The moment I stepped off the plane the crushing humidity hit me. No matter how many trips I make to Puerto Rico, the moist heat is always a bit of a shock. No matter; as I made my way up the jetway I quickly acclimated, and my response transformed to pleasure at another break from the Philadelphia winter.

My partner Tom and I had been shuttling back and forth for nearly six months now, trying to impress our most important client – Tom's father-in-law – with our energy and talents.

As the song says, "Puerto Rico is America", but it is a very different America from the one you probably know. As a former Spanish colony and a Latin land through-and-through, to me its most striking difference is one of class. The vast majority of its citizens are what can only be called "lower class", living in poverty, at least by North American standards. A small minority makes up what is properly described as an "upper class". The middle class is relatively small, so that if you are like me, a scion of the vast American bourgeois, you might be surprised to learn of the family wealth or background behind your average San Juan lawyer, doctor, or department store manager (or department store clerk for that matter).

Don't get me wrong - I don't mean to suggest that this upper class is particularly exploitive or repressive. Many of its members work very hard at improving the lot of the average puertorriqueño. However, the current distribution of wealth can be astounding to a Middle American.

Take Tom's father-in-law. Señor Arnulfo Montez is a rich man by birth, both an engineer and a lawyer by Ivy League education, and an extremely successful banker, developer, importer, and shipping magnate by profession. In fact, he is so influential on the island and throughout the Caribbean that I've had to disguise his name here, and I'm afraid I cannot disclose much more about him or our business together. I fear that the details of the story I am about to recount may easily be traced to him, and thereby, inevitably, to me. Suffice it to say, however, that although I make a very good income, nearly three hundred grand last year, I often feel like at poor man among the people I work with in Puerto Rico.

However, the opportunity to move in these circles does seem to have it rewards. But perhaps I should back up a bit.

About five weeks prior to this current trip, Tom and I had made the pilgrimage together. We'd spent three days on the island and, as usual, Tom stayed at the home of his in-laws while I stayed at a local hotel. Hurricane Georges had recently rent a path of destruction across the island, so hotel rooms were hard to come by. I was staying at the El Convento in Old San Juan – not my usual digs, and a little out of the way for most of my business activities, but a first class establishment nonetheless.

On the second day of that visit, Tom and I had attended separate meetings. I met with some bankers in Hato Rey, while Tom inspected a development property in the Condado. I had just made my way back to my room at the end of the day when the phone rang. It was Tom, asking if I'd like to join him and his wife's sister, Angela, for dinner somewhere.

I agreed immediately.

Angela (which she pronounced as "AHN-heh-lah" when speaking Spanish and as "ANJ-eh-luh" when speaking English) was Tom's fifteen-year-old sister-in-law. Like all of Arnulfo Montez's four daughters, she was a lovely girl. Ever since I had served as Tom's best man in his black-tie society wedding the year before, I had developed a keen appreciation of the sisters' charms, and I always tried to take any opportunity to spend some time in the company of one or more of them. Most often, this meant joining Tom and his wife Soledad for dinner when one of the older, college-aged girls was in Philadelphia. I hadn't seen young Angela, who was the only girl still living at home, since Tom and Soledad's wedding.

We agreed to meet at the Parrot Club at eight o'clock. In the meantime, I took a stroll around Old San Juan. I wandered down past the Polo boutique, the Coach shop, and several other upscale outlets which all lay within a few blocks of my hotel. I wasn't really shopping – it's just that I've found browsing though this area to be a great way to enjoy the local scenery.

San Juan girls love tight-fitting, midriff-baring, breast-displaying fuck-me-wear. Without Puerto Rico, I don't know if the spandex and tube-top industries could survive. In the early evening, the sidewalks are always full of nubile babes, beautiful girls from fourteen to twenty-five, and none are too shy to return your glance with a sultry, doe-eyed one of their own if the spirit takes them. I don't know why it is, but that tiny island seems to produce some of the most beautiful women in the world.

