Chapter 1: Christie's Great Discovery

High School Hookers. It was totally my idea. I mean, Kitten thought of the name, and Summer handles the money, and Jasmine knows about leather and all that kinky shit. But I was the one who figured out we could make a lot more money and have a lot more fun selling sex than babysitting.

Old guys love young pussy.

I'm Candi. That's what I tell my clients. My real name is Christie Crumb. Kitten is Holly Harbison, my best friend. Summer is Robyn Reich, the class mathlete and tennis champ, and Jasmine is Teri Takemitsu, aka The Twinkie Princess, who has more clothes in her closet than the Duchess of Windsor. We're ninth-graders at Llewdwynne High School, and until this year we ran a babysitting business out of my bedroom. We still have the business, except now we turn tricks.

The service kind of grew naturally out of the babysitting. It really started during the summer, after the four of us graduated from middle school. I'd been babysitting off and on for Dr. Adams and his hot-shit trophy wife, who live in a beautiful Queen Anne house on Church Road, down the hill a couple blocks from me. It's the oldest house in the neighborhood, built long before the little ranch I live in with my mom and my older brother, back when people in Llewdwynne had money and horses. It's got a witch's-hat turret on the left, when you look at it from the road, and a rounded porch with cutout patterns under the railing. The walls are painted cream, and the trim is raspberry. Out front is a gray stone wall out front with an iron gate, instead of a fence. There's no sidewalk, because the road's been widened over the years, and the gate stands right up on the shoulder. Mom says Dr. Adams must have spent a fortune fixing the place up.

I've had a crush on Dr. Adams ever since I started looking after his daughter. He's hardly taller than I am, but he's trim from running marathons, with a deep-lined face and black hair that's turning gray at the temples. My dad was a doctor, too. He ran off with a nurse when I was two, and we never saw him again. Mom threw out all his pictures, so I don't remember what he looks like, but I like to think he'd look like Dr. Adams now.

Anyway, it was a muggy evening in the middle of August, and I got caught in a downpour on my way to the Adamses' house. I kicked off my flip-flops and carried them, running barefoot down the hill and across Church. Like I said, there's no sidewalk, just the gutter along the side of the road, which was already full of rushing water. I ran downhill, splashing along past the last three or four houses with the current swirling around my ankles. I was wearing a white cotton sundress, and by the time I reached their front gate it was clinging to my body like plastic wrap. It was as clear as plastic wrap, too.

I thumped up on the porch and knocked hard on the double oak doors. Mrs. Adams answered.

"You poor thing!" she exclaimed. "You're soaked to the skin."

But when I tried to come in, she stopped me by putting her hand flat against my chest.

"Go around the back," she said. "We can't have you dripping on the carpet."

So I went out into the rain again, splashing through the puddles by the side of the house. The wind was cold in my face. I couldn't see where I was going, and my foot went right into a fucking gopher hole. I sank in up to my knee, and when I climbed out, my skirt and my leg were plastered with mud and grass clippings. My ankle hurt like hell. I was lucky I didn't break it.

Mrs. Adams is such a cunt.

The doctor was waiting for me at the kitchen door with a smile and a fluffy red towel. He was dressed up in a light summer suit, with a blue silk shirt and a yellow tie. He looked scrumptious. My heart always skipped a beat whenever I saw him, but this time something else happened, too — a tight throb in my crotch. I was super self-conscious about the way my dress was stuck to my legs and stomach, and especially the way my nipples were poking out. I might as well have been standing in front of him stark naked. I mean, he was a doctor and all — an ob-gyn, no less — and he'd probably seen hundreds of girls my age without their clothes on, but I still thought I should have worn a bra.

I was drying my hair when I heard Mrs. Adams say, "Aidan, stop ogling the help."

