked girl, up towards the bra overflowing with charm. She looks to be larger than Benny up there, and Benny's no slouch in that department. And before I know what I'm doing I have my fingers running over the red lacy stuff of the bra, enclosed in which are surprisingly womanly breasts, nipples as clear as day, pointy and rounded, pinkishly neat. Little areolas each the size of a dollar, nipples quietly asleep.

Shit a brick!

"Seems to fit," I say, little more than a whisper. "Turn round." Though why I say that I don't know, I'm twirling the girl as it is! She obediently turns around. I stop her there, to study her, mouth open. She has the loveliest tapering back and the most gorgeously pert little bottom, and the tiny strip of brick red thong has disappeared into the cleft which has formed between the smoothest and firmest looking buttocks I think I've ever seen. For reasons I don't understand, I reach a hand forward and cup a smooth globe. My fingertips gingerly stroke the underside of globe. Reverently. It feels as smooth and as warm and as firm and as silk-like as it looks.

I swallow.

"See," I say, as if stroking the skin of the kid's bum, and blatantly cupping her buttock, is somehow relevant to how well or how badly the flimsy ensemble fits!

Her head is turned, her eyes look over her shoulder. "I think this is underwear," she says, looking down at my hand on her naked buttocks and that pesky frown is back on her foxy little face.

"Seems to fit," I say, eyes avoiding hers, unable to take my hand off her butt, unable to stop the gentle caress I am giving the one on the right. She says nothing. Nor does she move. I sense she's still eyeing her buttock, the strange man's hand that's on it, and possibly frowning in that cute little way as she tries to figure it out. How long will it take her, I wonder, as I think about moving my hand from the right butt cheek to the left, which suddenly looks even more appetising than the one I'm stroking.

The phone rings.

I track the sound with my brain. The phone is on the bed. My hand is on her buttock. There is no way my hand can be in two places at once. Or even one on either. Distance is against me. The one is too distant from the other. Reluctantly, I release the gorgeous buttock, step up to the bed, pick up the phone.

"Yo!" I say brightly, turning and looking at my cute little model. Who precisely I imagine I am saying "yo!" to like this, I cannot think. I have the virtually naked sixteen or seventeen or eighteen year-old daughter of my wife's oldest friend standing two paces away! (The person on the phone is my wife.) "I'm still looking," I say, lost in the way the girl's slender waist flairs to such luscious and smooth-looking hips and buttocks and ... swelly bits round the front, (poorly contained in practically sheer red silk, the hint of wisp of hair within).

"Yes, I'll keep looking," I agree, having been told that my wife and the advanced party are now at the poolside, and have a nice table under the trees. Fine. My little angel is watching me. Face neutral. Body as appetising as only a body that age, and that shape, and that smooth, and that sweet-tasting-looking, can be. "Of course," I say to the now dead phone, finding it easier to study the lovely kid when she thinks I'm on the phone to my wife, than I imagine it would be if I'd put the phone back on the bed and was just standing here, ogling her longingly, bollocks filled with lust.

"Seems to fit all right," I say to the phone, becoming inventive, beckoning to the girl, urging her closer as if she is the subject of the call I am continuing to have with my wife. She comes closer. I change hands with the phone, leaving my right hand free. I reach to her bottom, cup a naked buttock, softly caress it. My thumb slips under the tiny lace-like waist band. "Not too tight?" I ask, my eyes on hers. She shakes her head. I take my thumb out of the waist-band, twirl my fingers indicating she should turn around. And bugger me, she does.

Quarter turn, side on, facing right.

"Where?" I ask the empty phone. "The bra?" I ask, and then, without the slightest hesitation I run my hand up the girl, over the flattest smoothest stomach I think I've ever felt, onto ribs that are identifiable merely as a firmer sharper shape to which one moves, then up and over a flimsy cup of bra. Her breast fills the cups. The cups are only partial. When my hand is over her breast it is nearly as much soft flesh that I hold as it is the lacy-film of bra. I hold it, none the less ... a little tight ... a little soft ... a little hard again. "Seems fine," I tell the phone, then to the girl, I ask, "Not too tight?"

She shakes her head, but looks confused. She is trying not to notice my hand, I think. The one cupped around the plumpness of breast. I hold it with a soft but firm grip. "Cindy says they're not too tight, ' I tell the phone, as I give her breast a gentle squeeze as if to test its ... texture? Weight? (Who the fuck knows!) If her butt was deliciously firm — and it was — believe me, it was! — then her boob is best described as succulently soft.

And then I do a stupid thing.

It shows I am not thinking.

I lean to her face and try to kiss her on the lips. She turns her head away. I kiss her cheek instead. Her cheek is silky smooth. I may have blushed.

I wonder ... where to now, and mumble to the phone, "Yes, it may be."

Whatever the heck that means!

"What?" she looks at me.

"It may be too brief," I tell the phone.

She nods, acknowledging that she understands the comment was not for her but for the phone — my wife. Her eyes stay on mine. The little frown still rumples her brow. I make a show of switching off the phone. She is an inch from me. "Sorry about that," I say.

"What?" she asks, looking at the phone, possibly wondering what I have to be sorry about with regards to the phone. It is my phone, after all. Wife too, come to that.

"The kiss," I say, explaining. "It's just..." I look for an excuse. "You remind me so much of my daughter. She likes to be kissed when she looks pretty."

"Oh," she says, looking none the wiser, but tentatively trying a tiny smile.

"Do you?" I ask.

And when she looks even more confused by this, I rabbit on,

" ... like to be kissed when someone thinks you look pretty?"

All she does is shrug.

But my mind is wandering on, at a gallop. "I think it's a form of respect, really," I waffle. "For such attractiveness."

The girl is nodding, politely. She has turned and is facing me again. Dangerously close. I've moved one hand back to her glorious buttock, am stroking her there, as my other is up at her throat, caressing her there, tracing the line of her jaw. "Respectful," I burble on. "Know what I mean?" I could see she had not the faintest idea. So as much on auto-pilot as anything else, I am saying, lips moving closer to hers. "So to show my respect ... do you mind?" and with that, my lips are this time touching hers. Very delicately. Lest hers wrench away. Or complain. Or slap my face.