If I have any complaints, it's that the Puerto Rican physique usually leads to a girl with big tits and a generous backside. I realize that this form sends many a man into convulsions of lust, but I have always preferred my girls to be "built for speed". Happily, there are always a few flacas in the crowd to trip my trigger, and the tight local fashions further accentuate their lithe bodies.

As eight o'clock approached, I made my way back to my hotel, only to find myself trailing a trio of teens whose Lycra hiphuggers, platform shoes, and latina hip swings sent blood flowing to my loins. Perhaps it was this stimulating prologue that kept me in overdrive all night.

At the Parrot Club, the three of us enjoyed the bar while waiting for our table. Even fifteen-year-old Angela was throwing back the drinks. The bartender didn't hesitate in serving her: her family name and general Latin 'laissez faire' made a mockery of puritanical "legal drinking ages", regardless of the letter of the laws on the subject. While she enjoyed her vodka tonics, I enjoyed the changes that had come over her since I had last seen her.

I remembered a sweet, almost shy fourteen-year-old, serving as a bridesmaid nearly a year before. Tonight, when she'd greeted me with a cheek-to-cheek kiss, I almost hadn't recognized her. Gone was the demure little girl I remembered.

She still looked incredibly young; with her tiny body and pixie face, she could have passed for twelve or thirteen in the right circumstances. But dressed as she was, the signs of adolescence were apparent. Her little sleeveless top gave witness to a pair of budding breasts, the mere sight of which, I swear, instantly brought saliva to my mouth.

Her bare midriff exposed a belly-button ring in a light-brown, flat tummy that might have transfixed me for a several moments longer had her breathtaking boyshorts not dragged my attention southward. At first, it appeared that she had left them unbuttoned, and the fly undone, until a second glance (leer?) revealed that they were designed to look that way.

The top of a pair of white cotton panties just barely managed to peek out between the artfully spread flaps before they closed in, joining just in time to hide her most precious treasure. There was no hiding the form of her distinct pubic arch, however, nor could the tight synthetic material disguise the camel toe shape of her youthful vulva. The legs of the garment extended snugly a good two inches down either leg before giving way completely to the bare flesh of her skinny brown thighs. This girl had grown up, and was damn sure trying to prove it!

"You ... you look great, Angela," I had managed to spit out, and she giggled at her obvious shock effect on me.

A drink and a half later I had recovered sufficiently to play it cool. The fifteen-year-old fuckmagnet was perched on a barstool between Tom and me, crossing and re-crossing her slender smooth legs. First she would lean forward coquettishly, then she would sit up and pull her shoulders back to thrust her apple-titties outward, and then she would lean forward again. Throughout the conversation, her hand periodically grazed my shoulder, my arm, or even my thigh, and each such contact was electrifying to me in my heightened state of alert. I had no idea what was going on, but I managed to contain my response, at least on the surface. My prick was thickening in my trousers throughout this episode, but by dint of great concentration, I pretended to be wrapped up in the discussion Tom was trying to carry on.

Finally, Angela excused herself to the ladies' room, and Tom leaned toward me conspiratorially.

"Angela's going through a serious rebellion phase," he confided. "She'd driving the family crazy, and they're doing their best to ignore it. Lately, she's basically been pretending she's a total slut. All a put on, of course. But she sure plays the part well, don't you think?"

I looked at him sharply, but no, he was grinning like an indulgent adult when discussing the wiles of youth. He didn't suspect a thing about the condition of my glands, nor about the unwholesome thoughts that had been beating at my brainstem.

"Yeah, she's way too young for that outfit!" I replied. "It's kind of cute to watch her try to act so grown up. In a few years, though, she really will be a heartbreaker!"

"You're not kidding. Her parents have her on a tight leash these days. She can only really go out when one of her older sisters is back from college, or with one or two of her more responsible, older cousins. That's why she was so eager to come out with us tonight – it's one of her few chances to act like the hellion she pretends to be. In any case, don't let her bother you, she's all show."