I peeped out from under the towel just in time to see Dr. Adams glance away. He was grinning, and he had a gleam in his eye that made my crotch throb again. Mrs. A. was standing in the archway to the dining room. She was beautiful, in an icy sort of way. Her hair was pale, like straw, and tonight she'd pulled it back tight into a bun, so it sat on her head like a thin blonde shell. Her cheekbones could cut glass. She had on this slinky blue gown and gold sling-backs with heels like needles. I couldn't see a panty line. She wasn't wearing a bra, either. Her tits were small like mine, but not as firm — ha, ha — and they jiggled as she hung a pair of diamond pendants from her ears.

"Go upstairs and get her one of my robes," she told her husband, and when he slipped past her, she said to me, "Get out of those wet things ... No need to be shy."

Hiding behind the towel, I peeled off my wet dress and dropped it in the puddle I'd made on her spotless kitchen floor.

"What about your panties?" she said.

They were soaked, too, and riding up my ass, so I added them to the pile.

Then I wiped down my tits and my butt and my legs and feet. Suddenly, I missed my flip-flops. I must have dropped them when I fell and forgot to pick them up.

Mrs. A. looked at me with what I thought was appreciation.

"You're getting very pretty," she said.

"Thanks," I said.

"I remember when you started sitting Aoife, you didn't have anything up top."

Right on cue, the brat ran into the kitchen and threw her arms around me.

"Christie!" she squealed.

Aoife was a five-year-old bundle of energy, blonde like her mother and naked like me. This was a new thing for her: all summer she'd been running around the house without her clothes on. Her dad said it was a phase and didn't do any harm. Her mother didn't give a shit.

"Are you gonna be naked, too?" she said. She was so warm and soft.

"Christie got caught in the rain," her mother explained.

A draft chilled my bare back, and I shot off a mammoth sneeze.

"Bless you," Dr. Adams said from the dining room.

"Don't come in here," the ice-queen warned him, clapping her hand to his chest, the way she did with me.

I only caught a glimpse of him, and I don't know if he saw me. His hand came through the archway, holding a white wad of terrycloth. Mrs. A. snatched it from him and held it out to me.

"Wear this," she said.

It wasn't one of hers. It was one of his, big and roomy with the monogram "AA" in blue on one big cuff. It smelled like his cologne, too. When I slipped my arms through the sleeves, I imagined he was wrapping his arms around my naked body.

"Couldn't you find one of mine?" Mrs. A. said.

"Yours are all in the hamper," he replied.

"I have two clean ones in the wardrobe."

"I didn't see them."

"They were right there, on the left-hand side," she said. "You can't find anything."

It's tricky to put on a robe while holding a towel in front of you, so nothing shows, but it's one of those skills a girl has to learn for the beach or the locker room. But doing it with a child hanging off of you is not something you can prepare for. I tied the robe with Aoife inside, and then I pulled the towel out past my throat. She wiggled out, laughing, and I was able to tighten the belt all the way. Mrs. A. let the doctor back in the kitchen. Aoife ran over to him. He patted her head, and when his wife wasn't looking, he ran his hand down her back and cupped her bare bottom. My crotch throbbed some more. I couldn't help it.

"Wipe up the floor," Mrs. A. said.

"Darling!" Dr. Adams said.

"It's her mess. Let her clean it up."

I got down on my hands and knees and wiped up the puddle with the red towel.

"You can put your clothes in the dryer," she said.

"She should wash them first," Dr. Adams said. "The dress is all muddy."

"Whatever," she said. "Let's go get your little ego boost."

"What's that?" I asked.

"He's getting an award from the gynecologist's association."

"We call it the Golden Hymen," Dr. Adams said.

"And they always do it in the summer, so nobody's there, and they don't have to spend money on food."

She turned on her heel and disappeared through the archway. That was when I saw her gown was backless. She's hot — I'll give her that. She's got zero body fat.

Little naked Aoife followed me down the basement, where I put my clothes and the towel into the washing machine and turned the dial to "small-load" button.

When we came back upstairs, the Adamses were halfway out the back door. He had on a trim-looking trench coat, and he was carrying a long black umbrella. She had a clutch purse that matched her dress, and an open-knit shawl around her shoulders.

Chapter 2 »