"It doesn't bother me," I assured him with a chuckle. Hell no, she was making my dick hard, but I certainly wasn't going to volunteer that.

"No one in the family thinks she's really wild at all – hell, she's barely been out of the house unchaperoned in months. But for some reason, she likes to pretend to be the town slut, just to get their goat I suppose. She claims to be very sexually active, which seems impossible, probably just to outrage her mother. Soledad says not to worry, it will all blow over. In the meantime, she sure is cute to watch! Look out, here she comes..."

That night, back in my room at the El Convento, I found myself gasping in an incredible self-induced orgasm, jerking my shaft to the mental image of myself ripping those whorish boyshorts off Angela's slight form and pounding the shit out of her fifteen-year-old box. It took me three tissues to mop the resultant scum off my bare stomach and chest when I was done.

That was my previous visit to San Juan, and its memory had been fueling my masturbatory fantasies periodically for the past five weeks. The images had only recently begun to fade by the time I had to return.

On this occasion, I was alone – Tom remained with Soledad in Philadelphia, on vigil for the birth of their overdue child.

When I got to my hotel, the El San Juan in the Condado this time, I called Arnulfo Montez. He asked me to join him for dinner at "his" restaurant. He didn't really own the place, but he was such an important patron that the proprietor actually maintained a good part of Arnulfo's personal wine collection on the premises on his behalf. This was just another one of the perks of this relationship – our client actually took us out to dinner most of the time.

I was surprised and delighted to discover, upon my arrival, that Arnulfo had brought Angela with him. She was only slightly less sluttishly garbed than she had been on my previous visit, and her behavior in front of her father supported Tom's prior assertion: she was apparently attempting to needle, irritate, or alarm her family through at least the appearance of loose and wanton behavior. Her father had obviously long since settled into his response, as well. He studiously ignored her antics.

"This is my daughter, Angela," he presented, apparently not realizing or remembering that I'd already met her. She picked up on his mistaken notion, and greeted me as a stranger.

"'Encantada, " she offered, and leaned in to press her cheek against mine and "kiss the air".

"'Mucho gusto," I replied, seeing no reason not to play along.

"Daddy, I'm surprised you've brought me out to meet a man, especially since it looks like he's single. I'd call that fair game!" Never mind that she was fifteen, and I was thirty-four!

"Of course, we've already met," she continued, "at Sol's wedding. Say, didn't you feel me up during a slow dance, Robert?"

When, at this shocking falsehood, my eyes darted nervously to her father, I detected his only involuntary reaction to her behavior I was to witness that night. He winced, ever so slightly, in embarrassment at such a ludicrous outburst in front of me. But he did not respond to her. I made a nervous laugh and said something like "Not me, I'm afraid," and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

The restaurateur, Manuel something-or-other, chose that instant to lead us to our table, which allowed us all to escape the awkward moment.

At the table, Arnulfo and I talked about our various projects and what I intended to accomplish during my visit. We also talked about the impending arrival of his first grandchild, and how he and his wife hoped to fly up to Philadelphia as soon as Soledad went into labor. This was the only point at which Angela interrupted us, in order to stand, turn around, and ask me whether I thought her miniskirt made her ass look sexy, or just slutty.

I was astounded at this outburst. Embarrassed as I was in front of her father, I muttered something like "you look fine", and she sat back down with a smug smile in her father's direction. Something in the back of my mind suggested that perhaps this was the clue to the changes in Angela's behavior. Perhaps they stemmed from jealousy over the attention her pregnant sister had been getting. Having long been the baby of the family, she had probably grown comfortable in being the center of the family's domestic attention.

At one point, Angela got up and headed, I presumed, for the restroom. The real purpose of her errand, however, appeared to be to display her best "fuck-me" walk to the assembled patrons as she made her way across the room. I must say, for a fifteen-year-old, she seemed to have it down pretty well!

While she was away from the table, I thought for a moment that I was experiencing déjà vu, for Arnulfo began to recount for me, just as my partner Tom had done, the particulars of Angela's recent behavior and the family's intention to ignore it. He described his opinion that her act was all just "for-show", but he also told me that he and his wife had decided to keep her pretty restricted until it blew over, just in case she decided to try to act out the slut bit for real.

Acting on my earlier hunch, I piped in as though I knew something about it.

"My younger sister went through a similar stage," I lied. "She was so used to being the baby of the family, and getting all the attention, that she started acting up when our older sister had her first child. You see, no one seemed to be paying her any attention anymore."

"Did she pretend to be a loose woman, your sister?" Arnulfo asked, in his accented but perfect English.

"For her, it was a different form of 'bad-girl-itis' – she pretended to be into the drug crowd in high school, the whole bit. But it turned out, as we suspected, that it was all a show. The worst substance she was involved in was bubblegum!"

"So she eventually got over it, you say?"

"Yes, she did. We ignored her, just like you are trying to do with Angela. Say, would you mind a little advice from someone who's been there?" I had the inkling of a plan.

"No, I'd welcome it. What can you tell me?"

"If you're being too strict with her, grounding her or tracking her too closely, you might in fact be encouraging her. She's actually getting the very attention from her behavior that you're trying to deny her. See what I mean?"

"That's a good point. You may have something there. Although I'd like to have some confidence that this really is just an act – I'm afraid that if I totally ignore her, and give her the same freedom I always gave her sisters, she might make a big mistake she'll regret."

He spent a few moments in thought, with a pensive look on his face, while I spent some mental energy hoping that Arnulfo never met my little sister and asked her about my entirely fictional morality play. Or for that matter, told any one else about my prescription. I was no parent, but hell, even I knew that the story about my sister was ludicrous – to ignore claims of drug use in a child would be outrageous, just as ignoring claims of sexual promiscuity would be nearly as foolish. However, I was beginning to have other loyalties in this matter – loyalties to my basest instincts.

Finally, he rescued me from this line of thought, in exactly the long-shot manner I had hoped for.

"Hmmm ... say, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, what?"

"With your permission, I'll suggest that Angela take you out on the town after dinner. That should indicate that I'm not overly worried about her, and perhaps help depressurize this situation. But just in case, you can be on the lookout. You'll be with her, so she can't get too friendly with any of the young fellows who likely frequent the places she'll take you. What do you say? I realize this is completely outside the bounds of our professional relationship, and you can refuse me, I assure you."

"Well," I temporized, trying to contain any appearance of joy at the suggestion, "I suppose I could do that. It's been a while since I've had a night out here, and it will help her get over her, shall we say, overly flirtatious streak?"

"That would be great. She'll probably want to stay out quite late – what do you say we reschedule our nine o'clock meeting until eleven, just in case you don't get to bed until late? Hold on, here she comes – we don't want her to know we're talking about her."

During the dessert course, Arnulfo made his suggestion, and Angela leapt at the chance to get out again. She was so delighted, she almost forgot to taunt her father with the obvious innuendoes the proposal so readily prompted. Not that it mattered; in accordance with his policy, Arnulfo simply ignored them anyway.

Two hours later, at the Blue Noise, a small club featuring live Puerto Rican Jazz (which is a genre all its own, I promise you), I had again worked myself into a full lather over the little teasing cunt. From the moment we walked in, she'd been flirting with me and with every other guy in the place. She'd pressed her sweet little ass back into my groin as she ordered her first beer at the bar, only to scamper off to hug some twenty-year old guy named Alejandro she knew from God-knows-where. And then, just as I began to relax, she was back to drag me out on the dance floor and charge me up again. She continued this on-again, off-again toying until I found myself very irritated, and very primed.

I resolved that I wasn't going to let this little girl play ME the fool. I was the adult here, and things were going to work MY way. When she next returned to tease me, I pulled her into the dark corridor leading to the restrooms. We were alone back there, and the jazz ensemble's sound was muted enough for us to speak.

"Angela, I should warn you that during this trip, and for the foreseeable future, I am your only ticket out of the house. Tom won't be travelling down here for a while once the baby arrives, and your father isn't likely to let you out on your own, now is he?"

"Oh ... so you know about that, huh?" she asked, her English enlivened by the cute singsong cadence of her accent.

"Yes, I do. Apparently, you like to pretend that you're the town floozy. What is it? A cry for attention?"

"No! I'm fifteen years old! If I want to sleep around, I will. It's nobody's business but my own."

"Yeah? Well I think it's all a big act. You're no slut. You've probably never even kissed a man!"

"Yeah, right," she replied. As she tried to walk away, I stopped her, placing my hands on her shoulders.

"Well, I'll know the difference. Let me see." Leaning down, I captured her heart-shaped mouth with my own. Her eyes widened in surprise at my advance, and after contact, she attempted to pull away, but I held her firmly, and instead of relenting, I wormed my tongue past her tender lips into the sweet confines beyond.

She hesitated in her response, perhaps in surprise, or perhaps in indecision, but soon her arms reached around my neck, and her tongue attempted to duel my own. Apparently, she was determined to prove her experience to me. Her efforts weren't bad – a little stumbling at first, but she soon warmed up to it. This girl had been kissed before, and somewhere along the way she had picked up the essentials. Time to push it a little further.

My hands slid down off her shoulders, to her hips. Her top, although not belly-baring, was short and loose, so my hands easily slipped up under it encircle the naked flesh of her slender waist. My thumbs were almost touching each other, probably not far from her hidden navel ring, and my extended, gripping fingertips reached well around her back as I drew her into and under me. Our height difference was such that at these close quarters, Angela had to crane her neck back and tilt her face almost straight up into my own hovering, predatory mug. My lips never left hers.

I gently shuffled her further back into a corner, to better avoid interruptions from the likely restroom traffic, and went to work. My right hand slid down to cup her delicate, taut little ass, while my left slid up under her shirt along the smooth skin of her back, to stop along the line made by the strap of her completely unnecessary bra. She made some noise in her throat, perhaps of protest, but I kept her mouth locked down with my own throughout the assault. We were both breathing heavily now, a harmony of nasal panting. I was not entirely alone in this effort – her tiny hands slid around my neck, my shoulders, and my face as she participated in the mashing herself. I didn't know whether this was because she was enjoying it or because she was trying to prove her sexual sophistication, but frankly, I didn't care.

I heard another muffled utterance, perhaps in surprise, as I drove my straining, steel-hard crotch-knob up against her belly, while pressing her body to the wall. I ground my turgid, confined prick against her slight form, and devoured her mouth ravenously. I was almost over the edge now, already committing the most despicable and hazardous act of my life.

It has always amused me that the Spanish word for the verb "to bother" is molestar. I was definitely molestando, or bothering, this fifteen-year old girl. But the true hazard lay in the fact that I was pretty much molesting her in the English sense of the word, as well. Even if I escaped without any legal repercussions, however, there remained the fact that the father of this naughty little teen was my partner's father-in-law, my business's make-or-break client, and one of the most powerful individuals in Puerto Rico. And knowing all that didn't slow me down a whit. I had to have this little cunt.

I could hold back my next move no longer. I forced my mind to elevate itself from the reptilian cortex for just long enough to make a strategic decision. Should I encourage her by complimenting her supposed expertise, or should I challenge her by mocking it? I made a snap decision.

I finally released her from my oral assault, pulling my head back while staring hard into her wide and somewhat glassy eyes. "I guess I was wrong, Angela. You do know your way around a healthy grope session. You're not a little kid after all!"

While she was hearing and processing this, my right hand slid under her short skirt to cup her panty-clad mons. The timing was perfect, for the shock of the contact hit her just as she had absorbed my statement and, apparently, she had indeed just decided she must maintain the sophistication act. Her fleeting look of alarm was replaced with a tentative smile. I again kissed her, and concentrated my attention on her youthful box.

She was enjoying this episode physically, as the heat emanating from her tidy little muffin seemed to attest. The cotton of her panties was moist, or at least humid, at my first contact, but as I kneaded her vulva through the fabric, and pressed the material up into her slit, it quickly became sodden.

It wasn't long before her pelvis was responding to my manipulation, pressing her little mound into my busy hand. In response to this, I slipped through the leg hole of the panties, in order to toy with her naked cunt, and was delighted to find that she was still almost completely hairless.

My fingertips slid through her smooth crease, wiggling and tapping around, upon, and between her puffy, compact outer labia. When I worked my way up to her clit, I was rewarded with a very lewd pelvic thrust from my young student.

I plied her little clit for a few minutes, during which time I felt the passage of at least two bar patrons on their way to the bathrooms. Neither Angela nor I reacted in any way, and they seemed to take no notice. Angela, whose tender age might have elicited some reaction in these circumstances, was completely blocked from their view by my six-foot frame, and a little mashing in the dark corners was completely within the norm here.

My fingers were soaked from their efforts, so I paused to bring them up to my mouth. Angela watched me and almost choked as I slowly licked them clean before her eyes, and moments later, after I'd re-flavored them in her seeping crease, she mastered her initial reaction and dutifully licked them clean herself. "Ha! I thought, "Many a more experienced girl would have balked at that move. This little piece is sure trying hard to convince me she knows what she's doing!"

That hand returned to its labors at her schoolgirl cunt, while the other slid up under her top again to push aside her underemployed bra and to massage her little lemon-sized tits, caressing, kneading, and pinching them as I felt her level of arousal grow.

When I was sure she was past the point of no return, I abruptly stepped back from her, grabbed her hand, gave her a terse "let's go", and pulled her through the back door at the end of the corridor into the dark alleyway behind the bar.

She didn't say a word as I again backed her against a wall, then knelt, lifted her skirt, yanked her panties down, and attacked her little snatch with my hungry mouth.

She placed her hands on the top of my head, running her fingers through my hair, as I enjoyed the sloppy, buttery treat of her leaking teen cunt. With my lips, I felt just a light patch of sparse hair above her slot, but other than that, nothing but naked flesh entered my maw.

I would later discover that as I administered this treatment, small bits of gravel on the alley surface were ruining my trousers and driving into and bruising my knees. However, I had no sense of it as long as my hands were gripping those tight little buns and pulling her succulent crotch into my slobbering, chewing, tongue-lashing face.

Who would have thought my personal heaven could lie in a sweltering, humid alleyway, next to a stinking trash bin, all pride abandoned as I groveled on my knees, burying my face between a young girl's thighs?

But heaven it was, especially when she started to softly moan my name, to clutch at my hair, and, finally, to convulsively thrust her lolita hole into me in an animalistic reaction to her climax. She groaned out loud, and then almost doubled over me as the release washed through her body. All the while, I continued my efforts, bringing her through and down from what I can only assume, from her actions, was a most delicious orgasm.

As her shudders quieted, I arose, my cock screaming for its own satisfaction in the depths of this carefully prepared and ready fuckhole, but I mastered myself and thought of a better plan. I wanted to first take her sweet cunt in a slightly better environment, in order to maximize my chances for a repeat. For the time being, I chose another avenue to my own gratification.

I pulled my tool from the confines of my trousers, its angry seven inches pointing directly at my young charge. I placed my hands on her shoulders, and applied pressure to push her to her knees. She resisted, at first.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Angela? You surely know how to suck cock, don't you?"

I'm sure she didn't, but, apparently, she didn't want to make any admissions after doing so well up till now. She knelt before me, tentatively reaching for, then lightly holding, my aching shaft. She cautiously leaned forward and planted a light kiss on the head of my prick. I gasped. She licked it gently. I groaned. Fearing she didn't really know how to proceed, I instructed her, but tried to maintain the fiction that she was an old hand.

"Angela, baby, I know you know how to really tease me, but right now, I can't stand any foreplay. Let's save that for next time – then you can show me all of your tricks. Right now, I just need you to wolf down my cock, ok?"